#Both can exist etc etc and so on and so forth

[bearloonz]

would I be too normie if I interpreted love finds its way to the girl in relation to susie as self love through community and self care or something. Would it be cringe if I related to her learning to care for herself and have genuine interests again over romance.

[koinotame]

sometimes you realise you've set up what could be a really interesting dynamic and go ohoho.... anyway reader taking advantage of yan silver and silver going along with it wholeheartedly, and lilia noticing and trying to intervene because that's his son you're hurting, but yan silver is yan enough that he gets very upset about his father antagonising and/or trying to hurt you, so lilia is forced to think about what exactly he's going to do about you because he can't just watch and do nothing but even one wrong step will cause irreparable damage to his relationship with silver

[fruitless-vain]

I would 100% respect Certain Rescues a whole lot more if they started being clear about their dogs’ behaviour problems instead of skirting around the subject and dolling it up with sentences like “he just needs someone who really loves him!😌” *dog is a walking bite risk to anything that moves*

Getting dogs in to homes as fast as possible is Not Worth It when you’re putting dangerous dogs in homes not equipped to handle the problems you’re disguising.

[nostalgebraist]

Imagine that you can still draw, or paint, if you feel like it, and have the tools. That hasn't changed.

And (no, this post isn't about AI, there we go, where was I) all the other newer tools still exist too: Wacom tablets exist, and Adobe Photoshop, and every sort of camera, and so forth. If you have these tools ready at hand, you can just pick them up, and make pictures with them.

And tumblr still exists, and all the rest of the internet with it. And so – if you like – you can use these venues to share the pictures you make with others, easily and immediately, for free.

However, there is also another venue, for sharing pictures.

That is the only thing that is different.

The other venue is... let's say it's a magazine that only prints visual art, and which has an extremely large number of subscribers.

Everyone knows about The Magazine. Most people you know are subscribers.

Before the internet, The Magazine was the main way that visual art got into people's homes (if it wasn't created there in the first place). Your parents speak of The Magazine as though it's just where art lives, as though the notion that there might be art somewhere else has never really crossed their minds.

Much of what appears in The Magazine is, in fact, pretty good. Conversely, much of the truly great art of the recent past made an appearance in The Magazine, at some point, before or after appearing in galleries and/or being reproduced in other ways.

But a lot of it is just... fine. Trendy, competent, workmanlike.

You flip through the pages and mostly you think, yeah, this sure is the sort of thing that gets printed in The Magazine, in the current year. Occasionally you're impressed by something you see there, and even more rarely something moves you, transfixes you.

Much the same could be said of your tumblr dash, of course.

It must be noted, however, that The Magazine has a higher quality floor than your tumblr dash. Everything that appears there looks polished, professional, carefully worked-over. This counts for less than one might think; that professional gloss can do nothing to elevate ill-conceived or simply dull work (and The Magazine does print such things fairly often).

In a gallery, you might encounter mere sketches, or blatantly unfinished paintings (Leonardo left behind plenty of both, after all). But you will never find such things in The Magazine.

The Magazine's cultural and psychological prestige is immense. It holds the popular conception of "art" in its tight, totalizing grip. If you ever pick up a pencil and draw, it will be assumed – by default – that you aspire to eventual publication in The Magazine. If you are not very good, people will tell you to keep at it; maybe someday you will make the grade. If you are good, people will tell you so, and ask you whether you've prepared anything for submission, whether you've sent it, whether you heard back.

It is tremendously inconvenient to appear in The Magazine.

After all, anyone can pick up paper and pencil, but The Magazine only has so many pages per month. So, The Magazine has standards. It is persnickety. It couldn't afford to behave differently.

But even if it could afford to behave differently, it would not want to. For it so happens that The Magazine prides itself on its active role in the production of "art" (meaning, "that which has appeared in The Magazine").

Even if you are one of the "lucky" few who does not receive a simple rejection letter from The Magazine, you will not simply be allowed to put your drawing or painting or what-have-you into The Magazine as it is.

Unmediated transmission of art, straight from artist to viewer, is for lower-class venues ("tumblr.com," "physical reality and its tendency to project images of nearby objects onto the retina," etc). The Magazine has standards, and they have a full staff of not-quite-artist, not-quite-art-critic people who are employed to impose them. If you do not get a rejection letter, what happens instead is that you begin a long and laborious transaction with one or more of these strange middlemen. They will tell you that your work is a good start, but that you really should have put this part over there, or made the symbolism more obvious or less obvious, or "applied your evident talent" to a more socially relevant choice of subject matter, or something of this nature.

Eventually, after a protracted interaction like this, you might succeed! A new, different, quite possibly worse picture – produced by laboriously adjusting your original one (which, being original/unmediated, is of course unprintable by definition) until The Magazine's staff feel satisfied in the relative scope of their role versus yours in the collaborative act that is "art" production – will end up on a page somewhere in the next issue of The Magazine.

And, finally: real art has been produced! You've made it!

You're in The Magazine. And your work ("your"? you don't feel so sure anymore) does look nice, sitting there on one of those oh-so-glossy pages.

It is nice enough that you spend nearly a minute lingering over it, before you go back to tumblr.com, where all the rest of the pictures are.

(And then, on the weekend, you go to a museum, and look at pictures which were being lauded as masterworks centuries before The Magazine was even founded. You could never produce anything like them, you know – and you feel envious of their creators, not so much because of their greater talents, but because no one ever praised them by saying, hey, this stuff is good enough to be in The Magazine!)

But at least your mom and dad will look at your drawings, now, and think: my child is an artist. You were an artist before, too, but it was just amateur stuff. Now it's for real. Professional. In The Magazine.

Professional? Well, The Magazine did pay you a little in the end, as a prize. And there are some people who make their livings this way. They have good, longstanding, hard-won relationships with The Magazine's staff of intermediaries. They are unusual; by sheer force of numbers, only a select few can make a decent and reliable living in this manner.

(Indeed, The Magazine's insistence on imposing its standards is essentially inimical to steady, reproducible money-making for individual artists. You shouldn't feel secure already that they'll print your next picture without delay, before you've even sent it in for assessment – that would mean they are not keeping standards at all, wouldn't it? And so, cultural forces within The Magazine conspire to degrade its value as a potential source of one's livelihood.)

Those who appear regularly in The Magazine have unparalleled reach. As a child, perhaps, they shaped your notion of what an "artist" was; as a child, maybe you wanted to be just like them, when you grew up.

But then you did grow up – and so, you realized that they were employing the tools at hand (pencil, paper) to a very unusual end. Anyone can pick up the tools and draw. But few can make it into The Magazine, and perhaps even fewer than that should want to appear there.

After all, there is something almost shameful about the exercise, isn't it?

The Magazine says: I am the means by art is produced and disseminated. And many people, passively following the ambient culture, unconsciously nod along.

But in fact, The Magazine has no potency in it whatsoever. It is you, and the viewer, who create the work of art and create the experience of experiencing art. You can just draw things. You can just show your drawings to people.

And The Magazine cannot turn an uninspired artist into a genius, or an unskilled artist into a master; it can only trim perceived fat, arrange perceived rough edges into a more agreeable shape, apply gloss and trendiness and "professionalism." But those were never what anyone liked about art to begin with. You don't need them – unless you do, for your own artistic reasons (and your viewers'), and in that case home-made versions will probably do the job well enough.

There is, in fact, not much reason at all to want to appear in The Magazine.

And that, in itself, is a strong argument against the idea.

You ought not to play along in the charade, pretending that the whole laborious exercise has a point after all, if you know that it is in fact pointless. This is a matter of integrity, if nothing else.

Anyway, that's how I feel whenever anyone's like, "so are you gonna try to get this stuff published or what"

[hiddenlife-manager]

Hasan Piker x Reader

cw… creampie, plan b, some plot, nipple play, breast play, jerking off, hook up, alcohol induced sex, under the influence, not edited, etc…

notebook… I FELL IN LOVE WITH THIS HUNK OF A MAN! So yeah I’ve been gone, frankly my health has gotten worse plus school so I haven’t been in the best spot. Got this done while studying for an exam thanks for staying yall.

“I would have to disagree with you, see, as an economist…” There you were, sitting in front of the most influential political commentator, Hasan Piker. You had watched plenty of his streams, agreed with many, and disagreed with a few. He reached out to you; perhaps it was because your name was being mentioned in abundance. You were the young rising star, being asked for your own stance on the current administration, specifically economics.

“Frankly, your problem is that you think far too optimistically of the average American's comprehension of the market.” Handsome he was, and the way he spoke could impress even the highest of individuals. He was called many names, socialist and liberal, when he really is a leftist, communist, misogynistic, and other names. He was dressed in a brown suit, stylish as ever. His glasses on his face and the perfectly groomed beard.

“It can be done; I do think highly of the average American people. Where we can agree is that to make a difference is to change both parties, which has been proven nearly impossible.” You were a natural in front of the camera; you were not the type to speak in a complicated manner. Your whole existence and career were to make economics accessible to all classes of people in this diverse nation.

The two of you debated back and forth for almost an hour, his chat exploding. It was all split; some enjoyed your presence, others did not, and people hated Hasan or loved him. You reached the point where you answered one last time, and he began to close up. He got up and walked over to you, offering a hand.

“It has been a pleasure; greatly appreciated that you took up my offer.” He was kind; he was known for being brash and unapologetic. It was the type of individual he was. You found your cheeks warming up the moment he offered his hand to shake. You were slow and deliberate, not wanting your hand to be sweaty. You shook his and flashed a smile.

“Of course, I enjoyed this experience. Do reach out if you desire another opportunity to debate me.” He chuckled at your statement; the way you two still held one another’s hands was strange. No one wanted to let go in a strange way. It was quiet staring into his eyes while he stared at yours. He cleared his voice and pulled his hand away.

“Would you like to get a beer? It’s late; might as well offer.” He tried to let go of his professionalism. He knew you were a small Hasanabi head; he did not need to hide his true nature. He waited for your response; he enjoyed talking to someone intellectually similar to him.

“I am in need of a drink; I am not used to the West California area. Do you have a place in mind?” Nearly all economists lived on the East Coast, you included. You only flew in for a few events in the California area and this debate.

“I know a great place; I’ll pay.” He spoke, “Give me a second to inform my team I’ll be leaving.” You hummed, and he walked away. In seconds he returned with his car keys; you knew this would be a fun night; you needed a drink.

You shouldn’t have drunk as much as you did, and neither should he. The tension you two had from the debate, after it, and the bar was let out. You two stumbled into your large hotel room, your arms fumbling with his belt buckle. You walking backwards, his lips against yours, his arms around your waist. He was extremely muscular.

“Living room?” He asked between deep, long kisses; it was clear you two couldn’t make it to the bedroom. He knew you could afford a hotel that was nearly an apartment. It was clean and lived in. He lowered his hands from your waist to your ass; with ease, he lifted you up.

“Is that what your muscles are for?” You joked, whispering against his ear. He couldn’t help shaking his head.

“What can you say? I like women.” He humored you back; he reached the couch of the living room area of the hotel room. He sat down, and you were on his lap. The two of you are making out with passion, the taste of liquor lingering with each kiss. His lips were soft; his beard gently scratched your face.

“Clearly…” Your hands lowered back to his expensive belt, while he slowly removed your top. The two of you wanted this despite being extremely drunk. His hand went to the back of your bra with ease, and with one hand he undid it. “An expert, I see.”

“Of course, bras are a nuisance.” He responded; there he began to fondle your breast. He massaged them and carefully would pinch the nipples. You attempted to hold back moans, not desiring to be too loud, especially in a hotel. On his lap, you had to work trying to get his pants undone. They looked amazing on him, beige, which matched the entire outfit.

“Extremely experienced—mhm…fuck…” You gasped out and threw your head back, stopping right then and there from attempting to get his cock out of his pants. You could see the outline, his erection clear as day. You bit your lip and continued to try and get him free. He did not stop his attacks on your breast; he knew how to play with them. Leaving you out of breath, the world was already spinning from you being drunk; now you held this want…for him to let you ride him.

There, as your hands moved the leather out of the way, you quickly undid the first two buttons and then a zipper. White pristine boxers with the most tasteful outline of his large cock. You knew he was large, just from his mirror pics from his Instagram. Right when your hands reached the boxers, he pulled your nipple, causing your body to lean onto him. You grabbed his shoulder with a moan louder than before.

“Oh, is this the sweet spot?” He teased you; he enjoyed the way your body used his for support.

“You are making this—oh god! More difficult than it…mhm…needs to be.”

“Clearly you want to ride me, making this fun for you.”

“Hardly, this is fun—f-f-f-fuck, just let me get fucked by you.��� It was a clear plea; he enjoyed it. This was fun; he was drunk, just as drunk as you, maybe a little less. Either way, he and you were extremely intoxicated; there was no filter.

“As you wish, Princess.” He let go of your nipples, allowing you to sit up once more. He continued to play with your breast, small whimpers forcing themselves out. You finally reached the hole between the boxers and his cock. The moment you moved the hole, it sprung out with such force it caused your lips to part ways and let out a gasp of surprise. “Bigger than you thought?”

“Yes…” He let out the smoothest of laughs, his hand raised up to your head and almost patting it.

“Come on…touch it, spit on it if you want.” Your cheeks felt warm; you moved your hands to his large cock. The moment you placed it around the base of his cock, it splurted precum from the tip. He groaned at the way your hands felt quite cold against his warm and throbbing cock. You moved a little on his lap, slouching a little, and spat on it.

There you began to move your hand; you twisted and pumped, attempting to get it covered in your spit. The way your hands moved had Hasan's head thrown against the back of the couch. His glasses were no longer straight; they were crooked, and hardly he looked presentable; neither did you.

“We don’t have condoms.” You let out; he raised his head up to see you actively pumping his throbbing cock. The erection reaches a point of pain and pleasure.

