#very good beasts. i love the worm

[i-just-like-crk]

Let us scream into the void for our batshit insane jester into the void together-

What do you think about Shadow Milk Cookie who once had a lover during his days as a cookie free from corruption, and when that day comes where he wreaks havoc onto Earthbread, his lover stood against him and lives freely during his imprisonment.

To see their fragments in the present, whether it's their name or their achievement as one of the cookies who went against a beast... Or to know how they're known as a cookie who loves a beast until their end.

(can I be 🍡 anon?)

Shadow Milk Cookie does not take your betrayal well.

Not agreeing with his philosophies is one thing, but acting out against him— helping those wretched witches seal him away— he won’t forget it. He stews in his rage, replays the moments of your treachery over and over again. He doesn’t blame you, he blames the witches. Those cowardly, despicable, rotten farces of gods. You are incredibly misguided by them, that’s all it is. You just need a little shove in the right direction, and once he escapes, he’ll happily provide that.

While Shadow Milk Cookie does not think you are at fault, he does believe that your actions warrant some sort of punishment. He pours himself over this during his imprisonment; ways to get back at you, make you suffer a little before he feels you’ve earned his forgiveness. Nothing he thinks of ever feels severe enough, there is nothing you could possibly do to mend his broken heart. (Perhaps if you stay by his side; spend the rest of eternity repenting and groveling, proving your loyalty and remorse, never estranging yourself from him again… maybe then, he’ll consider taking pity on you.)

After he breaks free from imprisonment, he’s all smiles and theatrics. Naturally, it’s a deceptive cover. Beneath his conniving grin is a deep-seated resentment. He tears the silver tree asunder with a manic smile and a burning desire for revenge. There are many things he intends to reclaim:

First of all, the other half of his soul jam.

He’ll run circles around that false little hero— as he finds that Pure Vanilla is surprisingly susceptible to corruption. It’s an excellent warm-up after laying dormant for so long, and Shadow Milk Cookie intends on enjoying every second of that thief’s descent into madness.

Then, once that’s out of the way, he’ll come for his silly, misguided, deceitful little lover next.

[critterbitter]

re: your thoughts on legendaries (which is very cool and based) what’s your take on the differences between legends:arceus giratina and platinum giratina, especially since you defined them as hating the world? specifically the bit where giratina (at least seemingly) actively defended the world from cyrus trying to destroy it, after trying to do the same thing with volo’s help centuries prior?

Weird ghost worm upon yee (AND MORE ART BELOW CUT!)

Anyways, here’s my mad ramblings about Giratina and Arceus’s backstory.

Tldr: Giratina’s a conglomerate of angry souls scorned by Arceus.

(Here’s the playlist. It’s all about worms.)

How it Started.

The original one has chosen favorites over the passage of time. Heroes, legends, protagonists…

Arceus intervenes for those it loves, and the consequences of a god touching the mortal world is devastating in its entirety. One act of divine intervention causes entire civilizations to collapse. One whispered suggestion drives an entire legacy insane.

So Arceus, paralyzed by its love for the mortal world, acts very little, learning from its mistakes. Apathy soaks through every motion. And thus is the way of the world.

But people love the Originator. Religions are born from Arceus’s rare deeds, and generation on generation taught its benevolence. Imagine spending your entire life chasing after that golden light. Imagine knowing its real and there, and it loves you.

Imagine begging it for help, and seeing it turn away when you need it most.

I think those people would feel very abandoned indeed, if they spent their lives worshipping, and receiving no response at all.

Giratina is born from the abandoned, the lost, and the angry. They’re a hundred thousand souls who’s adoration turned to spite. They’re an entity who demands for Arceus to look at them, so they can finally rest.

Arcues can not look at them in full, because if it does Giratina will fade.

(Scio, beloved. For I can not let you go.)

So the Original One banishes the Unwanted Beast into the distortion world, and Giratina seethes, and starves, and screams.

(Here are two truths about the Beast Between Dimensions—

1. Some part of them still loves Arceus. Arceus is their anchor, after all— the sole reason why they exist, why they are. But Arceus can not love it back in a way that matters, and that hurts.

2. Giratina is made of a thousand voices. Some of these voices remember that there’s a world above. They miss it.)

Why Giratina attacked Hisui in PLA:

PLA Giratina’s not a new god, but they’re very, very bitter and barely coherent on a good day. Volo serves as a conduct to help unite the broiling mass of ghosts against Arceus, and thus Giratina’s hatred overcomes any flickering affections they have for the land.

It doesn’t help that Arceus intervened for Hisui, sending Akari to directly stop Volo from summoning Giratina.

(As for Volo, well.

Imagine being a child who was thrown into the future due to Palkia and Dialga’s fits, who learned his people (his world) no longer exist beyond a shadow in the history books and a single, bitter lore keeper.

Volo doesn’t remember his original culture beyond vague imprints and singing praises to Sinnoh, but he knew he was loved, and he knew his family is dust four hundred years in the past. There’s a special sort of rage in him that echoes Giratinas.)

(Why did you abandon my people, Arceus? What kind of god are you, to leave those who love you so callously behind?)

(Maybe some part of Giratina recognizes Volo, beyond a feeling of kinship.

Maybe some part of Giratina grieves because it recognized the child Volo was.)

When Volo gets his pound of flesh, (when he realizes Arceus is not beholden to him, that the inherent alien morality Arceus holds is not a personal slight), Giratina will finally rest.

Anyways what I’m trying to say is: Arceus is never a person, but a nebulous embodiment of the connection shared between pokemon and humans. It tries to experience what it’s supposed to embody, but millennia of watching people be and cease has given it choice paralysis, apathy, and a hoarding issue. If something lasts forever next to it? Good.

Giratina was once a person. (Correction, a LOT of persons.) They don’t think very linearly either, but they have context on mortal matters and are thus the more benevolent and malicious of the two. One day, time will smooth them into something like Arceus. We can only hope the two keep each other in check.

THE DIFFERENCE OF LEGENDS ARCEUS GIRATINA VS PLATINUM PEARL GIRATINA

If the ancient version of giratina is an angry conglomerate of ghosts scorned by Arceus, the modern iteration of Giratina’s a creature that’s more settled in its skin and more assured in its duties. Giratina still has beef with Arceus, but they unionized into one being who’s love of the mortal world has triumphed over its ancestral grudge. One might even postulate they have shifted their anchor from Sinnoh the god, to Sinnoh the place.

((We call this character developement. Good for you, weird ghost worm!))

(((FULL DISCLOSURE, VOLO BEING FROM THE PAST IS INSPIRED FROM FOXFALL. You know. The fic that got me into this fandom. Please give it some love.)))

[redvexillum]

A/N: FFS, Kit stop telling people I lick doorknobs. For the record, I do not lick airport doorknobs. >:U ALSO! Wow! We already finished the first week! Let's keep it going!

SUMMARY: You betrayed Alastor once, back when you were alive—not out of desire, but because your family forced your hand. But now, in Hell, you've been given the chance to reunite with him. You loved him then, you love him now, and you still love him.

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, sub/dom undertone, spanking, oral sex, fingering, p in v, gentle sex, alastor is bad with feelings

Alastor’s chest tightened, a tempest of emotion swirling just beneath the surface. Rage, jealousy, and a deep, aching need coiled around his heart, squeezing until it was impossible to think of anything but you. The words you had spoken earlier echoed relentlessly in his mind, like a haunting melody he couldn't escape. 

You had mentioned the party—a festive celebration hosted by Voxtek. The way your eyes lit up, excitement flickering in your expression, had ignited a spark of something dark in him. At first, he demanded you stay, his voice sharper than he intended. But then you had looked at him, crestfallen, your bottom lip trembling ever so slightly. And he had relented. 

Still, he knew. 

He knew. 

Vox was no fool; he was an opportunist. A conniving rat who always lingered too close, his smarmy words dripping like honey as he tried to worm his way into your good graces. At first, Alastor had laughed at the futility of it all. Vox might have charm, he might have power, but the truth was unshakable: 

Alastor owned you. Your heart, your mind, your very soul—they all belonged to him. It wasn’t merely a matter of possession; it was an eternal truth etched into the fabric of existence itself. 

And yet... 

You...You...You...

...a despicable, awful, woman let that pathetic man touch you.

Now, in the shadowy alley behind the glittering building, his fingers trembled with a barely controlled fervour. The strains of distant holiday music were a cruel backdrop to the scene unfolding. Alastor’s tentacles curled possessively around your waist, hoisting you into the perfect position. Your body, pliant and eager, responded to him as it always did. 

You were his. You would always be his. 

He thrust into your mouth with a feral desperation, his cock sliding between your soft lips as if to reaffirm his claim. The wet, obscene sounds of your throat wrapped around him filled the air, mingling with his low, guttural groans. His sharp teeth shredded the delicate fabric of your panties, exposing the slick heat of your centre, and he let out a breathy moan as the scent of you clouded his senses. 

“You’ve been naughty, my dear,” he hissed, his voice laced with a venomous sweetness as his tongue licked a slow, deliberate path along your folds. “Flaunting yourself before that ridiculous picture box—did you think I wouldn’t notice?” 

Your muffled cries, paired with the way your thighs quivered against his relentless grip, sent a jolt of satisfaction coursing through him. Each gag, every shuddering breath, was evidence of his dominance, a reminder of where you truly belonged. 

“Look at you,” he murmured, his grin faltering for a fraction of a second—a rare, fleeting crack in his mask. “You make me into this... beast. And yet, I can’t stop. I won’t stop.” 

His tongue plunged deeper, his lips pressing against your core with a fervent hunger, while his hips snapped forward, pushing himself further into the hot, wet cavern of your mouth. The juxtaposition of his lips worshipping your most intimate place while his cock ruthlessly claimed your throat was almost too much. 

“You were mine long before you knew it,” he growled against your slick heat, his voice thick with emotion. His mind churned, unbidden memories surfacing of a time when things had been simpler. 

He had first seen you in a haze of jazz and cigarette smoke, your laughter ringing out over the clinking of glasses. You, a beautiful flapper with stars in your eyes, had captivated him in a way nothing else had. For the first time in his life, he had felt alive. But then you had torn that life from him, walking away to marry a man of prestige, of power—a man who had sneered at Alastor’s kind. 

And now, here you were again, in his grasp. He hated you for the way you had broken him back then. But he hated you even more for the way he still couldn’t let you go. 

“You think I don’t remember?” he whispered darkly, his voice trembling as he withdrew from your mouth, his cock glistening with your spit. His eyes glowed crimson in the dim light, a twisted mixture of longing and loathing burning within them. “You think I don’t feel it every time you look at me? That guilt, that hesitation?” 

He pressed his lips to your trembling thighs, his voice softening to a near-whisper. “But it doesn’t matter. None of it does. Because no matter what you do, no matter how far you run...” 

His grin widened, sharp and dangerous, as he surged forward again, burying himself in you completely. 

“You’ll always be mine.” 

Alastor despised you. 

Not in the fleeting, surface-level way one might dislike an inconvenience—but in the all-consuming manner that twisted his every thought into something jagged and raw. You haunted him, your voice like a phantom's whisper, your smile lingering like a scar on his chest. He despised you so much that he couldn’t stop thinking about you. 

When the news reached him—whispers of your untimely death—his hatred burned brighter, fuelled by the injustice of it all. You had slipped through his fingers, robbing him of the satisfaction, the honour, of ending your life himself. 

And yet, there you were in Hell, as if fate had conspired to deliver you into his hands. He had found you, fragile and broken, tears streaming down your face as you clung to him. When you willingly offered your soul, he should have revelled in his triumph. Instead, he had been caught off guard by the softness in your touch, the sincerity in your gaze. You were an enigma—a soul he craved, a woman who ignited both his wrath and his desire. 

“Darling,” he growled, the word dripping with mockery as his hips pressed forward, his cock twitching against the back of your throat. His crimson eyes narrowed, his grin sharp and unyielding. “Did you forget who you belong to? Did you think that picture box would save you? Vox doesn’t care for you—or anyone, for that matter. He played you, just like every other man in your life.” 

His voice cracked, bitterness weaving through his words like poison. He hated you for the way you charmed and manipulated, for the power you held over those foolish enough to believe your honeyed lies. But most of all, he hated you for making him one of them. 

You were in Hell for a reason. And he had chosen to be your punishment—a torment crafted from your past sins and his boundless hatred. He wanted to destroy you, to remind you of what you truly were: a deceiver, a heartbreaker, a woman unworthy of the space you occupied in his mind. 

And yet... 

When he heard the soft, pitiful sobs you made as you struggled to take him, his resolve faltered. For a brief moment, the edges of his hatred blurred, giving way to something gentler. His thrusts slowed, becoming shallow and deliberate as his tongue traced languid paths through your slick folds. 

“Even now,” he muttered against your trembling core, his voice softer, more uncertain, “you make me forget myself.” 

The words of venom and rage faded into silence as he gave himself over to the intoxicating sensation of your body. He hated how easily you unravelled him, how the sound of your gasps and moans ignited something vulnerable within him. In truth, he wanted more than to punish you. He wanted to dote on you, to shower you with gifts, to claim you in every sense of the word. 

He wanted to give you his heart. 

But he couldn’t. 

He wouldn’t. 

You had fooled him once, and the memory of that betrayal still cut deep. He would not be made a fool again. 

His grip on your thighs tightened as his lips closed around your clit, his thrusts quickening. The pleasure building within him became a storm, his breaths hitching as his release drew near. He groaned, a low, guttural sound muffled by your body, and with a final thrust, he spilled himself into you. His cock pulsed, his seed marking you, claiming you in a way words never could. 

“Don’t waste a drop, darling,” he panted, his grin returning as he pulled back just enough to watch your trembling form. His gaze slid to your glistening, pulsing core, so close to release and yet untouched by his mercy. 

The night was far from over. 

Your punishment had only just begun. 

Your legs trembled as Alastor set you upright, the ache between your thighs a pulsing reminder of the pleasure he’d denied you. Need coursed through your body, raw and unrelenting, as you struggled to catch your breath. Your lips still tingled with the taste of him, the ghost of his harsh, possessive thrusts lingering like an unshakable memory. 

“Let’s go home, darling,” his voice was soft—a deadly whisper that cut through the quiet of the night, sending a shiver down your spine. 

With practised precision, he smoothed the wrinkles in your dress, his movements strangely tender despite the chaos that had unfolded moments ago. His crimson eyes glowed in the darkness, piercing through the shadows like embers. You stared at him, and your heart twisted painfully in your chest. 

Alastor was a contradiction. 

He spoke to you with venomous disdain, fucked you with a ruthless edge that left you breathless and shaking, and yet… there were moments. Moments of sweetness so fleeting, so fragile, you wondered if even he realized they existed. 

You knew why he was like this. You had hurt him. 

The memory of your betrayal was a weight you carried, one you could never fully cast off. You hadn’t wanted to leave him, but circumstances had forced your hand. When the bills piled high and the well-being of your family hung in the balance, you had done what was necessary. You’d married another man—a man with wealth and power—at the cost of your own heart. 

When you found Alastor again in Hell, it felt like a second chance. You had thrown yourself into his arms, your soul willingly offered to him without hesitation. But despite your efforts, his ever-present grin always seemed strained in your presence, a thin veneer that barely concealed the bitterness lurking beneath. 

Tonight had been no different. Whatever fragile peace existed between you shattered the moment Vox kissed your hand—a simple, polite gesture. You barely had time to react before Alastor whisked you into the shadows, his jealousy erupting in a storm of raw, unrelenting possession. 

On shaky knees, you reached out, your fingers brushing against a wrinkle in his suit, an instinctive gesture to calm him. But he recoiled instantly, his grin tightening, his eyes narrowing into sharp slits. The surrounding air buzzed with tension, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. 

“Alas—” you began, desperate to explain, to assure him that Vox meant nothing, that he was the only one who mattered. 

But Alastor silenced you with a clawed finger pressed firmly to your lips. His silent command was absolute, and you acquiesced, nodding meekly. He didn’t speak, instead seizing your wrist and hooking it through his arm with a rigid formality. To any onlooker, you were the picture of a lady being escorted by a gentleman—a perfect facade that belied the thick tension between you. 

The walk back was agonizingly silent. Each click of your heels against the pavement echoed your unresolved tension, your body still humming with the unfulfilled promise of release. You dared a sidelong glance at him, your gaze searching for any crack in his grinning, stoic mask. 

