#the fuck kind of name is milton

[iattachtooeasilytocartoons]

i loveeeee pickles the bite the juice mmmmm

[bandtrees]

they would get divorced in one universe just to find eachother in another one

alternatively titled: sometimes you're the level-headed token flesh-head impulse-control-and-polycule-member of a stubborn, eccentric, and hearty telephone-headed drug addict, and there's cruelty in the world you deem fit to suicidally fight, and that either goes about as well as you'd expect it to, or you learn about love and the value of your life and junk along the way

[pynkhues]

I would LOVE to read your analysis of louis as byronic hero as apposed to his reading as gothic heroine. lots of the latter and zero of the former in the fandom.

Sure! Mmm, okay, so –

What are we talking about when we talk about Gothic Heroes?  

When we talk about gothic heroes, we’re really talking about three pretty different character archetypes. All three are vital to the genre, but some are more popular in certain subgenres i.e. your Prometheus Hero may be more common in gothic horror, whereas your Byronic Hero might be more likely to be found in gothic romance. That’s not to say they’re exclusive to those subgenres at all, and there is an argument that these archetypes themselves are gendered (in many ways, I think people confuse Anne being an author of the female gothic with Louis being a gothic heroine, but I’ll get into that later), but this is also not necessarily something that’s exclusive.

Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself, haha, so the three gothic hero archetypes are:

Milton’s Satan who is the classic gothic hero-villain. You can probably guess from the name, but he was originated in John Milton’s 1667 poem, Paradise Lost. He is God’s favourite angel, but God is forced to cast him out of heaven when he rebels against him. As an archetype, he’s a man pretty much defined by his pride, vanity and self-love, usually fucks his way through whatever book or poem he’s in, has a perverted, incestuous family, and a desire to corrupt other people. He’s also defined as being “too weak to choose what is moral and right, and instead chooses what is pleasurable only to him” and his greatest character flaw, in spite of all The Horrors, is that he’s usually easily misguided or led astray. (I would argue that Lestat fits into this archetype pretty neatly, but that’s a whole other post.)

Prometheus who was established as a gothic archetype by Mary Shelley with Frankenstein in 1818. Your Prometheus Hero is basically represented by the quest for knowledge and the overreach of that quest to bring on unintended consequences. He’s tied, of course, to the Prometheus of Greek myth, so you can get elements of that in this character design too in that he can be devious or a trickster, but the most important part of him is that he is split between his extreme intelligence and his sense of rebellion, and that his sense of rebellion and boundary pushing overtakes his intelligence and basically leads to All The Gothic Horrors.

And the Byronic Hero, who as the name implies, was both created by and inspired by the romantic poet, Lord Byron in his semi-autobiographical poem, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage which was published between 1812-1818. The archetype is kind of an idealized version of himself, and as historian and critic Lord Macaulay wrote, the character is “a man proud, moody, cynical, with defiance on his brow and misery in his heart, a scorner of his kind, implacable in revenge, yet capable of deep and strong affection.” Adding to that, he’s often called ‘the gloomy egoist’ as a protagonist type, hates society, is often self-destructive and lives either exiled or in a self-exile, and is a stalwart of gothic literature, but especially gothic romance. Interestingly too, in his most iconic depictions he’s often a) darkly featured and/or not white (Heathcliff being the most obvious example of this given Emily Bronte clearly writes him as either Black or South Asian), and b) is often used to explore queer identity, with Byron himself having been bisexual.

Okay, but what about the Gothic Heroine?

Gothic heroines are less delineated and have had more of an evolution over time, which makes sense, given women have consistently been the main audience of gothic literature and have frequently been the most influential writers of the genre too. The gothic genre sort of ‘officially’ started with Horace Walpole’s 1764 novel, The Castle of Otranto and Isabella is largely regarded as the first gothic heroine and the foundation of the archetype, and the book opens even with one of the key defining traits – an innocent, chaste woman without the protection of a family being pursued and persecuted by a man on the rampage.

The gothic heroine was, for years, defined by her lack of agency. She was innocent, chaste, beautiful, curious, plagued by tragedy and often, ultimately, tragic. Isabella survives in The Castle of Otranto, but she’s one of the lucky ones – Cathy dies in Wuthering Heights, Sybil dies in The Picture of Dorian Gray, Justine and Elizabeth both die in Frankenstein, Mina survives in Dracula, but Lucy doesn’t. There’s an argument frequently posited that the gothic genre was, and is, about dead women and the men who mourn them, and Interview with the Vampire certainly lends itself to that pretty neatly.

Of course, the genre has evolved, and in particular by the late 1800s, there was a notable shift in how the Gothic Heroine was depicted. The house became a place of imprisonment where they were further constrained and disempowered, she was infantilized and pathologized and diagnosed as hysterical, and as Avril Horner puts it in her excellent paper, Women, Power and Conflict: the Gothic heroine and ‘Chocolate-box Gothic’, gothic literature of this era “explores “the constraints enforced [by] a patriarchal society that is becoming increasingly nervous about the demands of the ‘New Woman’.”

This was an era where marriage was increasingly understood in feminist circles to be a civil death where women were further subjugated and became the property of their husbands. This was explored through gothic literature as the domestic space evolved into a symbol of patriarchal control in the Female Gothic.

Female Gothic vs Male Gothic

Because here’s the thing – the female gothic and the male gothic are generally understood to be two different subgenres of gothic literature.

While there are plenty of arguments as to what this entails, the basics is that the male gothic is written by men, and usually features graphic horror, rape and the masculine domination of women and often utilises the invasion of women’s spaces as a symbol of further penetrating their bodies, while the female gothic is written by women, and usually features graphic terror, as opposed to horror, while delving more specifically into gender politics. More than that though, its heroines are usually victimized, virginial and powerless while being pursued by villainous men.

The Female Gothic as a genre is also specifically interested in the passage from girlhood to female maturity, and does view the house as a place of entrapment, but she is usually suddenly “threatened with imprisonment in a castle or a great house under the control of a powerful male figure who gave her no chance to escape.”

That’s not Louis’ arc, that’s Claudia’s arc twice over, first with the house at Rue Royale, then with the Paris Coven, and Lestat and Armand aren’t the only powerful male figures who imprison her.

Claudia as the Gothic Heroine

Claudia in many ways is the absolute embodiment of the classic gothic heroine. Even the moment of their meeting is a product of Louis’ Byronic heroism – his act of implacable revenge against the Alderman Fenwick which prompts the rioting that almost kills her. She’s a victim of Louis’ monstrousness before they’ve even met, and while he saves her, he arguably does something worse in trapping her in the house with both himself and Lestat, holding her in an ever-virginal, ever-chaste eternal girlhood, playing into Lestat’s Milton-Satan by enhancing the perversion of family and ultimately infantilizing her out of his own desire for familial closeness.

Claudia has no family protection before Louis and Lestat – a staple of the gothic heroine – she is completely dependent on them in her actual girlhood, and again in adulthood, never developing the strength to be able to turn a companion, to say nothing about the sly lines here and there that further diminish and pathologise her (Lestat calling her histrionic, Louis making her out to be a burden, etc.). This is all further compounded again with the Coven, and when the tragedy of her life ultimately leads to the tragedy of her death.  

Louis as the Byronic Hero

Not to start with a quote, but here’s one from The Literary Icon of the Byronic Hero and its Reincarnation in Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights:

“Generally speaking, the Byronic hero exhibits several particular characteristics. He does not possess heroic virtues in the usual, traditional sense. He is a well-educated, intelligent and sophisticated young man, sometimes a nobleman by birth, who at the same time manifests signs of rebellion against all fundamental values and moral codes of the society. Despite his obvious charm and attractiveness, the Byronic hero often shows a great deal of disrespect for any figure of authority. He was considered "the supreme embodiment [...] standing not only against a dehumanized system of labor but also against traditionally repressive religious, social, and familial institutions" (Moglen, 1976: 28).

The Byronic hero is usually a social outcast, a wanderer, or is in exile of some kind, one imposed upon him by some external forces or self-imposed. He also shows an obvious tendency to be arrogant, cunning, cynical, and unrepentant for his faults. He often indulges himself in self destructive activities that bring him to the point of nihilism resulting in his rebellion against life itself. He is hypersensitive, melancholic, introspective, emotionally conflicted, but at the same time mysterious, charismatic, seductive and sexually attractive.”

Louis as he exists in the show to me is pretty much all of those things, and I think to argue that he’s a gothic heroine not only diminishes Claudia’s arc, but robs Louis of his agency within his own story. Louis chooses Lestat, over and over again, he’s not imprisoned by the monster in the domestic sphere, he is one of the monsters who’s controlling the household, including making decisions of when they bring a child into it and when Lestat gets to live in it – he wanted to be turned, he wanted to live with Lestat in Rue Royale, and while there are certainly arguments to be made about their power dynamic within the household in the NOLA era, importantly Louis actually gained social power through his marriage to Lestat, particularly through The Azaelia, he didn’t lose it in the way that’s vital to the story of the gothic heroine.

Daniel Hart even said it in a recent twitter thread about Long Face, but there is an element of Lestat and Louis’ relationship that is transactional, and to me, for that to exist, they both have to have a degree of control over their circumstances and choices in order to negotiate those transactions. Claudia is the one who can’t, she’s the one who’s treated effectively as property, and she’s the one who lacks control over her circumstances.

