#I did laugh while writing this

[ladybeug]

I drew the same comic twice because I didn't think the first one was funny enough. I don't know if the second comic is funnier though??

Here's both of them

Side by side because i couldn't decide which one to put first - knowing the punchline changes the experience?? pick your adventure. read either one first.

which ones funnier i honestly can't tell

[possamble]

farcille postcanon characterization warmup that got way out of hand. beware, here be spoilers, dragoncock, and bottoming as an extreme sport.

~~~

Marcille has always loved Falin’s voice. Soft, high, airy and girlish—it was always as gentle as the rest of her, even in the midst of pitched combat. When things went to hell in a handbasket, it was always Falin’s whispery incantations that kept Marcille grounded as blood and monster guts sailed through the air. 

And that hasn’t changed. No amount of dragon could really change that, Marcille thinks. Yes, she she has moments when her voice becomes rough and ragged and guttural, mostly when she’s swinging her mace or her fists, or gritting her teeth through a monster claw stuck into her side. But maybe that urge to growl was always there, and she’s just finally able to voice it now. Marcille finds that she’s loud at times she would have been silent before—grunting with exertion when she would have grimaced quietly, singing some nonsense melody over a mundane task when she would have hummed it under her breath—and that’s a good thing.

But otherwise, nothing has changed. Falin’s voice is as delicate as ever, chiming in a lilting giggle behind a dainty gesture of her hand. Rustling like pages of well-loved books as she casts her protective wards, or ponders over how to cook a new monster, or murmurs right into Marcille’s ear while she…

Well. While she’s got Marcille bent over her own desk with her nightgown pooled at her ankles. Marcille’s not sure if it’s rude or considerate that she didn’t get a chance to dress herself before she had a girthy cock shoved up her cunt first thing in the morning. 

“Marcille,” Falin whispers, unfairly shaky as if she’s the one getting fucked within an inch of her life. She’s mouthing at Marcille’s neck, draped over her and pressing as close as possible in every way, gripping Marcille’s hands tight and keening like she’s found heaven between her legs. “Marcille, Marcille…” 

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that she gets to do that, that she gets to sound like that—with that sweet voice she’s always had, now making obscene little noises that are still whispery fine and almost ethereal coming from her mouth. These quiet, barely voiced sighs that puff against Marcille’s ear, the dulcet moans that thrum against her skin, and that demure little gasp when she thrusts a little harder and somehow finds even more space inside Marcille to bottom out in—

“Marcille…” she whimpers like she’s in pain, on the verge of tears, fingers tight between Marcille’s as they grip the edge of the rattling desk together. “You feel—so good, oh… You’re”—another moan buried just behind her ear—"so wet, so good…” 

It’s not like Marcille got the chance to be anything else right now, did she? Not when Falin fell upon her just as she was sorting through her documents, pressed against her back and already unfastening the clasps of her gown and slipping it off her shoulders. She was fully naked before she even got a playful good morning whispered into her ear—it’s a miracle she had the forethought to push her papers out of the way just before Falin had her wrapped around her finger in the most literal sense. 

Well. Fingers in the plural, really, since she always starts with two. Usually while pawing at Marcille’s tit with her other hand until her stupid knees give out and she ends up buckling over whatever surface is nearby—in this case, her desk, mercifully free of any uncapped inkwells at the moment. Now slathered with sweat that makes her tits slip and slide along the wooden varnish, of course, but otherwise non-disastrous. 

Hopefully her nightgown is catching most of the mess running down her thighs, or she’s going to have to make the most humiliating request to the castle staff about her carpets for the third time this month—

“Yes…!” Falin digs her heels in and fucks her even harder, taken with some kind of mindless momentum all of a sudden. “I love you,” she pants in that stupid—feathery, daisy-light tone that has no business being this sweet while she’s ravaging Marcille like this— “you’re perfect, you’re perfect—” 

Marcille’s going to die like this. This is how she’s going to go: Bleating like an animal with her cheek stuck to her desk with drool, eyes just permanently rolled back in her head, toes barely touching the floor as Falin keeps fucking her further onto the desk. She hasn’t said a single coherent word since her second orgasm however many minutes ago, just broken into an endless stream of guttural noises as her cunt slobbers and squelches around Falin’s cock almost as loudly as she’s wailing. 

“Marcille,” Falin keens, sounding like a bashful princess ravished to breathlessness—just something straight out of a high-minded erotica novel—all while hammering Marcille into the desk at a shallow, breakneck pace. “You feel—feel s–o good, you’re perfect, oh—oh, you’re perfect, you’re beautiful, I love you, I love you—” 

For the love of—fuck. Marcille can distantly hear herself scream, can feel the desk digging into her as she flails, her grasp on sanity getting thinner and thinner with each word that tumbles out of Falin’s mouth and shoots straight through her nerves. She’s—good god, she’s not usually this talkative. It’s almost always Marcille begging and blabbering about how much she wants Falin’s cock, how good it feels, how she wants it harder and faster and more, screaming and crying Falin’s name over and over—

But now, in the absence of Marcille’s pathetic yapping—after she’s already fucked the words out of Marcille so thoroughly—Falin’s taken it upon herself to murmur a stream of honeyed nonsense into her ear, her frail and gentle voice breaking with desperation—and fuck, it’s not fair.

“Yes, yes, oh—” Falin sobs into her neck. “I love it—I love it when you sound like this, I love you—you’re so good, so good for me, my Marcille—” 

No, no, no, she can’t do that, she can’t do that—she can’t say that, in that voice, while her cock is so deep in Marcille there’s hardly room for anything else, battering all her nerve endings and rearranging her so that there’s nothing left but her, Falin, Falin—

“Ah!” Falin cries out, like she’s the one getting reamed against her stupid fucking desk so hard she can barely breathe— “Yes, please, please—please say my name again!” 

Well. She can beg all she fucking wants, but it’s not going to be pretty and she has no one to blame but herself—it’s her fault Marcille can hardly speak, it’s her fault her name is only coming in rough wails with both syllables separated with heaving, crying breaths. Marcille gives it her all, scrapes whatever intelligence she has left to speak, and sounds like a dying animal in a way that can’t possibly be anything but hideous to listen to—

And still, Falin sobs, as if in utter ecstasy as she fucks Marcille so hard the desk starts scraping along the floor in harsh jumps. 

“Yes, yes—ah—” Her voice, not so whispery gentle now but still so melodious and clear, sounding out from deep in her chest— “I—love—you—” she weeps, punctuated by the hard slams of the desk against the floor as she drops the rapid pace in favor of mercilessly hard thrusts— “Beautiful—perfect—mine!” 

Then she finally, finally comes—not that it stops her, not with how she thrusts with every spurt. Like she’s not just satisfied with letting it spill out, like she needs to fuck it into Marcille with all her strength, once, twice, then one last time, stuffing her cunt absolutely full with searing heat—

And Marcille doesn’t even realize she’s coming until she’s unceremoniously ejected out the other side of the high, that telltale swoop of vertigo rushing through her veins. The orgasm doesn't even have the grace to let her go limp with afterglow, of course, and she’s left there convulsing and twitching like a drowning fish. With her jaw pressed to the desk, she can actually hear her teeth chatter from how hard she’s shaking, Falin’s warm weight on her be damned. 

(One day. One day, she’ll stop embarrassing herself like this—one day she’ll finish like a normal person during sex, instead of going off like a cheap firework every half hour and wringing an orgasm out of herself as soon as she feels Falin finish inside her, whether or not she even had one left in her to begin with.) 