“I’ll pull out.” You hummed there was no protest, the way his eyes were glazed watching you, and your eyes were filled with lust. The alcohol was there; it was one of many factors as to the reason you landed here, about to ride his cock.

“I’ll get a Plan B.” There was a laugh shared between you, after all you two shared the same views. If you were to get pregnant, here in California it would be allowed and in your home state. You did not stop moving your hand while the two of you discussed the issue at hand.

There you felt him work on getting your pencil skirt raised. You looked professional before all of this; now you were a mess just like him. Your skirt lifted above your thighs, your panties shifted out of the way. The moment he moved the panties to the side, your lips parted to gasp; the cold air felt like a sharp touch.

“Come on…don’t be shy.”

“I am not…” You muttered as you began to hover over his cock. You held it in your hand while using your knees to stay up.

“You’re hesitating.” He teased.

“So what—AH!” You felt him thrust up and the first half of his cock being shoved inside you. The way your body had to use his to stay up. He chuckled; you slowly sunk in the rest while holding his shoulders with your hands. He groaned at the meticulous manner in which you moved down; you two were silently sitting there for a minute. “You’re an asshole.”

“Perhaps.” He could feel the way your hands held each side of his body. His shoulders were tense, the digging of your nails painful despite the hidden pleasure he felt. He found himself biting his bottom lip; you haven’t moved an inch yet, and here you are causing him to malfunction.

“Okay… I am going to move.” He nodded his head, his hands rested on your sides. There you began to move slowly and deep. Whimpers were the only sound you made while he attempted to stop himself from moaning. Simply by you being slow and deliberate, you had him as weak as could be; his bottom lip hurt as he continued to bite heavily on it.

Your spit and your wetness allowed the riding to be easier than if you did not. It was slow, and you continued to dig your nails in each of his shoulders. His hands were tight on you; he kept you up and balanced. You were incapable of moving quickly; he was so large, and you were not properly prepped; it hurt just a bit. Your adjustment happened while you moved your hips up and down.

“So…fucking big.” You cursed near his ear; it was a soft curse overpowered by your sounds of pleasure. The way your voice caused him to lose it, he bit his lip, and blood began to seep down it. He stared at you, raising a hand; he grabbed the back of your head and pulled you into a rough kiss. The metal of his blood mixing with one another kiss. You slowed the pace down of your hips to focus on the kiss, unknowingly frustrating him. During the deep and messy kiss, he thrust up between movements. “FUCK!”

You fell into his chest once more; he wrapped his arms around your waist, his large biceps keeping you in place. With his strength, he lifted you only a little, enough for him to thrust. He began to thrust into you, keeping you close. Your head fell between the crook of his neck, the blood and drool you two shared slipping down your mouth.

“Just take it, princess.” He whispered to you between grunts; you nodded in pure bliss. He was taking control, and you loved it. You were being fucked as if you were only a hole, even if he held you like the most delicate item in the world. The slapping of his balls against you echoed through the hotel room. You no longer attempted to hide your moans through whimpers; you were moaning fully.

“Y-yes!” The desperation from your voice is evident. He continued to buckle his hips; his legs were strong to be able to do this. He practically was lifting you while thrusting into you and keeping you in place. For him it was a full workout while all you had to do was be held and be fucked. Your eyes were glossy; you closed your eyes from the glossiness, and there your tears slipped down the crook of his neck.

“Such a perfect pussy.” Those words ignited a flame within you, your throbbing pussy clenching tightly on his cock that thrusts itself in the deep he so desired. You moaned louder than ever and wrapped your arms around his neck to keep him close. A groan of pleasure followed his movement when he slowed his pace. He wasn’t sloppy like the few men you fucked right before they came. He was precise; he actively thrust deep inside you. Not a single inch of his cock was outside of you when he thrust up.

The slowness kept your head lightheaded; clearly, he has been fucking you longer than your mind could comprehend, each thrust removing your ability to think. He was close; you were reaching the peak with him. Your thighs started to become uncomfortably tight; the arms around his neck moved to his thick dark hair and pulled, forcing his head to go back.

“Keep…going…ah-like.” Those words you muttered against him gave him an ego boost no man such as himself should have. Like most men who listen to that, they would speed up; he was not new to this; he kept the pace you told him you liked. If this was making you weak, he was doing something right. The tighter your thighs got, the closer you placed your bare chest against him. The arching of your back caused him to keep his grip tight.

A small twitch you felt within yourself; you gasped at the twitch. He tried to lift you after that twitch, except his body began to spasm, his cum seeping into your pussy at a quickened pace. You fell into his body, your hand letting go of his hair and your arms tightening to the point you were slightly choking him. He moaned while you were breathing heavily against his neck.

“You…” you gasped out only that singular word; your body was exhausted, and you were still buzzed. The room spun, and the way you were falling apart on top of him became overwhelming. “Are you going to pay for my Plan B?”

“Deal.” He breathed out with a chuckle, leaving you to laugh alongside him. “How about after we sober up?”

“Double deal.”

[gatorbites-imagines]

Hello gatorbite, I really liked your imagines with Mark Grayson, could you do an imagine of Mark with a Male Reader who is a vampire?

Mark Grayson x vampire king male reader

Headcanons

Cooking my own headcanons for vampires, how else are they gonna go on cute dates on the beach as the sun goes down?? Ive been listening to abracadabra by Lady Gaga for days, its been keeping me sane.

Mark and the bad bitch he pulled by being a nerd. i had a lot of fun writing this, i would love to write more about these two, or more vampire reader,,,

You guys would first have met after he became a hero, sometime during season 2. Probably before he got Oliver but after his dad left the planet and Mark wanted to fix everything and started working with Cecil.

The GDA knew of your existence of course. You were the first ever vampire, created through horrible magic and rituals against your will. This meant you couldn’t die, even from the sun or a stake or silver.

Every other vampire someone would meet would come from you in some way. Or rather, they were bitten by someone who was bitten by someone, so on and so forth until it reached you, kinda like a disease. The further out you go, the wilder and more animalistic the vampires are.

The few vampires you have bitten and turned yourself are strong and can walk in sunlight, and have other otherworldly powers, but those they bite have weaker powers, etc etc. and all other vampires but you can die. As long as life and death exist, so will you.

How you guys meet can be a mixed bag, but the most plausible is that some rabid vampires have run wild somewhere, and Mark was sent to deal with them since his skin can’t be pierced by their fangs.

The vampires he encounters are naked, human-looking creatures with warped faces, a mouth full of sharp teeth, shark bat-like features and the like. The only thing human about them is their shape.

A nest of vampires has run wild, and as the so called “vampire king”, “vampire well” or even “first vampiric ancestor”, its your duty to take care of it when it gets out of hand.

At this point Mark isn’t at his strongest, so the nest of vampire spawn gain the upper hand. Even with super strength, its hard for Mark since he also doesn’t want to kill at this point, and these technically were humans once.

So, imagine Marks shock, as he’s being overpowered by hundreds of these creatures that are more instinct than sense, when these creatures are sliced in half and turn into dust.

As the vampire king you can teleport all over the planet, you could probably even warp other planets if you focused hard enough. You might have done that once or twice, leading to vampirism spreading to different parts of the universe… but nobody has to know that…

What you wear can be up for debate, do you wear something from the time you died? Something Victorian? Or modern? I can’t imagine you are too involved with the current fashion since time passes so fast for you, so maybe it’s a bit out of fashion. You still look great though.

Maybe it’s having been beaten so hard by the now dead spawn, or maybe it’s just your vampiric influence, but Mark finds himself blushing and breathing a little harder.

The first time you meet doesn’t lead to much other than you taking care of the spawn, apologizing to Mark for causing such a mess and telling him you will take more care of your offspring. Mark just kinda goes “yeah, okay, thanks man…” before passing out.

You end up teleporting mark back to the GDA, or wherever hes being brought, like to the new guardians or whatever. Because obviously none of their protection measures can keep you out. It’s only weaker vampires that need an invitation inside.

They are all pretty damn uncomfortable when you comment about how nice Marks blood smells, because being thousands of years old also means you don’t have any shame in stating the obvious.

You say hello to Immortal before leaving. Of course, you guys know each other, both being immortal and all that. You guys play cards at least once every ten years or so, sometimes more, sometimes less.

This is also why Immortal is the most chill about you showing up, coming and going as you please, and saying Mark smells delicious. You once said he smelled delicious too when you first met, the stronger the person the better their blood and all. Now you guys are friends though, in a way.

After that you guys meet every now and then, mainly because you take his interest and Immortals friendship as an invite to come and go as you please, like a big scary housecat dressed in black.

You also follow him around (stalk him pretty much), and maybe it’s just him secretly loving steamy vampire fanfiction, or some viltrumite instinct, but being hunted is exciting.

You guys finally starting to date would also happen at some random moment when you guys are alone. You would have known about Marks attraction from the very moment you met, but your cold unbeating heart had started warming up around him too.

All his rambling about heroes and fictional stories worked like a charm. The many many questions about vampires and pop culture was cute too. He couldn’t believe that the whole weak to garlic thing started as an inside joke amongst vampires and spread out, when it wasn’t even true.

Mark was positively shocked when the whole pop culture idea that being bitten felt good turned out to be true. Later you would explain it was all about intent and reception. If you wanted it to hurt and he feared you, then it would have hurt. But because he was a little freak who was really into it, then it brought pleasure.

Mark also never thought you would be able to bite through his skin, but you could. Only because of your whole, king of the vampires, first original vampire, deal. Any other vampire wouldn’t be able to bite through vultrumite skin.

Being able to rip through vultrumites will be useful later, and not needing to breathe and being able to fly as well. But that’s for later space adventures.

When the whole thing with Oliver happens, you are of course there to support Mark, but also his family. Cecil also knows not to fuck with you, because its all thanks to you that the dead don’t rise and come for him every single day.

This may mean it doesn’t end as badly as in season 3, or, Mark just has some more support, very powerful support that the GDA knows to fear. Because how is Cecil gonna manipulate the original manipulator? The one strong enough to bewitch the entire planet if he wanted to?

You also have a better time explaining morals and powers to Oliver, since you are still stronger than him at this point, so you can put him in his place when he needs it. Being nonhuman also helps a lot, since Oliver feels his power disconnects him from humanity.

This gives Mark some more room to find himself and settle, and yeah, I feel like him and his family end up moving into wherever you stay. Be it some massive gothic castle in Romania, or a Victorian mansion at the edge of a massive cliff in England, who knows.

Both because its safer, more comfortable, and they get to feel like they don’t always have to look over their shoulder.

You don’t survive the coffin allegations though, since you sleep in a grand one, and have at least 100 different coffins you switch between. Most were gifts from your spawn, or one or two from immortal as “congrats on living another hundred” gift. You gifted him weapons or houses in return.

Mark can’t sleep in the coffins with you, since he hates how claustrophobic it makes him. But he will sleep beside the coffin. You guys keep the lid pushed to the side enough for you to stick a hand out, so you guys can hold hands.

I feel like Oliver would thrive a lot under you and your spawns, since you keep your “children” in line. Being direct descendants of you means they are powerful enough to play and roughhouse with, but also help him train.

Mark trains with you instead, and it regularly ends up with him almost giggling and kicking his feet as you pin him down, barring his neck all “oh please, vampire king, please don’t bite me”.

It takes Debbie a while to settle in, but maybe she meets one of your spawn to gets on with well, or she doesn’t at all. Maybe she just takes the time to heal and find herself when she sees her sons are happy.

You end up getting the shovel talk from her though, which all your direct descendants peek around the corner of the doorway to watch. Somehow you look meek as she points a finger at you and tell you to treat her son right and with respect.

I haven’t read very far in the comics so I cant tell you what happens after this, but Mark will have you by his side when everything goes down, and that might help change it to a more positive outcome.

It might help to have a lover who isn’t held back by his humanity and morals. You are more than willing to turn entire planets into your mindless spawn if it means keeping your dear ones safe. It does lead to a horrible argument and Mark not talking to you for a while, but he forgives you at some point.

Reading his secret fanfic does help with that, even if it means you have to dress like a man from the current era, style your hair and stalk him when he sleeps (as if you don’t already do that).

Being a super ancient and rich vampire also means you can pile gifts on Mark, Oliver and Debbie. Mostly Mark, but you don’t want his kin to be left out. So, Mark gets to live out his nerdy dreams to the extreme.

You’ll remodel a whole part of your house for him if it comes down to it. Your direct spawn will coo at you becoming soft. You let them, for now, but you’ll get your revenge, especially seeing them all tied around the Grayson’s fingers too.

You are so used to dealing with the GDA that it also isn’t hard to keep them at bay, how are they gonna invade a place that’s existed longer than democracy? You will burn the whole place down if you have too. Anything for your nerdy little hero.

[thelioncourts]

in the summer of 2023, there were many fic writers (mostly black fic writers, several of them trans) who were writing fem louis fics. those writers were put on a list as though they had committed a crime because a couple other people thought that their feminization of louis was wrong in some capacity (there were arguments about it negating canon, arguments about the feminization being too much, venturing toward other problems, etc.). when those writers - who, mind you, were just posting fics and reblogging and posting things predominantly here on tumblr - rightfully confronted the list, the backlash suddenly grew tenfold (backlash that hadn't existed up to that point, not until the list was made). those writers and fans received racist, misogynistic, threatening, and vile messages and there were even mock fics written and posted anonymously to laugh at their ideas. it didn't matter how logically people explained where their ideas stemmed from within the canon, the people arguing summed it up to louis is a man and you guys only see him as this because you're racist or because you hate white people (both arguments were used) or because you want to reduce louis to a love interest or because you can't accept other characters are important too (again, both arguments were used) and so on and so forth. and this has continued into as recent as just a couple of weeks ago when fans - again, predominantly black and several of them trans - on twitter were discussing louis with she/her pronouns and the argument became that they're both men and how can you try to view them through a heterosexual lens when they're in a queer relationship like this like the point is they're both men why can't you see that, etc. but now the conversation is about lestat and she/her pronouns and people that disagree with it need to take into consideration how other people feel and there's this flood of extended sympathy and energy toward supporting those fans who identify strongly there and who believe lestat uses she/her pronouns. and it really just hits you, y'know, how unbelievably racist and antiblack the whole thing is. and after almost-three years in this fandom, you would think that I, and others, would be used to it but it truly just hits you like a ton of bricks every single time.