For a moment, his eyes met yours, glowing faintly in the dim light. His grip on your hand softened, his fingers covering yours in a gesture so gentle it made your breath hitch. It was fleeting, but it was enough to stir a faint, fragile hope in your chest. 

Yet, the truth was undeniable: Alastor didn’t trust you.

He didn’t believe your words, no matter how many times you told him you loved him. Your declarations were met with laughter—sharp and dismissive, as if he were bracing himself for the moment you would betray him again. 

Guilt crushed you, heavy and suffocating. You hadn’t known back then. You hadn’t understood the depth of his affection, the way he hid his true feelings behind that perpetual mask of joviality. You’d thought yourself a passing amusement to him, nothing more than a toy to be discarded when he grew bored. 

But now you knew better. 

You pressed closer to him, your body leaning into his. This time, he didn’t pull away. His arm remained firm, steady, as if silently allowing you this small comfort. 

You wished, more than anything, that he could hear your heart. That he could see the truth etched into its fragile walls. 

You wished he understood how happy you were to see him again after death, how you’d felt as if fate had granted you a second chance to be with him. 

You wished he could believe you when you said you loved him. 

Truly. 

Wholly. 

Sincerely. 

The air in the room was heavy, charged with an energy that made your breath catch. As you stepped inside, your eyes fell on Alastor lounging in the armchair, his long legs crossed, one hand draped lazily over the side. For a fleeting moment, you saw him—the man he used to be. 

You saw the earnest young radio host, his brown hair neatly combed, glasses perched on his nose with a faint sheen of determination in his gaze. His cherubic smile, so genuine and full of promise, flickered in your mind. 

The man you’d fallen in love with. 

But the illusion shattered as quickly as it appeared, replaced by gleaming crimson eyes and blood-red hair. His sharp grin stretched wide, the radio-static undertone in his voice a constant reminder of what he had become. 

“Undress and come here, sweetheart,” he purred, his voice dripping with dangerous intent. 

Your breath hitched, anticipation thrumming through your veins. You knew this game, this dance between the two of you, by heart. It was filthy. Debauched. Entirely improper for someone like you to even think of, let alone crave. And yet, Alastor always had a way of stripping you bare—not just of your clothes, but of every pretense, every wall you tried to erect. 

Your fingers trembled as you reached for the clasps of your dress, his gaze burning into you with an intensity that made your skin flush. The plush fabric of the armchair yielded beneath his claws, his grip tightening as he tracked your every movement. His arousal was evident, the bulge in his trousers straining against the fabric. He was enjoying this, savouring the power he believed he wielded over you. 

Slowly, deliberately, you let the dress slip from your shoulders, the fabric pooling at your feet. His sharp intake of breath didn’t go unnoticed as his claws dug deeper into the armchair. Your underwear was long gone, already ripped to shreds earlier in a fit of his possessive anger. All that remained was your brassiere, the final barrier between you and his unrelenting gaze. 

With a steady hand, you unhooked it, letting it fall to the floor. You stood before him, bare and vulnerable, his eyes raking over you like a predator sizing up his prey. 

“Come,” he rasped, his voice hoarse with unbridled lust. 

You dropped to your knees without hesitation, supplication etched into every movement as you crawled toward him. His fingers flew to his belt, unlooping it with deliberate slowness, savouring the moment. The unmistakable sound of his zipper filled the room, and finally, you found yourself nestled between his thighs. 

His cock stood rigid and proud, the bead of pre-cum at its tip glistening in the dim light. Leaning forward, you pressed a soft kiss to the head, eliciting a sharp hiss from his lips. 

“Will you forgive me, sir?” you whispered, your voice sultry and low, already sinking into the familiar role you played with him. Your fingers traced the length of his shaft, teasing the prominent vein that pulsed beneath your touch. “I’ve displeased you. How can I make it up to you?” 

Your lips brushed against him again, dragging slowly from the tip to the base, each kiss a silent plea for forgiveness. 

Alastor’s grin widened, his voice a low croon. “My, look at you,” he hissed, his claws tangling in your hair, gripping tight enough to make you moan. The sound was sinful, and his cock twitched in response, eager for more. 

“Is this what you wanted?” he bit out, spreading his thighs wider, guiding you to lay across his lap. 

You obeyed, your body draped over him, your hips raised slightly to expose yourself completely. His hardened length pressed against your side, the weight of him a reminder of the carnal desire you two shared. One of his hands stroked the curve of your ass, the sharp tips of his claws teased your folds, light enough to drive you mad with need. 

“What will I do with you?” he murmured, his tone laced with anger. “Am I not enough? Will you leave me again for another man who can drape you in false promises and riches?” 

His words were a sharp contrast to the seductive haze that had enveloped the room. You stilled, your brow furrowing as his voice wavered. For a moment, you heard something beneath the surface—something raw, something fragile. 

Alastor’s mask cracked, if only for a heartbeat. That hitch in his voice, that tremble he tried to suppress, spoke volumes. 

He sounded almost… vulnerable.

The tension in the room was palpable, every sound amplified by the quiet. You hesitated, glancing at Alastor’s face to gauge his mood. Concern flickered in your chest, but before you could speak, his hand shot up and came down sharply on your bare bottom. 

The smack echoed through the room, and you lurched forward with a startled yelp. Your fingers instinctively gripped at his tailored suit pants, your cheeks flaming from both the slap and the molten heat pooling in your core. The sting spread across your skin, sharp and electric, and you couldn’t stop the way your body responded—wetness already slickening your thighs. 

“Who else,” he hissed, his voice low and venomous, “would accept you like this but me, sweetheart?” 

Before you could answer, his hand met your flesh again, harder this time, the force driving you against him. Pain bloomed across your backside, a delicious ache that made you gasp, a sob breaking free before you could swallow it down. 

“How improper of you,” he grunted, delivering another slap. And another. Again and again, his strikes rained down, unrelenting, until your body trembled beneath him. By the sixth strike, your resolve shattered, replaced with a shameless moan as his fingers slipped inside you. 

Three fingers plunged deep, spreading you with a squelch that made your face burn. His touch was deliberate, unyielding, and all-consuming. He curled his fingers just enough to brush against that sensitive spot within you, the one that always made you see stars. 

“Hmm,” he mused, his tone cold and calculating. “This is supposed to be a punishment, but look at you,” he murmured mockingly. “You’re enjoying it, aren’t you?” 

Your body betrayed you, hips bucking to meet his hand even as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. The raw, stinging burn of his palm on your ass mingled with the intoxicating pleasure of his touch, leaving you reeling, your sobs interwoven with desperate mewls. 

“Tell me, darling,” he growled, his voice darker, more guttural, “how many men have used this hole?” His fingers plunged deeper, reaching places that made your entire body shudder. “You’re insatiable, aren’t you? Wouldn’t you let any man take you? Any cad?” 

His words stung worse than his strikes. There was no pretense now, no game of playful cruelty. His tone was raw, unfiltered, the sharp edges of genuine anger slicing through you. 

You felt the first crack in your heart. 

“That’s not true!” you cried, voice cracking as his fingers pressed mercilessly against that spot inside you. The pleasure was unbearable, teetering on the edge of pain, but the fissures in your heart hurt worse. “It’s not true!” 

Tears welled up, spilling over as you trembled against him. “It’s not…” your voice broke into a whisper, trailing off as he stilled, his fingers buried deep but unmoving. 

You wished...

You wished he could hear your heart. 

“Alastor…” you whispered his name, turning your head to meet his gaze. Your vision blurred with tears, the crimson glow of his eyes melting into the haze. “Alastor,” you repeated, voice trembling, your breath hitching on every syllable. 

Would he believe you? If he could see past his bitterness and anger, if he could look into the depths of your heart, would he understand? 

“Alastor, I—” 

Whatever you were about to say was cut off as he yanked you up, positioning you to straddle his lap. His cock pressed against your abdomen, rigid and insistent. 

Before you could process it, his hand tangled in your hair, dragging you down into a bruising kiss. His lips crushed against yours with a ferocity that left no room for tenderness. It was rough, messy, and possessive. Your carefully styled hair tumbled from its pins, falling around your face in wild, chaotic waves. 

His teeth nipped at your bottom lip, drawing a gasp from you that he swallowed eagerly, his mouth relentless. The kiss was as biting as his words, filled with frustration, anger, and something deeper he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—admit. 

It was a kiss meant to silence, to dominate. But beneath the chaos, you could feel it: his desperation, his need. As his claws raked gently down your spine, you wished again, silently, achingly, that he could believe you. That he could see your love laid bare. 

You closed your eyes, surrendering to the storm of his touch—the cruel, the cold, the gentle, the warm. It was everything that made Alastor who he was, a paradox of a man who commanded both fear and fascination. Despite the sharp edges of his demeanour, the unrelenting cruelty of his words, you couldn’t deny the truth in your chest. You had fallen for him once, and even after death, that love hadn’t faded. 

A single tear escaped, tracing a hot line down your cheek before breaking free, a silent testament to the emotions welling within you. But that solitary drop was only the beginning, soon, more tears spilled freely, one after another. Still, your fingers curled tightly into his lapels, pulling him closer, refusing to let go. 

His breath hitched, and his trembling fingers brushed against your cheeks, wiping away the tears in hurried, almost desperate strokes. But for every tear he caught, more followed. His touch was achingly gentle, a whisper against your skin that made your heart ache. 

Without a word, he lifted you effortlessly, cradling you as if you were something fragile. The earlier roughness of his kisses softened, turning into feather-light brushes and tender licks against your swollen lips, soothing the wound he had created in a moment of heated passion. 

The world blurred as he carried you to the bed, laying you down with a reverence that made your chest tighten. Slowly, deliberately, he began shedding his clothes, each piece falling away until he stood bare before you. Vulnerable. Honest. For once, he hid nothing. 

He joined you, his weight sinking the mattress beneath you. His lips traced the tear-streaked paths on your cheeks, pressing reverent, almost apologetic kisses to each salty trail. His red eyes softened, glowing dimly, as if they too bore the weight of his unspoken emotions. 

“Alastor,” you whispered, voice trembling, your hands cupping his face. “I love you.” 

He stilled, his gaze locking with yours, searching for something—doubt, deception, anything to justify his disbelief. But all you could wish was for him to see your sincerity. 

“How silly of you, darling,” he murmured, his voice low, tinged with a faint tremor. He leaned closer, his body caging yours, until your vision was filled with nothing but him. “How awfully silly of you…” 

His words trailed off into a kiss, his lips brushing yours with uncharacteristic gentleness. The weight of his body pressed against you as the head of his cock nudged your entrance, his movements slow and deliberate. He filled you inch by inch, a quiet exhale escaping his lips as he stilled, buried deep within you. 

Your arms looped around his neck, pulling him closer. “Alastor,” your voice cracked, thick with emotion. Tears welled in your eyes again, the ache in your chest threatening to consume you. “Alastor, I promise you—” Another tear slipped free, trailing down to join the others. “You’re the only one I’ve ever loved.” 

Your lips trembled as you pulled him into another kiss, soft and tender, pouring every ounce of your love into him. 

For a moment, his body tensed, his muscles locking as if bracing against something too painful to bear. Then, as if a switch flipped, the vulnerability in his expression shattered, replaced by that cruel, familiar grin. 

“Do you now?” he sneered, his tone laced with mockery. Without warning, he pulled back and slammed his hips forward, driving into you with enough force to make you cry out. 

“Do you,” he hissed, his voice ragged as he thrust into you with a brutal rhythm, “say that to every hapless chum who gets to fuck you?” 

His pace quickened, each thrust harder and faster, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room. The bed groaned beneath you, its protests rhythmic and loud, but you barely heard it over the pounding of your heart. 

Tears streamed down your face again, but this time, they carried the weight of anguish and longing. 

You wished, oh, how you desperately wished he could hear your heart. 

If he could, he might understand the truth in every word you spoke, the depth of your love that not even death could diminish. But as his sharp movements pushed you closer to the edge of bliss and despair, you realized he wasn’t ready to hear it—not yet. 

Each thrust pulled fragmented cries from your lips, your breath hitching in broken rhythm, tears pooling and spilling from your eyes. But amidst the tears, you smiled at him. That smile—he’d always said it was your best feature, hadn’t he? 

Your trembling hands rose toward him in a gesture of surrender, of devotion, as you spoke the words again. “I love you,” you whispered, voice quaking but resolute. 

No matter how many times it took. 

No matter how many years it took. 

You would keep saying it until he believed you. 

“I love you, Alastor,” you repeated, your smile radiant despite the ache in your chest, a smile that was both a gift and a plea. The words came from somewhere deep inside, a place untouched by bitterness or regret. They were the words you knew he longed to hear, words that should have been exchanged long ago when you were both young, innocent, and untouched by the cruel weight of time and tragedy. 

His hips faltered, the relentless rhythm stuttering for a moment. His breath quickened, and his crimson eyes flickered with something too raw, too human. His ever-present grin tightened, becoming almost brittle. He shook his head as though to dispel your words, to reject them outright. But before you could catch the emotions flickering behind his crimson gaze, he buried his face in the crook of your neck. 

His breath was hot against your skin, and his movements shifted. The sharp, punishing pace gave way to something slower, something more deliberate. He rolled his hips, dragging each motion out, as though savouring every second. 

Your hand moved to his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands. You pressed your cheek against his head, holding him close. He released a shuddering breath, his chest heaving against yours, and the tension in his shoulders began to soften. 

His lips found your neck, planting small, tentative kisses along the delicate skin before he sucked gently, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. 

“Say it again, darling,” he murmured, the edge in his voice softened, though a cruel laugh still escaped him. “Go on, tell me your hilarious lies.” 

But his arms tightened around you, holding you as if you were the only thing anchoring him to this world. 

“You always were the best liar,” he added, though his words wavered, and his voice dropped to a whisper so quiet you barely heard it. “...Cher.” 

Your heart clenched. If only he could see it—if only he could feel the truth that pulsed there with every beat. 

“I love you, Alastor,” you said again, this time brushing a kiss to his head. Your voice was steady, your words unwavering. “I’m happy to be here with you.” 

He shuddered, his movements continuing at their deliberate pace. Each stroke dragged the head of his cock along your walls before plunging back in, drawing soft moans from your lips that mingled with his quiet gasps. The symphony of shared pleasure seemed to echo in the room, each sound weaving together, building into something raw and tender. 

“A-again,” he gasped, lifting his head. His forehead pressed against yours, his crimson eyes locking with yours, the intensity in them almost overwhelming. “Again...cher.” 

You cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing over his skin. “I love you,” you said, the words flowing as naturally as breathing. “I do.” 

His lips captured yours, hungry but not desperate, and he kissed you again and again, as if each kiss could carve the truth of your words into his soul. He pressed against all the places that made your body sing, his gentle rhythm slowly driving you closer to the peak of pleasure. 

Your body tensed, every muscle quivering as you neared your release. He stayed with you, maintaining the same steady pace, his hips rocking against yours with a tenderness that stole your breath. 

“Again,” he moaned, his voice raw with need. “Cher...cher...cher,” he chanted the endearment like a prayer, each repetition pulling you closer to him in every way. 

And you gave it freely, your voice trembling with devotion and truth. “I love you, Alastor. Always.” 

The words trembled on your lips, broken by the ebb and flow of your breath. “I—I love you,” you gasped, your body taut with tension. The heat coiling low in your abdomen finally snapped, and a wave of pleasure cascaded through you, its intensity both gentle and consuming. 

Your walls clenched around him, drawing a guttural moan from Alastor as he shuddered above you. His breaths grew ragged, each thrust slower but deeper, as he chased his release. 

“Oh, cher,” he rasped, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions as his climax overtook him. His cock pressed as far into you as it could go, and with a deep groan, he spilled into you. 

For a moment, the world went silent. The only sounds were your uneven breaths mingling with his, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat. 

And then you saw it—just for a fleeting instant. 

His crimson eyes softened, the hardened mask of indifference slipping. It was the same look he gave you back then, during those nights at Mimzy’s speakeasy when he’d watch you perform from the shadows, his gaze filled with quiet adoration. Back when your love was a tender, secret thing, untouched by the cruelty of time. 

Your heart swelled, and you smiled at him, hopeful. 

But the moment shattered like glass. 

Alastor blinked once, twice, and then the mask returned. He pulled away abruptly, leaving a cold emptiness where his warmth had been. The sudden rush of air prickled against your skin, and his release spilled from you, unwelcome and raw. 

“Well,” he began, laughter forced and hollow. “That was quite the performance, wasn’t it?” His grin stretched wide, but it lacked its usual bite, his eyes darting anywhere but to yours. 

