#ill kempt

[whats-in-a-sentence]

It was close upon four before the door opened, and a drunken-looking groom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an inflamed face and disreputable clothes, walked into the room.

"The Illustrated Sherlock Holmes Treasury" - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

[claudekenny]

So i have been using taimi for a few weeks. I haven't used it since 2022 right? Anyway, I matched with homeless trade on there from another state. So, the trade in question sent me a message and called me cute. I said thank you, then they proceeded to send me their location which was on a beach. In. another. state.

the male loneliness epidemic is more severe than i thought.

I'm like "thank you baby, but you live in an entire different state. you sending me geo locations. are you this bad off? no bath houses?" the girls.

[froggiewrites]

hello froggie! i have not cooked this idea so it may not be fit for consumption and feel free to ignore— but. if I may. vampire mihawk smut with some biting and hypnotism and whatever else strikes your fancy? mostly i just wanna fuck that guy if you have any leads

thank you have a good day i love you

Hello @toadmakes my beloved I have written you an entirely normal length fic that didn't at all consume my life for four days. Really though I have no idea how this happened. I was intending this to be like 2-3k words and then I had a really good idea and it just. kept. going. I really hope you enjoy it, because I had an absolute blast writing it!

Lost Little Lamb

Pairing: Vampire!Mihawk x Reader

NSFW

Summary: You're stuck in a terrible storm and desperately need shelter. How lucky for you that this kind and handsome stranger is willing to welcome you into his home! Content: Fem!Reader, Medieval AU, Discussion of Plague/Illness, Dubcon, Mind Control/Hypnosis, Blood Drinking, Biting, Infantilization/Condescension, Fingering, Vaginal Sex Word Count: 8k

The rain is pouring, and the wind is icy cold. You feel soaked to the bone, your coat weighing you down and your shirt sticking to your skin. You can’t stop your teeth from chattering or your hands from shaking. You race across the bridge, boots pounding against cobblestone, praying to any god that will listen that whoever lives across it is kind enough to let you in.

The castle is grand, with beautiful stained glass windows and towers so tall they seem to cut into the sky itself. You never knew there was such a wonderful thing out here in the middle of nowhere, halfway between your tiny little village and the capital. You feel absolutely miniscule compared to it, a bug to be crushed beneath the feet of whatever awe-inspiring creature inhabits such a place. 

But there’s no creatures here, you tell yourself, just people. Hopefully kind people, ones who will let in a soaking wet strange woman into their home without hesitation. Perhaps the kind of people that would even feed that strange woman, you think as your stomach rumbles. You had been traveling for hours without rest, and your body was begging for it. Even as you frantically try to reach the gilded door knocker, your eyes are beginning to slip shut and your knees are begging you to let them buckle beneath you.

The thud that resonates when you slam the knocker into the wood sounds terribly ominous somehow, but you force yourself to remain still, even as some animal part of your brain insists you should turn around and brave the rain instead of whatever is on the other side of the door. Your growing fever is clearly making you delirious.

The door slowly creaks open, and you swear you see the reflection of the eyes of a predator in the darkness for a moment before the candlelight illuminates your savior. He is no beast, this man. He has a regal bearing about him, an elegance that can’t be denied. His clothes are clearly crafted by careful, well practiced hands, with beautiful embroidery and fine silks. His facial hair is perfectly kempt, not a single thing out of place. But the thing you can’t bring yourself to look away from are his eyes; they shine like gold, catching the light so beautifully that you can’t help but lean closer to get a better look. You feel as though you could really get lost in them, fall into those golden depths and never return.

“I wasn’t expecting company.” His voice is flat, devoid of anything that might imply emotion. He doesn’t seem annoyed with you, which is promising, but he isn’t pleased either. It’s a simple statement of fact.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir, to bother you this evening, but I have nowhere else to go, and this storm–” As if on cue, a large crack of thunder echoes through the air, bouncing off of the stone walls over and over until you feel like you’re surrounded by it. You jump, making a pathetic little whimper of fear.

He looks over you for a moment, searching for something you don’t understand, before he opens the door wider, enough for a body to squeeze through. “Get inside. I don’t want any bodies on my doorstep.”

Once you can see him fully, he truly takes your breath away. He’s the palest person you’ve ever seen, enough so that you would normally think he’s ill. But instead of bringing to mind death and wasting, his skin makes you think of crushed pearls catching the light. Now that you aren’t distracted by the finery of it, you notice his shirt is cut far deeper than is decent. It makes you flush, but you tear your eyes away. You were raised better than to ogle a man in his nightclothes.

He hums quietly, and you feel his eyes slowly raking over you again. You feel naked under his gaze, despite the soaking wet overcoat ensuring he can’t see anything other than your face and hands. “I might have some clothes lying around that fit you. Give me a moment.”

He leaves you dripping wet in the entryway, slowly forming a puddle beneath you. You shift slightly, and you can feel your feet squelch in your damp woolen socks. Dressing warm really backfired, weighing you down with what feels like a hundred ton burden. You glance around, looking for anything that might tell you more about the inhabitants who live here. Surely one man can’t live here alone. Your eyes catch on a vibrant painting in a grand, hand-carved wooden frame. It’s of three individuals: a man who looks like the one who welcomed you in wearing a hint of a smile, a younger man with mossy green hair and thick muscles, and a pale young woman in an elaborate black mourning dress. The varnish is turning slightly yellow, the paint beginning to crack. You can see a couple attempts were made to save both it and the aging frame: a small corner of the varnish has been removed, but you can see the paint is slightly smeared from the unprofessional attempt. How sad.

“It’s a lovely piece, isn’t it?” His voice is still low and flat, but you can hear just the slightest ember of warmth in it, of a fondness he’s trying and failing to hide.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, not taking your eyes off of it. “Who are those people?”

“My family.” He walks past you, reaching his hand out as though to brush his fingers against the canvas before he pauses, thinking better of it. Instead he simply stares, his back to you, shoulders tense. He sits in silence for a moment before the sound of water droplets hitting the puddle beneath you reminds him of your presence. He turns back to you, expression unreadable. “I have drawn a bath for you, and left a robe for you to sleep in. I can take your clothes to wash.”

You blink at him. “Oh, thank you, um…?” You trail off, realizing he hasn’t introduced himself, and neither have you.

“Mihawk.” A single name, no indication if it’s his first or his last. You respond with your own full name, and the way he hums in disinterest makes you wonder if he’s actually listening. You suppose it doesn’t matter, since you’ll be leaving tomorrow morning. He inclines his head to indicate you follow and leaves the entryway, not once looking back to see if you’ve obeyed him. He seems to think it is natural for you to do so, and you can’t bring yourself to disagree. He has a natural authority to him, a charisma that makes your shoulders relax and your feet move to follow him as though it’s instinct.

He leads you through the long winding hallways, up and down several sets of stairs, and if you didn’t know better you would think you passed the same stained glass window three times. You hope that tomorrow morning he’ll come to retrieve you himself, because there’s no way you’ll possibly remember the way back yourself.

“You have a wonderful home,” you gush, partially because it’s true and partially because you can’t stand the silence anymore.

“Thank you,” he says, not sounding at all grateful. “I work hard to maintain it. There’s a long history in these walls.”

“Oh, you maintain it yourself?” You had assumed he was a nobleman, with his elegant air and clothing, but perhaps not. Any respectable man of status would have servants to ensure his home is up to his standards, never deigning to do such work himself.

“Yes. I prefer to ensure things are done right, and I’ve found the best way to do so is to do it myself.” He says it without arrogance, as though it is simply fact that he can and will do things perfectly where others cannot. Considering you haven’t seen a single stray speck of dust in this entire labyrinth, it may be.

You open your mouth to say something else, but a sneeze wracks you before the words can leave your mouth, echoing through the empty halls. As you raise your head to apologize for your rudeness, you’re surprised to find golden eyes staring into yours, an expression you might confuse for concern on Mihawk’s face.

“Are you feeling unwell?” His hand brushes against your forehead, making you flinch. His touch is like ice, even moreso than the pouring rain outside. His frown grows, and you can’t tell if he’s displeased with the way you reacted or your temperature. He straightens up in an instant, his hand pressing insistently on your lower back to pull you along with him. “You must warm up right away,” he insists. Was that a waver on that last word? Surely not. Your exhaustion must be getting to you.

He leads you into the steaming bathroom, not allowing you to pause for even a moment to admire the beautiful clawfoot tub or the massive mirror that spans the length of the wall. You are ushered to a chair beside the tub, and before you know it, long and elegant fingers are unbuttoning your coat. Mihawk begins to undress you so naturally you almost don’t question it. He removes your overcoat quickly and easily, his eyes immediately shooting to your chest once it’s exposed. Your thin shirt is stuck to your skin, leaving very little to the imagination. It’s a miracle your underthings aren’t showing through the fabric.

The coat hits the floor with a loud splat, knocking your good sense back into you before his fingers manage to grip the bottom of your shirt. You shoot up from the chair with a squeak, almost falling over in the process, your arms wrapping around yourself protectively. “Sir Mihawk, thank you for your help, but I am more than capable of undressing myself!” You hope he can’t see how red your cheeks are. “It’s…improper.”

He pauses, his hands hung midair, frozen halfway through reaching for you. He slowly pulls them back, tucking them at your sides. “You’re…right. My apologies. I am unused to company and have overstepped my bounds.” The soles of his shoes clack against the tile as he begins to walk to the door. “I will wait outside for you, then I can escort you to your room. There are clothes for you to change into on the stool, and anything else you might need on the table. Do be careful, little lamb. If you feel faint, call for me.”

Lamb? Before you can question the nickname, or insist that you’ll be fine on your own, the door has closed behind him.

Peeling off your wet clothes is a deeply unpleasant experience, both from the wretched way they try to stick to your skin and the chill that seeps into you once you’re entirely exposed to the cold air. Most of you wants to toss yourself into the steaming tub immediately to escape the cold, but a part of you with more sense knows that shocking your system like that isn’t a great idea when you’re already so exhausted. Instead you start slowly, sitting on the edge of the tub and only submerging your feet. You sigh in contentment, the warmth easing the ache in your bones and distracting you from the cold air wrapping around the rest of your body. You do your best to suppress your shivers and ignore the way your nipples have hardened in the chill.

You also do your best to ignore the inescapable feeling you’re being watched.

You slip a bit deeper into the bath, up to your knees this time, facing your back to the door. You know you’re being paranoid, but just in case. You feel exposed, and it’s just struck you that you’re alone in a massive castle with a stranger. For all you know, there’s not a soul around for miles. Anything could happen to you, and no one would ever find out. You reassure yourself that Mihawk has done nothing to indicate any malicious intent, but that does little to calm your nerves. What have you gotten yourself into?

You finally slip the rest of your body into the water, closing your eyes and allowing yourself to submerge for just a moment. When you come back up for air, hair dripping and eyesight blurry, you swear for a moment the door was slightly cracked. You blink and it’s firmly closed without a sound. Your eyes must be playing tricks on you.

Once you start bathing in earnest, the feeling of being watched disappears, and you're able to enjoy the heat seeping back into your limbs. You hadn’t realized that you couldn’t feel your feet until the sensation came back, a dull ache from your long walk pulsing in your heels. You relish in washing the grime from your hair and the dirt from your skin, leaving this horrible day in the water behind you as you dry yourself with the fluffiest towel you’ve ever seen.

The clothes he left for you turn out to only be one singular item: a white nightgown that’s just slightly too small. It hugs at your curves, emphasizing your hips and chest far more than you’d like. The hem is at your mid thigh, just long enough to not risk exposing yourself, but the fear is still very much there. You hesitate at the door; thinking about so much of your body being on display in front of anyone, let alone a stranger, makes your hands sweat. But you can’t stomach the thought of pulling back on your soaked clothes, or trying to cover yourself with your damp towel. So you force yourself to walk through the threshold, eyes aimed firmly at the ground.

“Ah you’re–” He suddenly cuts off, clearing his throat, and you look up to see him shamelessly staring at you. It’s only once you make eye contact that he remembers his manners, eyes flicking away. “I see I misjudged. I’m terribly sorry. I’ll have something better for you tomorrow.”

“Shouldn’t my clothes be dry by then?” Your bare feet pad against the cold floors as you follow him to wherever you’ll be sleeping.

He ignores your question “You must be exhausted, lamb,” he says, opening a door and gesturing for you to go through. “You shouldn’t worry about anything other than getting some rest.”

You can’t help but gasp at the sight of the bed. It’s massive, with a thick down comforter and a handful of feather pillows on top. It calls to you like a siren, your eyelids drooping and a yawn forcing its way out of you. Before you know it, you’ve crawled beneath the blankets, more comfortable than you’ve ever been in your life. Mihawk stands above you, closer than you expect but not quite touching you. “I’ll come tomorrow with food,” he says, “And some other clothes. You should sleep for now, you don’t want to get sick.”

As if on cue, another sneeze echoes through the room, and you see his forehead crinkle slightly. Before you know it, there’s another blanket on top of you, and his hands are tucking you in tightly. “Sleep now, lamb,” he murmurs.

You do.

You awaken feeling much better than the night before. You still have some mild aches from your long journey, but that persistent chill has finally left you. The evening sun is slowly setting outside your window, the room growing dimmer with every passing second. You must have been exhausted. Even now, you can hardly bring yourself to leave the covers, the cool air of the room a harsh contrast from the warmth under these blankets. It’s only once the sun has finally set and a knock echoes from the door that you finally slide out, placing your bare feet on the freezing ground. 

Mihawk is waiting on the other side of the door, holding a plain white shirt and breeches out like an offering. “These should fit better,” he says, “Though I couldn’t find another nightgown for you.” Not an apology, because he hasn’t done anything wrong, but certainly something that resembles it. Regret at not being a perfect host, perhaps.

