#I powered through and managed to finish it

[rafesbimbo]

A date w gyno!rafe but he asks the reader to wear a vibrator (reader is unaware of what it actually is but agrees) rafe then uses it during the date.. while talking to the waiter etc ! You can choose the ending! Thank you

warnings: mdni, public teasing, vibrator control, light humiliation, medical kink undertones, dumb!reader, dom!rafe, orgasm denial, power play, praise, light degradation, unprotected sex, creampie

pairing: gynecologist!rafe x reader

you should’ve known something was off when he handed you a little remote-shaped device and told you to put the other piece in your panties.

“just wear it for me, sweetheart,” rafe had murmured as you were getting dressed for dinner. he leaned down to kiss your shoulder, watching your reflection in the mirror. “promise it’ll make things… more fun.”

you hadn’t questioned it too much. you never really did when it came to him. not when he was in his office with gloves on and fingers deep inside you—checking your cervix—not when he’d muttered, “bet no one’s ever taken care of you like this, huh?”

so you nodded. wiggled the little toy into place and finished getting dressed, lip gloss shimmering and heart thudding.

he was being so sweet tonight. picked you up with a bouquet in hand. opened the door for you. told you how good you looked in that short little dress. but then…

the second you sat down at the restaurant, your thighs pressed together nervously, he pressed a button.

buzz.

your eyes flew open, hands gripping the edge of the table.

“what’s wrong, baby?” rafe asked innocently, lifting a menu like he didn’t just turn on whatever the fuck was tucked against your clit.

you blinked at him, breath shuddering. “rafe—what is that?”

“what’s what?” he asked, smirking. “oh, you mean that? you agreed to it, didn’t you?”

you whined softly, leaning forward. the vibrations weren’t unbearable, but you were so sensitive already. this morning he’d fingered you before your shower and told you not to touch yourself for the rest of the day.

“people are gonna see,” you whispered, panicked. “someone’s gonna know.”

he clicked the button again, casually flipping through the wine list. the setting intensified. your hips jolted.

“so what if they do?” he murmured under his breath. “bet they’d wish they were me.”

the waiter came over while your thighs were shaking. rafe ordered for you, speaking calm and low, all while the vibrator kept pulsing in waves. it had a pattern—slow, then fast, then mean. every now and then, it would pause, just long enough to make you think it was over… and then come back full force.

“you alright, miss?” the waiter asked, glancing your way.

you managed a nod. forced a smile. “yeah,” you said, voice strained. “just—tired.”

rafe glanced over at you smugly. “she’s been a little sore lately,” he added. “nothing i haven’t taken care of before.”

your cheeks burned.

after the food came, you could barely touch it.

you were panting, squirming, pressing your palm against your lap. rafe wouldn’t stop.

he edged you over and over, taking tiny bites of his steak and sipping red wine while your body shook under the table.

“please,” you whimpered, eyes glassy. “rafe, i-i can’t—”

he leaned close. gripped your thigh under the table.

“be a good girl and take it.”

—

you didn’t even make it inside his house.

as soon as he parked in his driveway, you were crawling into his lap, babbling.

“m’sorry, m’sorry—need it, ive been good, haven’t cum all night, please—”

“i know, baby.” his voice was low and sweet. he was already pushing your panties to the side, cock hard and leaking against your thigh. “i know. such a good fuckin’ girl for me, huh?”

you nodded, tears clinging to your lashes.

he didn’t tease this time. didn’t drag it out. he just pulled the toy out, tossed it into the passenger seat, and pushed all the way in with one hard thrust.

you screamed.

“shhh,” he hushed, but there was no one around. just the streetlights and the cool night air filtering in through the cracked windows. “take it. let me fill you up, sweetheart. you earned it.”

you were already clenching around him, body snapping like a rubber band, orgasm hitting so hard it left you crying.

and rafe? he just grinned and fucked you through it.

