#would it be even half as gratifying? absolutely not

[rootbeerrex]

love love LOVE when a mutual reblogs something you posted / reblogged specifically thinking about them. quite possibly the greatest thing.

[swordsandholly]

Across The Way

Ch. 2: And So It Begins

Retired!Ghoap x fem!plus size!Reader

MDNI

Ao3 | Previous - Next

Word Count: 2.6k

Summary: You go to Scotland with high hopes for your future. After all, you have the bakery you always dreamed of and a whole new life to live. Plus, the men who own the butcher’s shop across the street seem nice.

A/N: I got this out a lot faster than I thought I would. Hopefully my work doesn’t get too insane and I can get the next out in a timely manner - it’s going to be a bigger one!

“You were right.” Simon carefully cuts through the loaf with a serrated knife. He’s never lost his skill with them, despite their uses becoming increasingly more domestic over the years. It’s charming, in a way - the juxtaposition of where they started and where they are now.

“Right about whit?” Johnny asks.

“She is a pretty little thing.”

“Donnae tell me I need tae be worried about ye sneakin’ off at work.” He jokes. Simon would never, of course, but it’s fun to see the way his cheeks heat up at the implication. Without his mask he wears every expression with reckless abandon.

Simon settles his large frame into the seat across from Johnny at the dining table. It’s small, they don’t need much. The chairs always creak under Simon’s weight in an almost threatening fashion. He pushes a plate with two pieces of the bread and some eggs over to Johnny. There’s an odd tug in his chest when he picks up the slice - an urge to be gentle as he spreads butter over it. Gentility is not a compulsion he feels often.

“S’good.” Simon mutters around his bite.

Johnny nods along after taking one himself. There’s love in it - he can tell. A piece carefully crafted with only absolute perfection in mind. How strange that food can carry such a feeling.

“Was a wee bit worried we’d be stuck across from the nicest, worst baker in the world.” He mutters.

Simon huffs out a half laugh.

~~~

Your first week goes by in a blur. For a small town they sure do manage to keep you busy. It’s good, you remind yourself. Better than none. If you keep it up at this rate you’ll be able to hire help by the end of the summer quarter.

By Monday, the first day of your “weekend”, you’re overdone. Head dizzy and body exhausted, you spend the day in bed. It’s a gratifying exhaustion, one you hope to build more of a tolerance for. As of now, though, you elect to remain deeply buried under the covers.

When you wake for a second time the sun is already near setting again. The entirety of Monday slunk by with you in bed. You grumble to yourself angrily like an old man. You wanted to unpack today - to at least get your clothes and kitchen items put away.

“Stupid.” You grouse. At least you still have time to shower, you suppose.

As you stand the world blacks out for a moment, your body swaying in place. You allow yourself to fall back on the bed, sitting while your vision slowly comes back into focus. Blinking away black dots and off squiggles that dance across your eyes. On attempt number two you manage it, making your way to the bathroom.

The work is worth it. The pain is worth it.

This is what you always wanted, after all.

You are happy. You can feel it in your bones. They’re lighter than they used to be - your whole body thrums with excited energy even as you have to lower yourself with the upmost care into the shower seat. Even as you have to scrape one of the cheap fold out chairs you managed to get over to the stove while you cook a late night dinner. Thank god for low counters.

When you were arranging your schedule it took a while to get it perfected. To compensate for your body you have to have time to rest and be able to do a lot of baking preparation before the work week starts. Monday and Tuesday are for rest. Wednesdays are for prep. The shop is closed but you’re in the back working your ass off mixing and kneading and shaping doughs. As well as practicing new recipes you want to add to the store’s line up eventually. Your goal is to sell American biscuits, preferably in batches of six, but those take a lot of work and don’t keep as long. They’ll have to wait until you have hired help.

It’s all chance and whatever you can manage to make happen. You learned to be okay with that, though.

You’ve got plenty of spoons, you tell yourself. Just need to use them wisely.

When you finally close the fridge, now fully stocked with dough ready to proof and bake, you check the clock. It’s still the early afternoon. You finished sooner than you assumed you might. The thought makes you giddy - makes you feel accomplished.

It makes you feel normal.

As you exit into the warm spring sun you take a moment. Ever since you arrived you haven’t been able to just stop. To just take everything in - let the foreign air fill your lungs and the aura of the town sink into your bones.

It’s a lovely little main street that you’re located on. The building to your left is a large family owned pharmacy (very convenient for you) and to your right is an empty brick building. It looks like a former post office, but from what you know the current post office is a few blocks down beside the grocers. It’s quaint, the lot of it.

Your eyes settle on the shop across from yours housed in a simple brick building painted white. The upstairs is an apartment much like yours, you think, but from what you know it currently remains empty. The sign above the door reads A Cut Above the Rest. You wonder if that was Simon or Johnny’s doing.

Would it be weird to go in? You suppose not, after all they came to yours. It’s only fair you give them some patronage as well. Plus you need to ask how the bread was. Hopefully they liked it - you realized halfway through the night that you didn’t even ask if they like sourdough before shoving it into their hands.

That thought kept you up later than you’d like to admit.

You look both ways down the street. This particular spot doesn’t have a crosswalk but the road is so dead even when the downtown is busy you figure it’s worth risking. The lack of danger doesn’t stop you from fast-walking across, though.

The shop’s old-fashioned door bell chimes prettily as you push it open. For a butcher it smells extremely clean - almost clinical. It’s small, with an L shaped display counter and a register at the end nearest the door. Packages of sausage links and the like hang on displays across the back wall. Beside the wooden saloon doors that lead behind the counter is a little dog bed with a very well crafted name plate reading Riley hanging right above it.

So cute.

“Afternoon.” Simon appears from the back, wiping his hands on a rag. You jump a little, so lost in taking in your surroundings you forgot what you came here for.

“H-hi!” You smile. You forgot how intimidating Simon is. His gaze levels you - pins you underneath him like a fly under a swatter. Maybe that’s a bit dramatic. “I thought I’d come check your shop out and ask how the bread was?”

“It was good.” He replies bluntly. Totally monotone. The corners of his eyes crinkle ever so slightly. You decide that’s it’s a smile - whether that’s the reality of his expression or not.

“It’s really nice in here.” You look around. There isn’t much for decoration. The walls are too covered in menus and diagrams of cuts to leave room for anything extra. There’s a shelf of odds and ends opposite the main counter full of high end mustards and condiments. Little things to go with whatever you could think to make out of the varieties of meat they offer.

“Thanks.” Simon nods. “One moment.”

You watch with curiosity and a slight frown as he makes his way into the back. He almost has to duck under the doorway. Old buildings with low ceilings and all that. The place definitely wasn’t made with a six foot plus behemoth in mind. You continue to look around, rocking back and forth on your heels. They have a perfect score on their inspectors plaque. You might not know Simon well, but he seems the type to be absolutely precise about everything. The score doesn’t surprise you.

Yours is almost perfect - some rules are different here than in the US. Next time, you swear you’ll get it top notch! You look across the street at your shop. You wonder if you made the wrong choice with The Honey Bun. It’s bit much now that you see it from afar but it still makes you smile. That’s what matters, you guess.

Simon comes back out with a small, nicely wrapped package. “You don’t ‘ave any dietary restrictions d’you?”

You shake your head and he pushes the package toward you. Your eyes widen - it’s a great cut of high end beef. Like, really good beef as far as you know. Something you’d never be able to afford even if your business wasn’t brand new. You stare between Simon and the little pack in your hands. “Th-this is so nice but I-“

“It’s only fair.” He cuts you off. “Neighbors, yeah?”

You can’t help the grin that splits your face, eyes misting up despite yourself. Kindness has not been a constant in your life - more of a rarity. Something you had to claw and fight to earn. Being given it so freely but such a taciturn man has you reeling just a bit.

“Thank you… I’ve got to head back but, uh, thank you. Really.” You press the small package to your chest. “Tell Johnny I said hi?”

“Course.” He nods.

“Thanks again!” You grin, giving a little two finger salute before practically skipping all the way back into your dingy little apartment. Happily, you pack away the meat to use later. It’s too nice to just make any dish out of - best to save it for a special occasion. Your first gift in your new life. Best to savor it.

~~~

“Afternoon, bonnie.” Johnny appears in your doorway while you sweep up from the Saturday rush, bell chiming upon his entrance. “Hope I’m not a bother.”

“Not at all.” You smile, resting the broom on the counter. “Hello to you as well, Miss Riley.”

She huffs out a quiet bark in reply, sitting dutifully at Johnny’s feet. You don’t have much experience with service dogs - other than the well known rule not to pet them while they’re working. They were always too expensive for you to get and your condition wasn’t labeled serious enough to warrant financial aid. (Despite the fact that you can, and have, passed out and hit your head on something hard.)

“Can I get you something?” You ask.

“Och, I’m a’right. Just wanted tae stop by an’ say hello before headin’ home.” He gives you that dashing, bright grin. “Simon always kicks me out of the shop at close.”

“He doesn’t need help?” You ask. Surely cleaning up a butchers shop is a huge task. You have your work cut out for you with all the flower - you can’t imagine cleaning that amount of blood and mess.

Johnny shrugs. “The cleaning chemicals trigger my migraines.”

You hum. “Well, you’re always welcome to stop by. Actually,” you turn on your heel, “I’ve got somethin’ I’d like you to try, if you want.”

“Never one to say no to food. Especially from a pretty girl.” Johnny says as he follows. He tells Riley to stay in front and she listens - the perfect little lady that she is. You nearly trip at his comment, keeping your back turned so that he hopefully doesn’t see the heat spreading from your face and down your neck.

“I-it’s, uh, you ever had American biscuits?” You ask, praying he doesn’t notice the shake in your voice. You have to get on your tip toes to reach the small basket you made the day prior - carefully lowering it and pulling back the gingham cloth you wrapped them in.

An image of home.

“Aye, had them once on a layover at some chain diner.” He nods. “Donnae think they were fresh, though.”

“Well these are proper biscuits.” You carefully cut one in half with ease. “Sometime I’ll have to make you some gravy to go with.”

“Yer gonnae make us fat, hen.” Johnny chuckles.

“There are worse things to be.” The words come out more defensive than you would have liked. An automatic mechanism - a harshness you've honed over the years.

You hate how easily you wield it, sometimes.

Johnny leans forward over the table, a furrow in his brow. “I dinnae mean-“

“Here.” You cut him off and hold out the biscuit on a napkin, smothered with butter in the middle.

Johnny lets your interruption go. Probably happy for an out. He takes the fluffy baked good slowly, cupping it in his large hand with care. You wonder if he always does that, touches things with such gentle love. Is it learned? Is it just natural to him? Does he touch Simon like that? Gentle caresses?

What’s that like?

Johnny takes a massive, enthusiastic bite. Somehow his blue eyes manage to sparkle even more, grinning as he chews. “Sh’gew!”