“M-Marcille,” Falin stammers, her voice breathless but now shy and girlish again as she slowly untangles their hands. “Are you—are you okay?” 

The gall. To ask her that, when she’s nothing but a sweaty carcass slung over her desk, still twitching erratically. To be so gentle as she straightens up and kisses the back of her neck, tenderly brushing her hair to the side as she pulls out ever so slowly—

And still. Not. Slowly. Enough—apparently! Not with the sparks that explode in Marcille’s eyes again, utterly unclear if this is another orgasm or just a particularly brutal aftershock! She just goes squeaking and shaking and sliding off the desk onto her knees, hands clapped over her cunt like they’re going to protect her from the lightning racing up and down her spine. She doesn’t even know where she landed, really, convulsing and closing her thighs around her hand as cum and slick drools into her palms, falling forward and— and smacking her head against the edge of her desk.

“Oh!” Feathered arms clasp around her before she can slide past the wood with her sweaty forehead and land on her face. “Careful—are you okay?” 

The gall. The audacity. The—something, or whatever, fuck, Marcille doesn’t even care anymore. Her head throbs with an oncoming bruise, she can’t feel her legs, she can feel her pussy way too much, and it’s a wonder she hasn’t fallen apart on the spot—

“Okay… let’s…” There’s some maneuvering going on, but hell if Marcille can actually tell what Falin’s doing. “Here, let’s take a bath—I’ll go draw some water.” 

Marcille whines, because no—she doesn’t know where she is, she just twists until her face finds feathers and buries herself there. She even manages to bring one cum-covered hand to grip at the quils, because this mess is Falin’s fault and if she doesn't like it then she can wash it off herself—but she’s not allowed to leave. 

A little chuckle under her breath—and it’s so fucking cute and girlish like she hasn’t just demolished a full grown woman to the brink of unconsciousness, but Marcille can’t even find it in herself to be mad. Falin can ask her whatever the hell she wants, do whatever the hell she wants, so long as she doesn’t let go. 

“I’m bringing you with me, I promise,” Falin whispers so tenderly, pressing a kiss to Marcille’s head. There’s arms tightening around her back and under her knees, and she feels herself being lifted. “I wouldn’t leave you like that…” 

Better not, Marcille grumbles to herself. Not sure if it made it past her mouth, but it doesn’t matter. Falin’s going to take responsibility for turning her morning into—into this, even if it means having to draw some bathwater with an elf clinging to her the entire time. She’s going to be the one to wash her off, bring her their missed breakfast, and tell everyone why she wasn’t there at the morning meeting—

Maybe not that last part. 

“I’m sorry,” she hears, in that soft and whispery tone she’s loved for so many years. That voice that didn’t change, even with everything that happened—everything that Marcille did to her, and it’s—

It would be so, incredibly stupid if she started crying out of nowhere. 

“Liar,” she whines, digging the indignant annoyance back up to pout like a spoiled brat. “You liked… every second…” 

Another giggle that so infuriatingly lovely. “I did.” The sound of a squeaky valve turning, then rushing water that slaps against stone. “Did you?” 

Marcille just grumbles again and clings even tighter. Falin just laughs a little louder and strokes her hair, too kind to demand an answer in so many words—or, perhaps, impishly content to let Marcille incriminate herself with her silence, as she so often does.

[deejadabbles]

My ding-ding-dong (Fives x Reader) Humor

Summary: after a bad week at work, your boyfriend just wants to make you breathless.

Rating: T+

A.N: Everyone please go read A Question of Seman-dicks by @dystopicjumpsuit it's hilarious and reading it this morning got me into writing gear to pop this insanity out! @freesia-writes I'm determined to help you make this kind of fic a thing 😂

Word Count: 962

Songs to ~set the mood~ Ding Dong Song by Gunther and Bad Touch by bloodhound gang

Warnings: crude humor, cursing, Fives being Fives, suggestive situations

“I swear to the maker, one of these days!”

Fives watched as you cleaned up the kitchen, putting dishes away in the most aggressive manner he had ever seen as you vented about your week. He wanted to reach out and rub your back in comfort, but the way you slammed the cabinet shut made him think better of it.

“And I know why he’s decided to start drama with me,” you continued, grabbing the knife you had used to cut up dinner, “it’s because I stood up to him, because I didn’t take his condescending, mansplaining, bantha-shit attitude and put him in his place when he tried it on me.” Despite being nowhere in striking distance, Fives still took a step back when you kept the knife in hand as you raged. “So now he’s determined to make me look bad- well game on, bitch! He hasn’t even seen my ugly side yet!”

Fives half expected you to impale the knife into the counter like a declaration of war, but thankfully, you just tossed it in the knife drawer and slammed it shut. Finally, when you ran your hands over your tired face, he closed the distance between you and put an arm around your shoulder.

“I’m sorry, babe, he’s a shithead and doesn’t deserve you as a coworker.”

Warmth filled his chest when you leaned into him, melting at his touch as you blinked up to meet his eyes. “No, I’m sorry,” you let out a defeated sigh, “your shore leave just started and here I am whining about work when I should be focused on you.”

He kissed the top of your head, “Stop that, mesh’la, you needed to vent, you were under a lot of stress this week. I would have held you sooner, but figured it was best to wait til you weren’t armed with serrated kitchenware.”

That made you chuckle a little and the warmth in his chest grew. He wanted to hear a proper laugh from you, a real one that might melt your troubles away.

Oh, that could work. He could practically see the light bulb that went off over his own head as an idea came.

“Hey,” he mumbled as he kept kissing the top of your head, “want me to make you forget your shitty week?”

You turned in his arms, an interested, knowing smirk on your pretty mouth, “Oh, I’d love that, handsome.”

Making sure to put on his best smolder, he took your hand and guided you across your apartment until you got to the bedroom. “Just lay back, beautiful, I’m going to make you howl,” he said, choosing his words very carefully.

The way you raised a brow just a little said you caught it, but you sat on the bed all the same. He followed, pecking your lips as he gently pressed your back to the mattress.

"I'm gonna make you feel soooo good, sweetheart," he said running his hands up your sides in a way that had you biting your lip.

He couldn't wait to have you gasping from the words his mind was thinking up. Just a little more teasing to set the mood...

Fives trailed his mouth down your neck, then back up to your ear, nipping it before he whispered, “Are you ready?”

“Yes-”

“Ready for my trouser snake?”

You choked instantly.

“Wut?”

Fives leaned back, smile bright as he rolled his hips dramatically, “Come on, baby, my man meat is right here.”

That’s when the nervous chuckles started, “ ‘Man meat?! What are you-?”

“My love sausage is ready to serve.”

“Oh my god!”

He rubbed his thighs in a mock of a seductive pose, “You know my little soldier is standing at attention for you!”

That’s the one that had you busting out in a full laugh, double funny considering there was nothing ‘little’ about Fives.

“You can ride my disco stick aaaalllll night!”

Your hand flew up to cover your face as the laughter became more ragged, the other hand holding your side. Oh, Fives wasn’t done yet, not even close!

He started fumbling with his belt in exaggerated movements, “Let me just unleash my custard launcher.”

“Custard- Fives STOOOOP!” it came out a wheeze, and he saw some tears of joy collecting in the corner of your eyes.

“What?” he leaned over you again caging you with his arms as he looked you over, “I thought you loved my massive king kong dong!”

You couldn’t form words anymore, just slapping weakly at his chest as you tried to draw breath into your lungs between strained laughter. Now to move in for the kill.