While you could perhaps argue the constraints of the apartment in Dubai lend more to the gothic heroine archetype, I’d argue it as furthering the Byronic trope again by being representative both of Louis’ self-destruction and self-imposed exile. As Jacob has said a few times, Louis does seem to have known to a degree that Armand was involved in Claudia’s death on some level, and it’s that guilt and misery that has him allowing Armand his degree of control. The fact that Louis was able to leave Armand as easily and as definitively as he was I think demonstrates that distinction too – after all, to compare that ending to Claudia’s multiple attempts to leave the confines of the patriarchal house, both in Rue Royale and Paris, which were punished at every turn – first by her rape, then by Lestat dragging her back off the train, and then by the Coven orchestrating her murder.

Louis gets to leave because Louis can leave, he has both the social and narrative power to, and the fact that he does is, to me, completely at odds with the gothic heroine. Louis can, and does advocate for himself, Louis is proud, moody, cynical. Defiance is a key part of his character, just as his exile from NOLA society due to his race, and his chosen rejection of vampire society in Paris, is. He’s intelligent and sophisticated, travels the world, and has misery in his heart, guilt that eats him up, and self-destructive tendencies. That’s a Byronic Hero, baby!  

[mars-paws]

what the fuck kind of name is Milton dawg

[ocelotlesbian]

had to evacuate because of that fuckass storm. WHO NAMES A HURRICANE """"MILTON"""" ANYWAY. WHAT KIND OF A STUPID FUCKING NAME IS MILTON. FUCK YOU

[madly-enthusiastic]

Sooo, remember the previous chapter I posted? I decided it'd be an epilogue divided in two parts! The first one being from Lucifer's POV and the second one being from Charlie and Alastor's POV!

Sooo, here it goes! (I still don't have a goddamn name for this, damn it.)

_____

How much pain can someone suffer?

If you asked Alastor, he'd tell you that pain is merely a state of mind in which the person starts to torture itself, reminding its user that whatever pain they are feeling is 100% their fault and there is nothing they can do about it.

While he takes pride in considering himself as untouchable as a God, he forgets that there are true gods out there that could destroy what he was and would be with a snap of their fingers.

And this what was happening to him right now.

An incessant tug could be felt coming from his neck, his chain was being pulled by its owner. A silent command for him to get back at his feet rather than on his knees.

As he slowly rose, his owner watched intensely, just waiting for him to look up and meet its gaze.

"You understand perfectly what you will have to do, right, Alastor?"

"... Yes."

______

Alastor woke up after a few seconds, he stayed in bed, staring at the ceiling before he sat up and looked around for his monocle. After finding it, he changed to his usual attires and went to the mirror to fix his hair.

As he finished doing so, he looked up, only to be met by the sight of his terrifying smile, still long and wide, hiding secret behind its teeth. Well! There is no time to waste! He thought as he faded in his shadows only to reappear at the lobby.

Charlie was making plans with the others about some kind of 'special' visit from a 'special' someone. This intrigued Alastor so he quickly dove into his shadows to reapper next to Charlie, scaring her by the sudden presence.

"As I was explaining, he'll be arriving by- OH FUCKING SATAN-" She yelled, almost falling over Vaggie who was standing right by her side. Vaggie turned to give Alastor a death glare that could have made anyone cower in fear, not Alastor though.

"Ah! Why, hello my dear! I deeply apologize for scaring you! I must have miscalculated where I was supposed to appear!" He spoke, grinning widely. For anyone else, it was clear that Alastor was lying and that he did plan to scare the girl but Charlie wasn't 'anyone else'.

"Oh! It's fine, Alastor! Actually, I was wondering if you could help me organize the place, we'll be receiving a special visit around 4:00 pm!" She explained, clapping her hands together, not noticing the way Vaggie raised her spear as if ready to attack Alastor for just daring to breath in front of her.

"Ah, I'm sad to have to decline the offer, my dear! I have an important meeting with a friend of mine that I'm afraid it can not be delayed! I'm not sure if I'll be able to arrive in time, but I'll try my best to do it, Charlotte!" Alastor replied, placing his hand on top of his chest as if he was truly wounded by the fact he wouldn't be able to be present at the time.

"Is that so? That's a bummer! But thanks for the honesty, Alastor! Anyway, guys—" Charlie's voice was tunned out by Alastor's thoughts filling his mind. Who could this 'special' visitor be? Maybe someone close to Charlotte? Well, it's a pity they won't be able to be graced by my noble presence!

With that, he followed with the day, going to his meeting with Rosie.

______

As Alastor walked through Canibal Town, he came to greet its people as the usual. He greeted Milton, who he asked about the man's wife and the man answered: "She's better now! I'lll give you a piece of the dinner we cooked later on!" Alastor only nodded in acknowledgment and followed his path to Rosie's Emporium.

He greeted Ellenoir. Such a nice little lady, already following the path of her dad and biting sinners! He thought as the kid passed by him, waving at him before she walked away, holding a crowbar in her hands and pointing at a random sinner.

He even greeted Susan. I hope you die in an alley and the dogs come to piss on you because even they can't be around your awful smell, if you were to be eaten, it'd be by a bunch of worms because they prefer trash. He thought, sighing dreamily about the day it'd happen, already fantasizing in laughing at Susan while she was killed.

_____

Meanwhile at the hotel, Charlie was organizing everything to make sure it'd only cause the better and the best impression on her father about the hotel.

She obviously knew he didn't actually believed in redemption but he was still there when she needed him, so, she'd let that one slide as long as her father behaves well around the others resident.

She had a serious talk with Angel about his jokes and how he shouldn't do them around her father because:

•1th - Her father isn't the type to enjoy sexual jokes

And

•2nd - ANGEL SHOULDN'T BE EVEN FLIRTING WITH HER DAD CUZ IT'D BE WEIRD AS FUCK TO HER!

Having cleared that with the spider, she moved on to tell Nifty to tidy the place and the maid only answered with: "Those bugs won't even see it coming!" Before she sprinted so fast that it was as if she had vanished. Then, Charlie asked Husk to look after Nifty so she shouldn't scare the heck out of her father.

Husk didn't even try to argue because he knew Nifty could scare anyone and in that anyone, The Devil itself was included.

As the hours approached, Charlie sighed loudly, fidgeting nervously. What if dad doesn't like the place? What if he laughs at it? Her thoughts were cut short by Vaggie placing a hand over her shoulder, squeezing it to make Charlie understood that, no matter what Lucifer says, Vaggie will stay by her side.

Charlie placed her hand over Vaggie's and smiled at her girlfriend before she turned to the clock, taking a deep breath and finding courage to face her father after many years.

It's time to do this.

_____

Tã-dã! Whaddya think? I hope I managed to grasp Alastor's true essence or in others words: him being a lil' prick.

Susan's part was funny to write

AND NOPE~! You won't be getting what Alastor had talked with Rosie, nuh-uh! This is for future chapters!

[undeadgayboynes]

Jeffrey Combs characters datability tier list

With explanations; A to D, left to right

-Anton Mordrid

Pros: Literally the perfect man. Intelligent, honest, respects you, owns a bird. Communicative.

Cons: A landlord

-The guy from Cyclone (I don't care)

Pros: Very smart, respects your intelligence, will participate in your hobbies even if they don't align with his interests. Charismatic and flirty

Cons: Might die and leave you with the task of protecting a super weapon from the shadow government

-Crawford Tillingast

Pros: Earnest, hardworking, very sweet, intelligent. Will probably remember your birthday. Wears oversized sweaters you can steal

Cons: A pushover, really bad luck, probably not fully emotionally ready for a relationship

-Chaz

Pros: A dork and seemingly a wimp, but will actually surprisingly brave when necessary. Well dressed. Objectively very cute

Cons: Is named Chaz. Complains a good bit, kinda snippy. Infectious anxiety

-Andrew Paris

Pros: Fine as fuck yet highkey a dork, will tell you interesting facts about things. Does his best to be a gentleman

Cons: Kind of incompetent, impulsive. Won't set up boundaries with people trying to hit on him. Seems experienced, but I don't think he's ever touched a boob.

-Dr. Haggis

Pros: Strong morals and will do what he can to uphold them, able to keep a level head in difficult situations. Takes care of those around him. Respects you and takes what you say into serious consideration.

Cons: Lack of confidence, won't say what he means. Alcoholic and smoker with no sign of wanting to change, used as coping mechanism. Pessimistic

-John Riley

Pros: Puts on a brave face, optimistic, hard worker. Loves his family very deeply. Genuinely trying to fix his issues. Will make the right decision when push comes to shove.

Cons: Alcoholic in a way that endangers those around him. Wants conflict to resolve on its own, uncommunicative, will lie to you. When he slips, he slips hard. Has potential to be unfaithful

-Dinosaur Bob

Pros: Fun and carefree, will take you on the ride of your life. Cool mustache. Sees you as an equal

Cons: A bit TOO carefree, irresponsible and impulsive. Does a LOT of drugs and will probably try to get you to do them. Sociopathic and violent tendencies. No morals.

