#we tell stories to make meaning out of the senselessness around us but we use them to CREATE meaning too

[cookinguptales]

Thank you so much for the tarot reading you did for me a little while back 💜 i'm sorry it's taken me so long to say that! i do rather think you have prophetic gifts, by the way- it was spookily accurate and helped me a lot 🔮

No problem! I'm glad it was helpful to you!

I do tend to get at least one message like this every time I do a tarot night for my followers, and like... you are totally entitled to that belief! What do I know about psychic phenomena and prophecy anyway? lmao. Maybe I am psychic.

But personally, I believe that tarot has a high likelihood of speaking to us no matter what, if just because the archetypal nature of the cards means that they're dealing with problems that we all struggle with. We all have self-doubt, we all have complicated relationships with money, we all crave love of some kind. We all have trauma in our past and we all want to believe that this time, things could be okay.

One of the reasons I like tarot cards is because they are inanimate objects that we imbue with meaning. They were just playing cards, y'know? We're the ones that gave them power over us, and we did that by filling them with our own stories. We placed a mirror in those cards, and while mirrors can be used for scrying, they can also just be used to take a good hard look at ourselves.

If I say "oh, you've had money troubles in the past," who doesn't that apply to? Maybe I'm thinking about me, when we were homeless for a while when I was a kid. Maybe someone else is thinking about the money they lost to gambling last week. Maybe someone else, someone wildly wealthy, is thinking about a stock market crash that brought their five mansions down to two. Maybe a final person has just never had quite enough to make ends meet. God knows that describes a lot of people.

I like tarot because we can all look at the same spread and see something different. I see a story to tell to the best of my ability, and that's how I do readings. But for the people getting those readings, they're often looking into little mirrors and seeing how they reflect their own personal experiences.

Because, you know, we all see different things in the same mirror! That's how tarot works, I think. Maybe some people are a little better at reading things in that mirror and interpreting what they see there, but we all see something new and different and deeply, deeply personal when we look at those cards.

Love that for us.

[mattheo-riddles-princess]

I'm Working || Bucky Barnes X Reader

CEO Bucky X Reader

18+ Minors DNI

Plot: An arranged marriage to Bucky leads to questions about the big night.

Warnings: praising, dirty talk, language, pet names, jealousy, use of toys, teasing, throat grabbing (not painfully) no condom (but they are both clean and r is on birth control), implied aftercare, no mention of y/n Let me know if I missed anything

"Elaine, send in my next appointment." Bucky's voice rings from the desk of the receptionist.

"Ms. Spoon, Mr. Barnes will see you now." Elaine speaks in a soft, quiet tone.

I stand and walk towards my fiancé's office. When I walk in, he is facing out the window, looking down the 26 stories to the street. 

"James? Can we talk?" 

"About?"

I take a deep breath. Regardless of the fact that I've been planning what I was going to say for the past 4 hours. "We're getting married soon."

"I am aware." His tone is deadpan and makes me second guess myself. "Was that all?"

I remain silent for a few moments. Once I do finally gain the courage to speak, my voice is weak and unsteady, "I just- I guess I was worried about you expectations about our wedding night."

"Should I be offended that my fiancé doesn't think I'll be fucking her senseless on our wedding night? This may have been a marriage of convenience but I don't fuck around with plans. If we are supposed to be husband and wife, we will act like husband and wife. That means that we will live together, we will eat together, we will sleep in the same bed, and, of course, that means I will be fucking you like husband and wife,"

"So, let me get this straight," He lifts me up on his desk and hikes my dress up over my waist. "you thought you could come into my office in the middle of my workday because you didn't know if I wanted to fuck you on our wedding night?" His eyes piercing into mine make me glad I'm sitting on the desk. I stare back, not responding.

"Use, your words, babydoll. If you want something, you have to use your words to tell me." He looks down at the wet spot on my panties and smirks. "And there is something you want; isn't there?"

I gulp and try to break eye contact, but he grips my chin and brings it so close to his face, our noses are touching.

"Did I say you could look away? Exactly. You don't do anything without my saying so. Got it?"

I nod frantically, desperate for whatever comes next.

"Good girl." He lets go of my face and sits back down in his chair. "Now, because you thought you could get away with interrupting my day at work, I'm going to make sure you know what is going to happen if you ever do it again."

He reaches into his desk and pulls out a small pink object.

"I'm going to put this in that dripping wet pussy of yours and," he waves his phone," with the help of this glorious device here, I'm going to control you. And maybe, just maybe, I'll let you cum. How does that sound?"

I nod.

"What did I say?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir." I swallow hard, trying to hide my nerves.

"Это моя хорошая девочка," The way he draws out each word makes me weaker in the knees than I knew was possible.

He slides his chair to where I am sitting and pulls my panties to the side. He looks me straight in my eyes as he pushes the vibrator inside of me.

My eyes widen at the surprise, and I can't help but moan slightly.

His eyes don't leave mine as he reaches for his phone and turns the vibrator on, sending a shock through my body and causing me to throw my head back in the sudden pleasure.

His hand violently grabs my face to look at him.

"What did I say?" His voice firm and filled with annoyance.

I let out a short moan in response.

He cocks his head to the side and spreads my legs further apart before slowly leading his head to my pussy. He kisses right above my clit, and I moan in desperation.

"Please," I whimper. "Please, James."

He smirks before his tongue runs across my panties. It takes everything in my to not make a noise. Bucky clearly notices this and stops.

"милый, if you're not going to make any noise, why would I waste my time giving you an orgasm?"

"Fuck, Bucky. Please. Please don't stop. I'll be good. I promise." I whine desperate for his tongue against my pussy, tasting every bit of me.

"I think I need to teach you a lesson about not following instructions. What do you think?"

"I-," Bucky cuts me off by turning the vibrator on its highest setting. "FUCK! Oh fuck, James. Shit." I close my eyes throwing my head back. As soon as I'm back to looking at him again, the phone on his desk rings and he picks it up without breaking eye contact.

"This is Barnes."

Someone on the other line speaks but I can't hear it.

"Yes. That could be an issue. A deal of this size is not one that can be put off until later."

Another pause as the man on the phone speaks.

"Oh. No. I'm not busy. We can talk about this now."

I manage to shoot him glares through the waves of ecstasy washing over me. He responds with a clueless look that soon fades into a smirk.

"Give me two minutes to cancel my appointments for the rest of the day."

He leaves for what feels like forever. The vibrator in me still on the highest setting bringing me closer to an orgasm.

When he comes back into his office, he walks up to me, fitting right in-between my legs and whispers in my ear. "I'm in a meeting doll, don't make a sound. Do you understand?"

His hot breath against the nape of my neck making me more desperate. I buck my hips into his. He grunts and steps back.

"Please." My voice breathless.

"Be my good girl and do what I say." And with that, he picks up the phone from his desk again and lowers the vibrators setting. He then reaches for the phone to talk to the man.

"Alright. I'm back."

Bucky and the man keep going back to their meeting. He starts changing the settings what seems randomly. Eventually, I catch on. Every time he speaks, he turns the speed down the speed and when he isn't he turns the speed up all the way.

I whimper. Four minutes of him playing the game with me and I can't hold it in anymore. 

I try to hold back my moans but I am very unsuccessful and he shoots me a look that basically says: Did I say you could make noise? 

He put the phone on speaker before he stands up out of his chair and places his hands on either side of me leaning in close. "The next noise you make, will be the last one you make from me. Ты моя чертова шлюха. Got it?"

He gently pulls me off his desk and makes me stand in front of him as he sits down. Before I even know whats happening, he unzips his slacks and pulls his boxers down slightly; revealing his cock.

He then grabs the hem of my dress until I'm standing over him. He pulls the vibrator out of me and pushes my panties to the side and pulls me on top of him. 

He glares at me as I whimper at the sudden feeling of him inside me. He doesn't move for a few moments to let me adjust to him. His kindness doesn't last very long, though. He grabs ahold of my waist and starts moving me on top of him. 

Meanwhile the man on the phone is droning on about company numbers or some shit. 

We move in a quick rhythm and it takes everything in me to keep from moaning. I have no control over my body as James moves me up and down on his dick.

His voice snaps me out of my trance.

"Well, sir, it sounds like we have gotten a good start to this. As I understand it, you and your wife will be flying into New York tomorrow evening?"

"Yes. That is correct."

"Wonderful. How about I treat you and your wife to dinner with my fiancé and I the following evening? We can continue our discussion then."

"Sounds like a plan. We will see you then Mr. Barnes. Goodbye." 

And with that, the man hangs up. In one smooth motion, Bucky picks me up and turns to slam me against the wall of his office. 

He slams his dick in and out of my dripping pussy at a record speed. The room is filled with the sound of his balls smacking my ass, my heavy pants, whimpers, and moans, and Bucky's soft grunts at every thrust. 

"Oh. Fuck. Bucky. Oh FUCK- SHIT. Bucky pleasepleaseplease." I'm desperate. I've never wanted anything more than for him to fuck me senseless. 

"Yea. Is this what my baby wants? For me to fuck her dumb?"

I whimper in response. 

Simply put, he did not like that. He wraps his hand around my neck forcing me to look him in the eyes. "Use your words, Милый. Don't make me tell you again. 

"Y-y-yes, sir."

He leans in to kiss me and we hold there for a few moments before he continues fucking me. I throw my head back in pleasure. 

"Fuck. Bucky. I'm gonna-"

"I know Милый. I know. Let it out."

My body convulses as I release all over Bucky's cock. He keeps pounding into me as I ride my high. I feel him cum inside me and he fucks me making sure that none of it drips out. 

Finally, he gently carries me to his desk and kisses me before picking up his desk phone. 

"Elanie, will you cancel the rest of my appointments? I'm taking my fiancé out for the rest of the day. Thank you."

He comes back and leans in to give me a deep kiss. He fixes his pants and my dress before grabbing his bag and suit coat. He wraps his arm around my waist and leads me out of his office and motions to Elaine. 

As we walk to the entrance of the building, a car pulls up and the driver rushes to open the door for us.  He gives the driver instructions before getting into the back of the car with me. 

"Are you still worried about our wedding night?" 

I nod and he chuckles.

"As much fun as this was, Милый," his tone changes from sweet to serious, "If you ever pull something like that again, there will be severe consequences."

I stare at him understandingly before his leans and kisses my forehead. 

"Я люблю тебя, мой прекрасный жених."

Translations

Это моя хорошая девочка – That's my good girl

Милый- darling

Ты моя чертова шлюха - You're my fucking slut

Я люблю тебя, мой прекрасный жених - I love you my beautiful fiancé

[penguinkyun]

chapter 163 review

cw for suicide and suicidal ideation in this chapter

stares at this chapter

chat i think its hoshinover for us now

okay first things first aquas dream is pretty cute and i don't really have all that much to say about it? its pretty standard for an everything goes right fantasy

teenager sarina is so dang charming i was not expecting her to be that cute

though i gotta say that idol sarina is way more captivating and charming to witness than idol ruby- because even when she's wearing bunny clip and in ai's position it doesn't really feel like an imitation? her genuine joy and happiness at being able to be an idol absolutely shines through in a way that feels like it's missing for ruby at the moment- which is kind of sad because early series ruby absolutely had that amount of charm and charisma and joy that simply shone through her being idol. she was fulfilling her two lifetimes long dream of course she'd enjoy being an idol! which is why its such a disservice to ruby currently that she doesn't have that same quality and just feels like a pale imitation of ai instead

her arc post bh should have been her regaining that joy that she found in being an idol after all the suffering she went through, taking a new understanding of the industry and enjoying being an idol in spite of it and her understanding what kind of idol and person she wants to be even more, freeing herself from standing in ai's shadow. unfortunately that is not the arc we got but i've complained about that a lot so i digress

oh man aqua looks so tired get him out of here. i need to blanket burrito him immediately

side note but it really is quite amusing how akasaka has given up on subtlety and is now bashing people over the head with "aqua and goro are two separate people and aqua is a 18 year old teenage boy" in now canon full on text

also i need to acknowledge how goddamn weird this turnabout of tsukuyomi's is. she's been egging aqua's self destructiveness on every single chapter she's been with him in and not making any move to yknow. dissaude him from pursuing it??? girl make up your mind do you hate this guy or not- at least she's trying to comfort him here (the effectiveness of it though....did not like her calling his thoughts childish there)

(also about kamiki i still think if he is actually dead [love how i cant even be sure of that] its a cheap cop out. sigh)

(also thank god this chapter also acknowledges aqua loves other people in his life instead of focusing on just ruby)

anyways as you all can guess if aquas actually dying here (which sure is whats implied!)....i don't like this. i really don't like this.

absolutely great move to have your character who has been suicidal since he was four years old to die alone in a murder-suicide attempt for a self imposed duty of revenge he never really wanted in the first place (extremely heavy sarcasm)

i think the only possible way i could even begin to accept aquas death if it was rightfully framed as the absolutely preventable, senseless tragedy it is and the story tells us why exactly this even had to happen- acknowledge how aqua was failed by the people around him, at least on page and even then i still wouldn't be happy about aqua dying

i mean its easy enough to extrapolate why this happened, but instead of having to extrapolate the cause of it like we've had to do with everything else, we should be told, just like the story told us clearly in two chapters why ai's tragedy happened

anyway everything about this is so fucking sad i cried and it was absolutely horrifying to read through

even in his death, hes thinking about what trouble hes caused for others, the fact that he feels happy at his dream and immediately questions if its even his....baby i need to burrito blanket you. immediately. get him out of here he deserves to live and be happy fuck (so similar to ais apologise to the director for me would you?)

this chapter also felt as a sort of refutation necessary in the wake of 162 where aqua came to the conclusion he was only born to be rubys guard dog so its good to see it be acknowleged that who he is as aqua hoshino has its own inherent value, simply because he exists and deserves to live his life (although if aqua believes that is another matter entirely and if i think anymore on it im going to start throwing rocks)

i wish i could say (whiffs copium) that aqua miraculously survives because the only thing left behind in the dream space is sarinas keychain as symbolism of him shedding goro entirely and that he wakes up alive in hospital next chapter because someone was nearby to pull him out but uh. the glass shards falling and the way in 127 tsukuyomi tells aqua his soul is crumbling (which is what happened to ais soul on her death as said in 118) with glass cracking imagery on him and the way aqua simply. fades plus tsukuyomi sobbing....i am not confident, especially when aqua is very clearly echoing ai's death....i can only hope his doesn't end in tragedy as well (i have no idea how they're going to deal with the fallout if he does die in 3 chapters though)

at least theres no breaks until the manga ends!

lies down in a puddle of my own tears

[mortalityplays]

these people are never going to forgive us. and we don't deserve to be forgiven after this

I've been trying to think what the narrative of this new century will be like, for future generations. I feel like the 20th century had a fairly clear arc of cause and effect, almost like a story you could tell, and I was imagining the 21st would just have "chaos all the time as the planet boils until we die" as its headline. But I feel like I'm seeing the arc of the 21st being written and it's a lot more bleak than I ever imagined.

I understand what you mean. I suspect every generation feels like this, thrust into conflicts we were supposed to have outgrown and too small to affect the scale of change we feel gestating in our chests. My grandparents grew up in WW2 and expected that to be the last true era of atrocity they would have to fit into their mental landscape. They didn't cope well with the bitter complexity of the politics they inherited as adults. My parents lived through the tail end of the cold war, and my mum has told me often about the senseless nihilism they felt, even as they chained themselves to fences outside nuclear bases and smuggled news back and forth to friends behind the iron curtain. Everything could be snuffed out any day and it didn't matter. As a kid I was dimly aware of ethnic cleansings in Rwanda and then Kosovo, and I was 11 when I watched planes hit the world trade centre. I spent my teens protesting the Iraq war — around the world it's estimated there were around 36 million of us — and I watched all those efforts come to nothing at all.