“Thank you.” You take them, moving to shut the door to allow yourself to change, but his hand catches it. His eyes scan you up and down, lingering on areas they most certainly shouldn’t.

“You feel unwell, lamb.” Not a question, a statement. You think it’s strange, but you can’t disagree. A small throbbing starts in your head, the chills from yesterday beginning to return. You clearly weren’t as well as you thought you were. “Do you need help?”

“With getting dressed?” Your voice is hardly able to squeak out of your throat.

“Or anything else,” he murmurs, though the way he’s looking at you makes you think he truly was only thinking about the one thing.

“I–I think I should be okay, I’m not feeling quite that poorly.” As you say it, sweat starts to break out on your forehead, and the world begins to spin a bit. Being out in the storm really did a number on you. You hurry to close the door before you collapse, unwilling to prove yourself a liar so quickly. You lean for a moment, forehead pressing against the cold wood as you take deep breaths. The world returns to its axis long enough for you to shed your nightclothes and pull on what he’s brought you. Still no underwear, unfortunately. That makes sense, considering Mihawk seems to live alone. It would be a little concerning if he did just have women’s underwear in your size lying around. An old nightgown is one thing, but you can’t imagine anyone stocking panties for their guests.

The shirt and pants are a little large on you, the breeches threatening to drop at any moment and the neckline of the shirt desperately trying to plunge far beyond what is acceptable, but they fit well enough for now. When you open the door again, Mihawk is there, as though he hasn’t moved an inch since you closed it. He looks you up and down once again before letting out a soft hum. “Better than the pajamas?”

“Much,” you say with a smile. “Thank you again.” You move to take a step towards him, only for your legs to choose that exact moment to give out. You stumble towards him, and he catches you easily, immediately lifting you to his chest and cradling you close.

“You need rest,” he says with a frown, face full of concern. “Clearly a bath and a single night’s rest were not enough to fight off the chill of the storm.” He carries you through the halls, which once again appear as nothing more than a winding maze. You’re completely unable to identify the path you’ve taken. 

He doesn’t stop until you’ve reached the kitchen, far smaller than you’d expect for a building of this size. There’s already a pot of soup on the stove, the scent absolutely mouthwatering. He doesn’t even speak as he gathers a bowl and spoon, holding it in front of your mouth.

“You’re going to feed me?”

“You need to eat if you’re going to recover, dear.” The pet name sends heat to your cheeks, distracting you enough that you simply allow him to do what he wants. He feeds you the entire bowl, then another, then a glass of water and some crackers. You accept it all ravenously. Every time you start to feel well and reach to take the spoon yourself, he silently holds it out of reach, waiting for your hands to return to your sides. The message is clear, and eventually you give up. 

“Stay another day, lamb,” he says softly after you’ve finished. “Just to recover. I can’t in good conscience send you out in your current state.”

You should say no. You have people to meet, ones who are probably worried sick about you right now. And frankly, it is not a good idea to stay alone with a strange man you’ve just met. But he seems so concerned, and your head really does hurt, and those beautiful eyes are drawing you into their depths again. “One day couldn’t hurt,” you agree.

So you find yourself rushed back to bed, pressed firmly against the chest of this beautiful stranger before he tucks you in tightly, as though he’s frightened you’ll run away otherwise. When he quietly says, “Sleep now, lamb,” you do almost immediately.

You awaken the next day feeling refreshed and ready to go. The sun is setting, but you should be alright to travel at night, as long as you stick to the roads. There aren’t many bandits around these days, and animals tend to stay away from the places humans frequent. You go to gather your things, only to realize you don’t have them. Mihawk didn’t give you your clothes or your bag back yesterday, too caught up in caring for you. You’ll need to ask him for them.

You open the door, ready to find him, and have another unpleasant realization: you have no idea how to find him. You have no idea how to find anything, actually, other than the bathroom. You hesitate at the door, as though leaving the safety of your little corridor risks you being lost forever in these halls. Silly. You’re a grown woman, surely you can find your way. Right?

You hardly make it twenty steps before you hit the staircase you know leads to the kitchen. Strange. It felt much further yesterday.

You find the kitchen empty save for a small glass next to the sink with a small amount of red wine in the bottom. You know your things aren’t here, but maybe you can at least find a snack before you continue your search? You open the pantry, ready to find some bread, or perhaps some fruit, only to find it empty. Not even a loose bag of grain, or a dried bag of spices. Where are the ingredients for the soup from yesterday? You move to the icebox, ready to investigate further, when suddenly you feel a presence behind you.

“You’re out of bed.” His tone is scolding, frown evident. You turn to see him right behind you, his hand reaching out for you already. How did he move so silently? Normally you can hear his footsteps against the stone from several rooms away.

“I’m feeling much better. I’m sorry to snoop, but I’m feeling a bit peckish, and I wanted a snack before I leave.”

His hand pauses midair. “Leave?”

“...Yes?”

His hesitation lasts only a moment, and his hand firmly grips your shoulder. You unconsciously lean in, lashes flutterning. “Surely you don’t intend to travel alone at night.”

Ah, he’s just concerned. How sweet. “I’ll be alright. I’ve done it before.”

“You should stay one more day, lamb. At least until morning. It’s dangerous to travel these roads at night, especially as a young woman on her own. I couldn’t in good conscience let you leave.” 

You should insist on going, surely your family is growing worried, but his eyes are so sad and his fingers are rubbing such soothing circles onto your skin–

“I suppose I can stay until morning. If it will make you feel better.”

The tension leaves his body. “It would.” His hand moves to the small of your back. “You said you were hungry? I can bring something to you, just give me a few minutes.”

“I can’t watch?”

“I prefer to do my work alone.” Mihawk’s tone leaves no room for argument. You’re beginning to learn it never really does.

So you’re once again escorted back to your room, and in just half an hour he brings you a veritable feast. You manage to talk him out of feeding you this time, but he still sits on a chair directly next to yours, your knees touching. When you finish, his thumb gently brushes crumbs from the corner of your lip. Before you even realize what you’re doing, your tongue is pressed to the pad of his thumb, licking the crumbs from his skin. You’re mortified, of course, but the twinkle in his eye tells you he’s pleased with this, somehow. He doesn’t smile, not quite, but you see the corner of his lip twitch.

Another day passes, and with it, another reason not to leave comes and goes. He misplaced your things, he admits, and he needs to find them. The day after that, another storm has rolled in, so of course you can’t leave until it passes nearly a week later. After that, the roads are too muddy to traverse safely. You just need to stay until they dry.

You don’t know when you stopped asking to leave. You just know you now have a routine: wake up to Mihawk at your door, ready to receive you, and take whatever breakfast he’s made for you. Then he’ll escort you to wherever he thinks you’ll best be entertained for the day; most are spent in the library, but some days he brings you out to the garden to help him care for his plants. He looks particularly beautiful in the moonlight, which you finally grow bold enough to tell him after a month or two. He appears unmoved, but you notice you spend far more nights outside after that.

On days you wake up before him, you take to wandering around and exploring. The layout is not nearly as complicated as it initially seemed, though the grounds are absolutely massive. It doesn’t take long before you begin to find evidence of people other than Mihawk once staying here. It’s always small things: books that he seems to have no interest in, clothes that aren’t his size, decorations that clearly aren’t to his taste.

The biggest piece of evidence you find after many months of wandering: a room tucked away in a far corner you never thought to explore, filled to the brim with bad memories.

The sun has set, meaning Mihawk will find you soon, but you can’t help but step in. Even as you hear his footsteps approaching behind you, quicker than they normally are, you continue forward. Something important is here.

“You weren’t in your room, dear.” His voice is the closest you’ve ever heard to distressed.

“Who…lived here?” Your eyes wander around the room, looking frozen in time. It’s perfectly maintained, not a single cobweb or speck of dirt to be found. Two twin beds with perfectly pressed and ironed sheets, one with a teddy bear tucked into it. Behind it there’s a desk with a stack of books on it. You don’t recognize the titles, but half seem to be fairytales and the other half appear to be centered around styles of swordsmanship and different forms of combat.

“I’ve lost many people in my life,” he whispers, his eyes distant. “Those two were the hardest.”

“Who were they?”

“Friends. Family. Something between the two. More importantly, they were mine. And the world took them.” His hands brush against the potpourri on one of the bedside tables, sending the scent of lavender into the air. He glances down to it a moment, face pained. “This covered the scent of sick. Perona demanded it, saying she needed fresh air to recover. Zoro hated it. But he allowed it to please her, even if he whined saying the smell was overpowering.”

He moves further into the room now, past the perfectly made beds to stand under three swords hung on the wall, expression unreadable. “I’ve been alone a long time. I had made my peace with it, despite knowing how much they would hate such a fate for me. They brought light to this place, and it killed them.”

“What…were they sick with?” There’s many illnesses that ravage your people during harsh winters, but they don’t usually take the young and healthy. This must have been particularly harsh, or they were particularly unlucky.

“The Great Pestilence,” he mutters. “A horrible thing to witness.”

The Great Pestilence? That…that can’t be right. You’ve heard of that plague, discussed in hushed tones by those much older than you. They spoke of it with an immense amount of fear, as though saying the words would summon the illness back to consume you all. No one in your village is old enough to have actually lived through it. To you it’s nothing more than distant history, a scary story your elders tell you to emphasize how horrible the world can be, and how wonderful it is to live now. It had to have happened at least a hundred years ago, probably more.

The moonlight pours through the window, bathing Mihawk in silver. He looks…wrong, all harsh angles and sharp teeth. Dangerous. Something in your screams to move, to run as fast as you can, soles pounding against the cobblestone to put as much distance between the two of you as you can. Before those instincts can fully take over, he turns around, his eyes just as warm as you remember.

“Calm down, lamb,” he murmurs, walking toward you. Your shoulders relax instantly, your feet bringing you towards him, your cheek pressing into his waiting hand. “I understand this is hard to hear, but there’s no need to be upset. It was a long time ago, now.”

He lifts your head, brushing his lips against your forehead in a move tender enough to make your chest tighten. He’s lost so much, entombed himself here with those he loved. You can’t imagine how deeply the grief must affect him, even now. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. I’m not alone anymore.” He presses your foreheads together, eyes closing. You lean in, relishing in the familiar chill of his skin and his scent. The pad of his thumb rubs against your cheek, smearing the wetness of your single tear against your skin and causing you to let out a soft sigh of contentment.

“You won’t be again,” you promise. His eyes open then, boring into yours. You don’t know quite what he’s looking for. Sincerity? Reassurance? Whatever it is, he finds it, and you’re blessed with one of the most rare sights in the world: Mihawk’s gentle smile, teeth poking out slightly from between his lips. 

He captures your lips in his, the taste of iron spreading across your tongue. His canines brush against your lips, a soft scrape that shows two things: he could hurt you, if he so chose, and that he won’t. You whimper slightly at the feeling, lips parting just enough for his tongue to enter your mouth. His hands move to your legs, fingers grazing your inner thighs before he lifts you up to carry you out. You wrap your legs around his waist immediately, which he rewards with a soft growl of approval.

You try to press in deeper, to take as much as he’s willing to give you, but he pulls back immediately with a soft tsk. “Don’t take more than you’re given, little lamb.” He shifts, unwrapping your legs and shifting you to allow him to carry you bridal style. You tuck your face into his neck, nuzzling against the two little scars that rest right on his pulse point.

“Sorry,” you murmur instantly. A deep shame pulses through you at the scolding, at not following his lead.

He doesn’t respond immediately, carrying you through the halls and back toward your room. “I shouldn’t have pushed you as I did. You aren’t ready.” He says it so matter-of-fact that you almost accept it immediately, as you do most things he says. But something about it bothers you, triggers something deep in your brain you can’t quite name.

“What do you mean I’m not ready? Isn’t that my decision?”

His chest rumbles with a quiet chuckle, the first laugh you’ve ever heard from him. “Of course, dear. In most things I agree.” He doesn’t elaborate, his sentence stopping short in a way that tells you very clearly this conversation is over.

You settle against him, letting your eyes close as you press yourself further into his shoulder. At first you try to settle against his chest, but he shifts you higher, pressing you closer to his neck again. You accept this easily and without complaint, just happy to be close to him in whatever way you can be. The rhythm of his calm steps against the stone floor, as steady as a heartbeat, begins to lull you to sleep.

You’re hardly awake when you reach your bed, as he undresses you and places you in your nightgown. If his hands linger, you don’t notice, eyes slipping closed and head falling forward. He tucks you beneath the blankets with a soft kiss on the forehead, trying to slip away after. You don’t remember whimpering and reaching for him, but you do remember the feeling of his hand against yours, so large and strong.

“Stay here, lamb. Just rest now.” His voice is soft and kind, a warmth in it that threatens to melt you. You fall asleep with your fingers interlocked with his.

When you awaken, evening light streaming through the window, Mihawk has left your side.

Why are you here again?

You and he…your face flushes at the memory. You don’t know what got into you, acting so boldly. But then something else slowly makes its way through your mind, clawing through the haze to implant itself firmly in your thoughts. Yesterday Mihawk said he lost his friends to The Great Pestilence. Something impossible. Something he said too sincerely for it to have been a lie.

Something here is wrong.

How long have you been here? You’ve lost track of time, so caught up in getting to know your savior. Several months at least, if not half a year. You’ve been well enough to leave for at least half of that time. So why have you stayed? Why have you not returned to your life, your family? What were you even doing when you stumbled here, all those months ago?

You can’t remember. When you try to, all you can think of are those cold hands running over your body, those teeth on your neck, nipping so gently. The way you wished more than anything he would have bitten harder, hard enough to draw blood. The way you wished his hands had moved lower, fingers slipping under your dress and exploring without hesitation.

Where is he, your lover?

Your lover? Is that the right word? It must be.