You laugh at his attempt to talk around the food. “Glad you like it.”

He swallows roughly. A full body gulp. “Why’d ye start bakin’ anyway?”

“My grandparents raised me.” You fold the biscuits back up in their little basket. “My grandma taught me how. She was the best in town - won the pie contest almost every year.”

“Tha’s lovely.” The smile he gives you is so genuine it makes your chest constrict.

“Mean old bat but she could beat anyone in the kitchen.” You laugh. “We swore she had some kinda magic. Like a green thumb but for cooking.”

“My mum’s like tha’. Can make anythin’ out of nothin’.” He nods along.

You fall into an easy back and forth - never breaching anything deeper than the most surface level of content as he eats. It’s manageable. Johnny doesn’t push and neither do you.

Riley barks from the front of the shop.

“Och, tha’s my queue.” Johnny brushes off his hands and checks the front of his shirt for crumbs. “Take care, aye?”

You smile. “You too.”

~~~

Johnny’s words keep ringing in your ears. You don’t know why. It’s nothing special. There’s no reason to attach to them. You raise a hand to wipe off the fog and stare in the small mirror hung above your bathroom sink.

Pretty girl.

You scoff. You’re not a pretty girl. You’ve never been a pretty girl. Fat girl. Stupid girl. Sick girl. Tired girl. Sad girl.

That last one you’ve heard more than anything else. Out of all the descriptors of you it stands out as the most used. By everyone from teachers to your own family. Always just a sad, sad girl.

You got it from your mom, they’d say. It’s not like you would ever know.

You rip your eyes away from the mirror and try to let the thoughts melt away as you sink into the comfort of your blankets. Those thoughts live back on the other side of the Atlantic. They don’t get to follow you here.

[roseykat]

KINKTOBER DAY 8

TITLE: Cum as you are Part 2

WARNING: minors DNI with this post or my blog. I create NSFW SKZ related content and I know I won't be able to regulate/monitor every single potential interaction with these posts so please do not engage with my work and page whatsoever. 

SUMMARY: An OT8 blurb on how each of the members of the maknae line react to making you squirt.

TAGS: mentions of sex, squirting, degradation, humiliation, orgasms.

KINKTOBER23 - MASTERLIST

TAGLIST: @kbitties @luneskies @mal-lunar-28 @kibs-and-bits @aaasia111 @fairy-lixie @dreamingaboutjisung @lizzekat @queenmea604 🩷

-

JISUNG

Funnily enough, Jisung finds it cute when he makes you squirt. The first time around, he didn’t even try to do it on purpose, it just happened and he was desperate for you to try to do it again. From there, he’s always relished in the way that your wet walls spasm around his cock, how you sometimes drip down his lower half. But the main instance is when you ride him.

Something about that deep gorgeous angle just hits the same sweet spot so easily. Adding repetition into the mix can then make you cum like you’ve never before. You have to slide forward and off of Jisung’s cock because the pleasure bursting at the seams is too much, but it’s enough to make you squirt. It’s so erotic to him that usually when you squirt, Jisung will most likely cum at the exact same time.

-

FELIX

This man would be so encouraging for you to squirt. Like he finds it so fascinating for you to orgasm at that sort of intensity where you just about lose all of your sanity. Even just after you’ve squirted, Felix will check in on you and say things like ‘are you okay?’ Or, ‘did that feel good baby?’ Just really sweet about it when inside he’s trying so hard not to continue ramming you.

He just wants to make sure you’re okay first because he does know that orgasming that hard can take a lot out of a person. After having sex, and he’s just helped you into the shower, he can see the aftermath of it on the bed. To him, there’s something so gratifying about seeing how wet the sheets are that it reminds him that he needs to put a towel down next time.

-

SEUNGMIN

His fingers are the way to go. That’s how he can get you to squirt. Seungmin is a very technical person and knows the ins and outs of your body. To say that he has perfected his technique of making you squirt, is an understatement. It’s effortless for him yet so impactful for you. He knows the specific curl of his fingers, the proper pace you like, the amount of pressure he applies to your lower abdomen with his other hand - all the while to see your eyes roll back and quiver from a shattering orgasm.

Seungmin has it all figured out to a ‘T’ because he just loves absolutely ruining you this way. He loves seeing his entire forearm glistening and wet, covered in your juices. Sometimes if there’s a bit of consensual degradation or humiliation involved, Seungmin would say things like ‘trust you to soak through past the towel,’ or ‘suppose I have to wash all my clothes again.’ But that’s all bedroom talk, because at the end of the day, he wants to see you unhinged when you cum. He needs it.

-

JEONGIN

You had been with other people before, and not once had they ever made you cum the way Jeongin did. So when the pair of you eventually started dating, the sex became even more mind blowing. Sure he seems timid or innocent - wrong. He seems so unsuspecting at times but, Jeongin would have your pussy drenched by the end of the night. The more you try to ignore an orgasm that he gives you, the harder it will hit sometimes. But it’s impossible with Jeongin’s dick.

He just does it for you. Completely unravels your mind like no other that you forget to subdue an orgasm because it feels too fucking good. The way his cock hits inside you has you scratching down his back, and Jeongin will fuck you through it. He’s not stopping because he’s so taken with the way that you cum around him. It can even bring a sick smile to his face when he’s pounding the breath out of you and until his cock is dripping with your juices.

[yaksha-lover]

You know.. Since in canon Rollo probably has some level of self-loathing since he hated magic as a MAGE (I.e someone who USES magic), maybe in the vampire au, Rollo could be a dhampir (half vampire, half human)? He absolutely despises his vampire heritage, and because of that he refuses to take even an ounce of blood from anyone because that would make him no better than them. But, due to that, he's always thirsty, constantly repressing the bloodlust itching at the back of his mind. Yet.. yet..when he finally has you in grasp.. Gods you smell wonderful. His pupils are blown wide, drool dripping from the corners of his mouth, stomach growling and moaning like a starving tiger. He's glad he filed down his fangs, otherwise he might not have been able to resist biting into that beautiful soft flesh of yours... Doesn't mean he's not giving you so nice open mouth kisses on your throat and wrists though.

He’s been good, resisted every temptation in front of him, passed every test from his god. His condition is undesirable but ultimately unchangeable. He hasn’t been greedy, not like the filthy beasts who seek to gratify themselves with blood.

He’s been restrained, perfectly in control of himself despite the hunger that gnaws at him hour upon hour. It’s an art in itself, the way he’s numbed himself to the scent and allure of human blood. Despite his ravenous appetite, he can hold himself together just fine in the presence of it.

That is, until he meets you. Your blood’s never even been exposed to him through a wound, but every moment he’s around you, it calls to him. The sound of your resting heartbeat is far too loud, drowning out all other noise. All other blood was like gruel to him, but yours smelled of ambrosia.

At first it’s enough to catch a whiff of your blood, to place kisses and covert licks upon your throat, your wrists, your thighs.

It’s enough, until it’s not. Until Rollo starts convincing himself that you’re not like the others. You’re not a test but a blessing, a sweet reward for all of his devotion and piety. A gift prepared just for him, meant to satiate his endless thirst, the only one he can feed off of forever.

[freesia-writes]

Always and Forever: Tech x Reader

This was the first half of a request over on @spicy-clones (my NSFW side blog) and it was just so sweet (like, massively cheesy but insanely gratifying, I hope?) that I figured I'd share the SFW part here. 😊 To set the scene, Tech x Reader are growing older together on Pabu (not like old old, but like DILF old, ya know?) 😂 and Tech wanted to show the depth of his love for their years together. Gonna use this gorgeous divider by @snotbuggle ❤️ More dividers like this here.

Tech x Fem!Reader ~~ Word Count: 2k ish ~~ Absolute FLUFF

Waves crashed on the distant shore as you gazed at the horizon from the balcony of your Pabu home. You heard the door slide open behind you and turned to see Tech, handsome as ever in his advanced years. The two of you had had your ups and downs of course, but your diligent work to communicate well and seek to understand one another had led to a greater foundation of emotional intimacy and an ever-deepening friendship that continued to delight after all this time. He settled against the railing beside you, taking in the sights but mostly focused on you. His distinguished features had softened with age, but the intelligence in his eyes and the warmth in his smile were as sharp as the day you met. 

“If you have sufficient energy and ambition,” he began, “I would like to request some of your time tonight.”

“I don’t know,” you grinned. “Got a lot to do with work and volunteering and family and… Wait, just kidding.” His chuckle was more of a pity chuckle, the usual response to your cheesy humor, but there was an undeniable fondness to it. You’d both been free of work for a while now. “That sounds great. What did you have in mind?”

“Would you like to know, or would you like to take a calculated risk and enjoy a surprise?”

“Ooh, spicing it up, I see?” 

“I do have some ideas for an evening that is slightly outside of the norm that we have comfortably settled into.” His face had the slightest glint of mischief in it as well as a touch of desire that delighted you with tingles. You had never been a fan of surprises, but the two of you had built your lives together around a deep understanding of one another and desire to love and serve each other selflessly, so there was no risk involved whatsoever. He knew you like the back of his hand, and his brilliant ideas never failed to amaze.

“Which do you prefer?” you asked. He usually knew better than you did what the ideal approach would be.

“If you trust me with a surprise, I posit that it would be quite enjoyable.” 

“I trust you with my life.” 

“A responsibility that I do not take lightly, however these plans are not nearly as high-stakes.”

“That’s good,” you snickered. “Alright, game on. What’s the plan?”

“I would like you to join me for dinner in whatever attire you find most comfortable. No other preparations are necessary. Also, if it will aid in any mental preparation, the primary objective of tonight‘s endeavor is simply to illustrate the depth of my love and gratitude for you.

“That sounds incredible,” you said softly, reaching out to touch his arm. You stepped a little closer, cupping his cheek and gazing into his eyes with an adoration that had been built upon a million moments and conversations you had shared. “I love you so much.” 

“And I you, but we needn’t waste time on established facts at the moment.”

Your cheeks were curved in a smile the entire time you got ready.

The two of you strolled arm and arm through the winding streets of the island, turning into a residential district that you hadn’t spent much time in. Tech approached a square home at the end of the walkway, perched on the edge of the island facing the sunset. He gave a confident knock to the door, which revealed an unfamiliar face, and a few minutes later the two of you were seated at a small bistro table on a garden patio overlooking the water. Lush vines wove through trellises all around, and fragrant flowers joined the salty sea air to soothe the senses and provide a cool respite from the tropical weather.

“Is this someone’s house?” you asked, your curiosity getting the better of you. Tech smiled and nodded, taking a moment to glance around and inspect the setting. When no further explanation was offered, you nudged his foot with yours to bring his attention back to you, tilting your head and giving him an inquisitive look.

“Jobin is a private chef, and on very few evenings each year, he offers a carefully curated five course meal in the private, beautiful setting you are now enjoying. He combines the unique flavors of traditional island foods with some special ingredients procured from other planets. From what I have heard, it is a dining experience that is as memorable as it is refined.” 

“Oh,” you breathed, the sudden mist in your eyes surprising you. You’d always loved food, and while you were just as happy with a greasy slice of pizza, you got a special pleasure from tasting new combinations or pretending to be fancy at times. He’d truly outdone himself this time. “How long have you been planning this?”

“Two years and twenty-four days.” 

Now you were truly welling up, completely blown away by such thoughtfulness, and you quickly choked down the lump in your throat as a man approached your table. He introduced each course with polite enthusiasm as he shared its ingredients and flavors, and you could tell he had a sincere love for his craft that he couldn’t help but share with others. Somehow it made each bite even better, and you were blown away by the artistry of his culinary creations. And yet even that paled in comparison to the man sitting across from you. His pert comments about the complementary aspects of the textures, colors, scents, and tastes of each dish made your heart swell in your chest, and by the end, you couldn’t imagine being more satisfied. With repeated thanks and well wishes, he led you back to the stone streets, offering you his arm as he did every time you walked together. 

“Our next stop is a rooftop bungalow that is tastefully furnished with a variety of couches, pillows, blankets, and other comfortable items,” Tech began, and you jerked your head in surprise and confusion. He continued, unfazed. “I thought we could make passionate love beneath the evening sky.”

“What!” You stopped abruptly and burst out laughing, the sparkle in his eyes betraying his mischief. His own smile grew larger than he might have liked, he was so pleased with his little joke. 