“My tallywacker,” he leaned in closer, dropping his voice, “my wiener,” then lips to your ear and in his most seductive tone, “my ding-a-ling.”

When you shoved at him, Fives pulled back, smiling at his handy work as you rolled over, clutching your sides and trying to breathe through the delighted wheezing. Well, you certainly weren’t thinking about work now, and Fives thought a smug ‘mission accomplished’ to himself as the fit continued.

He watched as your breathing started to even out, a few happy tears wetting your cheeks, smile bright, eyes alight.

“Damn, you’re beautiful when you laugh,” he said and this time, his tone was completely genuine.

Now that you could finally form coherent thoughts again, you rolled onto your back again and grinned at him, “Then I guess it’s a good thing I have a man who makes me laugh.”

He couldn’t help it, he dove in and kissed you, long and deep this time, loving, doting. Kriff, he adored you.

“Thank you,” a content whisper against his lips, “you always make me feel better.”

“Can’t be a perfect boyfriend without skills like that,” he hummed, then, “now, are you ready to get breathless for a whole different reason?”

You threw your arms around him giggling as you pulled him in for another kiss, “Please.”

.

Tag list: @blueink-bluesoul @anxiouspineapple99 @starrylothcat @sinfulsalutations @commander-sunshine @dystopicjumpsuit @wolffegirlsunite @sunshinesdaydream @arcsimper5

[brynnmclean]

saw a post questioning shipping Senua and Thórgestr and started to reblog it with a tag novel-- felt weird about doing that since this is lengthy and potentially derailing, so making my own post instead. Spitballing under the cut:

First off, any time someone is like, "the real reason people ship this is because they find the dude attractive," this is SO funny to me as someone who doesn't find men attractive IRL and has fiercely loved Senua since I played the first game, like-- actually I find the dynamic between those two characters to be compelling and interesting precisely because of all the baggage between them re: their backgrounds, the rough (put mildly!) beginning of their relationship, all the things they don't talk about, and them finding a common enemy/common ground to work with. The explicit parallels between them stated in-game scratched an itch in my brain. The minute they pointed out the dark rot on his arm, it was like, "oh! hello there! NOW I'm interested in whatever your whole deal is" for me. Also, idk man, I too would follow Senua around after she knocked me into the dirt and then showed me a way to fight the giants that I very much wanted to fight instead of appease.

The idea that Thórgestr was part of the Orkney Raid that killed and mutilated Dillion is VERY interesting food for thought, even if I don't personally have that headcanon (surely there are more viking raiding groups than just the Bjorg). I think the Furies or the Shadow said something similar about Fargrimr (his kin murdered yours, you shouldn't save him, etc.) so I completely get that line of thought, but I think the game left it ambiguous enough that it's up for interpretation. Would I read fic with that premise? Yeah, I'd check that out. Could Senua forgive Thorgestr if his people were involved? Sounds fun to explore.

If (ha, when?) I write fic, I'd have to think more about it especially wrt timelines, like when did the Bjorg start specifically raiding for slaves for giant food sacrifices vs. killing people for resources and wealth? How far off are we from the old gods "dying" and the volcano erupting? Was it indeed a different group of raiders who made a deal with Zynbel, attacked Senua's home, and made the sacrifice at that time to Hela?

At the very least, I think there's a time jump between the end of Hellblade I and the beginning of Hellblade II since Senua wasn't alone on that slave ship and at least one of the (brief) survivors knew her by name. I wouldn't mind exploring that gap of time, too.

In any case I do agree that it would take a VERY long time for Senua to consciously catch feelings for anyone let alone Thorgestr with all their collective baggage. The idea of them having a relationship beyond friendship in the far off future of an AU where he survives is the only one that can make sense in my brain, personally. It would take time! Time they didn't get in the game! But I think there are a lot of different roads that could take, and some of them might be healthier than others. Shipping them certainly isn't forgetting or excusing what happened to Dillion-- or even mutually exclusive from still shipping Senua and Dillion. Or, frankly, also shipping Senua and Astridr, because I can see that ship too.

One of the nice things about all the details Ninja Theory didn't expand upon and that they left that ending so open is that the sky's the limit. I'm VERY interested in seeing fandom tackle this game as we get farther from the initial release.

[crossbackpoke-check]

it’s all the rest of what i want with you

connor dewar/brandon duhaime :: 8k

Summary:

“Brandon,” Connor says with a sigh. “There’s no baby in there.”

“Not yet,” Brandon says. Connor feels his stomach twist, almost like what he would imagine a baby kicking to feel like.

in these trying times of dewvorce, may i offer you 8k of pwp inspired by @stillfertile’s wonderful art which i had. several breakdowns about 🫶 anyway please enjoy!!!

[magnusbae]

"surprise i have feelings and you just hurt them" is so good

Thank you anon-dearest! 🥰🥰🥰

As I was given free reign, and also was too unreasonable for self control—I didn't only write it way longer than it should have been (250w per prompt LOL) I also fully rewritten in afterwards :')

Obikin || 1,500w || Obi-Wan & Anakin formed a new Force Bond and Obi-Wan has to deal with an increase in Force Migraines poor man

▾▾▾

“Surprise, I have feelings and you just hurt them.” Anakin spits the words out angrily, punctuating each word with a sharp hand gesture.

There’s heat rolling off of him in waves, it’s a tangible thing in the Force to anyone who is even mildly attuned to it. Even small living organisms would try and stir clear from someone so prominent in the force while they’re emitting such waves of emotions. It’s unsettling to all who is untrained, unable to recognize where and why the thing they are sensing is coming from. To someone who had even just begun their training, this would be a deafening roar. As for Obi-Wan, who had happened to share a somewhat-training-but-not-bond with said individual…. It’s destructively overwhelming.

There’s a pulsing migraine building up at Obi-Wan’s temples, swiftly spreading in pulses of pain through his forehead and head, blearing his vision in a way that is usually reserved to extreme battle fatigue. Obi-Wan’s patience is not only thinned out, but fully gone by this point. The pain, and the previously failed mission do not help. Anakin’s need to prove himself had cost them an important battle and speaking of Anakin’s feelings is truly not the thing they should be concerned most with—

“I think it’s hardly a surprise Anakin” he hears himself say more than he actually thinks through the words, he hardly manages to care as much as he probably should given how violate Anakin anyways is. “You are, more than less, hammering them against the minds of anyone unfortunate enough to be within the standard hour distance from us.”

Anakin’s mouth snaps open, there’s blotchy redness across his cheeks, he seems to not find the words to describe precisely how angry Obi-Wan’s word just made him. Silencing Anakin would be a feat to be commended on a normal day, if only that was true for his Force Signature as well. A fresh wave of emotions crush against his battered shields, straining them beyond their capacity.

The moment he feels the first crack run through, is the same moment they collapse completely.

Anger, hurt, betrayal, and…

Obi-Wan’s mind is momentarily blinded by the whirlpool of emotions washing over and sucking his own mind in. There’s too much of it, all at once, all different. The indignant anger, the vulnerable hurt, the deep sense of being abandoned and uncared for, the—

Obi-Wan whimpers silently. It’s a sharp exhale more than anything, yet it’s more than enough to alert Anakin. He might have found it endearing, how quickly Anakin’s attention had shifted from himself to him, if not for the crushing wave of new emotions, even more absolute in their intensity.

Worry, anxiety, fear, anger, confusion, fear, worry—

Obi-Wan feels like he might lose his mind within them.

“Stop,” he snaps at same time as Anakin had reached out for him. The boy pulls his hand away as if hit. Obi-Wan should care for this, care for how he feels more than how he himself feels at the moment….