The sight of his softening cock, glistening with the evidence of your union, seemed to mock the tenderness that had just been shared. 

“Now, run along,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. His tone was too sharp, too loud. “I’ve had my fun, and I’m done with you.” 

Each word cut deeper than the last. 

You sat up slowly, the ache in your body a bitter reminder of the connection you had just shared. His ears flicked back for the briefest second, betraying the tension he couldn’t hide. His claws dug into his thigh, his knuckles white with restraint, as he avoided your gaze. 

You could have left. Perhaps he expected you to. 

But instead, you moved closer. 

Crawling onto his lap, you wrapped your arms around him, holding him tight. He stiffened immediately, his hands flying up in hesitation, hovering uncertainly in the space between you. 

“I won’t be the one to walk away this time, Alastor,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. You pressed yourself closer, your warmth meeting his cold edges. 

His breath hitched, and his hands hovered, trembling, before finally coming to rest against your back. 

“If you want me to leave,” you whispered, pulling back just enough to meet his wide, startled eyes, “then you’ll have to be the one to walk away.” 

For a moment, time stood still. The air between you was heavy, laden with the weight of unspoken truths and unresolved desires. 

And then, in that fragile space where the past, present, and future seemed to blur, Alastor’s arms closed around you. Tight. Almost desperate. 

His hold was not gentle, but it was real. 

You rested your head against his shoulder, and for the first time that night, you allowed yourself to believe that perhaps—just perhaps—he had seen your heart, if only a little. 

And you held on to that sliver of hope, knowing it was all you had. 

For tonight, it was enough. 

Please follow #DRP Smutmas 2024 to get all the latest updates of our stories!

Wanna hang out with me? Come talk to me at Voxtek Server!

[junowritings]

What about romanced Astarion reacting to the normally goody-goody Tav revealing that they stole the special potion from Araj before they left. He discovers this because Tav gives it to him as soon as they are out of sight from the blood merchant.

Oh I absolutely love this idea. Though writing this made me realize I need to put Astarion in my party more often. Went off on a bit of a tangent but I do hope you enjoy~!

=======

♡ Oh, the things we do for love, ey?

♡ Astarion plays nice with others in the interest of survival, and he’s made no attempts to hide that fact from you since you had really begun to bond. You on the other hand are akin to a bleeding heart, all too often going out of your way to do what you thought was right even if it meant putting yourself in harm's way as a result. At the beginning that attitude seemed pitiful - he figured it would simply end up getting you killed later down the line. And yet you’d rise, time and time again making an example of the morals that you set and surviving every encounter stronger than before. Even if your morals didn’t always align, he respected that tenacity.

♡ Even after you’d managed to worm your way into his very heart, the pair of you have butted heads more than once on the matter; at the high and mighty goody two shoes act that you face the world with. All of the reminders about doing good deeds for the sake of being good, not stealing from just anyone nor going behind others backs rummaging through personal effects for answers or loot. Not to mention all of that time spent helping others and listening to their plights as though they were your own. Honestly, darling, you really do make things harder on yourself by playing into other people’s sob stories. 

♡ Astarion never suspected that the encounter at Moonrise tower could have changed anything.

♡ He’s uncharacteristically quiet as you leave the room together after dealing with Araj, but that’s because inside Astarion is absolutely seething. A familiar feeling of disgust he’d longed hoped to quash down burns a hole deep within his chest, opening old mental wounds as though freshly torn asunder upon his flesh. He’s mad at that damned drow; the way she looked down upon him, using honeyed words that he knew were a damn farce because for fucks sake he’d been using the same tactics for well over a century. That look, that calculated appraisal as Araj gauged what the vampire spawn could offer her in exchange for her potion made his skin crawl, all too familiar with the look that spoke volumes of his value - as a means to serve her own whims and not an actual person.

♡ And then, when he’d shown reluctance, she’d turned to you, as though you’d reign him in and get him to bend to your will like some fanged pet you kept on a tight leash. Far from the truth, of course, but the lack of autonomy that Astarion felt watching the pair of you converse about him as if he wasn’t even there had him clenching his teeth hard enough that the ache in his jaw persists long afterwards.

♡ There had been a swell of satisfaction when you put your foot down on the matter, nipping her demand in the bud with a firm reminder that he had already refused her request - there was no more to discuss. The drow had gotten bored after that, uninterested in further discussion with her own desires now off the table, and Astarion was all too happy to be out of there as you trailed a few paces behind.

♡ Astarion stands by his choice, but another part of him kicks himself for turning down the reward. A moment of discomfort, to give up a piece of himself for a potion that could prove invaluable was all it could have taken. He had done it before - done it for centuries to placate that vile beast he once served - why would this be any different? A transactional relationship, one that could have given you a leg up in the battles ahead, and he’d refused. 

♡ He’s still stewing in these thoughts when a nudge breaks him from his reverie, a gentle brush of your fingers against his hand as you move into step beside your partner. Your touch is warm yet he prickles as though he’s been burned, pupils akin to pinpricks as he looks at you from the corner of his eye. He’s measuring you, for a moment. Takes in the brow furrowed and questioning eyes - not pity, concern - trying to gauge how he’s feeling. It’s a discussion for later, so Astarion dons that usual placating smile and turns to you, fully prepared to pull a spiel about that whole conversation being a waste of your perfectly good time. And then he notices.

♡ His ears perk up at a noise, the gentle slosh of something moving. Crimson eyes dart down to the source, to the hand you’d touch him with. It’s not empty - no, fingers curl tight around the corded neck of a familiar glass green bottle, and your nudge this time is more insistent as you press the bottle into the palm of his hand, urging him to take it. You relinquish the bottle to his hold, pale hands taking the glass and stirring up the liquid inside as he brings it up to get a better look. Surely this isn’t…

♡ But then sure enough you smile, a mischievous twinkle in your eye that makes his own widen as you shrug.

♡ “For you. Figured she didn’t need it anymore; since she just left it lying out in the open and all.”.

♡ The laugh comes before Astarion can stop himself - loud and unabashed from the sheer absurdity of it all. You? Actually stealing something? And for him no less! And they say that romance is dead, yet here you are wooing him one stolen novelty at a time. 

♡Hells he hadn’t even noticed that you’d swiped the damned thing - had it been when you’d turned the blood merchant down? Or back when she’d had her sights set on him? He doesn’t care for the answer, not really. He’s more impressed that you pulled it off, but Astarion certainly doesn’t miss the irony of it all. His lovely partner, casting aside your usual goody nature in favor of stealing something and getting one up on the woman who’d disrespected your lover. As if he wasn’t fond enough of you already - this was just another lovely little reminder of the lengths you’d go for him.

♡ His smile for a moment is all teeth, shoulders still shaking with the last dregs of laughter - which damn if he didn’t need - as he brings his free arm to curl around your side. The kiss pressed to your cheek is quick, vibrating with the appreciative hum that passes the spawn’s lips when you lean a little into him. Once he pulls away Astarion keeps his free hand looped around your side, the other holding the bottle up and giving the contents a dramatic little shake to show off.

♡ Perhaps he’ll keep this as a little secret; or maybe he’ll spend the rest of that night flaunting this potion teasing you for your first act of casual thievery. Whatever the outcome it’s worth the grin he flashes you as he gives a conspiratory wink and declares.

♡ “Oh my dear. We’ll make a fine miscreant of you yet!”

[ranticore]

you mentioned wyrms retract the human-ish head to eat, do you have an idea of how that works, anatomically? I'm trying to imagine a cross section of those necks with separate tubes for air, food, the head and the spine. does the head get packed tight in some kind of sleeve? It would be really cool to see that cross section

(also would love to know more about the time Rev spent as a disembodied head, that must have been really weird)

well i was meaning to draw it anyway

the "human" portion (referred to as the head yes all of it) has its own heart, lungs, and accessory oesophagus, though it doesn't have its own stomach. there's a little crop which is the remains of the human stomach, kind of like an appendix now really. the accessory oesophagus (green) connects to the main crop in the chest area, running parallel to the dragon oesophagus but not attaching to it. when the head is out, the dragon mouth is occupied anyway so it doesn't need to eat and the oesophagus is a squishy tube that is collapsed when not in use (unlike the trachea) so there's no issues with space here, it's fine.

the lungs in the head area are only minorly used for gas exchange - they provide very little oxygen, really, but enough to keep that human part running in a very hypoxic state in the case of decapitation. Mostly they're just used to draw air over the vocal chords. If the lungs in the main body were compromised somehow, the wyrm would straight up cease to function (not death. but comatose), while if the head lungs broke, eh nbd it just means no voice until they heal. there is a syrinx inside the chest cavity which provides additional vocals - deep infrasound rumbles. the main lungs are gigantic and in larger wyrms will extend further into the body. in the case of multiple heads, there are multiple syrinxes where the tracheas connect to the lungs and that means they can produce polyphonic rumbles :) breathing is done through the dragon nostrils, there's a sizeable cavity there for their good sense of smell. in case you are wondering how they sync up their breaths when there's multiple heads, the lungs are birdlike in that it's a series of air sacs and a passive inhalation, and an active exhalation governed by different lobes of the lung at once (using the air sacs). each head has its own lobe. so the wyrm is in a constant state of inhaling and exhaling at different rates (if there's multiple heads)

the dragon oesophagus is the main one and it leads to a crop, which is where the wyrm denatures the powerful toxins of their prey and forms a pellet out of the inedible mandibles and spicules found within a crawling beast. this is spat up later and buried (no longer poisonous so nbd). edible portions go to the stomach. the liver is very big and very strong, it's almost impossible to poison a wyrm in any way (including drugs, alcohol, etc)

so the thing about the wyrms is that the number of legs is variable, Revelation obviously has two, Onozar has four. But the two that Revelation has are actually its forelegs! The torso extends quite a bit into what we would consider the Tail area, it's rather snakelike.

as a disembodied head, Rev had no heart, no functioning lungs, and was also completely paralysed because of the severed nerve cord in its (human) neck. literally from the jaw down it couldn't move, which is what made it such a convincing corpse. life was very underwhelming for it since it was essentially running on extreme battery saver mode, always watching and sensing the world but never truly perceiving what it saw and heard and felt. animals made nests in its chest cavity, and it was infested with scavenging worms for a while, but its own flesh is distasteful to other living beings and nothing did enough damage to actually cause decomposition. just some nasty wounds.

Rev needed Wildfire to literally rip up a crawler and put the meat in its mouth before any attempts at healing could be made. when it finally got its lungs working again it found they were full of detritus - dust, spores, roots, random stuff. growing back the lower body would have taken decades more if it continued at the same pace, so it used a little bit of magic and Wildfire's other tiercels' flesh to construct the most basic shape of its lower body, and once it had those bits intact it could start properly gaining strength and growing.

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

Hi,

There's a stray cat (very friendly, no collar or anything) wandering our street and he's very skinny so we were thinking of trying to put out food for him and hopefully in a couple months take him in (or at least bring him to a vet to be neutered and released if not).

I was wondering if you had any advice / stuff to watch out for from your experience taking care of Diesel?

Not really. Cats that are socialised young enough are generally pretty easy to bribe with food over time, in my experience; if he's friendly, he should fall in love with you pretty quickly. (Cats that are unsocialised young will very occasionally socialise themselves but are almost always a waste of time, but it sounds like he's been socialised so you shouldn't have problems).

Don't touch him before he wants you to unless there's some kind of emergency (in which case, use a cat trap, but if there's no emergency don't bother); that's a great way to make him wary of you and also get bitten by his horrible plague mouth (cat bites are very prone to infection). Cats are generally easy beasts to deal with if you respect their autonomy and their personal space.

If he's outside and starving, he might have various fleas, internal parasites, and other minor but treatable health problems. Cats are particularly prone to a variety of worms, as well as eye infections. Your vet will tell you how to deal with these, and explain to you how to give him a dewormer and bathe him if he needs bathing (most cats don't ever need bathing, but if he's young and filthy he might need one when you take him in.)

Most socialised cats like to sleep inside where it is safe and warm, so if you feed him for a bit then there's a really good chance that you can just open the door one day and let him into your house. This is especially likely if he's lived in a house before. Some socialised cats who have secure lodgings already in some drainpipe or basement or something will avoid this, but in the vast majority of cases a friendly cat will happily just come inside. So you shouldn't have any trouble "catching" him, unless you have other cats or dogs in there that he might want to avoid.

The one thing that I would warn of is that most outdoor cats I've dealt with have had some level of PTSD. When Diesel started hanging out with me I had to watch him carefully to learn what sorts of things would make him panic (sudden movements or approaching him from specific angles, touching him when he is asleep), and what sorts of things triggered his hypervigilance and put him on high alert. The triggers are different for different cats; some hate enclosed spaces or heights (things that most cats love), or won't eat without somebody standing guard, or need to be able to see the door to the room at all times. These quirks are generally not hard to deal with; just don't do stuff to your cat that upsets them (unless you have to, like for medical reasons) and you'll be fine.

If you want information on anything complicated that shows up with him (unlikely; cats are generally very easy beasts to deal with), there's a wealth of great information from cat fosterers and rescuers on youtube.

[manicpixiefelix]

baby, put your back into it {Farleigh Start/Reader/Oliver Quick}

2/2: think about me while you do it [SMUT]

{ masterpost : 2/2 }

Summary: In which Oliver puts you in your place, and makes you beg to be there.

Need to Know: She/Her. AFAB!Reader. Established FWB Brat!Reader/Brat Tamer!Farleigh

Warnings: PWP!! smut; fingering, oral (M receiving), unprotected sex, dirty talk, lots of arguing, reader is very very bratty, dehumanising language and overall incredibly degrading talk, BDSM, leashes, dacryphilia(crying), reader being treated like a dog, bondage & restraints, creampie, so much begging, sir kink, oliver having the time of his life as a manipulative dom, pet name used for the reader "princess" and being referred to as "good girl"

A/N: 7434 words. never ever as long as i live will i ever write this pairing (farleigh/brat!reader/oliver) again, and not only can you quote me on that, but you can take it to the fucking bank. that being said, i did genuinely LOVE writing this, i think they're dynamic is so incredibly fun to explore, and honestly there's something hot about the mind games they all play on each other. it's just that it takes FUCKING FOREVER for them to do anything because they all hate each other. well, you and farleigh hate oliver and he hates both of you, but you also like to cause problems on purpose which pisses them both off. i love it. i never want to write them again. 10/10 LETS GET WEIRD WITH IT i would love to know what you guys think about this all :) oh also we definitely get heavy on the farleigh/oliver in this as well

TAGLIST IN COMMENTS!! // TAGLIST ALWAYS OPEN ! (just message or comment to be added)

----

Farleigh has always had these long, delicate fingers that Oliver's been fascinated by since they'd met, since he'd grabbed his thigh - so achingly briefly - in their tutor's office and levelled a grin that surely read as apologetic to the professor for running late, but turned so immediately dismissive the minute his gaze flicked to Oliver himself. For so long as Oliver wormed his way into Felix's life, into his circle of friends, that's all Farleigh had been; dismissive looks and long, enticing fingers poised with cigarettes and disdain like he was a model for Marlboro.

But the coldness in Farleigh's eyes turned warmer, especially over the Summer at Saltburn, and Oliver couldn't deny the heat of his frustration didn't have some kind of want pitting in his stomach. Anger and lust have never truly been strangers, at least not if he was judging by the way Farleigh had been looking at him tonight.

Now, Farleigh was looking at you with that heat in his eyes, looking at your parted lips and breathless smile like he wanted to devour you whole after so readily giving in to Oliver's degradation. Then he's watching the gentle way Oliver caresses your face in the moments that follow, and that heat too turns degrading.

"You really have no self respect," he scoffs; the mood shifts sharply to the left. There's that look in your eyes again like you're on the verge of causing more trouble.

"He said I had no manners!" You protested as Farleigh moved back from you, "my etiquette teacher would be rolling in her grave if she heard that!"

"Etiquette teachers aren't a real thing, are they?" Oliver, genuinely baffled enough to be pulled out of his earlier mood, automatically shuffles back as Farleigh gently pushes you over. You land on your stomach with a humph, hands still trapped at the small of your back, though now Oliver can see the skilled, tight way his belt was binding them. It conjures up images of expensive leather contraptions, restraints, and you on display, desperate for a hungry-eyed academic like Farleigh who'd actually put in the work to study how to best tame a beast like you.