[floralettered]

dressed in sunlight / warmed the cold that lived inside me ꒰ ﾟ ׅ caleb ♡ ﾟ ꒱

summary. “anything,” he says, and that’s everything, isn’t it? you set the tin on the table behind you. wipe the hair from his eyes and trace a path to his jaw. caleb shudders, canting to follow your touch. “god,” he murmurs, “anything."

tags. mc!reader, my belated interpretation of no-return night bday sex, mc's grief over losing caleb is very much present and so is his trauma so there's some minor angst, first times, fingering, oral (f receiving), piv, fluff, love confessions, praise, overuse of "baby", dacryphilia, unsafe sex acknowledged without much care from either party, they want the cookie too bad sorry, caleb pushed my smut vocabulary beyond limits i previously believed i was capable of, etc. this is my first post so support is super appreciated :3

word count. 6.1k

The last minutes of the day stretch midnight blue across the walls, and somehow it feels like if it doesn’t change now it never will. You’ve tiptoed around it a lifetime. You’ve wrapped yourself in him, warm at his hearth, cool at his headstone. You’ve mourned him, watched him slip away and then return to you, not with a moment of his absence where you were anything less than half of him — How many people can say that? How many people can weep in the arms of someone they once weeped over the grave of?

You turn in what should be sleep but can’t be. There’s too much of him and too little, things you thought once not to want for but what is one impossible wish granted above getting him back? It’s hard not to be greedy. The sheets smell like him, and he smells like you: fresh laundry and the shampoo he’s been buying you since high school, stolen back-and-forth in a played out excuse to visit and steal it again. Once-empty shelves are now lined with photos, books, hard-won plushies and badges encased, model planes you built at his table. So little belongs to him anymore, and he’s filled all of it with you.

Still something is missing. It doesn’t feel like absence in the way losing him did, the numb waking and sleeping and seeking answers to make sense of existing without him — and you don’t think you ever would have. This is anticipatory. It’s one of those things, you guess, like your stolen shampoo; you’ll dance around what you both know so that there’s always a reason to come back.

That’s the game. It’s good sportsmanship to lie here and let it play out.

But then is it losing to make the choice in a second, breathless at your own daring, your overwhelming need to grab the tin beside you and march to the door? You hope not. It’s seven minutes to midnight; if you think about it any longer you’ll stop yourself, and it’ll pass with the day. Maybe this is winning, then.

Or maybe he’s waiting for you like he knew you’d come, your necklace dangling in his hand, his fingers twitching over something that isn’t you — and for Caleb, everything else is, foremost, defined by its lack of you. Because he doesn’t stop, shocked, arrested by the sight of you at the foot of the stairs, candy tin dumbly in hand like either of you still believe that’s why you’re here. His lips curl in a way someone else might not notice. Your necklace falls against his chest. It rises with his steady breath, buttons on his blazer undone. That’s the game: you notice everything, and he knows.

“Hey,” you say, voice small, tired. You’re still in your dress. It’s clear you got no more sleep than he did. “I thought you might still be up.”

“Yeah.” And his smile stretches to something full, sunshine in the dark.

“Not ready for the day to end, huh?”

“Mm, not yet. You did good, Pips. Don’t want it to go to waste.”

“Good?” You mimic offense.

“Amazing,” he rectifies teasingly, “Perfect, brilliant, the best—”

“Yeah, yeah. Suck-up.”

“For you.”

He wears it like a badge of honour. Not like his Fleet awards, Colonel cap and insignia, sports trophies and a thousand other achievements (because he is perfect, brilliant, the best). It’s like you said. They’re things defined by their lack of you. There’s nothing he’s prouder of being than yours.

“Want your final gift?” you ask, waving the tin at him.

“Come here,” he says, quietly, and it’s an answer to something else.

You do. Of course you do. In the steps it takes to reach him, you feel weightless, like the sensation of his Evol softly suspending you, pulling you hazily toward him. His power has never made more sense than this moment. He is the gravitational force you orbit — yours no more than you are devastatingly, wholly, infinitely his.

You stand before him, not quite between his legs but too little is in the way of you now not to know you’ll get there. Your fingers, slightly shaky, ring against the tin as you twist it open. He steadies your hand with his, and you know he’s looking at you but your eyes stay fixed on the array of colours, not quite ready for what you’ll find when you meet his. A second. That’s all you need. You pretend to consider the flavours. He’s patient with you, brushes the skin of your fingers and waits.

Caleb is good at waiting for you. Would wait for you forever, take whatever you gave him, follow you anywhere.

You fish a yellow candy from the corner, smile mischievously when you press forward and hold it to his mouth. He opens for you. The look in his eyes is exactly what you thought it would be, and it’s hard to keep your smile as much as it’s hard to stay upright when you press the candy to his tongue and feel it graze your finger.

He winces somewhat, then laughs, slides the lozenge to his cheek to talk. “Lemon flavour? You always give me the sourest ones.”

“You said they’re your favourite like a hundred times!”

“Uh-huh, but you test me by going sourer each time, don’t you? Findin’ excuses to torture me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You let me, you masochist.”

“And now you’re being mean to me on my birthday.”

“Hardly.” You glance at the clock, shudder on a breath you hide in a cough. “Only two minutes left, so it doesn’t count.”

“Yeah? You gonna go back to being mean to me tomorrow?”

“No,” you say without much thought. There’s something about his voice when he gets like this, unfair of him to call you mean when he says it in that tone. He’s mean. Dizzying. “Maybe,” you add quickly, “if you deserve it.”

He hums, glances over when the clock ticks. “You’ve got a minute to decide. Maybe you can be nice to me in the meantime. Make up your mind at midnight.”

“And what could I do in a minute to know?” you ask, but it’s half a sigh. You’re inching between his legs now, spread open, anticipating the moment you fully fill the space. Carefully, you oblige him. His knees bracket your hips but don’t touch. You could be held another way if you wanted, how you imagine it sometimes — too often and for longer than you’d like to admit.

Slowly but surely, a knee brushes your hip. When you only skip a breath but stay, his eyes slip down, and he takes the chance, brushes against the other until you’re snug between his thighs.

“Anything,” he says, and that’s everything, isn’t it?

You set the tin on the table behind you. Wipe the hair from his eyes and trace a path to his jaw. Caleb shudders, canting to follow your touch.

“God,” he murmurs, “anything.”

So you climb into his lap like coming home.

It feels like it: soft and warm and sturdy, his arms coming up to hold you without a second’s pause, and you love him. You kiss him. He welcomes you in.

If midnight strikes, you’re beyond caring the moment his lips are on yours. The days could blur like this, a thousand birthdays in a week, all the years you spent wanting this made up in the time you swear you will have it. Caleb, fortunately, seems to be of a similar mind. One hand lingers at your back as he cradles you closer, the other twining up your waist to the nape of your neck, your jaw, big palm swallowing your cheek with the brush of his thumb. He holds you there. Only lets you squirm if it’s to push forward, and you have no intention of going anywhere else. And he’s loud. God, don’t you know he is; you’ve tried following his workouts before, the one-handed pushups, the military precision, sweat trickling down the neckline of his tank top to territory untreaded. But to feel his sounds against your mouth when you’re only kissing — and fine, sure, your hips are rolling somewhat on instinct — is so intensely foreign that you’d stumble if he wasn’t holding you so tight.

You pull away to breathe. It stings. Pathetically, you literally ache to part from him. But you’d frame the image of him dazedly chasing your lips if you could, and that alone is worth it.

Caleb slumps back against the couch with a half-lidded gaze and cheeks already flushed, shaking his head like he’s not sure you’re real. “Wanted you — needed you like this for —”

“How long?” you whisper, mouth dry.

He laughs. It sounds verged on a sob. “All my life.”

“Oh.” You still, and you hope he knows it’s because your mind has gone too fuzzy to come up with anything better. “Okay, you — you can have me. As long as… Can I have you?”

His head falls back with a broken sigh. “Can you have — You kiddin’ me? Baby, you do. Please.”

You nod, kissing him again, guiding his hand to your shoulder while you copy the way he said baby over again in your head. He traces the ribbon there and pulls back when you loop his fingers through it to tug it free.

“God. Are you sure?”

“Mhm,” you say, and scatter your confirmation in kisses up his neck. He curses, free hand cupping your thigh now, squeezing as if to steady himself. “Want you.”

And then the ribbon is as undone as he is, cascading down your dress with all of its jewels, cool air prickling the skin of your chest when he follows suit on the other side. It’s gone as quickly as it comes, engulfed in an instant by Caleb’s warmth. His mouth traces the new skin available to him. He moans when your hands grip his hair. Spurred on, he kisses lower, as reverent as he is curious, as loving as he is hungry. You can’t help but tug when his tongue grazes your nipple, and he hums in satisfaction, drags you by the hand under your thigh so that you’re straddling him properly, as if you weren’t before. His hard length presses perfectly between your legs.

You grind against him and he stops, keeps you still. “Fuck — not yet. Gotta wait for me, baby.”

“But you’re —”

“I know, I know, no fair. Too much I wanna do with you first, though.”

“Caleb…”

His mouth traces lower as he hoists you up, Evol pressing in now, the pressure colder, but familiar, part of him like everything else, and you want everything. “Let me be greedy? Wanna be good to you. Please.”

You suppose that’s it — everything — offered to you plainly. What are you going to do but take it?

You nod. Small, first, reeling somewhat from the fact that this is happening, then earnest when his eyes tell you it isn’t enough.

“Thank you,” he says. Sighs it into a kiss at your navel as his fingers work their way to the insides of your thighs and dig like he knows to expect your shudder. You wrap your arms around his shoulders. He presses closer, feather-light, just the tips of his fingers now, relenting his grip to his Evol in favour of testing the grounds of your skin, how the goosebumps raise on the round, soft shape of your bare thighs. You’d considered wearing stockings that morning. Dreamed of this moment but not dared believe in it, and abandoned them regardless in the same eager hope you always have for him. Thank god.

“Caleb,” you breathe again, the word dry, sticky when your mouth tries to shape it right. “Let me down — I want — need to feel you.”

He groans, shakes his head with your hands on his cheeks, tilting his face so that your sweetest eyes might make him give in like he always does, but even then he denies you. He has to grit his teeth through it. Can’t linger on your gaze too long before pulling you down just enough to bury his face in your neck but not to feel him firm between your legs again.

His fingers find their way there instead, and you’re jolting over his lap when they graze the juncture of your thigh just as his teeth come down softly on your collar, soothing the sting with his tongue. But even Caleb’s patience wanes. He’s got his spare hand pushing your dress up around your waist, trailing the lace band of your underwear with restraint you’re not sure he would’ve had if you’d done this years ago, when you probably should have. It’s something to think about, rocking as far as you can against the weight of his Evol — Caleb in his college years, with you, swallowed by the size of him in a little dorm bed as he pants above you, his fingers —

His fingers pushing aside the fabric of your panties and finding the wetness there, moaning into your neck at the feeling, the sound you make with him. You gasp, blink open eyes that were blissfully, painfully shut, dream discarded. The reality is better. You claw at his shoulders.

“Caleb, please —”

“Fuck, okay, so pretty like this. Knew you would be.”

It’s too good. He’s too good. All at once, half-suspended, his mouth kissing a necklace on your throat while his fingers curve upward to find your clit. You don’t know where it comes from. Thoughts of him in college? Your Caleb, tall and pretty and ever-so-wanted? You can’t help it.

“How are you… Have you — ah — done this before?” you ask, but it’s strangled, caught in his hair, stuck to your open mouth.

He stops. It’s not even a fair question. What would you tell him if he asked you the same? That despite his best efforts, you’d kissed and been kissed, fumbled around to touch, been touched before retreating, too uncertain even with kind hands on tall pretty bodies, terrified to feel them and think only of him?

“I told you,” he says, and his voice is so breathy now, rasped like it gets on your favourite mornings, “Wanted you all my life. Why would I?”

You nod, feeling dizzy. “Just — just good at it. Guess I could’ve said that better.”

A surprised, satisfied little laugh escapes him. Scowling at his self-congratulation, you shut him up with your lips. So he’s yours, good, conversation over, thank you. But Caleb is smiling so proudly against your silencing kiss, fingers right back to work, and the first delicate circle he draws over your clit has you keening, stuttering into him.

“Too much, honey?”

“Fuck, Caleb —”

“That’s okay. You can do it.” He sounds so sincere. Sugar-spun. Your sweet Caleb, looking up at you with dewy eyes and pink lips. “God, you’re wet. Gotta let me in.”

“Uh-huh,” you exhale, nodding limply into his neck.

“I can?”

“Please.”

“Oh, you’re —” His thumb keeps its place but two fingers trail down, curl at your entrance and you lurch helplessly against his Evol to meet them — “Too good to me, baby.”

His ring finger presses in first. There’s some symbolism lost on you you’ll smile sleepily about later. Not now. Now he slides into you, enveloped without resistance, and you curse. You’d be writhing if you had the movement, squirming to push him deeper. Caleb is muttering something, both of you at the beating pulse of the other’s throat, and it feels like a mantra he’s etching to your skin. It sounds like the sort of patterned speech someone repeats to themselves to wake up from a dream.

“More,” you plead, and with anyone else you’d be embarrassed at the desperation in your voice, but you don’t think it could be anyone else. You don’t think anyone else could be made so broken just by pleasing you.

“More?’ he rasps in awe, like he isn’t obliging you already, finger sliding in to the knuckle. A warm pressure builds steadily inside you. He coils so nicely against it, the friction blinding. Your vision dances.