-Francisco

Pros: Confident. Will accept when he is genuinely wrong. Impartial party, focused on facts.

Cons: Literally no opinions of his own, will let awful things happen because an authority says it's fine. That haircut and those glasses. Extremely desensitized to violence. "Facts over feelings" motherfucker

-Shepard Lambrick

Pros: Sugar daddy, will buy you a lot of nice things and you'll definitely get in the will. Cool mustache. Doesn't let people disrespect you.

Cons: Sociopathic and violent tendencies, enjoys other's suffering. Manipulative. One percenter and proud of it. Pushes boundaries.

-Herbert West

Pros: Intelligent, passionate. Will give you gifts. Includes you in his hobbies. Does the 🥺 face

Cons: Will not listen to you nor respect your boundaries. Grand gestures instead of communication, love-bombing. Extremely jealous. Manipulative. Sociopathic and violent tendencies. Condescending, thinks he's better than everyone else, no respect for anything or anyone. Impulsive. Does the 🥺 face

-Milton Dammers

Pros: Passionate and hard working. Speaks his mind.

Cons: Will not listen to you, no ability to compromise. Probably smells bad, greasy hair. Aware of his faults and has no want to change. Obsessive. Probably into some weird shit

-John

Pros: Ridiculously hot, will rock your world. Will break rules with you, in a hot way. Makes you feel appreciated

Cons: Will suicide bait you, ridiculously manipulative. Will ghost you. Kisses a rat on the mouth. Your boundaries? Never heard of them. Will love bomb you and hold that above your head.

[agendabymooner]

9 to 5 || f1 drivers (1)

(SPIN OFF OF COLOUR ME YOUR COLOUR (WIP) and RUSH)

Summary: Lorelei Hester ‘Lester’ Alessandro is a bassist first and Daniel Ricciardo’s partner second. But it seems like another role is added to her resume as she begins her weekend in Baku as Toto Wolff’s children’s babysitter. 

Chapter/blurb summary: The first morning of the Azerbaijan Race Week began with exchanging of names and messages. As of this point, Max Verstappen should consider his seat in Red Bull vacant after giving Lester's number out to some random person (is he a random person? hardly)

Content warning: family-centric content, people trying not to swear in front of children, attentive Dad!Toto, Toto scaring half the grid, dirty jokes, implied erection but not smut, baby names, max being a fool by proxy. 

Note: Uhh... THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR 60 FOLLOWERS! I hope you guys are enjoying the boost promoted by the creative juices of my brain. I'm going to try and work hard on these as much as I am working hard on CMYC and Rush. Enjoy xx

masterlist

i. baby names and text messages

With her leg resting on Daniel’s hip and her head resting on his arm, Lorelei Hester Alessandro — Lester for those who weren’t close to her — had never felt anything more nicer than this. That was until he decided to ruin the peaceful life that they could have just staying on the king-sized bed. 

Her eyes felt heavy, her annoyance slowly waking her up as Daniel shifted in his position. He kept moving, trying to slip out of her grasp as she continued to sleep. She looked so happy when she’s asleep. Relaxed. He loved that about her. He won’t even deny that he’d rather stay in this position if she’s like that forever. 

Not in the way of how Max had worded it. “Hm… she’s so nice when she has her mouth shut,” Max never really thought that she’d hear it until she started threatening him with her bass guitar. That wasn’t what Daniel meant when he said he liked her looking so peaceful. 

It’s been a while since they’ve gotten the peace they needed. 2022 was quite fucking rough, they thought it was the end of them. But they’re here in Azerbaijan, all tangled up in the bed with duvet covers weighing down their bodies. 

This was the first race weekend that Lester would be attending in 2023. Ever since the release of her band Måneskin’s newest album, she couldn’t find the opportunity to visit him while he, Checo and Max worked at Milton Keynes during the offseason. She expressed her guilt about not being able to spend much time with him, but all he said was “you’ve got work, and so do I, love.” 

Måneskin didn’t have a full schedule for their shows, and in between their schedules came a gap between April and May. The end of April to be exact. So she took this as an opportunity to travel with him. He was a reserved driver for Red Bull and wasn’t due to drive any time soon, but nevertheless she traveled just so she could spend some time with him.

Their first night in Azerbaijan consisted of sleeping. The moment Lester saw the bed, she dove in head first and left her suitcase by the closet. The groan that she let out after wasn’t sexual but it sure did something to Danny’s body. It didn’t take him long to drag her down to the floor, knowing that she’d fall asleep in a second if he continued to let her sprawl like that. 

“Fammi dormire, testa di cazzo,” let me sleep, dickhead, she groaned. Danny only laughed at that. He had heard the phrase testa di cazzo so many times that he was starting to know what kind of phrases come out of her. 

“No, get up,” he told her, reaching for her hands and hoisting her up to stand. “You need to wash your face, ma’am and brush your teeth.” 

“Hm, Danny,” she whined, her eyes still resting as she kept them close. 

“You’re not going to Danny me tonight, Miss Alessandro, come on. Get ready for bed,” he tutted, his hands now holding onto her arms as he gently pushed her into the bathroom. 

“I need to shower,” she murmured, her eyes finally waking up as she stared at herself in the vanity mirror. Yeah, she needed to shower. She hadn’t slept for almost a day now. 

Daniel, who was already digging through their suitcases for nightwear, then agreed, “Yeah you do. I can smell you from here.” 

Her eyes zeroed in on his reflection once he returned. He stood there with their separated toiletries and a grin on his face. The glare that she held wasn’t holding any grudges, but rather annoyance. 

She just shook her head before sliding the glass door open. She stripped down her clothes and took off the hair tie that she wore, her eyes still glaring at her boyfriend as she entered the shower. Her hand twisted the faucet to the hottest water as the head began raining down the water on her body. She had already shut the door close, not even caring if Dan was still there with the most amused expression she had ever seen. 

The steam began to fill the bathroom, making it known to her that Daniel had shut the door. What she didn’t expect, however, was for him to slide the door open and place their shower necessities on the tray beside her. 

“Scooch over, please,” Daniel said in a singing tone, his request making her glare at her own boyfriend as he stepped inside the shower. The hot water hit the back of his neck as he hissed, “Ow! Jesus… Are you trying to get a third-degree burn, mate? We can go to Australia in the summer for that.”

“Whose decision is it to invade my space in front of the hot water?” Lester told him with a raised brow, “hardly my fault now, no?” 

He only rolled his eyes. Perhaps it’s a bad idea to annoy a girlfriend who only wishes to sleep. But he only wanted her to shower so she could relax and sleep. 

Obviously it was a good idea that he had her shower before she slept. She had been asleep since 9 PM. And it’s 5AM already. That shower must have been so relaxing. Especially with the hot water. 

Daniel needed to get up though. And as he tried to shake her off of him, she continued to grumble and cling to him like a koala. 

“If you move again, what would stop me from kicking you right in your crown jewels,” she murmured, her eyes still closed as she cuddled him. Daniel only sighed, rubbing her back with the arm her head was resting on. 

“Our goal to fulfill our desire to have a brood of Ricciardos,” he muttered.

Her eyes remained close, sighing peacefully as she spoke, “I don’t recall saying I want to carry your demons in disguise.”

“Nice to hear that you think of them as angels,” he chuckled quietly. “They’re going to be as wild as you, Mama. I can tell you that much.”

“Well, stop moving then maybe we can have lots of them soon enough,” Lester nuzzled her head closer to his chest. The foot that clung to Daniel’s hips neared his crotch, with her mindlessly feeling the fabric of whatever he was wearing. 

She hadn’t even meant to feel him up like that. She was just trying to enjoy her sleep. He was few steps away from touching himself.

Lester, still not caring about what she was doing, then joked, “Can you imagine running after a toddler with curls bouncing and you yelling, “Jolie, put your nappies on” and she just won’t rest?”

Daniel gulped unwittingly and nodded, “S- Jolie?”

“What? Jolie is a good name for girls,” she replied before saying, “Jolie Ayrton Ricciardo.” 

Daniel felt the goosebumps rising on his skin as he muttered, “Sounds- sounds good. O- or Beau Joseph Nikolaus Ricciardo.” Lester really needs to get her foot off my crotch before I could even bust.

She snorted, her eyes no longer closed as she stared at her boyfriend’s side frame, “Beau? How old would he be when he comes out of me?”

“Okay, but,” Daniel protested, “Beau Ric, F1 World Champion from Red Bull. Ladies’ man.” 

“With the initials B and J,” Lester joked, “and him getting the Charles Leclerc name treatment, too.”

Daniel groaned, “Alright, since you’re mocking my idea that means we can get up now. Right?”

“No, we can’t get up yet,” Lester scoffed out, keeping her arm on his chest as she kept going, “us giving our kid a name does not warrant you to get up and go.”

“I need to get up, doll,” he said as quietly as she did, “need to work out with Max and Lando.”

“No you don’t,” she answered, obviously no longer asleep. “Max can DIY and Lando can be fed with protein bars with no problem. That child can live off sugar, if he’s even allowed to.”

“We need breakfast,” he insisted, kissing her forehead. He wasn’t even moving too. 

“No we don’t,” Lester told him, her eyes closing again.