You try to stand, only to find your knees buckling beneath you, slamming against the cold floor. You can’t keep from crying out, but Mihawk does not appear to fuss over you as you’ve become accustomed to. Instead you’re forced to pull yourself back into bed, tucking yourself back under the covers and closing your eyes. Clearly you need more rest, with your foggy mind and weak body.

The next time you awaken, he’s there, water in one hand and a steaming bowl of soup in the other. He places them down on the nightstand, and the moment they’re free his hands find yours, his lips pressing against your knuckles. “Are you feeling better, lover?”

You groan, and he lets out a small puff of air in amusement. His hands find your shoulders, gently lifting you into a sitting position. A spoon is pressed against your lips, and you gratefully accept the flavorful broth, warming you to your very bones. The two of you don’t speak as he feeds you, content to care and be taken care of. It isn’t long before the bowl is empty, and the glass of water isn’t long to follow. You feel much better after being fed and watered, the strange haze leaving as you press your cheek into Mihawk’s hand.

“Better now?”

“Yes,” you murmur. You always feel better when he’s around, looking after you and keeping you safe. You had something you wanted to ask him earlier, what was it? It felt important.

Ah, right.

“Mihawk?”

He hums in acknowledgement, still staring at you with a soft and yearning look. “Yes, lover?”

“How old are you?”

It’s such a simple question. You don’t understand why part of you is screaming to ask it, why it feels of the utmost urgency. You also don’t understand why his eyes turn cold when you say it, why his hand on your cheek suddenly feels like nothing more than cold stone.

“Why do you ask?” His tone is anything but casual, flat and cold like he was when you first met.

“I…” Why did you ask? Why does it matter? Has he ever asked how old you are? Of course he has, as he’s asked everything else about you. He probably knows more about you than you know about yourself. But you didn’t ask out of simple curiosity, you know. Why was this so important? “I don’t know.”

He sighs, clicking his tongue at you like he’s chiding a child. “Stop thinking about useless things, little lamb. The past can’t hurt us here. Come here, and I’ll show you something much more worth your time.” He opens his arms to you, and despite yourself, you can’t help but throw yourself into them. He wraps himself around you instantly, trapping you against his chiseled chest. “That’s better, dear.”

His lips press against your forehead first, a small act of tenderness and devotion before he slams them against your lips with a ferocity that makes you cry out. He’s all teeth and claws, his hands gripping your thighs and maneuvering you into position beneath him. There’s an unnatural chill in every touch, one that sends shivers up your spine. You’re so caught up in the feeling of his hands forcing apart your thighs that you almost don’t remember to ask your pressing question. “I–I thought you said I wasn’t ready?”

He pauses a moment, staring off into the distance, considering. As though he hadn’t realized his actions directly contradicted his words. “You were exhausted then,” he says, as though that was the reason the whole time and not something he came up with on the spot.

Something seems wrong about that, but his leg presses up against you and the delicious friction steals away any thoughts you may have had. His hands find the hem of your shirt, removing it in one swift motion and revealing your chest to him. He leans down, fingers rubbing lightly against your nipple. You let out a pathetic gasp, a moment of weakness that he instantly takes advantage of. He dives in, his mouth wrapping around your other breast and sucking. His teeth press against the skin, threatening to plunge through but never quite drawing blood. His tongue is well-practiced, swirling around the bud with precise movements. His fingers move in tandem with his mouth, unraveling you beneath him embarrassingly quickly.

At a particularly wanton moan, he removes his mouth with a pop, his voice ragged and wanting. “Even better than I imagined,” he groans, the most untethered you’ve ever heard him sound. When he looks up to you, eyes burning, you see no semblance of the usual icy control he carries himself with. His pupils are blown out, nearly covering the gold of his irises entirely. He looks nearly animalistic. “Do you know how hard it’s been, holding myself back like this? I’ve never struggled with my composure until you.”

You whimper softly, pawing at his shirt, begging for him to show himself to you before he unravels you beneath him. He doesn’t pause for a second as he rips it off, exposing his chest and stomach to you before he dives back in. For a moment you can see a patch of dark red scars on his hip, the way the edges seem to turn black. Before you can brush your fingers against them, he pins your arms above your head with one hand, fingers wrapping around your wrists easily.

He drags his tongue from your chest up to your neck, his icy breath coming out in desperate huffs. The fingers of his free hand trail down, sliding under your pants to grip your hip with bruising force. You let out a soft yelp of surprise, but he doesn’t seem to notice, lost in a fight far beyond you. He presses his nose deeply into your neck, inhaling your scent like a man starved. You feel something icy hit your skin, and for a moment you think he might be drooling. That can’t be right. Your lover is not some starved animal, you think.

Then he sinks his teeth into you.

The pain is unimaginable for a moment, as your body screams for you to run. Every one of your nerves is ablaze as every muscle locks up, your back arching in a futile attempt to escape. It lasts only a few seconds, but it feels like you’re trapped in the moment for eternity. You’re forced to realize a truth that refused to form in your hazy mind over the past few months: you’re prey, trapped in the grip of a predator. You’ve been entangled in his web for far too long to escape. It was too late for you the moment you knocked on his door.

Then his tongue brushes against the puncture marks, and something new sets in, a gentle euphoria that causes your eyes to flutter shut, your clenched fists to relax. A soft warmth spreads through you from every point of contact with Mihawk, gentler than the scorching heat of the initial bite. As your muscles relax, you realize you could move away, but why would you? You lean your head slightly, giving him better access to your neck, and you’re rewarded with your wrists and hip being released as his hands move to where you want him most. He uses one hand to remove your pants, the other gently kneading your inner thighs before finally giving you what you want. He inserts one of his beautiful, lithe fingers into you torturously slowly, savoring the drag of his skin against your inner walls.

With every swipe of his tongue, every suck against your skin, every swallow, he pumps another time. When you continue to obey, he grants you a second finger, then a third, stretching you so deliciously as he hits your sweet spot. You do nothing to hold back your moans, and every time you make another sweet noise you can feel him smile against you as he speeds up slightly. When you start trembling beneath him and your cries grow closer and closer together, he stops speeding up, keeping a steady pace as he finally removes himself from your neck. He’s panting hard, mouth smeared red, irises entirely overtaken by his pupils. He stares at you as he feels you clench around his fingers before he crashes your lips together, filling your mouth with the familiar taste of iron. His lips are warm this time, far warmer than any part of him has ever been. His tongue slips into your mouth easily, as you put up no resistance. 

With one final brush of his fingers against your sweet spot, you come undone, back arching as your chest pushes into his. Your eyes fall closed, but fly open again when you feel a harsh nip of teeth against your lips. Mihawk’s eyes are boring into yours, threatening to swallow you whole, but you dare not look away twice. You’re frozen beneath him, drowning in the waves of pleasure that are overtaking you. His fingers don’t slow until he’s sure he’s milked your orgasm for all it’s worth. Only then does he slowly slide them out of you, his mouth leaving yours so he can wrap his tongue around them. He still doesn’t blink, making sure you’re watching every single step, absorbing every reaction.

“Delicious, lover,” he groans, voice thick with want. “I’ve never had a meal quite this delightful.” He kisses you again, softer this time, but no less wanting. His hands brush your cheek, cradling you like something precious.

“Y–You–” Your tongue feels too heavy in your mouth, your thoughts a horrible jumble that you can’t grasp anything out of. You don’t know what you’re trying to say, though it feels important.

“Yes, lamb?” He presses his forehead to yours, those beautiful eyes closer than ever, and only one thought comes to the front of your mind.

“More, please,” you moan.

He smiles, all teeth. “Of course, dear,” he says as he stands to his full height, towering over you. He slides off his pants and underthings in one swift move, not taking a moment to tease. When you see how painfully hard he is, cock leaking, you understand why. His patience is hanging by a thread. He won’t be able to maintain his composure if he puts this off for even another second.

He pins you down with his entire bodyweight, ensuring he’s pressing against every single inch of your exposed skin that he can. He lines himself up easily, and when he finally ruts into you, it knocks the breath from your lungs. It isn’t rough, exactly, but when he enters it is in one single unforgiving stroke. He sets his pace immediately: steady, consistent. Not slow and sensual or frantic and rushing, just the perfect marching rhythm to bring you to the edge again. His mouth presses against yours again, his tongue cleaning up every bit of blood he smeared onto you earlier. His hands are occupied with exploring your body once more, one experimenting with your clit while the other teases against your thighs.

He isn’t demanding, but he takes what he wants without hesitation, as though you are simply his to have and anything else is unthinkable. He does what he wants to you without asking, but it’s never anything to hurt you. Not unkind, but not exactly tender either. He’s uncompromising, unyielding. He brings you and himself to the edge without a shred of mercy for either of you. He’s panting almost as much as you are, though he doesn’t actually seem to be struggling for breath at all, instead just lost in the sensations he’s creating with you.

His eyes still haven’t left yours. You don’t know if they ever will again. His voice is strained as he whispers one final command: “Cum with me, little lamb.”

And you do, nails scraping down his back and voice screaming his name. You expect to feel a spurt of warmth inside of you, but instead you clamp around him and find him spurting nothing. You can’t think about this for long as his teeth find your neck again, pressing against your jugular but not piercing it. He lets out a muffled moan as his body spasms, only releasing you once you’ve both fully experienced your release.

He rolls off of you, keeping an arm around your waist to cage you against him. You wouldn’t leave anyway, not now. Where would you go? What place in the world do you have but at his side?

You lay in silence for a moment, only the sound of your pants filling the room. His have stopped, and you can hardly feel the movement of his chest behind you at all. The thought leaves your mind when his nose nuzzles against your hair, and you can hear his soft voice in your ear. “What was your question earlier, lamb?”

You open your mouth to answer him, only to frown and furrow your brow. “I…don’t remember.” It felt so important. It’s on the tip of your tongue, really, if you just dug a little deeper surely you’d find it.

You hear him chuckle as he kisses the side of your head. “That’s alright, dear. Don’t trouble yourself. The past doesn’t matter here. It can’t hurt us now.”

You don’t think yours hurt. But you know his did, immensely, and you’re glad you can ease his pain.

“Tell me what I want to hear, lamb,” he whispers.

“I love you, Mihawk.”

He smiles, all teeth. “I love you too, little lamb.”

Tag List: @pandora-writes-one-piece @shy-writer-999 @dreamcastgirl99 @eggrollforyou

[11092234]

—IT was certainly a sight to see, especially so when it’s not so often that you’d witness the Autobot SIC waddle into your office just as he did now, cutting their discussion short — panting and chagrined as though he’d a run a mile from wherever he left.

“Apologies for being so late.” Prowl straightens up. He tries to ignore the heat of warmth crawling up his neck at the sight of two optics boring into his helm. A question unasked, and one not willing for an answer.

The worn medic and the Prime exchanged discreet glances. The former sported a questioning look, curious at the uncustomary tardiness.While, the Prime is more drawn to the peculiar state of his second in command. Who often was — almost always — impervious to unkempt grooming. There, the obvious scratches along the ridges of his doorwings glinted under the light. And, the unpolished metal plating on his chassis is seemingly chafed. Looking at him now, he’s all but kempt.

He made a mental note to ask him about that later. When he’s calmed down enough to be compliant, of course. If Prowl was rooked into some kind of mental turmoil with no means of expressing it — Optimus would consider his leadership to be a blunder. He’d never forgive himself if his Chief Strategist were to befall an ill kind of omen. One, from the malicious intent of his own servos because nobody else was there to help him out of it.

“Traffic?” Ratchet mused. 

Prime shoots him a look, but it was clear the medic wasn’t backing down.

“The shuttle was congested.” Prowl replies back coolly, locking his gaze.

Optimus nods in agreement. “I can imagine it must be hard to navigate through the halls with so many autobots. Wheeljack proposed we widen the hallways for easy transport. So your tardiness is as understandable as it is forgiven, right old friend?”

“Right.” Was all Ratchet said.

Prowl bristles slightly at his tone. Internally, Optimus sighs. “You don’t seem convinced.”

“He’s not often late to a debriefing so it is something unusual…”

“We all make mistakes once in a while, Ratchet.”

“Sure. I guess we all do.” He smiles. “Even the prim and proper enforcer does. Had a good rest last night? Heard you clocked out early.”

Prowl opens his intake. Then, shuts it. He became warm. Immediately reminded of a place he’d rather be — this morning, in his habsuite and your soft body on top. The noises he had wrung out of your lips. Above, below and behind, his hip against yours. Your grin, your hands, on his—

Prowl groans internally. You’re left unsatisfied and the thought of what’s to come later instinctively made his panel clamp up. Foolish little human testing his patience. At the face of Ratchet’s interrogation, if the medic is in his ruthless mood, his secret on the downlow is now privy to be heard on full display. Along with the many more ‘severe’ ramifications following if the knowledge of him managing to bed the human liaison is divulged. Especially, the younger mechs who had been so intent on courting the liaison.

“Yes,” He says, an edge to his tone. “ I made adjustments to my berth and it was adequately comfortable.”

[tailoroffates]

Writing tips #5 - Conditions

Hey y'all! I'm back again with yet another segment of Writing tips. Today we're going to cover something a bit more vague, conditions. No, not the terms and/or conditions of some contract. What I'm referring to is the current condition of an item, a place, or even a creature.

Clean

Blank, bright, cleansed, clear, dirtless, flawless, fresh, hygienic, immaculate, impeccable, laundered, pristine, pure, sanitary, shining, shiny, sparkling, spick-and-span, spotless, squeaky, stainless, taintless, tidy, unblemished, unpolluted, unsoiled, unsullied, untainted, untarnished, washed, white.

Dirty

Black, contaminated, cruddy, dingy, draggled, dreggy, dungy, dusty, filthy, greasy, grimy, grubby, grungy, icky, impure, mangy, mildewed, moldy, mucky, muddy, murky, nasty, polluted, raunchy, scummy, scuzzy, slimy, smeared, smudged, soiled, soily, snooty, sordid, splotched, spotted, squalid, stained, sullied, sully, tainted, tarnished, unclean, unsanitary, unsightly, unswept.