Hurt, confusion, anger, hurt— anxiety, fear— fear—

Anakin’s emotions spiral into a deeper, more violent vortex of darkness, a never ending cycle, one emotion swallowing the tail of its predecessor, being reborn into the next one, each time bigger, stronger.

Oh Force. Obi-Wan thinks in desperation.This is too much.

“Master?” Anakin’s Force Signature is dripping fear, there’s an urgency to it that centers Obi-Wan enough to realize, with great shame, that his own pain started bleeding through their not-quite-training-bond— or…Force Bond, if he was honest enough. Call a Bantha a Bantha.

“Master, what is wrong, why are you…?” he reaches for him again, stopping quickly and retrieving his hand away. Anakin opening and closing his fist draws Obi-Wan’s attention. He looks like he’s about to blow up, and that, Obi-Wan knows, is something that would certainly echo even louder in the Force.

“Anakin please,” he reaches out to him, despite the inherent risk of touch increasing the intensity of the Bond. He must balance the boy long enough to give himself the opportunity to gather his shields into anything resembling those of a Jedi Master. That, or leave. He is not pained enough to be that cruel. Doesn’t ever plan to be. He braces himself instead.

“Dear One,” his knuckles touch Anakin’s cheek briefly, the word of endearment is strained, forced to some degree. It’s the one that never fails to get a reaction, uncover a meeker, more gentle side of Anakin. “You are deafening me” he gives the Bond a light, barely there nudge.

Anakin jumps at that as if zapped. Eyes wide, his face shifts through a number of complex thoughts, faster than what could register or broadcast emotionally through the Bond.

Suddenly, the storm is gone. What Anakin calls shields and Obi-Wan chides as only a suggestion of such is now a durasteel tight and not leaking anywhere. The silence that follows is deafening in its own right. He has to muffle the groan of relief, not wanting to rile Anakin again

“Thank you.” Obi-Wan smiles, pained. He knows that the migraine will only worsen now that it was set off, he still can appreciate not being radiated by a small sun through it, though.

“Excellent shielding, Padawan.” He sounds sarcastic even to his ears, even though he doesn’t mean to be. Anakin doesn’t react to it, looking more troubled than angry now, a deep crease between his eyebrows.

“I’m…” Anakin bite his lower lip, still fuller than most despite him well and truly out of his teenage years. Obi-Wan should not be noticing those things. “I didn’t mean to…” his cheeks are darker now, he looks ashamed. The aftertaste of Anakin’s emotion’s linger in Obi-Wan’s mind. Guilt. The last clear emotion Obi-Wan managed to decipher. Guilt for hurting him.

“I know.” Obi-Wan says curtly, he hopes that not unkindly. “I’d appreciate it if we could discuss the matter when I’m a little less…” he gestures at himself with what he hopes is the appropriate amount of self deprecation. There’s many reasons for Anakin’s lack of control, not all are good, but he still is a knight, still is learning.

There’s not a single good excuse for his own lack of mastery of himself.

“Obi-Wan, the Bond—” Anakin starts, disregarding Obi-Wan’s request in favor of what to his mind, is no bound far more urgent. The Bond. It had taken months for Obi-Wan to notice, the budding start of something new, growing in a different place than the long severed training Bond, developing over the months spent on joint missions on this endless war.

It seems that, as Obi-Wan had suspected, Anakin had managed to miss it out entirely.

“Not now, Anakin.” Obi-Wan’s voice sharpens, he should feel more guilt for the way Anakin’s shoulders jump up and tense.

“Fine, whatever…” Anakin mutters, looking away, glancing back and then away again. “Feel better.” He says with more hesitation than such a simple wish should warrant for. This time, Obi-Wan feels the full extent of guilt. He was too strict with him, those past few months were strained beyond what either one of them had wanted. He needs to speak with him, properly, make amends, properly.

Not now though, not while his head is splitting into two and his Force Signature is shaking after Anakin ground it so relentlessly. Knowing that Anakin didn’t mean to, doesn’t change the reality of things, his Force Signature can be downright oppressive if left unchecked. It’s not so felt when he himself is in the state for proper shields, however the repeated missions, the lack of sleep and the loss of the recent planet… were factors that are hard to ignore.

He needs to rest. He needs to meditate. Then he’ll be fine.

Obi-Wan refuses to acknowledge, even now, that what would bring the most immediate relief would be severing the Bond. Today showcased just how dangerous it is, how out of control it is, how out of Obi-Wan’s control it is. It all makes sense, any one following logic would have done it. A bond developed without their conscious choice in the matter, one that is not appreciate for Jedi to have.

The only thing that makes sense, is to end it. Yet this is the only thing that Obi-Wan will not do, is unwilling to do. He will not severe another Bond with Anakin. The consequences of the first time still too fresh in his own mind. Both for their relationship and…himself.

“Thank you, Anakin.” he says politely, hoping that he looks more collected than what he feels like. He refuses to think of this further for today. Giving Anakin the barest of hand waves, he turns and walks off.

He needs to rest. He needs to meditate. Then, he’ll be fine…

[flowwochair]

ladies and gentlemen and fellow bessimu church members we are about to be so back it'll blow your mind

[riewritten]

ok so ive reread Oil Well Fires for the first time in a while and i, for the love of god, could not physically recover to this abhorrent shenanigan johan had pulled because reader had a nice day with the inspector

like not even out of jealousy. our pathetic boy believes he’s not capable of such human feelings. i dont know what brought him to do THAT 😭

[guideaus]

i will say the gravity falls renaissance is baffling to me, if its just based off one new book being released in 2024. a lot of other nostalgic childhood media came back into popularity because they got put on a popular streaming service, or got a new entry to the series, but watching gravity falls as an adult made me realize so much of the show relied on offensive jokes aimed at so many different types of people... but unlike other media where i saw people who are also now adults be like "yeah, in retrospect that scene was bad" or whatever, i pretty much haven't seen anyone talk about gravity falls like that. it just seems super weird tumblr's main reactions to media seems to be either trying to cancel something you could criticize bits of, or not mentioning anything about a show where it's hard to miss the endless jokes that didn't age well that you can now understand aren't good

[sisterdivinium]

Mother Superion barely had time to assess the large coat, the expensive hat and the aviator sunglasses all bunched up together into a messy pile located at the edge of her own desk when Jillian noticed her entrance.

“You’re alone?” She asked by way of greeting, peeping behind the nun’s back to make sure. “We should best close the door.”

“And ciao to you too, dottoressa,” Superion replied dryly, watching as Jillian went on to lock them in after looking outside for any other nuns strolling in the corridor.

“You’ll understand my bluntness in a second.” Jillian returned to her companion, gave her an apologetic peck on the lips and soon produced a magazine which she put into Superion’s hands. “You should take a look at this.”

It was a thin little rag, the sort that printed more low-quality paparazzi pictures than it did any sort of meaningful text—when there were any words to go along with the images, typos and grammatical mistakes abounded throughout the extravagant theories “explaining” the ins and outs of the love lives of all sorts and ranks of celebrities, from international movie stars to barely significant internet phenomena boasting of a couple thousand followers online.

Mother Superion might have wondered how and why a woman such as Jillian Salvius would ever have any such dreck in her possession had she not at once recognised what the low-quality paparazzi photograph chosen for that particular issue’s cover revealed: it was an aerial shot, likely the product of a snooping drone, which had captured an inner patio of Jillian’s house—and both of them, Jillian and Mother Superion herself, featured in it, standing suspiciously close together as the nun’s hand stroked the renowned scientist’s cheek.