The good news (I promise this is good news, in a sense, for the moment we're living through) is that narratives in history are an illusion. 'History is written by the winners' is trite, but it’s somewhat true. It might be more accurate to say history is written by the survivors. For as long as we survive, I think the most important role many of us can play is as witnesses. When we look at the 20th century in retrospect, we naturally hunt for lines of cause and effect that can explain the multivarious stories that survived to reach us. Those explanations are how we exercise agency over situations we couldn't change, and how we express the aspirations we're left with. And despite the way it looks after we've settled on our own retrospective storylines, they are never static or unchallenged. We are forever workshopping the moral of our own stories.

My point is, the present is the sharpest edge of history. It hurts, it sucks, and I don't think it has ever made sense. Making sense isn't something history does by itself, it's something we do to it. So if there is anything at all that we can do as petty nobodies far away from today's conflict, it's pay attention. Listen, watch, record, remember, and be active and loud in the process of deciding what each new fucked up day means. It's not enough, but it's not nothing either. I'm sorry it's like this.

[collidescopeeyes]

Time is a Roulette Wheel

Viego: Pt 4, finale

League of Legends | Viego x F!Reader

Chapters: Prologue | Viego: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4

Read the whole thing on AO3 here

NSFW: Oral (f!receiving), fingering, penetrative sex, overstim

Summary: Turns out that Runeterra isn't the only place that has a Void. Plucked from your world into one of a video game with nothing but stolen time powers, an inability to die and a middling recollection of lore, you're prepared to do just about anything to get back home again. You just have to find the right Champion to help.

The restorations get more tiring. Viego is careful with who he brings you, though you have no idea how he can tell how old the souls are. You don't complain, but he seems to notice how drained you are after. You think you're doing well to pace yourself, until one day after the newly restored souls have been sent off, Viego goes very still.

“The mist is rolling in over Bilgewater,” he says tensely, his eyes focused on something very far off. “There will be a Harrowing.”

You straighten, concerned. “Can't we do anything? I mean, before anyone dies?”

He glances at you, brow pinched. “I will go,” he decides. “Every wraith banished back to the Isles is one that cannot hurt anyone for a time.”

“You know I'm coming with you,” you say. He gets a very pinched look on his face, and your tone steels. “Viego, I know you're worried about me, but I am not staying here while people are getting hurt. I'm going, and you know you can't stop me, so you may as well watch my back.”

He searches your eyes for a moment, then sighs and holds out his hand. “Very well. Let us go.”

You take it, and mist envelops you. You've never traveled through his mist awake before, and it feels a mix of diving into ice cold water and walking through a car wash. You can't see anything for a moment, not even your own hand.

The mist clears just enough for you to make out Viego's form just ahead of you. He raises a hand, and as he waves it the mist curls back in on itself, creating a bubble of clear but filmy air around you. You recognize Bilgewater by the rickety dock-streets under your feet, and more than that, the man in a trifold hat who runs full tilt past you swearing at the top of his lungs. Viego immediately strides in the direction he ran from, releasing your hand to pull his sword from nowhere. He spares you a single worried look, before the first wraith breaches the mist and he grimly turns to the task ahead.

The wraiths don't target Viego at first–he’s one of them, after all, and has no precious life force to siphon. You, however, are a different story. A dozen wraiths spills from the mist, and you raise your hand to freeze them mid-leap scant seconds before Viego cleaves through three in one swing. He spares you an appreciative look before he dissolves into mist himself, and then is behind you, running through another you hadn't seen. You finish the rest in front of you with a fan of thrown knives, instantly teleported to their destination by force of habit.

You work your way through the streets like this, you controlling the crowds and him dispatching them with quick and brutal swings of his blade. Pretty quickly, the wraiths start to target him too, and he seems to have much less concern for his own health than making sure nothing touches a hair on your head.

“If you die on me, I'm gonna kick your ass,” you say tersely, catching him by the elbow as he appears close to you, a wraith already impaled in his blade. He blinks as the gashes left by the wraith's claws close, the dark mist that was leaking from the wounds vanishing.

“I will endeavor not to disappoint you,” he says dryly, and effortlessly swings his zwei with one hand to catch two leaping wraiths at once. Inappropriately, you get the sudden urge to pin him to a wall and kiss him senseless, but you're going to ignore that. Effortless displays of force did something for you, noted, moving on.

“It's him! It's the King!” Someone yells, and you turn to see someone standing at the edge of the mist looking strongly like he doesn't know which way to run. “He's here to kill us all!”

Out from behind him stumbles a stocky woman desperately trying to support a bleeding man. “Oh, shut your fucking trap, Harold,” she seethes, turning to look at the both of you. “You ain't here to kill us, right? You brought me auntie Sash back, so do me a favor and fix this lug up ‘fore you gotta pop him back out the mist too, yeah?” She gestures at the bleeding man. Viego looks vaguely appalled, and she clears her throat. “Uh. If’n you please, your majesties.”

You stifle a laugh, and walk up to touch the man's shoulder. His wounds vanish, and he slurs what you think is a thank you. The woman nods sharply. “Many thanks, milady. Now, if I could suggest you bring that murder machine you call a husband up to the slaughter docks, he’d have a right fine time killing all the mist beasties there,” she offers you a sailors salute and proceeds to march out the way you came, her companions scrambling in her wake.

“Why does everyone assume we're married?” You say aloud. When you look back at Viego, he's scraping some spectral wolf thing off his blade. Murder machine you can't deny, but husband? You're not even wearing a ring.

“Can we please focus on the task at hand, dearest?” He says. That was probably why. You make a face and march towards the docks.

—

It is a long, long time before the wraiths begin to thin. With them out of the way, Viego corals the worst of the mist away, pushing it back out towards sea with his mouth set in a grim line of concentration.

The citizenry begins to emerge from their hiding holes as he does, and the murmurs echo around you so loudly they become completely indecipherable. Viego sends the rolling wall of mist away, creeping slowly back out over the water, and lets out a harsh breath of exertion.

“Are you okay?” You ask, touching his elbow. There's nothing to rewind, though–whatever effort he's expended isn't the physical kind.

He nods tightly. “It was still hungry. Difficult to control, after we interrupted its meal.”

“Your majesties!” A familiar voice calls. You turn to see your ferryman, no worse for wear save for a gash across his arm. “On behalf of Bilgewater, thank you for your assistance.”

“You know I'm not actually a queen, right?” You point out, reaching out to heal his wound.

“Legal particulars ain't never mattered much to me, my lady,” he says smartly, completely missing or deliberately ignoring your point. “I'd invite you to the post ‘hooray for not dying’ celebrations, but from the look on milords face and the way you're swaying on your feet, I reckon he'll be wanting to take you home shortly.”

“I'm not swaying–” you protest. Viego catches your shoulder to steady you before you overbalance. “Alright, yeah, I spoke too soon,” you relent. He leaves his arm around your shoulders, you notice.

Viego inclines his head at the man. “We will require your services the day after tomorrow, Captain Brigg. I'm sure there are those we could not help, and Iso will want to return them as soon as she is able.”

“The day after?” You ask. “I can–” he casts you a look that brooks no argument, and you resist the urge to pout.

“I'll be seeing you then, milord,” Brigg agrees amicably. “Have a good evening, your majesties.” Viego nods, and as the last fleeting tendril of mist curls around you, you disappear.

He takes you directly to your bedroom, and you really do hate to admit it, but he's right–now that the adrenaline has passed, you can barely stay on your feet. Viego gently lowers you onto your bed, and then kneels to take your boots off.

“You don't have to–” you begin, flustered.

“I know,” he says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. “But I want to.”

You're too tired to argue. Instead, you sigh and struggle out of your bodice and skirts, until you're just in your chemise. Viego stands as you shuffle under your covers, and on the very brink of unconsciousness, you feel him press a kiss to your hairline. “Rest well, my heart,” he murmurs into your hair. You want to sit up and ask what exactly the fuck this thing between you is, but you can't help but sleep.

—

In your dream, Viego is on his throne. He hasn't seen you yet as you walk around it, but when he does he smiles so warmly it makes your heart jump. You get that insatiable urge to be closer, to touch that perfect porcelain skin, and you can't think of any reason not to. His hands settle on your thighs as you climb into his lap, and he kisses you like it's the most natural thing in the world. He's warm, despite the plumes of mist leaking from his heart, and when you mouth along the column of his neck his skin feels as alive as any others. He gasps, rolling his hips up into you, as you grind down into that delicious friction–

You wake with a start.

“Viego, if I took you to a bar, would you wingman for me?” You ask the ceiling muzzily. Predictably, he is indeed in the room.

“What does that mean?” he asks, puzzled.

You open your mouth to explain, then immediately think better of it. He'd make you look bad by comparison, with a face like his. “Nevermind.”

“Are you well?” He asks, tone considerably more concerned.

“Yeah,” you sit up, rubbing your face. “How long was I out for?”

“All night and most of the day. It is around sunset now, I believe.” Viego says. He sits on the bed next to you and hands you a plate. “Here, eat.”

You stare down at the sandwiches for a moment before taking them from him. You can tell he made them himself–he still sucks at cutting tomatoes. “The ferryman came by,” he explains casually as you eat. “Some of the citizens wanted to send their regards, which apparently in Bilgewater consists of a vast array of gold and alcohol. They're holding a vigil over the bodies, instead of burying them at sea.”

“I suppose you'd better find those souls then,” you muse. “I imagine we'll get some strongly worded letters if we're late.”

“No need,” he says. “They've all found their way to the castle already. I suppose nothing can stop the Bilgewater rumormill, not even death.”

You start to get up, putting the plate on your bedside table. “They're here? I should–”

Viego pushes you back down against the bed with a hand flat against your collarbone, right over where his triangle of mist would be on him. You hit the soft pillows with a faint whuff. “You should rest.”

“Viego–” you begin to argue.

“Iso,” he shoots back in a tone that clearly brooks no arguments. “You only just awoke. I will not have you putting yourself back into a coma. We said we would return them tomorrow, they will wait until tomorrow.”

You stare each other down for a long moment, but Viego holds resolute. You sigh. “Y'know, the last man who pinned me down in bed was a lot more fun.”

A flash of something dark flashes across Viego's face. He leans in, putting one hand on the pillow next to your head to support his weight, while the hand still on your chest comes up to stroke the column of your throat. His gaze, already so piercing in its uncanny glow, bores into yours. “I do not expect you to reciprocate my affections, but that does not permit you to make light of them,” Viego says dangerously. His hand reaches your jaw, his thumb just barely brushing over your parted bottom lip. “I am a greedy man, and one day you will have me wanting more than you are willing to give.” You let out a trembling breath, and he’s so close–

And then he sits back, stands up, and vanishes into mist.

“What the fuck?” You ask the empty room, dumbfounded.

—

It's not so much that you avoid Viego for the rest of the night. You're not sure you could avoid him, if he was particularly set on finding you. It's just that you're so fucking confused you have no desire to do anything but pace around your room.

You'll admit, you've been avoiding so much as considering the idea that Viego has feelings for you. Most likely because it's pretty obvious that you have feelings for Viego, which absolutely was a horrible idea, because Viego's defining character trait was being irrevocably, obsessively, head-over-heels in love with a dead woman.

…Except the Viego you know has done his grieving. The Viego you know came to terms with his wife's death and found other things in his past and future to live for. The Viego you know didn't have his story end in the Hallowed Mist, pinned to the scene of his wife's last true death for all eternity. No, he's changed and grown and remembered who he used to be, before death robbed him of everything but the thing he held most dear. The Viego you know has, now that you think about it, been pretty straightforward about his feelings, and you just deflected every time because you were staunchly refusing to address the possibility out of…what? Fear of rejection? That you were reading him wrong, and he would be disgusted by the thought of anyone who wasn't Isolde, thereby ruining your friendship forever?

Your eyes catch on the music box, still on your dresser. In the drawer in the bottom of that dresser sit the notes you wrote, detailing your every foiled attempt to get home. Somewhere deep inside, you still held out hope that you'd find something, anything that could take you back. If you said yes to him, you'd be saying yes to staying in this world. Forever, probably. Neither of you can die or age. The only thing that could take you from him is if you left of your own will, and the thought of having him and then being forced to choose between him and home petrifies you.

You groan, throwing yourself back onto your bed. God, you just had to uncan these particular worms, didn't you? You couldn't have just…fucking repressed all of your feelings forever. Not that that's fair to Viego. Who you've been flirting with and then immediately brushing off when he reciprocates. No wonder he got fed up with your shit. You're stricken with the urge to rewind yourself back to Ionia and disappear into the woods forever, but then again, he'd probably follow you.

He doesn't show up when you pad down to the kitchen to make dinner. The solitude makes you antsy–it’s the longest you've been truly alone for months now. Viego has practically been your shadow, and having him gone for so long makes you uneasy in a way you didn't expect. You make yourself something quick and easy, and leave a portion out for him in case he decides he wants any, before quickly making your way back to your room. You do not sleep well.

---

The next day, Viego is waiting outside your door. You give him a slightly stilted hello, incredibly aware of yourself in his presence in a way you never had been before, and you walk in awkward silence to the Great Hall where the shades gather. The clamoring of the dead is preferable to whatever the fuck this is, and you're glad for the distraction just as much as you are that you can help. The ferryman even makes the trip up to the castle this time instead of meeting you at the docks, and about an hour later he departs with the grateful newly not-dead of Bilgewater in tow. Leaving you back in the awkward silence hell.

“I apologize,” Viego says before you can figure out what the hell you’re supposed to say to him. You give him a questioning look. “For yesterday. I was agitated and got…carried away.”

You stare at him, even more thrown off than before. “I…” Fuck it. You couldn't avoid it forever, and this is killing you. “Viego, how do you feel about me?”

His brow furrows as if you're asking a very strange question. He hesitates a long moment before answering, searching your face for some indication of what you're actually asking. “I love you,” he finally says. “You saved me from myself, and I hope to one day become a man worthy of your affections.”

That confession, delivered as if he was stating an obvious and self-evident fact of the world, floors you. “But why?” You insist, flabbergasted. “Because I just…happened to be the person who freed you?”

He frowns. “Of course not. You taught me a different way to live, and gave me back parts of myself I did not even know I had lost. You treated me with kindness and honesty, and every day you drive me to be better just by existing.” He looks at you earnestly, as if willing you to believe him.

“I–” your voice trembles. Fuck, are you crying? You are. Viego's entire counternance softens, and he steps up to cup your face.

“Oh, my heart, what troubles you?” He asks softly, wiping your tears away.

“I love you,” you hiccup. His eyes widen in shock. “But if I love you, then I can't–I couldn't bring myself to leave, Viego, I couldn't–”

“Then don't leave,” he says softly, urgently. “Stay with me.”

You shake your head. “You don't understand, I can't…I can't give up on them. What kind of person does that make me, if I give up on them?”

“My heart, my love,” Viego croons. “Moving on is not a betrayal. You taught me that. You have fought so hard and for so long, and now they would want you to rest, to find peace and happiness where you are.”

You dissolve into sobs against his chest. He holds you tight, stroking your hair and whispering soft assurances into your hair, until you're so exhausted from everything that you can't help but sleep.

—

Viego is beside you when you wake up. You know, because he's toying with your hair. You open your eyes to find him laying on his side on top of the covers, head pillowed on his arm.

“How often do you watch me sleep?” You ask. “Be honest.”

He thinks about it for a moment. "Do you remember the first night I brought you back here, and you told me to focus on something in the room?” He asks. You nod. “I chose your breathing. I found it comforting, and I still do.”

“Is that your way of saying ‘a lot' while not technically answering the question?” You ask.

His lips quirk in a smile, and he shrugs noncommittally. You're struck with the urge to kiss him, so you do. It's a simple press of lips, but when you pulls back Viego looks stunned.