It’s something beyond instinct to bite down on him harder than he did you. It starts with grazing teeth, and then you’ve never been content just having some of him, have you? So you latch around the skin, summer-gold, fresh from the shower. You can’t help it. You need to. 

“Fuck —” His spare hand scrambles from thigh to hip, grabbing tight, twitching at the shallow indent of your teeth in his neck. His Evol loosens enough for your shoulders to slump, cocooned around his torso. You pant, kiss, almost as wet and messy on his Adam’s apple as you are on his fingers, and he sounds like he’s struggling to hold on.

Good, you think. In the heat haze of your pleasure and his faltering control, your trembling hand reaches down and wraps around his clothed length.

Caleb’s Evol slips completely, second finger barely tipping into you when you sink down on his lap and ease it to the hilt.

It’s something about the evidence of his desire and the way he grips you harder. Something about the sight of his hand buried between your legs, fingers vanished to the knuckles in the warmth of your cunt. The added friction of his thighs under yours, grinding frantically against him while he’s still blinking over some fired circuit in his brain. If it’s all too much for him you don’t notice in any way that matters. The rope grows taut and snaps, and only when you come do your teeth finally unlatch from him, crying into his flushed ear instead.

You’re shaking so hard it’s difficult to process the moment he returns to you. This. Here. Your body spilled over him, panties to the side and thighs spasming over his clenched wrist. But he does. Oh, he does — the focus comes back to your eyes in time to catch his darkening, burning, sweeping down to the mess you’ve made of his lap. It’s hard not to relish the look in his eyes and the twitch of his cock, imagine how good this is for him, memorize the bead of sweat trickling down his cheek. 

Caleb doesn’t want you thinking about how it feels for him. Caleb doesn’t want you thinking at all.

Wordlessly, he flips you over. Tugs your dress up by the ribbons and lays you on the couch all while you’re still panting. It’s you who can’t quite cling to reality enough to play even, keep the control you so narrowly won when you’re still coming down from his fingers. And then the absence of them is suddenly so overwhelming that you’re pushing up on wobbly elbows to catch the moment he’ll surely curl them into you again.

That’s not what you find him doing.

Instead, he’s sliding your panties down legs he wrests open despite their jerking, kissing his way back up from your ankles until his breath is warm against your cunt.

“Said you’d let me be good to you,” he breathes, bitter but without any bite.

“You —” He kisses the inside of your thigh, licks a stripe up the residue of your orgasm — “Oh, you are good to me.”

“Uh-uh, baby. I told you I wanna do more and you’re bein’ greedy. You don’t even know how much I wanna do. Don’t have a damn clue, do you? Can’t make me come yet or I won’t get to do it all.”

You’re swallowing instead of talking, mouth dry, head progressively lighter but apparently not light enough for him because you’re still mustering the urge to argue.

“You’d come from that? Me on your lap?”

You don’t pose the question to embarrass him, and he isn’t.

“I can’t believe I have you,” is what he says, so raw, so suddenly unabashed in the wake of all the shame he carries that you don’t know what to do with it but hold your breath. “Just you is enough. Don’t think you’d have to touch me at all.”

“Oh.” Stupid. You’re stuck on the syllable again.

“But,” he goes on, “You told me you’d be nice.”

And he presses his lips to your clit as if to test your word, a little whine in his throat when you gasp and buck your hips. He forces them back down. No Evol. Just his hands now. Maybe to prove he can.

“That was — ah — think it’s tomorrow now, Caleb.”

“Today, baby. Your head’s all dizzy, huh?”

You nod feebly.

“Poor thing. Gotta let me take care of you then.”

Again. Your head copies the motion without thinking, hips struggling against his hold, his mouth inches from where you need him.

“Ah,” he tuts, “Tell me, please? Tell me I can take care of you.”

You fall back onto a pillow, unsure when he placed it there, but warmth spreads in the place you feel his absence at the knowledge that he did. He’s already taking care of you. Always has. 

“You can take care of me, Caleb — baby, please.”

Maybe the word does to him what it does to you, because he hitches your thighs over his shoulders with a low groan and does. He takes care, tongue laving against you and then in, fingers right back on your clit in case his mouth gets too busy lapping at whatever you’ll give him. And you’re remiss to hold back. As if you had a choice, your body wound in the throes of his touch. He’s making more of a mess of you than he’s cleaning up the last. His moans reverberate against you. At a point, startled from your steady, shallow panting when he slides two fingers back in and presses your clit from both sides, you realize he’s as lost as you are. Consuming you and consumed. You thrash helplessly as the feeling rises again, hands weaving through his hair as you peer down from your heaving chest.

He’s moving. Not just his mouth and the quick joints of his wrist with every curl of his fingers — Caleb is moving somewhere lower, hips desperately grinding against the couch as he eats you out. You fucking mewl. High and wanting, face immediately turning over to bite the pillow he set for you. 

He stops with a jolt. Stiffly, pulls away, a scratchy sound at the back of his throat, movement suspended as your necklace swings beautifully across his chest. You squirm in pathetic display for his mouth to latch onto you again, his name spilling tenfold from your lips. The pillow is damp where it drools out of you.

“Fuck. Stop, stop.”

You try, less effort on your part than his, grip tight on your thighs as his eyes wrench shut.

“W-Why?”

“Almost came. Fuck. Give me a second.”

He did say just you were enough.

Still, it’s a devastating thing to know. Maybe you could come from just him too — hands on your thighs, yes, but nothing of him anywhere else but the inches he’s retreated away from you, mouth glistening, hair mussed from your desperate fingers.

“You can,” you say, babbling somewhat, your voice entirely shot. “Want you to. Come back.”

“Jesus, baby, don’t do that.”

But with his hands on your thighs, yours are free to push through his hair again, stroke the messy strands from his face and brush your trembling thumb over his wet lip. He curses, lets you graze his teeth with glossy eyes before slapping the palm down and away like it’s enough to unravel him. When he pins your hand to the cushions, a new freedom is offered to buck your hips, and the last of his resolve vanishes with the provocation. It’s not on purpose. It’s his fucking fault, really, he’s completely possessed you. That doesn’t seem to matter much to him. 

Caleb burrows into your cunt with something too ruined to be anger but animalistic all the same, Evol seizing you, and you come a second time, fixed against his mouth without an inch for escape.

His ministrations are unfaltering. He isn’t wasteful and he isn’t forgiving — tongue fucking into you even when you stutter in the comedown. You think you’re speaking, begging, aware enough to try to muffle your moans with a bite to the pillow but his Evol takes that from you too. He doesn’t stop. Must have conjured some impossible determination because you make the same noise that almost destroyed him before but it does nothing to cease his pace now.

“Can't,” you whine, “Too much — ah, Cal-uh-uhb —”

His mouth departs from you only for the time it takes to deny you. “Can, honey. So good for me.” 

“Need to hold… something…”

So generous, your Caleb, he relents control of one of your hands. It immediately winds its way back to his hair and pulls. Your chest is still heaving, body twitching with all the movement it has available as his mouth finally salves its assault, licking at the soaked skin of your inner thighs instead. But it gives you a moment. A breath.

He looks up at you, staring in some sacred way while you struggle to keep your eyes open. Even when the pleasure begins to fade to a calm, steady buzz, legs slumped under the caress of his hands, you moan softly at his fingers pulling free. Time seems to still to just this. You lock your heavy-lidded gaze on his, find him, keep him there with sudden urgency. You’ve had him as long as you can remember and yet you’ve spent your whole life looking for him.

“Promise me you’re real,” he breathes, like he’s done nothing but look for you too.

Your eyes go hot. Blurring at the corners until nothing is clear but him. “I thought I lost you.”

“No,” Caleb says quickly, Evol gone again, inching up your torso to wipe your tears before they fall. “No, it’s you and me, Pips — I couldn’t… I would’ve found a way back to you.”

“I looked for you everywhere.”

He presses his lips to your forehead. “I know.”

“I never would’ve stopped.”

Your cheek. Hand on the other. “I know.”

“You’re really here?”

“I’m here.” He kisses you. “I love you.”

You nod, smiling, crying, laughing maybe. “I love you too.”

His breath catches in his throat, blinking rapidly. The cool quiet of his apartment is warm in a way it’s never been before. “I dreamed about you. I’d wake up… reachin’ for you. If I didn’t have you like this, it’d be enough; you know that, right?”

It’s your turn, pulling him down, kissing his forehead. “I know.” You wrap your arms around him. “But I’m glad it’s like this.”

He sighs contentedly, squished against you, hands trailing reverently down your waist. And you know he’d sleep like this, still fully dressed, still hard — clean you up a little before you doze off — and that would be more than he’d once allowed himself to want. It’s long past midnight now. You owe him nothing and never have. There’s no transaction here. You just love him. You just want him in all the ways he can be had.

“Can you…” It’s ridiculous to be shy now. You grumble into his neck nonetheless, still putty from the hips down. “I don’t wanna sleep yet, Caleb.”

“You—?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck. Are you s—”

“I’m sure, dummy.”

He twitches at your thigh. “How are you so mean to me when you’re bein’ so nice?”

“That doesn’t make any — ah —” His hand wedges between your legs again — “Sense.”

“Mm, you know exactly what I mean.”

“Shut up.”

“Like I said.”

You get to work on his buttons. 

“You love me,” you say as you descend to his navel, skin revealed by the inch.

He isn’t shy to repeat himself. “I love you. More than anything.”

“Forever?”

“Forever. Longer. However long you’ll have me.”

His shirt is shrugged off his shoulders, flexing on instinct at your touch, the muscles tanned and corded. You squeeze and pull him closer. Don’t want anything separating you. Want him to be part of you.

“I love you,” you murmur between kisses, low as he’ll let you go before his abdomen clenches and he’s pushing you back up the cushions and unbuckling his belt.

“I can’t — Need to be inside, baby.”

Point proven: his cock slips free from his briefs, painfully hard, flushed for you. You reach for it, mouth watering. Caleb grabs your wrist and groans in a hoarse, fragmented way when you part your legs instead. His head falls to the crook of your neck.

“Fuck. I don’t have… I didn’t want to assume…”

Oh. Right. Protection. You’ve only been warned a thousand times. “I don’t care.”

You don’t care? Point proven, in a terribly honest way: you cant your hips up and slide filthily slick against him. It would be so easy to guide him where you want him. You shudder under his glorious weight, digging your fingers into his biceps while his clutch white-knuckled at the cushions on either side of your head. There goes that mantra again, more like a prayer now, like begging for you and mercy as if they’re one in the same. But he’s not holding you down anymore and that has to mean something. 

You’re grinding up, a bit hard on your sensitive thighs but you’re no quitter. You’re inviting him in, warm and welcome, and you’ve been home to him too long to stay waiting at the door.

“Okay, okay,” Caleb gasps. He shifts to squeeze your waist and lift your hips nice and snug around his. His other hand wraps around his length, weeping from the tip, wet enough at the apex of your thighs to rub through and lubricate. You keen at the feeling. “I’ll be slow, baby. You okay?”

“Uh-huh. Please.”

“So good,” he praises, not sinking in yet but lined up just right. “Can you — ahh, keep bein’ good so I can get one more from you, honey, please? All I want.”

“Y-yeah.”

He eases the tip in. “Yeah?”

“God, I can’t —”

“Can’t? — Oh, fuck — I know, I know, but y’can’t clench around me like that, baby. Said you could do it so I need you to keep your word.”

“M’trying. Need more.”

“Gimme a… give me one second, pretty. God, you’re so…” 

Warm. Warm, you want to finish. Blistering at how perfectly he sinks in, forehead sticking to yours as you inhale each other’s hot gasps. You want to wrench your eyes shut at the pressure as much as you need to immediately wrest them open again. You can’t look away from him. Then you don’t know which part of him to look at; his eyes are volcanic, more pink than violet in the sunset hue of the lights you strung for him, fluttering as he presses deeper, but — then there’s the point of contact where he does it, lapsing from sight like his fingers did, burrowed steadily inside you.

There’s the initial sting but he’s so sweet, your Caleb, patiently murmuring praises into your mouth: so good, like I dreamed it, please and please and please. It’s more overwhelming than anything else, the need to be as familiar with this part of him as you are the rest, shuddering around the foreign stretch as he slowly pushes to the hilt. Your hands scrabble at his shoulders for purchase and his head falls. Soft, dark hair curtains your vision. It’s less sweet, less patient when he teeths your jaw and mutters, “Mine.”

For a moment you stay like that, testing the air, the feeling of skin, marks of old scars and new, all senses to prove it’s real. You asked him already. He promised he was. And you don’t think you could conjure this — never dreamed him quite right when you did.

Then he moves. Your nails carve moons in his skin you’ll kiss better later.

“You’re — ha —”

“Please,” you sob, reduced to the word, unsure of exactly what you’re even asking.

Caleb’s cock twitches inside you. “You cryin’, baby? It’s okay.”

Are you? You don’t think you care. His thumb is at your cheek to wipe the tears, your old bite mark faded between the fingers, and you whine a soft, “More.”

“Yeah? You want me to keep going?” It’s a strained question, a needy thing, like he’s always tried not to be for you. It’s hard for him to imagine parting now — and you know that because you grab on tighter at the thought — but he would without blinking. Clean you up and carry you to bed, talk it through in the morning, love you no matter how you have him. 

But how many more ways can you tell him you want him? Grind into his hips, flutter around him so his teeth clench on a moan? You are his mirror, comprised of his best and worst parts, and he’s never turned away. You never will either.

“Stay,” you plead, taking his hand. 

With the lights shadowed by the veil of his hair, his eyes are the same soft purple you look for in every sunrise. Tears pearl in them, a gaze that doesn’t shine like this for anything else, and he’s cradling you by the hips, loving you — the best thing his hands have ever done — whispering it in a jagged, barely-there voice as he pulls back and thrusts in again.

“I love you,” at the column of your throat.

“I love you,” between kisses that slope to your chest.

“I love you,” in your open mouth, tasting him, too gone to say it back but he knows.