“Kidding, of course. I know that intercourse in a public area is far from any preference of yours, considering the fact that having any light whatsoever is less than desirable.”

“Yeah, well… Things don’t look the way they used to,” you sighed, shaking your head fondly as you continued walking. It wasn’t an issue, just a simple understanding between the two of you, and he nodded in agreement.

“I have some thoughts about that, if you will indulge me.”

“Always.”

But he didn’t continue that train of thought, instead shifting the conversation to menial pleasantries as you strolled around town for a while. The meal was settling beautifully in your stomach, and the coolness of night was beginning to whisper through the streets on a gentle breeze. You hadn’t been paying attention to where you were walking, and he came to a halt again beside a beautiful tree that had sprouted up between a few houses. Its trunk was slim, its leaves soft, and it was clear that it hadn’t been around very long. It grew in graceful curves, reaching toward the sky with impossibly smooth branches, and Tech regarded it thoughtfully for a moment, allowing you to soak it in as well before speaking.

“This sapling is nearly mature, as evidenced by the increasing contrast in the pattern on the trunk as it nears the ground. It is attractive and virile, flexible and new. It may be pruned in any variety of shapes or intentions as it grows, but even now in its untrimmed juvenile state, it is appealing to the eye and worthy of admiration.”

“Yes…” you agreed, not quite sure where he was going with it. He guided you back to the street and continued in silence, taking a few intentional turns until he entered a courtyard in a much older part of town. A massive tree stood in the center, its trunk framed by rocks piled in a neat circle, yet its roots had escaped the tidy border and poked above ground in a few places around it. Tech stopped in front of it, releasing your arm from his and gesturing to various parts as he spoke again.

“This magnificent specimen is much older. Its bark is rough, with scars and blemishes from various traumas it has endured throughout its life, whether they be from natural causes or human interference. Its roots are not all where they ‘should’ be, by arbitrary landscaping standards. You may notice that it is crooked. Its branches would be more aptly described as ‘craggy’ as opposed to ‘graceful and slender’.”

“Are you calling me ‘craggy’?” you grinned, beginning to realize the metaphor he was painting. 

“Absolutely not, unless you find it arousing.”

“Oh my gosh,” you laughed. “I’ll pass on that one for now.”

“Noted.” 

Tech stepped closer and placed a hand against the rough bark of the tree’s trunk, then tilted his head to invite you to do the same. You’d always loved nature, and you could swear you could feel its life beneath your palm, a wisdom and sentience that you couldn't explain. His gaze moved slowly between the tree and you with equal warmth and admiration.

“This tree has had the honor of watching many events unfold. It has weathered storms of both wind and waves. Its canopy has grown so wide that it provides refreshing shade to those on the ground and nurturing respite to those in the air. In comparison to the sapling, it lacks the smooth texture and shapely structure of youth, and yet it is unrivaled in its majesty. Its roots reach deep into this ground, and it has grown effectively into the space allotted. One might say it was made to be here, but in reality, it has made itself to be formed perfectly to its home.”

You were getting choked up again, and it was only increased by the softness on his face as he stepped back from the tree and took your hands in his. He lightly brushed his thumbs across your knuckles, shifting closer to increase the air of intimacy. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and sincere, and his words reached your very soul. 

“You are no longer young. I am no longer young. And yet the life we have forged together is incomparable to the surface-level vanity of youth. Seasons may have shaken and scarred us, yet the marks that remain are not blemishes but testaments to our fortitude and commitment. Our roots have entwined, our branches nestled together, our canopies melded as one. Our exteriors may not look as they did in our prime, but the depth of what we share is incomparable. When I look at you, I see strength and dignity. I see wisdom and perseverance. I see steadfast love and unfailing kindness. My gratitude for these is as immeasurable as it is increased by the fact that I did not ever anticipate to have such a thing during my lifetime.”

“Tech…” you whispered, deeply moved and brimming with emotion. 

“Perhaps I am too long-winded,” he said, the ghost of a smile passing across his face before it returned to his earnest gaze into your eyes. “I understand the tendency to be critical of one’s appearance as it changes over the years, and I am also aware that verbose logic is often insufficient to address emotions and convictions. Yet I could not resist the opportunity to put into words the profundity of my love for you. You are as beautiful to me as the day we met, as the day we married, as the day we woke up and realized how much time had passed while we built our lives together. I hope the sentiment, or at least some of it, can be taken to heart.”

You couldn’t find any words, completely overwhelmed by the way his words washed over you with affirmation and joy. Fortunately, you didn’t have to – he slowly leaned in, brushing some hair back from your face, and gently rested his hand against your cheek and neck as he kissed you softly. 

If you'd like to continue on to the spicy part, you can find it here, and I'm gonna skip the tag list since I tagged y'all on @spicy-clones.

[clandestinegardenias]

For @scala26's fitizer first kiss prompt - one of them kissing the other to stop them from saying something

Somehow this became a modern University professors AU, sorry not sorry.

The Rest is Still Unwritten

“Well I think that Franc–mmf!”

James tastes of champagne, is Francis’ first, muzzy thought.

Francis hasn’t had a drink in–well. A long while. He feels half drunk on the taste of it now, fancies he can still feel the bubbles popping on James’ tongue. 

James makes a gratifying little squeak and opens his mouth wider, which he should absolutely not do, Francis thinks. 

Francis shoves his tongue further down James’ throat regardless, because that’s the kind of man he is. Hungry, desperate, grasping for every spare and crumbling straw within his reach. Jealous and demanding. Always overlooked. 

He sucks on James’ tongue, hands tightening on James’ waist, and James whimpers and presses closer. 

Overlooked, overshadowed, passed over for every opportunity–Francis’ life has been a series of over, over, over. Never the start, always the finish. 

He is accustomed to it. Besides, second fiddle is not always the worst position in the orchestra. 

Then there is the simple fact that he does not want to be chair. 

Franklin does. Most desperately. 

That should be all there is to it. 

Of course James–idealistic, beautiful, perfect James–would step in to fight for Francis in a battle he does not even wish to win. 

They had not got on, at first. 

Francis is used to new blood in the department. Bright-eyed and energetic and naive, only to be ground down into dirt by the institution, the bureaucracy, the apathy of their students. 

He had stopped, long ago, trying to take them under his wing. The brightest flames burned out no matter how hard he attempted to shield them. 

Fitzjames would be the same. There was no point in getting attached. 

And then there was James’ forceful belief, his trust, his faith that the university would not fail them. That their funding would not be cut to the point of no return, that more assistant professors would be hired to replace the swath of retirements, that students would suddenly care enough about history and all their courses would miraculously make the enrollment cap. 

Francis had hated James for it, this…optimism. 

Simpler by far to believe that they were doomed and retreat into drink. 

And then the loss of Ross–

Still, nearly a year on, Francis can hardly bear to think of it. 

He would resent James Clark Ross if he could, would resent Ann if it was possible, but he loves them both too dearly. And, on some level, he does not blame Ann for demanding that her husband-to-be leave academia for a reliable–and lucrative–office job. 

Unfortunately, now that he and Fitzjames are stuck together on this sinking ship of a department, he has started to…like the man. 

It is the sort of liking that prickles uncomfortably. The kind of liking that Francis resents, that makes him cruel and snappish, pushing James away because having him close is unbearable. 

James looks at him like a kicked puppy, every time, and then comes crawling back, all wide eyes and nervously wagging tail, begging for attention and praise. 

Francis will never, ever let James know that he secretly agrees with him. 

That he also believes John Franklin will be a disaster as Ross’ replacement. It will be the final nail in the coffin for their program.

Francis is ready to accept that fate. 

James is not. 

A fact he had just nearly made plain, before Francis kissed him and shut him up.  

Department Christmas parties are always a little fraught. Too much alcohol, making tongues too loose. Too much informality, hosted as it is at one of the faculty’s houses. With their current tensions, it is a recipe for disaster–a.k.a. James attempting to garner support for his ridiculous idea that Francis should be their next chair. 

Francis has no doubt that is what James was about to do. His cutoff sentence would have finished with the suggestion that Francis’ name be tossed in the hat. 

Absolutely not, Francis had thought. And, somewhere beneath that, his lips look so soft. 

It was perhaps not his wisest decision to plant one on his colleague in front of all his other colleagues. At the annual Christmas party. While wearing a truly hideous Christmas-themed jumper of all things. 

It was not wise, certainly, to hold a lighter to the kindling of their attraction. 

Francis has been dutifully avoiding it, ignoring James’ pleading, confused little looks, as if he cannot understand why Francis is denying him when the tension between them fairly sparks at even the faintest glance. 

Francis has ensured that there is no opportunity for it to ignite. He sits far from James at faculty meetings, keeps his office door closed and ignores James’ knocking, makes sure they are never alone in a deserted hallway. 

And now he has thrown it all to shit because he does not want to be the fucking department chair. 

Still, he thinks dazedly, he cannot really bring himself to regret it. 

Not when James tilts his head to get a better angle, sucking Francis’ lower lip between his teeth as if he would have him inside as fully as possible. One of his hands has come up to cup Francis’ face, gentle and sweet in perfect contrast to the frankly wanton way he kisses. As if he is asking to be filled up. 

Francis is hit with the sudden, sinking certainty that he’s going to run for fucking department chair. 

Not because he wants to, god, never. 

But because James wants him to. 

He could deny the gorgeous creature in his arms nothing, nothing at all. Would give anything to keep James happy and pliant and looking up at Francis with the sort of awe and devotion on his face right now, right this moment, as James finally pulls back to search his face. 

Francis’ hand has migrated to the small of James’ back. On impulse, he uses it to press James closer, making him arch his back and press his chest forward against Francis’ own. James breathing stutters.

Belatedly, Francis glances around. 

Everyone has moved on–the catered food has arrived. They are paying attention to Francis and James not one whit, distracted by the mouthwatering scent of chicken shawarma.

James continues to look at Francis with stars in his eyes. 

“Take me home?,” he finally says, and it is so small, so soft, that Francis’ heart nearly cracks in half. He had not realized he was hurting James so very deeply (a lie if he ever heard one, but also one for which he will most dutifully repent).

He rubs his thumb over James’ arm, soothing. 

“Alright. Let’s get our coats.”

[fideidefenswhore]

Was Cromwell as direct in the involvement of persuading Mary to sign the statutes as in The Mirror and the Light?

I don't think he visited her in person beforehand, or at least there's no record of that (there is, however, Chapuys' report of "the Chancellor and Cromwell visited certain ladies at their houses, who, with others, were called before the Council and compelled to swear to the statutes"...this is interesting, because had they not sworn them already? personally this is something I've always wondered about, Mary and her mother were both pressurized to swear these Oaths, but the text of their preambles was that they should be put to 'men' fourteen and above, other sources say 'every subject', which would've included Mary but not her mother), but I think it was...a fictional portrayal weaving in details of accuracy, if that makes sense? Like, do we know Cromwell himself wrote that letter and she just signed it, no, but I'd assume that piece came from Chapuys' account that "the Princess, being informed from various quarters how matters stood, signed the document without reading it" (some historians have cast doubt on this account, asw, that this was merely Chapuys laying the groundwork of the papal absolution he was seeking for her actions, ie, she swore to something she hadn't even read, so it wasn't valid, etc).

As for direct involvement, I think so, it was his second attempt, actually, according to the same source, just his first attempt under a different Queen:

Cromwell was not ashamed, in talking with one of my men, to tell him [...]; that henceforth we should communicate more freely together, and that nothing remained but. to get the Princess to obey the will of the King, her father, in which he was assured I could aid more effectually than anybody else, and that by so doing I should not only gratify the King but do a very good office for the Princess, who on complying with the King’s will would be better treated than ever. The Concubine, according to what the Princess sent to tell me, threw the first bait to her, and caused her to be told by her aunt, the gouvernante of the said Princess, that if she would lay aside her obstinacy and obey her lather, she would be the best friend to her in the world and be like another mother, and would obtain for her anything she could ask, and that if she wished to come to Court she would be exempted from holding the tail of her gown, “et si la meneroit tousjours a son cause” (?); and the said gouvernante does not cease with hot tears to implore the said Princess to consider these matters; to which the Princess has made no other reply than that there was no daughter in the world who would be more obedient to her father in what she could do saving her honor and conscience.

Another thing missed:

The chief servant of the Princess, who knows all her secrets, was kept two days in Cromwell's house; and during six or seven days they were in council at Court from morning to evening.

This calls into question the sympathetic portrayal of Cromwell's actions in this story; and lends credence to Chapuys' claim (I mean, it's also corroborated in the reports of the interrogation directly from Henry's council, so there's that) that all was pointed towards Mary's arrest (who else was 'kept' in Cromwell's house, shortly before this...? Mark Smeaton.)

The flaw of TMATL is that Cromwell is Deus ex machina of his own story. He is all things, to all people. It is quite possible, as portrayed, that he is the one that persuaded Chapuys to change his advice to Mary, it is quite possible that he promised something false in order to gain this "win" for Henry (that half-truth, that Elizabeth would be disinherited and Mary would be made heir to the throne, once again, as soon as she acquiesced), and convince her by proxy, but the relevant scene takes words verbatim from Chapuys' own account. Thus it makes Cromwell the author of everything:

On this I wrote to her very fully, telling her, among other things, that she must make up her mind if the King persisted in his obstinacy, or she found evidence that her life was in danger, either by maltreatment or otherwise, to consent to her father's wish, assuring her that such was your advice, and that, to save her life, on which depended the peace of the realm and the redress of the great disorders which prevail here, she must do everything and dissemble for some time, especially as the protestations made and the cruel violence shown her preserved her rights inviolate and likewise her conscience, seeing that nothing was required expressly against God or the articles of the Faith, and God regarded more the intention than the act; and that now she had more occasion to do thus than during the life of the Concubine, as it was proposed to deprive the Bastard and make her heiress, and I felt assured that if she came to court she would by her wisdom set her father again in the right road, to which the intercession of your Majesty through the reconciliation and establishment of amity would conduce.

[charaznablescanontoyota]

for the fic title ask prompt - "railway replacement bus service" ?

railway replacement bus service - team short motherfucker walks into a train car with, well, a car. and a desert road. and a map to the next door.

"i told you we should've stopped at that last gas station, man, we're gonna run out before the next one-"

"you REALLY think we're going to break down the second we hit empty. have you ever even DRIVEN a car-"

"-have one at home-"

"we don't actually know if this is a normal car. it could be some kind of 'fast car'-"

"trish, SHUT UP-"

"i'm going to throw up," shigeo says abruptly, from the middle of the backseat, and is both gratified and even more nauseous than before when audrey slams the brakes.

"you should've reminded us you get carsick," she admonishes him, when he's finished being sick on the side of the road. "shadow would've let you have shotgun." she casts a glance over at the hood of the car. "right, shadow?"

"absolutely the fuck i would not," shadow says. he's drinking a beer on the hood, legs kicked out in front of him. "carsickness is a skill issue, boy."

"thanks, shadow," shigeo says flatly.

the other teens have taken advantage of the moment to pile out of the dusty van and mill around. al hands shigeo a half-empty bottle of water from the trunk cooler, and shigeo drains it, grateful for the chance to wash the taste of bile from his mouth.

"you could probably read a map better than shadow," trish says. she's gotten up on the van's roof, somehow, and is lying there with her cheek propped against one hand. "i'm still not sure we're going in the right direction."

"there's ONLY ONE ROAD," shadow snaps.

"you could rematch for it," al suggests. shigeo casts him a mildly betrayed look, and he shrugs. "brother and me used to fight for shotgun, when granny let us ride in the truck. it's the same, right?"

"oh, let's GO," shadow says. he's standing on the hood of the car now, bobbling up and down in place with unrestrained energy. "you and me, boy. right now. in the desert. a real dragon ball z fight."

shigeo doesn't get the reference, but he gets that he's not wriggling out of this rematch. he sighs, cracks his neck.

"i'm not going easy on you," he warns.

shadow grins. "i'd be disappointed in you if you did."

"can we not kill each other on a road trip?" audrey says. "i know they're, like, supposed to end friendships, but-"

"i'm not going to kill him," shadow says, cracking his knuckles in a way that very much indicates the opposite. "just teach him what it's like to fight shadow the hedgehog a second time."

"well, i'm going to walk around and look for a gas station," audrey announces, peeling herself away from the sliver of shade at the back of the van. "anybody else?"

al looks torn between the fight and the walking trip for a second, then says, "yeah, i'll come."

"i'll make sure they don't kill each other," trish says, flashing a thumbs up.

"big words from teen boy killer trish una," shadow crows from the hood.

"die, then. see if i care."

she ducks the beer can shadow throws at her. they're both laughing. mob swallows past the lingering sour taste in his mouth and starts to stretch his legs.

[choliosus]

I still think about qsmp purgatory

To me, that arc was absolutely perfect.

The stakes were so high, we genuinely thought some or all of the eggs might die depending on who the winners ended up being, and no one knew exactly how that would play out, so you had to just try damn hard to win for your kid. But there was even that chance that if your team did win that would be the wrong outcome and your kids would die.

But anyway the atmosphere was insane

That eye and the ominous fucking voice, that opening animatic of the mystery guy walking into a surveillance setup, monitoring everyone on the island, that’s so cool. So much mystery, so much implied power.

And then we get there and girlies have NOTHING. And it was fucking bugged or something for the first part so no one could fucking mine cobblestone. Then the random disadvantages pile on top of that, now you’ve got to worry about thirst, all the food is going bad and won’t stack.

And I watched Bolas pov so that’s what I am talking about:

This group was at every conceivable disadvantage. Right off the bat they only have like half the active members of the other groups, no one there is good at pvp, and most of those guys don’t really grind and play that much. They keep dying, Phil starts to make some progress and admins spawn mobs all around him to prevent even that. They give up, and resort to killing each other.

And somehow, from rock bottom, from passing through all the stages of grief and landing on insanity, this small group goes from being but a speck in the progress bar percentages to fucking winning the whole thing.

Watching their madness turn into actual power is sooooo wonderful to watch. They stay fully crazy. But somehow, that works. Going absolutely feral, saying fuck the rules and do whatever, yell mumbled nonsense at your enemies, steal all their shit, that’s the winning play.

There is something so gratifying in watching them go from day one of not having a base, dying over and over again, to week 2 where they are kinda doing the damn thing. And still don’t have a real base and die over and over. I mean that’s literally Jaiden’s main strategy.

And then Baghera with the fucking chainsaw. And Cellbit leaning into his character’s preestablished bloodlust thingy, and everyone collectively building off of each other’s energy.

And something about watching my favorite blorbos lose their goddamn minds for 5 hours every day. I loved every second of it. And it wouldn’t be able to be much longer, Slimecicle for one was absolutely exhausted, that guy doesn’t stream for more than a few hours and now he was grinding for 5 a day. Only adds to the chaos.

But the pace, it being every day and yet a scramble because of the time limit of play time.

The stakes of the eggs lives potentially being on the line

The complete foreign nature of an entirely new island?? With a new scary npc??? Unprecedented.

I absolutely love this arc.

It’s been a while and I still think about it.

I’m mostly making this post because we’ll mainly it’s 2am and that’s the sort of thing you do at 2am but also because I remember like during and right after the prison event people saying that was their favorite qsmp arc

And like good for you bestie but I do not get it

My heart belongs to purgatory

And I want to submit “ok but do you remember-“ to the council because it was fucking perfect.

And omg the fucking bolas shrine and Baghera and cellbit cameo in purgatory 2 like, ah my heart.

Bolas forever o7

[jomiddlemarch]

With you nothing is simple yet nothing is simpler 

Rose stood before her, drooping, her braids coming undone, shoes scuffed, a new rip in her overalls, giving Hermione a look of absolute incredulity when faced with the undeniable truth:

Hermione had forgotten to pack snacks. 

She didn’t even have a bloody Polo mint somewhere in the recesses of her beaded bag, Transfigured to look like an ordinary mum’s ordinary leather handbag, designed to carry her through her day at the Ministry and any trips she might make to Muggle London. 

Forget about something healthy. 

She had planned to rely on the water fountain, that wasn’t another complete miss on her part.

She opened her mouth to begin the explanation-slash-apology that would not satisfy either one of them. Rose already had that furrow in her little brow that meant she planned to invoke Nan, which only ever meant Molly, and how important Nan said it was for growing human beans to have good homegrown food and not that muck Mum bought from Tesco’s.

“I have plenty, if she’s hungry. The fruit’s already cut, it won’t keep, and these pesto egg muffin bite things he said he liked yesterday, so of course I’ve gone and made far too many.”

That was Draco Malfoy, sitting on the bench just next to hers, a rucksack and some sort of sport-inspired hamper beside him, unable to resist rubbing it in, that he was a better prepared and more attentive parent than she was, the he his neatly and comfortably dressed five year old son Scorpius, who somehow made the jersey and shorts he wore look like the ideal outfit for a Wizarding child. His fringe was the proper length and not slicked back with some imported pomade like Draco’s had been for the first three years at Hogwarts, and he was busy constructing something tower-like from the stones, twigs and other assorted detritus he’d scoured the park for while Rose ran around, screaming like a banshee and climbing halfway up a tree before scuttling down again before Hermione had to call out to tell her too high, Rose!

Hermione turned her head to convert her explanation-slash-apology into a far more gratifying coldly cutting retort that she had to trust to inspiration to supply, since she had nothing approaching the moral high ground, when she actually looked at Draco’s face, which was tilted in an encouraging and frankly kind manner, and consider the tone of his voice, which had been commiserating and not the least judgmental. Hermione was quite familiar with the myriad shades of judgment and Draco’s voice hadn’t held even one.

He was also incredibly fit.

(That wasn’t really relevant to her decision-making, but it was note-worthy as a general fact.)

“Rose, Mr. Malfoy has some fruit if you want a snack. And something else tasty and homemade, just like Nan would have given you for tea,” Hermione said. Rose sized up Draco in an instant, pivoted to rifle through the sporty hamper, retrieved a little baggie of apple slices and another of the unexpectedly attractive pesto egg bites that reminded Hermione she’d also forgotten lunch and a stale ginger biscuit at her desk was going to have to hold her until after Rose was asleep.

Again.

“Ta,” Rose said, about to fly. It was impossible that she wouldn’t be Quidditch-mad. 

“Rose,” Hermione said. 

“Thank you, Mr. M’Foy,” Rose said. It was anyone’s guess if she would have gotten Malfoy correct without her mouth half stuffed with Braeburn. 

“You’re quite welcome,” Draco said.

Hermione nodded and Rose scrambled away, as fast as her hand-me-down trainers could take her.

“Thank you. I appreciate it. Her wild magic on an empty stomach is terrifying,” Hermione said. Was she bragging about Rose’s magic, when she’d heard rumors Scorpius Malfoy might be a Squib? Probably and she wasn’t proud of it, but that wasn’t unfamiliar either.

“I find them terrifying full-stop,” Draco said. “Adorable, would lay down my life for him in a heartbeat, makes me question every decision my own parents ever made on my behalf, but terrifying nonetheless.”

Hermione laughed. It was the first time she could remember laughing at something Draco said without there being any seething vitriol or tearful desperation she’d had to tamp down or put aside. It felt…nice.

“I have a bit more sympathy for my parents,” she offered. “My wild magic started when I was a toddler and they had no idea what to make of it. No context at all. My mother told me, during out sixth year, that she’d thought she was losing her mind. I was well on my way to inventing Leviosa before I got a hold of the first year spellbooks.”

“Yes, I can see how that might be where one would go. Madness, that is,” he said. There was a frankly companionable silence between the two of them and then he spoke again. “Sometimes, I can’t help regretting it.”

“Regretting what?”