And then he's on you, devouring your mouth like it's the first water he's seen in years of drought. He pulls you closer with one hand and cards the other through your hair and tilts your head at an angle just so, and, god, he really was a heartbreaker, wasn't he? He had to be, if he could kiss like this.

“Iso,” he breathes against your lips. “My heart, my beloved.” His lips move along your jaw, down your neck, and you gasp. His mouth latches on your pulse and you have no doubt you'll have a mark there tomorrow.

“Viego–” you gasp, only for your voice to trail off into a needy whine as his teeth scrape along the junction of your neck and shoulder. You grab onto his hair for stability, and he moans when you accidentally tug. The sound goes straight between your legs. “Fuck,” you breathe.

“That can be arranged,” he murmurs, looking up at you from beneath those pretty lashes. You nod frantically, and the grin he gives you is absolutely wolfish. He levers himself up so he can pull the covers off you, and you’ve never been so angry at how many layers women's clothing in this world has. Still, Viego is amazing at multitasking–he nips at your throat as he unlaces your bodice, leaving open mouth kisses down your chest as he pushes your chemise down to free your breasts. You gasp as his mouth closes around a nipple, and he slips an arm under your back as it arches, pulling you ever closer to him. You take the opportunity to wrap your legs around him, and he makes a needy little noise against your skin.

His free hand slides up the outside of your leg, rucking your skirts up, and for one delicious second he rolls his hips into yours and good lord, he was packing. Then he’s between your legs, slithering down the length of your body so quickly you're half certain he becomes mist to do it. You yelp as he snaps off your garters with his teeth, and obligingly raise your hips so he can slide your underwear off. You get the impression he would be remorseless about tearing them off you, and you like this pair–

He laps at your clit and moans like it's the most delicious thing he's ever tasted, and thoughts evaporate from your head. You grab his hair again, this time to hold on for dear life, and you swear he whimpers as you fist your hands in it. You'd be worried you were hurting him, if he wasn't still going down on you like his life depended on it. You roll your hips up against his face demandingly, gasping yes right there–

Viego isn't satisfied with making you cum once. He gives you barely enough time to come down before he's easing those long fingers into your drenched pussy. He sucks on your clit and curls his fingers ruthlessly up into you, noting what makes you twitch and cry out with pinpoint accuracy, until he's reduced you to a trembling mess.

“Viego–” you gasp, tugging his hair. He doesn't even seem to register the motion, so you do it again but harder. He comes up, mouth glistening with your juices and eyes glazed, looking somewhere between indulgent and lust-addled and vaguely annoyed you're interrupting him.

“Yes, my love?” He purrs, curling his fingers up in you again. You moan, rolling your hips, and his eyes track your face intently.

“Get up here,” you order as soon as you can form coherent sentences, beckoning him with one finger. He complies immediately, and oh, that's kind of nice, isn't it? You kiss your taste out of his mouth, and he whimpers, rolling his hips against the mattress. “And get this off,” you continue, pulling at his coat. He sits back on his heels to comply, and from this angle you can see his cock pressed painfully up against his pants, neglected save for whatever friction he got against the bed. You sit up and palm him through his pants, feeling him throb, and his hips jump against your hand as he lets out the most desperate noise you've ever heard a man make.

He leans back over you, kissing you desperately as he undoes his belts with one hand. His cock springs free as he shoves his pants halfway down his thighs, and he buries his face in your neck and moans as he drags his length through your folds, once, twice, then finally, he pushes his cock into you. Even with his relentless preparation earlier, the stretch almost burns, and just when you think there can't be more his hips jump and there is. His grip on your hips is almost bruising, and when he finally hilts himself in you, you're both trembling.

Then he begins to move, almost like he can't help himself, dragging his cock out in one slow movement before slamming back in with a moan. You're not sure Viego is even capable of getting tired, because he fucks like he isn't, furiously pistoning his hips like he isn't making an absolute mess out of both of you. He's noisy, too, moans and bitten-off pleas and slurred praises, you're so tight and wet and perfect, my love, my heart, come for me, yes, just like that–

He moans gutterally into your ear as you clench around him, thrusting into you as deeply as he can before he cums. His hips don't still, and with a start you realize he's still hard. “Forgive me, I need m–mhh, more,” he slurs, already starting up another brutal tempo even as his cum leaks out of you. “You–ah, you feel so good, please, let me–” his speech dissolves into needy incoherency. He grips your knees and pulls them up and together, practically folding you in half, and it changes the angle of his thrusts in such a way that has you whimpering. When you cum, it's to a stream of praises and an absolute lack of any noticeable change in his pace.

Perhaps it's to be expected for breaking a century long dry spell, but Viego is insatiable. His thrusts turn sloppy as he chases his own release and he practically sobs as he cums in you again. He sits back, and he's a mess, hair stuck to his face and cock still dripping with your combined fluids. You think he's done, but apparently the sight of your abused hole dripping with his cum does it for him. “One more?” He pleads, and those puppy dog eyes do not belong on a man whose cock is twitching against his stomach.

Ah, fuck it. You roll onto your knees and and give him your best come hither look, aided by the no doubt completely fucked out look you must be sporting. He almost growls, and then he's on you.

—

“I…apologize,” he says sheepishly. “I may have gotten carried away.”

You crack open an eye, and he's looking at the bruises he's left on your hips. “You know I could fix those, right? I'm not doing that because I like them.”

He blinks at you, except his eyes are glazed in such a way that tells you he's thinking of something dirty. “You will be the death of me,” he muses.

You snuggle back against his chest, and he wraps his arms around you. “Been there, done that, dying is overrated. You're stuck with me.”

He kisses the spot underneath your ear, and he sounds utterly sincere when he says, “And how lucky I am.”

[felacunti]

Four of the greatest lyrics in any song I've ever heard. So simple that they, frankly, don't even really need elaboration. It doesn't stop me from trying though.

The conflict endemic to all black art, especially art by those with the clout, money and ability to engage in minor social mobility is that much of this art comes from pain. Senseless pain. A lot of joy, absolutely. But so much loss that the gains struggle to matter at times.

You can choose salvation or sin, but neither will save you. You can choose to pull the trigger or you can be shot down. False dichotomies, right. Religion won't save you from poverty so deep that its inherited like dynasty. It's the same as indulgence, its a stopgap, a temporary diversion from the things we cannot control around us.

Make a pack or get turned into a pack, you'll be remembered all the same. Neither is an honorable position and neither is predestined. The one firing has just as much to lose as the person being put down.

But there's something. Fascinating about the ultimate choice presented in this song, one that breaks from the narratives that sell so much music and appease the gaze of white consumers and the liberals who shake their heads and the conservatives who poison the well further.

In the absence of the person whose life has been taken, others will carry their name on. That doesn't make it right, that doesn't make it just. But telling that story, opening that wound and letting that vulnerability bleed out means a lot more than painting your scars gold.

[whitegownsandflowercrowns]

My Faves As Preacher’s Daughter

Family Tree (Intro) - Helaena Targaryen

Jesus can always reject his father/But he cannot escape his mother’s blood/He’ll scream and try to wash it off of his fingers/But he’ll never escape what he’s made up of/The fates already fucked me sideways/Swinging by my neck from the family tree

American Teenager - Luna Lovegood

Grew up under yellow light on the street/Putting too much faith in the make believe/And another high school football team/[…]/And I feel it there/In the middle of the night/When the lights go out/And I’m all alone out here/Say what you want/But say it like you mean it with your fists for once/A long Cold War with your kids at the front/Just give it one more day then you’re done, done/I do what I want/[…]/I’m doing what I want and damn I’m doing it well/For me

A House In Nebraska - Shosanna Dreyfus

You and me against the world/You were my man and I your girl/We had nothing except each other/You were my whole world/[…]/And I still call home/That house in Nebraska/[…]/And you might never come back home/And I might never sleep at night/But God I just hope that you’re out there somewhere/I just pray that you’re all right/And I feel so alone/And I feel so alone out here

Western Nights - Evelyn Evernever

I’d hold the gun/If you asked me to/But if you love me like you say you do/Would you ask me to?/[…]/Trouble’s always gonna find you baby/But so will I/[…]/I’m never gonna leave you baby/Even if you lose what’s left of your mind/Cause you know I’ll be right there beside you/Riding through all these Western nights

Family Tree - Peter Gordon

These crosses all over my body/Remind me of who I used to be/Give myself up to him in offering/[…]/I’m just a child but I’m not above violence/My mama raised me better than that/[…]/So take me down to the river/And bathe me clean/[…]/I’ve killed before, and I’ll kill again/Take the noose off, wrap it tight around my hand/[…]/And Christ, forgive these bones I’ve been hiding/Oh, and the bones I’m about to leave

Hard Times - Laura Palmer

Tell me a story about how it ends/Where you’re still the good guy, I’ll make pretend/Cause I hate this story/Where happiness ends and dies with you/I thought good guys get to be happy/I’m not happy/I am poison in the water and unhappy/Little girl who needs her daddy real bad

Thoroughfare - Mantis

I met you there in Texas somewhere on the thoroughfare/On the side of the road in some torn up clothes with a pistol in my pocket/I didn’t trust no one, but you said “baby don’t run, I’ll take you anywhere”/So I hopped right in, outta luck to spend, and at least your truck beats walking/And you said “hey, do you wanna see the west with me?”/[…]/But in these motel rooms I started to see you differently/Cause for the first time since I was a child/I could see a man who wasn’t angry

Gibson Girl - Georgina Sparks

He’s cold blooded so it takes more time to bleed/Obsession with the money, addicted to the drugs/[…]/“Baby if it feels good/Then it can’t be bad”/And if you want it good/Downright iconic

Ptolemaea - Max Mayfield

I followed you in and I was with you there/I invited you in twice, I did/[…]/Suffer does the wolf, crawling to thee/Promising a big fire, any fire/Saying I’m the one, he’s gonna take me/I’m on fire, I’m on fire, I’m on fire/Suffering is nigh, drawing to me/Calling me the one, I’m the white light/Beautiful, finite/Even the iron still fear the rot/Hiding from something I cannot stop/Walking on shadows I can’t lead him back/Buckled on the floor when night comes along/Daddy’s left and Momma won’t come home/You poor thing/Sweet mouring lamb/There’s nothing you can do/It’s already been done/What fear a man like you brings upon a woman like me/Please don’t look at me/[…]/Stop, stop, stop, make it stop/[…]/Blessed be the children/Each and every one come to know their god through some senseless act of violence

August Underground - India Stoker

Televangelism - Beth March

Sun Bleached Flies - Laura Lee

What I wouldn’t give to be in church this Sunday/Listening to the choir so heartfelt all singing/“God loves you, but not enough to save you”/So baby girl good luck taking care of yourself/[…]/And I just prayed/And I keep praying, and praying and praying/If it’s meant to be, then it will be

Strangers - Cassie Ainsworth

Thinking back to what I was always told/“Don’t talk to strangers or you might fall in love”/[…]/I tried to be good/Am I no good? Am I no good? Am I no good?/With my memory restricted to a Polaroid in evidence/I just wanted to be yours/Can I be yours? Can I be yours? Just tell me I’m yours/[…]/Don’t think about it too hard or you’ll never sleep a wink at night again/Don’t worry bout me and these green eyes

[corinnesamuels]

Guarding the Gates

Chapter 19: Half Past Ten

“You can’t be serious.” Lily laughs as James shrugs.

“Ask Remus when we get back to England. He threatened to hit me with a silencing jinx after a while.”

They’ve spent most of the morning in bed after Mr. Phillips’ security meeting. The Prime Minister didn’t have any obligations until the evening and decided to spend his day enjoying the grounds of the estate. Lily had to swat James’ leg after hearing him mutter something about having some ideas of what he’d like to spend his day enjoying. James, the lecher, only smirked.

They’ve been together all of ten hours, and he’s already driven her half insane.

Now they’re in bed—in bed!—sharing stories of all the times they’d sworn the other knew about their feelings. All the missed signals and all the times they’d gone out of their way to spend time with the other. Including the time James apparently tried to convince Remus to give up a few locks of hair so that James could make a Polyjuice Potion and go on rounds with Lily.

“And he never budged? Good on him.” 

James rolls his eyes. “Well, I offered him an obscene amount of Honeydukes once that made him hesitate. But he couldn’t be bought, turns out.” Then he looks down at her with a soft smile, and Lily feels her breath catch. 

This is really happening, she thinks. Her eyes flutter closed as he leans down to kiss her, his hands wandering across her bare skin as if he’s trying to memorize the feel of her.

“Do you know what else I’ve been wondering about?” Lily asks as James pulls her even closer to him, tracing lazy patterns across her hip before trailing his nose up the column of her neck and nipping at her ear.

“What’s that?” 

Lily is so distracted that she has a difficult time remembering what it is she’d been wondering about. “That muggle restaurant we went to before we left England, our server whispered something in your ear but I didn’t catch it.”

James pauses for a moment, furrowing his brow as he thinks. “You mean after we went to Gringotts? Neil?”

“That’s his name.” Lily nods. “He whispered something to you, and you looked at him and said ‘tell me about it.’” She imitates James’ voice at the end, pulling a laugh from him.

“He said you were the fittest fucking thing he’d ever seen.”

“You’re lying.” Lily gives him a playful shove. “Really, James. What did he say?”

“I’m being serious. That’s literally what he said. Verbatim.” James assures her. “And I couldn’t agree more. The boy has excellent taste. In women and in quidditch.”

Lily snorts and shakes her head. “He seemed like such a sweet kid.”

“He probably is love, just a sweet kid whose hormones have kicked in.”

Lily can only shake her head.

They’ve been quiet for a moment when James laughs again. “Is that what you think I sound like?”

“What?”

“Tell me about it.” James echoes Lily’s earlier impression of him.

“It’s a very good imitation! Even Marlene says so, and she’s not easy to impress.”

“Oh? You’ve done impressions of me before, then?”

Lily blushes, and the smile on James’ face turns mischievous. 

“Tell me.” He grabs her wrists, rubbing tantalizing circles around the inside of them with his thumbs.

Lily rolls her eyes and, with a dramatic sigh, begins to tell him about how frustrated she would find herself being after rounds during their seventh year. How she would complain to her friends about how she just wanted James to walk into the Head's office and say, “Alright, Evans?” before kissing her senseless. 

James shakes his head before letting out a laugh so loud Lily nearly jumps. She finds herself a bit miffed at it until he speaks again. “As hard as I worked to get on a first-name basis with you, it’s ‘Alright, Evans’ that gets you going? You should have just said so.”

Lily blushes again. “It’s not you using my name that does it. It’s the way I imagined you saying it, drawling, with that lazy grin of yours.” She bites her bottom lip as she imagines the scenes her 17-year-old mind used to create about him. And though they haven’t slept much, as she looks at his tousled hair and lips and hands … she finds herself wanting to act a few of them out.

They spend the next hour getting James’ ‘Alright, Evans?’ just right, practicing on parts of her body until they found themselves otherwise occupied.

“What time is it?” Lily asks later as she indulges in a languid stretch. She smiles as relief seeps into her tired muscles and even more as her skin brushes against James in the process.

James rubs a hand over the elongated angle of her body before she curls back into him. His glasses are sitting on the nightstand next to the bed, tossed there haphazardly as they’d returned from the morning’s staff meeting. She isn’t sure how well he can actually see her (I’ve got you close enough to see you just fine. He’d told her, before demonstrating what all he could do with their closeness), but the look in his eyes makes it seem as if he could almost see through her.

“Not telling.”

Lily laughs. “Why not? I wasn’t aware that the time was a secret.”

“If I tell you what time it is …” James trails his fingers across her skin, slower than before, as he dips his lips down to her neck. “Then you’ll want to put your clothes back on. And I’m trying to avoid that at all costs, you see.”