“This has been out for only some two hours and it is making a hell of a lot of noise already. My PR staff are going completely mad. ArqTech’s social media accounts are being bombarded with either accusations of hypocrisy on my part, secretly seducing the church in the background while fighting it in public, or celebratory messages about ‘crushing the patriarchy of a decadent institution’ through ‘full contact sisterhood’ or something like it. Dozens of extremely suggestive emojis are sprinkled throughout in both kinds.”

Jillian said all this with a wealth of gestures, drawing abstract, nervous shapes in the air, squinting her eyes at every word, as if they stung her tongue with each absurd syllable that escaped her lips.

Suzanne looked down at the magazine again, flipping through some of its pages. A couple more of blurry or pixelated images where she and Jillian could barely be made out adorned a page with a single column of text in a large font over a red background that would make anyone’s eyes water; she couldn’t read the speculation contained therein.

She could likewise not speak her mind on the matter, as Jillian continued her tirade.

“And there’s more, of course there’s more. I regret to inform you that you and I have been…" She grimaced. “Blorbofied. And please don’t ask me how I know that word.”

Mother Superion raised an inquisitive, insistent eyebrow nonetheless. Jillian sighed and submitted.

“… Camila,” she admitted.

The nun pinched the bridge of her nose.

“But what I mean to say is that the internet is simply abuzz with this. We’re being shipped. People are writing fanfiction about us. I don’t know if you know, but that’s when they tell stories—”

“I know what that means, Jillian.”

Catching her off-guard, Suzanne was the one moved to confess by another eyebrow raised high.

“Well, Xena fanfiction didn’t write itself in the nineties, you know.”

Jillian remained speechless for a few seconds more as she attempted to process the information of how the woman standing in front of her, who she had seen kill scores of malevolent men as well as writhe beneath her in pleasure, who wore a habit and a veil and prayed to God every day, was the same person who would write Xena fanfiction in the late nineties and post them on the internet—some of which might still be out there, somewhere.

On second thought, the whole killing men part did make quite a good deal of sense…

“If this has been out for only two hours, how are these people writing stories already?” Suzanne asked, rescuing her from her trance.

Jillian shook her head slightly, as if to dispel the thought of a young Suzanne writing stories of dubious merit and intentions in some corner of the convent when not absorbed by training.

“I don’t know. I haven’t read any—nor will I—but they even came up with a name. They’re calling us ‘doctor superion’.

The look she received as a reply was impenetrable. Jillian couldn’t tell whether Mother Superion despised it or was somehow amused by it.

“But that’s beside the point,” Jillian went on, rather exasperated at the possibilities, “because if I’m getting hell over this, what can it mean for you?”

She reached out to Suzanne’s hands, her touch scared, her eyes pleading.

“Can the Vatican take any sort of action against you? Have I put you in trouble again?”

“This will pass,” Suzanne said to comfort her, cupping her cheek. “You’re talking about the Catholic church. They didn’t even believe women could have any kind of sex for the longest time. They won’t read into a bad picture where I’m doing nothing more apart from touching your face.”

“And the gossip? The articles are multiplying online, the stories—”

“How many stories has the Church survived?”

“Suzanne, don’t fault me for saying this, but I don’t give a fuck about the Church surviving anything—it’s you I’m worried about. If my investors drop out now, I can always find others if I need to, but if they excommunicate you and tear you from the girls—”

“Jillian. I’ve been here for about twenty years. I’ve done worse than touch rich ‘heretic’ women’s faces and they know it. You know it,” she said, looking pointedly at her. “Stop worrying.”

The scientist relaxed, if somewhat against her will. She frowned soon after, however.

“… What do you mean by ‘worse’? How many other ‘worse’ things were you involved with?”

“… A conversation for another day. I think doctor superion has given you enough strong emotions for the time being.”

Jillian laughed despite herself. Mother Superion smiled seeing her unwind.

“I won’t hear the end of this anytime soon,” the owner of ArqTech pondered.

“Hence the detective disguise in coming here when it’s thirty degrees Celsius outside?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to unwittingly inspire any more fanfics than are already being written, would I? They’d have a field day with it, no doubt… But are you very sure you won’t suffer any repercussions for this?”

Suzanne kissed her.

Jillian attempted to repeat her question, but she found that kissing Suzanne back was quite a balm to her burdened heart—after all, if there were consequences to face either way, might as well deserve them in full.

When they parted to catch their breath, Mother Superion offered her an idea.

“We can say you’ve had a revelation through me, a miracle conversion. Even the Vatican will be glad to hear of it, for once.”

“Excuse you, but I have known what I liked since very early on. You wouldn’t be able to convert me to anything,” Jillian replied with a smirk. She leaned in to kiss Suzanne again, but stopped short thanks to a thought. “Hold on. Did you already have a contingency plan at the ready in case anything like this should happen?”

Mother Superion shrugged lightly.

“I told you. Worse things. In this line of work, it’s always best to look ahead of yourself.”

“Well, I might just run with your version, then. If only to calm these people down for a time.”

“The writers won’t stop.”

“I know. They might go at it even more excitedly. But the public image of the company might still be salvaged.”

“I pray it will. You’re invited to service if you want to show off just how genuine your new quest for God is,” Superion provoked her.

“Please don’t make me,” Jillian said with a laugh, pulling her closer. “I think I prefer private prayer to this whole blasphemer-to-devoted-choirgirl-overnight AU.”

Suzanne chuckled and kissed her again, throwing the gossip magazine away.

“See? Don’t worry about the others. We can write our own story all by ourselves…”

[aerodaltonimperial]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: All Elite Wrestling Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Darby Allin/Jungle Boy | Jack Perry Characters: Darby Allin, Jungle Boy | Jack Perry, Marko Stunt, Judas Devlin | Luchasaurus Additional Tags: Kayfabe Compliant, That's right FULLY kayfabe compliant, We are back in Jack's Jungle Boy Kayfabe, Inspired by Hallmark Movies, fam that's a real tag, the Hallmark movie motif carries through this, Getting Together Summary:

But Marko likes the Hallmark channel, even though he is embarrassed by it and never wants anyone to know, and that’s why Jack ends up watching so many movies on it. He doesn’t mind the movies. After the first few, he started to figure out that he could predict the way they would go—the man and woman would meet, develop feelings, something would go wrong to push them apart, and then they get back together in the last act, usually with a kiss and swelling music. It’s always a man and a woman, which he finds strange, and it’s often involving some sort of divide between cities and villages, which he doesn’t really understand.

[autisticrosewilson]

here to ask about Spencer and Mae

pls may I have some knowledge on them 👀

YES!!! Okay so Mae'rot is my character, she's a part of a team of characters that came from me thinking about if there was a Lantern team that was full of magical girls! Spencer was made by @andi-dromeda and he's technically a part of the flash fam, but he spends most of his time with the Lanterns.

CW for Death, bugs, body horror, ect. My characters are freaks guys

Mae is a part of a made up species of fungus people and she's the black lantern! I did rewrite the lantern lore a little because I thought what they did with the Pink and Black Lantern's specifically were stupid and boring.

The Pulchra Putredo are a people that worship death, although they themselves cannot die in the traditional sense. See they inhabit the land of Pulput, a floating island that was all that's left of an older, long forgotten planet, home to a piece of the Black Lantern's reactor core. No one knows where the Pulchra originated from but the first recorded records were of them turning the dry barren soil into a bustling hub of foliage, this is because though their bodies breakdown they become a part of the land. Which makes Pulput a living planet crawling with the overgrown bodies of everything that's ever died there.