Caleb holds your trembling thighs open around his waist every time your body tries to squeeze them shut, manoeuvres you to fit him deeper, praises never ceasing even when you can’t muster the energy to rock to meet him anymore. He’ll do the work for you, tell you how good you are, how sweet, his perfect girl. Leave it to him, he says, so eager to please you. And the pressure builds again. Your head is too fuzzy to know what words are spilling from your mouth but his name. 

“You’re gonna give me one more, baby?” he groans, awed like he didn’t swear to bring you there.

You attempt to agree.

“Yeah, you are — fuck, I can feel it. Please.”

And he’s babbling on as the feeling rises to something almost unbearable, the blurry edge of all your senses tangled, fizzling wires all coiled together. The weight of him on you and in you. You’ve never known where you end and Caleb begins, but this is something else. You gasp for comprehension, nowhere to turn, nothing in the world but the shape of him.

The wire snaps. He doesn’t last through it.

His back must be bleeding with the toll your fingers have taken on his skin, squeezing him dry in more ways than one. He spills into your cunt, pulsing, pace quickening like it isn’t enough. You’re blindingly hot underneath him, spasming through it. Your thighs are drenched. You are crying, you must be. The pleasure is undoing, the kindest way you’ve ever been unraveled, thoughts gone to him how he wanted. Your shared release pools between you as his thrusts finally slow. The sound is lewd. Impossibly, you want more. You’d tell him to stay again if you could form the word.

He knows. He’s yours.

“You did so good, honey,” he sighs in your neck, still stuttering gently into you. “Thank you.”

“I know, I know. Don’t…” You swallow. Your mouth is painfully dry. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Caleb laughs breathlessly as he engulfs you in his arms. He presses a kiss to your temple. “Think you need some water, Pips."

You grumble wordlessly against his chest.

“So you are bein' mean again? That’s the official decision?"

“Mhm."

“Huh," he hums with another kiss, grinning at the little shudder you give as his lips trail down your jaw, “How about I get up — yeah, yeah, I know, baby, don’t look at me like that. How about I get you some water and then come back inside?"

"Caleb." You blink, gasping when his tongue sweeps over your breast. “Again?”

“…Pretty please?”

With a glance over his broad shoulders, you debate whether the seconds it’ll take him to get to the kitchen and back are worth it when you’ve already got him nice and warm and wrapped around you. But his eyes gleam luringly with promise, sweaty and messy and pink in the face. 

God, you love him.

“Hurry up.”

He’s never moved faster in his life.

[enkephallic]

Limbus Company: Deep Analysis of Sin

So, I decided to take a deeper dive into the different sin types in Limbus Company.

The TLDR Version:

Wrath - Unable to accept something

Lust - Having a strong desire

Sloth - Losing sight

Gluttony - Satisfaction-seeking

Gloom - Controlled by pain

Pride - Contempt of others/selfishness

Envy - Desire to surpass

Regarding the sinners' skills, the sin position is important as well. A S1 sin is a surface-level appearance, but S3 represents something deep inside them.

The detailed explanations are under the cut!

Wrath

Wrath, on the surface level, can present as being irritable or hard to get along with.

Wrath S1 examples

LCB Ishmael, who seems irritable and nitpicky at first.

Seven Heathcliff "Why am I doing this stupid job?"

Hook Office Hong Lu "Don't speak so softly, I'll feel homicidal"

S2 gets closer to how they really feel. The feeling of wrath comes from the feeling of "I can't accept this" - whether it's how they're being treated, how their environment is, etc.

Wrath S2 examples

LCB Heathcliff (past speculation) - Discriminated, mistreated, resenting what's happening to him

LCB Sinclair (past) - I don't want to get prosthetics

W Corp Hong Lu - Bored with his job.

And S3 wrath represents a strong rejection - they won't accept Anything they deem contrary to their own beliefs and ideals. It is a violent refusal.

Wrath S3 examples

N corp identities who are brainwashed - Kill all the dissenters and heretics.

Pequod Ishmael - "It's MY way or the HIGHWAY, god damn it!" (Throws a fit if another ID kills an enemy)

R Corp Ishmael - Hates it to the point she's looking for Singularity information of old R corp

LCB Rodya - I can't accept this armchair revolution and endless poverty. I have to kill this old windbag.

Lust

Lust in this case is a pursuit of something non-physical - a relationship, an ideal, a core element of your self. On the surface level, this can present as really wanting to be something.

Lust S1 Examples

LCB Don Quixote - Wants to become a great Fixer.

W Corp Ryoshu - Wants to be a great artist.

Sous Chef Gregor - Wants to improve his cooking.

S2 is a little stronger than just normal desire. They will willingly hurt other people or trample them to achieve their goal.

Lust S2 Examples

Tingtang Gangleader Hong Lu - Uses violence and is callous to those invading his turf

The One Who Grips Faust - Massacres Sinclair's village to get what she wants

LCB Ryoshu - Her idea of beauty ties in with violence

S3 is a little different - It's desiring something so badly on an existential level. It's pretty much what they live for.

Lust S3 Examples

R.B. Chef Ryoshu - Needs to be one of the Eight. Will stop at nothing to achieve this.

N Corp Heathcliff - Not brainwashed, doesn't really want to be. Wants to preserve his "true self".

G Corp Gregor - After an irreversible transformation, fully believes his reason to exist is to be a killing machine.

Interestingly, both LCB Heathcliff and Hong Lu have a Lust S3.

Sloth

Sloth is inaction, watching from the sidelines, not seeing what is in front of you. This can start with just simply being misguided, believing something to be true when it's not.

Sloth S1 Examples

W Corp Don Quixote - "I am working at a Wing!! CHOO CHOO!! Sally forth!!"

LCB Outis - Her piss-poor act of blind acceptance and obedience.

LCB Meursault - It is simply none of my business if Sinclair hyperventilates and vomits on the floor.

S2 sloth is more purposeful, not taking action when one should or purposefully being ignorant of reality.

LCB Faust - Does not tell Dante and the others a lot of information and doesn't stop sinners from running amok.

LCB Hong Lu - Despite being perceptive, does not seem to register bad situations as bad or react to pain appropriately.

G Corp Gregor - This feels wrong but I'll just continue with it anyway.

S3 sloth is a total loss of vision, not being able to see what's important to them. Losing sight of all they used to desire, and doing nothing about it.

Dieci IDs - Lost their memory and doesn't even remember what was most important to them.

K Corp Hong Lu - Doesn't seem to mind his total loss of freedom and autonomy, despite desiring freedom in other IDs.

LCB Yi Sang - Could not care about anything he once loved or aspired to be, until he was able to gain his wings once more.

Blade Lineage Don Quixote - Once used her strength to fight alongside her comrades, but now kills for purely her own sake.

Gluttony

Gluttony is a desire to be satisfied, whether it's something material or psychological. This can present like greed or selfishness at first sight.

S1 Gluttony Examples

LCB Rodya - "I want meat, I want money, I want to gamble!"

LCB Ryoshu - "Let me smoke. Let me do as I please."

Lantern EGO Don Quixote - Curious about the abnormalities and wanting to know more about them

S2 Gluttony is wanting more at a crucial point in their life, or desiring more than they could chew. It could also mean getting hooked into something or addicted.

S2 Gluttony Examples

LCB Ishmael - "I quit my job, I need something that's not labour hellscape... Hm? That hag can sure talk..."

R Corp Heathcliff - Began deriving enjoyment from killing

N Corp Don Quixote - Didn't even need the brainwashing, got hooked onto the N Corp ideology herself

S3 Gluttony seems to be the final stage of seeking what they desire - being satisfied, even when they shouldn't be.

S3 Gluttony Examples

Tingtang Gangleader Hong Lu - Seems completely happy and enjoying himself

Seven Heathcliff - Actually learned to like his job

W Corp Hong Lu - Doesn't want praise or a raise, just fine with how things are now

Gloom

Gloom represents pain, and how it affects how the person treats their situation or other people. On the surface level, they may appear melancholic or having given up.

S1 Gloom Examples

LCB Yi Sang, LCB Gregor - Self explanatory.

Rosespanner Meursault - Crushed by work

R Corp Ishmael - Headache, pain, does not like it here

S2 Gloom is a moment of despair, when something in their heart was broken. This may also involve guilt and inflicting pain.

W Corp Don Quixote and most W Corp IDs (Except Hong Lu and Ryoshu) - The shocking reveal of what W Corp really is.

N Corp Heathcliff - "What the hell am I even doing??"

Lobotomy EGO Heathcliff - "All my friends are dead."

S3 Gloom can represent letting their pain affect how they treat others. Lashing out, being insensitive to others' pain, or simply giving up and accepting the hurt as inescapable.

W Corp Yi Sang - Abandoned hopes for freedom, just wants it to hurt a little less

G Corp Outis - Knows she cannot escape the unfair treatment

LCB Ishmael - Lashes out and hurts others because she is deeply hurting, making it more painful for her too

Pride

Pride is the belief that they are different from other people, and so the rules don't apply to them. This can seem as arrogance at first, even if they are not actually like that.

S1 Pride Examples

LCB Sinclair - Rich boy 1

LCB Hong Lu - Rich boy 2

LCB Faust - Doesn't hide that she thinks she's better than everyone else

S2 Pride can contain disdain for other people, and believing they are better than those around them. Therefore, their actions can be excused in their eyes.

S2 Pride Examples

LCB Meursault and LCB Outis - Competent and they know it themselves. Outis thinks of her comrades as dirt and points and laughs when they die.

W Corp Ryoshu - Her art comes from chopping up the dead and deformed passengers, doesn't give a single shit about them

LCB Rodya - Believed she was special enough to make a difference and split the hag's skull.

S3 pride goes a step further - their own desires take precedence over anyone else's. They may even see other people's lives as literally the same as a blade of grass. If they want something, they'll trample everything and anything.

S3 Pride Examples

The One Who Grips Faust - Probably doesn't even give a shit about the grand ideology or her minions. Just did it because she could, and wanted to.

The Middle Little Sister Don Quixote - "I can kill anyone who disrespected my organization!"

LCB Ryoshu - Has the littlest regard for human life.

Envy

Envy can start out with the simple desire to surpass someone, to become better than others. To want more than what other people have.

S1 Envy Examples

Tingtang Gangleader Hong Lu - Began wanting to be stronger, to have more power.

LCB Heathcliff - Rich bastards are annoying, they don't deserve it more than I do

Shi Ishmael - Just wants to survive in a world of dog eat dog

S2 envy is the need to be better than what you once were, to surpass yourself and get something accomplished.

S2 Envy Examples

LCB Yi Sang - Bettered his own craft and created the mirror.

Pequod Members - Lay their past self to rest, and opted to hunt the whale.

R.B. Chef Ryoshu - Wants to make better and better pies

S3 Envy is the result of their desire to surpass - or that they have accomplished something, but with a heavy price.

S3 Envy Examples

W Corp Ryoshu - Extremely powerful, but her sword will suck up her health if she doesn't charge it properly.

R Corp Heathcliff - Gained insane power but lost something important to him in the process.

LCB Sinclair - Was able to avoid getting prosthetics but his whole family dead.

Pequod Heathcliff - Managed to get out of the Middle but is covered in scars he can't erase.

I will continue to write more specific theories, but this is how I feel about the sin affinities right now! I'd love to write about EGO and enemies as well soon.

[thewitchandtheassassin]

Life, Death, and the Space in Between Final Part (Agatha Harkness x Reader x Rio Vidal)

Summary: Choices are made--and lives are changed forever.

Words: 2113

Warnings: Mentions of death, dying, language, magic, etc.

A/N: We made it to the end y'all... good luck, have tissues. Also--I need to redo my taglist so if you wanna be on it, lemme know.

Agatha paced back and forth in front of the campfire for what felt like hours, her feet worn raw and her nails bit into the quick as she chewed on them absently. Rio was sitting in the grass along the Road’s edge, a mighty tempest of wind and leaves shielding you from view.

From her.

She’d done a lot of terrible things in her lifetime—maimed, killed, psychologically tortured, technically killed Sparky—but of all the choices she’d ever made, this was the only one she felt ashamed of. Guilty as she imagined you lying in Rio’s lap, the color fading from your cheeks, the warmth of your skin cooling into something she never thought would be possible for someone so full of…

Life.

“There has to be something,” she hissed to herself, panic blossoming in her chest as she heard Rio whispering to you, her voice lost in the storm surrounding you both.

-X-

Delicate fingers threaded through your dirty hair, Rio’s face never more than a few inches away from your own.

“Please, baby. Please… you can’t do this to me… I don’t know how to exist without you. Please…” she pressed her forehead to yours, breathing you in as her voice cracked desperately. “I don’t know how to be Death without Life…”

You groaned in pain and Rio could only watch in heartbroken horror as the veins under your skin darkened, trailing from your temple down into your cheek, stopping just at the corner of your mouth.

“No, no, no…” she exhaled, eyes welling up with tears. “You can’t do this to me, (Y/N)! Stop! I can’t lose you too!”

-X-

Agatha’s heart split wide in her chest at the fear in Rio’s voice, her hands trembling as it settled in—truly—what she’d done. For centuries she’d blamed you both for the loss of Nicky. Hated seeing your faces, even when she couldn’t bring herself to truly forget them, because they just reminded her of him. Of your little boy that only had a few years of life with her…

But most of all, she hated herself for being able to save him. No matter how much magic she stole—what she learned and unlearned and relearned—nothing could undo what had been done. She couldn’t bring him back and she couldn’t bring herself to let go of her hatred…

And it cost her everything, in the end. Her lovers, her happiness…

“Having a child with us, it isn’t… sustainable, darling,” you had warned her, devastation on your features. “We aren’t meant to bring flesh and blood into existence. Even if we succeeded, the child wouldn’t survive the magic. Not for long… to be a cosmic being means mortal bodies cannot contain it. And the child would be, at least, half cosmic being. We’re not human, even if we wear its face and use its name. We are beings beyond existence and it would tear the child apart.”