“that’s it,” he groaned. “gonna put a baby in this little pussy one day. make you wear that toy to a family dinner next time. maybe your friends’ll see how dumb you get f’me.”

[beuxwhoyouare]

Taking What’s Owed

Benito was always on the outs. Coming out as trans as a young kid felt empowering at first but when it came down to it kids are vicious. Benito spent years being bullied until the day he graduated from high school. When he got to college he thought he had gotten through all the childish bullying but he was wrong. The non violent bullying was over but the violent harassment can of worms was barely opening.

Benito prided himself on being resilient and he managed to get through all the harassment when he entered a professional environment, but working in sports medicine meant it was ruthless. Plus being surrounded by the stereotypical model male physique only added to his inner turmoil. One day he was finishing taping a clinic regular when someone else came in. He didn’t notice his face at first but then as he rounded the corner and locked eyes with the stud he realized it was his childhood tormentor, Hiram.

It figures that a dick like Hiram wouldn’t remember Benito. He got situated on the table essentially assuming someone would come and treat him. The man splayed himself out on the table in his tiny shorts and black muscle fit shirt. He had become one of the newest pro soccer league players and Benito didn’t know but he surely did now.

As Benito began massaging out Hiram’s quads, just the muscular legs presence in front of him presented a significantly dysphoric challenge for him. He fought the thoughts in his head to try and remember that this was his tormentor. The man who made him feel insignificant, tiny, and worthless for most of his life. Benito lost himself in the massage staring at Hiram’s sizable chest. It’s weird for a soccer player to be so built but clearly Hiram liked to maintain the look of a domineering alpha so it all checked out for him. And check out Benito did as he was nearly salivating at how squeezable and inviting Hiram’s pecs looked. He wanted to just dump his face between them and sniff, motorboat, and lick every single inch of the large and strong muscles.

Benito powered through the massage and told Hiram to undress to get into the cold plunge. The tiny twink disassociated as he chose to busy himself filling the tub with ice for Hiram. The buzzing hum of the ice machine began twisting into an echoey voice that pulled Benito’s focus. He slowed his scooping into the bucket and focused in on what the disembodied voice was trying to muster out. A disturbing and menacing voice called out….

“You can have what you desire. A silence to those inconsolable voices in your head and torment for your tormentor.” It hissed

“I’m going insane…” Benito muttered to himself

“This is very real, but what you desire comes at a cost.” A threatening laugh followed.

“What’s the cost?”

“You can only choose one. I can end the insecurity your body gives you or torment your tormentor for all those years of tribulation.”

“I really am going insane.”

“Whenever your heart decides what it truly wants….I’ll know and so it shall be.”

The buzzing hum of the ice machine began once again. Hiram stood mostly unclothed and ready to get into the tub. Benito filled up the tub with the last bucket of ice before going back to the office as Hiram soaked. His mind raced at just the idea of what the voice told him. Could he really be free of the body dysmorphia that easily? But he also believed in karma and this could be the moment Hiram got every single thing he deserved for the evil things he had permanently etched onto Benito’s psyche. The timer beeped for Hiram to get out as Benito returned to the moment….had an hour really passed by already?

“Ah you decided.”

As Benito got up, time slowed down as he turned around from his office chair to check on Hiram. Both men became disoriented and everything went black for a second. When Benito came to, his blurry vision slowly came into focus. A cold air conditioner breeze broke his conscious thought as he lowered his head and gasped. Standing below his head was a nearly naked torso drenched in freezing water. As he picked up his head he saw…..himself across the room in the dorky polo and khakis the team trainers wore. But there was no mirrors here…how?