Damaged

beat-up, bent, blemished, broken, burnt, burst, busted, collapsed, cracked, crippled, crumbed, demolished, destroyed, dinged, discolored, disintegrated, dismembered, flawed, fractured, fragmented, impaired, injured, mangled, marred, mutilated, peeling, pulverized, ripped, ruptured, separated, severed, shattered, shivered, shot, shredded, slivered, smashed, split, tattered, wrecked.

Faultless

Complete, entire, faultless, firm, fixed, flawless, full, intact, mint, perfect, perfect, plenary, preserved, replete, rooted, safe, secure, set, settled, shipshape, solid, sound, stable, steadfast, steady, unblemished, unbroken, uncut, undefiled, undivided, unharmed, unified, unimpaired, uninjured, unmarked, unmarred, unruffled, unscathed, untouched.

Messy

Bedraggled, botchy, careless, cluttered, dirty, disheveled, disordered, disorderly, disorganized, filthy, foul, frowzy, frumpy, grimy, grubby, ill-kempt, lax, littered, muddled, mussy, nasty, raunchy, ruffled, rumpled, shabby, slack, slapdash, slipshod, sloppy, slovenly, uncombed, unkempt, untidy, wrinkled, wrinkly.

Neat

Chipper, clean-cut, combed, detailed, fastidious, groomed, immaculate, kempt, meticulous, orderly, organized, prim, shipshape, snappy, snug, spick-and-span, spruce, tidy, trig, trim, uncluttered, uncluttered, unwrinkled, well-groomed, well-pressed.

New

Advanced, brand-new, contemporary, current, cutting edge, fresh, latest, modern, new-fashioned, newfound, new-sprung, novel, original, recent, stylish, trendy, ultramodern, unfamiliar, unspoiled, untouched, untrodden, unused, up-to-date, youthful.

Old

Abandoned, aged, ancient, antiquated, antique, archaic, broken-down, cast-off, crusty, dated, decayed, decrepit, deteriorated, dilapidated, discarded, dowdy, faded, hackneyed, historical, moth-eaten, neglected, old-fashioned, outdated, out-of-date, outworn, primitive, primordial, raggedy, rickety, run-down, rusty, scruffy, shabby, shoddy, stale, tattered, threadbare, time-worn, traditional, used, worm-eaten, worn, worn-out, wrinkly.

[yandere-wishes]

Okay so not an ask more of a Headcanon based on observation and the character he is based on, but I see Honest Fellow as someone who would both idolize/emulate and resent the rich. By his design his clothes, while they pay homage to Honest John with the patchwork pantleg and the misding pinky tip on his one glove seem very well-kempt, on top of that his hat and cane are practically emaculate that cane alone couldn't have been cheap though I wouldn't put it passed the sly fox man to have either swindled someone out of it or stole it from them outright. Point is I'm getting wants to be a rich man but hates the rich people vibes.

All of that is set-up for my headcanon that if he ever had a S/O you can bet he would get them jewelry and expensive clothes. Basically just adorn them in finery he had acquired through whatever means (cough, likely stolen or purchased with dirty money, cough) and proudly have them stand by his side. The thought to use them as a pretty little lure to catch even bigger fish might cross his mind, but I doubt he'd ever use them like that. Personally, I feel like he'd be to possessive to do that even if his darling wanted to help like that, after all what if he let's them go off alone and someone tries to take advantage of his poor darling? He doesn't think they're weak or foolish per say but who could protect them better than him? I think he'd have a difficult time even leaving them alone with Gidelle (only 90 percent sure I got that right), of course he trusts Gidelle, well as much as he can truly trust anyone anyway, but he's the brains of the outfit and unless he's personally by his darlings side he won't ever be truly assured something won't go wrong.

Let's say that darling isn't quite so understanding or compliant, his possessive side would certainly get worse. He can't leave them alone for one second qhat if they try and sneak off. Perhaps to save his pride he'd be a bit delusional, they're just a sweet little naive skittish thing that doesn't know any better, possibly they've never known a love as deep and unshakable as his, it's only natural there would be a learning curve for them and who better than he to teach them? I highly doubt he'd ever use physical punishments on his darling, probably doesnt like punishing them as he thinks they are just still learning, but that doesn't mean he won't find other ways to punish them if necessary. I do think if they actively tried to run he wouldn't waste a minute getting something along the lines of a necklace with a chain, something fashionable but functional as a reminder while they're learning, if that reminder isn't enough though he might go for a bejeweled pet collar and leash. If all else fails isolation in a secure location with him as their only source of human, or well beastman, contact would certainly allow them to see how much they needed each other. Whatever he has to do to make them understand it'll all be worth it later once they're settled and he can spoil them like they deserve.

TLDR: Honest Fellow would love to lavish his S/O in (possibly ill-gotten) finery and would actively and proudly show them off on his arm. Everyone can look and admire, but only he is allowed to touch.

This has got to be the most effort anyone has ever put into something they sent in my ask box!! THANK YOU SO MUCH!!

Okay so right off the bat let me say that YES!! This is canon I don't care what anyone says.

I can see him as "wanting what they have" but "not wanting to be them". Essentially he wants the ability to give his darling the best of everything. Yet still ultimately preserving his own "personality". Like you said Fellow hates the rich. They're insufferable, self-absorbed and loathsome, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't crave the glitz and glammer.

Now I can kinda see Fellow only really interacting with his darling at first to use her as bait. Winning her over with expensive gifts and pretty cloths (all from dirty money ofc) and sure darling does start to fall for his tricks. But here's the thing, the moment his darling begins to show the tinest interest in him Fellow FALLS HARDER!! All of a sudden he doesn't want ANYONE near his darling! Just him only him. Sooner or later his darling will start to feel suffocated, she'll be desperate to get away from him. Forsaking the pretty presents and charming "boyfriend" for just a moment of freedom. But Fellow's a sly fox, always one step ahead. He knows how to ensnare his darling before she's even run away.

Overall Fellow will lavish you, treat you like a queen, getting you anything you desire (through underhanded means) but you'll never be allowed to leave him. Forever trapped by his side on the island of pleasure…

Quick question is Fellow meant to be the same age as the third years or is he older??

[bprinny]

GNAWED BONES

CHAPTER THREE

It was hours later when Euanthe spoke up.

“We’re not going to be able to make it to the Village today, are we?”

“Sadly, no,” Hulagu said. “Had to drive too far off the main road to get away from those Chotgu fucks. Have to avoid the common routes, stay away from any ambushes. Best to lay low for the rest of the day, don’t know what kind of friends they have. Finish the journey tomorrow, with the dawn.” Euanthe stretched her arms, yawning.

“At least we’ll have dinner for tonight. More gnawer stew. You know of any safe houses near here?”

“A few, all uninhabited. Too risky right now, though. Better to seek refuge in Grod Woe.” 

Ditya concealed her excitement, burying it deep beneath the scab that existed inside her mind. She knew about night, when the surface got as dark as it always is down below. Once it was dark, she could sneak out of wherever they were going, find a building to hide in, and then make her way back in the light of day. With the head start she would have on them, they would surely give up, and she could make her way back home. It was perfect. 

Ditya didn’t look towards the back of Dan Naim. She knew that looking at her drew her attention. Even thinking her name could do it. Ditya just had to keep away from her for the rest of the day. That shouldn’t be hard, since Ditya hated her and wanted nothing more than to be away from her. 

Some of the Voin children had tried to talk to her, but she ignored them, until they gave up and went to lie next to Mungun. Apparently her ear had been shot off in the violence; her spinning around was when she got hit. Euanthe had patched her up though, to the best of her abilities. There wasn’t much you could do when most of the ear had been vaporized on contact by the bullet. Ditya was kind of glad Mungun was okay, but she tried not to feel too much sympathy. She was trying to hate everything, after all. She needed to hold onto it, to give her strength for tonight. 

It was difficult to stay focused, however. The Flat Lands seemed to swallow time up with how it kept going in every direction, small empty buildings all by themselves on an invisible grid, grey and wet and cold. It had grown overcast at some point and now everything was bathed in a perpetual grey, like they were in one giant room, with a roof impossibly high overhead. She would see people, occasionally, hunting beasts, or each other. Other times she would see vehicles like Dan Naim, slowly trundling off in the distance, often in groups and rarely by themselves. Similarly, creatures stalked in between the ruins, by their lonesome, or in herds. She saw vast patches of Kuzu, bloody carpets of flesh torn up by wandering herds or scavengers. She saw forests of bone, with looping entrails and meaty sacs hanging from jagged branches. The terrain never changed elevation, though sometimes Ditya could see areas that were lower or higher than their current altitude, shallow inclines or raised hills. Some of the lowered areas had become lakes, or swamps. Sometimes there were shallow streams, cut through the featureless gray ground. Sometimes she could hear screams, in the distance, or sounds of violence, like gunshots. 

She saw their destination hours before they reached it. A massive castle, rising above the surrounding scenery. It was about half the height of the tallest towers they had passed, but much, much wider. No other solid structure stood near it,  and it was wholly surrounded by a dense forest of bone. As they approached, Ditya could make out teepees, in small scattered groups near the front of the massive building. The people living in these looked dirty and mean, fashioning simple tools with bone and rock. Hunchbacked men, their naked skin tanned from the sun, cast covetous glances at Dan Naim as he slowly rolled by, while whipcord muscled women held grasping infants, staring directly at the Voin as they passed. Their leathers looked ill-kempt or old, and some didn’t even have moccasins. Most looked underfed and gaunt. Their black hair blew in the breeze.

“Gnawers, pushed up from the undercity, or down from the mountains. Nasty little bastards.” Euanthe said, not looking at the dishevelled tribals. Her contempt was palpable, but Ditya could detect a note of fear inside her. “They’ll ignore you for the most part, but if they think they can get away with it, they’ll tear you to pieces. It feels like there’s more every day.”

Fleeing from war, refugees in an unforgiving land. The surface is a terrible place to be, once the sun goes down. 

Despite herself, Ditya was curious. “What happens when the sun goes down?”

The monsters come out.

 A brief image flickered across Ditya’s mind, of twisted, distended limbs, of too-wide mouths with too many teeth. Ditya shuddered and looked over the plains. She didn’t see anywhere you could possibly hide. 

“Why would they stay out here, and not make for some of the buildings? Wouldn’t living in one of those be safer?” Ditya said. Behind her, Mori shook her head.

They stay out here for the reason anyone else would. For the food.

As they passed close to one the swamps, Ditya got a better look at it. It was a stagnant pool of flood, with strange muscle growths overhanging the ledge. Crimson bone trees, their branches full of meat, rose tall above thick red stalks throbbing with blood. A strange creature, short of stature and with a scaly tail poking out the bottom of the leather hood it wore, was fishing at the edge of the swamp. It waved a clawed hand at them as they slowly drove by.

Out here, food is plentiful. But so is danger. They feel it is worth the risk.

“And they pay in blood,” said Euanthe. “Rather than pay in iron.”

“What does that mean?”

“If they mined iron for the Opiliones, the harvestmen would give them protection. Instead, they’d rather take their chances fighting monsters with bone. And they pay for it.”

Ditya could see more clusters of teepees, out across the plains. Most looked like they had very little contact with each other. “Why would they do that?”

Same reason you keep thinking of running back home. Pride. 

Ditya’s eyes widened as she spun back around. Mori was staring directly into her, a small smile barely creasing her tattooed face.

Such absolute confidence in the knowledge that you are correct about everything, and anything that does not yield to you is merely an obstacle to overcome. You will be proven right, even at the cost of your life. But some things are a burden to accept, a truth to make peace with. There is safety within the walls. Security for submission, a chain around the neck protects it from the blade. 

She made a strange gesture and pointed towards her throat. 

Those who have nothing can only offer themselves. 

Ditya didn’t know about that. If this is what protection felt like, she’d rather take her chances out in the plains. Mori’s smile widened and softened.

The Dream Eaters can offer much more than themselves. We offer the truth, the world as it truly is, a voice that can reach across the city in an instant. You will not have to submit such as they do. Instead, the chain with which we would bind you is, that you do no harm with what you have, that you keep the peace on this, our sacred world. 

Mori’s eyes widened until the iris had eclipsed the white, two black orbs staring out of a tattooed face.

Unlike them, you do not have a choice in this. We will not be culled, like the Temple Builders.

Ditya wanted to turn away, but found herself pinned in place by Mori’s gaze. The older Eater stared at her for a moment longer, before looking away, towards some other, distant horizon. 

As they got closer to the castle, the swamps increased in density and width, until the straight path they were on was the only dry stretch of land around. The meaty foliage had grown into a forest, with solid ivory oaks coated in entrails and organ shaped fruit. The stench of blood, warm meat, and rot increased until it made Ditya’s head spin, and the temperature inside the forest was noticeably warmer than outside it, though there was still a fog present. Disturbingly, Ditya thought she could hear something breathing, before she realized it was probably just all the flora. 

Black-winged birds loitered on the branches of the nearest trees, picking at meat, or observing them over viciously sharp beaks. They were silent, save for the occasional caw. Ditya could see more of them in the distance, flocks flying above the treeline. Some would swoop low, following them closely, but none landed on Dan Naim. For some reason, Ditya felt like they were observing her, specifically. Like she was of interest to them, and they wanted to see more of her. 

 Through the breaks in the treelines, Ditya could see even more teepees. The people who lived here showed no fear of them, staring from beneath the dripping branches of tall trees. The only parts of their nude forms not caked in gore were the white of their eyes. They had greater variation in the shapes of their faces than the other tribes Ditya had seen before, and she thought they must be descended from a great many people. They seemed to be smiling, though Ditya didn’t think there was anything friendly about their smiles. Like the way it didn’t seem to reach their eyes, or the fact that every smile was exactly the same, like something they practiced. At least they seemed healthier than the tribes out on the plains, their bodies packed with muscle. Aside from some leather slings or belts, the wearing of clothes seemed to be totally absent among the forest dwellers. Considering how bloody everything was, Ditya supposed it made sense. 