“Lorelei, are you not eati—“

“I’m trying to,” she interrupted him, “but I’m too lazy to get up. Soooo tired.”

“So am I,” he continued, “but we have to get up now, yes? I’ll pull the curtains up so we can have a good morning.”

Finally letting go of him, Lester slumped back down on the side of his bed as she grumbled sleepily. “Fucking athletes… so motivated to get up early to grind. The fuck are you grinding on anyways?” 

“You know what you were doing when you began to date a racing driver, babe,” Daniel chuckled somewhere in the background. He moved around and Lester could hear the blinds and curtains opening. 

With the sunlight entering the wide paneled windows, her eyes took in the light as she looked at her boyfriend with a bored look. “Oh, really? Clearly the champagne didn’t elaborate enough.” 

Daniel rolled his eyes before sitting back down on his side of the bed, dipping his head down to kiss her on the lips as he grinned, “Come on. Breakfast. I’ve to meet Max and Checo, too.” 

“Ugh Verstappen,” she groaned, making her boyfriend laugh as he began making his way to the bathroom. “That guy will be the death of me one of these days, you know that, love?” 

“I know,” he answered from the sink, “you’ve told me about it when we met in 2015.” 

“So annoying.” 

Her phone pinged, the screen brightening as she glanced down at it. Her brows knitted together in confusion. 

“I’ve got an unknown number texting me,” she heard a hum coming from Daniel as she peered over the message she received. 

She had been staring at her phone for a good minute as she wondered if she should text him any more. She was friendly with Toto Wolff. She remembered how she came across Tilly and Toto during the afterparty of 2015 Monza race. 

She didn’t mean to fangirl, truthfully, but the alluring features of the older woman had her gushing about the novel that she published in 2014. Tilly merely asked her to continue and discuss the subject until she was pulled away by Daniel Ricciardo, who didn’t even ask for her name yet had the audacity to invite her to dance. 

Lester didn’t meet Tilly again until 2021 at Monza. The second time they had a discussion, it was about the second book that Tilly had published about being single for a decade and other knickknacks she could think of. Tilly asked for her name this time and even exchanged numbers with Lester just in case the bassist didn’t mind coming over at their humble abode in Monaco. 

The massive difference between the two of them never really bothered them. Lester was 26 — Sylvie’s age — and Tilly was 38. Tilly had two children while Lester didn’t see herself having any children anytime soon. Tilly had money in her pocket and a hint of parental issues, while Lester came from a middle class family who valued family more than anything. They were extremely different, yet they remained friends. 

But still, Lester was quite hesitant about what she had agreed on. Even if she was good friends with his wife, Lester was still worried about making a wrong choice in front of Toto. 

But for him to ask if she can babysit their kids while they run amuck in the paddock? Yeah. She might as well sign her death certificate herself. She could set up her own funeral too, should she have enough time for it. 

“Bellezza?” She looked up to the direction of her lover, who was already dressed for his morning workout. “You okay?” 

“Yeah?” She tilted her head, wondering what prompted him to ask that. “I am.” 

“Do you know who texted you?” He asked, worried about what she might have read. The serious look on her face said something. But apparently it wasn’t that much of a deal. 

“Yeah, it’s just,” she paused for a moment before looking back at her screen. She needed to make sure she wasn’t having a dream or a nightmare. “It’s Toto. He’s landing soon.” 

“Oh? How did he get a hold on your number?” He asked, peering down and tying his shoelaces as he got ready. 

“About that,” she smiled grimly. “What do you think about taking Max’s seat for the rest of the season?” She could see disappointment written all over his face.

“What did the fool do now?” Daniel looked at her with a dull expression. 

“He’s responsible for giving Toto my number,” she replied, slipping out of the bed to stand. Her nightdress fell back into place as she pecked his lips, “Now I’m babysitting the Wolff kids this weekend.”

“Really?”

“Yup, and probably by the end of the weekend, you’re the newest Red Bull driver alongside Checo,” she finally walked off and prepared herself for the day.

“I’m leaving, babe,” he stated, “and while I appreciate the effort, please don’t kill Max. He’s still a friend.”

"But you need to get back on the track, mio tasso!"

"I am not doing that with blood on my hands, my love!"

[teecupangel]

I wonder if there are times where Desmond could come off as terrifying without meaning too? Like he's just doing something he thinks is mundane, but whoevers near by is like no Desmond normally people don't climb buildings that high. Or no we all aren't professional knife throwers when we are boredly throwing knives

(I have a thing for Outside POVs so here's a pre-AC1!bartender!Desmond being weird and low-key terrifying.

Note: his fake name in this little fic is Derek Milton because he's not that imaginative)

“Hey, Ted.”

“Yeah?”

“Who was the bartender last night?”

“Oh, you mean Derek? He’s been working here longer than any of us. Pretty chill guy. What’s up?”

“Uuhh… nothing. It’s just…”

“Ooohhh. You got Derk’ed, didn’t you?”

“Got what?”

“Wait. Hey, Laura! Newbie got his first Derk’ed!”

“Congrats, man! You have your bingo card?”

“Bingo card???”

“Here. So Derek’s kind of a weirdo. If you get bingo, you get a free drink on your next shift. So… which one did you see him do?”

“The center says ‘family cult or hippies’?”

“Yeah, that’s a freebie but you gotta look out for that. Mia missed hers ‘cause he just said it and then started talking about edible grass. Oh, that’s the top-left one, by the way. We also count if he talks about edible flowers.”

“The middle right one says BnE?”

“Breaking and entering. But you gotta ask him to do it. Kinda like a consent thing to him. Anyway, if you forget the lock combination of your locker or you locked your car or you’re Jake and your ex locked you out of your apartment after she left you as a final fuck you after learning you fucked her stepmom, you call him and he’ll unlock shit for you free of charge. We usually give him a bag of chocolates as a thank you. He has a sweet tooth. If you really wanna say thank you, he really likes Banoffee pie from Starbucks.”

“Uuuhhh… this one says badass knife?”

“That one is when you see him do cool moves with a knife. You’d usually see it if he’s cutting garnish, especially when there’s like a drunk bachelorette party that he’s trying to impress. They give him extra tips when he’s being flashy.”

“And this… uuhh… kick ass?”

“That’s pretty self-explanatory, I think? Just look out when he kicks anyone out. He’s usually the one who takes out the violent ones.”

“We have a bouncer, right?”

“Yeah but he’s like… a martial artist or something? Anya once saw him kick the ass of a dude three times his size. Anyway, you get that space if you see him kick ass. And, don’t call the cops. We don’t want any cops around here.”

“Uh-huh. I can see why…”

“So, which one’s you saw last night anyway?”

“Uh… he told me not to serve some guys because they were mobsters? Said he’d take care of them?”

“Oh, that counts as ‘badguydar’.”

“Badguydar?”

“It’s like a gaydar but for really bad guys. He can spot them, like, in a flash.”

“……… Are we sure he’s not… ex-CIA or something?”

“… Would you like to join the betting pool we have on that? Highest bet we have at the moment is ‘secret child soldier government program’.”

“What???”

[zielenna]

hey :) for the book ask, 12, 9, 4, 11, 2, 25 + favourite & most unusual places you read something this year? <3

hi!! thank you for these, I'll try to avoid repeating myself...

2. Did you reread anything? What?

I reread quite a few texts for the classes I took this (calendar) year: Milton's Paradise Lost, Euripides's Bacchae, Shakespeare's Lear and Austen's Persuasion. Of all of these, I was most excited about Austen, whom I only read for pleasure before. I didn't remember how good she was: it really feels as if she invented the genre of people overthinking their social interactions, and nobody has done it better since. Something I haven't noticed before is how much the novel is doing that is not just reporting action & thought - for example, in Persuasion, there seems to be a pattern of characters forgetting or confusing other peoples' names, not being certain of another person's identity - taken together, these instances seem to point to a kind of thinking about replaceability, identity and non-identity between different people - but these aren't thoughts attributable to any single character in the novel; it's more like the novel is thinking for itself (a similar pattern in Lear is its notorious obsession with the concept of nothing and the figure of zero). It was cool to see!

4. Did you discover any new authors that you love this year?

I would say Robert Glück; after Margery Kempe I would be interested in anything he wrote, and - I just looked it up - the synopsis of his first novel, Jack the Modernist, promises a narrator "thinking about werewolves." Having spent considerable time thinking about werewolves myself, I would love to know more.

9. Did you get into any new genres?

I briefly mentioned contemporary poetry - I read more of it for my winter class than ever before, I think. Another answer would be gothic - which is not a new genre, and not even a new genre for me (my gothic fiction tag goes all the way back to 2015), but I was meaning to seriously revisit it - I finally read Walpole's Otranto, and I have open in my tabs Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick's Coherence of Gothic Conventions, but it is still waiting for its moment. What I have been thinking about with gothic is its place in the history of disenchantment that was supposed to occur between the medieval ages and modernity; gothic as a genre depicting and engineering experiences of irrational, destabilizing passion, that gained popularity in what was supposed to be the age of reason. That's how I make it relevant to my own research interests, I guess. What I find personally compelling as a reader is all the fucked-up families.

Rest under the cut!