Benito’s stomach sank as he realized he had unconsciously decided on the question he thought was hypothetical. Benito figured this would silence his tormentor and the voices in his head so maybe the voices was just playing a joke and he didn’t have to decide. A smug grin graced the new Hiram’s face as Benito felt the heftiness of the musculature and alpha frame he now possessed. With a gasp and a thud, Benito saw his former body fall to the ground after fainting from the supernatural swap. His coworkers rushed to check on him as Benito gathered Hiram’s clothes on a nearby table and sauntered back to the locker room sopping wet. Each step he’d intentionally swing his new slutty waist complete with thick quads and firm round ass. That paired with the momentum of feeling the new slabs of meat on his chest jiggling up and down in a satisfyingly dominant way. After he got back to the locker room, his new teammates had left giving him the perfect chance to explore his new body.

As a man of science Benito wanted to understand how this was possible but the new testosterone raging through his system was fueling him to feel things amplified to the max. He was feral this was the post workout horniness bros always talk about amongst each other. But Benito was giddy this would affirm the vision of himself he always saw in his head during his transition. Stacked with muscle and a dick impossibly thick and long that could get guys and girls salivating…no begging for him to give it to them.

Benito pulled down the briefs Hiram was wearing in the cold plunge to finally unwrap possibly his favorite surprise. His new body was virtually made in his dreams. As much as he hated Hiram before he was thankful to be Hiram now as his sex drive pushed his heart rate faster, blood rushed to his new beautiful and girthy tool. He gasped in shock seeing just how hung he was now. Surely this was excessive like who could take all this?!

He turned on the steamy shower and started to jerk off for the first time. Benito had been gay since he came out so it’s not like this was a foreign motion but the act of doing it on himself was something he had only fantasized about. Twisting and jerking up and down the shaft, Benito felt a pleasure electrify him as he licked up intensity.

Through the cloud of steam, Hiram now in a more diminutive body angrily came in searching for his former body only to find a perverse show being put on. There his body was on full display as steam and hot water cascaded around the body he worked so hard to attain. He watched as his body went through uncharacteristic and foreign motions of guessing speed and intensity to stroke at. He watched as the imposter moaned to himself and braced against the shower tiles. Hiram stirred inside….was he…..getting turned on seeing himself like this? Well, that does make sense, someone so vain so cocky. What could possibly turn himself on more than himself?

He started tiptoeing towards Benito. He thought maybe this is an insane fever dream because nothings making any sense. One step made a louder splash and Benito got startled and turned around to see Hiram in his former body. Channeling the original body’s confidence instead of stopping pumping Benito released his sizable shaft and sauntered over to Hiram making sure to emphasize his horse self swinging side to side. Grabbing him by the shoulders, Benito guided Hiram to his knees with his new found strength and squeezed his jaw to motion for him to lower it and open his mouth.

The pair locked their former eyes onto one another’s and just accepted their new roles in the situation. Foreign based on their past lives but accepted in this moment. Benito gently kept a grip on his former jaw as he guided his thick sausage into it gently. His former mouth having to voluntarily lower his jaw and widen its opening to allow it to enter. Hiram may have never done this back in his cis het days but Benito’s body was guiding him through it almost as if instinctual. The impossible size finally hitting the back of his throat where it continued to go down a little. Just as he was worried he may pass out a reprieve came as it slid out but not before it was quickly reintroduced. Benito began pounding his former throat as a devious grin wiped across his face. The satisfaction of humbling his former bully with his own tool was the cherry on top. This coupled with the preshow he gave was already a lot of jerking for this body. Premature to the fun he was having with his former self, he felt it. This had to be the climax. Benito relished the feeling as the warmth surrounded him, his core tightened and as he freaked out about what was coming, no pun intended, he released his hands from their exploration and placed both on the back of his former head and released down his throat. Pulse after pulse had him moaning and convulsing in pleasure. He forced Hiram to take the warm salty delight in stride.

“Oh hohohooooo yeah. Take itttttttunfhhhhhhhhh.”

After the moment was done, Benito pulled his softening yet still intimidating looking dick out of Hiram’s mouth. And as the twink stared up at his former face with a mix of fear and ferocity, Benito bent over and locked lips to give him the sluttiest make out for 30 seconds. Locked lips, tongues tied, bitten lips. Benito sauntered out of the shower before getting dressed.