“I love him, with all that I am, my heart and soul and magic. And I can’t help regretting sometimes I agreed to it, having him when I, when we did,” he said. He turned away slightly, so that she saw him in profile, a face like a god’s on a coin, the straight nose, the full lower lip, his jaw held tightly. 

“Why are you telling me?” she asked.

“For one, I don’t think you can think any worse of me than you already do, so that makes you perfect for such a shameful admission,” he said, shrugging. “Secondly, you let your daughter eat the snacks I made. Not that I’m trying to make you feel like you owe me something, that I’ve caught you out. You trusted me with your child, that’s what I meant.”

“I think you underestimate how I think of you,” she said slowly.

“Is that better or worse? Do you mean you think well of me and now I’ve dropped in your estimation? Or did I somehow go from sniveling worm beneath your heel to abysmal slime-mold you wouldn’t use your wand to scrape off with magic from said heel?”

He sounded resigned, amused, self-deprecating. His voice was low, a rich baritone, only a little of that drawl he’d had at Hogwarts left. The perfect amount. 

“I wear flats unless I’m in court,” she said. “I don’t hold the past against you anymore, we were children, child-soldiers, pawns moved around by people who should have known better. Played a better game of Wizarding chess, given that it was our lives they used. I regret it, myself, having her so young, though I don’t let myself think it if I can help it. I can’t, if I want to keep being a decent mother.”

“You are clearly an exceptionally fine mother. Why did you do it? You’re Hermione Granger, you don’t make decisions you regret,” he said.

Now she laughed, a bitter sound, that kept the tears in her eyes from spilling. 

“Don’t believe everything you hear. Or read,” she said. “I lost my parents in the war. They were both only children, my grandparents were gone a long time ago. Rose was my one chance to have a family, someone who belonged to me.”

“I’m terribly sorry. I hadn’t heard they’d died,” he said.

“They’re alive. Just…lost. Turns out, if you do a thorough enough Obliviation, there’s no return. The person they were before is effectively dead. They’re just not sad about it. That’s for other people,” Hermione said.

“Astoria told me it was her dying wish to have a child, even though it would kill her,” Draco said.

“That’s why you agreed?”

“No. I refused when she said that. She used blood magic, from the binding. Once that was done, it was either lose them both or just her,” he said. “She didn’t know that for sure, there was plausible deniability and we’d said someday. She made someday happen sooner than I thought possible.”

“You loved her,” Hermione offered. She’d never met Astoria, who’d been a few years behind them at Hogwarts and in Ravenclaw, had only a dim memory of the photo that had been in the Prophet when the marriage was announced, a slim, dark-haired young woman wearing a lot of lace standing next to Draco, who’d been all in black. Wizards wore all sorts of things to funerals. Only Hermione saw him in mourning at his wedding.

“In a way. I hated her too. I didn’t want to be either of my parents and I didn’t know how to be anything else,” he said. “My parents were overjoyed, a Malfoy heir, no miscarriages, no stillbirths. A healthy Pureblood baby. That’s quite rare, all the inbreeding, you understand. They think Astoria was a paragon of virtue and also, they didn’t give a damn about her.”

Scorpius ran over and stretched out a hand to show Draco a stone. It was an unremarkable piece of quartz, though it did catch the light.

“What a find, love. You can bring it home if you like or leave it here. You could even hide it, like goblin treasure,” Draco said, studying the stone, reaching out to straighten the collar of Scorpius’s jersey. He touched Scorpius’s cheek fondly, but he didn’t try to wipe the smear of dirt there, nor did he say anything about his son’s grubby hands. Hermione recalled what a pristine child he’d been, all silver and green, how he’d stand between his parents, very still, as if a portrait were being painted. 

“Hide it—” Scorpius said and darted back over to the field, just at the edge where a copse of trees stood, shadows beckoning. The whole playground was heavily warded and there were monitoring spells St. Mungo used for observation. It was safe enough to let him run away.

“That’s what I thought,” Draco said, shooting her that familiar parental glance, proud and powerless. 

“Ron begged me not to end the pregnancy. It wasn’t planned. The Healers said the curse damage I suffered from Bellatrix was unpredictable, the interactions with contraceptive charms and potions would have made them less effective. It wasn’t my fault, except I never told them I hadn’t bothered with any spells or potions, so it was, in a way. I didn’t care and then I did. I told Ron I was pregnant and he told me he was gay and in love with Theo and it would break his mother’s heart if he never gave her a grandchild. My parents were gone. Harry and Ginny were expecting, Andromeda was raising Teddy, Bill and Fleur just had Victoire. It was easier to say yes. It made so many people happy and Ron did what he said he would,” Hermione said. Andromeda knew most of it, but Hermione had never told anyone all of it, certainly not in one sitting, not sitting on a park bench in the weak English sunshine, without a Polo mint to her name. Augusta Longbottom had said Hermione should do as she liked but it was rare to see such a strong magical signature in the first trimester, though likely it would happen again, for a witch of her abilities. Likely hadn’t seemed like a good enough bet, not when Ron’s blue eyes had pled with her and he’d held her hands in his instead of touching her completely flat stomach. 

“What he said he would?” Draco repeated. He sounded encouraging, not nosy. Not prepared to made a rude remark about Ron or the Weasley family as a whole. It felt…good.

“Molly wanted me to name her Frederica. Winifred. Or Elfreda. It was ghastly. Even I knew Fred would have loathed it. Ron put his foot down and told her we weren’t doing that to a baby and that I had final say on her name. Then he came out to them, Molly and Arthur, so the name part receded as something anyone cared that much about,” Hermione said. “I don’t have to tell you how Purebloods feel about that, however warm and Muggle-forward they seem to be.”

“Bloody hell,” Draco said.

“There was a lot of screaming. Arthur finally told Molly to be grateful she had a son alive to tell her what made him happy and she piped down,” Hermione said. “She started knitting a jersey for Theo as soon as Ron let it slip they were involved. It was a little forced, but I think the knitting settled her down, let her feel like she was back in charge of the family. Molly had a great need for that.”

“Ah, the famous Weasley jersey,” Draco said.

“Infamous is more like it,” she replied. “Fleur won’t wear hers at all. But she’s married to Bill, so she can get away with it.”

“I gather you don’t have the same option,” he said.

“Molly watches Rose when Ron and Theo and I are all working or busy, always sends home dinner, invites me to Sunday lunch even when Ron and Theo have Rose. She’s Rose’s only grandmother. She means well,” Hermione shrugged. “Fleur wears cashmere and Molly sniffs. I Transfigured mine into a cardigan. Molly didn’t mind that, as long as the H is all on one side. I hid the pockets I added.”

“It’s hard, isn’t it?” he said, squinting a little against the light, the sun lower in the sky. Rose had approached Scorpius and now they were working on something with less height but a larger area. Hermione suspected St. Mungo’s had tracking spells to evaluate wild magic. At Rose’s last Healer’s visit, Hermione had been advised to stock up on Easiheal and beginning Arithmancy books, as if she and Ron hadn’t already done so (plus the Wizarding chess set Theo had brought out to let Rose watch them play.)

“It beats the alternative,” Hermione said. He shifted, faced her full on. They both looked older than they were, Draco with shadows under his grey eyes that spoke of broken sleep, Hermione with a streak of white in her hair like a ribbon, neither of them partial to glamours. He’d grown a fair amount after Hogwarts, his shoulders broader, his lanky frame filled out, and he dressed the part of an older man, much as Hermione had her mum’s uniform on. For a moment, she only saw the boy he’d been, too clever by half, preening, insecure, nervous he’d be caught caring. He’d taken the Dark Mark or rather, it had been forced on him, hidden by the sleeve he had securely fastened with monogrammed cufflinks. He could be the Dark Lord’s deputy, she could be dead in a ditch, both their first wands broken.

“I don’t think that’s as true as people say,” he replied. “We could have been given a chance to grow up. To put ourselves first, not the survival of the Wizarding world or the Noble House of Black. We could have found ourselves here in another ten years or twenty, with children we had chosen to have. Had wanted to bring into existence from dreams. We wouldn’t have to be alone, here, and at home, sitting by ourselves with a drink after we put them to bed, wondering what happened—”

“It’s hard,” she said, to stop him, because he was so right it hurt. She drank tea at night, even though it kept her up, because drinking wine or whiskey alone was worse. Ron and Theo encouraged her to go out when they kept Rose, but she didn’t. She didn’t want to explain who she was and she couldn’t bear it they already knew. She drank oolong, Darjeeling, PG Tips, always black, and she never read the leaves.

“What if it were easier?” he asked.

“Easier?”

“What if you told me what happened and I told you, after we put them to bed. What happened that day, not just what Rose did and what Scorpius said, but how you dealt with that stroppy minister from Croatia and how I heard back from Damaris, in Alexandria, about that manuscript revision, and what we could bring to the potluck Neville’s insisting on hosting instead of getting a proper caterer,” he said. “Samosas, for the record. Though I can manage vol-au-vents in a pinch, if you wanted to be Muggle retro about it.”

“That’s a lot happening,” she said. It was a leap, an enormous, across-a-chasm leap, he was describing and also just words, a possibility she could dismiss with a shake of her head, a slight frown, some politeness he’d accept instantly. His eyes, though, were hopeful, watching her.

“Scorpius will probably interrupt. He usually wants a glass of water exactly when I’m at a good part,” Draco said.

“Rose talks in her sleep. In French. It’s quite distracting,” Hermione said. When had she ever backed away from something daunting? Granted, she usually did some research first. Draco knew what a vol-au-vent was; she clearly wasn’t the only one who prepared. “It’s better than mine. She talks to Fleur and Gabrielle a lot.”

“I’m fluent,” he said. “In French and wheedling.”

“I’m good at pouring a glass of water wandless. I make the water take the shape of a dolphin going into the glass but I can do a Hippocampus too,” Hermione said.

“Are you hungry? I have apple slices and pesto egg muffin bites going begging,” he said, smiling. He had a sweet smile and a gleam in his eyes that was positively, gratifyingly filthy. She blushed, dropped her gaze from his.

“You’re a very pretty mummy, Hermione,” he said softly. “But it can be whatever you want, however you want. It can be maybe later, after you look at your calendar. Half-past never. Whatever’s easier—”

“I didn’t bring any snacks to the park and I have nothing planned for dinner unless we get Indian takeaway again. For the third time this week,” she said in a rush. “It would be easier to have someone else take care of dinner. I’m not picky, Rose isn’t either.”

“Bolognese or carbonara?” Draco asked. “Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy is made 98.2% from pasta. Don’t be deceived by the organic apple slices and pesto egg affectations.”

“Carbonara’s faster,” Hermione said. 

“But what do you want?” Draco hit the you and want with a perfect balance of emphasis. It made her remember she was only twenty-four years old. Hermione, not only Madam Granger and Mummy and ‘Mione.

“Bolognese,” she said. She reached over, touched his hand where it rested beside his leg. He couldn’t mistake her intention. “Everyone calls her Rose, but I named her Roseline, from Shakespeare. Roseline’s the one Romeo liked first. She goes away. Lives her own life off-stage.”

“I had to pick a constellation. I wouldn’t do it again,” he said.

Ten years later, after a long day and a longer night, he arrived, only a little later than they’d planned and just as they’d hoped. They named him Hugo.

[shimmerbeasts]

Nyssala gasped as the cambion yanked her from her spot, effortlessly pulling her close. Moments ago, Mizora had been amused, but now? Now she snapped, and things were getting dangerous. Killed for mouthing off to a devil? She thought. Oh, man... What a dumb way to die. She clenched her eyes shut, already halfway through mentally drafting her apology. She'd beg for mercy, swear up and down it was just a joke, a stupid joke. She'd never ever ever do it again — pinky promise. But then… Mizora's cold hand slid down her back, sending shivers racing up Nyssala's spine. Her eyes fluttered open, and she realized where she was — practically smack between Mizora's breasts. Wait, wait, wait… what the hell was happening? Nyssala's brain short-circuited for a moment. Her heart hammered in her chest, her mind doing backflips. She suddenly felt her eyes go impossibly wide as she tilted her chin up to meet Mizora's gaze. On one hand, she was absolutely terrified. On the other hand? Oddly aroused. Her body had a mind of its own, apparently. Oh, man… What an amazing way to die. Despite herself, she let out a shaky, nervous laugh. “Well, I’ve never really had the best luck with moms," she quipped, her voice a bit more breathy than she wanted. "But I’m not gonna lie, the way you're handling things right now…” She paused, her eyes glinting with mischief as she spread a bold smirk. “I’m kinda leaning towards the ‘much more’ option.”

It would have been a thing of ease to take offence with the nickname, Nyssala had given her. Most devils likely would have been offended and disgusted. A succubus might have salivated at being called an interplanar mummy, but unless the devil in question did not covet you as a toy for his private pleasures, they would have seen nothing but disrespect in those words.