11. What was your favorite book that has been out for a while, but you just now read?

Almost all books I read this year weren't 2024 releases, so - any book I mentioned in the top five reads of this year would qualify. I'll say that especially in the past few months, I made more of an effort to read books I have been meaning to read for a while. So: Otranto, Djuna Barnes's Nightwood (which I had on my shelf since 2016), and I just started Garth Greenwell's Cleanness, which I was saying I should read for maybe three months now - and it's been good so far! What is most surprising to me is that it is a book written by an American about being an American in (broadly considered) Eastern Europe - and it's not annoying about this!

12. Any books that disappointed you?

Well, the worst five from the previous post... Also, I read Andrea Long Chu's Females, and it was just fine. When I was reading Berlant, I wanted to send people screenshots of every second page, and with Chu, nothing felt that revelatory.

25. What reading goals do you have for next year?

There are a few specific books I want to read (Notes of a crocodile from your list!); I feel that quite a few people I follow on here, or see around myself, are having a Bolaño moment, so I'd like to read something by him - right now, I settled on his novella Distant Star. And, what feels like more of a project, I'd like to read a book in French - I can cope with articles and modern translations of Old French texts I know, but I’d like to try actually reading a book. So if anyone has recommendations for something not too daunting, I'd be grateful...

favourite & most unusual places you read something this year?

Oh, this is fun! I am usually too practical to be reading anywhere outside my room / the library / public transport, but when I took that Berlant book on a trip, I ended up reading it whenever I needed to rest my feet or charge my phone - once, in the middle of the Union Square, which made me feel like I was 14 again and capable of reading whatever with complete disregard for the circumstances. On the same trip, I ended up reading for half an hour in the back of a very nice book store near Chinatown; I bought a can white peach & yuzu seltzer to pay for my taking up the time & the armchair, but it actually didn't feel required. I think I remember them playing 60s Chinese songs, which was lovely, too...

Thanks again for giving me an excuse to ramble!

[rdr2stories]

"Please..." a rdr2 fanfiction.

A short fanfiction about the epiloge

Sadie… Sadie, god it had been a while since he had heard that name, years, eight to be exact. Eight entire years since he had heard from Sadie Adler, last time he had seen her, she had been protecting Abigail and Jack… She had made sure he had had a family to return to, he owed her everything, every moment, every second he had had with his family the last eight years.

He should feel only happiness at her name, so why was there an unease in the bottom of his stomach at her name, why was he worrying? He asked himself that but he knew, he knew the answer, because just as easily as she had given him his family she could take it from him again, he just refused to accept it even though he knew it was true.

She was asking to meet with him, probably just to catch up… Just to catch up… She would probably want to meet Abigail as well… Abigail…

After his meeting with Sadie in the Blackwater saloon he felt a little better, he had asked her to come visit the farm, she hadn’t shown much interest, so maybe that meant when Abigail returned they would be safe, his family would be safe. He had really only asked out of courtesy, but he felt safer knowing that him and Abigail were safe…

He hated thinking like that, he hated it, but he knew it, he knew it like he had known it those last few weeks where he had watched their fleeing touches in camp, where he had watched them speak lowly amongst themselves as they stood unnecessarily close, where he had watched the way their eyes softened when they met. He wanted to say it meant nothing but he knew better, after all he recongized it from what he and Javier had done back when Jack had been born.

Was this what it had been like for Abigail? No… It had been different… He hadn’t been a father back then, they hadn’t been a family, not the way that they were parents now, the way they were a family. They hadn’t been together, if it hadn’t been for Jack the two of them would never even have talked… Now he was building her a house…

When finally Abigail returned, John had never felt happier, had never felt more at peace, had never felt more excited, they were starting a new life and he was going to do his best to make sure that he didn’t fuck it up again, that she would have her dream life with a farm and family. If she was happy so was he.

His wife, his son, his house, his dog apparently, his family. He had a family, he had a life, they were safe, he didn’t have to worry about her dying or being arrested or being taken. He was hers, she was his, they were a proper family, the kind of family he had never had before, that he certainly had never dared to dream for when he had been with Dutch and the rest… Arthur would be proud of him, it was Arthur that kept him grounded, Arthur had sacrified everything for him and he was going to make sure to put a good use to it.

God Abigail was beautiful, she was stunning, he loved her, and she seemed happy even though half the house was empty, they barely had a bedroom, much less a kitchen, but she was happy, she told him that he did good. How long he had waited for that, for the recognition, for the happiness that would make it all worth it, that would make all the moving, the newly hanging debt over his head, the worry of using his actual name and not Jim Milton.

How god it felt to hold Abigail in his arms again.

“Mom! Pa!” Jack shouted and then Sadie was there, riding down the path to the house she had otherwise said she didn’t even want to see, Abigail was smiling, laughing, running dpwn to embrace Saide in a hug like she had him, grabbing her hand and leading her inside the house she had only agreed to see when Abigail was back.

“I am so happy, I am so happy,” Abigail said and his stomach curled, he wished nothing more, he wished just for her to be happy but he also wished it was him making her happy, he wished that her smile had been that big when she had seen the house, when she had seen him, when she had hugged him. He wished he hadn't seen the way their hands lingered, he wished he hadn't seen the way their eyes met, he wished he hadn't heard the love when she had called her darling, he wished that he didn’t worry if his familiy's neck was at risk again.

Please don't take her from me.

[iftheshoef1tz]

i have GOT to hear more about the demon!azris WIP you mentioned!! spill the deets! i love the title "What Hath Night to Do With Sleep", you always have the best titled fics.

I would love to tell you about demon azris!! I posted a little bit of it for Halloween, but the main idea is that Eris, a young German doctor living in West Berlin in the late 1960s, summons a demon to help him kill his father and the former Nazis he grew up around. In addition to azris, eris kind of sleeps with everyone, so there will be neris and nerissian, as well as blink-and-you-miss-it Kallias/Eris and feysandris. Eris, in a word, is living my dream and fucking his way through the acotar cast. This fic will be heavy on the trigger warnings (bc, you know, Nazis and the killing thereof), but i don’t plan to include any onscreen violence against Jewish people.

It’s been a really interesting bit of history to research (with special, special help from @queercontrarian) and i have looked up the most random things. Including a hilarious article from WikiHelp on how to summon a demon, as well as “what cars did West Germany have,” “when were ball pens invented,” “names of politicians in the AfD,” “bones in the hand,” and “symptoms of gout.” My search history is a mess, lmao.

The title is from John Milton’s “Paradise Lost,” and it slaps severely. If you’re ever at a loss for titling something and you can’t find a song title or lyric that’s working, poetry is always a good bet!

[fear1996]

Salvation Of A Saint

PAIRING: ramsay bolton ⋅ stark female reader

CONTENT WARNING: smut (18+, mdni), angst, canon violence, blood, dark themes, obsession, rough vaginal sex, depressing thoughts and intentions, choking, pet names, degradation kink, possessive behavior, threats, abuse, slut shaming, mentions of forced marriage, unprotected sex.

SYNOPSIS: Dante put the seducer in the eighth circle of hell, and John Milton portrayed him as Satan incarnate in Paradise Lost, snaking his way into Eden, ravishing Eve, and damning her to eternity in that dank, nasty lake of fire, surrounded by the sounds of endless, miserable moaning. But that is the thing with Ramsay. You don't realize the extent of his perversity until it is far too late to extricate yourself from his claws. Incapable of love, incapable of empathy, he has nevertheless managed to ingratiate himself into the good graces of the Starks. And it is through his association with them that he first met the object of his desire, a woman who is the opposite of him in every way imaginable, yet a woman who has ensnared him in her orbit and who, despite the danger she is placing herself in by so doing, continues to draw him deeper in.

To call Ramsay a savage would be an understatement. An insult to his ego even. Savage implied a total misinterpretation of his reputation. Hell, even the first men in the primeval virgin wilderness were most certainly not as cruel, murderous, or as grotesque as Ramsay. Quite the opposite. In fact, they might have been considered downright civilized by comparison. No man alive could match Ramsay for sheer savagery.

Your family had bartered you away as a sacrifice in the name of an alliance, no different as one trades cattle. But you would have welcomed death—your own or his—to this marriage, so far detached from any form of love or companionship. It was nothing more than a lifetime's imprisonment in the form of matrimony.

You had spent most of the morning and afternoon with your eyes fixated on the door, knowing what was to come. Despite your efforts to watch for him, he always seemed to be able to take you by surprise, sneaking into your bed chambers without your knowledge.

The scent of him, a blend of sweat and something akin to decay, filled your nostrils. It was suffocating, overwhelming. You wanted to retch, but you couldn't even muster the strength for that. Your mind continued to race, searching for an escape, a miracle, anything. But there was nothing. Only the disturbing certainty of your fate. You were a lamb led to slaughter, and Ramsay was the butcher preparing to claim his prize.

He didn't touch you yet, but the unspoken threat hung heavy in the air, thicker than the scent of his unwashed skin. The silence stretched, broken only by the erratic beat of your own heart. You tried to focus on something else, anything – the intricate pattern of the tapestry on the wall, the cold stone beneath your bare feet – anything but the impending horror. But your mind was captive in a cage of fear.

"Are you a virgin?”