"Do you think she ever stops to think why we call her a princess?" Farleigh scoffs in a brief moment of solidarity as he reclines on the bed. Oliver actually, genuinely laughs at that, much to your chagrin, at least until Farleigh's hand, those beautiful fingers, pushing down the waistband of his own boxers to finally give his cock some sorely needed attention. "Don't think your manners are the most scandalous thing you've been a part of tonight," he adds, turning his head to you with a deliciously sly smile, "your etiquette teacher know you beg like that?"

Oliver had caught sight of the way you were pouting, legs kicking ineffectually against the end of the bed considering how you were trapped in your position, like a little worm. You turned your head to face Farleigh with that same sulky expression, like all three of you didn't know exactly what he was talking about.

"My arms hurt," is all the response you give.

"Good," Oliver hadn't meant to say that out loud, nor had he entirely realised how fucking pleased he'd sounded as he'd said it, but it had seemingly escaped him nonetheless. His focus had been caught on the lazy rhythm Farleigh had been using to keep himself hard, but he still found himself enjoying the sound of your complaints, it seemed.

And your reactions to him; the way your fingers curled, the shiver he could see run down the length of your spine, and how quickly you had to press your face into the mattress, most likely embarrassed by whatever Farleigh would have seen in your expression. It seemed Farleigh himself wasn't even immune, cock momentarily twitching in his hand before Oliver realised how long he'd been staring, and that Farleigh's bright yet smug expression had meant he'd definitely noticed.

"You are taking to this remarkably fast," Farleigh sounds almost pleased, almost proud. You tell him to shut the fuck up, face still pressed against the duvet, but can't kick anyone from this angle, much to his ongoing amusement.

Surfacing, but still rather flustered, you announce sharply that you're not touching either of them until you can use your hands again. Oliver remarks that that's the point, and there's a part of him that's far too pleased about how it makes Farleigh laugh too. Of course this sets you off - he should have known - but it's easy enough for Oliver, sitting on his knees beside you on the bed, to keep you from sitting up too far once you've managed to roll over onto your back.

He knows he's different in this light, leaning over you, everything awash with the blue and silver of the night. For just a moment, it's as if you know you're helpless, his hand flat and warm on your chest, on your sternum, and you can see it in his eyes that he thinks you're helpless beneath him too. The chain around his neck hangs like the sword of Damocles above your own throat, and with the blue, searching, hungry eyes of a man who remembers every last cruel remark you'd tossed at him in the past week.

"Can I at least get some water?" You break the moment, and Oliver almost has to laugh, "it's not funny, I'm thirsty and for some reason," you pointedly rolled your eyes, words dripping with sarcasm, attempting to regain some of the composure you liked to carry yourself with, "I can't move my arms."

"Of course, your highness," Oliver briefly acquiesces, lips twitching into a smile as he made his way to the adjoining bathroom, hoping their was some kind of cup in their. Re-joining the room, he finds Farleigh to be amused, and you to still be on your back, annoyed -

"- not kidding, I'm not doing anything with either of you if you don't take this belt off of my damn hands," you were still insisting. Farleigh just grinned.

"Yeah, Miss Green-Light-Princess, we'll see about that."

Considering how your expression scrunched up to something almost flustered, and you didn't have any kind of comeback, it was safe to say you were still on board, just as Farleigh was delighted to call you out on it. Oliver reintegrates himself, sits himself on the edge of the bed and wears a little smile even as you call him your hero with more bitter sarcasm than he's ever heard from anyone in his life.

"Sit up," so gentle, so opposite of the ways he's been speaking to you just before he'd left; Farleigh is regarding him curiously, but you just roll your eyes. Now that Oliver knew inside and out - pun entirely intended - you were deliciously predictable. Easy to lull into a false sense of superiority.

"I can't."

"Roll over," the sweetness is quickly disappearing. For a brief moment, Farleigh's gaze meet's Oliver's, and he knows exactly what Oliver's doing, even if you haven't clued in. There's a spark of devilish glee that they share in this moment, but Oliver can't let it show on his face.

"What?"

"Roll over, I'll help," Oliver's smile doesn't reach his eyes, but you dubiously agree. Perhaps you think he'll undo the restraints around your wrists. Of course he won't, you should know better than that.

With you obediently on your stomach, Oliver puts the water on the nightstand. One hand goes to your shoulder, the other holds your shoulder.

"Now princess," he murmurs low in your ear, tone oozing condescension, "sit," like ordering a dog when he pulls you upright; you don't even fully notice at first, the pressure from the angle that he pulls your arms makes them ache once more, but then you're sitting up on your knees, and Oliver's lips are inches from yours, leaning into your space with intent, "stay," and you go quiet.

There is fury when he looks in your eyes; your jaw twitches as you bite down on a hundred different retorts. There's something intoxicating about you, the way everything you do in these moments is a war between your cruel nature and your hedonistic desires. You want to kick him, you want him to spit in your mouth, you want to ruin him, you want him to ruin you. All of it is written in your eyes.

You have spent all week treating Oliver Quick like nothing more than a dog; you hate that it turns you on when he returns the favour.

Farleigh is eating this interaction up, watching like a hunter who lay in wait for his prey, content with how Oliver so skilfully toyed with you -

"There's a leash in the bottom draw of the night stand -"

"Farleigh Start, I'm going to kill you with my bare hands when I get them back," you hissed, but Farleigh's comment had piqued Oliver's curiosity. Before you could even look back to give Farleigh a withering glare, Oliver's hand found your throat. Thumb and fingers against your delicate pulse points, not yet cutting off the blood flow, but right where they needed to be.

Ironically it's Farleigh's voice in the back of his mind, a night out at the pub where it had just been mostly guys, and somehow the topic of their sex lives came up. It had been Farleigh who had rolled his eyes and explained - it's here, idiot - reaching over to demonstrate on Felix himself - it's cutting off the blood flow that makes their head spin, not actually choking them to death. Gorgeous fingers momentarily placed on his cousin's throat, Oliver had memorised the placement. Considering what he now knew of Farleigh's relationship with you, he didn't need to guess why he was so sure back in the pub.

"Didn't say speak."

"I'd kick you if I could," your lip curled, even as his grip on your throat tightened. That fire in your eyes was betrayed by the way your heartbeat practically danced beneath his fingertips, "give me my water, I wasn't kidding about that."

There's a long, tense moment where Oliver deliberates. Then, very slowly, he lets you go, and turns, reaching over to the night stand. Out of the corner of his eye there's a very sudden flurry of movement, and of Farleigh moving unexpectedly fast. The water actually shakes with it, spills and splashes several drops onto his thighs, cold in the humid room, before he turns to see the tableaux of attempted rebellion. Farleigh looks still amused, but rather exasperated, like he expected as much, expected to have his hand in your mouth, your teeth in his palm, other hand digging nails into your shoulder as he attempted to hold you back.

"It's like you forgot, Ollie," Farleigh says with a mean little smile, "my dog's the kind that bites," still he plays along, the words coming out lazily despite how he seems to actually have to work to pull his hand from your mouth. Your anger at being thwarted seemed to simmer just beneath your skin; this smile you now wear is laced with malice that hadn't been there before.

"Just having some fun," you practically spat, with both of Farleigh's hands now on your shoulders, holding you in place. This malevolence is it's own kind of fun; your desire to hurt, to wound, to sink your teeth in like a cornered animal betrays you to Oliver. Your pride is starting to win over your desire; your capacity for cruelty is overcoming your desire to be put in your place. Perhaps it was getting to real, perhaps you remembered how much better you supposed you were than Oliver himself. This is exactly how he wants you.

Princess. Collared.

Taking a deep, deliberate breath, Oliver levels a flat, unimpressed look at you. Both you and Farleigh are waiting, watching, letting him lead in this moment, and he does. Water in one hand, he carefully reaches down to the bottom drawer of the nightstand - when you move, the bed moves with you, but Farleigh's grip on you never yields, never lets you lunge at Oliver the way you keep trying. The collar is sleep and simple, padded on the inside, with a leash to match. It even has a little bell, and an engraved tag.

Bitch.

Oliver chuckles a laugh as he reads it, he can't help himself.

"Farleigh thinks he's very funny," you roll your eyes, knowing exactly what Oliver had found so amusing. Farleigh does look particularly pleased with himself over your shoulder.

"It was true when I got it engraved and it's still true now."

But Oliver's moving on again, asking Farleigh to hold the glass of water for him as he fiddles with the collar. He is quiet, intense, arms around your neck as he takes his time doing up the collar; his face is so close to yours, sharing your furious, shaking breathes.

"How is our princess feeling?" Oliver takes the moment to check in, genuine, though it seems to irritate you further, "green light?"

"Do not flatter yourself into thinking I am yet speechless," you spit, "if I truly thought you offered me nothing, and wanted nothing more from you, I am more than capable of making that abundantly clear." You were endlessly fascinating to Oliver; you wanted to maim him, but you wanted him nonetheless. He tightens the collar around your neck. Farleigh still has one hand on your shoulder; his thumb comes to press against the edge of the collar, against your skin meeting the leather as he makes a pleased hum. "Green fucking light, scholarship boy," you give a mocking little smile to Oliver, the bitterness never leaving your eyes.

"Good -" the moment Oliver has latched the collar, has the leash curled at the back of your neck around his fist, you strain forward against it. The bell rings with the movement, a delicate sound for an indelicate moment -

"But I am warning you," forehead pressed against Oliver's, you're straining for any inch, any millimetre more you could get from his unyielding grip on your leash, you practically snarl against his lips with venomous hatred, "about what you will get when you treat me like a dog." Yet Oliver makes sure to remain impassive, perhaps even a little amused, in the face of your threats.

"If I can't make you bark like a good girl, princess," Oliver murmurs, catching your lips in a kiss even as you try to bite him, pulling back with a cold smile, "then I'm going to make you beg."

"Are you going to be a good girl?" Farleigh's voice purrs in your ear, and some of the viciousness about you eases. You sit back, back out of Oliver's space, and watch as Farleigh hands the water back to Oliver's waiting hands, trading him for the leash.

"For you," there's contempt in your eyes as you watch Oliver while addressing Farleigh, "I'll think about it."

Oliver's gaze meet's Farleigh's as he presses his laughter to your shoulder; something in his eyes almost says, well, good luck, I tried. Like Oliver isn't revelling in this chance you've laid before him; like he doesn't know how quickly your body betrays you at every single opportunity.

"If you want some water, you have to ask nicely," Oliver offers. A pause follows, and he watches you change tact.

You relax, letting the fight leave you, pressing yourself back against Farleigh as much as you could. Feeling his face so close to yours you turn, practically nuzzling against him.

"Even if I'm nice, he's going to be mean about it," your voice comes out so sweetly, so transparently manipulatively, "I just want a drink of water, you wouldn't make me beg for a drink of water, Farleigh," you insist, voice plaintive, all doe-eyed and pouting and not looking at Oliver.

"I can and I have and you didn't complain this much," Farleigh saw fit to remind you, giving a wide, mean smile. Your lip began to quiver.

"You're not even fucking me and I'm going to cry," you tried whimpering.

"Funny how none of those sound like any of those safe words," Oliver points out. Your lip stops quivering, in fact, you glare at him out of the corner of your eye as you pout, still trying to be soft and gentle with Farleigh.

"That's because they're not," Farleigh says far too knowingly, far too smugly, muttering into your ear once more, though loud enough for Oliver to clearly hear how sharp and praising it is, "and aren't you pretty when you cry."

"Can't cry if I'm dehydrated," you huff, and finally Farleigh, with a roll of his eyes, gives in with a sigh.

"Give her the water."

You immediately perk up, looking far too pleased to be getting your way, and lean forward expectantly. Oliver will give you this - and only this - before he drags every bit of satisfaction out of you that he wants. So he is careful, doesn't let the water spill, lets you breathe between mouthfuls when you indicate.

"All of it; it's good for you," still he tells you, tone like a teacher, cup insistent at your lips.

"Yes sir," you managed sarcastically, rolling your eyes as you drank more of the water, but something snapped, rewired in Oliver's brain. Farleigh could see it too.

"Oh he liked that," he commented, eyes alight with intrigue, and you frowned as you indicated for Oliver to lower the cup.

"I'm not saying it again."

"The optimism you have about what you will and won't do tonight is adorable," Farleigh tells you, planting a teasing kiss on your cheek, while you tell him to piss off.

"Give me the last of my water, you fuck," you finally manage, and Farleigh finally feels like he can lay himself back down, cackling at your audacity in the face of everything that had just happened. He also drops the leash, at least confident in either Oliver, or his own reflexes, for the time being, "do you want me to drink it all or not? Pick a lane."

Oliver, glass in one hand, reaches between your legs with the other. Immediately, you close your eyes, breath catching, knowing exactly what he was playing at.

"Is that how you think you're going to get fucked tonight?" No response; Oliver's thumb begins moving on your clit, pressing insistent circles as your breathing grows deeper, "are you going to be a good girl?"

"I'm not going to bark for you," you manage through gritted teeth, though after a moment, you half stutter out a moan, "please can you let me finish my water?" Two fingers slide teasingly down your slit, "please, Oliver -" you swallow hard, eyes opening to meet his; he can see this almost pains you, "please Oliver Quick, can I have the last of my water?" Those two fingers inside of you, curling, teasing, pulling a groan from you, eyes fluttering closed, and your voice barely above a whisper, "may I finish my water, sir?"

Oh yes, he did like hearing that from you.

"Of course," Oliver sits back, pleased, licking his fingers clean like a pleased cat while assisting you with finishing off the glass of water. You can't meet his gaze, already embarrassed by how quickly you'd given in. He watches your tongue dart out across your lips, collecting the few drops that had strayed, clinging to the edges of your lips. Beautiful mouth, he's sure he can put it to good use.

"All better, princess?" Farleigh snarks from behind you. Oliver thinks he can see you bite back on a harsh retort, and once again watches you change tact. Shifting away from him, half turning so you were now perpendicular to Farleigh and able to properly look at him, you wriggled your legs out from under you, perhaps a little more comfortable to your side, like a Victorian woman on a fainting sofa, it's an unassumingly sweet pose for the situation. Though it clearly matched the energy you were trying to give off.

"Yes, Farleigh, thank you, Farleigh," without even sparing Oliver a single glance. For a long moment, Farleigh's gaze slides from your innocent act to Oliver, looking unamused and still holding the empty glass. A strange moment of understanding passes between them the minute Farleigh sees Oliver's gaze snap to the leash down your back. So he sits, leans in close to you, and takes your face in one hand. It's clear you're leaning in to this perceived moment of tenderness, but Farleigh stops, a breath from your lips.

"You fucking bit my hand," his voice ice cold, you see there's no humour in his eyes as you pull back and try to stammer out something, anything, genuinely caught off guard, "so thanks won't cut it, princess; you can start with an apology."

"I -" you begin to frown, but then the bed dips behind you, and Oliver's cool hand is grasping at the leash, pulling gently.

"Didn't say speak," he warned, and didn't even give you a moment to butt in before continuing, "show Farleigh you're sorry."

Farleigh, clearly delighted by this turn of events, sits himself up, shuffling back to lean comfortably against the headboard. This confidence becomes him, legs spread in invitation, generous cock resting hard and wanting against the smooth plane of his stomach. For several long moments, Oliver watches Farleigh lazily stroke himself, simply watching you and Oliver through a smug, half-lidded gaze.

"You should see yourselves," the teasing barely hides how his voice is dripping with want. Unsurprisingly, you try to play it off, becoming flustered at the implication of you staring, of how much you knew you wanted him. But Oliver meets Farleigh's gaze, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Farleigh's smile widens.

"Aren't you lucky?" Oliver murmurs into your ear, grip on your leash tight as he keeps his eyes locked with Farleigh's. Though you've gone quiet, Oliver's unsatisfied with your lack of proper response, and gives a pointed yank on your collar.

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I'm lucky," you sighed faintly, "sir." Farleigh snorts a laugh, and Oliver grins, shuffling himself to sit on Farleigh's other side, by his hip, and looks expectantly at you before giving your leash a tug. At least you seem to be getting into this, considering you actually perk up, scrambling as best you could to sit yourself between Farleigh's legs.

There's something about the gleeful little grin that you give Farleigh in this moment that give away how much genuine joy and anticipation you have to have your mouth on his cock. He too seems at home in this moment, settling back against the headboard with his hands behind his head. It's almost cute, your eagerness, the way you lean down in anticipation before.

"Can I have my hands back now?"

Farleigh goes to sit up, goes to say something, as if he'd realised you'd probably need your hands for the act, but Oliver cuts him off before he can.

"No." And it's too firm for him to argue with. When you look at Oliver this time, there's something there that wasn't before. A moment of genuine doubt, a moment of genuine submission.