And she had pleaded with you both to just—

Try.

Only to hate you when the truth of what you spoke came into being. Her little boy incapable of remaining in a mortal vessel, growing weaker with each passing day…

Never once had you lied to her. Never once did you pretend some divine intervention would save him. You had fought—every single day—to keep him breathing until the body was too damaged to continue on…

And she’d spit.

In.

Your.

Face.

Stumbling over to the maelstrom of Rio’s despair, Agatha kneeled in front of the swirling wind. “Was she right? About… Nicky? Is he… like you two?”

The storm froze, like a spinning door caught by a hand, and for a moment, she didn’t think Rio would answer her before—

“Yes. But he cannot leave the cosmic realms like she and I can. We tried… God, Agatha, we both tried so fucking hard to give him a way to see you again. Did you think we just forgot? That we didn’t care? (Y/N) spent every moment of ten years trying to find a way to let him travel back to this realm—and it nearly destroyed them both.”

A broken sob escaped Agatha’s throat before she could choke it back, tears trickling down her mud-smudged cheeks as the storm parted and you both came in view. Rio, with tears of her own and fear on her lips, and you…

Oh God, you…

“I’m so sorry,” Agatha whispered, crawling closer to your limp body. “You fucking idiot. You should’ve left me there. I deserved it.”

She pressed her forehead against yours, surprised when Rio didn’t protest. She simply held you tighter, tears dripping down her cheeks as she stared at the scene.

“Couldn’t… leave… you…” a shaky, raspy croak slipped from your lips.

Agatha choked out another violent, shattered sob as she cradled your face. Your skin was clammy beneath her touch—

“You should’ve. I would’ve deserved it! You… baby, we can’t… I can’t lose you. I just found you again…”

Your soft, stunned laugh devolved into a coughing fit as you curled tighter against Rio’s chest. “You haven’t called me ‘baby’ in a long time, Aggie.”

“I should’ve. I never should’ve stopped. Not with either of you.” Agatha’s eyes met Rio’s and she leaned forward, pressing her forehead against Rio’s shoulder as she cried. “I am so, so sorry.”

Rio stared down at your sickly, sunken face. “You’re dying, (Y/N), and I don’t know how to fix this. You were always the one who planned while I just burned everything to the ground and danced in the fire. I don’t… I don’t know how to be you! How to exist without you beside me! You’re my balance.”

She whimpered. “How do I live without the other half of my soul?”

As your breathing grew shallow, you nuzzled closer to Rio. “You’ll be okay… you’ve always been the stronger one, darling. Maybe now you both can find your peace together,” you whispered against her throat, feeling it tremble.

“No, no, no. Don’t do that. Don’t close your eyes. You have to give me more time to figure something out. Please…” Rio begged, clutching you like she was trying to keep your soul trapped in your body a little longer. “You can’t go yet.”

You pressed your hand weakly against her chest, where a heart would beat, and smiled faintly. “I will always be a part of you, baby. Death never truly exists without Life.”

Tears poured down her cheeks as she slid her hand atop yours, keeping it against her skin. “(Y/N), stay. I need you…”

Your breathing came in shorter gasps, body trembling as the veins darkened, spreading down your throat and hands, beyond the clothing on your torso…

“…you’re a part of me,” Rio mumbled, brows furrowing together as her grip tightened around your hand. “Oh, (Y/N), you fucking idiotic genius.”

You didn’t respond, body too weak and corrupted as you slumped against her, ever-slowly losing the battle to the realm of Death.

She lifted you up and carried you into the Road, laying you down in a patch of moonlight as she hurriedly yanked her dagger from its sheathe and ran it along her hand, watching the nearly onyx blood well up. Cutting a slit in your shirt, she pressed the blade over your heart and carved a small line down the center until, what was once almost white blood now turned black, bubbled to the surface.

“I am a part of you… you are a part of me… let your burdens be mine. Let me carry the weight of your calling with the strength of my being,” she murmured, covering the cut with her bleeding hand as she stared down at you. “C’mon, baby…”

Your body jerked once beneath her hand—a flicker, a twitch—but then…

Nothing.

Just silence.

“No,” Rio gasped, voice cracked and raw. “No, no, no—dammit, don’t do this to me!”

Agatha watched in silent grief as you remained still, the veins pulsing under your skin as it began to drag you under before…

“You can’t do this alone,” Agatha muttered in realization, dropping to her knees beside you and snagging Rio’s dagger, slicing her own hands open without hesitation. “Life and Death are a cycle but there was to be something to bridge them, right? That’s what us lowly mortals are—that bridge.”

She cut another line across your chest before reaching for Rio’s free hand and cutting her palm, a surprisingly clean line despite the trembling of her hand.

“I fucked this up. I ruined this… let me fix it now. Please.” Agatha looked at Rio softly, in a way she hadn’t in centuries. “Please, my love.”

Rio’s jaw clenched before she took Agatha’s hand in her own, watching Agatha suck in a deep, pained breath as Rio’s magic poured through her. It was hot and wrong, burning her alive from the inside out but she didn’t fight it as her other hand fell over your chest, her blood seeping into your wound.

Agatha gritted her teeth as the pain flared, her mortality flaring against a magic her body was never supposed to know—but she held, her blood mingling with Rio’s, mixing with yours, seeping into the line carved down your chest like ink bleeding into old parchment.

Rio leaned over you, her voice unsteady but firm. “Three parts. Life. Death. Mortal. A balance. A trinity.” Her thumb stroked your cheek, reverent, aching. “We don’t exist without each other—and we were never whole until we found Agatha. You said it yourself. We needed her… but now we need you.”

Agatha’s voice was raw as she echoed, “I bind myself to you. I hold the weight of what I’ve broken. I stay, because I love you. I stay because I’m sorry. Because I never stopped loving you, I just didn’t know how to grieve with you. How to not blame you…”

Their joined hands pressed down over your heart as they whispered in tandem—an incantation not spoken in words, but in feeling, in memory, in regret and love and desperate, clawing hope.

“Please, baby… we need you,” Rio begged softly.

Agatha laughed wetly. “You said I haven’t called you that in a long time. Open your eyes and I’ll never stop saying it. I promise… please, (Y/N).”

There was a heavy silence that settled over the Road as the coven watched in mournful silence as Life herself lay lifeless in the moonlight. Until—

The sky cracked open above them, not with sunlight, but with color—shimmering threads of violet, green, and white weaving together in the air like a loom being drawn taut. It was magnificent and utterly unnerving as it buried itself in your chest before the strand of green connected with Rio—and the purple wound itself around Agatha. Then, they swirled together, a perfect cord of color stringing you together.

The ground beneath you pulsed once—twice—before your body arched sharply, a breath catching in your throat, dragging air like you’d never tasted it before.

And then—

Your eyes opened.

“…holy fuck,” you muttered.

Rio’s laugh burst out, wild and disbelieving, soaked in tears and raw relief. “Oh my God—holy fuck is right.” Her hand cupped your cheek, thumb trembling as it stroked across your skin like she couldn’t believe it was warm again. Like she had to be sure she wasn’t lost in a grief-induced hallucination.

Agatha choked on a sob, half-laughing through it, her fingers hovering over your chest as she whispered, “You stubborn, stupid, beautiful creature…” Her voice cracked, falling into a hoarse whisper. “You came back.”

“…I can feel you. Both of you,” you murmured, blinking up at the barrage of color in the sky. “I… do I have two heartbeats now?”

There, steadily in your chest, was the heartbeat you’d carried with you for eons—and a new, softer heartbeat you’d recognize anywhere.

Agatha’s.

You could hear the coven whispering amongst themselves excitedly, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care as you sat upright, catching Agatha’s face between your hands and kissing her deeply, letting the moment linger as you tried to relearn the taste you’d lost so long ago.

“I’ve missed you, Aggie. I told you that you were always the piece of us we needed, even when it all fell apart…”

Agatha’s face broke with relieved devastation as she pressed her forehead against yours. Maybe things weren’t fixed—maybe it’d take lifetimes to unravel the hurt and anger and pain—but in that moment, none of it fucking mattered.

Because you came back…

And now Life and Death had the bridged the space in between.

[shiongenkai]

A Note on 'Eldest Son' in TKDB

One last note on the wiki. I don't know if this is interesting to nearly anyone else other than me, but this little idea of 'Eldest son implies other siblings' has come up multiple times recently, so I researched a little into the nuances of what Eldest Son (長男) actually means in Japanese. It got a little bit long though, so under the cut it goes.

So... What this is referring to is the breaking news broadcast in reference to Jin, where they refer to him as 長男, AKA Eldest Son.

In English this carries an implication that there are Other Sons, or even Other Daughters, or so on so forth. When you hear someone referred to as Oldest (Something) you automatically assume that there are Younger Ones to compare it to, which is also what route the wiki takes.

However, this isn't the case for Japanese. While 長男 can imply Other Children, and often does in conversational Japanese, this term does not always mean younger brothers exist. What this refers to is a sense of succession, for one, and exists as a general term in order to refer to someone in paperwork, regardless of whether they're an only child or not. If some dude has an older sister and no younger siblings? He's the 長男. If someone doesn't have any siblings? Yep! 長男！It works for both. So can it be that Jin does have younger brothers? Yes, technically, but it's not explicitly implied with this line specifically.

How can I be sure of that, though? Wouldn't it help to have another example, you say? I fully agree! Which is why I have one! Here it is!

Here is Ritsu calling himself the 長男 of the Shinjo family! By this logic, we could technically assume that there are other Shinjo kids too, right? But then in Episode 16 he states Directly that he's an only child.

So in his case, he's both an only child and the eldest son. It sounds weird in English, but it still works naturally in Japanese. Another thing to note is that this line in Japanese has him refer to himself as 'The only Son', which Once Again could open the door for 'But wait!! What if he has siblings!!', but there's also nuance in That Word (一人息子) has less of an emphasis on the 'son' part and more of an emphasis on the 'only' part.

'Only son' in English has an unspoken emphasis on Son. If you hear someone say they're the Only Son of their family, and your first language is English, you'll probably think to yourself 'Oh, they have sisters then,' because that's what that phrase implies. The Japanese phrase, however, seems to emphasize the 'only' part. If you were to hear this phrase, you might think 'Oh, he has sisters,' but you could just as easily think, 'Oh, he's the only child'.

You can think of it as like.... Adding context into the noun. They are an only child, who happens to be a son. The only son. It's the same with 長男. They are the oldest son even if they are the Only Son.

So while it's not explicitly stated in canon that Jin does not have younger siblings (whether thats brothers or sisters), it's also not really truly implied he does. At least in Japanese. And there's really no good equivalent to the whole 'eldest son' thing in English anyway. Successor, I guess, is the closest, nuance wise? I guess? Shrugs.

Anyway, family words in general carry a lot of specifics in them in Japanese. You can't just call someone your Brother unless you're Zenji and using 'Brother' in English. Even Lucas refers to his twin as 'my younger twin brother'. Subaru's sister is his Older Sister, etc, etc. This is another one of those 'baked in specifics' type words that has different implications in JP vs ENG, and which makes it very, very easy to assume things that aren't necessarily true. Context is also important, because if it HAD been a casual conversation then it'd be different, but the broadcasts use very formal Informational Type Language, which renders 長男 neutral in terms of 'Is there more siblings or not'.

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

Wicked the movie thoughts - spoiler version

I went to see Wicked today! If you want to read a spoiler free edition of what I thought you can do that here but otherwise below the cut I am going to talk in a lot of detail about the show and share my thoughts - they're overwhelmingly positive!! I loved this movie, I love this musical, and I have a lot of thoughts to discuss, I'm welcoming conversations about things I say or about stuff I didn't say but that you want to talk about let's absolutely chat, and this is all the way through going to contain spoilers for the plot but also for specific details, scenes, acting, etc, of the new movie so be warned if you don't want to read that

First of all, the genuine love and care that was put into the show and that can be seen not only in the acting but in the set, the music, in every aspect the care and the adoration for the theatre production was so clear, it was so lovingly crafted from the word go. I also felt like not only Wicked the musical but also Oz, in the original Wizard of Oz novel, in the Wicked novel, in the world and in everything that Gregory Maguire brought to the world, and so on and so forth was being treated with such care and being genuinely revered whilst also balancing well enough that I didn't feel like I was only ever seeing rehashes of existing material or a carbon copy of the past

Even as I was watching and thinking this, and thinking how well they had captured the feeling of watching something on stage, I was still wondering how they were possibly going to execute the Emerald City and the One Short Day performance because it's so iconic and so distinct in the musical but genuinely I was so impressed with the success of that scene. It both captured the essence of One Short Day on stage and added something new to it without taking anything away from the original and they deserve so much praise for that. I'm going to talk a little bit about the nail salon scene later when I discuss propaganda in Wicked (this is gonna be a looooooong post y'all buckle up) but other than that for One Short Day I just need to address, because how could I not, IDINA MENZEL AND KRISTEN CHENOWORTH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I didn't know they were going to be there!!!!!!!!!! I was losing my goddamn mind you guys omg

I was genuinely astonished. Like I'd seen them doing press and stuff but I assumed that was just because their names are so synonymous with Wicked I didn't realise they were actually going to be there!!