The deeper in they got, the more tribals started to appear. A group of almost a hundred stood on a cancerous hill, slowly watching them pass. These ones carried more weapons, of iron-make, the finest looking one wielded by a tattooed woman standing above them all. Next to her, a more heavily tattooed horned woman stood–no, floated–next to her, black horns poking up from her forehead, like twin obsidian knives. There was a brief spark between her and Mori, and Ditya sensed that there was an ongoing communication going on between the two. The communication continued long after they had left the group behind, and only ceased once they were a good distance away.

“What was all that about?” Ditya asked. Though she still had a kernel of anger, this new environment was too interesting for her.

The exchange of information between a fellow Sister is necessary to maintain peace among the lands. We share what we have seen, and pass on new developments in the wider world. Though that communication was done face to face, the Logos allows us to speak to Sisters from afar, beyond the Flat Lands, in the deeper parts of the city. As a Dream Eater, your responsibility is global, the stewardship of all who live on Korsun.

“Korsun?”

The world you live on. Did your mother not teach you of this?

Ditya shook her head. “All I know about is Pastor and the Labyrinth. I knew there was an…’upstairs’ and a ‘downstairs’, but that’s it.”

Mori frowned. “Okay, what do you know?” she asked, in her normal voice. Ditya shrugged.

“I know mountains are when the towers are big and clumped together, and that everything outside of the Flat Lands are mountains, and you can’t live in the mountains, so everyone lives in the Flat Lands.”

Mori silently stared at her for a brief moment, rubbing her chin in her hand, before responding. “You can easily live in the mountains, and a great many people do so. It is dangerous, but so are most places. And it’s not all mountains out there, though it does seem to be much of it. ‘It’, being the world you live on. Which is named, in our tongue, Korsun.” As she spoke, her hands were animated, making rapid gestures. “Most people will never journey even a fraction of a fraction of the world, but our kind have to travel, often to far off lands. We do this to banish the Foe Wind, cull the Temple Builder, and keep the peace, among this,” she said excitedly, raising her hands towards the sky.

Our only home.

She lowered her hands and clasped them, looking intently at Ditya.

The Eclipse turned us into witches, blessed us with the means to defend ourselves against the predations of the Astral Sea. Our existence is one of duty that lasts a lifetime. The gods have called on us to protect humanity, and our answer to that call was made with our first breath. No matter the politics of the land you live, you answer first to the wellbeing of all. 

Ditya stared at her, the blood smell giving her a headache. “What if I don’t want to?”

There could be no fate riding an undercity snake that could possibly compare to the one destiny has in store for you. You are meant for greater things than what most could hope for.

Ditya looked back the way they came, thinking of the gore-caked witch who lived in a meat swamp. “And I have to do this now?” Mori shook her head.

You do not have to assume these duties until the next Eclipse, when your blood comes upon you. Until then, you are free to live your life as you see fit. 

“What that means, is that until then, your wellbeing is provided for by the tribe you were born into, who receives payment for their services once she matures,” Euanthe said, lighting up some kind of herb in her pipe. Her lighter was a long heating coil, that got hot enough to set the contents of her pipe alight. She took a few puffs before continuing. “We raise you until you get older, and then you’re whisked off to have witchery poured down your throat. At some point you may return, and then we get to take care of you, unless you get settled somewhere else.” She made a rotating motion with her hand. “Or you die. They would prefer that didn’t happen.”

Ditya thought on that. “So why did those men back there care who my mother is? Why did they try to grab me?” 

To care for a Dream Eater is to invest in a powerful asset for the tribe, and a useful tool while she is young. Even while she is away, the tribe receives great boons for their effort. Which tribe a Dream Eater belongs to, however, is dictated by whoever can keep her, that being the tribe better equipped to provide for and protect her. Some tribes will try and steal young Dream Eaters away, and claim that the mother was from their tribe. With no living mother to confirm or deny this, we take them at their word. Of course, we already know the truth, but we are willing to go along with the charade, for the well being of the young Sister.

Something in that sentence caught at Ditya's attention. “What do you mean, ‘no living mother’? My mom’s alive. She said goodbye to me this morning.” Mori’s expression changed to one of pity, for just a heartbeat, before returning to her resting face.

Elpis adopted you, yes, but she is not the one who gave birth to you. That woman is dead. 

Ditya shook her head, refusing to believe what she was hearing. “My mother is Elpis. She gave birth to me and took care of me.” Her voice was quiet, and she found that she couldn’t raise it if she tried. There was a sensation at the back of her throat, the one she felt when she was about to cry. Euanthe glared at her from across her pipe, blowing smoke through barely parted lips. 

“Do you know how a woman gives birth?” When Ditya didn’t answer, Euanthe continued. “Women give birth, through an opening on our bodies, just barely wide enough to pass a skull through. A skull, and nothing wider than a skull. Do you know what happens to that opening, when the skull getting pushed through suddenly sprouts horns?”

Ditya stared at her, wrapping her mind in the thought-scab, not wanting to see the truth behind what Euanthe was saying. “My mother is–”

“Your mother was named Utraya, she was a vicious monster, and she died when those horns of yours tore her open. Bled out in seconds.” Ditya stared at her, slack jawed, before shifting her eyes towards Mori, who only lowered her head.

The reason we have been blessed with so many gifts, is that the true price for them has already been paid, with the life-blood of the ones who brought us into this world. For this sacrifice, the responsibility you take on is tame in comparison. Your birth mother was a Flesh Dancer, a member of a sacred society. She lived in the Village, among the tribes there, and protected them. Her loss is keenly felt.

An image burst into Euanthe’s mind, so vivid it brushed against Ditya, and she could feel the contempt deep within it.

All the more reason for you to commit yourself to life among them. They need you with them, so that you can watch over them, as your mother had. 

Ditya was silent for a moment, staring at the two women. When she spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “If it’s such a big deal, why was I sent to live with the Nikiburi?” As soon as she said that, a mental wall slammed down between the two women. What little feelings she could sense from them were completely cut off. Ditya could barely see the lights of their souls now. 

It was felt that you would be better taken care of aboard an Iron Snake. We did not anticipate how your presence would affect his life. 

There was something there,  something that they didn’t want her to know about. They were comfortable telling her that she had murdered her mother, but didn’t want her to know why she had been sent away. Ditya couldn’t imagine them wanting anything good for her, not after what she had done. She couldn’t even tell them they were lying, because she knew they were telling the truth, in the same way that she knew what color their hair was, or what it felt like to sit for hours. None of her other senses lied to her, and neither did the one that told her the two women were being truthful when they told her that she was a murderer. 

Pulling her knees together and tucking her chin in, Ditya thought about her next step. If she jumped off of Dan Naim and ran into the forest, there was a chance that she would run into a monster, and it would kill her fairly quickly. If she waited until they got to the castle, she might be able to jump off of something and hit her head hard enough. It looked really tall to her; maybe she could reach the roof.

Ditya’s thoughts were interrupted by Mori launching herself across the bed to slap her in the face hard, sending her sprawling. She looked up at the Doroz woman with tears in her eyes, holding her throbbing cheek. Mori’s face was one of cold rage, her brow furrowed and lips set in a thin frown.

“Taking your own life is one of the gravest sins you can commit. To do so is to spit on every sacrifice that has ever been made for you, not just your mother, but every person you descend from. Your entire bloodline, stretching all the way the back to the Womb of Humanity. I will not tolerate such thoughts in my presence. You do not get to decide to throw away all that has been done for you.” Mori sat back down, but kept her hand in a knife position, the threat clear. Euanthe stared at her through lidded eyes, blowing strange-smelling smoke. She motioned towards herself.

“Our people, especially, do not get to take our own lives. Even if you weren’t a witch, taking your own life is a grave sin for the Carnalis.” She breathed in, held it, and breathed out a cloud of smoke. “The worst sin, in fact. Life is holy to us, to be experienced and propagated, not, tossed aside at one’s will. For us, especially, life is about…” For a moment Euanthe’s eyes took on the same quality Mori’s had, when she was talking about the world. She looked into Ditya’s eyes, and for the first time, she felt a sense of empathy coming from the older woman. Some more of her hair had fallen out of her bun, hanging in front of her eyes.

“Suffering. Life is about suffering.”

For a while they rode in silence, slowly getting closer to the main gate. Ditya kept her head down, withdrawing into herself. Did this mean Elpis didn’t really love her? Had she been lying to Ditya her whole life? What was she supposed to do now, just, accept life among a bunch of strangers? What if she didn’t speak their language? What if they hated her? Why couldn’t she just live like a hermit? She thought back to the threats Euanthe had made against her. Maybe she could goad the women into taking Ditya’s life?

No sooner had she thought that, then a sharp pain spread across her temple. Mori was still keeping an eye on her mind, and punishing her for those thoughts. She felt tears running down her cheeks, and tried to stop, not wanting to waste the water. Instead she kept crying, staining her tunic. She tried to keep the thoughts at bay, but they snuck through, and each time she felt a mental jab from Mori. 

She didn’t even realize they had come to a halt until she heard talking coming from around Dan Naim. Clipped language from solid jaws, commands to halt until further instruction. She kept her head down until a rapping noise from behind her got her attention. She turned her head around, eyes almost level with an older man carrying a spear, the tip made of metal and the shaft made of bone. He looked like a Doroz, but was taller than any Doroz she had seen so far. His black hair was cropped short under a leather skullcap, and he was wearing a metal breastplate over a uniform of leathers and red silk. Heavy leather boots kept his feet dry, the silk uniform tucked into the lips. He straightened once he noticed Euanthe. 

“Special cargo, Harvester. Property of the Village, right there. We’ll be staying the night,” Euanthe said, ending her sentence with a plume of smoke. “Had to kill some tribals squatting on a kuzu patch. Wanted to steal the little horned girl.”

The Doroz man nodded and shouted towards someone Ditya couldn’t see, who shouted something back. The man slapped Dan Naim on the side and Hulagu drove him forward, through the open gate. As they passed through, Ditya expected to be plunged into darkness, but the interior of the castle was illuminated by numerous weak lights, lanterns hanging from the walls and ceiling. They were in an empty room, with balconies on the walls. The wall to their immediate left had a large opening cut into it, leading to another chamber deeper in. As they pulled into the second chamber, Ditya saw that it was much larger, more than twice as big as the entrance room. As they came around the corner, she saw numerous beast vehicles, in orderly rows next to raised platforms. The back of the room was all one long raised platform, and it reminded her of the platforms in Pastor’s labyrinth. People mingled around the vehicles, wearing all sorts of different outfits. Scattered about the room were small forges, hearths burning hot.

 Hulagu pulled Dan Naim up to an empty platform, and put the beast to sleep. Even before the vehicle stopped, several figures were already hurrying up to him, carrying heavy leather tubes with bits of shiny metal at the ends. Mori pulled Euanthe up by her arm and brought her over to the back of Dan Naim.

We go to pay for a night’s rest. Do not stray far from Dan Naim.

They hopped down, Euanthe showing far more dexterity than Ditya expected, and walked off towards the back of the room, which was the most heavily illuminated part. Ditya watched them go, then tried to take in her surroundings.

The room reminded her of the labyrinth, but with a much higher roof. All around her was the hum of many conversations, of people moving around and attending to tasks. People crawled over their vehicles, inspecting every inch, taking note of any dents or scratches. Strange individuals, wearing heavy silk robes and ornate four-eyed masks oversaw the inspection and maintenance of the guts of each and every beast, of the care for pipes made from metal and leather. Unguents were applied, or filth wiped clean. Menials in filthy loincloths carried out their pointed commands, working hard to their exact specifications. There were people of different ethnic groups here, though most looked like the Doroz. Every once in a while, Ditya caught a glimpse of tall individuals, who reminded her of ghosts. They were paler than anyone Ditya had ever seen, and their eyes were wide and round. Those that hadn’t cropped their hair to their skull had straight locks almost as pale as they were. 

Hulagu joined her on the bed of Dan Naim, looking around with a frown on his face. “Is this the Village?” Ditya asked, which made him snort.

“The Village makes this place look like a piss jug. This is Grod Woe, an ancient fort my people settled. It used to be mine, back when I reigned over the united Doroz. But Mori was taken from me, and my vassals no longer feared me, and everything collapsed. By the time I made it back here, the damned Opliones had already moved in  and claimed it for themselves. Now they leave a boot here to extort tribute from us whenever we need to rest.” 

Ditya looked around the wide room, at all the different vehicles that were around here, mostly large trucks, but some smaller beasts as well, rides that looked like they could barely hold four people comfortably.  Against the far wall, she could see lone individuals working on bicycles made from iron and bone, with steel spring tires. She could also see people working on weapons of a variety of shapes and makes. Bows made of bone and sinew next to muskets made from iron and a strange blood red material she had never seen before. Halberds with shafts of carefully carved bone stood next to jagged swords of black iron. The ghost-men worked at the forges the most, sweat leaving trails in soot covered skin. 

One of the masked individuals walked past Dan Naim and looked up at Ditya. The silk robe was like the rest of them, predominantly black with some minor colors threaded in, making interesting patterns. The mask had no mouth, just several circles within circles, around the sides of the mouth. Ditya let out a quiet gasp as she realized that the four eye holes were not ceremonial, but necessary, as four human eyes stared at her from an otherwise obscured face. The masked person stumbled a little when they saw her, shock running through them, before they resumed their measured walk. There was a barked command, and some laborers arrived to unhook the Chotgo corpse and carry it off. 

“Is that why those people were living in that swamp? Because the Opiliones make them live there?” Ditya asked. Hulagu looked at her confused.