He looked over at himself in the mirror…despite getting everything he thought he wanted something was gnawing at him….hmmm I need to be bigger…..need to hit the gym some more I’m looking small.

A haunting voice laughing in the distance knowing full well that just because Benito got a male body finally, he’ll never be able to outrun his own dissatisfaction with his perception of himself.

But Benito would sure try…

[rika-mmendmethings]

Death Comes For Us All | Sylus

Prologue | CH 1 releasing sometime later

Summary: You, the Goddess of Death, are given six months to capture the one soul who's escaped countless times or give up your mantle. What begins as duty transforms into obsession as you chase the one deathless man because of a love-bound oath.

Tag(s): For the overall series- Sylus x Goddess of Death! Reader, enemies to lovers, angst with a happy ending, love triangle, some ooc characters, other Lls mentioned/ introduced, blood and pain and trauma etc etc. For this chapter- none.

Word count: 1.1k

Notes: I am very well aware that I have four ongoing series, three of them of this man but will that be stopping me from posting this? NO. Originated from this blurb of mine, this series will be updated once a month until at least AB&W gets finished 😔 Lmk if you want to be added to the tag list ♥

The throne room of the Underworld echoed with silence, heavy and thick as the shadows clinging to the obsidian walls. Every flame from the sconces flickered in unnatural stillness, and not even the wails of the newly damned dared pierce the tense atmosphere. At the far end of the throne room, the God of the Underworld sat atop his seat of power — his throne forged from eternal night, bones of forgotten titans, and the authority of dominion itself.

You stood still at the base of the steps leading to the throne, hands clasped neatly behind your back, spine straight, chin held high. A blank mask adorned your face, honed through centuries of duty, your body a sculpture of control. Yet, beneath the stillness, you watched. Analyzed. The subtle twitch of Hades’ left brow, the shift of his jaw as he skimmed the last line of the parchment scroll in his grip. He glanced up — those piercing azure eyes catching yours from over the rim of his reading glasses.

You didn’t dare blink.

The parchment burned away in a quiet burst of black flame as he reached its end, the embers vanishing into the void. With deliberate slowness, Hades removed his reading glasses — those thin, silver-rimmed lenses perched upon the bridge of his nose, contrasting exquisitely with the cool hue of his eyes and the refined sweep of silver strands that framed his sharp face.

You inhaled softly, the motion imperceptible. Even after eons, there were still things about your superior that managed to weaken the fortress of your composure. You hated it.

His fingers began tapping against the armrest — once, twice, then in a calculated rhythm you recognized all too well. That rhythm was not random. It was a countdown. A storm was brewing, and you were the one standing at its eye.

“This… Sylus Qin,” Hades began, voice like a glacier cracking in the dead of winter, “has managed to escape death forty-three times…?”

You inclined your head slightly, voice as devoid of emotion as a still pond. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

You had harvested kings who thought they ruled death, scientists who tried to decode it, warriors who tried to outrun it. But none — not one — had eluded you like Sylus Qin. A pact made in the dust and desperation of ancient love tethered his soul to the whim of another — a beloved who had long since scattered and reincarnated across lifetimes. Until she remembered, until she ended him herself, Sylus was untouchable. The laws of death bent around that truth like iron warped by heat. Every time you came for him, you left with your pride shredded.

He was deathless not by power, not by immortality, but by loophole.

It had started as duty. Then frustration. Then obsession. By his nineteenth escape, your fury had turned seismic.

Perhaps that was when Hades noticed. Of course he had. He felt every shift in the underworld’s balance, every ripple in the tightly woven threads of fate and death. He summoned you, demanding a report, an answer for the growing disturbance — and you had, reluctantly, traced it back to him. To Sylus.

Which led you here.

You held your breath as he rose from his throne and descended down the grand stairs. The tension in the room tightened like a noose. Not until he stood before you, close enough for you to count the silver strands in his lashes and feel the silent weight of his judgment.