It's easy to see why they grew to revere the concept of death, as this beautiful unattainable thing that they all reach for with open arms. Despite how much they all love death because they have no true concept of mortality none of them can wield it.

Until Mae. See she was originally Kryptonian but when the Pulchra came to collect what was left of the planet, they found a lone baby girl. And this was exciting, because she was born from death, and while she would live a long time she could die. She WOULD die, eventually. They take her to their planet, very far from any sun at all, and make her one of them. They do this basically allowing their roots and mold and whatnot to spread to her, inside and out she is overtaken by moss and spores. She's raised by a family of Ink Caps, which are the first mushrooms to begin growing from her skin which is weakened by the lack of sunlight.

The Pulchra are also a hive mind species! They all have something of a mental link to each other and Mae is included in this, although she's born only linked to her family instead of the entire species. She has to manually collect the others by becoming infected by their spores, and she can give this link to others by giving them hers!

Because she's so far from any kind of sun she's very sickly and weak with almost none of her Kryptonian powers and very little connection to her roots, and she has no desire to explore it. Because she's always on death's door with her health the lantern core reacts to her but she can't control it, mostly it just overwhelms her with the voices of the dead when she's near it. She's almost like a prophet to the Pulchra as the spirits come from past, present, and future and they can give her messages that she passes on.

It's only when she's older that she gets her ring, she dies on an excavation into a planet's ruins and is reanimated by the ring after rot and decay has had time to set in. She's stronger now ironically, no longer shambling about half unconscious, although now she's being consumed by multiple insects from her planet (a great honor, if death is their holy spirit, the land is their father, and the insects are the son) and she needs to feed on dead things to survive.

Her hobbies include gardening, rock collecting, learning dead languages, and grave robbing! She's close with my Yellow and Pink lanterns, she has a crush on the Indigo, and she's got a homoerotic rivalry with the White lantern (of which I also changed the lore for because these are magical girls and I have a theme here).

She now has a lesser version of the core's powers, so while she can control ghosts it's only ones that have died recently. She can reanimate things but they'd just be mindless puppets, not truly alive. She can cause people to age/decay rapidly (usually this acts like a bad sickness) and she can manipulate shadows instead of light. Along with the flight, strength, and durability the rings give all their users. While near gamma radiation she can access her Kryptonian powers but doesn't really like them so she uses Kryptonite to weaken herself.

Is she a horrific mass of maggots and rot? Yes. Does this exclude her from a magical girl transformation or sparkly outfit? Of course not!! I'm actually so mad that all the lantern suits are so boring like you can literally make them look however you want and you all look the same. I know the meta reason is because who wants to draw that many different suits but I don't care, all my girls are slaying.

All of the girls have three core motifs and a mix of different aesthetics that I'd draw from if I had artistic skill. Mae's are plague doctors, ink, and fungus and she prefers looser baggier clothes to make room for all of the creatures and plants growing out of her skin. She would prefer not wearing shoes at all, but because she's one big contaminant she has to wear very thick gloves and boots when interacting with people of Earth, and she usually wears her mask too because her appearance is generally pretty off-putting.

The other Kryptonians...well let's just say they're not super fond of her, and she really doesn't like them. They're insistent that she's an abomination, something that needs to be fixed, mostly they just feel bad for her, for her whole existence. Mae doesn't take kindly to their pity, this is everything she's ever aspired to be. She feels equally bad for them! It must be terribly lonely, isolated within their own flesh and mind, islands onto themselves, unfathomable even to each other. It's her worst nightmare and she tries to avoid them where possible.

Her people are pacifists so she only uses her abilities defensively and honestly isn't much for combat anyway, she believes that death is a gift that should come to people through natural means only, but this changes the longer she's on the team. As her character progresses she gradually decides some people should have to earn their death, and she's the person who should make them. This is the only time she uses her rapid decay powers. She rarely uses the ghost powers as she doesn't like disturbing their rest but she can be convinced by people she's close to, so she usually relies on shadow manipulation during battles.

Growing up with a species that only communicates through a mental link means she never learned how to talk! Her ring usually speaks for her, although she eventually learns some ASL the longer she's on earth. It has the default AI voice at first but when she learns how to change it I think she'd sound like Drusilla from Buffy the Vampire Slayer!

I won't say too much about Spencer but he's one of the people she's closest to, and the only person on earth who shares the link with her and her family. They have an obsessive kind of queer platonic relationship, where although they love each other it's not explicitly romantic and there's definitely nothing sexual about it. Not in human terms at least, the Pulchra have sex and relationship dynamics the likes of which we couldn't comprehend. They're the definition of soulmates and unfortunately I am obsessed with them.

[clickerflight]

Esial : Part 6 - Hospital

Masterlist

Part 5

Here we go! I'm having so much fun with this story. I was a little stuck for how to continue, but I have some plans and some plot that will link into Joseph's story and everything. Is a good time. Anyways, here you are.

Content: Vampire whumpee, hit by car, broken leg, road burn, hospital setting, lacerations from glass, surgery, open wound, gun mention (not used)

..............................................

Esial didn’t know any of these people. There were people all over Kyle’s home, looking at things, using weird tools, and taking Kyle away. 

Esial nearly lost it when some people came in with strange things covering their hands, putting Kyle on a board that was made from something Esial still did not recognize, and started rolling him out. 

Joseph had a hold of him, and spoke quickly. “It’s okay, man. It’s alright. They’re going to get him some help, okay?”

“NO!” Esial hissed, trying to break free, but he was still weak from the regeneration, even if he was full of animal and human blood. “No!”

“I know, man. It’s gonna be okay, yeah? You’ll see him later.”

Neither Joseph or Esial watched as Joanna was taken from the room. 

“Please, please, I-” Esial didn’t know how to express what he was feeling. He had some words, but not enough. He didn’t know what was going on, he didn’t know who these people were, he didn’t know why Joseph was a vampire like him but seemed so very different. He didn’t know what anything was made of and he craved the blood of the humans ducking in and out of the room. 

“Is he the one who nearly drained the woman?” another weird vampire asked. She had more pockets on her clothes than Esial had ever seen, and she seemed very formal. 

“Ah, yes, Granger,” Joseph said. “It was definitely self defense, though.”

The woman hummed. “Alright, we’ll need to get him to the rehab center and into the hands of the employees there. Get him taken care of and we’ll come by to ask him some questions.”

“Works for me,” Joseph said with a nod. “Come on, man. Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

Esial hissed. He was confused, he was scared, and he didn’t want Kyle to die. Kyle was the only person who had been kind to him since he woke up and he didn’t want that kindness to be repaid in blood and violence. 

“Hey,” Joseph said, a strange crooning entering his voice as he spoke. “You’ll be alright, kay? How about we go to my apartment and I’ll make some calls.”

“Don’t want calls,” Esial said, his voice thick with emotion. “Don’t want- I-” Esial sucked in a breath, the air still laced with the scent of blood. “I want crocodiles.”

“What? Nevermind, we’ll unpack that later. Just come with me.”

Esial sobbed, stumbling as he was tucked under Joseph’s arm. 

“You’ll be okay,” Joseph said as he helped Esial down the stairs and to a slightly ajar door. 

Esial looked around the room, surprised that the design was the same as Kyle’s home. 

“Alright, let's get the blood off you first. You’re kind of small. I’m not sure I have any clothes that will fit you, and none of Muir’s things will fit you in the slightest.”