The question was disarmingly civil as if one were discussing the weather, as though it were no more intrusive than asking for the time. His words rolled over you like smoke from a burning field, and it crept into your lungs before you could summon the will to push it back. He might’ve extended gentlemanly conduct—grazing his soft lips upon your knuckles and inquiring about your well-being. But there was something about him that expressed an underlying hunger. It was the perverse and illicit hunger of a man who’d hadn’t had a decent fuck in a long time, the kind of hunger that reduced everything to nothing save flesh and heat. You recognized it in his eyes, as so many women had precedent, and you had no intention of allowing yourself to become his sustenance. However charming the façade, you kept your defenses intact, and held your guard high.

“Yes.” You managed, your voice barely a whisper. The word felt pathetic even to your own ears, but yes was all you could summon.

You knew Ramsay Bolton's reputation; his name was synonymous with cruelty and savagery. But in that moment, your only solace came from the fact that he was not the brute you had expected. His sadism was subtle, at least for now.

He placed his callous hand to your cheek and you flinched in response, though he hadn't yet done anything to warrant it. The memory of what he had done to Theon Greyjoy—Reek—was enough to send the tremor down your spine without further provocation.

“Why?” The word slipped out of his mouth with a languid curiosity. It wasn’t the question itself that sent a chill down your spine but rather the way he said it. He merely wanted to know how much you were willing to sacrifice just to keep him satisfied.

“Why are you still a virgin?”

“Afraid of wolves?” He grinned, and it wasn’t kind.

“No.” You said. “I never consummated my marriage with…him.”

“You’re not lying to me.” His thumb found its way to your bottom lip as his eyes bore into yours. He smiled, but it was a smile that held no mirth, only cruelty and malice.

“No. My Lord.”

“Lying to your husband on his wedding night…” he added after a moment, and his voice dropped an octave, becoming huskier, more aggressive. His thumb entered your mouth and you could taste the pad of his finger against your tastebuds as he continued.

“Would hardly make for the best beginning..” he said, a predatory gleam in his eyes that was far more terrifying than any outright threat.

"You're still wearing your clothes," he pointed out, nodding at your gown.

"Why?" You knew just by his tone, why wasn't a question. It was a warning—an assurance that you were not in a position to question him nor his motives, however lightly he chose to display them.

You forced yourself to meet his gaze, though with great difficulty. His eyes void of empathy, only the faintest flicker of sadistic glee betraying his true nature. A predator sizing up its prey.

"Forgive me, my Lord, I didn't realize it was time already…"

The words tasted like bile on your tongue, the lies burning the roof of your mouth, as you raised the hem of your gown to expose yourself. You were prepared for him to hit you again, to berate you, or force you down on all fours like some dog and mount you roughly from behind as was his custom, yet he did not move toward you, did not attempt to assist you in the disrobing—he merely watched, eyes narrowed with a wicked gleam that you did not fail to notice. The thin cloth fell at the cold stone beneath your feet, leaving you with nothing to hide your nudity before his prying eyes. Ramsay’s gaze scanned the entirety of your body unashamedly, lingering over certain areas more intently than others.

It wasn't the first time he'd seen you nude. You'd been subjected to his unwanted gaze many times since the day you were wed. Yet you'd never gotten used to being displayed before him, never quite shaken the instinctual desire to cover yourself. It was an impulse you fought back with all of your strength, though you could not keep your face from warming with shame as you felt his gaze rake across your body, taking in the sight of your nakedness. His expression remained impassive as his eyes swept across your breasts and hips, betraying no emotion, not even pleasure at your compliance, though you could see the evidence of his arousal tenting the front of his breeches. It didn't escape your notice.

How could he ever treat you with respect or dignity, when you stood there staring at him like that—glossy-lipped, and wide-eyed?

You couldn't suppress the tremor of revulsion that wracked through you as Ramsay approached you, though you did your best to remain silent and impassive, to keep the fear and distaste from your features as he closed the distance between you. His hands fell to your hips as his mouth descended onto yours in a bruising kiss. You didn't kiss him back, but you didn't resist. You didn't dare. You remained pliant, allowing him to invade and ravage your mouth. His tongue swept over yours in a lewd display of ownership, a reminder of your marriage. Of your duty to your house.

The alliance was important, you told yourself, vital, and so you had been sacrificed to secure it. To prevent further bloodshed. Thus you had ended up in a cold and barren castle, wedded to an impulsive, unpredictable, volatile man who would sooner slit your throat than allow you to flee from him. The only thing that seemed to stay his hand, to quell his bloodlust, was his desire for you.

"A good wife should always anticipate the needs of her husband."

The implication of his words sent a jolt of dread through your system, and because the feeling was familiar, you weren't entirely shocked by the notion. A lifetime of experience had taught you to brace for what you might be expected to face, however hard to stomach it might be. You kept your back straight, aware that any outward display of unease could only exacerbate the situation, even if it was inevitable. You wouldn't even permit the slightest quivering of the hands. He'd caught you in that little imperfection of your wedding vows many times over.

Before you could regain your bearings, you found yourself being flipped around, Ramsay's hand between your shoulder blades forcing your torso down against the mattress. It seemed too late to protest, yet the realization that it would only serve to reinforce the necessity of his sadism made the words die on your tongue before they ever left the safety of your lips.

Ramsay Bolton wasn't someone who was accustomed to hearing the word 'no'. He had an ego to him, a pride, which you were certain he had nurtured over the course of his lifetime. You had known him for only a small fraction of that time and had already seen the damage his petulance could do. You had the bruises to prove it. You were still aching from his touch, the marks he had left upon you earlier in the day just as tender now as they had been the moment he'd placed them upon you.

The position was humiliating—laid flat against the bed, with him hovering above your bare form, undoubtedly relishing your vulnerability—and the feeling only grew as his rough hands forced your knees farther apart, spreading you open for him. He had taken great care to position your body exactly the way that he had wanted, your cunt splayed out, providing him with full access to your most vulnerable region. Ramsay was determined to humiliate you in this moment, and the idea of him bringing you to orgasm by these acts of cruelty brought forth a wave of bile within your throat. His enjoyment at the expense of your comfort was something you'd have to accept for now.

With one hand on your back to keep your struggling to a minimum, Ramsay took it upon himself to begin unbuckling his belt. You didn't need to look to see his smile, to see the glint in his eye as he disrobed before you, as he basked in the power imbalance that defined your relationship, as he prepared to defile your body in whichever manner struck him as the most cruelly inventive at any given moment. You squeezed your eyes shut, wishing that you could have done something, anything—to make the situation resolve itself, but such was not your place.

Ramsay did not give you the opportunity to acclimate to his presence before he set the pace, his thrusts brutal, unrelenting, his cock buried in the depths of your womanhood, its girth sheathed in your heat. The sheer physicality of the moment—a sudden confluence of heat, pressure, and yielding—was startling, almost jarring in its simplicity. It was almost more than you could abide, and the mere act of restraining the scream that was building within you was an act of self-discipline that would have been commendable under different circumstances.

It hurt, it hurt like all hell, but at least you didn't have to see his face, nor was it expected of you to feign pleasure or reciprocate his affections, such as they were. You told yourself that this was not the first time a woman had endured such a night, nor would it be the last. Somewhere in the world, other women were gritting their teeth against similar indignities, closing their eyes, biting the inside of their cheek until blood replaced tears. That thought didn’t comfort you, but it allowed you to focus on something beyond yourself, a distant chorus of suffering you could almost join.

"Fuck. You feel so good. I've wanted this pussy since I first laid eyes on you. You really have been a virgin, haven't you?" he grunted, a moan of pleasure punctuating his observation.

Determined not to allow Ramsay to hear you cry, you bit back the sob that had formed in the back of your throat, a single tear sliding down the length of your cheekbone. You could smell your own fear as it emanated from your pores, a pungent odor that was as bitter and sharp as bile. The scent was lost to Ramsay though, the man's senses honed on nothing but his own pleasure.

The warmth that enveloped him was unexpected but very much welcomed. For Ramsay, the way your cunt involuntarily contracted around him was a clear indication of your consent. Your body, unwilling as it was, offered him what he took as permission. It made him harden even more inside you, his fingers digging into your hips to keep you still as he fucked you with brutal thrusts. He didn’t see you as human. He saw only a vessel through which he might experience ecstasy like no other. And so long as you gave yourself up freely for this purpose, there would be no end to how far he would take you both.

It wasn't supposed to be like this, you lamented. Sex wasn't supposed to be a matter of survival, a means to ward off the cruel advances of the man who was currently buried within the deepest recesses of your womanhood, the most private part of yourself, the part you'd vowed to keep sacrosanct. That was a vow that was now broken, and you could feel the remnants of that promise as it seeped from between your legs and mingled with the copious pre-cum Ramsay had already leaked into your womb, the viscous fluids coating your inner thighs and soaking the bedclothes beneath you.

There was nothing intimate about the way his cock split you open, nothing romantic about the manner in which his fingers dug into your flesh, imprinting crescents of red. His hands moving up to encircle your throat, squeezing your airway just enough to make your head spin, just enough to make you wonder if it was your life on the line if he applied a fraction more pressure.

"Who do you belong to, wife?" There was an almost gleeful tone to the inquiry as he withdrew his shaft almost completely, a sticky thread of your blood and his seed dangling from his tip.