Lily’s hand goes into his hair as he continues his ministrations, allowing her eyes to drift shut for a few more moments. But as much as she’d like to continue James’ current pursuits, they still have a job to do. As her sense of duty pushes its way to the forefront of her mind, she tightens her thighs around James and flips them over so he is now lying beneath her. Lily doesn’t miss the way James’ face—and a few other things—light up at this new positioning. But she merely smirks as she reaches over to grab his watch from the nightstand.

“Half past ten.” She says as James groans in disappointment.

“I thought we agreed to not checking the time?”

“I never agreed to that, love.” Lily leans over to kiss him, sighing as James wraps one hand around her back and tangles another into her hair. “I’d say we have a little more time, though.”

But their time is cut short by a heavy knock at their door, strong and loud enough to jolt them away from each other and send them both reaching for their wands. 

Finish the Chapter on AO3!

Start from the beginning!

[jinxthejubilee]

Slash - We Need to Talk

YEEESSS! I finally get to talk about my boy, Slash! (I apologize that it took so long.)

Now, as you can already tell, my favorite iteration of Slash was TMNT 2012, but what if he was in Rise?

I've played with this idea of bringing fresh takes on older characters before, specifically with Venus, here, here, and here, but I never got around to talking about Slash.

To recap: After Season 3 of Rise of TMNT was canceled and the movie came out, the creators talked about introducing two new turtle characters who, just like the main four, were experiments of Draxum, but were lost in the explosion and never found by Splinter. I'm in the camp that says Venus and Slash were those two lost babies.

Now, how exactly would that play out....

Slash's Origin

This was a bit hard to figure out on my part, especially since my and everyone else's ideas for Venus' story have at least some similarities and are actually hinted at in the show.

We can take him working for Big Mama off the table. Throughout his numerous incarnations, the most consistent trait he has is his height and bulkiness. He towers over everyone, and the assassin isn't nearly that tall.

We can also cross off him being an alien like the comics or Rachael's pet turned sentient mutant like the 2012 show.

So if Big Mama, Draxum, Splinter, or Raphael didn't raise him, who did?

Well, maybe gang members.

Think about it: There's plenty of yokai street thugs or thieves guilds in the show. It wouldn't be too out there to think that he could've been sold off or taken in by criminals. You could bring back the Mighty Mutanimals as well. A fierce, notorious gang whose goal is underground domination.

And it would make perfect sense for his character. Unlike the boys, Slash would've grown up molded by violence and the "You vs. Me" mentality: his staple characteristics.

It defines his character perfectly, but it would also help bring more depth to his personality.

Slash's Personality

Borrowing from the 2012 show a bit, Slash is a more complex person than he appears.

He enjoys fighting, especially when blood is spilled, but he isn't entirely a violent murder machine.

The senseless violence is drawn from a sense of inferiority. As someone who started from the very bottom in his thug "family" as the weakling, he's risen to the top and can't let himself fall down again.

For reference, think Bass from Mega Man. A guy who actively gets in the way of others, even those on his side, to prove he's the best. Although, you could say that Slash is more calculating. He adores being the center of attention, but he can work on the sidelines if he has to, especially if it means that he can hijack the mission and take the glory for himself.

He's a lot like Leo in that regard, with his ego blinding him. But unlike Leo, Slash has no one to bring him back down to earth. He chases his highs, throwing caution into the wind.

However, while he revels in the attention, deep down, he knows that it might not last forever. He knows how fickle his leaders and everyone around him are. He can't let them discard him. Abandon him. Not again. So he works tirelessly to impress them, to prove he is the best. This is all he has in the world. If he loses that, what will become of him?

He's used to the world being frightened of him. He shouldn't expect compassion or kindness from anyone. The world is a dark, unforgiving place that eats up the weak so the strong can thrive. That's his outlook, and there's no changing it.

Buuuuuutttt, after shenanigans, character development, and several reality checks happen, Slash eventually breaks away from the gang and becomes much more humble and appreciative of life.

He still enjoys fighting, but he's mellowed out.

I doubt that he'd live with his brothers full time since he's more of a loner type, but there's always a place for him at home. And he'd be glad to work alongside them, should they need more muscle.

But if you want to go for a more tragic ending or a parallel to Venus, Leo, or even Raph in a way, Slash doesn't change, and his thirst for power becomes his downfall. They mourn him, of course, as the sibling who couldn't be saved, but they use his tale as a lesson of what paranoia, self-centeredness, and anger can do to someone once it consumes you.

It is a very depressing storyline, but an interesting one to explore, nonetheless. Plus, this fandom is used to tragedy, right?

Relationships

My favorite section!

Now, Slash would most likely be older than Raphael, maybe even April. I see him as one of Draxum's earliest test subjects, which I'll get to in a minute. For now, let's start with immediate family members.

Raphael:

It would not be a pleasant meeting for sure. In my interpretation, they are two sides of the same coin.

They both have anger issues.

They're both intimidating to look at at first glance.

They both enjoy the thrill of battle.

They're both insecure.

However, they are opposites.

Raph's temper stems from the desire to protect his family at all costs. He uses his size and strength to help people, and he knows how to reel himself back from doing significant damage when it's unnecessary. He's a pillar of justice.

Slash, however, only uses his advantages to hurt anyone who crosses his path and to keep up his reputation as a dangerous criminal. Everyone, except maybe a select few of his fellow gang members, is disposable to him. They're collateral damage. And it isn't until he loses everything that he even considers looking from a different perspective.

Raph would only see him as someone who he needs to protect his brothers from, even after he learns that Slash is related to them. The same could be said for Slash. He didn't have family before, and he doesn't need them now.

If the redemption arc follows through, then Raph would still be wary of his older brother at first. He's not used to having an older sibling figure (aside from April, of course) to rely on. Slash would need time to adjust to being an older brother.

It's a very awkward time overall, but they find their rhythm eventually.

Leonardo

Similar to Raph, Leo might find a rival in Slash, too.

Again, they are alike in many aspects.

Leo is egotistical and flamboyant, striving to be the best of the best. But Slash turns that notch up to 100.

They both take slights against them very personally. I mean, come on! Leo still complains about Draxum throwing him off a roof.

Especially now that Leo is the leader and has learned more humility, seeing how Slash acts and views the people around him, it's a more extreme reflection of who Leo used to be.

He would want to keep the group as far away from Slash as possible unless he has something of use. Unlike Raph, he'd be willing to work with him if he has information or something of value, as reluctant as he would be.

After character development, Leo would still not want to hang around Slash that much. He doesn't hate him, and he may be able to crack a few jokes here and there with him, but he can't bring himself to trust him yet.

That being said, once they become more comfortable around each other and learn that they have a surprising amount in common, they'll start to bond and get along just fine.

Donatello

This would be one of the few times he actually agrees with both Raph AND Leo on. This dude is bad news.

As much as he hates to admit it, he feels uneasy around Slash. Especially after the countless fights they had with him, which almost all of them could have ended with him or his brothers getting killed more times than he'd want to analyze.

Slash's whole MO is striking down the physically weak, and while Donnie is by no means fragile, I guarantee that Slash would remark about Donnie "hiding behind his gadgets," so to speak. Perhaps commenting about his soft shell.

It takes Donnie an impressively long time to get used to Slash if he chooses to change. A part of him just can't bring himself to welcome him to the family.

Biologically related or not, Slash nearly killed/severely injured them all, called out Donnie's insecurities, and unlike Draxum, who at the very least appreciates Donnie's technology, Slash doesn't care for it and sees his inventions as "handicaps." They have little in common. What else is there to say?

Slash will have to prove himself and adopt a more gentle demeanor if he wants to get on Donnie's good side. If he ever gets there, they might bond over silly things. Maybe they share a passion for dance or video games?

It'll be a long road before they get there, though. That's for sure.

Michaelangelo

Take this as a more developed version of Draxum's character arc in the show.

Mikey is always willing to give people second chances. But his trust and sympathy for Slash would form slowly over a period of time.

After Slash has lost everything, whether that be from the brothers finally defeating the Mutanimals or the gang themselves kicking Slash out for whatever reason, he wanders the world alone, thinking about what to do and where to go next.

Mikey, after finally convincing Raph to let him scout out the city by himself or something along those lines, he finds Slash repeatedly over the course of a few episodes: the equivalent of a few weeks or months in their universe.

During their accidental meetings, they end up being forced to help each other in some way. Maybe another villain traps them, or something larger is at play.

In any case, these episodes would help them form a connection of sorts. They work out their differences and establish a brotherly bond as a result.

As much as Mikey tries to encourage Slash to come home with him, Slash can't bring himself to trust himself or the others yet. That, and he doesn't want Mikey to get in trouble, should anyone find out about them becoming friends.

I'm not sure if Mikey could finally convince Slash to come with him, or if one way or another someone finds out and alerts the others, but it's not a pleasant surprise regardless.

The family would be, understandably, very worried for Mikey's safety and well-being, and would definitely argue with him about his choice to keep his kindling brotherly relationship under wraps.

After the whole debacle is over, however, and Slash has earned a modicum of trust within the group, perhaps saving Mikey or someone else, Mikey serves as the mediator between the family and Slash.

He tries to help others understand that Slash was used and looked at as a weapon his entire life. He doesn't know or understand the true meaning of family.

Mikey is actively trying to help Slash connect with others. It won't be easy, but the word "impossible" isn't in Mikey's dictionary.

Splinter

Another one he failed to save.

A parent should never hate their child, and Splinter doesn't. Not really. If anything, he hates himself for not saving Slash and giving him the home he deserves.

But at the same time, he can't love Slash. Not yet, at least.

He hurt so many people and wasn't sorry about it. But that's how he was raised. He didn't grow up with compassion or care, only violence and torture.

Once Mikey asserts to Splinter that Slash means no harm, he'd be willing to warm up to Slash. Though, unlike Venus, Slash is a lot more frustrating to work with.

There will be vulnerable moments. Angst will be seen, I can tell you that right now.

Slash never had a definitive father figure in his life, often bouncing along from person to person. So, having someone stable and constant in his life is new and scary, and he doesn't know what to do with it.

He'll get used to it eventually, and over time, he'll learn to appreciate Splinter's attempts to bond with him.

Venus

These two are at the complete opposite ends of the spectrum. Night and day. Push and pull.

While both of them are the lost children of their father, Venus' home life was much different than Slash's.

Venus grew up with an actual parental guardian. A cold, snarky, and standoffish guardian, but she had one nonetheless. This quiet and strict environment caused her to become quiet herself, almost mute, and a bit socially awkward. Moreover, while she is very mindful of the thoughts and feelings of the people around her, she is somewhat naive about the world due to her sheltered upbringing.

Slash, on the other hand, is loud, abrasive, and couldn't care less about anyone's feelings. He's seen the horrors of the world, but he's ignorant to its calm and serene side. He had no real figure in his life to guide him down the straighter, narrow path and wound up the way he is as a result.

Venus sees him as vulgar, conceded, and a threat to her family's well-being. She just found her place amongst a loving, warm family. She refuses to lose that to the likes of him.

Slash sees her as an uptight, mousy little witch who he constantly underestimates. He later learns that her lack of arms won't stop her from kicking his sorry a-!

-ANYWAY! The bottom line is that they absolutely despised each other. And even after Slash becomes more present in their lives, they still don't get along.

Don't get Venus wrong. She doesn't hold grudges nearly as much as her brothers, but after everything Slash did to them and his overall bad attitude, she can't find it in her heart to fully trust him yet.

She mostly just avoids him and speaks to him with a cold formalness if they ever cross paths. Much to Slash's annoyance.

It doesn't last forever, though. Slash finds her easier to talk to aside from Mikey.

Venus learns to enjoy Slash's candor and battle-hearty spirit. While Slash learns to like Venus' peaceful and gentle nature.

They are opposites, but sometimes you need that to grow and expand your horizons.

Mask Color and Weapons?

I talked about this in my first Venus post, but the more I thought about it, there's no need to change his mask. Black suits him well.

If anything, I could add that making Venus' mask white would be a neat idea to highlight their contrasting personalities. And maybe to use that as a callback to that stupid Yin and Yang symbol she had. Even though it's a CHINESE SYMBOL. Yet another reason why The Next Mutation was awful.

As for weapons, as a guild member, he'd probably have a bunch of weapons. Knives, brass or claw knuckles, bombs, you know, the works.

However, his main weapon would be his mace. This thing:

It looks cool, it's imposing, it's spiky, what's not to love about it?

What Type of Turtle Would He Be?

Considering that Raph is an alligator snapping turtle, one of the largest turtles in the world, I had to get creative.

He had to be big, and he had to be spiky. So, I looked to see if there were any different types of snapping turtles. And lo and behold! I found it!

The Suwanee Snapping Turtle.

A large freshwater turtle, found in one of the scariest places in the world: Florida.

Honestly, with Slash being of the same genus as Raph, the parallels I thought about would work almost too well.

In conclusion:

Slash could be just as interesting a character as the others if given the respect and appreciation that he deserves.

I feel bad for him, honestly. Most people theorize that the two turtles that were planned to be in Season 3 were Venus and Jennika. And I haven't seen anyone comment about Slash being a possibility. He's been completely left in the dust.

And yeah, I contributed to that by taking so long to talk about this, but I hope my discussion here will bring Slash back in the spotlight.

Goodnight everybody!

[halogenwarrior]

So I’ve seen the Cardinal West xenofiction review video, and how one of the ones he rated very lowly with a lot of people in the comments/etc. agreeing is bad was the Sight by David Clement-Davies, and as someone who was quite attached to it as a teenager I kind of have a relationship with this book of “I have a lot I can criticize it for but Only I can criticize it, because the takes I’m seeing on this site and the video comments don’t seem to understand what it was really Going For in a thematic sense (despite it being not very subtle, perhaps to its detriment, about it), and because of that both criticize aspects that I felt were unique and great and serve the story well and miss its most fundamental and serious flaw that makes it fail to fully accomplish what it is going for.

I feel I can best explain what the book is going for/what its central theme is, by bringing up something I remember reading from Joseph Campbell. He discussed how all existing myths have always been myths for/explaining/about a certain region of the world, and how what is missing is a myth that is for and about the whole planet, that can speak to all of humanity – and to the experience of the nonhuman life all around us. The Sight is fundamentally about tackling this question – can one (both in the meta-sense of the book itself and in the sense that characters in the book actively strive for it) make a myth for the whole earth, that can justify all of the senselessness and suffering of life and give it meaning in more than just a parochial, region-centric or even anthropocentric case? And should we? Even if we could, would it just be a trap that causes more suffering, a self-fulfilling prophecy of doom, when life on its own is beautifully, heartbreakingly enough (but how could life ever be enough? Ecology, after all, only describes a system that creates astronomical amounts of suffering, it does not “justify” or create “meaning” for anything except survival and the circular logic of self-perpetuation, but as Skart points out it’s not all suffering all the time, one shouldn’t be so quick to reject the bare facts of life altogether and look for something more just because some parts are horrifying).

A lot of the aspects I’ve seen the book criticized for were things I actually really appreciated for how they contribute to this overall theme and “vibe”, and contributed to it blowing me away when I read it for the first time at 14 years old, and it honestly affecting a lot of my personality and worldview. The detached writing style I’ve seen criticized as sloppy, but for me it was a perfect match for how it’s supposed to be both about, and telling, a myth; it had the feeling of sitting by a fire on a cold winter night as you were told a story. The tangents about human history never felt meaningless to me, they were thrilling because they underscored how it’s not just a story of a few characters but a story of this earth, attempting to create the sweeping wonder for our own world that many fantasy books do for an imagined one, to make one love the sheer motion, deep history and amount of things happening in the vast world, to love the world with all its terror and tragedy and beauty. And it's definitely missing a lot of what is going on to say the obvious Christianity parallels in the wolves’ myths are just there because the author was unoriginal or wanted to make his protagonist a cliched messiah figure. Even though the story shows in very blatant text that Larka isn’t an unironic Jesus figure but someone whose frustration with life and self-hatred leads her to latch onto the story of a martyrdom that gives meaning to everything. She undertakes the hero’s journey complete with death and rebirth in the fire, the journey to the underworld (the red meadow), etc., and in the end after a whole book of very regional, wolf-specific myths she gets to see that was false and experience the vaster, global, truth that we know of the world through the Vision – of evolution, and humanity’s ultimate impact on the whole world. But again, this just explains survival, it doesn’t justify the monstrous suffering that comes with it, it doesn’t have the true explaining power of a myth. So she refuses to kill all of humanity when she has the chance even if it would endanger that very survival because she believes survival without an explanation is unjustified. And in the end she is so attached to the martyr Jesus-copy story and its potential power to relieve the senselessness of life that she hesitates those crucial seconds to escape her supposed fate, deciding she wants to live after all too late even though she loves life and fears death so much that it hurts.