Luckily for Nyssala, Mizora was not someone easily offended. At least not by something, which betrayed such obvious arousal and hunger. Even now with the poor drow pressed against her body and peeking up from between her perky, small breasts, the Cambion could feel her shiver, from fear, arousal and confusion. The same cold hand, which had trailed down Nyssala's spine, now found its way to her hip. Sharp claws tentatively scraped across her hip bone, letting the girl feel the oh, so gratifying sting of pain.

"That's quite alright", Mizora purred, while caressing the drow's cheek with her other hand, "You are in capable hands now." Her wings closed in around her and her latest target, making it so that wherever the drow looked, all she could see, was cool, soothing, corpse-blue flesh and membranes. The mischievous glint, followed by that bold smirk, caused Mizora to quirk an eyebrow, half expecting what the words would be, which soon after left the drow's mouth.

That same hand, which had previously caressed Nyssala's cheeks in a comforting gesture, now traced over her lips with tantalising fingers. The other hand still rested on her hip, however, now the claws clasped upon the protruding bone with a possessiveness to keep her latest catch in line. Mizora's eyes shimmered and shone like a cat's reflecting the light in the dark and her word was like poisoned honey, flowing freely into Nyssala's ears.

"Though I must wonder", Mizora whispered, "Just how far do you want us to push this 'much more'. I could give you pleasures far beyond the mortal realm, something, which makes you forget the constraints of flesh, blood and bone. I could make you feel as powerful as a pack of hellhounds, as fast as a Nightmare and as unchained as a tidal wave. That is if you can prove to me that you can take it. After all, experiencing something like the Nine Hells of Baator is not for everyone. And certainly not for someone, who has not offered me anything in return."

@unhingedbutpretty cont. from here.

[imjustgoose]

Harry Pooter and The Eccentric Dragon Man

Hey gang I just wrote a fanfic for a Redditor I found a month ago. Nevermind the fact I've never posted, give it some love! You can also read it on Ao3 here. It features Miraak the First Dragonborn as a weird Hogwarts teacher absolutely beefing the Wizarding World:

To say that the students of Hogwarts were curious about their new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher would be an understatement, for they had only a few whispers of knowledge surrounding the teacher that spread amongst the students like wizard lice:

Professor Miraak was an ancient man with the soul and blood of a dragon. He harboured unique powers and had spent over 4500 years in a realm governed by a tentacle monster. Both he and the monster had voices like warm honey and unquenchable thirsts for knowledge, two of a kind.

The trouble was that such thirsts came at a cost for the man these days. Ever since he was rescued from Apocrypha by the Last Dragonborn, Miraak was still on the hunt for any new power or knowledge he could get his hands on. Unfortunately, the Dragonborn’s job wasn’t enough to cover the costs he required, so Miraak found himself dusting off a chalkboard ten minutes before his class was to begin. It was strange, but Miraak loved to talk and he loved being the smartest person in the room even more. He still donned his typical robes and armour, but his face was visible to the world upon Dumbledore’s request to ‘maintain a welcoming image’. Miraak scoffed at the idea, but he complied. There wasn’t much that he could do to hide the black ink stains around his eyes, his facial scars, his blackened scleras or his slit pupils, but he at least kept his facial hair neat and ran pomade through his tresses. He heard a student whisper something that sounded like ‘cloth girlfriend’ when he was introduced to the school in the middle of the year, but Miraak paid no mind to it. Gender meant little when you were an Atmoran half-dragon who could shout people through walls, and he figured that the cloth comment was in reference to his robes. Before Miraak could dwell on it any further, his senses told him to turn around, so he did. Eye contact was something for him to improve on, since he was not accustomed to conversing with humans for over 4500 years, so he swept his gaze across the room. The eyes that were on him watched with interest, but most were focused on their books and other students. His class was suddenly full of students, time to begin.

“Is everyone seated?” Miraak more so asked himself rather than the students, spying only two empty seats and immediately combing his mind for why two chairs would be unoccupied. He must have looked confused or annoyed, since a girl with a bushy head of brown hair was quick to speak up.

“The Patil twins are away for family business, sir,” she responded in a uniform manner. Miraak quirked a scarred brow before nodding.

“Very well, I’ll make a note of that later…” Miraak answered, eyeing the other students in their respective friend groups. He knew none of the students, but he was nothing if not charismatic, so he offered a thin smile and began writing his name on the board, “the other teachers prefer to be called by their last name, but I do not refer to myself by a family name. You shall call me Professor Miraak,” he stated, writing his name in English and Dovahzul. The girl from earlier furrowed her brows as she saw the strange symbols, waiting a moment before raising her hand. Miraak gestured for her to speak, his eyes narrowing as he observed her rigid state. In fact, the whole class seemed out of sorts. When he was their age, he’d sneak out of the temple for wine and gratifying escapades, not listening to his mentors even when they threatened to beat him. Atmorans were rough, but kids of any race were rowdy, so why weren’t they?

“I’ve never seen that language before. What is it?” Her inquisitive nature pleased Miraak, being a fellow seeker of knowledge. He looked back at the board and pointed at the markings.

“That is Dovahzul, Dragon language. It is from the dragons of my realm, words that hold power in each syllable. Note how the strokes and points look like claw markings,” he ran his fingers down the strokes of his second language, “as dragons would write for mortals to read. Your headmaster would be wise to teach you this language, but I digress. You are here to learn magic with your….wands, spells to defend yourself against the dangers of this world and any other world you may find yourself in. You must unravel the truth of- yes?” Miraak was cut off by another hand, owned by a blonde boy.

“Where is Professor Umbridge? We were supposed to have her for the whole year,” he asked, visibly annoyed at the teacher change. He seemed to be the only one, since the class subtly reacted with disdain upon hearing the name from his lips. Miraak placed a hand on his hip and looked at the podium where she likely once stood.

“I have been informed that she was unable to teach further, so I am here. I am more than capable of teaching you, rest assured.” Miraak offered another thin smile, which did little to quell the boy’s concern, or annoyance. Miraak was trying to smile more in his days as a free man. Living with his counterpart had helped him attain some semblance of happiness, but he was still healing and still deeply wounded. His past could, at times, scare people off, so he was practising a more friendly look. The Last Dragonborn coached him through it for a week, being thorough and supportive of Miraak’s endeavours. It was a new challenge, so he tried his best to accommodate.

“Now we can finally learn what we need,” Miraak heard a voice mutter. His keen senses immediately zeroed in on a boy in the front, a Draconic stare briefly surfacing before he tried to mask it. The boy looked…stressed. Miraak could practically smell the exhaustion from him, further enunciated by the boy’s pale complexion and dark circles under his glasses. Miraak scoffed, not at the boy, but at the mention of him being the one to teach them after another teacher’s failure.

“Vahzah, you are in the hands of a very capable teacher. I once engaged in a battle so fierce it tore a piece of land off a continent to create an island. I devoured dragons every day to steal their power and have levelled armies with no more than an utter of my breath. I am what the dragons called Dovahkiin, a Dragonborn, and the very first of my kind. If I cannot teach you how to block little zaps from wooden sticks, then nobody can.” Miraak’s tone was arrogant and proud, only boosted by the amazed looks he garnered from his boasting. It made his chest feel hot with fire, a common trait he discovered after the Dragonborn praised him. A dragon’s pride was as precious as the treasures they kept, so looks of awe were logs in his wildfire.

“He's joking, yeah? This bloke’s having a go at wands and talking about dragon-speaking powers,” a redhead spoke to the exhausted boy next to him. Miraak snorted and gave a toothy grin.

“Nothing I do is in jest, unless you find a serpent in your loafers. That would be a prank, done in jest. Magic in my realm comes from hands and mouths, or staves, for those who have a harder time with magicka. No, I was a prodigy, which is why I was chosen to be a Dragon Priest,” Miraak stepped away from the chalkboard and stood on one side of the room after his boast. Without a sweat, he channelled his magicka through his right hand and summoned a skeleton thrall in front of the class. He had to keep himself from inflating too much for the students' praise. Conjuration must have been unfamiliar to them, “tell me now, what spells do you know to dispel an enemy such as this? Anyone can answer, no need for hands,” he asked, looking to see if anyone stands. Surprisingly, nobody stood or answered. Miraak folded his arms in annoyance, “Sahlo kiir! This is an enemy, you’d all be dead by now. Quickly, someone stand and vanquish this thrall before I send it after you!” His words triggered a student to use the Reductor curse. As the skeleton dissipated into blue crackles of magicka, Miraak nodded to him in approval. The student had been the exhausted boy, who looked like someone Miraak should have been familiar with.

“Sir, with all due respect, we already know this stuff. Can’t we, I don’t know, learn stuff that could protect us from real threats?” His voice carried an edge to it that most teachers would have given the student trouble for, but it gave Miraak a streak of satisfaction to see a mind so eager.

“Real threats can come in many different forms. Had I intended to kill you, you’d all be soot, staining the floorboards,” Miraak warned with a cocky smirk, “tell me, what is in this world that you are so eager to fight?” He questioned, moving back to the middle of the room, eyeing the students that seemed almost too frightened to speak.

“Don’t you know about Voldemort? The Dark Lord? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?” The boy seemed to be growing more frustrated with each name, which Miraak met with indifference. “Petty names for a petty opponent,” Miraak tutted, “In my time, names were a bit less….I want to say stupid? Who gave this man these names?”

“I’m…not sure,” The boy admitted. A few whispers flittered between students, not a single syllable unheard by Miraak. His pupils narrowed as he listened, causing the boy to gulp, also heard by Miraak.

“That is interesting. You children fascinate me. You live in a world where villains less than one hundred years old threaten you. Does he use a little stick too?” Miraak offered a creased smile, feeling amusement from the way his whelps shook in their seats at the thought of a man who hides behind names.

“Sorry, but are you going to teach us or continue to be condescending?” The girl with bushy hair spoke up. Yet another outburst to be chastised for, but it reflected Miraak’s ambition.

“You are right, young one. Vosaraan! Show me what your fancy twigs can do!”

Each student eventually gave their names and demonstrated their main three combat charms as the class progressed. Miraak took note of their strengths, weaknesses and which fighting style of his own knowledge would suit them the most. He eventually singled out Harry, the exhausted boy, and crouched on the teacher’s desk. Miraak sat like a content frog with bent knees and straight arms, earning him a few looks, but he paid no mind.

“In this classroom, we progress by acknowledging the best and the worst. Potter will attempt to strike me, given that he has shown incredible feats of attacking,” Miraak announced, looking between Harry and Neville with a gleam in his eye, “Longbuttocks, what is the best course of action if Potter attacked me and I had nowhere to go?”

“Go up! I mean-”

“Wrong!”

Miraak dodged Harry’s spell by propelling himself to the right. Without a second to breathe, he jumped from the wall he landed on and tackled Harry to the floor. Miraak took Harry’s wand and flung it across the room, watching it land in a fish tank. With a snarl, he jumped back onto the desk, feeling particularly pleased at the looks his students gave.

“Sir? That doesn’t seem like-”

“How do I award points to a house?”

“But- for what?”

“How?”

“You just say the number of points you want to give to a house then say which house you wish to-”

“One hundred points to Slytherin for my victory here,” Miraak beamed with pride, “yes, I am in Slytherin. Okay, work on your disarming charms and write something in Dovahzul for extra points. I will test you again next week, but if I don’t see any progress made I will take points away. Class dismissed.” Miraak finished by running a hand through his hair. The students shuffled out the room, whispering about Miraak clearly being nuts and a ‘goth girlfriend’. He figured he misheard the first letter before, but it still made no sense to him. Either way, he had fun on his first day. Harry dusted himself off and took his wand from the tank with a disgusted look, but gave Miraak a nod before he left. Miraak would make fighters out of his students and give this ‘Dark Lord’ a real threat. In truth, he already knew about Voldemort after a few teachers told him over a cup of tea and dainty sweets that he took to his office for his snack stash. He was not frightened. One strange undead man was nothing to sneeze at, but Miraak would not worry, he was a responsible and good teacher.