Esial nodded faintly as he entered a room with a seeing glass. Esial stared at himself for a moment. He had watched himself in Kyle’s seeing glass for a while when Kyle had been out, but it was still strange. His hair was curled around his face, dark and long enough to brush his collar bones. He looked so frail, though maybe less so with the blood smeared on his face and arms. 

Joseph took a rag from one of the drawers and started wiping the blood away after soaking the rag in the magically appearing water. Esial closed his eyes, holding still as the other vampire muttered to himself. 

“There,” Joseph said, tossing the rag into a basket by the sink. “Wait here. I’ll get some clothes.”

Esial watched him go and looked around the bathroom. He didn’t want whatever clothing Joseph was going to bring him. It was going to be weird and suffocating like the clothing Kyle had brought him. 

He pulled off the blood stained garments and grabbed a towel from a stack of them. He froze for a moment, mind flashing to Joanna, picking at the fabric while she pounded words into his head. He shook his head. Her blood was inside him now. He felt like he had taken a part of himself back. 

Still, he put the towel down. 

Joseph came back, holding a couple of things. “Alright, this will probably work and- Oh geez. I didn’t think you’d… you know what, never mind. Here you go.”

Esial took the shirt and pants and slipped them on, pulling at the fabric uncomfortably. 

“Are you tired?” Joseph asked.

Esial wasn’t. He felt like he had electricity surging in his veins, telling him to find Kyle. But he wanted to be away from Joseph, so he nodded. 

“Thought so. You’ve had a crazy night. Here, you can take my bed. I’ll have the couch for the night. 

Esial nodded. He wanted to skip to the part where he was alone. Joseph kept talking as he showed the way to a room and Esial made a show of getting cozy, but he wasn’t listening. The only thought on his mind was escape. 

“Good night. Wake me up if you need anything,” Joseph said and he turned out the light using the little switch by the door and left, closing the door behind him. 

Esial was up in a moment, digging through everything as silently as he could. 

He found fabric in the closet with a texture he didn’t hate. It wasn’t as stupidly soft as what he was wearing, that was for certain. 

He pulled off his clothes and threw them across the room in a fit of stressed out anger before tying the large sheet of fabric around himself in a way that was similar to his old clothes. He tore off a strip from another length of fabric, using it to tie his hair back. 

After making sure everything would stay, tearing off another bit of fabric to use as a belt just to be sure, he started looking for a way out. 

To his delight, he discovered that the glass in the windows could be slid to the side, and the mesh beyond was easy to pop out. He did so and leapt out, landing on the hard flat rock that seemed to line everything outside. 

With that, he lifted his head, smelling for Kyle. The man had been bleeding so it was easy enough to find the trail. Until it wasn’t. Kyle’s scent mixed with the smell of caustic burning things, like the smell that rolled off of the car Kyle had brought him here in. 

Esial was smart. He was a hunter. He could figure this out. 

He paced in circles, taking in deep breaths and pausing to clear his sinuses. There were differences in the smells. The burning from Kyle’s car smelled different from the others. And there was a very different burning smell mixed around Kyle’s scent. 

He took off running, following it and memorizing it at the same time. They had a headstart on him. His speed seemed to be returning sure enough, though, so he wasn’t too worried. Besides, they had to stop somewhere. That was how hunting worked. The prey had to stop somewhere to rest and he would catch up when that happened. 

At least, that had been the plan. 

Something bright appeared on the stone ahead, and Esial froze, trying to figure out what it was that was approaching so quickly. 

There was a loud noise that blasted through the air and he flinched back, trying to run from whatever was making it, but the lights slammed into him, sending him off the rock and into the prickly growth alongside it. He heard something, maybe a door? And voices. 

He didn’t wait and took off limping. His leg was definitely broken and his arms were badly skinned but he kept going. They were healing anyway. 

He ran as fast as he could, falling into a couple of ditches and slamming his shins into rocks. 

He got back to the hard rock, running when his legs healed properly. The pain had been Nothing compared to regenerating, but he still made sure to throw himself off the rock whenever another set of lights showed up through the dark. He skidded to a halt when he saw the city. It was huge, and bright. There were lights everywhere, and some buildings in the distance that were large enough to probably touch the sun barge as it flew overhead. The smell rolling off of it was nothing he’d ever experienced. He covered his nose, coughing and retching. The scent was so hostile. There was no fertility here. Just bad smelling rock and acrid burning. 

He did not forget his task. He had to find Kyle, and so, after a few eye watering minutes of gathering himself, he forged ahead. 

His feet hurt, the rock sapping moisture from him at every step, the smell burned in his sinuses, he still ached from being hit by the lights, and he just wanted things to make sense. He gagged everytime he smelled for the trail, but he managed to find it again, and he took off running. 

There were people here, occasionally, coming out of buildings or walking along the stone paths. There were more of the lights, attached to cars, but they were moving much slower here. 

“Hey!”

He turned and saw a man looking at him, concern and a bit of fear showing on his face. “You alright?”

Esial didn’t have time for the distraction and bared his fangs at the man, hissing. The man stumbled back, pulling out a rectangular object and holding it to his ear. 

Esial heard something about ‘feral vampire’ and ‘threatened me’ but he was running again. 

The car passed in front of a huge, bright building. He picked up Kyle’s smell again and dropped the car trail to pick up that on. He forced his way through the doors, surprising the people on the other side. 

“Sir, are you-”

Esial hissed, dashing past them and slamming into a door that he found wouldn’t open for him. He drew back his hand and punched through the glass to the side of the door, forcing his way through and ignoring the cuts in his feet and hand. 

Blood trailed after him as he rushed through the bright halls, past rooms that smelled of injury, sickness, and awful acrid things he couldn’t quite place. 

His blood scent was strong and distracting, as were the many noises in this place and the loud blaring that lit through the halls as people shouted at him. 

He didn’t care. He needed to make sure Kyle was alive. He needed to know he was going to be okay. He needed to- he wanted-

He wanted his crocodiles. 

He forced his way past strange people in strange clothing, an unstoppable force as he found Kyle. He was laying on a table, eyes closed and masked people  standing over him, one with a blade in hand. Were they priests? Were they removing Kyle’s organs to have him mummified? 

He shrieked, diving forward to fight them off. 

“Get out!”

“It’s feral!”

“The patient!”

“No, leave. Get out!”

The priests left quickly, though Esial could hear people coming so he grabbed the nearest heavy object and shoved it in front of the doors. He did so with a few more things before backing off, breathing hard. He ran to the table, ripping off the strange thing on Kyle’s face. 

“Kyle,” he cried horsley. “Kyle, please. Wake up, please.”

He glanced down at the wound and back at Kyle’s face. He shook the man a little, tears now running down his face. “Please, wake up. Please, I’m scared.”

Kyle’s heart was still beating, the beats lining up with the soft beeps coming from an object with moving lines and symbols. Esial didn’t know what sort of witchcraft it was, but it only made him more nervous. He looked down at his bleeding arm, backing up into a corner to pull shards of glass from it. He stumbled back to Kyle once he’d done so, shaking him again, now openly sobbing. 

“Please, I’m scared, please don’t be dead. Kyle, please.”

Kyle groaned, his eyes fluttering and Esial choked on his saliva in surprise. 

“Kyle!” he cried as men started to ram the door. 

Kyle opened his eyes, looking around in confusion. “E-Esial?”

“Oh, thank Heka! I don’t know what those priests were doing to you, but we need to go!”

“Go?” Kyle croaked, looking around. “Am I in a hospital?”