I really enjoyed the small stage production about the Wise Ones and the Grimmerie it was brilliant in concept and execution for worldbuilding and lore but KRISTEN AND IDINA OMG wonderful oh my gosh. Now was it on the nose? Absolutely. But I don't think that it felt forced, I thought that if you didn't know who they were then even when Chenoworth was singing to Grande and Menzel was singing to Eviro then it still wouldn't have felt strange or out of place, but of course I'm looking at it through the lens of a fan receiving fan service so generally speaking even though I know it's fanservice I'm still going to enjoy it and it's possible that through another's eyes it would feel different. I thought it was brilliant though and nothing will take that away from me

I think it's fair to say that the pacing of Wicked is kind of messed up and I have heard concern that because of that the act 2 movie will struggle; pacing of act 2 does get messy, but I cannot fault them in any way for splitting it into two movies ok because this was spectacular and I would not want to cut a single thing from it so yeah that's kind of all my thoughts on that point; I think that even if act 2 is harder to bring to screen that it can still be done in a high quality and successful way and especially after watching part 1 today I absolutely trust that this production can do that

I'm gonna now hop right back to No-One Mourns the Wicked (the pacing of this post is gonna be worse than the pacing of wicked). I was slightly concerned that Ariana Grande's intense recognisable-ness was going to take something away from the show because it would be hard to see the character she was playing rather than just Ariana Grande singing, if that makes sense, but from as early as No-One Mourns the Wicked my concerns were alleviated. Glinda is not an easy character to play, in my opinion, and she's not an easy character to play because she acts incredibly melodramatic in everything she does whilst her genuine emotions are incredibly subtle. What I saw in both Grande and Erivo was how fantastic their micro-expressions are and how much they can tell the audience with one or two features, often the eyes, alone. In No-One Mourns the Wicked , Galinda genuinely believes and will presumably continue to believe for the rest of her life that Elphaba is dead. And throughout her performance of the song, I more than once found it visibly notable that Glinda was on the verge of tears. She was smiling, she was singing, she was moving gracefully with her typical accentuated and dramatic movements, but the pain in her eyes was remarkable. This was a woman who believed that the only person she had ever had a genuine emotional connection with was dead, a woman who had lost not only someone she had manufactured a relationship with (Fiyero) and convinced herself that she was happy with what she knew was a false pretence of love to receive from, but also the only person in the world who had ever shown her real love and was finally being confronted by the fullest extent of the choices she had made but having to keep everything light and cheerful because of those very choices. Did that make sense? I hope I'm not just spouting nonsense. One of the most emphasised moments of this for me was when this massive effigy of Elphaba and one of the munchkinland residents hands Glinda the torch to light it; there's this blink and you miss it moment where Glinda looks at the torch, at the effigy, then back to the man who held it out to her, who's watching her expectantly, before she turns and tosses it on with a sense of urgency. Not only is this alone powerful, but I also think it's powerful that she throws the torch instead of standing at the effigy and taking care to set it alight firstly because she may not be able to bring herself to do so but also in a way that may be reflective of their relationship and the story: Glinda does not outrightly attack or harm Elphaba but she makes the choices that she makes, she throws her torch and whatever burns will burn.

I also felt that she captured the comedic elements of Glinda fantastically, with one of my favourite moments being when she melodramatically collapses kneeling in front of the bed as though she is sobbing into the quilt but just sits there perfectly still and the camera just stares at her for a few moments before she peeks up over her shoulder to see if Elphie's looking. The difference we can see between these two sides of Glinda's character was very well executed and I think we also see something of her more vulnerable side in some of these comedic moments, because ultimately she does (I'm going to talk about this later) feel unloved because of how shallow all of her relationships are and even in melodramatic, foolish or naive moments like the throwing herself on the duvet cover she is actively seeking attention because she equates attention to love - she so desperately claws her way to attention and popularity because she feels unloved and she thinks that this is love, so when it doesn't give her the feeling she was searching for she becomes convinced that it was because she doesn't have enough of it yet and she needs more. I thought that she was incredibly well captured and presented from all angles with her very many layers being well laid out.

Again with the insane jumping around but let's just dive headfirst into a couple of little details that I noticed whilst I'm thinking about them - during the Wizard and I when Elphaba is imagining her success and her dream she runs through a cornfield!! As though she is running towards Fiyero!!! I loved it. Like it's so tiny, but I love it. Another tiny one - loved the silver shoes for Nessa as a hark to the original book wherein the magic slippers were silver, but then in Popular when Glinda is going through her wardrobe and pulling out all these different options she gives Elphaba a pair of ruby red slippers and then decides against them and throws them away again!! Loved it as a teeny little reference. I also really lovedddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd and this one is more meaningful to the story but when Elphie has her magic outburst at Shiz right at the start where she sends Nessa into the air and stuff gets thrown everywhere, there's a statue on the wall of the Wizard that gets smashed. When it smashes, it's briefly visible that beneath the statue the wall was originally painted with a mural of animal scholars!!!!!!!!!!!!! I LOVED this detail, I was BUZZING. Like you saw it long enough to see what it was, there were three animals with a bear in the middle and I think the bear was wearing maroon robes and they were all clearly scholars

My personal theories on this is that either they were highly valued intellectual alumni of Shiz or that they founded the school, however there mya be lore standing on them that I am unaware of I started reading the book a long time ago and never finished it (I really want to read it but I haven't got around to it yet. I read enough to know what happened to Dr Dillimond in the book but I don't remember a lot after that)

Speaking of Dr Dillimond, I'm not sure if I just missed a detail or something implicit but I wasn't sure that they gave any real explanation as to why the poppies didn't knock Fiyero out????

On Fiyero: Johnathon Bailey understands Fiyero so well and it was brilliant. His performance very much took in the different layers of the character and the split between what he presents to the world and the intensity of the emotions he hides. Fiyero experiences emotion so intensely and feels such an intense response to others' emotions as well, and I think that you could really tell that whilst not feeling like anything was being taken away from the charismatic charming persona that you knew he was putting on. One of my favourite moments between him and Elphaba in this was when she siad something along the lines of 'you aren't as shallow and self-loving as I thought' and he replies something along the lines of 'how dare you? I genuinely love myself and I am deeply shallow' and I love this not only because his humour is enjoyable and his defence mechanisms are interesting but also because she immediately breaks through and says no, you're unhappy.

I promised thoughts on Dancing Through Life so whilst we're on Fiyero -> I don't at all intend to say that Bailey isn't a good singer because he is, I just thought that to some degree his voice didn't stand out from the chorus' voices in the same way that Erivo's and Grande's do and so the song did necessarily have the same bite to it as some of the others did/ That isn't to say that it wasn't a fantastic scene, because it was, and I loved the choreography and I was obsessed with the spinning bookshelves and all of it, the bringing the beat of the song in through the movement of the books was brilliant, and again he is a good singer and I think that having the actor's own voice in the movie is almost always the right decision

Okay I am going to make a post on its own about this as well because this is really long and I am so deeply obsessed with this I want to give it a chance to get proper discussion but one of my favourite propaganda-related details of this movie was Elphaba's nails. Yes, you read that right. Her nails.

In all of the imagery and posters of the 'Wicked Witch of the West' she is very often leaning forwards with her hands strangely position in the foreground and then her face behind them so your focus is drawn very quickly to the hands. In these images, her nails are always presented as extravagantly long, sharp, and claw-like. So in a world where animals are discriminated against and being used as the common enemy long before Elphaba is used as that enemy it's so fascinating that the dehumanisation of Elphaba has emphasis on her hands appearing strange or 'unnatural' and it makes me think of the line in Something Bad 'It's enough to give pause to anyone with paws' because that's where the emphasis on this distinction lies with no-one but humans having limbs that resemble hands - having Elphaba presented effectively as though she has claws in a world where animals are discriminated against and actively silenced, especially since she advocated against that silencing. And something I really enjoyed after having noticed the long nails in the posters during No-One Mourns the Wicked is that throughout the movie Elphaba has unapologetically long, beautiful nails that in a truly wonderful subtle aspect of Erivo's acting we get the sense she cares about even though they are never discussed. When she and Glinda go to the Emerald City we see this montage of their day during One Short Day and one of the things they do is go to a nail salon and we see Elphaba excitedly showing off to Glinda her long pretty nails that she loves so much and that make her feel pretty. Again this is such a massive testament to Erivo's acting skills because there's no dialogue about it but we know that she is so excited and we know that this is one of very few times that Elphie has felt pretty, she loves her nails. And they get used so horrifyingly against her. The nail salon is such a brief, subtle moment but it's so very well executed. There's also an earlier scene where she's alone with Madame Morrible practicing magic and when she reaches out to make the hand movements the camera cuts to show the shadow of her hand and it creates this emphasis on the length of her nails and how because of the shape of her hand midway through the movement the image looks like a claw or like a very stereotypical evil witch hands sort of thing. I also think that this moment is particularly powerful bc she's alone with Morrible and everything that Elphie does under Morrible's instruction is perfectly natural but what is seen on Morrible's stationary on the desk below her is representative of the propaganda that Morrible will turn the actions that she forced Elphaba to do into.

Also more propaganda stuff I could talk about the use of the word 'witch' for all goddamn eternity so I'm not going to hark on about it now but I will say that a piece of media like this one cannot be created today without acknowledgemnt of the difference between the word 'wtich' and the word 'wizard' and how they are presented, and I think that this was really interestingly handled in the word 'witch' not being said in the prequel aspect of it until Morrible labels her 'this Wicked Witch'.

Okay I think this is going to be what I finish off with but if you know this account you know that I LOVE a parallel and I was obsessed with the parallel drawn between family dynamics in Elphie's relationship with Nessa and her father, and then with the family that she's looking for and briefly thinks she could find with Morrible, the wizard, and Glinda. Yeoh said in an interview that Morrible's betrayal is realising that the mother figure isn't who you thought she was. Madame Morrible becomes Elphaba's maternal figure, and to her living memory realistically her only maternal figure, from very early on and this maternal view of her that we have through Elphaba's eyes is very much existent by the time we reach Sentimental Man, wherein the idea of the Wizard being able to offer her some kind of paternal love, that she has never felt because her relationship with her father is so fraught, is brought forth. Sentimental Man was very well performed in my opinion, it was the right decision to keep it low and subtle and close because it created this very specific closeness between Elphie and the Wizard and we felt what she felt, which was the exact manipulation that the Wizard wanted her to feel. When Madame Morrible enters the scene we then have both of these parental-style figures present telling Elphaba how precious she is, how amazing she is, how much they believe in her - essentially all these different things that she has been denied her entire life. What I find particularly fascinating about this is that what gets created here is exactly Elphaba's existing family dynamic - because Glinda is there too. This is what Elphaba always wanted - a motherly figure, a fatherly figure, and a sisterly figure - but it still comes at the expense of the sister. Glinda is being actively diminished and put down whilst Elphaba is raised and complimented for the purpose of manipulation and to be used for their purposes rather than existing for herself, just as her father diminishes and hurts her whilst complimenting and idolising Nessa but also manipulating her & never allowing her to live her own life. There's a moment where they're all stood around the grimmerie to get the four of them in shot with Elphie looking over the book, Morrible encouragingly at her side, the Wizard watching on from behind, and Glinda leaning over Elphie's other side to try and squeeze herself into the picture and I think that this still alone captures the entire thing so very well.

In a way, this is why Glinda turned round - without Elphie there, she gets love. When Elphaba had parental figures over her and no Nessa present to be better than her, she felt loved; when Glinda has parental figures over her and no Elphaba present to be better than her, she feels loved. The fundamental difference between them in the moment of choice is arguably that Elphaba's love for others, primarily Nessa, will always be stronger than her need for love from others, whereas Glinda's need for love from others will always be stronger than her love for others, primarily Elphaba.

In this moment, Glinda's warped distinction between love and popularity, as I discussed it earlier, is finally put to direct test and even though she loves Elphie and is loved by her in a way that she has arguably never been loved (we saw just how shallow her relationship with her parents was upon the arrival at Shiz. It's as shallow as her friendships at Shiz and romance with Fiyero.) she chooses popularity because she has somehow convinced herself that superficial love from many is better than genuine love from few. Elphaba's love for Glinda is probably the most genuine affection she's experienced in her entire life - but it doesn't come from authority. Elphaba's love isn't coming from someone who can raise Glina up or give her advantages and ultimately she is always seeking the approval of authority, possibly because she felt like she never received it from the authority that was her parents when she was a child, and she finds that feeling in Morrible and the Wizard, and arguably in the power that Fiyero's family could give her as well.

Okay super quick additions that i just remembered:

I loved loved loved the addition of her falling from the palace and seeing young Elphaba in the reflection and once again so freaking much could be said about the strength of Erivo's acting here it was truly beautiful and I found it like genuinely nerve-wracking even though I knew she obvs had to make it and the song wasn't over yk but yeah it was fantastic

When Elphaba's running from the soldiers & the flying monkeys just after the monkeys have been told to attack her and Glinda is chasing after her. They go through a narrow corridor of the palace lined by windows, and the wall are made of green brick. The sunset beyond casts pink light through every window. Every window is pink, all the walls are green. Elphaba is running and Glinda is following, trying to tell her to come back to the Wizard. As they run the flying monkeys start smashing the windows, so for every pace that they take THE PINK SHATTERS AND ONLY THE GREEN IS LEFT BEHIND. They are running towards Defying Gravity and for every step closer to it they become the less intertwined the colours are. The pink shatters and the green is left behind. It was visual poetry.

Okay I hope that this insane rambling made sense, I was partially transcribing this from voicenotes I sent to my friends when I got back after the movie and they actually got more than this so apologies to them and thank you for indulging me, and thank you to anyone who has bothered to read this lol I hope it was interesting - overall, excellent movie and I loved it!! Already can't wait for part 2

[thechy-fychannel]

do you think Wilson cries after his first time having sex with House because:

a) it all catches up to him at once that he's spent his entire life not feeling right but now he's finally figured it out, and imagine how his life would've gone if he knew about this part earlier, or

b) big gay freakout and shame and guilt at feeling good through gay sex and catastrophising so hard, freaking out about how he's meant to exist in the world as a boy-kisser now etc etc etc

(somehow I don't see him not crying after fucking House for the first time. or at least in the morning or in his car to work the next day where House can't see/make fun of him for it)

Ooooohhhhh WHAT a beautiful question!!!! And such a hard one to answer because I can see all possibilities equally!