And I think all of these are interesting and ambitious themes, and the sheer ability to encompass and tell a story for our own world and all that meant captivated me. As well as, having just come off my frustrations of the Warriors arc Power of Three and Omen of the Stars and their inability to resolve the exciting supernatural mysteries they set up, its ability to set up these mysteries and fulfill them all in an epic conclusion. Rereading it the second time when I am older, I still appreciate that ambition and atmosphere, but I see its flaws more clearly – and the one fatal flaw in particular. Yes, there are other big problems with the book, which other people have pointed out. The sometimes-incoherence of its philosophy, the weird showing of bigotry towards scavenger birds only for them to never be anything but villains anyway, the weakness of the main villain’s motivations and the whole misogynistic trope of her being “empty” due to being infertile. But the one that deeply hampers its ability to convey the themes it intends is haphazard mixing of metaphor and reality in terms of animals. On the one hand, the book wants its animals to be metaphors for humans, thus them being heavily anthropomorphized and often inaccurate to their real behavior, and their mythology/religion heavily resembling those of Christianity and other human beliefs rather than being plausible for what another species with no contact with those ideas would come up with, all to serve as a better metaphor for how so much of humanity has turned to the power of the story of Jesus to justify existence. BUT at the same time, it’s fundamental conceit is to be a story of and about this Earth, dealing with animals and their place in the world and trying to fit them into a greater mythology as they literally are, as animals, and the whole reason it is xenofiction instead of focusing on humans is that it’s in this conversation with a global, non-anthropocentric myth. And those two things clash horribly. You can use animals as metaphors for humans in an alternate earth or fantasy world that’s talking about reality in a more distant mirror kind of way, but you can’t make your animals so humanized and distant from real animals when the central conceit of your story is supposed to be that this is our planet, our history, directly making a statement about what stories mean for this world and how you fit in these animals who are so fundamentally different from us humans.

Still, I would love to see someone try their hands at writing a sort of spiritual successor to this book that fixes its issues, attempting to tackle these themes (perhaps from both the point of view of humans and other animals) in a grand fantasy/mythic xenofiction that also clearly sees animals for what they are. I would think such a work could be powerful, and maybe reproduce the same feelings I had when I read this book so long ago…

[ertrunkenerwassergeist]

Are there any conspiracy theories about the Deep City?

Hope you don't mind the length of this. It got out of hand real fast XD

Host 1: Hello and welcome back to another episode of 'Ghost Stories'. Your friendly podcast where we talk about all things spooky and mysterious in Lucis. My name is Idona.

Host 2: My name is Silvestre, and if you actually call me that, good on you. Today's episode is especially spooky, since it takes places in our own wonderful crown city Insomnia.

Idona: Uuuhhhhhh. I always love those.

Sil: Yeah. One would think we would get more of those, but apparently our dear listeners like to hear about the outside world.

Idona: Which makes episodes like this all the more exciting!

Sil: Absolutely. I mean, who would want to hear about the outside, if you have such a treasure trove right in front of your doorstep? Do you know how old Insomnia is? Older than dirt. It always makes me wonder how many stories are really buried here.

Idona: You know, current theory is that Isnomnis is most likely older than Lucis. Dear old Somnus probably saw a reasonably sized city and renamed it.

Sil: Huh.

Idona: Anyway! What's the story that has been brought to us this time?

Sil: Oh, it's great. You're gonna love it. Ghosts in the old aqueducts!

Idona: A proper ghost story! How wonderful. It's been so long since we've had one of those.

Sil: The last Insomnian ghost story we talked about here was the one with the red capped spirits that steal people away, right? Or was it the one about the guy who turned up a hundred years ago with no identification papers whatsoever, spoke only a strange dialect of Old Lucian and then vanished without a trace?

Idona: I think it was the latter. Still convinced the other one were just weird debt collectors.

Sil: Probably, yeah. I mean all of their known victims were poor people with huge debts, so...

Idona: Still a crime though.

Sil: You know, we should probably get started on this week's story. Otherwise our runtime will only be filled with senseless ramblings.

Idona: Sil, our runtimes are always filled with senseless ramblings. But take it away.

Sil: Okay, so. This story came to our ears thanks to one of our listeners. She wishes to remain anonymous, but she wrote us that her cousin works for the WSD, the Water Sanitary Department for those who don't know. Said cousin is responsible of keeping the old waterlines up and running.

Idona: Wow, stop. Are you telling me that we aare still using those? The youngest ones of the old waterlines are at least a thousand years old! At least!

Sil: Well, the old Lucians must have builld things to last. And if it ain't broke, why fix it?

Idona: You just sounded so Leidean.

Sil: Why, thank you. My ancestors would be proud. So, Anon's cousin is down there, doing his job of looking at stones as old as dirt to make sure nothing will come crumbling down, when all of a sudden he heard a strange noise.

Idona: Was it voices? It's always voices.

Sil: Got it in one. The cousin heard voices whispering in strange tongues. Of course he goes closer, since no one but him is supposed to be down there. Gotta warn those people away and all that. But as he walked around the corner, his torch goes out and he hears a strange humming.

Idona: Go on. This is getting good.

Sil: Just wanted to see, if you had something to say. Anon's cousin is understandably freaked out by all of this. But still he calls out, because he just knows someone is there. Which is when he starts seeing strange, glowing shapes in the pitch dark.

Idona: I wish I had been there! This is turning out to be one of the most amazing eyewitness accounts for ghostly activity!

Sil: Yeah, but sadly there's not much more to it.

Idona: Awww.

Sil: Because at this point Anon's cousin runs back the way he came, totally freaked out by all of this. Thankfully his torch turned back on not long after and all he had was a shock and a few scrapes and bruises from running in the dark.

Idona: That's a relief.

Sil: You don't look relieved.

Idona: Well, he could have at least tried to communicate with the ghosts. Just imagine what we might have learned from them!

Sil: Or Anon would now have a dead cousin.

Idona: Or that, yeah.

Sil: But we're still not quite at the end of this little story. One day later Anon's cousin comes back to the place with two others. They find nothing there but some freshly carved symbols on the wall.

Idona: What did the symbols look like?

Sil: Here. Anon's cousin copied them down for us.

Idona: Huh. I feel like I've seen those before.

Sil: What? Really?

Idona: Yeah, I mean, my mum is a historian specialising in Insomnia's earlier history. She's been trying to get permission to go to the lowest levels for basically half her life now, but gets denied every time. Apparently it's too unsafe down there. I feel like I've seen something similar to those symbols in one of her books before.

Sil: You know, hearing that, I can't help but wonder how safe the structural integrity of Insomnia actually is.

Idona: Oh Astrals, don't make me think about that! This gives me some real existential angst.

Sil: ...

Idona: Now you get it.

Sil: Aaaanyway. What did you think of this week's story, folks? Please leave your comments on our mog page or leave a small donation at our crown-cast page.

Idona: Donators can bring stories to our attention - much like this one - have access to all our episodes two days early and can participate in live FAQs once a month.

Sil: Thank you all for listening. And remember:

Idona: The world is scarier than you think it is.

[lakemichigans]

hey i'm back to clear things up, i was just so quick to get my thoughts out i didn't think to properly explain them

i wanted joel to seem more dramatic was what i meant. yell leave and then turn his head to the side bc he can't look at her go, or smtn like that. idk maybe i'm too hung op on this i'll rewatch the ep tmrw to see if i still feel the same

i liked the funnier in her head line too, but the fake bite was soo cute

ok fedra time this is gonna be a long one lol. i totally got what why ellie was saying those things, it's more so about the "rules" of the show. yk how every piece of media has it's own rules about the world and how the ppl in it are allowed to function. ex if someone other than the main cast shows altruistic intentions they're hiding something (spn), everyone lies for their own benefit to some degree (house md), the people can't rule themselves (got) etc. the rules of tlou (so far at least) are that there can't be an uprising without one firm hand who has clear and realistic end goals which happen to coincide with the morals of the writers. no one firm hand and no realistic goals means the fireflies are idealistic and ineffective. the morals don't coincide with the writers and no clear end goal means kc is brutal and senseless. it's not so much about these specific groups, but what they stand for. further examples for the fact that the people can't rule themselves. (ps jackson has council representatives which is called council communism and again proves the point that in the world of tlou there need to be people who make decisions for the majority)

i totally got the type of crush you were explaining for riley, i was just lacking the feeling like the actress was actually about to blush and then try to hide it and then lovingly look back etc. idk this one is really personal i think

sorry this was so long and i also hope this doesn't come off as me arguing i'm really happy just to be sharing my thought with you <3 excited for next week!

i think it's just up to personal interpretation! maybe i'm just not looking into it hard enough, but i felt that since this is a TV show, they can only focus on a few characters at a time. even if they wanted to show us a positive society without any sort of leader, it would be difficult to follow the story if we were bouncing around through a whole bunch of people, each with their own lives and ideas about the world they live in. it's a cool idea that i would happily watch, but it wouldn't fit with the (mostly) linear story they're trying to tell here. like, it was much easier for them to give maria this sorta-leader role because then she can be used for plot purposes and exposition about jackson. and there's always going to be some element of politics involved in apocalypse stories, but tbh covid has jaded me because i saw so much selfishness and greed arise from that, to the point where i'm burnt out and uninterested in the government systems and i'm much more concerned with the individual stories within. i probably should care more considering this show is so popular and definitely has an impact, but.... idk. maybe someday i'll rewatch and skip all the emotional scenes so i can focus on the rest of the show's message!

i think where we differ is that i like a more subtle type of acting. overacting is much more egregious to me than underacting. if joel had been sobbing or screaming his head off i would've been like.... 🤨 also it's worth pointing out that riley is a bit older than ellie and she's getting ready to do this very adult thing (essentially being deployed for war), so she's not in the same headspace as ellie is for most of the night. ellie is excited that her best friend just came back into her life, she's doing all these incredible fun things, and she's got butterflies in her tummy ;-; but riley knows what this night is really about. she's just trying to give ellie a good time, she's not focused on her own feelings yet. if everything had gone as planned, riley would've walked ellie back to the dorm, left boston, and then probably would break down and feel all her feelings when she's alone. i don't think she ever expected ellie to kiss her or for their relationship to go past friendship, so she didn't even bother getting hopeful about it. it's possible that i'm projecting a lot onto riley because this is exactly how i act when i'm interested in someone lol. sometimes i over-correct so hard that it seems like i don't like you at all, let alone feel romantic feelings towards you 😭

but either way i love talking about tlou in any capacity so please always feel free to share your thoughts!!!

[witchbydavidcain]

Witch by David Cain Prologue part one    I have been writing this book because I believe my wife is a witch. Our history together has provided ample evidence to conclude that she has and uses magical powers. I’ve seen too much, been a party to too many weird things, to deny the supernatural qualities of our experiences together.

   Looking back on the years I’ve shared with her, armed with twenty-twenty hindsight, I suspected that she was a witch from the very beginning, on the very first day we met. Nothing that has happened since has persuaded me otherwise, in fact, most of what has happened confirmed my suspicions.

   In a way, I should have been flattered; she showed me who she was right away, revealed her true form, bared the witch within, so to speak. Having been with her all these years, I realize now that she has never shared her true identity like that with anyone else. From the start, I was different. I like that.

   I wasn’t thinking about her in those terms yet; I wasn’t ready to begin accusing anyone of anything. I say I was suspicious but honestly, I never dreamed that she was really a witch. I didn’t think anyone was really a witch. I wasn’t open to the idea. I dismissed the connections, the visions and coincidences, just assumed the strange things that had happened were the result of an overactive imagination, fueled by the usual assortment of cocktails, beers, being under-fed and over-tired. I wrote off the experiences as a short bout of madness. Assuming that I was wrong made far more sense to me than the idea of her being a witch. Insanity made more sense to me than supernatural powers.

   I call her a witch but that may not be what she is. Witches aren’t the only ones with supernatural powers so having powers doesn’t necessarily make her a witch, but you know what I mean. She’s clearly formed in the shape of a human being; she spends her days doing ordinary human things.

   I don’t think she’s an alien or some other kind of supernatural being. I don’t think she shows any signs of possession. I haven’t seen her shape-shifting or anything dramatic like that. I suppose she might be a sorceress, a wizard, or a high priestess in some dark occult religion, perhaps. I’m just going to call her a witch. The title suits her. I can wrap my head around that.

   The thing is, the reason I’m writing all this down, is that lots of strange stuff has happened since I met her and I want to make a record of it, just in case. Sometimes it scares me senseless. I don’t know what I mean.

   If something should happen to me, I was going to say, but I don’t think anything bad is going to happen. Our time together has been phenomenally good.  I would have to say that spending time with a witch has been very beneficial.

   I guess I’m trying to make a record, in case some one needs to understand what has been going on with her. I’ve been a front-line witness to years of witchy behavior. I just think I should write it all down.

   At the very least, it’s an interesting story. Maybe that’s why I want to write it down, because I don’t have anyone I can tell my story to. I’ve been alone with the knowledge. I can’t even imagine who I’d seriously discuss this with. They’d think I was crazy or laugh at me. Married to a witch. I’m dying to tell someone about it but I’m going to keep my mouth shut, for my own good. This will have to do.

   Let’s get one thing straight: I’m not calling her out, not accusing her, not trying to bring her to justice or salvation or whatever I would be doing if I made her witchiness public. So I haven’t called any church elders; I haven’t been in contact with a witch hunter. Nor have I forbidden her from cleaning the house using magic. I’m quite happy, being married to a witch. It’s very nice.

   I joked about the house cleaning but from what I’ve gathered witchcraft doesn’t work that way. She can’t just cast a quick spell and make the house clean or transformed into a medieval castle. That would be a good trick, of course, but that would be more of a Jeannie sort of thing. Witches are subtle in their use of power, certainly more subtle than that. They don’t make things happen as much as they smooth the path that leads wherever they want to go. They help or hinder.

   I’ve seen a few weird things but I’m never going to prove anything using undocumented visual evidence. If I’d taken pictures or video or something, we could talk but eye witness accounts aren’t reliable. I have to be realistic; I may have been seeing things that weren’t there. Visual evidence is not a big part of my case, anyway; I wish it were. If I had seen more unexplainable things, it might not have taken me so long to reach my conclusion. That said, I have seen some weirdnesses.

   My case is an accumulation of things I’ve seen, heard and experienced. It is an incomplete record of the events that transpired; lots of stuff may have happened that I don’t know anything about. Although I live with her, I can’t pretend to know everything she does magically. All I can attest to is what I’ve witnessed, what I’ve seen, heard and felt.

   For what that’s worth. I’m not sure I’m a good witness or even a reliable one. Not just because I don’t always pay attention to details and miss lots of things that go past me. I think she messes with my mind, so even what I know is suspect. It isn’t a great place to start but it will have to do.

   I’ve never seen anything float or magically blink into or out of existence. I haven’t heard any objects talk or seen anything suddenly transform from one thing into another. Just to be clear, there haven’t been any parlor tricks, no stage-type magic, no bright balls of light and big bangs. Nor does she ever wave a wand. I don’t even think she has one. There is a stick on her witch shelf but I don’t think that proves much of anything.