"Sir, I think I need my hands for this," instead of argumentative, it's almost pleading. This is the moment he knows he's starting to win. Oliver tips his head to the side, as if regarding you curiously.

"Do you?" He can see the doubt in your eyes grow; it's driving him mad the way he's holding himself back, but good things take time.

"I think so," you don't sound sure.

Oliver moves slowly, deliberately, and makes sure you're following his movements. Farleigh's cock twitches in Oliver's cool hand, but all Farleigh does is let out a low, pleased hum. He starts simply, thumb gliding over his slit, collecting the precum that had been beading there, hand then moving up and down in even strokes. For a moment, he chances a glance at Farleigh, only to see his head lolling back against the bedframe, pleased smile on his lips.

When an actual whimper escapes you, and Oliver feels you tug on your leash in his other hand, he remembers his task at hand. There's lust in your eyes as you wriggle, thigh clenching and rubbing together at the sight of Oliver working Farleigh's cock. This might be far easier than he thought.

"You want this?" Just like a pet owner with their clearly eager dog, Oliver teases you.

"Yes," your practically bark, breathless and eager and embarrassingly fast. It actually seems to catch both Oliver and Farleigh off guard, Farleigh's cock clearly reacting positively in Oliver's hand to your obvious desire, and Oliver giving Farleigh a genuinely impressed look.

"Never seen someone so eager to get their mouth around a cock before; you must've done something special to her."

"Do you want me to teach you or do you want me to show you?" Farleigh's eyes shine as brightly as his smile in the silver-blue glow of the night. Oliver's mouth goes dry at the thought, his own cock aching at the mere thought of what it would be like to look up at Farleigh with his smug approval - knew you could be boy for me, Oliver - and he wants to hate the idea, but he can't. But he doesn't get the chance to respond -

"No, mine," slips from you like a whine, unexpectedly possessive. It brings both boys' attention back on you, however, and you seem to realise your slip up. Mouth opening and closing, you can't even seem to find the words to defend yourself; at least you've learned to shut up.

"Careful princess," Farleigh says surprisingly coldly, slipping back into dominance with practiced ease, "you're lucky, remember?"

"I'm lucky," you nod emphatically, but you're straining against your leash, wetting your lips.

"Good girls get treats," he yanks your collar back to remind you who still holds your leash, "this a treat for you, princess?"

"I do genuinely enjoy it," you admit honestly, seeming a little flustered to be saying as much, looking to Oliver with a sheepish smile, "not with anyone else though," it's actually a very sweet moment.

"Really?" Farleigh seems genuinely flattered, wide, bashful smile on his face as he sits forward a little.

"You seriously don't understand how hot the noises you make are," you laughed a little self consciously, "I came completely untouched once just from going down on you."

"Are we here to stroke Farleigh's ego or his cock?" Oliver rolled his eyes, already tired of this, but Farleigh sat back obliging, while you tried to bend down, but very much couldn't.

"Pick a lane, Oliver," you groaned, before quickly amending, apologetically, "sir." Farleigh snickered. Oliver's gaze grew cold.

"Beg for it."

He pushes his hand between your shoulder blades, forcing you to double over and bend down, but then kept his grip on your leash tight as he held the shiny, plump head of Farleigh's cock just inches from your lips.

"Please," already you were back to playing along, mouth open, breathing heavy, whimpering as you hear an impatient moan from Farleigh himself, "please, sir please -"

"Please what?"

Mouth hanging open, panting like a desperate whore, you beg for Farleigh's cock in your mouth, your throat, to be facefucked and used, whatever - you felt like you were going insane from the suspense. All the words come spilling out from you, begging and dripping with need that Oliver almost gives in right there.

Oliver's hand has been skilfully fisted around Farleigh's cock this entire time, keeping him hard and ready and in the perfect spot to drive you made, just out of your reach. He'd half forgotten he was even doing it, getting him all worked up, leaking, slick, fingers shiny and sticky with Farleigh -

"Oliver -" Farleigh chokes out in a kind of warning tone, as if to tell him to stop playing around one way or the other.

"You think you deserve this?" Oliver finally lets Farleigh's cock go, and you actually whimper. Oliver wipes his hand off messily against your mouth, once more demanding to know if you think you deserve this. You're begging, please tumbling from your lips even as Oliver presses two fingers into your greedy mouth.

"Please, sir," muffled so much that it's almost indistinguishable as your thorough tongue laps at Oliver's fingers, "please, I need him," and the desperate tears are welling in your eyes as he keeps his fingers in your mouth but pushes you back up onto your knees.

"Will you sit for me if I give you what you want?" He pulls his fingers slowly from your mouth. You nod, heartbeat alive when he wraps a firm hand around your throat, "will you stay for me if I give you what you want?" Another nod, lip trembling and breathing so desperately hard. He applies more pressure.

"Anything," you gasp, hips moving again, insistent, desperate for friction; he'd see to that soon, "speak, shake," you wet your lips, "roll over."

Oliver glances over his shoulder to where Farleigh is watching with rapt attention. Good.

"Good dog," Farleigh mumbles, desperately working his own hand up and down his shaft.

Oliver lets go of the leash carefully, and your eyes snap back to him. Just as you promised, you sit, you stay, a good dog, watching him move closer to Farleigh with intent. He hears your breath catch the moment he takes Farleigh's cock in hand, and the desperate chanting of 'pleasepleaseplease' as he lowers himself down. For a moment, he looks to Farleigh, a silent question of permission, but considering he too can hear how desperate and needy you're behaving at the mere sight of this, he realises, at least in part, what Oliver's doing and seems entirely on board.

You were right, Farleigh moans and whimpers like a whore with a mouth on his cock. A wanton melody made all the sweeter for your begging having turned simply to needy noises. What Oliver can't fit of Farleigh in his mouth he continues to jerk off, momentarily slipping down to gently squeeze Farleigh's balls, earning him the most beautiful series of swears Oliver's ever heard. Tongue always moving, caressing, often lapping at Farleigh's slit and the sweet, salty slickness, Oliver works hard to make him feel good - which he knows he's more than capable of, despite his demeanour he's nothing near a virgin in any realm - without getting him to close. He'd still leave that for you.

For a moment he glances up at Farleigh, and the bitterness in his eyes at the edge of the obvious lust, like he resents Oliver for being so good at this, makes it all worth it.

I got you here, Farleigh, Oliver thinks with bitter triumph, everything else is sloppy fucking seconds.

When he pulls away, he makes sure there's a distinctive, lewd slurp before he takes a deep breath.

Looking to you, the fight is back in your eyes, but it doesn't fucking matter; Oliver won. He pulls you in for a rough kiss -

"I hate you," you snarl at him through your intensely frustrated pout, even as his hand grabs your jaw, "interloping little slut, where the fuck do you get off -?" But the minute he pushes his tongue into your mouth you still try to press yourself against him, to kiss him harder, taste all of Farleigh in him that you could. You know you're sloppy fucking seconds to him, and you hate him for it.

"I was thinking it was going to be in you," Oliver says blithely as he pulls away from the kiss. In the back of his mind he knows it's a loaded statement - ha - but he hasn't forgotten the colours if this was a bridge too far -

"Fucking finally you have some common sense," you sneer, as if you weren't still on the verge of tears, "I was going to say that if you ruined my sheets I was going to have you arrested."

"No you weren't," pipes up Farleigh with an eyeroll. Immediately embarrassed you tell him to shut up, "no, I don't think I will; I'm beginning to think you guys are a bunch of fucking teases -"

Oliver gives him a thin smile, handing over the leash, having gotten all the permission he needed.

"Are you going to be good for Farleigh?" He whispered low in your ear, "didn't you want this?"

"Weren't you just begging for it?" Farleigh smirked down at you, lust-filled approval in his voice, "come on, baby," he murmurs as he takes your face in his hands, and immediately you're his, "crying for me?" The teasing starts warm, but as he's wiping the first of the tears from your cheeks, as you're nodding with embarrassment, his teasing turns mean and sharp and smug, "crying like a desperate, little cockwhore," he doesn't even time to let you react before he's giving your cheeks a gentle squeeze; "open up," he orders in that same cruel, loving, smug tone that makes Oliver's hairs stand up on the back of his neck. But you seem to react with relief the moment you have your mouth around him.

There's something that even Oliver finds entrancing about Farleigh in this moment. He'd been leading you both for so long that he'd forgotten where it had all started, the way Farleigh had spoken so early on, and how even in your most vicious or playful, part of you would always refer back to him. Part of Farleigh had earned your respect, and in the end, he had been the only one in the house who made the princess feel like her place was on her knees.

"Now your little power trip is over," Farleigh's voice cuts through Oliver's thoughts like a fucking knife, as always, painful and clean and precise, "do you need my permission to -" but Oliver's done with his bullshit tonight too.

"Shut it Farleigh," he rolls his eyes and starts to move once more. Time he focuses on your bound hands, finally deciding that you'd probably had enough, or at least were willing enough to listen to either Oliver or Farleigh in a way that mattered.

"Oh my god, freedom!" You immediately announced, sitting up to throw your hands in the air with a genuinely delightful glee.

"You see what you've done," Farleigh looked over your shoulder to Oliver, tossing his belt to the side, but you were already using your freedom to crawl up to meet him. Oliver's surprised by how genuine and affectionate you are when you tell him to be quiet for a moment. With one hand still working on him, the other being used to brace yourself up, you kiss Farleigh gently. What surprises Oliver even further is the momentary look of actual love in Farleigh's eyes as he cups your jaw and kisses you back.

Then you're moving back, making sure to let them both know that you weren't kidding about how much you enjoyed going down on Farleigh. However you do give pause, looking at Oliver through narrowed eyes for a long minute where he's sitting by your knees, watching the exchange, not quite sure where he was meant to go from here.

Your foot lashes out at him. Hard. It's unexpected. Somehow, so is the second kick that follows immediately after. The third he anticipates, but by that stage you'd shunted him to the edge of the bed, and though he tries to catch your leg he falls off, unsuccessful.

"What kind of problem do you have?" Oliver is scowling from the floor, his shoulder and hip sore from the fall, while Farleigh is laughing his ass off.

"What are you, a coat rack suddenly?" You demanded, matching his scowl with one of your own, still braced on your hands and knees over Farleigh, "also fuck you for making me beg for water." Careful, Oliver thinks, he's not quite done making you beg.

"Maybe his dick's broken," Farleigh snorted, "which would be a fucking shame; have you had a proper look at it?" Oliver bristled at the implications, though he knew he'd be thinking about the compliment tucked in there for days to come.

"You are both right fucking insufferable," Oliver snapped, getting to his feet and brushing himself off with indignation.

"Yeah, I'll cry about it in the shower later," you could clearly be heard rolling your eyes. There's a few pointedly obnoxious moments where you make a point of gagging on Farleigh's cock before coming back up for air and to add, "fuck me or fuck off - woah, okay, good choice!"

Before you can even finish your ultimatum, Oliver's decided he's come too far to, well, not. Grabbing your thighs with all the strength he could muster, he pulls you almost entirely away from Farleigh, to the end of the bed, half off the bed, causing you to faceplant into the duvet the moment your knees were no longer supporting you. Farleigh's protests fall on deaf ears, however, as all Oliver allows himself to focus on is keeping you stable, bent over the end of the bed like this.

Still, Farleigh shifts down to accommodate your change in position, despite his eye rolling and claims that Oliver's being dramatic, it's overshadowed by the sudden, loud moan that escapes you.

"Never felt someone so fucking desperate for someone they hate," Oliver bites out, almost impressed by how easy it was to bury himself in you. In the moment he gives you to adjust, his hand pressed to the small of your back to which you eagerly arch back against him, he watches Farleigh. It's his turn to be smug.

After a moment, he gives a few, shallow, experimental thrusts. Each time you rock back to meet him, to take him as deep as possible, and each time he hears a faint, pleased whimper. Your body and it's desires has betrayed you at every single opportunity, which is information Oliver gladly keeps in the back of his mind.

"Come on princess," he leans over to you to murmur in your ear where you'd pressed your face to Farleigh's thigh for the moment, attempting to keep going with your hand on him when your body could only focus on the rhythm of Oliver, Oliver, Oliver, "you've got a job to do, don't you want to be good?"

"I want to be good," you keened, before making the effort to prop yourself up, taking Farleigh in your mouth once more.

It's the last moment of care that Oliver affords, however, as he very quickly sets a rough pace, nails digging so hard into your hips that he thinks he might draw blood. But your cunt still clutches at him like it was made for his cock, so slick with how much you need this, need him in this moment, that it's already dripping down your thighs.

The three of you get lost in each other, each desperate moan from your muffled by Farleigh's cock hitting the back of your throat. The sensation soon sets him off and he can't keep his hands off of you. Up on his knees he takes over, takes your face in his hands as you look up at him, teary-eyed with a heady kind of bliss, and he matches Oliver's rhythm as he fucks your face.

Oliver can only imagine the kind of mess you look like right now, but has to focus on sustaining himself, making sure he doesn't leave you with any more excuses to belittle him tonight. So he reaches around, between your thighs, and his fingers find your desperately sensitive clit.

Immediately your stance slips, widens, gives him better access to your clit, and he hears your muffled moan become a choked sob. The beginning of the perfect end.

Farleigh's getting close, his pace is faltering, his hips are stuttering, you're whining and gasping desperate breathes between each of his thrusts, that have turned to wordless, overwhelmed sobs in the past few minutes. Oliver is genuinely impressed that you're able to take all of Farleigh like that; he wonders if he'd dedicated time to training you. He can't dwell on it, not when Farleigh's eyes have fallen closed and he's started mouthing what Oliver can only assume is a string of swear words.

For just a moment, Farleigh looks like an angel. Ethereal. He almost glows. Perfectly at peace and content and not a total, unbearable smug asshole. Then he pulls his cock out of your mouth and lets his legs give out again, flopping back onto your bed with a wide grin.

"I thought Oliver couldn't make you speechless," Farleigh teased, while you had in fact moved past words almost entirely, except -

"Please," you sobbed desperately. Farleigh, who'd never gotten to see you like this from here, lights up, moving back to you. You're shaking, barely able to support yourself, and he finally sees Oliver's hand between your thighs, and puts two and two together.

"Please?" He wears a smile that's all teeth, gently taking your shoulders and the pressure of keeping yourself up. In return you find yourself holding his face, his arms, everywhere, for support as he moved you back to press against Oliver. Taking the hint, Oliver wraps his arm around you, firm against your back, keeping you secure as he fucks up into you.

"Pleasepleaseplease -"

"Words, princess," Farleigh tells you as he brushes Oliver's hand out of the way, letting him focus on the new angle, the new sensation, the way you're trembling and so close to cumming on his cock. Before you can even formulate proper words at first, your head falls forward onto Farleigh's shoulder, sobbing, aching with how good you've been made to feel.

"I'm so close," you choke out, "please can I -"

"Selfish," Oliver admonishes coldly, and the reaction is immediate.

"No, no," you whimper apologetically, something Farleigh's never heard from you before. Lifting your head you lean back, fitting yourself against Oliver further, trying to placate, "please, no I promise- you, I need -" you take a deep, shuddering breath, "Ollie, please, it feels like I'm going to fucking die if you don't cum in me," you blurt out. Farleigh actually laughs, he's never seen you so fucking weak for another person.

Your begging and desperate pleas spur Oliver on, holding you tighter, fucking you harder, until he finally leans forward, sinking his teeth into your shoulder. It sends you over the edge, has you seeing stars as you cry out. Shudder and sobbing with your release, you feel Oliver bury his cock deep in you as it twitches and throbs and paints your inside.

Oliver lets you go, lets you fall onto Farleigh as your orgasm is still quaking through you. Oliver's hands grip your hips, keep you flush to him, keep you from pulling away.

"That's a good girl," Farleigh murmurs in your ear. He's holding you close with one arm, the other gently running his fingertips up and down your back in a comforting rhythm. He doesn't bother sparing Oliver a second glance, Oliver isn't an important part of this equation to him anymore. Not that that matters to Oliver.

It was far easier to pick you apart, to own you inside and out, than he'd ever imagined. He'd brought you to tears, made you beg for every last bit of fucking pleasure including every inch of him and then some. He would leave you aching, leave you knowing that you both knew the truth of where your place is in his world.

Finally Oliver pulls out of you, wiping his softening cock on your thighs before he thinks about getting dressed. He does take a few moments, while you're still half bent over the bed and being supported by Farleigh, where Oliver watched with a detached kind of approval, the way his cum starts to leak out of you, down your thighs with your own shining arousal.