"You, my lord. I belong to you." The lie escaped you effortlessly, the untruth becoming harder to bear with each passing moment.

As Ramsay continued to thrust into your pussy from behind, your eyes fell on the knife on the bedside table. How many times you'd dreamed of plunging that blade deep into his chest, his throat, anywhere you thought it might be possible to kill him. How you would relish the look of surprise on his face, the blood flowing from the wound and spilling over his skin.

You had never killed, of course. You'd scarcely ever hurt a soul in your entire life, but there were many times you had been forced to fight back tears while enduring the Lord Bolton's brutality that you wondered how much it would really matter if you had just one blemish upon your record of good behavior.

"Fuck, wench." He growled out, the vulgar term rolling off of his tongue in such a lascivious manner that you felt the bile rising in your throat as it threatened to overtake you, the taste bitter on your tongue. He leaned down to you, and his lips brushed over the sensitive skin of your ear, causing you to wince as you tried to move your face away, to no avail. "Gods, it doesn’t make any sense to be this fucking tight." He bit down on your ear and you cried out, tears welling in your eyes. His hips were snapping against yours so quickly, that all you could feel was pain, shooting through you in agonizing waves.

You closed your eyes against the sheer animalism of his thrusts. It was a pace that no normal human would set, a cadence too violent to be anything but painful. Ramsay seemed determined to make it as unpleasant as possible though. Your breath was leaving you in gasping sobs, each forceful entry of his member punching the air from your lungs and robbing you of any semblance of dignity you might have maintained. Ramsay's grunts of effort were punctuated by his low moans, the sounds a perverse counterpoint to your own, as he reveled in his conquest.

It didn't take long before your cunt clenched and then fluttered, the tightness in your pelvis reaching its peak. You could feel the heat of his breath as it warmed the nape of your neck and his thrusting hastened as a result of your body's natural reaction, a sign he had been eagerly anticipating. His teeth sunk into the flesh of your neck, his canines breaking through the fragile epidermis and your mouth fell open in a silent cry as a rivulet of blood trickled from the fresh wound. It wasn’t the first time he had marked you, in fact, you had a whole collection of scars that littered your skin in an intricate pattern that served as a testament to the violence that characterized your marriage.

[lesbianbriars]

I legit had to write this out in my drafts because if I tried writing it all out in an ask it'd be like 10x more incoherent

I also read your sparchess fic recently and man. MAN. it absolutely gutted me like a fish, I could go off on a whole tangent but I think Tea did a good job at saying what I wanted to say so I’m just gonna focus on your version of Sparrow because HOOOHHH BOYYYYYY

(DISCLAIMER: I love the way you wrote him)

He is an asshole. I Love To Hate Him because like. he tells Duchess that she deserves better and after he fucking ruined her chance at getting a destiny that’s significantly better than her own, and what does he say when Duchess is rightfully pissed and calls him out on the fact he manipulated and betrayed her?

“You can’t just wait for things to fall into your lap, Duchess,” he snapped, and she was stunned — this was the first time he’d really used her name. “If you don’t want your destiny, you have to fucking make a new one. You can’t let Grimm drag you around on a string.”

My initial reaction to that: DUDE?? SHUT THE FUCK UP??? YOU DON’T HAVE THE RIGHT TO DICTATE THAT FOR HER???????

Here’s the thing about his claim that she can just “make a new one [destiny]”. The Rebels are already doing struggling to do that. Like. Milton and all the other outside forces are making that really fucking hard, so for him to just be like “she doesn’t need to settle for being the Evil Queen, she can make herself her own destiny”, is just… frustratingly naive.

And also! He does not have the right to dictate what’s best for her!! Cool motive, still a dick fucking move!!

I hope that if you ever right a sequel, Duchess does make him pay. Like, yeah, we don’t know if Milton would’ve actually given her Raven’s destiny, but to quote Duchess herself- he knew what the stakes were for her. And he threw it away.

TLDR; RAAAAGHHHHHH 10/10 fic will read again

lmao thank you so much!!! i myself absolutely adore sparrow and found myself extremely confused by his motivations in the original book, so i decided to give him this sort of messed up morally gray motivation where he thinks he’s trying to help her but is like. completely off base and only ends up isolating her further. i thought it would be an interesting deviation from his relatively shallow motivations in canon to have a twist where he did genuinely care about her — he just fucked it up. i’m really glad you enjoyed what i did with him.

i do not at all plan to write a sequel — the open ending is part of what was fun to me about writing this fic, kind of leaving it with strings untied and feelings unresolved — but if i did i’m afraid i’d likely be much more sympathetic to sparrow than you’d prefer haha. i think it’s more complicated than him just being a bad guy, and i would want to kind of expand upon that.

regardless, thank you so much for sending me your thoughts 💓 any time someone reaches out to me like this it truly makes my day; it shows me that my art really does affect people, and that is really really special.

i appreciate you so much!!

[daedalusdavinci]

spell homestuck

GOD. THIS IS SO MUCH LONGER THAN TWO FACE. i typed too much and theres too many qs so under the cut it goes

H - What is your favorite source text for fandom stuff (e.g., TV shows, movies, books, anime, Western animation, etc.)?

books!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! or....... i guess comics, these days, but i HATE READING COMICS they juST HAVE MORE COMPELLING FANDOMS. book fandoms are PUNY nad everyone is STUPID. youd think actual literary fandoms would have reading comprehension and understanding of literary critique but no!!!!!!!!!!!!! its literally my eternal fuckign struggle. somehow comic fandoms hit the perfect medium between compelling, readable content and the enthusiasm of cartoon fans without the childishness of cartoon fans

O - Choose a song at random. Which ship or character does it remind you of?

this isnt really a thing i do. the only time i associate characters w songs is my own ocs. barbies theme is miltons tower from the what remains of edith finch soundtrack!

M - Name a character that you’d like to have for a friend.

i have also never really been one to project myself into stories. its just not how i consume media. i think sollux and rose already closely resemble the kinds of friends i make, so maybe them?

E - Have you added anything cracky/hilarious to your fandom? If so, what?

(freddy fazbear vc) vanessa.... ive done things, im not proud of.

i dont even know if i want to answer this question bc its so fucking humiliating LKJSNDLFSDNFSDF the truth is yes. i am solely responsible for. a lot. particularly in the pjo fandom. i created several crackships ground up all on my own way back in 2014 and developed a following for them and i. dont wantto tell you what those ships were. LSKJDFNSLDJNSDFSDDF ive also pioneered many ship tags for other fandoms and i ship a lot of rarepairs and stuff but i dont think im RESPONSIBLE for them?? in that some ppl already were into them/talking abotu them or tht theyre still not popular (augh. to the ones that became popular) but i AM liTERALLY responsible for some crack shit in the pjo fandom and its. it haunts me sometimes. i dont want to talk about it. IF YOU REMEMBER WHAT I DID NO YOU DONT

S - Show us an example of your personal headcanon (prompts optional but encouraged)

this is so vague. my headcanons are shifting and nebulous and aus are my constant companion in everything, but uhhhhhhghhusjkdjnsdg i think. roxy writes the same way dave draws comics. its extremely memey and meta and self aware and largely just for the personal lolz, and were all doing her a disservice by pretending her writing looks like roses, when in reality dirk is probably the one whod make comics the way rose makes books (which is probably why he doesnt make comics). its more of that thing where roxy and dave are the same and rose and dirk are the same ykwim. well YOU dont corvus but im sure someone else does

T - Do you have any hard and fast headcanons that you will die defending?

jason takes after bruce in terms of like. adopting entirely too many kids. he broods

U - Three favorite characters from three different fandoms, and why they’re your favorites.

harvey is a heartwrenching character when written well, with a complicated view of morality, heartbreaking ties to our main hero, and a lot of internal conflict. something about such a hopeful character deadset on making a different in the system becoming a victim of it, and the potential he has as a vehicle for critiquing the law.

percy is my favorite character from pjo bc it was the very first time in my life i ever read a book and saw myself in it. hes aggressive, impulsive, and rebellious, he fidgets and has a hard time standing still, he acts on emotion without always thinking it through, he gets in trouble in school and hands his mom a murder weapon to kill his stepdad, hes just... hes a lot of the things ive always gotten in trouble for, things i couldnt help being, and hes a hero. he means everything to me.

vriska, i will maintain until the day i die, is one of the best homestuck characters- maybe just characters?- ever written. shes dramatic, shes impulsive, shes manipulative and mean and creative, and shes just so messy about it. shes a mean girl in a way that feels real, where her trauma impacts and shapes her as a person, and shes complex, with warring wants, and people she cares about, and dreams, and shes so messy. shes rough and rude and shes doing what SHE wants to, being a version of herself that feels right to HER, rather than some caricature of the hot badass evil lady. shes thirteen!! and she FEELS thirteen. shes a thirteen year old weird girl who is kind of an asshole, and she means literally fucking everything to me. shes a pirate!!!!! shes a swashbuckling badass dressing up in her larping outfit and yelling at her friends on the playground to swab the deck and she is the bestest ever, the end.

i didnt mean for each one of these to be longer than the last but here we are.