   What I have seen, let’s say, that might prove she is a witch, has been her success. It seems like luck is always on her side. She can do things that I’m not sure she should be able to do, things I know I couldn’t do. There are lots of things I can’t do, but she does things I don’t think anyone could do. She has a knack for doing the right thing at the right time in the right way to accomplish the right result. It’s uncanny.

   She can foresee the future, too often for it to be mere coincidence; she always seems to make lucky guesses, always has the right cards, so to speak. She knows things, things she shouldn’t be able to know, like who’s going to win or what exactly I’m thinking.

[palaeophilist]

the day after peter died

I haven’t cried. 

Tears have welled up. Talking with my mom. I don’t know what she said exactly, but for a moment, I thought: I will cry. But I didn’t. Death sort of hangs heavy, like a cloud, a veil between me and the world. It makes me think and feel horrible things like, none of this matters. I feel so empty with the thought that all the sweetness of all those moments means so little. It just goes up in a flash, in smoke. 

What do you do with the love that wants to reach out and find them safe on this planet? It stretches out to touch, but they are like a hologram, your hand moving past their visage and into nothingness. 

So instead of crying, I’m listening to Pedro the Lion sing, 

Wouldn’t it be so wonderful if everything were meaningless? But everything is so meaningful and most everything turns to shit. Rejoice.

I want to make sense of it. I want to make sense of how senseless it is. How a man can be alive one moment and gone the next. How we can hold bits and pieces of one another. How it feels to know that the love he had for me is gone, too. We didn’t leave things awful, but there were moments to connect that I chose not to connect. The last conversation I had with him was about who I am becoming, and he seemed happy for me, and I felt betrayed to learn that he talked about it later, even though I don’t think maybe he meant any harm by it. I feel sour that the last things that I felt about him were frustration. I feel sour that there’s no time for any more healing or reconciliation. I feel sad that time changes closeness to distance, if you’re not careful.

I think about “never enough time with the people you love” and feel grateful that I was able to be someone who loved him. I think about being “grateful to be alive at the same time” because how wild that any of us are, that any of us have any real opportunity to know anyone, and be known.

I think about all the letters we sent and how I was convinced that all the words that I had to write to him were so important, but they were mostly just me managing an undiagnosed anxiety disorder, and he just loved me, so he never minded that I sent him all of my thoughts in so much disarray. He not only never minded; he loved it.

I think about Lina, and how it must feel to have shared so, so, so much with him throughout the years. To have tried to love him with all her might. To have had to walk away to grow. How devastating it is to lose someone that you have loved so wholly and completely. 

I think about how complicated it feels to reach out to people who you’ve lost touch with, and how it feels to tell them, hey, I love you and you matter even though we don’t talk anymore. I think about how complicated it feels to tell people that someone that you both loved has died. People say, I was just thinking about him. People say, I meant to reach out. People say, I was just sharing a story he told me. People say, he was so special

I think about how inadequate it feels to be so numb about it. 

I think about skinny dipping together in the ocean, going out to the cliffs to watch the sunrise, taking photos in pretty places, foot massages with vanilla scented lotion, the giddiness he felt when we sat out on the tennis courts and he introduced me to Lina, him playing all those same songs on the guitar, like the Verve, and Eric Clapton, and playing Counting Crows on the piano, and about sitting close to one another watching movies, and him piercing my elbow just because, and just so many, many letters. I think about him baking bread. I think about him putzing around in the garage while I visited with Lina. Sitting on the porch until the wee hours. Trying out chewing tobacco. Being frustrated with his obsessive thinking about Lina. Feeling disappointed when he stood me up for New Years that one time. The first time that we met and he picked me up from the airport and felt so awkward that I didn’t know “the Pumpkins” were the “Smashing Pumpkins,” and how happy he was when Wendell came. How odd it feels to have all these precious moments sitting by themselves in this paragraph, as though I’ve reduced him to a paragraph. What I mean is that he was the sweetest part of my young adult life. What I mean is that he is an inner ring of my tree who my life formed around. I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know how to excavate what that means. I regret that I didn’t do it sooner, when I could’ve told him, or who knows? Maybe I did. Maybe he knew. I hope so, but it doesn’t really matter now, does it.

[geralts-yenn]

Soooooo...There's so much I wanted to tell you about that chapter, I really had to take my time…

As we're already used to by now, you set the tone of the story right at the beginning. August is such a perfect dom, reassuring and taking pressure from me. I feel so secure just by reading this. Great!

“What if I can’t do it?” He instantly knows what you’re referring to, of course, and a smile spreads across his face. “Then it’s not happening. There’s a million other ways for us to enjoy our favorite little toy.”

asfkjlafjkfhgl, thank you, Daddy! Yeah, I said it!

Then - the teasing by these two guys. Probably the best part for me. I love it! Their chemistry is absolutely perfect.

“Did he, now?”…“August, why don’t we want her to look like a whore?”

I laughed out loud and at the same time I was extremely turned on. I guess that's a first.

“August, do me a favor,” Marshall growls as he jerks your shoulders around so you’re mostly laying on your stomach, “smack her for me. Can’t stand this squirming.” August is happy to oblige, and you shriek at the rough impact of his palm on your ass. “Thanks,” Marshall says before taking another sip of his drink, and August chuckles. “My pleasure,” he says. “Not mine,” you growl, “it was his fault!” You point at August and scowl at Marshall, who raises his eyebrows at you.

That conversation is pure gold! I love them!

The smut part is extraordinary. And thank you for gifting me a new kink! Being tied up to a coffee table wasn't on my list until now, but damn, that melted my brain. In a very, very good way.

And this:

The sight alone is enough to bring you to the edge, but watching him reach into his jeans, stroking his cock, getting off on seeing you like this… That’s just too much to handle.

asafklfjfhjf, yes please! I love how August is part of this, it feels very intimate.

You’re tied to the fucking coffee table, and there’s nothing you can do to stop either one of these guys from doing whatever they want to you. You really are a lucky girl.

That last sentence 😆 I am! I definitely am!

“August, she keeps telling me to stop,”…“I can’t work like this.”…“Want me to shut her up?”

The two of them together is just so fucking awesome. I love them! Both of them! So much!

You hear the familiar sound of a belt buckle being undone, and you moan loudly around August’s cock when you realize what’s next. Soon, you feel the tip of Marshall’s cock push into you, and you moan again. Marshall’s hand is still on your throat, and you feel him pull you down slightly as he sinks deeper into your pussy. The growl that escapes him makes you shiver.

I have to agree with @fvckinghenrycavill (I enjoyed your comment almost as much as this story, Sally!) This is so hot, it's making me absolutely speechless. I'm done, this is smut heaven.

Fingers dig into your hips, your shoulders, your thigh. August’s lips move against the skin of your neck so gently it’s almost a ridiculous contrast with the way you’re being fucked senseless right now. When you lean your head back, it hits August’s shoulder, and frees up space for Marshall to kiss the other side of your neck. He never stops thrusting up into you, though. Every move they make is erratic, you’re getting closer with every thrust, and judging from the sounds they are making; so are they.

I mean I could quote every sentence of that story, because it's just everything that I want to praise. But this one, oooof, this is so, so, so hot!

“You get off on Daddy watching you ride my cock, don’t you?” The extra effort you put in now that August is watching the two of you hasn’t escaped Marshall’s attention. “Yes, Sir.”

And when I thougt you couldn't make this story any better you bring up Marshall's feelings. Starting here:

“And then I want both of you in the shower with me,” you say. It’s your turn to be stern about this. Marshall can be very good at not stepping on any toes, and last time you were all together he did exactly that, but at the expense of his own needs. Never again. Not on your watch, anyway.

I love this part. It's so wonderful how they all care for each other. Marshall trying not to be an intruder in their relationship, but me making sure that he gets the care he needs!

“I love you.” He says it like he’s committed a crime – a particularly grueling one, at that – and you can’t help but look at him in surprise. Does he think this is new information to you? He’s never said it out loud, but it’s so obvious from everything he does…

I was afraid for a second about August. Because, I have to admit: I fell in love with Marshall, too. Very much. But I wouldn't want to lose August either. But as your brain always comes up with the things my heart desperately needs, you gave me such a wonderful ending.

You honestly thought I’d let you near her if you didn’t love her?” You can’t explain how glad you are to hear him say that. It makes admitting to yourself that you love both of them a lot easier for you.

How can such a shameless piece of filth be so fluffy? Amazing!

Under Orders - Part 3

Masterlist

Part 1 🔹Part 2🔹Part 3

Pairing: Dom!Marshall x reader x Dom!August

Summary: The long-awaited weekend with both of your guys has finally arrived...

Word count: 7.6k

Warnings: NSFW, SMUT, 18+, MINORS DNI, BDSM, D/s dynamic (technically D/s/D), praise kink, bondage, oral sex (f receiving) (m receiving, face fucking), p-in-v sex (unprotected, creampie), anal sex (toys, fingering, p-in-a) (f receiving) (unprotected, anal creampie), double (and technically triple) penetration, slight hurt/comfort, use of pet names/titles (Daddy, Sir, princess, kitten, sweetheart, love and darling), established relationship, extra light dacryphilia, spanking, voyeurism, exhibitionism, slight humiliation/degradation, slight objectification, bratty behavior, punishment/funishment, Also check-ins, aftercare and some polyam vibes... Tell me if I missed any because... Yeah, it's a lot.

A/N: Alright! You were all promised a weekend with both of your men and oh boy, it's here and it's a LOT. I had a ton of fun writing this. I think we're done now, but I'll keep these guys in mind in case inspiration strikes at some point...

@geralts-yenn @deandoesthingstome @keanureevesisbae @fvckinghenrycavill @peaches1958 @know1udno @dedicated-to-mr-cavill @7eamfan7asy @ylva-stark @summersong69 @kingliam2019 @mayloma @sloppyzengarden @youve-yeed-yer-last-haw @sillyrabbit81 @ellethespaceunicorn @liveoncoffeeandflowersss

You have to get dressed because ‘Marshall is coming over to watch the game', which is bullshit; they just want an excuse to have you sit pretty and get wet for the first part of the night. With a bit of luck – just a teensy little bit – it’ll mean lots of ‘pre-game’ cuddles for you.

The downside: you have to pick something to wear that will rile both of your guys up without making it seem like you dressed up for one or the other – which means your whole wardrobe is entirely useless. It’s a massive luxury problem you’re having, for sure, but it’s still a problem, and it’s still going to need a solution.

August finds you in front of your dresser, surrounded by a few tiny piles of expensive lace. He leans nonchalantly in the doorway, looking at you with one eyebrow raised, and a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” There is a hint of amusement in his voice that makes you want to lunge for his throat – but you don’t. Instead, you decide to go with the truth. Anything else would be a massive mistake, considering the night you’re about to have. So you get up, and fall down on the bed with a sigh, which is enough to prompt August to come over and sit next to you.

“I’m nervous,” you say softly, as if you’re embarrassed. You aren’t – not consciously, anyway. If there’s one thing you’ve learned, it’s that you love having them both near you, but if any of your hunches regarding the events of this evening are right, you’re in for a wild ride. It’s definitely anxiety-inducing. You can tell August swallows a chuckle when you tell him about your concerns – not because he thinks your fears are funny, but because he thinks they’re silly.

“I promise we’ll keep you safe, darling.” He leans in to kiss you. It’s just a soft peck on your lips, but it really helps settle your nerves. Your voice is stronger, steadier, now that you’re slightly calmer, and you tell him that’s not what you’re worried about, per se.

“What if I can’t do it?” He instantly knows what you’re referring to, of course, and a smile spreads across his face.

“Then it’s not happening. There’s a million other ways for us to enjoy our favorite little toy.” He says it so casually, as if he isn’t comparing you to a lifeless object to be used for his pleasure – well, his and Marshall’s. You hide your face in the duvet as he says it, knowing he can tell you’re turned on by it.

“Do you want me to help you pick something?” He asks when you will yourself out of hiding again, and he seems surprised when you shake your head.

“No, I want you to make a decision for me, Daddy,” you say softly, shifting positions so that your head is in his lap. August thinks about his answer for a moment before apparently deciding he’s willing to help you out.

“Shower, shave, hair, make-up.” Absolutely not a request – and also very clear instructions that are easy to follow, and that’s exactly what you were hoping for. You immediately get off the bed and make your way to the bathroom.

“Oh, and darling,” he says just before you’re out the door, “no red lipstick. It makes you look like such a whore.” You know he’s teasing you – he likes red lipstick on you on occasion, he’s just telling you he prefers something… sweeter for tonight. Still, something inside you feels the desperate need to just disagree.

“But, Daddy,” you say innocently, “what if I want to look like a whore?”

“I don’t think my orders are up for debate, kitten,” he says sternly.

“Pink isn’t going to make me look like any less of a slut when it’s smeared all over my face and your cock.” Your innocent voice has disappeared, and your statement is completed by the most challenging eyes you can conjure up. It takes everything you’ve got to not lose control of that gaze when August gets up and paces to you.

“Darling, Sir may enjoy this attitude, but if you keep this up with me, you won’t be able to sit by the time he gets here.” There’s a large, warm, incredibly distracting hand at the back of your neck, its thumb effortlessly stroking up and down your throat, reaching all the way across it with ease. Before he speaks again, that hand tightens slightly, making you gasp: “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you answer, and the pressure around your throat disappears again.

“Good girl.”

You take your time in the bathroom, and when you’re finally done and ready to come out, August is laying on the bed, reading a book. As soon as he sees you, he puts it away and sits at the edge of the mattress, signaling you to come closer.

He gives you a quick once-over once you’re in front of him – the ultra-light version of a genuine inspection – and nods approvingly. Your eyes widen in anticipation when you see your favorite toy laying on the bed. August pulls you in so you’re standing between his knees, and kisses the naked skin of your stomach softly.

You chuckle as the coarse hair of his mustache tickles you, and he hums softly when he hears it. Suddenly, his hand lands on your ass. It’s a playful smack, but he’s strong, so it still hurts quite a bit.

“Get on the bed, darling,” he says as he taps the mattress. You know he likes to watch you as you prepare yourself for the plug – which has become second nature by now, anyway – and you put on a bit of a show for him.

“Kitten, don’t get in trouble before Marshall even gets here,” August says, laughing at your suddenly somewhat scared expression. “Put that where it belongs and get dressed, my angel.” He gives you a soft kiss and another playfully harsh slap on your ass that leaves your cheek stinging.

You look at the things he’s picked for you. You don’t recognize what he’s laid out, but it’s absolutely perfect. He gives you a quick wink before leaving the bedroom, and you smile. August knows how to spoil his girl – it’s astounding how often new lingerie is part of the program. You quickly do as he asks and make your way downstairs just as Marshall steps through the door.

“Hey,” he says as he gives you a hug. He can’t seem to help himself: his hand lightly squeezes your ass while he hugs you, and you laugh. The skirt you’re wearing is short, so his fingers slip underneath the fabric without really even trying. “How are you feeling?” It can be annoying to have to explain everything twice, but tonight you’re grateful they’re both checking in on you.

“A little nervous,” you admit to him with the same hint of shyness in your voice as when you talked to August. Marshall also reassures you that you’re in good hands. Of course you know that. In fact, you’ve never doubted that for even so much as a second, but that doesn’t make the nerves go away. Marshall studies your face for a moment until he’s satisfied nothing else is wrong.

“Pink,” he says softly as he slowly drags a finger along your bottom lip. “I would have preferred red.” You can hear August chuckle from the kitchen, and you pout at Marshall.

“Daddy said it makes me look like a whore.”