In a canon compliant-ish universe, I'm going to go with B bc both of those guys are unable to keep themselves from self destructing. Wilson tries very hard to keep it together and is all like "yeah. yeah that was great. totally. yeah." and then sneaks off to the bathroom while house is still enjoying his post-orgasmic bliss so he can pace and cry and mutter to himself about how fucked this all is. He feels deeply ashamed that he enjoyed it so much, ashamed that it felt so right after so many years of sex feeling wrong. Ashamed about what this means for him as a man, as a person, as a role model.

He's not homophobic per say, he has no problem with other people being gay, but he's still a "straight" man who grew up surrounded by certain predispositions that are hard to let go of. He's never viewed himself as queer and now he's been given explicit, unadulterated, undeniable proof that he is in fact very queer and it feels like he knows even less about who he is when he already had no fucking clue who he is.

And then he has to grapple with what this means for them, for their relationship. And that's a whole other bull for him to wrestle. Even if it felt right to him, who knows how house actually feels? What if this fucked everything up? What if House doesn't feel the way he feels? What if he does??? He's definitely in the middle of this freak out, tears streaming down his face, rocking himself back and forth on the toilet, when there's a knock on the door and House telling him that he needs to piss. Wilson tells him to use the kitchen sink, he's busy, but house immediately can tell that he's been crying and now he feels like he's fucked it all. Cue house having his own meltdown about the whole situation and neither of them having a healthy conversation about it.

I feel like option A comes later, after he's grappled with the facts of himself, that he's queer and in love with House and there's nothing he can do about it except accept it and either take a chance at being happy or attempt to return to the status quo. Maybe it's after they have sex a second time, after they've spent a couple of weeks being stupid and evasive and awkward around each other, ultimately leading to house picking until wilson explodes and they finally have a conversation about it all. Only then, after all of that and after they've spent a long time in bed about it, do the tears return and house thinks they're taking four steps backwards, until wilson tells him that it just hit him all at once, how he spent his entire life feeling wrong and now he feels right and he wishes they could've had this all along. It's not fair and it's stupid and even if he's happy, he's so mad that he's been missing out on something so wonderful. There's shame there too about the fact that he's allowed himself to be so repressed for so long that he feels like he's missed out on the best years of his life that he could've spent loving house. I think no matter the outcome, there's going to be a certain level of shame and resentment towards himself that will take a long time to let go of, if he ever does.

But in Wilson's defense, house can only make fun of him so much when he canonically cries during sex!! Which he totally did when he had sex with Wilson!!

[truuskn]

i find it really curious how differently elita may experience and react to similar events in her life in different universes. and before we begin, let's close our eyes to the fact that different writers worked on these two images, that the show and the comics differ greatly in ideas, atmospheres, ratings, etc, etc :D

i think wfc elita and skybound elita are her possible best version and her worst version, and i'm talking about her as a person, not as a character. two extremes, two paths she can step on. in two very similar worlds she can either rise up or break down

in skybound we see how war can disfigure elita, weaken her spirit, torment her spark, almost destroy her personality. her entire being is built on saving cybertron and resisting decepticons and it did not affect her in a positive way. there is nothing left in her life but struggle, pain and an animal hatred for the enemy and anyone who dares to take a step away from her views. she is cruel, cynical, she praises the fire in arcee, noticing how fiercely she wants revenge for ultra magnus, how she lashes out at shockwave, threatening his life (while optimus talks arcee out of hurting another living being, even decepticon, reminding her of what it means to be an autobot), she cheers the violence from prime, enjoying his momentary return to his former self (while optimus is sickened by the realisation of what he's just done). she really is the worst version of herself. she's not a bad person, no. but she's broken. and it's leading her down a completely new, unfamiliar for us scenario. the ruthless world has inflicted the worst wounds on her and this time she had no strength left to remain herself

despite everything, she's still an autobot, of course, she's an autobot! there is no world where things would be different. but... it's just that the concept of this term have blurred for her over the years. hope, faith in the best in every person, forgiveness, choice not in favor of violence but of words, caring for everyone in need and so on and so forth - all of these is forgotten by her. now it's a weakness, not an advantage. perhaps, a long time ago she had joined the autobots inspired by prime's speeches, fully sharing his belief in a bright, fair future, but those days are gone. that elita is gone. now being an autobot for her is solely about fighting and destroying the decepticons from the face of cybertron. her and optimus still have similar goals, but critical different desires, opinions and approaches. they both want peace. they both want to give their people a new, free life. but if optimus is ready to wait, temporarily step off or even move on, ready to shift his focus on another planet, then elita will never be able to let go of cybertron, not for a single second, no matter what's going on around them. she's not ready to put aside centuries of suffering, she's not ready to forget all the sacrifices they've made in trying to stop the invaders, she can't forget all those fallen soldiers, ruined lives and lost years so easily. she's not ready to prioritise anyone else. the centre of her life is cybertron and the autobots. and nothing in the world can change that. she means no harm to earth, she means no harm to optimus, but she will do anything to protect her home

wfс elita lives similar life. she’s at the lowest point of her existence. a dying, blighted cybertron. a completely decimated autobot army. she, abandoned, alone, leads frustrated and frightened soldiers just like her. no hope for optimus' return, no faith in her people's victory, the fight for justice and a better world is over, now the only goal is to simply try to survive. it couldn't be worse. elita started losing faith in the autobot cause a long time ago, each day she understood less and less what they continued to fight for, she grew disappointed, lost her fervour, and now, in the most scary time, it would seem that anyone would gave up. but not her. this world was breaking her, was trying to break her, but she kept holding on, clinging to optimus' hope, continuing to follow him and his beliefs, never taking a step into the darkness

she never forgot what set her apart from her enemy and as much as she hated them all, she would never dare to hurt them the way they hurt her. she decided for herself once and for all - she will not stoop to their level, she won't let her fears corrupt the reasons she became an autobot in the first place. no matter how much pain she was in, no matter how desperately she wanted to end it all in any way, she never gave up snd continued to march proudly forward, protecting each and every one of them to the last drop of her blood, helping even the opponent's soldiers when needed. she fought for her planet and for all its people, for all those who called cybertron their home. megatron would pay the worst price for what he had done, but no one else would pay for his sins. she will not allow the hatred to spread further. she knows how to forgive. she doesn't forget, but she lets go of grudges. because she knows someone has to be first, someone has to set an example, that's always been the point of the autobots. and you know what? skybound elita would never do that. she wishes the decepticons nothing but harm, nothing but the trial of terror and fear that they, the autobots, have felt all these years because of them. if it were up to her, they, every last one of them, would burn with hell flame, as much longer as it's possible

it turns out that the same fight can lead to very diverse consequences... i'm amazed by that difference, honestly

oh, and the last - their main similarity, the thing that's happening in most of her stories. elita loses optimus. maybe it's their fate to be separated forever, huh?

wfc elita let optimus go. she realised that his departure was inevitable and important. perhaps, she thought it was a mistake, yes, she was unsure of his plan, she was afraid of losing him and she did try to talk him out of it, but she knew that he believed it was the right thing to do and if optimus believed, then so would she. she believed, but she chose her own path. without any regrets. she was saddened, hurt by their parting, optimus was one of the most important things to her and it would be hard to continue without him as a leader and soulmate, she needed him, they all needed him. but if fate was to take him away from her and their fight, so be it. it's her job to protect cybertron. and she can handle it. even if she has to act alone

for skybound elita optimus' departure, his willingly choice of earth, was the last straw. time after time she had withstood every blow dealt to her by fate but this? cybertron did not just lose optimus prime. optimus prime betrayed them. he made that decision on his own. he abandoned them, chose outsiders over his own people and his own home, denied them, lost, frightened, begging him for help, needing him more than anything else. it was truly the worst thing that had ever happened to her, the cruelest and most vile event of her entire life, and this pain was brought by the person most precious to her. she's in hell. the real hell. but she's not giving up. because elite-one never gives up. she wipes away her tears, gets up off her knees, picks up her gun and continues her fight. okay. if he's not going to do what he has to do, she will. she's cybertron's only hope, she truly is

[serpentface]

So much interesting lore lately I love it! I especially enjoyed the lore friendly wardi meal you made <3

Something I've been thinking about is Hibrides and Couya situationship, does it reach the physical stage or is it purely messy feelings? How would Janeys react to it?

Honestly went back and forth on that because like, part of the deal is Hibrides is unsure whether she's Really interested in her, or is just desperate for attention from someone she finds hot and is also blatantly interested in her but not in a way that makes her super uncomfortable. And also is tired with having basically no social life outside of the orbit of her stupid husband and his stupid family. And at this point down the line she's got some pretty intense levels of nervousness about intimacy and is kind of only comfortable (in a sense of the word) having sex with Brakul, who she isn't even attracted to but it's like, familiar, she does Trust him in the sense of being confident in his intentions, and there's no further lines that can be crossed and very little left to ruin. These conditions don't apply to her husband's partly estranged sister who she's barely ever interacted with until recently.

But yeah I don't want the story to be romance focused but this Is the only background slowburn shit, and of the current draft I've gone with 'yeah they can manage to fuck at some point' on the basis of 'love wins'.

Couya has had a semi-latent crush on her for years, which was never really that big of a deal but it comes to a head since they're traveling in the same party and at routine close quarters for the first time in their Lives. It starts to get distracting from her job and her burgeoning convictions that she's God's chosen to ensure the renewal of the land and Its spirit and etc. Like damn my prophetic dreams involve me eating her out what does it all mean.

I wouldn't describe Hibrides as having had a past interest to the same extent (she had a crush on FAIZA for a really long time), but she's been Curious about her and kind of baffled by her since they met 13 years back, and she is definitely her type physically. She's always been a little fascinated by how little of a shit Couya seems to give about what anyone thinks of her. Kind of unsure whether she's the most self-assured person ever, or is just really rude, or there's something wrong with her.

Couya does initially win her trust because her natural propensities for social interaction happen to be a highly effective Hibrides Befriending Strategy: making absolutely zero moves and barely speaking to her and not even really looking at her much and just going about her life while existing simultaneously in Hibrides' immediate vicinity until there was naturally something to talk about.

They have a lot of spare time to spend together like this and gradually get to know each other. They're both going through it, with Hibrides just feeling kind of desperate to re-exert a sense of control over her life and Couya being in a Dark Night Of The Soul, and both of them are very deeply spiritually disturbed by the implications of the drought and distrustful towards the Amanti dynasty. These factors all combine into them becoming friends and confidants, which eventually escalates drastically into them plotting a coup and also theyy can bang a little in there somewhere.

Here's two related sketches that I can post

[qqueenofhades]

so I've been watching a lot of videos abt food that's uniquely Hong Kong and y'know with all the changes happening there I had a thought like hm is this preservation and documentation of cultural foods that are at risk of being lost?

and then I thought gosh this sounds familiar likkke everywhere we see violent colonization occur not only are lives and freedom lost but also language culture food

and then I wanted to ask you as a historian: has this always been the case? have people always had low key anxiety about culture "loss" or did they think of it a diff way? is this framing of colonization and cultural loss a recent one?

I'm realizing this is a big question and we are all le tired from les recent events, so pls view this as a no pressure ask, I just uh figured you're the only historian I have real access to haha

This is an important question that I don't currently have the mental wherewithal to answer in great depth, but I think it's important to speak to briefly. And I'll put it this way: yes, human beings have always felt that their culture, their way of life, their present existence, their friends and family, and the forces at work against them are tenuous, uncontrollable, and prone to sudden and violent destruction. I'd say it's one of the key themes of being human. I'll cite the famous example of the 8th-century Old English elegy The Ruin of the Empire, known usually as The Ruin:

This is what many of us would consider the dark and distant past, wherein an unknown person in Anglo-Saxon England is observing the ruins of the Roman Empire in Britain and reflecting on how fragile and frightening the present day feels, as if all the glory has faded into the past, as if things will not be "great" anymore, and the present is just moving inexorably toward darkness:

Bright were the castle buildings, many the bathing-halls, high the abundance of gables, great the noise of the multitude, many a meadhall full of festivity, until Fate the mighty changed that. Far and wide the slain perished, days of pestilence came, death took all the brave men away; their places of war became deserted places, the city decayed. The rebuilders perished, the armies to earth.

And yet... that was the 8th century. That was a very long time ago. A lot of history has happened since then, and despite everything, it's still here. People have always looked at the danger and fragility of their present situation and yearned for the perceived stability of the past. Indeed, the reason we have the myth of the "Dark Ages" is largely thanks to the 14th-century Italian humanist Petrarch, who looked at the (also objectively very, very crappy) 14th century, which is similar to now in a lot of ways, and built the shining myth of the Greco-Roman era as a bygone golden age that society needed to reinstate if it was going to save itself from self-inflicted destruction. This in turn gave rise to the Renaissance, which was intensely a cultural project to reclaim and re-instate a seemingly "better" past in the face of present-day chaos and uncertainty. This included a strict reifying of gender roles (etc. etc. Was There a Renaissance For Women?) and turn toward "purer" social ideals.

Anyway: these concepts have been shaped and articulated differently in various historical periods. But yes, the basic feeling that we are losing ourselves somehow, that the past was better and more stable, that the present challenges can be solved by insular reactionary politics, and so forth, is a very, very common human experience. For better or worse: both tangible and intangible artifacts have always been lost, destroyed, subject to violent sociopolitical conquest attempts, written out of history, and used for oppressive political and cultural processes. Part of the reason the right wing is doing so well worldwide right now is because they are tapping into a very, very old "put the strongman in charge and everything will go back to how [good] it used to be" mythology that is also as old as dirt and time, and which humans just keep doing when things feel existentially scary. This "weaponized nostalgia" is even more of an issue in the age of rampant disinformation, AI, and fake-news bubbles which can totally create what is accepted as reality, very often to the benefit of illiberal, right-wing, authoritarian forces. That is very hard to deal with and overcome, and I don't think we're anywhere near doing it.

That, therefore, is the bad news. The good (as it were) news is that at least these cultural processes and human instincts are not new, and indeed have continued for a long, long time. And even when these old things are destroyed, new ones emerge as well. So yeah.