~~~~~

Voldemort ended up being easy work, after all the fuss. Miraak’s brassy boots crunched against the shattered glass in the Department of Mysteries as he approached where Voldemort once stood. He picked up a wand and eyed it with a fascinated gaze. Bone, not twig. Miraak snorted and looked back at everyone who joined him in the battle. Nobody had words, not even the Death Eaters. How quaint.

“Pruzah! I knew he’d be no threat,” Miraak gloated. He already felt eager to write to the Dragonborn about his feat. When his eyes landed on the students, he put on a stern face, “you all have a paper due next Friday. This excursion will not grant you an extension, unless you grow ill.”

“Professor, you killed Voldemort like he was-”

“Nothing? I know!” Miraak decided to give the bone wand a flick, eyes widening as the curly haired Death Eater exploded into a swarm of butterflies, “What!? Suleyk ahst aan mal qeth!? Now I get it!”

It was safe to say that Miraak quite liked teaching teenagers magic. Who could have guessed!?

END

Miraak’s language key, translated by Thuum.org:

Dovahzul = Dragon voice, the language of Mundus dragons

Vahzah = True/Right

Dovahkiin = Dragon born, a mortal with the blood and soul of a dragon

Sahlo kiir = Weak child

Vosaraan = Haste/be without delay, used to convey ‘quickly!’

Pruzah = Good

Suleyk ahst aan mal qeth = “Such power in a little bone.”

[gynandromorph]

You’ve mentioned before that drake would be a far better god than jessie and would deal better with absolute power than most of your other characters, I find this incredibly interesting and I wondered if you could explain why a bit more?

yeah, sure. it's probably going to be a bit incomprehensible because it's 3 am right now (it is no longer 3 am but half of it was written at 3 am and i'm still stupid). drake's ocpd has compelled xem to feel obsessively invested in moral righteousness and to want an extreme amount of control over xyr environment. it's given xem a lot of incentive to think about what they would do differently, how they would make reality better, etc.

so, the main way that drake would be better than jessie as a god is because drake would care more about being a genuinely good god. xe is also not as impulsive or emotional as jessie; xe deliberates at length even for small interactions, and, while this can be debilitating in day-to-day life, if you were an omnipotent being totally exempt from the laws of time, this would not really be an issue. this quality also makes xem more capable of accurate insight and self-judgement.

i talked about shiloh and how as a god she would probably be a nightmarish sadist -- one might see her personality as similar to drake's because she's also more mellow and pattern-oriented. the difference between shiloh and drake (as well as jessie and drake) is that what drake finds gratifying is just worlds apart. drugs, sex, violence and power are things a lot of people find gratifying, but drake is someone who finds like... organizing books by size and color on the shelf gratifying. moving at a slower pace in general, unpredictable explosive experiences that feel exciting and interesting to the two lesbians feel overwhelming and unpleasant to xem. the avoidance of possible distress from possible mistakes is often a source of the gratification, so a lack of novelty wouldn't hit xem as hard, i think. basically being an ethical being WOULD BE what drake finds gratifying as a god because it's what xe finds gratifying already, which is a huge advantage. the fact that xyr desire for control is projected onto xyr environment is just a bonus -- since xe interprets the problems as coming from outside the house, xe's less likely to focus on inner desires for decision-making.

something drake has had to ponder more than many of my other characters is the fact that no one ever asks to be born, and most aren't entirely happy with what they're born with. i think it occurs to most people at some point that no one asks to be born, but drake has spent cumulative years ruminating on this. i find xyr take on godhood and how i conceptualize it interesting based on that even on its own, because drake wants a world where every single thing chooses to be born with an adequate amount of information to make the choice.