“Did he, now?” Marshall raises his eyebrows. You chuckle at the amused expression on his face. Marshall wraps an arm around you and walks you over to the kitchen, where August is getting a drink. “August, why don’t we want her to look like a whore?” He pulls you in front of him, locking his arms around you from behind firmly: escaping him is impossible. August walks over and grabs your hips below Marshall’s arms. You hum when he steps towards you. It’s a very nice feeling, being sandwiched between your men like this. August thinks for a moment before answering Marshall’s question.

“You know my preferences, Marshall,” he says with a smug smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You know mine, Walker,” Marshall retorts, making both you and August laugh softly as you exchange glances. The lingerie you’re wearing is definitely more up Marshall’s alley than August’s. Marshall catches on immediately.

“Now I’m very curious to find out what’s underneath this…” This time he slips his hands underneath your skirt on purpose. August reassures him he’ll like it. It doesn’t help his patience, but you tell him to stop, earning yourself an approving look from August while Marshall whines like a kid – it’s really funny.

“Now you won’t let him look?” August teases before he kisses you. When he steps away, you laugh.

“Well, Daddy, Sir, either you two were planning on having me as your halftime show, or you’re not the men I thought you were.” You can tell from the look the guys share that you’re right.

The three of you get comfortable on the couch; August sprawled out on the chaise, your legs entwined with his, while you snuggled into Marshall’s side. Between the plug and the two pairs of hands roaming your body freely, you find yourself squirming all the way through the first half. So much, that Marshall is already losing his patience. Fortunately for you, his arms aren’t long enough to reach to your ass comfortably. Unfortunately for you, they’re both here tonight.

“August, do me a favor,” Marshall growls as he jerks your shoulders around so you’re mostly laying on your stomach, “smack her for me. Can’t stand this squirming.”

August is happy to oblige, and you shriek at the rough impact of his palm on your ass.

“Thanks,” Marshall says before taking another sip of his drink, and August chuckles.

“My pleasure,” he says.

“Not mine,” you growl, “it was his fault!” You point at August and scowl at Marshall, who raises his eyebrows at you.

“Are you blaming Daddy for your squirming, darling? I don’t think that’s fair.” He looks at August. “Do you?”

“I think she can either be a good girl and take this,” August replies, and he softly strokes your leg all the way up your thigh, “or you can be a good girl and take something far more severe.” That’s your cue to scowl at August as well. They both laugh at your reaction and continue touching you until you can’t wait for half-time any longer.

When it finally rolls around, August orders you to stand up and take off your skirt and top. To your surprise, Marshall turns off the TV.

“Aren’t you going to…” You don’t get to finish your question.

“We thought we shouldn’t make you suffer through the second half,” Marshall says. You’re just glad it wasn’t a particularly exciting game. They definitely would have finished watching it if it were. You rolled your eyes at the thought. Men. Incorrigible, as always. Marshall carefully tests the coffee table with his foot.

“How sturdy is that thing?”

“Strong enough to support her weight,” August answers offhandedly, but with a suspiciously sly smile. You flash a more embarrassed one when you remember how you both got that first-hand knowledge.

“Sit,” August gestures to the table, “spread your legs.” You do as you’re asked, immediately. For the first time, Marshall takes a moment to appreciate the underwear you’re in.

It’s not a color August prefers on you – too dark for his tastes – but Marshall seems to love it. Your heart rate quickens as you sit there awaiting further instructions, but you don’t get any. The only thing August says is a reminder that you are their halftime show.

“Or should I tell you what not to do?” Marshall winks as he says it. You smile back at him while you lean back a little and drag a hand from your knee to your thigh. The guys exchange glances and then look back at you, waiting for you to make a move, but you’re frozen. It doesn’t take long before they’re both by your side, asking what’s wrong.

“It’s the nerves,” you sigh, wishing they wouldn’t give you a choice. And it looks like your prayers are answered when Marshall yanks your panties down and sticks them in his back pocket.

“I know you can put on a show for me, love,” he says, reminding you – again – of the last time you were together, “now, if you don’t start playing with that pretty pussy soon, you won’t get to do so at all. And for the love of God, stop squirming.” Your nerves quiet down as soon as you’re told what to do.

“Am I allowed to come, Sir? Daddy?” The guys exchange looks again when you ask and August steps up for this one.

“Sure,” he says, which seems to surprise Marshall.

“Oh?” He raises his eyebrows at August, who pulls his face into a smug grin.

“Yeah, why not?” he says. “Better make them count, though.” Oh, that doesn’t sound good.

“What are you thinking, Walker?”

“I’m thinking five for every orgasm she has,” August says. That’s definitely not good. Or maybe it is, you haven’t decided yet.

“Each side?” August nods in reply, and Marshall considers that for a moment. “Not ten?” He seems vaguely disappointed, but also looks on board with the idea.

“She’s been good,” August answers plainly, and Marshall agrees with him.

It does something to you when they talk about you like you’re not there. Even when they talk about spanking you every time you come. They get back on the couch and look at you as you slowly open your legs again.

You can clearly feel your pulse between them, and you know there’s no way in the world you’re not soaking wet right now. Leaning back on one arm, you raise your feet, putting them on the edge of the table, spreading yourself wider as you run your fingers through your folds.

It’s tempting to just tease a little before giving up, but they’ll never go for that in a million years. They both groan when you bite your lip and look at them. One finger slides into your slick core with ease, and adding a second is no problem, either.

“What’s your problem with the squirming?” August asks Marshall as they’re looking at you. The sudden conversation gives you the same feeling as before, and the urge to please them gets stronger with every move your hands make.

“I’m not sure. Makes me want to tie her down,” Marshall replies to the question. He sounds rather indifferent, but you know he isn’t. Before August introduced you to Marshall, you’d tried some light bondage with him, but it was nothing compared to what Marshall introduced you to. August likes seeing you restrained – Marshall loves tying you up.

“Why don’t you?” The way August says it makes it sounds like an invitation – or you hope it’s an invitation so much that your mind is starting to play tricks on you. Either way; every cell in your body screams with joy at the thought of being tied to the table you’re sitting on. Marshall doesn’t answer, but he gets up from the couch to get something from his bag – and that’s all the confirmation you need.

“Keep touching yourself, darling,” he says to you as he starts securing your ankle to your thigh. You watch Marshall work for only a minute; you know what he looks like when he does this. The concentration on his face, the excitement in his eyes.

You’ll probably get to see it again the next time you spend time with him. What you don’t get to see too often, however, is August as he watches you being tied down to his coffee table by his best friend. His eyes are on you, full of adoration, his breaths are heavy and low growls escape him every few seconds.

The sight alone is enough to bring you to the edge, but watching him reach into his jeans, stroking his cock, getting off on seeing you like this… That’s just too much to handle. You finish hard, and at first you don’t think about the punishment you just earned yourself – until you hear both men laughing.

“That’s five,” August says, looking at Marshall to see if he wants to do something about that immediately.

“She can get them later, I’m not untying her,” is the gruff answer. Marshall secures your other leg, before pushing you onto your back and fixing both of your legs to the coffee table, spreading them as far as is comfortable for you. Since your hands are free, you expect to be asked to continue playing with yourself, but reality has something far more cruel in store for you.

“August,” Marshall asks, a wide grin spreading across his face, “that agreement about the punishment for each orgasm. Does that apply only to the ones she causes herself?”

“I believe I used the words ‘five for every orgasm she has’.” Your eyes are already begging, but you know it’s not going to work.

“Hm. Thought so,” Marshall replies. You don’t like the look in his eyes at all. Before you can decide whether opening your mouth would be brave or stupid – although you should know by now that it’s most definitely very, very stupid – you’re already speaking.

“I thought he was the sadist,” you point at August, who raises an eyebrow in such a way that makes you instantly regret the way you talked about him. And the pointing, you definitely regret that, too. The sting of two sharp smacks on your ass makes you shriek.

“I think it’s best if you don’t talk about Daddy – or me – like that, darling,” Marshall says. Tears sting behind your eyes, still from the impact. He really hit you hard.

“I’m sorry, Sir. Sorry, Daddy,” you say in a small voice. You let your head hang back, over the edge of the table, and just wait.

At first, nothing happens, and the anticipation makes you strain against the ropes that keep your legs in place. Suddenly, rough fingers stroke your wet pussy, and you gasp. Two of them push into you with ease, and just a few strokes – executed with precision – are enough to have you moaning loudly.

It’s only a matter of time before Marshall’s beard tickles between your legs, and you feel his hot breath on your skin. Do you want him to eat you out? Yes, absolutely. He’s so good at it, and it’s going to be absolutely amazing. On the other hand; he’s going to be so mean to you, and you’re going to get so punished when you come…

For a moment, you think about it as if you have a choice, and then you realize you don’t. You’re tied to the fucking coffee table, and there’s nothing you can do to stop either one of these guys from doing whatever they want to you. You really are a lucky girl.

Marshall’s tongue is warm and soft, especially compared to his beard, which is kind of rough against your skin. You gasp when he slowly licks every inch of your pussy before settling at your clit. He works that special spot with deadly precision, knowing exactly what you need, exactly when you need it. It’s amazing.

You’re moaning and swearing, begging him to stop, but you know he won’t. It’s almost impossible to move your hips, but that doesn’t stop you from instinctively trying to grind against his mouth. Eventually, it’s the sound of August’s moans and grunts that take you right to the edge again.

“Stop, please, Sir,” you beg, “I can’t. I’m going to… Please stop!” For a moment, you think it worked, because his mouth disappears.

“August, she keeps telling me to stop,” he says with a devious tone to his voice you don’t recognize – although it doesn’t take a genius to realize it can’t be a good thing, “I can’t work like this.”

By the time you’ve raised your head to look at what is going on, August has left the couch and has made his way to where your head hangs over the edge of the table. You’re screwed – in the best possible way, probably.

“Want me to shut her up?” August asks. The guys laugh as you protest the idea, and you earn yourself a few more sharp smacks to your behind for squirming. You know what’s going to happen, and you’re more than looking forward to it, but you’re not necessarily in a very comfortable position.

“My neck,” you whisper softy, and August immediately moves away, grabbing you a blanket to use as padding between your neck and the sharp edge of the table.

“Better, kitten?” he asks as he gently strokes your cheek. You nod – which feels weird, since you’re practically upside down – and he smiles at you.

“Yes, thank you, Daddy.”

Marshall’s mouth easily finds its way back to your clit, but this time August makes sure you can’t beg him to stop what he’s doing anymore. You raise a hand to his thigh – just in case – and part your lips so he can push his cock into your mouth. August gives you a moment to get used to him before he gently pulls out and slides back. He’s careful at first, but he knows you can take him all the way down in this position, and it doesn’t take long for him to pick up the pace.

“That’s it, good girl,” August says, “you’re doing amazing.” Your cheeks heat up when you hear his words, and for a moment you’re distracted from Marshall, who is still going down on you and doesn’t seem inclined to try anything else anytime soon. You just know he won’t stop until you come.

The good news is; you won’t last long. Between Marshall giving head and August fucking your throat – there’s really no reason to try to put a pretty description on that – you’re drowning in sensations, and you’re just one little nudge away from reaching your peak.

Marshall makes it happen when one of his heavy arms travels up your body, reaching for your throat. He doesn’t grab you, just gently lays his hand down, thumb softly stroking the side of your neck as August keeps using your mouth, but it’s enough to pull you over the finish line for the second time tonight. Marshall lets you ride out your high on his tongue, and then he withdraws – August doesn’t, although he does give you a moment to breathe.  

“So, that’s ten,” Marshall says. The amusement in his voice is more than clear.

You hear the familiar sound of a belt buckle being undone, and you moan loudly around August’s cock when you realize what’s next. Soon, you feel the tip of Marshall’s cock push into you, and you moan again. Marshall’s hand is still on your throat, and you feel him pull you down slightly as he sinks deeper into your pussy. The growl that escapes him makes you shiver.

“Fuck, look at that,” August grunts. He’s close, and the view can’t be helping him much right now. You know he loves watching you, whether you’re playing with yourself or getting railed by another guy doesn’t matter much. After a few more brutal thrusts, he warns you that he can’t take it anymore. He does it out of courtesy; it’s not as if you can pull away, he will, or you would want him to.

“She’s so fucking perfect,” Marshall growls and slams his hips against yours as August fills your throat with thick ropes of cum. It’s a struggle to swallow all of it, and you feel some spill out of the corner of your mouth. August makes sure that whatever you couldn’t take in on the first try ends up in your mouth anyway, and you chuckle as you hear him moan when you gently suck on his finger.

“You were right, princess, pink doesn’t make you look like any less of a slut when it’s smeared all over your face like this,” August says as he strokes your cheek. It has to be covered in black streaks from your mascara, and you just know he loves the way you look right now.

“This tight fucking pussy doesn’t help, either,” Marshall says through clenched teeth in between heavy breaths. “God, you’re such a perfect little fuck toy.” He grunts as he comes, sliding deep into you one last time. He takes a moment to admire what he’s done to you before he starts to untie you.

While Marshall puts the ropes away, August gathers you into his arms and carries you back to the couch. You curl up in his lap, resting your head on his chest, catching your breath while you’re listening to the fast beating of his heart. If this already has you worked up like this – something you’ve actually done before – then how are you ever going to survive what you’re actually trying to achieve tonight?

“Good girl,” August groans into your ear as he traces the marks the ropes left on your legs, “you looked so pretty, princess. You’re so perfect.” His praise relaxes you, and you melt into his arms. It doesn’t take long for Marshall to join you, and you lean your head back against his chest. Having both of them hold you like this makes you wish they’d never leave, that you’d always get both of them, but you’re afraid that’s just going to be a fantasy forever.

“So, darling, do you want them now, or all at once when we’re done?” Marshall whispers into your ear when he feels you’ve calmed down sufficiently. You scowl at him, then at August, but there’s going to be no escaping this punishment.

“Daddy,” you whine, but he just laughs.

“I didn’t think so, kitten.” He presses a kiss to the tip of your nose and smiles. “If you’re a smart girl, you’re going to answer Sir’s question before he decides to leave it to me. I don’t feel like hurting my hand spanking you, you know that.” Oh yeah, you know. The last time August spanked you, he used his belt, and you could barely sit for two days. If you let Marshall do this, you’re going to enjoy it at least a little. With August? No chance.

“I’ll take ‘em now,” you growl at Marshall, who raises an eyebrow in surprise.

“Not like that, kitten.” It’s August who calls you out on your behavior. “I think you’re going to ask Sir to spank you, and you’re going to ask nicely. Otherwise, I’m going to have to take over, after all.”

“Would you please spank me now, Sir?” you repeat, avoiding both Marshall’s eyes and August’s as you say it, mostly so you don’t accidentally give any more attitude. August chuckles. You know how much he loves making you ask for your punishment. You’re fairly sure the spanking you’re about to get won’t be the last of the evening, and taking all of them at once when you’re through with the planned program is definitely going to be too much.

You protest lightly while Marshall manhandles you into position, making him laugh. He loves a bit of resistance from you – as long as you’re not squirming. His hands are heavy on the back of your thighs, which are trembling in anticipation.

“Are you alright, love?” There’s genuine concern in his voice, and his hand gently massages your ass. You nod, and not long after, Marshall’s hand makes contact with your skin. He’s going easy on you – very easy – and you just know he’s doing it on purpose. It’s right there in that sweet spot between pleasure and pain that turns you on more than anything else, and slowly but surely, your nerves begin to fade. You let out a soft yelp with each slap, out of surprise and anticipation rather than agony. Without thinking, you move your hand to the base of August’s cock and wrap your fingers around him.

“Come closer, please, Daddy,” you say, and he doesn’t need to be told twice. Marshall isn’t spanking you so hard that you’re afraid you’ll involuntarily clench your teeth, so you consider it safe enough to suck August off. When Marshall is done, you try to crawl out of his lap, but he won’t let you.