“You have six months,” Hades said, voice laced with finality as he stood before you. “If Sylus Qin is not in my realm by then, you will no longer be in it either. You’ll be relinquishing your mantle to a successor. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” you said, voice flat but iron-willed.

You refused to blink as he studied you once more, perhaps looking for a crack in your mask. You gave him none. Then he turned and exited the chamber, the great doors closing behind him with a resonant thud that left you truly alone.

You inhaled through your nose, held it, then exhaled, eyes slipping shut for only a moment. When they opened again, they burned with renewed purpose and you called into the darkness, “Doodle. Doofus.”

The shadows trembled and twisted at the far corners of the room. With two overlapping thuds, the twin, teenage imps materialized, scrambling over each other in a flurry of limbs and smoke to see who could reach you first. Both were more shadowy souls than flesh, with glowing eyes and ill-fitting tunics. Doodle had a helmet far too big for his head, and Doofus's cloak was always tripping him. How they’d managed to be useful for millennia remained a mystery. They grinned enthusiastically, already preparing some irrelevant, poorly timed pun.

You yanked them both by the ears before they could open their mouths.

“Go get Cerberus,” you ordered crisply. “We’re going to the mortal realm.”

“Yes, Milady Death!” they chorused, then vanished in a poof of dark mist and giggles.

With another breath, you teleported. The underworld dissolved into nothing and reformed around you as humid, polluted wind bit at your face. You stood atop a skyscraper, the human city a blur of lights, movement, and filth below. Your heels clicked against the rooftop as you walked to the edge, your cloak billowing behind you like ink in water, your scythe held loosely in one hand and the other shoved in your coat pocket. The night air carried smoke and you turned your head towards the source of it.

A warehouse across the street erupted in a cacophony of flames. Fire danced hungrily along its frame, lighting up the night sky in a violent red-orange hue. From the inferno, limping yet maddeningly alive, emerged Sylus Qin. From the roaring inferno, a figure emerged, limping at first, then straightening as his wounds began to seal before your eyes.

The bane of your immortal existence.

He wore soot like a badge, his tattered clothes fluttering, and a cocky smirk playing on his lips. He didn’t know you were watching.

You clicked your tongue, the sound sharp in the wind. “Forty-four,” you muttered. Your grip tightened on the scythe’s hilt and your eyes glinted with quiet rage, and resentment, or perhaps, exhaustion.

This lovesick, curse-bound mortal — had mocked you with every breath he stole past his due. He was a walking glitch in your divine code. Hades had made it clear: restore equilibrium, or forfeit your right to stand beside him.

You had six months to end an impossibility. Six months to break an oath older than mortal memory, to bend the laws of death and fate to your will. To reap him.

And you might have just the plan for it.

Check out my other works if you liked this ♥

[randomfoggytiger]

Ah, I understand why William was rewritten to be Spender's son.

Initially, CSM was meant to be a nameless part of the Consortium; but when fans latched onto the character, the writers sectioned him a larger part of the story: a mythological figure spewing his evil forward in a literal cloud of smoke. During the first era of expansion, Chris Carter both resisted William B. Davis's inference-- that Carl Spender be a literal representation of the Devil-- and David Duchovny's idea-- that Carl Spender be revealed as Mulder's father.

But that began to change as the mytharc naturally progressed and took shape. CSM still remained an antagonist rather than a cannibalistic paternal figure; but Scully's religious elements began to be more strongly spotlighted within the show's general exploration of spirituality, and eventually united with WBD's honed portrayal of self-conceit (using religion as a weapon against the unbelieving masses, i.e. Talitha Cumi) and self-importance. By the cancer and Redux arcs, Scully's faith became an opposing reflection to Mulder's disbelief and CSM's blind self-belief.

In Fight the Future, we learn that Bill Mulder had exchanged Samantha for his eldest child, believing Mulder would save the world; and by Two Fathers-One Son, we see CSM utterly disappointed in his own flesh and blood, killing off Jeffrey when he no longer served a purpose. According to the writers, the original mythology was finished mid-Season 6, leaving the series open to take a new direction.