C - A ship you have never liked and probably never will.

i hate jdedave peace and love it just feels weird as hell to me. dave, for the most part, is hyper respectful of other peoples choices and boundaries but when it comes to jade hes always trying to mke choices for her, to protect her, and it gets to the point where even jade points out how much it bugs her. jades crush on dave also seems to come from a place of misunderstanding to me, admiring a lot of the parts of himself that he exaggerates and pretends to care about as a result of trauma. it always felt like a kid crush that they shouldve grown out of with time. dave also just sort of seems to... go along with whatever romantic relationships people push him into at that age, rolling with whoever flirts with him jsut bc hes trying to maintain the image of a player, so its really hard to take him seriously any time he hits on someone?

that is just my interpretation of it tho

K - What character has your favorite development arc/the best development arc?

well. i havent finished my reread of homestuck, so that feels difficult to comment on just yet, bc im sure ill have a different opinion when i do finish it. no one in dc gets character arc bc theyre all just undone immediately, so thats like. yeah. and in pjo the arcs are pretty weak bc 1) kids books and 2) RICK UNDOES THEM ALL. AUGH. regardless of all of this, i am going to say jason grace. he had a lot of development in like the last two hoo books, or maybe just like.... hints of how he couldve developed? promise? which rick immediately set fire to in toa when he killed him, but fUCKING WHATEVER. UGH.

anyway actually tho eleanor from the good place. bisexual icon. queen. probably one of the best character arcs of all time. the episode w her mom has some of the most powerful fucking dialogue ever and i think about it. all the time. i should rewatch the good place.....

[harrison-abbott]

PENICUIK (1996)

Davies called me with the details. It didn’t sound good. A boy had gone missing in one of the provincial towns. Penicuik. He’d been gone for four days and he was thirteen. Cases like this didn’t usually end well. But it was my duty to go and find him.  

So I got in the car and drove out of the city. The boy’s name was Tim Milton.  

I went to a high school in a provincial town as well. It was actually near this same motorway, only the other side of the city; I remember those apocalyptic bus rides each morning, drudging into hell. I fucking hated school and adolescence in general. And it contributed nothing to my being a detective. But, I’m sure most teenagers feel the same.

Penicuik, when I got there, was very similar to the town where I schooled. Industrial housing from the 1950s. A kind of gaunt collectivism. I was supposed to go down and see his parents first, Tim’s parents, to see what they had to say. But I wanted to go to the crime scene first. It wasn’t a ‘scene’ per se, as a collection of evidence. They’d found Tim’s hat in the woods. Football hat. In a spot near the river. The police sealed off this section and I had a rough area on a map as to the location.  

What I first noted this this was some distance from Penicuik. According to his neighbours and family Tim was last seen heading on a bike ride down to the woods, where he often went for journeys.  

I parked my car at the top of the woods and walked along the trail. It took me nearly half an hour to get to the river and I saw nobody as I went. The trail was pulpy with mud and I fumbled about with the map trying to find this cordoned area. The map was no use and I only found it when I stumbled on the yellow POLICE tape strung around a group of trees. I went under the tape.  

Okay … So it was close to the main trail. And, as I heard, close to the river. The most likely scenario was that somebody had attacked Tim here. And during the assault he lost his hat, and the panicky attacker or attackers didn’t notice it. But, what about the bike? Where was Tim’s bike? They’d obviously gone to the effort to hide the bike.  

I went down to the river bank and looked up and down. I followed its current. The bankside was gnarly and tricky to cross. I drank from my flask and it livened me up a bit: shouldn’t be so lazy. There was so much junk in the river it was crazy. All sorts of detritus. Supermarket trolleys and weird household items, TVs, binbags, footballs, everything. There were clearly dodgy histories in Penicuik.  

But then I found what I was looking for.  

The bicycle. It had been thrown in the river, as I’d expected. But had been snagged against a tree trunk by the riverside. Caught against the limbs. I went up and examined it. It was new and usable and boy’s size. The witnesses said he drove a white bike. It was white. I lifted it up and brought it dripping onto the bank.  

So the assailants threw the bike into the river, just as many Penicuik residents did with their un-wanted items. But what did they do with Tim after that? There was a reasonable chance he might be in the river too. I just had the sense that there was something else, other than the river. That Tim had been taken further into the woods. I kept going.

And I came to a bridge. 30 yards above me. I was drinking when I heard a noise. There were heads popped out in the sky atop the bridge. They were kids – teenagers like Tim. Hollering at me. I decided to ignore them and go on but when I came to the bridge I found that the river trail ended there and I wouldn’t be able to get past without jumping in the water. I hesitated, wondering what to do. Then a bottle smashed at my feet. I jumped cartoonishly. And all the boys on the bridge above laughed. I took a slug of whisky and went up the hill.  

I climbed over the fence at the top. There were four lads there on the bridge. Red-faced, drunk and grinning. They walked towards me.  

“What you doing creeping around in the woods, man?” the leader of the group said.

I looked over the area and realised I needed to cross the bridge to continue down the river. There was no other route. The lads kept approaching, confident; I walked towards them.  

“Why are you here anyway?” the leader said again.

“Here, lads,” I said, “I’m not interested in you. Leave me be.”

“Who are you?”

“I just need to get over this bridge and then I’ll be off.”

“Why?”

The leader lad lunged towards me and stood over my body. I’ve always been a small man and not physically terrifying. I flinched. And his cronies laughed.  

I took my pistol out of my holster. They froze when they saw the gun. Lifted it up and bullet into the air. And they all twitched. The gunpowder rang over the woods and the birds burst out of the trees. Then the boys all ran away along the trail.  

Jesus, kids can be so stupid. Fucking idiots.

Did those lads have something to do with Tim’s disappearance? They seemed arrogant in their territory. It was very possible; but I needed to keep going along the river. So I dipped off the main trail and drank along the way.  

The river had a hypnotic, cinematic quality to it. The way it changed light and sound. It made me feel more endangered than those kids or anybody else I’ve faced in my career. A sense of eeriness, as if I might fall in the water any second.  

At length I saw an urban shape over the water. It was some kind of tunnel. I got closer and stared up at it. It looked like some kind of sewage or industrial pipe. But it was obviously disused, as the metal was all rusted. And it just looked decades-old in style.  

I climbed up the bank-side towards it. Which was tricky; I clung to the ivy strands to pull myself up, and when I eventually got to the top was all sweaty and prickling. I approached the tunnel. Something about its image attracted me, as if it wasn’t a part of this case. Even though I knew it was.  

The tunnel had these spikes on the end of it. To stop people walking across the pipe. Next challenge. I held onto one of the spikes at the bottom, then jumped off the side. And, man, I was so unfit that I nearly ripped off the side. But I somehow managed to crawl up onto the surface of the pipe. It was still possible to fall off into the river below so I had to be careful.

I walked the length of the tunnel, looking for clues. I saw little save inscriptions of an old factory district in the city. NIDDRIE – where there was a booming steelwork back in the day. It went bust 20 years back. I’d forgotten about it until then.

At the end of the tunnel I had to jump over the other spikes. It was a goofy jump and I landed on my face but at least I got over. Then I looked at the other end of the tunnel. There was some kind of contraption on its vessel. On the underside of the tunnel, before the piping led back into the woodland ground. A door. A trapdoor that was sealed at the top with a padlock. Wow.  

I tried to open the trapdoor with my hands. It obviously wasn’t working. As I wrestled with it I heard a noise from inside the tunnel. It sounded at first like an animal. I couldn’t move the door. So I brought my pistol out again and I shot through the padlock. The padlock pinged away. I pulled the trapdoor open.

And now looked into a tunnel. Where something was screaming down it in sublime echo.  

It was dark. I turned my torch on and shone it down the cone.  

There was a little boy screeching at the end of it. His body raced about the walls of the tunnel like a confused spider. I put down the torch. And called out to him.

“I’m a policeman!”

The kid screamed.

“I’m a policeman, kid. Are you Tim Milton?”

Stupid question.

“Here, son,” I said, not knowing what else to do. I brought out a chocolate bar I had in my inside pocket. “You must be hungry and tired, right? I’m police and I’m here to get you back to your family. Do you want something to eat?”

The child nervously came down the tunnel.

“Did a group of boys take you here?” I said.

He nodded and his face scrunched up as if he was about to start crying. His face was bruised up. I didn’t want to touch him so I used my words.

“It’s all right, Tim, you’re safe now. Those boys won’t attack you again. And we’ll get them back. I just saw those fuckers up the path. I’ll get them. Arrest them, give them a charge.”

Then the boy started crying. He sobbed hysterically. I asked him to come out of the tunnel and he did so. And crouched there crying in a ball on the grass. But at least there was now green all around him.

Okay so I’d found Tim Milton and the case was essentially solved. He was going to be damaged for the rest of his life. A group of boys older and bigger than him had abducted him and trapped him in a weird tunnel in the woods. Probably for no reason other than sadism. This ranked fairly moderately on the spectrum of cruelty I’ve witnessed throughout my profession.

Tim sat up on the floor. I held the chocolate out to him. And he took it. He ate it. He chomped greedily and it was satisfying to hear his jowls work.  

I put a call through to the team back at the head quarters. Asked them to put me through to Davies.

“I’ve found him,” I said. “Tim Milton is still alive.”

THE END