“What, the Affamee? No, they, they choose to live like that. No one forced them to live there. They know what they’re doing.” Ditya didn’t feel convinced, but Hulagu didn’t seem to be lying; at the very least, he believed what he was saying was the truth.

Looking around the room again, Ditya took in how many people were in it. She knew Pastor had more people living in him, but they were never all in the same place at the same time. Ditya was not used to being in proximity to this many people at once, and the constant flow of background emotional information was starting to give her a headache, like the time she leaned in too close to a fire. About the only good thing it had done was smother the sadness she had been feeling earlier, though now she only felt strangely hollow. It was hard to tell what she was actually feeling, when there was so much of everyone else’s feelings all around her. She wrapped herself up in the scab again, and the sensation passed. The sadness returned, but it was lesser than before. She had murdered her mother, but Mori wouldn’t let her atone for it, so now she just had to live with it. 

The rest of the Voin clan had clambered off of Dan Naim and were busy doing maintenance on it, leaving Ditya alone with Hulagu and Mungun, who was still resting. Getting up, Ditya looked around her, taking everything in. She didn’t know what she was going to do anymore. Sneaking out and running back to Pastor seemed hopeless now, and she wasn’t even sure if she even had a home there, if she ever did at all. She didn’t want anything to do with all this witch business, and she didn’t want to go to the village, but where else could she run to? Even if she got through the swamp, past the plains, and back into the wider Flat Lands, then what? Crawl underground, into the labyrinth? Run to the mountains and try her luck there? It sounded like the Eaters would swoop her up, no matter where she went. She might as well spend the next four rotations living in this ‘Village’, and if she was going to do that, she should see how people on the surface lived. She left the two remaining Voin behind and started exploring the immediate area around her.

The heavy leather tubes she had seen early had been jammed into the open mouth of Dan Naim, and she guessed that this was how they fed him. The tubes hummed with a kind of energy, but an unusually strong impression from one of the masked people was that she shouldn’t touch it. The many nearby forges were used to make replacement parts for the varied internals, each beast requiring unique pieces; their anatomies having warped and changed over the countless millennia of use. She saw two laborers carrying a large sheet of metal, possibly a door, and realized there must have been large foundries, and maybe even a tannery, deeper in the castle. She remembered the tannery that Pastor had, and wrinkled her nose at the thought. 

Making her way towards the back, she saw people doing leatherwork, while others stood around doing no kind of job Ditya could recognize, standing over ancient tomes muttering to themselves, or writing in charcoal on a tablet carved from bone. These mostly paid her no mind, though several of the ghost men stopped what they were doing to stare at her as she passed. She was worried at first, until she felt the complicated sea of emotions they were experiencing. It tasted confusing to her, but she didn’t sense any animosity. 

Climbing some stairs to get to the top of the platform, she saw that the back wall was mostly taken up by many large, empty doorways, through which she could see a mostly dark room filled with containers and random items, all piled on top of tables and crates, and often each other. There were a few people in there, holding small, hand-held lamps, looking for some miscellaneous piece. 

Perpendicular to that was a hallway, leading deeper into the castle. The hallway was illuminated by lamps hung at set intervals from one other. They reminded Ditya of the lights inside Pastor, but these were illuminated by fire, not the glass bulbs the snake used. The floor was bare concrete, worn down by centuries of use. The ceiling was stretched leather, the symbols tattooed into the hide appearing to dance in the lamplights. She couldn’t tell what the walls were made of, so covered in paintings they were, but she assumed it was some kind of hard material. The paintings were in multiple styles, and clearly done at different dates, but they were all done with the same crimson paint, so dark it might have been black. Here and there was a splash of color, but these were old and fading. 

 The hallway was crowded with people, all in hushed conversations or running to complete some errand or other. She had seen the Nikiburi act like this before, when something big had tried to attack Pastor. There was a current in the air, of anxiety and concern. Something had happened earlier in the day, something unrelated to her return. Almost everyone she saw now was one of the ghost men, their uniforms completely black, their tough leather boots much nicer than the ones she had seen the soldiers out front wearing. They ignored her for the most part, though every now and then, she felt that strange emotional swell, the mix too complicated for her to figure out. 

She passed rooms with leather drawn over the windows, and crude iron doors on old hinges, attached to the walls with great care. There was a long line of petitioners in front of one of them, come to render tribute for services. The door was closed, and Ditya could hear raised voices coming from inside, as people haggled. Walking through a hallway intersection, she saw another, similar line, and Ditya realized Mori and Euanthe could be anywhere here. The hallways seemed to go on forever, splitting off into adjacent hallways, stairwells that went up and down, or into rooms which seemed to serve no purpose. The further she got from the garage, the less populated the castle, the dirtier the grey walls. Some sections looked like they were splattered with blood or rust, and the lamps hanging on the walls grew dimmer here. She saw dusty, flimsy silk in strange, eight-sided patterns in the corners of empty doorways. Ditya wanted to explore further, but the dark scared her when she couldn’t see any ghosts. She didn’t want to go somewhere ghosts feared to tread. 

She turned around and almost walked straight into one of the ghost men, wearing leather armor with  a short blade on his hip. His face was angular, jaw chiseled hard. He had a big nose and big ears, and Ditya was shocked that his eyebrows were as blonde as the cropped hair on his scalp. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, and though he gave no indication that he wanted to use it, Ditya got a strong impression that he would not hesitate to draw it if necessary. His blue eyes bored into her, towering from above, and she got another strong impression: she was somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be.

“What are you doing here?” the man asked. His voice was fast, aggressive, and used to being much, much, louder. He was going easy on her. 

Ditya shuffled her feet for a second before answering. “Exploring,” she said, honestly, looking into his eyes imploringly. The ghost man breathed through his nose, heavily, before pointing a finger at the ground.

“Don’t move.” He spun around on his heel and ducked down a hallway, disappearing into a side room. He quickly returned with a much younger ghost girl, only older than Ditya by a few rotations, whose hair was cut into a short, spiky style, and held in place with some kind of grease. She had painted dark circles under her eyes, similarly dyed her lips. The look she gave Ditya was intense, but she could tell that the young woman was more curious about her than anything else. 

The ghost man dragged her in front of Ditya and pointed at her. “Watch her. Don’t let her out of your sight.” The man gave them a parting glance as he walked away, deeper into the castle. The young woman waited for a moment before looking over her shoulder, turning back to Ditya after she was sure the man was gone. They stood there in silence, listening to the background noise of the castle in heightened operation. When the ghost girl broke the silence, it was sudden and caught Ditya off guard. 

“You want to go see the outside balconies?”

* * *

The upper levels were even less populated than the lower ones, with only a single lit hallway by the time they reached the right floor. Iolanta, the ghost girl, told her that the upper levels mostly held extra ammunition in case of a siege, but people sometimes came up here to look out across the forest, towards the plains. She also told Ditya that she was from the Opiliones tribe, and they were the ones who ruled Grad Woe. 

“Most of us live in the Village, but every now and then it gets overcrowded, and so we send a few clans out to take over places like this. Gets around the Scattering, and expands our reach. My family has lived here since I was born, but we still visit the Village sometimes. We’re not exiled, it’s just some religious loophole.” Iolanta said as they walked up a staircase, random debris left lying around.

“What’s the Scattering?” Ditya asked, and Iolanta gave her a funny look.

“I figured living among the Nikiburi, they would have brought it up. Maybe because you’re still young?” Iolanta shrugged. “‘It’s supposed to be some great upheaval a few centuries ago, a sort of, mini-Collapse. The legends say the gods of the Ring grew angry at how terrible all the kingdoms of the day were, and rained destruction upon them, scattering humanity across the planet. A lot of the older generation believe that if the kingdoms come back, the gods will rain destruction again.”

They reached their floor and Ditya asked, “And will they?” Iolanta simply shrugged while she walked. 

“The gods didn’t do anything when the Voin clan tried to unite all the Doroz into a kingdom. That lasted for…several rotations? And nothing happened. Then there are the Breach Barons, those might as well be kingdoms. And there are the tribes that gather around moonfalls, those get pretty large, from what I’ve heard.” She scratched at her scalp. “I think the Village Confederation is a kingdom, but they think they’ve figured out a loophole cause they don’t have a king. As long as it’s three separate tribes just agreeing on everything, they’re not a kingdom. Even if the other two just do whatever the Opiliones says.” Iolanta gave Ditya a funny look. “Dad thinks we’re a kingdom, we’ve just gotten away with it so long because we’re…blessed? Cursed? He’s not sure, but it’s why he doesn’t mind being stationed out here.”

She gave Ditya a friendly punch on the shoulder. “If the gods smile upon us, then it’s important for us–all of us–to project our power out, to remind the Flat Landers of who’s in charge. And if the wrath rains down again, better to be out in the middle of nowhere, then in the Village.”

 They reached the end of a hallway, and stood in front of a heavy iron door. Iolanta rested her hand on it for a moment. 

“I think the reason we’ve stayed scattered for so long is, people are afraid, but content. Does that make sense? Like, we get some of the benefits of being a kingdom, but none of the drawbacks. So why go one way or the other? Everyone just likes the status quo. You know?” She asked, turning towards Ditya. 

Ditya shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know what some of those words mean. I don’t know what a ‘status quo’ is. Did you know that I murdered my mother?” Iolanta nodded.

“Well, you’re a witch. Only one way those horns are getting out. You shouldn’t hold it against yourself, you were only being born.” She pushed on the door, opening it, and the two girls stepped out onto the balcony. 

Ditya wasn’t sure when the balcony was built, but didn’t believe it was part of the original construction. It felt solid enough, however, and she followed Iolanta, pulling herself up so that she could look over the parapet onto the forest below. From the angle they were at it was a disgusting red haze, and she could smell the stench of it here, despite there being a gap between the castle and the forest at least a quarter of a mile long. 

“At least you have plenty of meat nearby,” Ditya said. Iolanta snorted.

“The only good meat is the one from the trees, and it takes a whole day just to harvest, what? Six trees? And that’s if the beasts living in the swamp don’t decide to piss on us. You can eat swamp meat if you want, if you’re, like, starving. But it doesn’t even taste good. And it’s probably rotten. People taste better than swamp meat. And we don’t have a whole lot of other options here. Up in the Village, they’ve got loads more food, like milk and honey. It’s way better than being stuck out here.” She watched as another lonely vehicle rolled its way up to the gate. “At least you get to meet lots of new people out here. Up in the Village, it’s just the same old people, day in and day out.” 

They stood there in silence, watching swamp tribals slowly migrate around the castle, crossing the road to do so. The sky overhead had opened up, and was still a brilliant blue. The ring still hung there, though now that Ditya was really looking at it, she could tell that it was in fact a great many rings, lines of black and grey of many shades cutting through a blue sky. The sun had risen high into the sky, bathing the world in warmth. Ditya shielded her eyes at its brightness. She had no idea if it was supposed to be this bright; until today she hadn’t even known it existed.

“How long is it sunny for, anyway?” Ditya asked. Iolanta thought for a moment.

“It’s spring time, so I’d say, an average amount? Twelve or so sun hours, twenty-four moon hours. I mean, there’s the in-between hours, but you’re already learning a lot today, so we’ll save that for tomorrow. I’d appreciate the day, it gets pretty cold at night.” There was a moment of silence between them. “You’re, uh, undercity, right? Guess you don’t really have a sun or moons down there.”

They barely had ‘time’ as a concept down there. Everything she had experienced today was something completely new, and it was overwhelming. Her head swam with all that had happened to her since this morning, and it felt like it was about to burst. She put her back to the wall of the castle and slowly slid down, holding her head. She was exhausted, hungry, thirsty, and everything she knew was a lie.

“I guess this is a lot to take in. I don’t know why you had to leave the undercity, but I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it quick.” When Ditya didn’t say anything, she continued, “If you want to take a nap, that’s fine. We’re safe up here. The crows will keep an eye on us.”

Iolanta joined Ditya on the ground, sitting down next to her, watching as the sky slowly turned. Ditya slumped against her, and watched the clouds slowly drift by. She ran through the events of the day in her head, and then the events of the previous day, and the one before that. She tried to see what she could have done differently, or to recontexualize what she already knew. Would it have been better to stay underground, not knowing anything about the outside world? It was awful up here, but found that she couldn't stand the idea of not knowing the truth of…of everything. Even if it meant knowing that she was a filthy mother-murderer. 

Maybe Euanthe was right. Maybe life was about suffering.

Ditya stared blankly into the sky, and reached out with her mind to the girl next to her. Surprisingly, Iolanta let her in, a feeling of compassion blanketing her, and Ditya felt the older girl wrap an arm around her, pulling her closer. Ditya sighed, exhausted. Maybe none of this was even happening, and it was all just a bad dream. She just had to tough it out, like all her other bad dreams, and when she woke up, none of it would matter.

When sleep came for her, it was sudden, and dreamless.

[deancasbigbang]

Title: Magdalena

Author: Mme Yersinia

Artist: Robin

Rating: Explicit

Pairings: Dean/Castiel, implied Sam/Rowena

Length: 150000

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, torture, self-harm and suicidal ideation

Tags: Canon-divergent s13, domestic kid fic, complex family dynamics, rural americana, mutual pining, dadstiel, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, slow burn, redemption arcs

Posting Date: October 25, 2023

Summary: Castiel swore to protect Jack at all costs. If that means taking him away from the dark dungeon of the bunker, and away from the harsh words and hands of Dean Winchester, then so be it. Castiel takes Jack and runs. He finds them a safe town, a battered rental house, a little job and a little life. He wants Jack to have a normal childhood; to grow up safe and loved, not in a windowless basement.  Dean tracks them down, of course. He begs forgiveness, of course. But redemption is a long, slow road. It’s paved with ginger cats and broken-down Hondas, stolen kisses and dusty libraries and bathroom repairs. Dean and Castiel find themselves growing closer in the haze of domesticity. Dean moves from sleeping in the car, to the sofa, to Castiel’s bed. It’s not easy to carve out a place for themselves in a world that doesn’t always want them.  But strange things start to happen in the home they’ve made. Neighbors complain of shadows in the night. Monsters appear that don’t belong. Coincidences line up.  Wherever peace and happiness try to grow, there are adversaries who would snuff it out. The love holding their family together just might be the last weapon they have against the evils of the world.