The princess had been collared, cuffed, and his, inside and out.

"Thank- thank you, Oliver Quick," your voice is demure and grateful among your sniffles and whimpers, and Oliver can't help but smile to himself. His pride in you extends only to your final show of submission, though it's pride nonetheless.

"Good girl."

[tyrantisterror]

What are your top favorite fairy tales? Either classic literarily stories, adaptations of literary fairy tales, wholly modern fairy tales, or even just stories that you think are structured like fairy tales. (Roald Dahl books, Studio Ghibli movies, even Shrek and Puss in Boots movies, etc.)

That is an unfathomably vast genre of fiction to try and condense into a ranked numbered list. I think... I think that may be impossible to actually answer as requested. But I can ramble about some of my favorites I suppose.

Let's do this sorta like the Oscars and divide things into categories.

Category 1: The Heavy Hitters

Some fairy tales are significantly more famous than others, so this category is for them: the heavy hitters, the classic fairy tales that are most well known, as defined by my own nebulous perception of which fairy tales are more popular than others.

Of the heavy hitters, my favorites are Little Red Riding Hood and Jack and the Beanstalk. Little Red Riding Hood is such a spooky story no matter which telling you're looking at, and has contributed a lot to both the fantasy and horror genres thanks to its simple yet evocative premise and visuals. Jack and the Beanstalk, meanwhile, is just a really solid story of a trickster fool, which is one of my favorite archetypes in all of fiction. Love a good trickster fool.

Category 2: The Obscurities

As I said, this ask is covering a HUGE amount of fiction in its topic, especially since the border between a fairy tale and, like, ANY folklore isn't really well-defined (not in a way anyone can agree too, anyway). But there are a lot of obscure folktales I love that are at least sometimes lumped in as fairy tales, and I'm gonna list them here:

The Lambton Worm - a classic tale of dragon-slaying and getting fucked over by prophecies

The Lindworm Prince - queen can't concieve and consults a witch, ignores witch's directions, gives birth to human baby and dragon baby. Dragon baby grows up and demands a wife before human baby can get his, and a clever girl decides this is her chance to get rewarded for monster fucking.

Maud and the Dragon of Mordiford - the story of a girl who adopts a dragon only for it to end tragically, which inspired one of the novels I'm gonna write one of these days

Tam Lin - the story of a woman who wanted that elf dick and wasn't afraid to do some weird shit to get it

Biancabella and Samaritana - a story about a girl and her sister who is a snake because her mother had trouble concieving

King Odd - a story about an odd king who's actually an exiled fairy queen in disguise, and the man who wins her heart after surviving her attempt to execute him. It's like a Nordic medieval Tenchi Muyo.

You've probably noticed some themes about my favorites right now - lots of stories with dragons, people being transformed into monsters, and heroes who are into that monster shit.

Category 3: Archetypal Pieces

Ok, so for this I'm going to focus less on individual folktales and more on recurring plotlines, character types, and story beats, which you begin to notice the more you read up on Fairy Tales in part because many of the more obscure ones take beats from ones you're probably more familiar with and mix them together in new ways. So, my favorite plot beats in fairy tales:

Any sort of monster, obviously

The villain who literally removed their heart out of fear of being vulnerable

The baleful polymorph (i.e. a human who inhabits a beast/monster body against their will)

Monsterfucker protagonists

Trickster Fool protagonists

Disobedient Girls (examples: Little Red, Goldilocks), though I don't like how this archetype is treated

You want to have a baby and seek a witch and she gives you VERY SPECIFIC INSTRUCTIONS which you ignore because you really want this baby and oops you've got twins and one of them is some sort of monster good job asshole

The hero helps three (or more) people/creatures in need, and when shit hits the fan, they return the favor

Category 4: Modern(ish) Adaptations

Our penultimate category focuses on adaptations of fairy tales from, like, the 1900's on - anything made in a century I've lived in part of, basically. These arguably shouldn't be divided from "normal" fairy tales, but my brain regards them differently than, like, Victorian era fairy tale retellings, because hey, I lived in the age of these, more or less. They're "modern" for whatever nebulous definition of that word my brain's decided on.

And there's a lot for me to put in this category. Sleeping Beauty might be my favorite of Disney's fairy tale retellings, though Beauty and the Beast is a strong competitor for that role (and maybe Mulan, if we count its source material as a fairy tale, but I'm not sure we can). I think overall I like Sleeping Beauty's more stylized animation and character designs as well as its less conventional story-telling structure a bit more than B&B's, but Beauty and the Beast is still gorgeous and kind of perfectly scripted, so it's a tough competition.

My alltime favorite adaptation of fairy tales, though, would be Jim Henson's The Storyteller:

Using the magic of 1980's muppeteering, it adapts several fairy tales, many of which are more on the obscure side, and sometimes mashes a few different ones together to make sure each episode has a good three act structure. It's wonderful and fully captures the weirdness of fairy tales, while also having a lot of heart - The Heartless Giant is my favorite of the whole series.

Category 5: Works Inspired By Fairy Tales

I almost lumped the following stories into the above category, but while the division is, again, purely in my mind, there's something different about modern works that claim to adapt fairy tales 1:1 and ones that take fairy tale characters or concepts and throw them in entirely new tales with different directions, so that's what our final category will be.

I've gushed about Puss In Boots: The Last Wish enough that I don't think it'd surprise anyone that it would end up here - the same goes with the works of Rankin Bass, which is why I doubt anyone is surprised I'd put The Last Unicorn here too (technically based on a book, but it still fits the "has big fairy tale vibes despite not being based on one specific one" that I'm using to justify this category).

Pan's Labyrinth would also go in this category, with a protagonist who's both a trickster fool AND a disobedient girl, as well as a beautifully gothic take on fairy tale motifs. I'd put Company of Wolves here as well, being a very multifaceted riff on the Little Red Riding Hood story and a movie that sets both my analytical and creative parts of my brain on fire each time I want it.

I'd also put The Path, a short video game explicitly inspired by Company of Wolves, on this part of the favorites list. It's a game about, like, a DOZEN or so different takes on Red Riding Hood and her story, all with different flavors and subtext to analyze. It's unsettling but good.

Dimension 20 had a whole season focused on a horror-themed crossover of fairy tale characters called Neverafter that was fantastic, with one of the best riffs on Little Red Riding Hood I've ever seen, Puss in Boots and Pinocchio working together as con artists, and a vampire Snow White, so yeah 10/10 there, no notes.

And while I've only seen scattered bits of it, what I've seen of Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure, a sequel series to Disney's Rapunzel adaptation, is pretty great, though maybe I just think Cass is hot.

If you put an angry woman with a sword in your work of fiction I will at least stay for a few episodes to see what you do with her.

Given how much it consumed my brain in so little time, Revolutionary Girl Utena has to rank among my favorite Fairy Tale things ever - like, this is too chaotic a list to really rank things, but if I were to try, it'd at least be in the top 10. The same is true for Stephen Sondheim's Into the Woods, which in addition to being a big fun crossover between a bunch of the Heavy Hitter fairy tales, is also one of the best musicals ever written - and indeed, one of the best stage shows of all time.

Shit, where do I put A Midsummer Night's Dream? It feels like it should be here, but it predates the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Anderson, whose works my brain categorizes as "old fairy tales" rather than "modern fairy tale retellings." Well, it'd be somewhere among these categories, being one of the best tales with fairies in it ever told.

The Princess Bride would be up high like Utena no matter what - it's one of the best works of fiction about love that we've got. Same goes with Galavant, which I consider its spiritual successor, although I think one could argue Galavant isn't specifically a fairy tale pastiche and is more just a lampooning of fantasy in general.

Oh, and The Hazards of Love, a concept album by The Decemberists, should be here too. That's the last one I can think of right now, but I'm sure I'll think of a few others later that I like enough to regret not putting on here.

[syndxlla]

best friends don’t look at each other the way we do

A low stakes, high reward and self-indulgent Zelink fan fiction. Canon-compliant. Takes place between both and totk

Chapter Six: This is Home

Read chapter five here

My masterlist

Song: Run To You by Leah Michele

Summary: Link is brought on to investigate a new strange monster plaguing the farmers in Hateno. He is faced with a new type of post-traumatic experience he doesn’t expect to have.

Warnings: canon-typical violence, suspense and horror, PTSD, squint and theres very base-line sexual content, GRAPHIC descriptions of animal mutilations!

Word Count: 3.5k words

Authors Note: I didn’t update for two and a half months and said “lemme give you guys the best chapter yet” (imo). Thank you for being patient with me. I restarted school, closed one musical, opened and closed a 30 performance long run of another musical and literally fell in love with a man 16-years-older than me in that time lol. Also I wrote this in one sitting and I’m starting chapter 7 now 🫡. Its unedited be nice.

Also please do not make fun of me for using a Leah Michele song for this chapter its so good and it works really good so just shut up. Kloveyoubye

The summer starts to get hotter. A week passes and nothing changes, neither of them ever address the hand holding, Link is fixing the hole in the roof and Zelda is reteaching herself how to fix a clock, an activity she originally learned at the age of seven. Everything is so normal, the sun starts to set a little later, and the fireflies have started hatching.

Link never really thought he would end up in a position to do housework. He tried to get Bolson to fix the hole before Link bought it, but it would take a certain number of wood piles and when Link went out to get them he got a little distracted. And by distracted he means ending the sandstorm in the desert caused by the Divine Beast. It just got put on the back burner, and now here he is, using basic tools to hammer in new shingles. He wipes his brow, his shirt off again. He takes a look at the hammer in his hand, thinking about the savage Lynel sword that same hand has swung.

The passage of time is weird.

Maybe he does want to go back to work. Going from Demon slayer to roof repairman in two and a half weeks is a little jarring.

He hears a groan of frustration from inside the house, and makes his way inside, where it's much cooler.

“Everything alright?” He asks, looking at the girl who’s hunched over the kitchen table.

“No, this is absurd.” She slams the machine on the kitchen table. “I can’t remember how to do the most basic thing in engineering ever.” She frowns.

Link chuckles and places a dirty hand on her shoulder as he walks past her. He moves to the water basin and wets a cloth that he wraps around his neck. “I don’t know the first thing about that stuff, so you have me beat.” He shrugs. “Man, what I would give for an hour at Lurelin right now. Or better yet a weekend at Tabantha. I bet the weather there is a comfortable 60 degrees.” He sighs. Trying to slyly put the worm in Zelda’s ear about a possible trip.

Zelda groans, “I agree. I don’t remember it getting this hot.”

“This is just the beginning, wait until it’s the midsummer festival.”

“A festival?” Zelda’s face lights up.

Link nods, “It’s something they started about thirty years ago. It’s right here in Hateno. People from all parts of the kingdom will travel for it.” Link drinks some water, leading against the counter at the hip. Zelda makes special effort not to admire how his obliques curved. “There’s music and dancing, it’s quite fun. I was invited last year as a special guest. The “chosen hero” or something like that.” Link shrugs.

At that moment they hear a sharp knock on their door. It startles both of them. Link moves to answer it, setting the rag and cup down.

“Dantz, what is it?” Link says as he opens the door to a distressed farmer.

“Master Link, so good to see you,” His voice is shaky, “I didn’t know who else to go to.” Link listens more intently, Zelda even stands. “Two more of my cattle have been killed. When I heard you were back in town I knew you could help me. I don’t know who—or what—is killing them, but it's not a moblin. It’s something darker.” He’s speaking a mile a minute.

“Slow down,” Link stops him, “When did this happen?”

“In the night, I came here as soon as I could. They were covered in something… unnatural. Please, Link.”

Link turns back to look at Zelda. “Stay here.”

“What? No. I’ll come with you!” She moves to him and Link stops her. If this is anything like what Cado saw at the castle, he didn’t want her to be anywhere near it.

Link completely turns around and puts his hands on her shoulders, “Zelda, you cannot.” He stays sternly.

“Why? You don’t have to baby me. I can help you.”

“Zel-“

“I’m better! Please don’t leave me-“ Before she finishes the sentence she’s falling back down, like she was going to faint again. She had gotten herself worked up and now her heart was weary again. Link catches her before she falls, her knees knocking together.

“Oh, Goddess.” Dantz says. “Should I help?” He asks and Link snaps, telling him ‘no’ a little too forcefully.

“Zel, come on, let's get you to bed.” He wraps her arm around his shoulder. “Dantz, I’ll be there within the hour. I’m sorry.” Link says in a calmer tone.

“I understand, Link.” He nods and turns to leave.

Zelda can’t get up the stairs and Link picks her up, carrying her up to her room. He places her in bed as she starts to cry.

“Hey, hey it’s okay.” He brushes her hair out of her face. She takes his hand.

“No. It’s not.” She replies. “Stop telling me it’s okay.” She groans. “It’s ridiculous that I can’t do anything without this happening.” It was the second time this week.

“I have to go help them.” His hand is held back by her, but she eventually lets it go.

He turns to leave her, pulling his green tunic over his messy hair, and getting ready for combat. He isn’t even anticipating a fight, but he wants to be ready. He puts his gloves on, and straps both his sword and shield to his back. He even gets his bow ready because he has no idea what it might be. It sounds serious.

It’s the first time he’s been entirely suited-up since the castle. He forgot how natural it feels. He forgot how much he felt like himself.

Zelda has gotten up and stands at the railing of the loft. “Be careful.” She says in a weak voice.

Link looks up at her, he wants to stay here with her and hold her and let her know that it's going to be okay. “Please rest.”

He walks out the door.

The cattle are lying dead in the corner of the pasture. Flies buzz around them. Dantz and Link examine the scene, a pit in both their stomachs.

“What could it be?” Dantz asks.

Link crouches down, getting a closer look. The gunk is a deep maroon color, almost like malice but thinner, almost like a glossy serum as opposed to a thick slime. Link takes a risk and touches a bit of it that was strewn across the grass, rubbing it between his fingers. It didn’t seem to hurt him the way malice did. He sniffs it, it’s rotten and foul. He gags almost immediately. Link wipes his hand off in the grass.

“I’ve never seen anything like this.” He admits. “And I’ve seen a lot.” This was only confirming his worst fears.

“The other ones that were killed were left like this too.” Dantz explains, “There isn’t even any meat taken out of them, only their eyes are gouged out.” He points out.

“Whatever is killing them is doing it for sport.” Link stands back up and folds his arms. “This is bizarre, I must say.” It was starting to be late afternoon, he still had a few hours of sunlight. “What did you do with the other ones that were killed?” Link asks.

“We tried to clean them up and butcher them for food. But the meat inside was rotten, like it was poisoned under the skin.”

Link hears a giggle from behind them and turns around to see the two daughters of the rancher watching them from behind a post. When he catches them staring they both hide.

“How old are your girls?” He asks.

“Siva is eighteen and Catli is sixteen.” Dantz replies. “They are my pride and joy, I can’t let anything bad happen to them.”

Link advances towards them, “Girls.” He smiles, charming as ever. They both sneak out from behind the post, sheepish and giddy. The older steps forward.

“You’re the hero.” She puts her hands behind her back. Link nods.

“Can you girls show me the edge of your property?” He asks, wanting to test a theory. They both happily nod and start to lead him, he notices especially how Siva looks at him as she walks by. She was very agreeable: long, dark and curly hair and alluring eyes. He follows them. They take him past the fence and through the forest, the younger chatting and asking questions about his quests and whatnot. He just smiles and nods, answering with basic “yes’” or “no’s”.

Link’s theory starts to prove right, he sees a set of two acorns on the ground, then a pair of two foot tracks, and eventually, at the end of the property, where two songbirds lay dead at the bottom of a tree, both covered in the same strange goop. Whatever this is, it’s looking for things in pairs. Like two sisters.

Link would never imagine putting these girls in danger, and would send them home in about an hour or two when it started to get dark, he just wanted to lure out whatever was killing with a pair.

He sat down at the base of a tree, and listened as the girls talked themselves up, clearly competing with one another for who can be the most impressive to the hero. Link decides to let them have their fun, it’s not like he was getting this attention from Zelda.

Zelda.

She’s all he could think about. He listens to the girls for a full hour, but doesn’t comprehend a word they’re saying because all he can do is think about the woman he left at home. He wishes he hadn’t left her home, she’s probably sad and lonely. Or maybe she isn’t, perhaps she’s enjoying some alone time. He doubted it, though. He was sure she was fuming at him for just leaving her, for going in such a rush. Proximity can cause problems, maybe this was good for them.