“Got any lube on hand?” he asks August, and you’re immediately caught up on what he’s going to do to you next. You whine when he removes the plug you were still wearing and replaces it with his well-lubed fingers. After a while, he seems convinced it’s time for something else, and he orders you to sit on his cock. Of course, you happily oblige.

It’s possible that getting spanked while sucking August off has made you wetter than ever before, and you easily take Marshall all the way into your soaked pussy. He keeps working his fingers into you while he kisses you deeply. August seems to be looking for something else in the meantime, and it isn’t until Marshall lets you go that you can tell what it is. He’s holding a very recognizable, shiny foil square.

“Condoms?” you ask. It’s surprising; you never use condoms with either of them. This feels like a weird time to start.  

“Just in case we need to switch,” August says, “or want to.” For a moment, you want to ask what he means, but then you remember what you’re trying to do here. You take a deep breath when Marshall pulls his fingers out of you, trying desperately to relax when August’s cock slowly takes their place. Or rather tries to, because it’s not exactly smooth sailing at this point. Marshall raises his eyebrows at you when you swear under your breath, but you can’t help yourself. There’s no way this is going to work.  

“More lube, please Daddy,” you whine. Marshall let’s out a low growl; your walls are squeezing him tight as you tense up.

“Relax, love,” he murmurs into your ear, but you shake your head.

“I can’t, Sir. I- Wait,” you gasp. You know you can’t stand to try the same thing – and fail – again, so maybe it helps to change the strategy. Marshall protests when you lift yourself off his cock. Now that you’re not filled up already, August slides into your ass with ease – exactly the way you’ve grown accustomed to over the past few weeks. It takes you only a short moment to adjust and then you slowly sink back down onto Marshall.

Your mouth falls open, you can’t see straight, and there is absolutely no way you can stop yourself from swearing now. The boys are way too caught up in whatever they’re feeling to say anything about it. The sensation is overwhelming, and the feeling of victory when you finally sit all the way down is indescribable.

“Wow,” you choke out between ragged breaths.

“’Wow’ sounds about right,” Marshall snarls through gritted teeth. If he clenches his jaw any harder, you’re afraid he’s going to shatter his teeth.

“Doesn’t begin to cover it,” August says as he leans his forehead against your shoulder. You sit there for a while, getting used to the feeling of being filled by two cocks. And then August moves, and you see stars.

“Fuck!” you exclaim, digging your nails into Marshall’s shoulder. He hisses when you do it, and you give him an apologetic look. “Sorry, Sir.”

“It’s okay, baby,” he says before pressing a gentle kiss on your lips, “you’re doing amazing.”

“You really are, kitten,” August says. He strokes your hair out of the way and kisses your neck softly. “You’re taking us so well. Both of us. I’m so proud of you.” Their words make your heart swell with pride, but if you had to be perfectly honest; you’re pretty damn proud of yourself, too. The three of you take another minute to adjust to the intense sensations before anyone moves again.

This time, to your surprise, it’s you. You move slowly, careful not to overestimate yourself when you lower yourself back onto the two cocks that fill you up inch by inch until they’re both completely inside you. It’s a seriously tight fit, but it feels so good. The move of your hips become faster as you get used to the way Marshall and August stretch you out, and the moans and grunts that the guys let out follow suit. Soon, your own movements, which are fairly restricted by the position you’re in, aren’t enough.

“Fuck me,” you gasp, and you can tell from the way Marshall looks pasts you that they’re exchanging glances, unsure whether it’s a good idea.

“Are you sure, sweetheart?” August asks. The tone of his voice mimics the display of concern that is so clear on Marshall’s face.

“I’m sure,” you say. “Fuck me. I can handle it.”

That seems to convince them, because they both start moving; slowly at first, but picking up the pace as soon as they realize you weren’t lying. They can’t keep the same rhythm, which makes the entire experience rather interesting, and soon enough you feel your next orgasm building inside you. This one, you decide, is going to be so fucking worth it, there’s no way you’re going to even so much as try to deny yourself. Punishment be damned.

Fingers dig into your hips, your shoulders, your thigh. August’s lips move against the skin of your neck so gently it’s almost a ridiculous contrast with the way you’re being fucked senseless right now. When you lean your head back, it hits August’s shoulder, and frees up space for Marshall to kiss the other side of your neck. He never stops thrusting up into you, though. Every move they make is erratic, you’re getting closer with every thrust, and judging from the sounds they are making; so are they.

“Don’t stop!” You hope the words are something resembling intelligible between the moans that roll off your tongue freely, but it doesn’t matter much. “I’m comi- Fuck!”

Apparently the way your body tenses up from your orgasm is something the guys can’t handle: August sinks his teeth into your shoulder while Marshall throws his head back as he fills you up for the second time tonight. While August disappears to take care of some cleanup, Marshall pulls you down onto his cock and against his chest. You kiss his neck softly, earning you some appreciative moans.

“That was very impressive, darling,” he murmurs into your ear. “Do you think you can handle another round?” Another round? Your first instinct is to call him crazy, but considering the proposal for even a second sends shivers down your spine and makes your walls clench around Marshall’s cock. He chuckles when he feels the involuntary reaction of your body to his question.

“Come here,” he says as he moves you around so you’re in his lap with your back against him. He’s almost rough in his movements, impatient.

“Wait,” you say as you bend forward to grab the lube off the coffee table. You have to admit, August does a really good job making sure there’s always plenty in stock. Marshall applies a very generous amount before pulling your legs onto the edge of the couch. It’s genuinely surprising how easily his cock slides all the way into your ass.

“God, who would have thought that another cock was better prep than a few fingers?” You think you think it, but judging from the fact that Marshall laughs, you’ve actually said it out loud. It doesn’t matter; you laugh too – but only for a second. Marshall doesn’t waste any time, telling you to give him a sign if he hurts you and then taking off. His moves are far more gentle than they were a moment ago, but the feeling is no less intense – if you first divide everything you were going through about five minutes ago by two, that is.

In one of the rare moments when you can actually open your eyes, you see August, standing in the doorway. He’s biting his lip and stroking himself. Before you met August you didn’t have yourself pegged for someone with exhibitionist tendencies, but you have to admit; there’s just something you love about him watching you.

“You get off on Daddy watching you ride my cock, don’t you?” The extra effort you put in now that August is watching the two of you hasn’t escaped Marshall’s attention.

“Yes, Sir.” Almost mindlessly, you drop your hand between your legs and you finger yourself to within an inch of your next orgasm. You’re so close to the edge when something pulls your hand away: August.

“Do you want to help me come, Daddy?” He makes you shriek by shoving a few fingers – you’re not sure how many – inside you without warning. He doesn’t need to answer you; the way he curls them deep inside your pussy makes it abundantly clear that that’s exactly what he wants to do, and he does it so quickly that you’re not entirely sure whether you should be ashamed of it.

He keeps his fingers inside you while you ride out your high, but even when you’ve come down you whine when he pulls them out and holds them up to your mouth. Three fingers drum an impatient rhythm on your lower lip.

“Open up, princess,” he says, and you’re more than happy to obey him.

“Look at you, sweetheart,” Marshall groans in your ear, “licking my cum off Daddy’s fingers.”

With his fingers still in your mouth, August shoves his cock into your pussy. Your head falls back onto Marshall’s shoulder, and you moan loudly around August’s fingers. The different position and… configuration make everything feel different than before, but it’s at least as good. It doesn’t take long before you’re begging both of them to come inside  you, and it doesn’t sound like they’re far off.

It’s a good thing, because despite the fact that all of this feels absolutely glorious, you’re not quite sure just how much more of this you can take. Meanwhile, the boys seem to have entered into a petty contest to see who can last the longest, but it has them finishing at about the same time. They’re both growling in your ear as they fill you up completely, and they don’t move for a while after they come.

“August, move,” you say rather unceremoniously while pushing against his shoulder. He does as you ask, but gives you a quizzical look. “I really need to not have a dick up my ass right now.” Both of them laugh as you say it, and they help you get up – which is something you desperately need, because standing on your own is a challenge you’re not exactly up for anymore, especially considering the fact that you’re still wearing your heels.

Marshall’s hands grab your hips, and he tries to pull you back into his lap, but you resist him.

“No, I’m all sticky,” you say, but he doesn’t care.

“We’ll take care of that in a bit, okay?”

“Okay,” you murmur as you sink back onto his lap and lean against his chest. August sits down next to you and gently strokes your back while pressing soft kisses to your shoulder. None of you speak for a few minutes, until August suggests you take your minute in the bathroom, which you agree to.

“And then I want both of you in the shower with me,” you say. It’s your turn to be stern about this. Marshall can be very good at not stepping on any toes, and last time you were all together he did exactly that, but at the expense of his own needs. Never again. Not on your watch, anyway.

They seem more than happy to oblige, because once you’re done in the downstairs bathroom, they’re nowhere to be found on the ground floor. Once you make it upstairs, where you can already hear the water running, there’s no sign of Marshall. It’s just August, lying in bed, reading. You don’t have to ask the question; the look on your face is more than enough or him, and he points at the door to the bathroom and shrugs. A wave of anxiety hits you as you walk towards the door, and you just fiercely hope that Marshall is okay.

He is in the shower. His back is turned to you, but you can easily tell he’s tense. Without thinking, you join him. The water is colder than you’re used to, and your instinctive reaction gives away your whereabouts.

“I need both of you close to me right now, is that okay?” Marshall doesn’t look at you, and his behavior is starting to worry you. You’ve seen him drop before, and as much as you never want that to happen again, you doubt whether this is the same thing.

“I love you.” He says it like he’s committed a crime – a particularly grueling one, at that – and you can’t help but look at him in surprise. Does he think this is new information to you? He’s never said it out loud, but it’s so obvious from everything he does…

You’re pretty sure that there would be tears in his eyes if it wasn’t for the water crashing down on his head. “I’m afraid August is gonna be really mad at me for that.” Both of you turn around when you hear someone behind you laugh as if that’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard in his entire life – and knowing August, it probably is, or he wouldn’t be laughing like that.

“You think I didn’t know?” August casually leans against the shower wall before taking the final steps towards the two of you. “You honestly thought I’d let you near her if you didn’t love her?” You can’t explain how glad you are to hear him say that. It makes admitting to yourself that you love both of them a lot easier for you.

“I’m away half the time, Angel,” August says to you as he wraps his arms around you, “I like to know you’re taken care of by someone who loves you just as much as I do.” His eyes leave yours and he looks at Marshall before he continues: “Someone I can trust.”

You reach around Marshall to turn up the heat of the water, and both Marshall and August laugh.

“Why do you shower in lava?” August asks.

“Why do both of you shower in ice?” you retort.

“How about a compromise?” Marshall proposes, and you are all ears. “We’ll set the water temperature to something that doesn’t melt our skin off, and then we’ll keep you nice and warm?” You pretend to think about that for a moment, until two individual eyebrows are raised and you stick your bratty attitude right back where it belonged. Alright, most of it…

“Ok,” you say slowly, “but I demand to be kept warm all night. By both of you.” You add the last part mostly for Marshall. The last time the three of you spent time together, he’d gone home for the night, but you don’t want that now. He seems hesitant at first, but the look in his eyes disappears when August agrees – seemingly without even thinking about it. You can tell from the way he looks at Marshall that he’d meant everything he had just said.

After they have both agreed to your terms, they get to work on what they’d promised to do. Four hands roam your body freely, squeezing and lingering in all the places they know you love, somehow always finding their way inside you, teasing you until you feel that all too familiar feeling in your stomach. It’s a fantastic shower, without a doubt, it’s just that you doubt whether you’re getting much cleaner…

“Guys,” you say, “stop. I can’t take any more. Please, don’t.”

“Maybe we should listen,” August says, and Marshall raises his eyebrows in surprise. “After all, she still has an open tab for two.”

“Oh god, no. Not tonight,” you beg, “seriously, I…” You want to continue, but you’re shushed by both guys.

“Tonight is done, princess,” August says, “you’re done.” Suddenly, a wave of complete exhaustion washes over you that threatens to make your knees give out.

“It’s okay,” Marshall murmurs in your ear while he runs his hands over your back, “let’s get you to bed, okay?”

The guys get you ready for bed as if you have ‘handle with care’ tattooed on your forehead, and you smile all the way through it. They dry you off so carefully that you have to ask them to hurry up a bit, causing all three of you to laugh. Soon, you are in bed, which is a whole process of finding out which of whose limbs go where, but when you finally settle into a position that is comfortable for all three of you, you all sigh.

“Comfortable?” August asks, and you can’t do anything but nod and whisper the softest ‘yeah’ against his skin. He kisses your forehead just as Marshall does the same to your shoulder. “Good.”

[ghostwriterofthemachine]

MOBY DICK CHAPTER 54

So I actually got up to chapter 63 in this week's reading, and I'll get to those chapters soon (boy oh boy, will I), but I wanted to give the Town Ho's story its own post because

A) it's a long fucking chapter, and obviously means a lot to Ishmael b) holy moly there's a lot to unpack here

So first off, I suspect most of this story is even more BS than most of the rest of Ishmael's narration. Like. Yeah, dude? yeah? That's what you're going with? "Everyone heard some version of this story but the officers never learned the REAL, TRAGIC version because it was only told to Tashtego and the rest of the crew only found out about it because Tashtego talked about it in his sleep and then we pressured him to tell us the rest when he woke up and all agreed not to tell the captain or the officers." Nice try, but I believe the rambling not-prophet conveniently named Elijah before I believe that.

so with that in mind I am interested in the following things, in order of "funniest" to "most important to The Themes"

the fucking descriptions of the sailors and where they're from, oh my god

these obviously-fake Spaniards that Ishmael is not telling his fake story to

Oh man, Ishmael wants this whale to Mean Something so badly

Let's start with the funniest. Let me tell you, as someone who has known very many terrible people from Buffalo, NY, Ishmael's ode to the Great Lakes and the "lakemen" who live around them is hilarious. Less "wild-ocean born and wild-ocean nurtured" and more "stodgy asshole who deals with long winters via spite and overrated wings." But the contrast between the shimmering, golden, most AMERICAN kind of mariner (because the great lakes are like the oceans but INLAND IN AMERICA) Steelkilt and then the complete disdain he uses to describe the canallers as just the worst people you could ever meet. "Sailing anywhere makes you a worthy man, unless you sail the EERIE CANAL. UGH." Never mind that the Eerie canal fucking ended in Buffalo.

Second funniest: these Spaniards are not real. They're obviously not real. Their names are Don Pedro and Don Sebastian, which from my understanding is like saying you ran into two irishman O'Malley and O'Shaughnessy. All they do is call for more alcohol and go "oh, that can't be!" at Ishmael's story (which totally did not happen, which he did not tell), so that Ishmael can then go "oh ho ho! you silly european man! you know nothing of the american spirit!"

So, not only do these men not exist, I don't actually think Ishmael has talked to a Spaniard before, and he might actually not like Spain, because at the very least he portrays them as a bunch of pansies.

And, lastly, the most Thematically Relevant: God, fuck, Ishmael wants this whale to mean something so badly.

He tells this whole fake story to these fake people in order to set up Moby Dick as some bearer of divine justice or cosmic revenge, in this perfect story where a good man is hurt unjustly by a bad one and that bad man meets his end in a whale's stomach. Moby Dick raises out of the water to do The Will Of The Universe, because if the whale is the will of some higher being, the tragedy you can feel the whole crew sailing towards might also mean something. it might make sense in the scale of the greater narrative. it might be more than senseless death carried out in the name of a man fighting a whale he's decided embodies every bad thing about himself and the rest of the world.

But, Ishmael, babe, you already said it yourself — the whale isn't a metaphor. Its not a symbol. it's just a whale. and whales can't be evil, because that's not how animals work.

Sometimes, it doesn't mean anything, Ishmael. It's not the will of divine justice. You just picked a bad captain.

,,,,,,,fuck, god damn it. sometimes, I really do Get It with this book.