Excerpt: Castiel takes his lunch break outside whenever the weather allows. He always intends to spend it reading one of the library’s newest additions. Usually he ends up watching other creatures instead. Birds flit back and forth in the courtyard’s ill-kempt bushes. Interesting insects crawl between the boards of the picnic table. A woman a few blocks down is walking her fluffy, prim little dog on a pink leash when Castiel’s phone buzzes. He hopes that it’s the bank calling him back to say there was a mistake, actually, the check has come through. But no: it’s a text from Sam. “You and Jack doing okay?” The midday sun bakes the back of Castiel’s neck, rising a ring of sweat around the collar of his polo shirt. The library dress code is business casual. He’d Googled what that meant after his interview, and then he and Jack had frantically made a trip to the local Goodwill to scrape together a week’s worth of work clothes for him. Jack had found a dinosaur cup for fifty cents, though, so the outing had been successful by more than one standard. Castiel had almost picked out a flannel. The well-worn, faded, familiar stripes caught his eye from the hanger in the men’s row. Fondness and bitterness blended in a strange way in Castiel's grace until Jack caught him staring and asked, “Do you want that one, too?” “We can’t afford it,” Castiel had blurted out, turning away, because by then it was their turn to check out. He stares at Sam’s text message. Above it are a long stream of others, most unanswered. It’s not Sam’s fault. He’s just stuck working damage control. Castiel taps back an answer. “Yes.” It’s not a lie. A few moments pass and Castiel doesn’t put his phone away. He watches a brown-striped bird peck at the remnants of someone’s french fries on the ground. A reply pops up on his screen. “Can you tell me where you are?” Castiel frowns, chews his lip. His break is almost over. He’s got to work on re-filing the historical nonfiction (F through K) when he goes back inside the library. He texts back, “No.” If it was up to him - if there were fewer variables in this nasty equation  - the answer might be different. He doesn’t want Sam trying to visit so he can peer in on their little life that’s trying to grow into the shape of something human. He doesn’t want pitying glances or offers of help. Least of all does he want Dean to know where they are. Dean has no right to that. The phone burbles a reply: “Okay. Let me know if you or Jack need anything. Talk soon.” Castiel stares down at the washed-out screen in the warm glare of sunlight. His bittersweet moroseness feels out of place in such fine weather, butting up against the scalding green of the garden. He gets to his feet and drags his vessel back inside the library. 

DCBB 2023 Posting Schedule

[ashortdropandasuddenstop]

"You're gonna eat from the gutter tonight? Ew." He's got no idea what a guttersnipe is.

No, no no. A guttersnipe is a ill kempt, badly behaved child who spends most of their time on the street, being a general nuisance.

[throughshadowsthetruth]

nolanyarrow:

This was no mere coincidence. Normally speaking, Nolan wasn't the type of person to find himself stranded on a deserted platform, but something about this boy had caught his attention long ago. It was something about the look in his eyes. It reminded Nolan of something -- someone -- he hadn't seen in a very long time. He wasn't the type to follow people. If no one came to him, Nolan felt little for seeking them out himself. It often didn't work that way. Desperation never achieved much. Getting ignored, though, surprised him a little. It took him off guard, even. Then again, it shouldn't have. People like this boy were always there to make one's blood boil. Still, it caused a smile to appear on his lips. Nothing menacing; nothing that showed any sort of ill intent. He just smiled, because it was typical. Nolan's suspicions had been accurate enough. "I'm not going to do anything to you," Nolan said. "But I figured, since we're both stranded here, we might as well come up with a way to get home, or share our fate together." He paused, maintaining a little bit of distance, while also still ensuring the boy would not succeed in getting away from him completely. "How did you end up here?"

Often, when he walked off, they'd stop trying, but this stranger was different. He persisted, even when Grayen was making it clear he had no interest in a conversation.

He glanced up quickly, checking the other out. He didn't look like one of the countless homeless people that roamed this city, nor did he look like a scammer. But that only made Grayen more suspicious. This guy looked like the teachers at school did. He was well kempt, his posture was good and he had a look of authority in his eyes. Instinctively, Grayen despised people like him.

"What's it to you?" he retorted. "None of your business."

[radioiaci]

@ducktastic-dad ⧐ it does not take the most perceptive of demons to catch the difference of alastor on a good day versus now, with bags that hang under sunken red eyes, a smile worn thin and unenthused. while he may not be an expert on sinners and their lingering forms of humanity, he could swear in some way that the radio demon has fallen ill. no breaks even in the afterlife, it seems.  his initial concerns are waved off, though not at all to his surprise. knowing alastor's attitude,  ( stubborn as a bull, )  it will take a vicious tug of war and endless protests to get them to even consider going back to bed. instead lucifer takes to a more passive solution, deigning himself a temporary assistant in the facility manager's duties with only the mildest of side-eyes and subtle frustrations. watching the hotelier exhaust themselves gradually, he bides his time ━ eventually finding the right moment to peel off and go sneaking into their room without a word. maybe it is a bit presumptuous to think alastor will seek out his absence once they've realized he is gone, but it would certainly not be a first.  the only clue left behind, should alastor go looking for it or not, is a glaringly obvious sign hung under the doorknob to their room. words carved into wood spell out  " GONE FISHIN’ "  in big bold letters, the same sign lucifer used as an excuse for their absence during their little excursion to earth. something that will serve him again if he is successful. but to do so takes some work ; fiddling to effect the physical manifestations within the bayou, illusionary magicks that are not keen to bend to his will in favor of their true master. thankfully, lucifer is nothing if not persistent,  ( and quite the powerhouse, )  so it does not take long to persuade one of the larger weeping willows with whispers of encouragement. boughs bend malleable as if they had naturally grown that way, creaking with all their delicate branches and protective skins held intact to twist into the form of a thick hollow ball above the main trunk of the tree. a bit of a bizarre appearance, the effect of its unnatural twists lessened only by the way those boughs continue upwards into a more formal-looking willow and shield its branches behind curtains of green. moss, healthy and vibrant coats the inside of his makeshift hollow, cushioning the floor of branches while vines descend from the ceiling and thread through the gaps down the walls. comfortable, cozy. he of course cannot stop there, making certain to lay down extra cushioning on the floor, line the walls with plush pillows, and lay down a thick cottony blanket in the center of the clutter. it is all with alastor living in the thought behind every detail, bedding lucifer can only assume from experience that they will find too enticing to leave  ( or, hell forbid, pass up entirely. ) then he waits ━ perching from the entrance like a housing swallow between leafy drapes. hooves dangle over the edge, kicking every so often and catching the fabric of faded blue pajamas lovingly worn. at the end of the day it is care under the thinly-veiled guise of a selfish request ; if alastor will not go to bed willingly then surely they cannot deny their king of his efforts. UNPROMPTED ASKS.

To anyone with eyes, Alastor is poorly concealing whatever ailment seems to have dragged his energy levels down and, yes, his ability to keep himself marginally tidy and kempt. Though he does not believe that he can escape Lucifer's detection in his efforts to carry on through the day, having the other act as an impromptu tag along is a might bit insulting. Rolls of eyes, however, are all he offers in turn for the Devil's insistence, not wanting to so brazenly rebuff the concern so much as only generally dismiss the other's potential worry. Ill or not, he will not die from what he chalks up to some sort of cold or possibly a flu-like respiratory illness. He has no true idea, nor does it really matter.

But as the day wears on, his lungs are feeling constricted, having to pull aside a few times here or there to cough and try to regather his breath and his strength. It is waning and it is obvious. And there is little to be done except to finally give in to the exhaustion and make an attempt to retreat to his room. Lucifer has since disappeared - likely for the best - as he makes his way down the hall, only to be met at his door with the gaudy sign that he can only assume has been placed there on his behalf. Whether Lucifer has decided to slip inside to wait for him, he supposes he will find out, reaching to push the door open with expectation for the other to simply sweep him off to bed like an incessant mother hen.

Instead, what he is met with is much more surprising, eyebrows raised as he shuts the door behind him to glimpse the impromptu.... What is it? A nest, one can only assume. Cobbled together with the branches of his trees to look like something half natural and half not, woven to create a small hovel, the entrance of which is occupied by the angel himself.

A small, huff of an amused chuckle leaves him, though it is racked with a small assortment of coughs before he can see it through.

"All this because I've come down with the sniffles?" Alastor says, stepping over to properly admire and appreciate the bird-like craftsmanship that Lucifer is subjecting him to. It's impressive, he must admit. And the inside - what bits of it he can see past Lucifer's silly little head - looks as though it has been primed to keep him rooted in place for long enough to recover. Undoubtedly, that is Lucifer's intent.

The Devil knows him well. Between his own exhaustion and the enthusiasm which he has been met with to encourage him to rest, it is hardly something he can refuse. And he is tired, head swimming with what he can assume is the budding beginnings of a fever as he begins to shrug off his coat and the remainder of his layers to cool himself down.

"So long as you're adamant that I won't get you sick as well."

Though even if he can, he has his doubts that Lucifer will mind.

Regardless, once he is sufficiently disrobed, he makes short work of giving the other a light push into that strange little hovel he has created, clambering into it - with some awkwardness - before he nestles himself into the blankets and pillows that have been laid to his preferred nesting tastes.

With the ambient noise of the bayou around him, it is hard not to be immediately comforted, arms snaring Lucifer so that he can remain plastered against his side as he takes in a slightly struggling breath. He absolutely needs rest.

"...You will need to come up with an excuse for me," he mutters, eyes sliding shut as he rests his head - still warm with fever - against Lucifer's.

Exhaustion does not permit him to wait for the answer before sleep takes him entirely.

[lordgrimwing]

I am very curious about the Breeding AU and Art Therapy in Mandos, Feanor-style sounds simply delightful!

Art Therapy in Mandos answered here!

and the breeding au . . . oh gosh, this is tough. Here goes - but first some warnings

CW: lots of discussion about reproduction, things that can go wrong during pregnancy, and sexual assault. So, you know, be warned and go forward at your own discretion. oh, also mpreg. there's mpreg, too, because what's the point of a breeding au if half the population can't carry babies!

So, this all started because I had to take a comparative theriogenology (that's the study of reproduction in various domestic animal species) and I really disliked studying for most of it, so I decided to relate as much of the content as possible to elves and make it stick a little better. After some conversations with Nightie, these random ideas turned into a full au.

As many have likely noticed, lots of elves die fighting Morgoth. Lots of orcs die, too, but unlike the elves they seem to breed like rodents so there are always more of them, while the elven population steadily declines toward nothing. Realizing how untenable this situation is, most of the elves decide they'd better start having lots of babies to rebuild the population before they're wiped out. The Noldor, being the Noldor, of course turn this into a science to optimize the process and improve genetic diversity and have more strong warriors.

The main exception to this is the Feanorians. They've already accepted their doom at this point and have no interest (or supplied) in making babies. In fact, the Feanorians , being more LaCE compliant, are rather horrified by what they hear is going on.

Well, the third kinslaying happens. M+M get E+E and love grows between them, etc etc. The twins grow up, food grows scarce, and eventually M+M make the hard decision to send the half-elves away so that they don't starve to death.

Gil-galad is the natural choice as new guardian, of course. He's supported by the recent arrival of the Host of Valinor, and the twins are half Noldor. If anyone's going to accept two ill-kempt and weird peredhil, Gil-galad's the one.

The only problem being, of course, that the Feanorians all know that Gil-galad's people have the nasty habit of making everyone have children.

Maedhros and Maglor sit Elros and Elrond down before send thing them away. The twins already know about what might happened. They're scared but trying to keep a brave face because leaving is already painful enough without thinking about the future. Maedhros talks for awhile about what they've heard of the Noldor, and then makes a big point of telling the twins that as long as they firmly say 'no, we don't want to do that', they will be okay because the other elves aren't monsters and they won't force them - the twins just must be sure to always say no and never let anyone thing the answer could be anything else.

The twins leave.

Maglor watches them go and quietly whispers to himself that they'll be ok, that nothing bad will happen to them.

Maedhros looks at his bother, shakes his head, says 'You fool', and walks away to be alone.

Gil-galad accepts the sons of Elwing with open arms, shocked to realize they are alive. He gives them a tent near his, tells them to come to him if they need anything and he'll help or get someone to help (he is very busy after all). He let's them get settled in.

E+E try to adapt to their new lives. The camp is strange, there's so many customs and social norms they don't know and they've never seen so many children running around. They are very firm in their rejection of anyone who tries to get to know them better.

These youths were raised by kinslaying Feanorians, Gil-galad reminds himself after hearing several complaints about Elrond snapping at anyone who tries to talk to him and Elros starting nearly daily fist fights, he probably should have focused more attention on helping them integrate. So, he summons the twins for a chat to try to figure out how to help them adjust to their new lives and explain that, actually, civilized people don't bite people who say 'hi' to them.

He really was not prepared to have the evening conversation, held over dinner to help maintain a relaxed atmosphere, collapse into Elrond glaring at him while holding the cutlery in a clearly aggressive way and Elros shouting that they aren't going to let anyone force a baby into them. Once he composes himself, Gil-galad adamantly explains that none of his people are in the business of raping anyone and besides that, they've got a few more decades before their of age by elvish standards (even if they do look all grown up already).

And there you have it, that's most of the cohesive plot of the au. Then it's just kind of vaguely connected things once Elrond is all grown up and actually decides he wants to have kids with Celebrian and Gil-galad. And also him being a healer and dealing with some of the complications that can arise during pregnancy.