Link must have zoned out because all of a sudden the younger sister was gone, and he was left alone with Siva. This was dangerous territory.

“Where did your sister go?” He asks, clearly uncomfortable.

“Oh! I told her to go get her tapestry to show you! Of course.” Siva says in a tone that was a little too flirty for Link’s liking. She sits next to him, facing him. Link knew the look on her face, and he knew he should stand up and put an end to whatever was about to happen. “Because you know… now we’re alone.” She sighs and leans in.

Stop. Stop. Stop. He tells himself but doesn’t move, he lets her place her lips on his.

Link is not an experienced kisser. He’s had a few drunken nights in the last three years where he ended up in a Gerudo’s bedchamber or a stable-workers hideout, and while those were all agreeable experiences, he’s never actively sought them out. It was always nice to get the tension from his journey off, though.

Link makes the mistake of kissing her back, and she’s sighing into his touch and he’s pulling her in. Being alone with a woman he’s been in love with for three years and not being able to touch her or talk to her the way he wants to has left him with a lot of pent up energy, it felt good to get it out.

Link puts his fingers through her hair, and starts to kiss down her jawline and neck and she’s letting out the prettiest little sounds.

And then he starts to think about Zelda. The sounds Zelda would make, the feeling of her hair intertwined in his fingers, how her lips would feel against his…

Zelda.

Zelda.

“Zelda.” He sighs, and then Savi is pulling away.

“Hm?” She asks, and Link is dazed and confused, thinking with anything other than his brain. He doesn’t know how long they were kissing because suddenly it's much darker outside, and if Dantz caught them like this, Link would be the one hunted down and killed, not whatever monster is out there.

Link immediately feels stupid, this was a rookie mistake. He shouldn’t have let it happen.

“What?” He responds to her, and then out of the corner of his eye, he sees something run behind the tree. “Shit.” He jumps up. “You need to go. Right now.” He pushes her back towards the house. It wasn’t far, she’d be okay. “Please don’t tell anyone about this.”

She nods, also remembering their reason for being out here. She runs back home and Link shakes his head, trying to refocus. He sees it again, it’s fast, moving from tree to tree, but further away. Link grunts and starts to slowly follow it. He isn’t sure if it saw him. It’s tall, and it’s dark. He would guess it’s a Moblin by its size but it's much too fast to be a moblin. Perhaps a wizzrobe? But he could hear its feet on the grass. Link starts the stalk, prowling towards it like a predator.

He doesn’t think it knows he’s following, because he’s able to follow it halfway up Madorna Mountain before he accidentally steps on a branch that snaps loudly. Again, a rookie mistake. Link was out of practice, rusty. He silently curses himself for that. The beast turns around to look at Link, but he’s able to hide behind an oak tree. It was still a little light out, and the lights from down were getting smaller and smaller as they worked their way up the mountain.

Link stayed vigilant. It’s been a long time since he’s had to fight a new enemy, and he wasn’t sure how powerful this was going to be. It gets quiet, he doesn’t hear it move. Even with Link’s impaired hearing, he had a knack for the details, but not today, not now. A cricket chirps but it’s silenced halfway through its sound. The wind goes still. A cloud covers the moon.

He girds up, and moves from behind the tree to keep following it, but he’s met with a horrific sight.

The creature is standing there, about six feet away from Link.

It startles him. He’s met with a feeling of dread.

It’s tall, probably seven feet. It’s hunched down, a humanoid-sort of beast that looks like a shadow covered in the same maroon gloop as the animals.

Link freezes up, he is paralyzed with fear because he knows exactly what it is.

He knows who it is.

It opens its eyes, those awful, yellow, glowing eyes. He chuckles at Link and it fills his skull. It wasn’t quite human, like it was a pile of goo that was regaining its strength and slowly rebuilding itself into a human. Into a phantom.

They stare at one another, his laughter taunts Link. Link can hear his heartbeat in his ears. His palms start to sweat. He is met with the images of three weeks ago. The battle, the castle, the evil.

Ganon.

Or at least some form of him.

He doesn’t move, he just laughs at Link. The boy swallows, and he wants to run, but he rolls his shoulders back.

“Courage and Bravery are two different things.” Zelda’s words ring in his memory.

He grabs his sword.

The Master Sword unsheathes with a light ring, and it glows in the darkness.

In an instant, the monster is screeching and howling like a Lynel and melting away from the light of the sword. The pure power of the holy blade made the beast slowly melt into the ground, like an ice cube in the desert. It covered its eyes, and screlted into the forest, echoing no doubt into town.

Link walked closer to it, waving the blade, spinning it in his hand until the creature was completely put away.

Whatever that was, it isn’t very strong. It will surely get stronger, though. Link had a feeling this was not the end of it. It left behind a puddle of goop. Link’s stomach dropped when he realized why it was killing for sport and in pairs of two. It was probably seeking Him and Zelda. Unable to differentiate what living things were hylian and what was cattle or animals. The stealing of the eyes surely had something to do with it regaining its strength, but what?

How did it know to come look in Hateno already?

After sheathing the sword and thanking the Goddess, Link took a moment to bury the secretment. He still felt sick to his stomach. Why did he freeze up like that?

Maybe that final battle had more of an effect on him than he thought.

He heads home, explaining to Dantz what had happened and what he saw, sugar-coating it a little and just saying it was a ghost. Link wasn’t sure how long it would stay away for, but hopefully long enough he could talk to Impa about it. Clearly the Master Sword was protecting him. He made a special effort to avoid Savi.

When he gets home, he drops his equipment off, pulling his gloves and boots off and leaving it all in his little corner downstairs. He pulls his shirt off. He would sleep out with Epona again tonight, he would need to to avoid the nightmares. His Mare had that effect on him. The feeling of safety and home.

Zelda was asleep, snoring lightly in her bed. He stayed quiet and went to sit at the table, grabbing a baked apple to silence his rumbling stomach. Guilt washed over him as he remembered what he did today. Savi came onto him, but he knows he shouldn’t have let that happen. He was ashamed of his conduct.

The laughter of the phantom rang in his ears. Flashes of its grin and glowing eyes projected in his mind. He felt ill.

Link disassociated. He sat at the table for three hours and it went by in minutes.

What snaps him out of it are the screams of terror he hears from upstairs.

His mind immediately jumps to the worst possible situation. He grabs the master sword and sprints upstairs. He sees nothing but a scared girl, crying from a nightmare.

“Zelda, what is it?” He asks, setting the sword town and running to her. He kneels by her bed and takes her hand. “I’m here, what’s wrong.” He whispers.

“You’re here?”

“I’m here.”

“B-but. The guardian, it got you. It killed-”

“It was just a nightmare, it wasn’t real.” Link reassures her. “I’m here, breathing, alive as ever.”

Zelda shakes her head, she’s clearly so traumatized that she cannot differentiate dream from reality anymore, she probably thinks him saying that is the dream.

“Here, feel.” He grabs her hand and places it against his chest where his heart is. “Feel that?” He asks, “Bum-bum. Bum-bum.” He whispers. “That’s my heart. Its pumping, it's beating.” Zelda sobs and he pulls her into his chest. “It’s okay, I got you. I’m here.”

He holds her for a moment and then stands up, “I’ll get the stool if it will help you sleep.” He turns to go.

“Stay with me.” She asks, tears wetting his collarbone.

“I’ll be right here, I’ll grab the stool.” He says.

“No, stay with me.” She says, and gestures to the bed.

“What?”

“Please. I cannot sleep without you by my side. I’m too afraid I’m going to lose you again.” She sniffles.

“Zelda I can’t-“

“Why?” She asks. “Because of decorum? Because I’m royal? Because you don't want to get caught?” She picks up her hands ‘None of that matters anymore’ she signs.

Link nods, “Are you sure?”

“Please.” She pleads.

Link moves back to her, trying to control his racing heart. Zelda scoots over to she’s closer to the wall, and Link carefully crawls into the covers of the bed. There wasn’t a ton of room, there would be no way for them to lay in the bed without being in full contact. “Is this okay?” He asks as he pulls the covers up.

She nods.

“Hold me?” She asks.

Link looks at her and it takes every ounce of his self-control not to kiss her. He nods and lays his head down, his chest facing up. He pulls her into his chest, wrapping his left arm around her shoulders and his right arm over his stomach to her waist. She tries to control her breathing, and it gets easier as their hearts begin to sync up.

Link wants to cry too, because this is the safest he has felt in a hundred and three years. This is the most at home he has ever been. He mentally-pinches himself because he’s sure he’s dreaming. But he doesn’t wake up, in fact, he starts to fall into the deepest sleep he’s ever had.

Every muscle in his body starts to relax, his eyes get heavy, and the scent of the girl on his chest fills his dreams with images of fairy forests and gentle ocean waves and the time of day when the sun moves into twilight.

This is home.

[silverskye13]

Hi, wanted to share that I started reading the Saint of Steel series a while ago (I saw you mention it on your tags a few times).

It's very funny now reading RnS and looking at Helsknight like "I know what you are".

Anyways, as a team rancher fan, and someone who's greatly enjoying these books.

I'm looking at you buddy.

I am very, very interested on what you got to say.

- Dove

Yeah I feel like if you read the SoS books, Helsknight's character arc is, hmm, maybe not super obvious, but you can definitely see what lane I'm walking him down :3

And I just! Like I know neither of the guys are good at PvP, but,,,, I just,,,,,, Jimmy would be like the ultimate paladin guy, especially if he worked similarly to the Saint of Steel paladins and went berserk. Imagine himbo Jimmy with an internal monologue that tells him how to be deadly, that he, for the most part, pleasantly ignores, because he doesn't really need it does he? He's got friends, loads of friends, and in his experience, getting violent is a little cursed isn't it? And he's got his canary thing going. Best not to open that can or worms.

And Tangotek as the love interest, who's a minor wonder worker and also an engineer. Imagine him trying to figure out a wonder engine! Gosh. Gosh!

SoS AU where Paladin Jimmy is asked to escort Clockwork Engineer Tango to a wonder engine to see if they can figure out how it works [bonus points if it's a dangerous one, and the whole reason he needs protection is because it keeps making clockwork beasts].

I have to stop thinking about this actually I'll be too tempted to write it.

[bogleech]

What are your favourite dragon quest monsters across the entire series?

The first Dragon Quest Monsters game I've ever gotten to play wound up being the first one to leave out exactly the top three I looked forward to getting:

GIANTSLUG/MAULUSC: I'm pickier about slug and snail creatures than you maybe expect but I love the vapid drippy zombie face of the DQ slug. It perfectly captures the appeal of a slug as a monster, a mindless gooey thing that will just eat you without a care. And its classic color scheme is that of a Banana Slug!!

BELZEBUB: I am also picky about fly creatures; usually I want them to have the proboscis present in some way, and the correct number of wings (two). There's something I still love about the toothy mouth of Belzebub however, maybe the way it curls up between the eyes? It just does a good job capturing the feel of a fly's personality I guess.

DARKEYE/EYELASHER: eye creatures can also very easily feel a bit boring to me because I've just seen so, so many of them, but DQ's basic killer eyeball appeals to me a lot with its irregular fungus-like collection of tentacles. The little root branches on "top" are especially cool to me, and sometimes they're the bottom, because they represent where the eyeball attaches to either floors or ceilings! In a few games, they're even encountered as parasites inside bigger monsters!

I used to admire the guidebook to the first two DQ Monsters games as a kid but never had the games themselves, and never got around to any other DQ titles. I just spent my whole life waiting for just the right one where I'd finally get to assemble my three favorites, then finally this new one comes out and has to be the first time these three took a vacation :( But, Dark Prince was at least nice enough to include exactly my next three favorites in the franchise. I went over them already in my DQM Dark Prince post but some people will see this post first so I will have to reintroduce them:

DROHL: droopy flappy membranous mollusk guys, honestly horrible looking in a great way. In 3d games it turns out their helmetlike head spirals in the back like a snail shell! Apparently they're meant to be troll-like beings.

LUNATICK: just a blue fleshy sac thing with gooey antennae, a bunch of tentacles (most of them segmented like worms!) and a little eyeball, perfect, no criticisms, also reminds me of what Berserk considers an "Incubus:"

(Don't worry, Berserk Incubus aren't sex monsters but monsters that give you nightmares and feed on the fear)

TAILEATER/MAD MOLLUSK: I love how pathetic their front face looks, and the whole shape is so pleasantly reminiscent of an abyssal sea cucumber of some kind.

SKULLROO/GUAARDVARK: I didn't even realize this was one of my top favorites until getting it in Dark Prince. It's an unpleasant wrinkly fat aardvark kangaroo thing that just always carries a human skull around. Its profile says they collect them and the one they carry is their favorite! A lot of slightly lower favorites were also left out however, none of these are in Dark Prince but are very high up there to me:

PYURO: what is this thing? I don't know! Different games have categorized it as an insect or a plant. It's a furball with five eyes encircling a butterfly proboscis, two little legs and a big huge ring of flower petals behind it. Very xenobiology.

TONGUELLA: it's kinda like a dumpy, hairless sloth with an aardvark tail with a mushed-in dog face and a giant gross tongue. I guess I just like foul moist beasts. I wish this was a real mammal we had in the world, I bet it'd smell terrible. Feels like a perfect counterpart to Guaardvark.

SLURPERON: it's one tiny pitcher plant with a giant tongue and then it has cool reptilian eyes at the bottom end. So simple and so rad! A fun way to stylize a pitcher plant monster without ripping off Victreebel.

SICKLER: is a little tiny mantis in a robe, like the Tonberry from Final Fantasy but a mantis

RAGIN' CONTAGION: a newer one, a gooey vaporous cyclops ghost that represents disease. In its first appearance as a boss in the series the English localizers decided it should talk like Yosemite Sam. Sure why not!

So I like the new game and it gave me some new favorites like Skellyfish and new appreciation for some others, but oddly it only has my very middle all-time faves

[inconsistentlywrittensoul]

I’m way behind on posting about my rewatch - there’s plenty I do want to say about S2, and there’s a whole essay about gender and Phases that I’m probably never going to write - but I’m into Season 3 and I really want to note how much early S3 establishes the issues that are going to drive Buffy’s long breakdown in seasons 6 and 7.

Firstly, Buffy's tendency to pull away from her friends, feeling she has to take care of everything for herself and protect them from her problems and her feelings rather than sharing them. It’s a consistent pattern, and we see it in her running away at the end of Season 2, and continually refusing to talk about what happened with Angel with both the Scoobies and Faith. When she eventually does try to talk to her assigned school counsellor about Angel, she explicitly says she can’t talk to anyone else about what’s happening (only to find him dead, which I’m sure didn’t help).

Of course, this isn’t just a flaw of Buffy’s - her friends have a pretty big role to play, especially Xander. His sanctimonious, judgemental whining about Buffy leaving, as well as anything to do with Angel, does a lot to push Buffy away. (Not to mention the first thing he does when he finds out Angel is back is try to manipulate Faith into murdering him.) It’s also hard not to suspect that Xander’s lie back in Becoming did a lot of damage - because of that, Buffy thinks even Willow hates Angel and wouldn’t understand her continued feelings for him. ‘Kick his ass’ made Buffy feel like literally no-one is on her side.

Regardless of the reason, here we see the beginning of the split that will make Buffy feel increasingly isolated and unable to trust or rely on anyone as the series continues into the depression years, especially Season 6. But we also see the start of a pattern that will become a central flaw in Season 7 - her inability to express empathy or care for anyone who she sees as a reflection of herself.

I’m actually not talking about Faith here - that’s related, but it’s also a whole can of lesbian worms I don’t want to get into right now. But aside from Faith, in the first few episodes of Season 3 there are two girls who mirror Buffy, specifically in her relationship with Angel. In Anne, we have Lily/Anne, who’s wants to spend the rest of her life with her older boyfriend, who has a criminal past and seems a little crappy but also genuinely loves her and is trying to be good to her, and who ends up being sent to hell. Then in Beauty and the Beasts, we see Abby, who started dating a guy who seemed nice at first, but who turned out to be an abusive monster. Both are very obvious parallels to Buffy in her relationship with Angel (in soul-having and soulless forms), and serve as ways for her reflect on that relationship.

But what I want to focus on is the fact that, while Buffy does try to help both girls, she’s also unusually harsh and unempathetic towards them. Her attitude is ‘This is how things are, and you need to set aside your emotions and just deal with it immediately and without emotional support’; it reflects how she treats herself, but it’s also a pattern in how she treats people whose challenges reflect hers. Which will come to a head in how she treats the Potential slayers in season 7, and the way she alienates everyone around her in part through her treatment of them (and therefore also her treatment of herself).