i've spent here or there thinking about how xe would try to go about doing this, and so far it's involved some kind of AI-like network which would approximate the entire lifespan of an individual without possessing a consciousness or emotional world of its own, then relay that in a chemical format. if the projected life is suitable for this hypothetical person and they'd most likely consent to living the life, the chemical info enters a matching receptor on a zygote and it progresses. this would happen several if not thousands of times during the process of producing a conscious being, i think. this is believable enough to me w/how much info dna itself can hold, and that wasn't designed with any intelligence. that's the best way i've come up with the chicken and the egg dilemma wrt conscious choice to be born thus far. the other component i've thought about is probably making life able to move about 4-dimensionally, essentially giving conscious beings the ability to time travel as a regular form of locomotion. i gotta imagine this isn't too big a deal when you can alter the laws of physics to your liking. i know that drake would also get rid of (nonconsensual) death not just by canceling it now, but reviving every single conscious creature that has ever died. oh, earth wouldn't support infinitely multiplying life? god can fix that. death is the only thing that makes life meaningful? no it doesn't. not in drake's world. meaning is a sensation in our heads subject to alterations, just like every emotion. some things might not want to live forever? some things might want to feel sadness, pain, anger, and suffering? well, it'd be immoral for drake to decide how they should feel by getting rid of these unpleasant emotions, so xe will give them the choice to die if they want to, and the choice to undie, probably handled by the same network that estimates if they want to be born - the choice to feel sad or opt out, the choice to feel pain or opt out, etc. to drake, this would not only resolve the "suffering gives life meaning" argument, but would also functionally prevent any given subject from forcing another subject to feel anything it doesn't want to. drake would yield a lot of power to xyr subjects, because the power differential between a god and its sims in a sandbox is inherently going to be an abuse of that power in exchanges. you could argue that xe would do well with absolute power because xe would make xyr power... Not absolute relatively quickly after some things were stabilized. given the idea that maybe they could not choose anything at all, like how a fictional character can't choose anything, i think that xe would resort to breaking up xyr infinite amount of choice into tiny pieces compartmentalized away from xem, like someone dissociating but intentionally, and putting that into the subjects instead. this would be an odd limitation, though, and would preclude omnipotence. i just think the decisions xe would make based on xyr sense of ethics would be neat because of how unyielding those moral "rules" are and other elements of xyr personality.

[starfragment1979]

Saw this on Reddit:

I take issue with the "barely edited" part -- I put as much care into my fanfic as I do anything else I write -- but the rest is accurate.

I've written two (original fiction) novels and spent years shopping one around to agents or small presses with absolutely no nibbles -- the best I ever got was some personalized (non-form-letter) rejections. And I have successfully published short stories and poetry and other things, and I'm sure people read them and maybe even liked them but I'll never know about it because whoever is reading those lit mags or zines or whatever have no way to get in touch with me about it.

Meanwhile, I have a tab open on my phone with my AO3 stats, and even for my quiet little account in a quiet little fandom, I can still watch my hits creep steadily up, plus the occasion kudo, and every comment I get absolutely makes my day. Like I honestly probably only have ten or twenty loyal readers, but I love all of them so much and it is so freaking gratifying that people appreciate my work.

I'm sure I'll write original fiction again one day -- I've got a couple half ideas rattling around in my head, and it would be undeniably cool to see a book of mine at the library or a book store -- but right now fanfic is so much more satisfying.

[moraygrotto]

For fanfic requests uuu anything with Liliaaaaa I beg OTL

-2shytosaytummy💕

liliа x reader suppertime!

-

"Heheh, don't feel bad." Lilia's fork taps against his plate as he daintily props his head up on his wrists. "I said it was a casual dinner, and I meant it."

At your patiently drawn-out behest, Lilia had ordered takeout for the pair of you, then served it up on antique plates carved in Briar Valley's traditional style. You had a plate full of your favorite, and you still felt shy to eat it.

"Would you like me to set the table more rustically next time?" Lilia says. "We do have bamboo placemats, though I thought the white tablecloth would add some charm."

You assure him that all of it is fine, thank him again for ordering, and take a tentative bite.

Lilia watches you dreamily. You keep eating, and after a moment, he blinks. In one swift movement, he picks up his napkin, lunges forward, and wipes a bit of food off your cheek. "There," he says brightly. "You're much cuter with a clean face."

Laughing, you chide him for cleaning you up rather than simply informing you, and he shrugs.

"I did say I intended this meal to be informal. If you'd prefer I kept to a certain level of etiquette, I'll keep my napkin safely on my lap, far from your face."

You inform him that you expect no such strictness from him tonight.

He grins, sharp teeth glinting. "Good."

Finally, he digs into his own meal with apparent relish, several times speaking with his mouth full, not even bothering to swallow before continuing your conversation. A little while later, he spots the clean bottom of your plate. "Splendid," he says, "you finished."

There is no distinction from the tone he uses now and that with which he speaks of his own cooking. It becomes even more apparent when he adds, "Are you full? I can whip a little something up for you if that wasn't enough."

You assure him, as politely as you can, that you do not need his help in this regard. It is not a lie—you are full; your enjoyment of the meal gave it all the more value to you.

Content with your answer, Lilia returns to his own plate.

He finishes eating, and leans back, letting out a satisfied sigh as he rests one hand on his belly. Lilia is smaller than you, you are reminded at rare and strange times. The dishes the two of you ordered were portioned similarly, but while you feel no more than the quiet satiety of a standard-sized meal, Lilia looks stuffed.

"If there's anything else I can provide for you—" His whole body hitches with a little burp, and he presses a loose fist to his mouth. "—Pardon me—Please do let me know."

You would not dream of breaking his blissed-out state with a request, no matter how you were feeling, and you think Lilia might notice this, as a glint flashes through his half-closed eyes. "We must order from this restaurant again sometime soon," he says. "Their cooking was... wonderfully gratifying." He is teasing you outright now, licking his teeth lasciviously as if he could not bear the silent interest in your gaze to flicker out. A long 'whew' blows out his mouth, and he gives his belly two firm pats. "Yes," he says, "that was truly somethi—"

A sound takes his breath away. Interrupting him is a truly sepulchral churn from his guts, shocking from such a petite man, and he falls silent, before bursting into a giggle. "That was not on purpose," he tells you.

You inform him at once that it was impressive.

"Oh, it's just the usual," he chimes. "It sounds like my tummy liked the food so much, it can't wait to start digesting it!"

You don't tell him that it sounded as if a portal to Tartarus opened inside his belly, only repeat that it was impressive.

He finishes a long, soft burp into his fist as you speak, then smiles at you. "Well," he says, "I'm happy I can still shine in your eyes, even in my old age. Heh, I plan to try at least one thing that will absolutely ruin my stomach before I pass. Would you like to be there to witness it?"

He catches your worried look before you can reply. "Oh," he says, "don't be a spoilsport and tell me not eat anything like that, alright? Fun is all about variety, and variety is all about experimentation." He sighs again, and looks down at his empty plate, and gently rubs his belly, completely, deliciously shameless in front of you.

"But I promise," he says, "this meal—" He pauses to let up a short, deliberate burp, not covering it this time. "—was quite pleasurable for me indeed." He winks. "Pardon me."

[reluctantjoe]

Interview – A Midsummer Night’s Dream director Eleanor Rhode talks technology and Wonka star Mathew Baynton

Aiming to take the chill off this winter is the RSC’s new production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Ahead of the opening this week, director Eleanor Rhode spoke to Gill Oliver about her take on the Dream and what it’s like working with Wonka star Mathew Baynton.

TECHNOLOGY combined with centuries-old stage illusions are making one of the Bard’s most captivating comedies even more magical.

The RSC’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which opened on Tuesday for an eight-week run, features Ghosts and Wonka star Mathew Baynton as Bottom.

Fresh from his roles as a murderous doctor in the Agatha Christie TV series Murder Is Easy, and an evil chocolatier in hit movie Wonka, Baynton has long been a hero to parents and kids everywhere thanks to his leading role in five series of hugely successful kids’ comedy TV sketch show Horrible Histories and later, its spin-off ‘Bill’, a panto-style take on Shakespeare’s early life.

Also in the cast are Nicholas Armfield as Demetrius, Sirine Saba as Titania and Rosie Sheehy as Puck.

The equally prestigious creative team line-up includes composer Will Gregory (one half of electronic music duo Goldfrapp), set designer Lucy Osborne and illusion direction and designer John Bulleid, feted for his work on Harry Potter and the Cursed Child and the RSC’s The Magician’s Elephant.

Weaving all these star-studded strands together is director Eleanor Rhode, who describes Baynton as “an absolute genius” and the whole cast as “amazing”.

Ms Rhode made her directorial debut for the RSC in 2019 with a radical re-telling of King John – a production that was cut short due to Covid.

Now back to take on Midsummer’s Night Dream she’s happy to be back in Stratford.

“The company is wonderful, and everyone is working together brilliantly so it’s very exciting to be back up here - it’s a lovely place to work," she said.

She brings a fresh and confident vision to Shakespeare’s popular tale of four young lovers who, faced with the prospect of unhappy marriage flee the court of Athens and stumble into an enchanted forest.

Nearby, a group of amateur actors rehearse a play to celebrate an upcoming royal wedding and when the mortals cross paths with a warring fairy King and Queen, chaos erupts as the real and fairy worlds collide.

Ms Rhode explained: “The thing that’s always interested me more than a literal forest is leaning into the dream of a Midsummer’s Night Dream, so this is very much a dream space.

“The most exciting thing is finding that crossover between contemporary technology and stage illusions and stage tricks that are hundreds of years old, so expect to see a lot of those things combined.”

By the RSC’s standards the production is a short run but there are upsides to this.

“It means some of the people who would love to come and work up here but can’t commit to a year away from the other projects they’re doing, can come, have a really lovely time and be up here for 10-weeks - we wouldn’t necessarily be able to get them for longer, so that’s enormously gratifying,” she pointed out.

After this run, Ms Rhode, who has a decade's experience of directing, will spend time in developmental workshops before overseeing her second audio play for release on Audible.

She enjoys working in other mediums such as audio, and is excited by the potential that comes with the “pollination of ideas between lots of different disciplines”.

But unlike the RSC, the theatre industry overall tends to be extremely traditional and not geared-up for sweeping change.

She explained: “In terms of creating experiences which are live but also digital at the same time and which have a really broad reach in terms of the audiences, you’re engaging with people who aren’t traditional theatre goers and really broadening the scope of what live story telling can be.

“There’s a whole heap of possibilities and the lovely thing is that a lot of the technology is already there - the technology isn’t the thing - it’s actually the ability to craft brilliant storytelling entwined with the technology that’s sometimes quite scary.”

As for this production of Midsummer Night’s Dream, no one should worry about technology or stage illusions over-shadowing or interfering with the intimacy of live performance.

“You shouldn’t notice the technology and it shouldn’t feel like a standalone thing, in the same way that stage illusions shouldn’t – everything is entwined with the story,” she said.

“My hope is that it’s something the audience don’t really think about, they just enjoy it.”

She added: “This production is already looking beautiful but it should also be very surprising and, hopefully, keep the audience on their toes with all the amazing magic that’s going on in the show.

“Regardless of that, strip away all the technological and magical surprises and the play is the thing.

“It’s a brilliant show with brilliant actors in it - that’s the key thing."