Oh, and of course Glorfindel and Erestor are here too. The issue being that Glorfindel is a mighty warrior, right? So he's supposed to have kids with other warriors to help make sure there's more epic fighters, but it turns out that these warriors all tend to not a great fertility so that doesn't work out so well. And Erestor is of course like a scribe or something so he's supposed to keep his hands off the warriors (he also isn't interested in having kids). Anyway, eventually they get to be together and it's nice.

Gosh, there's even a whole story worth of idea about some random elf and something going terribly wrong during the end of her pregnancy. Humans help her get to Rivendell so Elrond can help her.

-

And that's a wrap. If you made it that far, haha!, hope you enjoyed my insanity

Ask me about fics that live rent-free in my head!

[duckprintspress]

Fandom Lexicon: S

This one is going up a day early, because I’ll be vending all tomorrow (June 22nd 2024) at the Johnstown NY Toying Around Block Party! And here we are, with the letter S, which has the most entries of any letter in our entire lexicon.

View the entire Lexicon posted thus far!

See something incorrect? Notice an entry we’ve missed? Let us know!

Lexicon Entries Beginning with S: (read more)

S[#]: Abbreviation for “season (number).”

SALS: Abbreviation for “ship and let ship.” A different way of saying “you do what makes you happy, it’s none of my business.” See also: DL;DR, YKINMKATO (pending). Read more about the term “SALS.”

Sapphic: An umbrella term for women or women-aligned people who love women, regardless of the sexuality of the women in question. See also: Achillean. Read more about sapphism.

Schmoop: Cavity-inducingly sweet or cute. Typically refers to either scenes within, or the entire setting of, a fanwork. See also: fluff. Read more about schmoop.

Schroedinger’s [Thing]: A thing that may or may not exist so long as we do not attempt to confirm. Reference to Schroedinger’s Cat.

Scrunkly: Cute, but not in a conventional way; scruffy, ill-kempt, messy. Example: Eddie Munson.

SD: Abbreviation for “super deformed.” See also: chibi.

Sealioning: A type of trolling in which the troll demands evidence to “prove” a counterargument, but no amount of evidence will actually convince them. Read more about sealioning.

Secret Masters: A term for the people who run everything; in fandom, this has often been used to reference show runners. Sometimes, it abuts with antisemitic tropes. Sometimes, it leads into illuminati and other conspiracy theories. See also: TPTB (pending).

Self-Insert: When an author writes themselves into a story as a character, typically the protagonist. Often conflated with, but not actually synonymous to, a “Mary Sue.” Not to be confused with reader insert fics. See also: Gary Stu. Read more about self-inserts.

Self-Pub: Shortened term for “self-publishing” and “self-published books.”

Selfcest: When two versions of the same character engage in sexual relations (or are simply sexually attracted to each other). For example, a character has traveled back in time and meets themselves. Tangentially related to the “would you fuck your clone?” meme, and therefore sometimes called “clonecest.” Read more about selfcest.

Seme: In Japanese mlm fandoms, the seme is the character who sexually tops. See also: uke (pending). Read more about the term “seme.”

Sex Pollen: A fic trope in which a character inhales/consumes an airborne aphrodisiac and is overcome with sexual need. Read more about the sex pollen trope.

SFF: Abbreviation for “science fiction and fantasy” as genres.

SFW: Abbreviation for “safe for work.”

Shelfie: In book-loving circles, a shelfie is a photograph of someone’s bookshelves, often showing them attractively organized.

Ship: Shortened version of the word “relationship.” Believing that two or more individuals are/should be/would be good/terrible/interesting/hilarious in a relationship with each other. Typically used for romantic/sexual pairings, but can refer to platonic ones as well. Generally, romantic/sexual ships are denoted with a slash, hence slash becoming a synonym for shipping, and platonic ships are denoted with an ampersand. The verb form refers to the act of treating two or more characters as being in a relationship with each other. Shipping is one of the cornerstones of transformative fandom. Read more about shipping.

Shitpost: 1. Something shared on the internet that is intentionally provocative in some way. 2. Something shared on the internet that minimal effort was put into and that should therefore not be taken seriously. 3. A pointless, silly post that is still relatable in some way that causes it to go viral. Read more about shitposts.

Shoto: Shortened version of “shotacon.”

Shotacon: A Japanese genre that focused on young or young-looking male characters, often sexually. See also: lolicon. Read more about shotacon.

Shou: In Chinese mlm fandoms, the shou is the character who bottoms sexually. See also: gong.

Shoujo: A Japanese genre of YA stories that usually feature groups of young women who are friends, adventure, romance (most often between teenaged characters), and are aimed primarily at teenage women. Examples: Hana Yori Dango, Fruits Basket, Sailor Moon, Cardcaptor Sakura. Read more about shoujo.

Shounen: A Japanese genre of YA stories that usually feature large casts of young men who are friends with each other and often engage in match-based story lines (for example, sports events, arena fights, etc.). Aimed at teenage men. Not to be confused with shounen ai. Examples: Dragon Ball, One Piece, Naruto. Read more about shounen.

Shounen-ai: A Japanese genre of mlm stories, usually with the relationships less explicit than in yaoi titles. Approximately a synonym of BL. Not to be confused with shounen. Read more about shounen-ai.

Slash: Gay fanworks, most often mlm. Sometimes used for wlw, or those works may be called femslash. Read more about slash.

Slow Burn: A story that contains a romantic/sexual element that takes most of the work’s word count to resolve. Can be used on works of any length but is most applicable on longer ones. Read more about slow burn.

Smushname: A smushed-together ship name, as in when parts of two or more character names are combined to create a new name used to refer to that ship. For example, Spirk means “Spock/Kirk,” Bingliushen means “Luo Binghe/Liu Qingge/Shen Qingqiu,” etc. Read more about smushnames.

Smut: Works that include explicit sex scenes. Read more about smut.

Snert: A term used to refer to someone as an asshole. Originally aimed at teenagers, it supposedly stands for “Snot-Nosed, Egotistical, Rude Teenager,” though there are variations on that and there’s no agreed-upon definition.

Sockpuppet: A fake account created on a given platform to present as someone other than/in addition to oneself. Not typically done in good faith. Also is used as a verb. Sockpuppeting is the act of creating multiple fake accounts to cheerlead someone, bully someone, advertise someone, etc. Sometimes shortened to just “sock.” The most famous instance of fandom sockpuppeting is the Ms. Scribe affair. Read more about sockpuppets.

Songfic: A fanfiction story written around (and usually including some lyrics from) a specific song. Read more about songfics.

SPAG: Abbreviation for “spelling and grammar.” A term often used when discussing copyediting, as in, “I edited for SPAG.”

Spam: Rapid/repeated activity or content sharing that may be annoying to others. Typically associated with low value/low effort content/activity, but volume and speed are the more important defining traits. Also used as a verb. Read more about spam.

Spam Liking: Going through someone’s social media account and “liking” many of their posts in rapid succession. Some people love when others do this, others feel it’s rude or even creepy. These differences in opinion are often generational and/or related to the platform being used (for example, spam liking is often considered fine on Tumblr but inappropriate on Instagram.)

Spec Fic: Shortened version of “speculative fiction,” the overarching genre that includes science fiction, fantasy, modern paranormal, horror, ~punk, and related subgenres.

Speedrun: Performing a lengthy activity in a time frame often deemed implausible or impossible by conventional measures by taking advantage of media-relevant shortcuts (for example: taking advantage of glitches, skipping nonessential episodes, and reading plot summaries). Originates in video game fandoms, where people speedrun to complete a game as quickly as possible. Read more about speedrunning.

Spiders Georg: A humorous way to refer to a statistical outlier who should not be counted when compiling data. Refers to a Tumblr post about a spider who eats 10,000 spiders a day and throws off the average spiders eaten a day statistic. A thing might be called [Thing] Georg if its behavior is exceptionally outside the ordinary and the person making the reference is amused by it. Read more about Spiders Georg.

Spork: 1. Outdated: To lovingly encourage a fanfic author to please write more (of a specific thing or in general). 2. The practice of mocking bad fic. Read more about sporking. 3. Noun: a fanwork created as a parody of a specific bad fic. 4. A combination fork and spoon.

Squee: A high-pitched happy noise, typically made in relation to a character, ship, or individual, but can also be in response to good news. Read more about the term “squee.”

Squick: Content that an individual would prefer not to interact with and/or finds uncomfortable. Not to be confused with a trigger (pending). See also: YKINMKATO (pending). Read more about squicks.

SSC: Abbreviation for “safe, sane, and consensual.” A term used by the BDSM community to define a baseline of expectations for sexual activities. See also: PRICK, RACK. Read more about SSC.

Stan: An unusually obsessed fan. Coined by Eminem in 2000 in a dark song by the same name. Often said to be a portmanteau of “stalker” and “fan.” Despite its dark origins, this work is often used as a light-hearted self-descriptor. See also: tinhat (pending). Read more about stans.

Strikethrough: Refers to when, in 2007, Livejournal performed a mass deletion without warning of accounts that it found objectionable, with devastating results for fandom. Coined because deleted accounts on Livejournal are marked with a line/strikethrough over their name. Read more about Strikethrough.

Sub: 1. A submissive in a BDSM Dom/Sub relationship. 2. A topic-focused messageboard (“subreddit”) on Reddit.

Super Deformed : An art style that puts extreme emphasis on certain body parts. For example: large chests, large heads, long legs. See also: chibi.

Superhell: A reference to the Big Empty in Supernatural, where angels go when they die. It is “superhell” because it is worse than actual hell (also present in the show), and in reference to the show title. Has come to be used synonymously with “a place where gay characters go to be disappeared from canon,” as in a variation on the “bury your gays” trope. See also: eeby deeby.

Sus: Shortened version of the word “suspicious.” A term with a complex history that became extremely common after the game Among Us became popular.

SW: Abbreviation for many things, with the most common being “sex work” and “Star Wars.”

SWERF: Abbreviation for “sex-work-exclusionary radical feminism.” A form of radical feminism that is anti-sex work and anti-sex workers and explicitly excludes sex workers from their activism. Fuck SWERFs. See also: TERF (pending).

[thearistocratsblog]

Your ill-kempt lil boyfwan

[blackjackkent]

All right, let's get a look round this place.

It's a pity we can't turn the camera up because judging by the size of its base, Moonrise Tower(s?) is huge.

The two guards at the front are human, but there are a bunch of ghouls roaming the ground floor balcony.

On approaching the place, I got an inspiration from Karlach for having explored every area of the Shadow-Cursed Lands. Hector would have been just as happy not to, to be honest.

Going to do a quick circuit of the outer balcony pathway and then go inside, I guess.

The ghouls don't say much, but ramble about being "favoured" and "blessed" and that they will "conquer all." ("To be so favored *and* so blessed!" Gale comments sardonically. "One feels positively riddled with envy.")

The path on the right is completely shattered and blocked, but the path on the left leads to what appears to be an unlocked door on a lower level than the main stairs would take us do. Stepping inside triggers an immediate reaction from our Dream Guardian:

God, I hope so. Hector could use some answers.

This side entry way leads to what appears to be some sort of extremely ill-kempt kitchen full of mind-controlled gnolls.

Each of them has a nickname attached (these three are 'Barnabus', 'Tomelia', and 'Timothy') and they're all under mental domination from a nearby True Soul. Weirdly, they don't appear to really be doing anything; they're just standing there.

A door on the far side of the room leads to more of the outer balcony that we couldn't get to.

There's a sleeping kitty out here (yay) next to an enormous dead mind flayer tadpole (wtf).

Let's talk to the kitty!

Narrator: The feline eyes the parasite with a glint in her eye, intent clear: murder...glorious murder.

Yes please eat all the parasites. (That'd be a twist, wouldn't it - the Absolute brought down by kitty hunting instincts.) I think this one, however, is already dead.

[ANIMAL HANDLING] Hold out your hand, letting the cat sniff it.

Narrator: The cat ignores you, but her eyes stray to a small tunnel hidden in the wall. The message is clear - stay, if you wish, but she will flee at a moment's notice.

The cutscene then ended, and the cat did that little bap-bap thing with its paw at the dead parasite, and then walked over by Gale's feet and went back to sleep. XD

Continuing along the outer ring we find our way to the treasure cache that was marked on our map after we finished investigating the Selunite resistance in Reithwin. It's behind a heavy wall which I had Gale smash open with a smokepower bomb; luckily literally no one seemed to notice.

The collision on the broken wall is a bit questionable also:

But we got some gold and another thing checked off the list, so hooray! Time to go see what trouble we can get into inside the tower.

[cosmik-homo]

I think not enough energy is taken, in the writing of the master- and I could be completely off base here I rely do need to watch pspt series 10 before I start mouthing off like this, but this is MY blog- not enough energy is applied to like. The "without witness, without reward" of it all. The master doesn't just do The Evilest Thing at any given moment cuz they're 🤪 cray cray w those drums 🤪. The master is perfectly capable of not being evil, often is charming or just a bit campy, and chooses to do destruction.

Terrible job rebooting a character do not pass go do not collect - they want attention! They specifically want to Rule The World or Destroy It to feel superior to others, and we literally see in their second ever episode their "big fear" is being a laughingstock, specifically by the doctor- the doctor getting over them, the doctor not taking them seriously. I've said before I really want, if we're gonna keep doing big morally exmaining Doctor-Master arcs, a really refined, polite and charming master, styled after Delgado's, who's traveling with a frenzied, ill-kempt and often abrasive doctor and often Apologizing for their friend's "poor behavior, I swear theyre (the doctor) a good person if you just give them a chance, please don't excuse them (until they're in the position for me to hatch my scheem) haha". Good is not nice and evil is not necessarily wantonly destructive, it's choosing to put your own ego and gratification above others.

(especially interesting if you are partial to the view delgado is actually the last master and this is his choice of retirement, Saturday morning cartoon chill villain games)