It’s just interesting to see these issues that will dominate the last couple of seasons come across so strongly in this early part of Season 3.

[maniculum]

Bestiaryposting Results: Kengliwa

So, as it seems everyone made note of, this week's creature was exceptionally easy to guess. (To the point that a couple people did actually go ahead and name it, which I can't be that annoyed about because I don't think anyone missed this one.) I actually thought about not including it -- I cut a few that were particularly obvious like this one, but this entry was just so beautifully written that I didn't want to not post it. Maybe I should have done a separate post like with the dogs... live and learn, I suppose.

Anyway, previous entries and results can be found here: https://maniculum.tumblr.com/bestiaryposting. And the entry everybody is working from is at the link below:

Art below the cut in rough chronological order, as per usual.

@sweetlyfez (link to post here) decided to go a bit Beatrix Potter, and produced some frankly adorable shrew-like critters. (And her own alt-text, thank you.) They're dressed in these nice black coats and bowler hats so they can look like the "black column across the fields" described in the entry. I love everything about this. Also, if you want to see a version of this without the linework, check the link above.

@silverhart-makes-art (link to post here) decided to work off of the assertion that Kengliwas prefer wheat to barley because "barley is food for beasts". Naturally this means the Kengliwa must not itself be a beast, and Silverhart reflects that by medieval definition that excludes pretty much everything but birds and fish. So here we have a very small mouse-bird (the results of this one are all very cute, I have to say). And of course it's a flightless bird, because the entry describes them as walking. I'm really struck by the general composition of this one; the tiny bird clinging to the top of a wheat stalk is so well depicted. The colors are great too.

@cheapsweets (link to post here) followed the same "not a beast" logic as Silverhart, though they also name "serpent" and "worm" as potential non-beast categories. They also picked "bird", because the Kengliwa brings grain back to its nest, and birds have nests, so there you go. I appreciate that they've continued with that connection by having the interior of the Kengliwa burrow lined in a manner reminiscent of birds' nests. (And also that they provided alt-text, thank you.) Speaking of which, check it out, burrowing birds! With a cross-section of their burrow! Delightful. They further speculate that the symbolism attached to this one must be pretty weird given the mixed feelings the author seems to have, so I went and checked...

... there's actually not a lot of symbolism on this one. The highlights are that the divided grain supply represents the division between the Old and New Testaments, and barley represents heresy which is why it is scorned. (Pretty sure lots of people in the Middle Ages ate barley, but I suppose they preferred wheat.) The symbolism is all "things we learn from the good example of this industrious creature", and the entry quotes Proverbs 6:6 -- I'm not copying it here, because even though I'm pretty sure everyone knows what the animal is, the verse in question does name it, and we have a procedure here.

Anyway, as always, I recommend clicking on the link to CheapSweets's post to see their detailed explanation of their design decisions.

@theforceisstronginthegirl (link to post here) has drawn some ants in their agenda book. I have to admit, I'm not fully sure whether this was meant to be an entry, but you know, there's a picture (with alt-text and everything!) and it's tagged "kengliwa", so in it goes. Honestly I think the highlight here is that they described the creatures in the picture as "scribbles with jobs" which I think is a fun way to describe bugs generally. Very dynamically drawn scribbles too; they're quite expressive.

@pomrania (link to post here) has drawn a strange and adorable critter. It's giving... lizard-squirrel. Squizard. Particularly delighted by the fact that multiple people decided that such an industrious fellow should be wearing tiny clothing. I think the bag with one (1) grain of wheat in it is a nice touch. You just want to root for this little guy, you know? Also it's worth checking out Pomrania's linked post and associated progress post for some interesting steps in the design process for this one.

@coolest-capybara (link to post here) continues to deliver beautifully stylized art. They note that they considered rodents, but figured medieval authors would not be nearly this positive about rodents stealing grain, so instead they're lizards. Very good lizards, too! I love the patterning on them and the expressions on their faces. The one on the left scorning the barley is particularly delightful. Coolest-capybara also wonders what the original animal is classified under, if not "beast" -- to which I must say, oddly enough, this one is in with the beasts. I think. Right after this entry is the start of the "birds" section, and right before it is are some various mammals. So either this is the end of the beast section or it's, like, a palate-cleanser in between.

@strixcattus (link to post here) has also given their Kengliwa clothing, but for a very specific reason: as others have noted, the Kengliwa scorning barley because it's "food for beasts" implies that the Kengliwa are not beasts. Therefore, in Strixcattus's interpretation, they're people. Which is indeed the only non-"beast" category of animal that nobody else has mentioned, as far as I can figure. They're darling. Love the one on the right that appears to be chewing on a straw like your stereotypical farmer, except of course the straw is a single seed with like a bit of stalk attached. And I know I always say it, but you need to go read the linked post for this one. Maybe it's just because worldbuilding is my jam, but I'd happily read a lengthy TTRPG supplement about how Kengliwa society operates. They're like... medieval Borrowers who farm lichen and domesticate ants. I want to know everything about this.

Anyway, here's the Aberdeen Bestiary version:

That's right, they're scribbles with jobs!

Seriously, it turns out Theforceisstronginthegirl drew basically a dead ringer for the medieval version. Compare the two; the biggest differences are the medium and the fact that the Aberdeen Bestiary includes a nest.

But yes, they're ants. We all know they're ants.

Which should, as CheapSweets alluded to, be classed in with the worms! (Remember, that's a flexible term in the medieval era... especially since this is a Latin text, so it's vermis, like Modern English vermin.) There is a section labelled De vermibus, and these guys aren't in it! It could have really used them, too; I think the Ant entry by itself is the same length as the whole "worm" section.

Anyway. Hopefully next week's will be less obvious... okay, I just checked, it's barely less obvious. But I would put money on nobody guessing the one that posts on the 19th (though that's a pretty short entry, unfortunately).

[blackjackkent]

A final moment for Minsc's arrival in Rakha's camp!

Some time ago, when I first started speculating on how Rakha and Minsc would get along, @rhysintherain surprised me with a lovely gift - he wrote something about Rakha! (This is the first time anyone else has ever written something about one of my characters, and to say I was very excited would be an understatement.)

Specifically, he wrote something about one of Minsc and Rakha's early conversations about her Bhaalspawn heritage, and it was honestly so perfect that I asked him if I could just include it as part of the liveblog canon because I love it so much. :D And he said yes, so here it is!

-----

Of Gods and Hamsters by @rhysintherain

“There is a beast that speaks to me. It tries to control my actions.” There was no hesitation, no searching for the right words. This explanation was nearly tradition by now, a conversation that Rakha has with every new member who joins their group.

“Ah, I understand, my friend. I also have a beast who seeks to direct me. Is your beast also of the furry, pocket-sized variety?” Minsc replied casually.

Rakha hesitated. She had faced many reactions to this declaration, but none had prepared her for this one.

“Mine is the voice of Bhaal, god of murder. His will speaks in my mind and tells me to commit unspeakable violence,” in the face of Minsc’s confusing response, Rakha fell back to familiar facts, no matter how unpleasant. It was best the large, bald ranger know exactly what he was signing up for.

“Well, that is not precisely the same as Boo. More like a nasty, evil little rat living in your skull alongside the worm… is it not getting crowded up there? Your head has so many occupants it's a wonder you have any room for the facts you love so much!”

“You have no idea,” Rakha muttered tiredly under her breath.

“You know, you are not the first I have known to share a skull with Bhaal,” Minsc continued, unfazed.

Rakha had heard of the other Bhaalspawn he spoke of. Caden. Jaheira had mentioned him more than once.

“Imoen!” Minsc declared, clapping his hands together excitedly.

Alright, maybe she hadn't heard of who he meant.

“Like you, dear Imoen was a child of most foul Bhaal! Like you, his evil blood called to her. But sweet Imoen was not tempted, and did not embrace the legacy of murder!”

Another child of Bhaal who had resisted their urges? Rakha’s mood lifted, just a little. One Bhaalspawn who overcame their nature could be chance. But if another had done it, there must be a pattern, a strategy she could follow. 

“How?” She asked, working to keep a hint of desperation from her voice.

“Why, the same way the best of us stay on the righteous path of buttkicking for goodness! A good hamster can inspire even the most shadowed hearts to step into the light!”

“A good… hamster?”

“Of course! One simply needs a guiding voice on the outside to drown out the voice on the inside. A small, squeaky voice, ideally. Imoen’s small squeaky voice answered to the name Sniffs, and he liked to travel in the hood of her coat.”

Rakha considered his logic for a minute. On one hand, it seemed very unlikely that the solution to the beast in her head was an opinionated rodent. On the other, Minsc had known two Bhaalspawn who resisted the beast, and she had known none. Jaheira often seemed skeptical about Boo’s efficacy, but Rakha had to admit the little creature always seemed to speak up when Minsc was on the verge of a bad decision, and Minsc often reconsidered those decisions at Boo’s urging.

“... Do you think that would work?” She asked.

-----

“The solution to the beast couldn't actually be a hamster. Could it?” Wyll asked in bewilderment, overhearing the conversation from where he sat at the campfire.

Jaheira snorted. “Believe me when I say the only problem Minsc has solved with a hamster is Minsc.”

He sighed. “I suppose it's too much to hope that the Lord of Murder’s secret weakness was cute little furballs all along.”

“Before you put too much stock in that theory, keep in mind that Imoen denounced Bhaal long before Sniffs came into the picture. We never understood quite why that resistance came so easily for her, but I doubt it was rodent related.”

“Well, it can never be that easy, can it?” Wyll replied with a laugh.

“Take heart, Wyll. We will find a way for Rakha to escape her father's legacy. And I have faith that when we do, that solution will not require her to pack around an sassy rodent who refuses to keep his feet out of our breakfast.”

[personal-blarghe]

I finally watched Trigun Stampede. Speaking as someone who really, really loved Trigun (1998) and watched it + Badlands Rumble multiple times growing up, nothing holds to that nostalgia. But I really liked it! The animation and art is so, so pretty. The framing, the combat scenes, it's all just really impressive and gorgeous. The original was also very impressive visually, especially for its time, so that feels like something that held up. It looks like how a Trigun revamp should, I think. (A little disappointed by Vash's sexy hair because he was sexy DESPITE his goofy hair damnit, but yeah like. it looks good on him. whatever. also the old coat was cooler sorry.)

Not sure who out there wants to talk about this and not just look longingly at Vashwood art (fair) but I really enjoyed that it was so fully different. Different takes on the story and a different but still fully contained story structure so that I wasn't 100% sure what was going to happen or how things would play out. I haven't read the manga yet (I really do mean to get around to that one day), so I can't speak to which show is more book-accurate, but it was neat to see some of the same stuff happening but have it be handled differently enough to keep me on my toes. I particularly loved the fuller backstory and more fleshed out angles of the main conflict, and especially the worm perspective. I did a little reading on the wikis and it seems this is the more manga-accurate lore for Zazie the Beast, and I enjoyed that part of Stampede a lot. It did sort of bring up more questions than it answered (ok so what happens to the worms if humans and plants learn to get along and they terraform the planet?), but then it also left a big open door for more story that I really hope we will get. Excellent setup and worldbuilding overall.

The art change for the Wolfwood backstory was also really neat, and again, I enjoyed getting more and fuller backstories in general. I loved the contrast of that soft fuzzy artstyle to his gritty present day, and and I loved, loved how bloody and gory the show was overall. I don't watch a lot of anime these days but the blood spouts felt very 90s to me. I did miss a lot of the old Wolfwood angst though. His whole cult was still there as a villain (I don't think they called them the Gung-Ho-Guns though, too silly?), but the twist of his character arc was so heartbreaking in the original and it's very understated in Stampede. Of course I love that he's not dead (yet?), but his role in the story felt a lot less significant.

I think my recommendation would still be to watch 1998 first. Stampede has a huge tonal shift. It almost isn't goofy at all, which is fine if you already have the silliness of OG Vash in your heart and know that side of the characters, but I did miss it. A lot of the comic relief got pushed to Merryl which I didn't love, but I did like what they did with her arc in setting her up to go from naive kid employee to the one in charge. Interesting to see kind of a prequel for her while the rest of the story is not "prequel" to Trigun so much as just a kind of all over rehash of some of the same events and some different ones.

I think with having more episodes, Trigun (1998) was able to pull off a better slow burn on these goofy characters with traumatic pasts and all the fun little whiplashes you can get out of seeing the goofy idiot turn serious, but it also suffers from bad anime tropes and being From the 90s. Stampede is pretty much just serious, which worked very well in its limited story time, but I missed the goofs.

Without having actually read it, I would say that Stampede feels like it is probably more manga accurate. And while it was self-contained in a satisfying way, I like the open ending and the many new questions I have. Like, wtf happens to all those pregnant plants now? Vash didn't undo that as far as I could tell, they were very much still pregnant with Knives' baby independents. Did they die? Knives clones for season 2? Maybe not quite clones because of Vash's involvement? Not getting into the general grossness of that, (it's pretty gross!) but it's definitely room for more questions about freewill and souls and mutual dependency. Can't wait.

Anyway, I liked Trigun Stampede and I will be very excited to get more. (Wolfwood death scene that defined me as a person when?) All in all, Trigun remains a 10/10 and I will probably finally go read the manga now, it's about time.

[hogwartsboysbackintown]

Hello witches and wizards of tumblr! My creator finally made us a tumblr to post photos and videos we made on here as well for all to enjoy.

(We do have a tiktok its @sarouv.black.and )

Anyways let's introduce the mcs shall we?

Name:Norman Ravenclaw

Year: 7th

House: Ravenclaw

Birth:2nd of February

Sexual orientation: Bi king

Patrounus: sawn

Norman is the 7th year ravenclaw prefect and a captain of the quidditch team.

He is part of the decadence of Rowena Ravenclaw . His family somehow managed to keep the Ravenclaw name still.

Because of this he's a trust fund kid who has more money than he can ever do with from his parents (he has a really good relationship with them yippie)

He also is one of the top of his classes in ravenclaw only failing at Herbology. He can't get a plant to stay alive longer than a week.

Ironically he's somehow always around and pops up way to often. It makes him perfect for being a prefect but terrible for students who want to sneak out after curfew or cause chaos.

His favourite hobbies are, music and baking.

Name: Sarouv Black

Year:7th

House:slytherin

Birth:4th of September

Sexual orientation: gay

Patrounus: black bear

Sarouv ironically shares a last name with the black family. He doesn't tend to explain further more on why or if he's related to *The* black family like the head master.

Despite being in slytherin he ironically doesn't seem like he belongs there he's quite but sweet and friendly that *loves* animals and will spend all the time he can in the forests around hogwarts sometimes the forbidden forest. He has a spot he tends to go to study or get away from people.

He's a 7th year but he joined hogwarts as a 3rd year.

He's quite skilled on a broom but will never sign up for quiditch and never had despite constant requests to by other people.

Yes he does have a massive scar on his face from being hit with a spell but he doesn't like to talk about it. He got it during his 4th year whichcie when he became so quite.

In the 3rd year he was rather much of a trouble maker bunking of classes and a very loud and rowdy he was a bit cold to people and that coldness is still there but it's not that bad as it use to be.

Name: 'Cole Furburry'

Year:6th

House:Hufflepuff

Birth: 19th of November

Sexual orientation: pansexual

Patrounus: none.

'Cole' ended up at hogwarts at the end of the fith year and start of the sith year. None one knows really where he came from but he's a odd bunch.

Somehow despite all odds he ended up manipulating the sorting hat into putting him into hufflepuff. And he had admitted it to a few students.

Cole isn't his real name it's a fake one he took up when he escaped azkaban as he was sent their at a young age due to him being the only one alive at the sight of the the murder of his parents with no other evidence than pointing to him. So when he escaped he changed his whole appearance and name somehow manged to worm his way into hogwarts and into being a hufflepuff so he's least likely to be a suspected fugitive.

He's a bit insane sometimes and I mean how can he not when he spent years in a cell with dementors so he will have these random episodes of delusion and pure madness.

He's power hungry. He needs all the power he can get. Why? So that he can feel safe. So what if that means learning unforgivables?

He gets along very well despite everything with the boys from gryffindor and slytherin.

He does though have a personal hatred to Duncan and Everett where he has attempted to hurt either of them when left alone.

He loves his beast classes and potions

He can be often found at the library or at the pen's at the animal classes.

Anyways thats the mcs

Hope you all enjoyed.