“We need to go! They’re going to get in!” Esial said, frantic. 

Kyle looked down his body and made a very strange noise. Somewhere between a croak and a yelp, with the undertone of ‘about to be sick.’ 

“Surgery? Esial, am I in a surgery room?”

“Why would I know!? We need to go! There’s still time to-”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Kyle!” Esial whined, voice trembling as there was another bang and the stuff in front of the door moved. 

“ESIAL!?” Kyle shrieked, sitting up slightly to see better. “Did you just break into a hospital and barricade us in a surgery room while they were in the middle of operating on me!?”

“I only know what half of those words mean,” Esial whispered, bringing his shoulders up to hide. Kyle was angry at him and he had no idea why. He was trying to save Kyle’s life. 

Kyle stared at him, and Esial didn’t like how pale he looked. “I… I thought I was help-”

The doors slammed open and Esial flew back to the corner. There were weapons in their hands like the one Joanna had. 

“No!” Kyle yelped. “No, don’t shoot him! I can explain. Please, he’s just scared!”

Esial made himself small as one of the men said, “What’s going on here?”

“He, augh, he’s from 3000 BC. He’s been just a heart for 5000 years. He just barely, mmm, he barely regenerated. He thought I was in danger. Don’t hurt him!”

Esial stayed pressed into the corner, trying to look small and harmless. He was in a lot of trouble, he knew that now. 

"Please. Just, um-" Kyle rubbed his head, glancing back at Esial. 

"It's alright, sir," said the leader of the armed men. "We'll take him to the station and keep him safe for a bit. Do you know if he has a rehab worker assigned to him?"

"I think Joseph Blackham was taking care of him?"

"Alright. Lay back down. We'll take care of this."

"Kyle," Esial whimpered as the man approached steadily. 

"Go with them, Esial," Kyle said, looking exhausted. "They won't hurt you."

Esial trembled as the man bent down, pulling him up by his good arm. 

He looked back at Kyle as the priests ran in again, covering the wound and preparing to move Kyle.

Part 7

Esial: @whumpsday @honeycollectswhump @writereleaserepeat @tragedyinblue @hyrules-sleepiest-knight

From Dust to Ashes: @whumpsday @writereleaserepeat @currentlyinthespiral

[memes-in-a-half-shell]

Profile Me Up! (short fic)

I couldn't stop laughing while writing this fsdjnfsjdfdj It's short and sweet, but only because I didn't want to overdo it 😂

Written for the February "All 4-1 Challenge"!! Tagging @turtle-babe83 and @thelaundrybitch for visibility :) Splinter asks Mikey to help him set up a dating profile, just for the shits and giggles. But they also need Donnie for technical help....

"Oh you've got to be kidding me...."

Donnie said those words while turning around in his chair, now facing his younger brother, Mikey, and their father, master Splinter. The bespectacled terrapin's traits were ones of concern, slightly frowning, while the two others were dead serious.

"What?! Come on, it'll be fun!" replied the orange clad one. "We need your help setting up the profile."

"Dad, please, tell me Mikey didn't force you to this idea," discarded Donatello, his gaze focused on the rat.

The rodent's ears perked up a bit, his expression soft as he simply answered:

"Oh no, it is my idea in fact."

Donnie's expression fell into a deadpan look, a long exhale leaving his nostrils as he slowly swiveled back towards his computer's screens.

"Aight, just tell me which website to go to. jesus fucking christ."

Michelangelo was already rushing to his brother's chair, gripping the back of it and shaking it in slight excitement.

"Tinder!"

"Fuck no!"

"Language," warned Splinter.

Donnie tsked, expertly and quickly slapping one of Mikey's hands away from his chair without giving the action a look. Now how the heck could he find the perfect... dating site for his father?

"You do realize that you won't be able to put an actual photo of yourself, right?" he asked, still typing, while giving a quick glance at his father standing nearby.

"I do have an idea in mind, don't worry."

Oh now Donnie was starting to feel suspicious. After some quick searches (and questionable suggestions from Mikey), the trio did find a somewhat okay website that was targeted to a reasonably normal audience. The purple banded mutant clicked the "Sign Up" option with a sigh, then vaguely gesturing his screen.

"The floor is yours, MC Mikey," he said in a neutral tone.

The younger one was now slapping his brother's shoulder, urging him to give away his seat so he could sit down and get to work. As Donnie moved, Mikey asked him to get a stool for Splinter to sit on next to him. The tall terrapin could only comply, next standing close and watching this weird life event occur...

"Name?" asked Mikey.

The rat shrugged: "Splinter?"

"Short and straight to the point. Love it," added the orange one, typing. "What about your hobbies?" he continued.

"Meditating. Attending to my bonsais. Reading."

"This is getting nowhere," mumbled Donnie, pinching the bridge of his nose under his glasses.

Mikey seemed to be typing more than what he was told, always humming in approval to his father's words.

"Occupation?" ask the younger terrapin.

Splinter's features seemed to light up as he smiled: "A martial arts teacher!"

"Damn, you're the perfect man," commented Mikey, amused. "A dreamboat!"

"I am quite the catch indeed," added the rat in a similar tone.

Donnie was trying not to laugh.

"What do you look for in a partner?"

Oh now the tall mutant was apprehending that answer...

"... To be patient, kind, and with a good sense of humor," started the rat after some quick thinking. "Oh and bonus point if they smell like cheese," he added playfully.

That made Mikey laugh as he typed, soon joined by Donnie's muffled chortle.

"Anything special to add?" asked the young terrapin, still smiling.

The rodent did ponder for a moment, his ears shifting slightly with his thoughts.

"If they don't mind hair, being a bit adventurous in their travels, and are more of a night person, then they can - as you youngsters say - hit me up."

Oh this time Donnie let out a loud snort.

"A true modern man," commented Mikey. "Gettin' hip with the crowd and using the right lingo. I'm so fuckin' proud."

"Language," repeated Splinter.

"My b, my b," quickly apologized the young one.

And now came the question of what to use as a profile picture. Without hesitation, Splinter asked for Donatello's phone (which immediately confused the terrapin). Requesting a web browser to be opened, the rat then snatched the device and started to type into a search bar, patiently scrolling until finding the right choice.

"Let's use this," he said, now showing the phone's screen to his sons, revealing this picture:

Both turtles lost it, the rodent smiling at the reaction.

"Please, tell me all of this is a joke," asked Donnie, trying to calm his laughter.

"Oh, absolutely," answered Splinter. "But I'm still curious to see if anyone would answer to this profile!"

"Fuck, you're the best," giggled Mikey.

"Language. And don't make me say it another time or it's straight to the hashi. Both of you."

"I'd still take the hashi over any spicy responses you may ever receive on this," commented the purple clad mutant with a chuckle.

"Let's get wild on this ride!" said the young one, uploading the picture and finalizing the account's creation.

The clock was now ticking.

[spending-life-pretending]

i’m sure sex is great but nothing can match the power i feel when i figure out the plot twist before the characters do

[nostalgia-tblr]

Two Sentence Tuesday

From the sylki con artists AU because 1) it proves I am actually working on that still and 2) lol doggerland.

Loki’s own ‘moral high ground’ being at approximately the elevation of the Netherlands doesn’t change the fact that Sylvie’s is similarly situated, or perhaps even lower; if he is the Netherlands of morality then she is that bit of land under the North Sea where fishing boats sometimes dredge up Neanderthal bones.