But where?

The name of the game became personal revolution: Scully fled to Africa and back, her religious beliefs challenged; Mulder crumbled under visions of another life, and awoke a new man with a clearer perspective; and CSM?

CSM doubled down on his god-complex, despite no longer needing to narratively save the Earth. In fact, he doubled down so much so that he outright referred to himself as God; and attempted to achieve god-like powers through sacrificing his self-proclaimed son-- a perversion on all fronts that gave him incurable brain disease and a one-way trip down the stairs. From this point on, CSM would return disguised as a humble man, one who continued to justify his evil actions in the name of "the better good" while secretly believing he'd ascended from an elevated saint-- his original view-- to a god.

How does William play into this?

When William was created, his purpose was to conclude a plotline Spotnitz and Carter thought up around Season 5: Scully's cured infertility. The question of his existence was tied back to Scully's trip to Africa-- healing her infertility by touching the ship-- and Mulder's bed-- conceiving their child after making peace with her life. He was a physical manifestation of the answer to fate or freewill, two concepts the writers played around with since the beginning; and was, per the conclusion of Season 8, proven to be a normal baby ("That doesn't make him any less of a miracle though, does it?")

However. After Existence wrapped, there was no mythological place to take the show, since it had transitioned into a cut-and-dry sci-fi with alien replicants (super soldiers) and bloated conclusions. Thus, the writers doubled back and gave William powers, hoping to build a new path off of his capabilities. When that failed, they adopted him out. And in the aftermath-- with no place left to go-- Chris Carter ran back to his comfort zone: hinting, in various press interviews, that CSM could be alive.

With that (among other decisions) came a problem: CSM was cemented as a mythological figure more than a man, one who stacked bodies higher and higher to draw closer-- he hoped-- to the top of the Holy Trinity pyramid. With no other material to build upon, the writers were left with a villain bound and determined to transcend human capabilities-- and had already, in a way, if he somehow managed to outlive death.

And then CSM was nuked.

And stayed dead for I Want to Believe.

And then came back to life for the Revival.

Which was where William's identity transformed: in Season 10, he was barely mentioned except to poke at Mulder and Scully's wounds. But given My Struggle II's aftermath-- and fans' feedback-- his storyline was remembered by the writers, who decided to tackle the missing Mulder-Scully in the coming season... by making him (in both Ghouli and My Struggle IV) careless, callous, and the spawn of Satan-- able and willing to ruthlessly use, abuse, terrify, and slaughter anyone in his path.

Why?

Because CSM was still alive; and CSM still considers himself to be God. And if you have a character juxtaposing himself with a key figure in the mythological narrative, then you have a character who will look for a son to sacrifice to "prove" his own delusions. (Unless you break that mold and give him a new arc. Which the Revival didn't.) He attempted to sacrifice Mulder in My Struggle II; yet, with that episode's limited success, the plotline was refocused on William, instead. With his reintroduction, William needed to serve a narrative purpose (ala Season 9)-- however, instead of creating a journey wholly his own, the writers tied him back into Jeffrey Spender and Mulder to repeat the shows pattern: a son, ready to be sacrificed-- i.e. Bill Mulder's personal arc, which was consumed by Carl Spender from Season 6 onward.)

As for CSM's death in My Struggle IV: Carter originally baited another "who knows?" to the public. William was alive, after all. In the intervening years, he also loosened some of the finale's "facts", circling back to declare that Mulder was (again) William's father (while positing that "mitochondrial DNA" could explain away why the Mulders were now dually related in unpleasant ways.)

It would appear that the tortured father-son bond-- alongside Mulder and Scully's separate-but-together partnership-- is a dynamic the writers (namely: Chris Carter) seemed (and continue to seem) loathe to let go. In short: a convergence of interests and convenience.

[mldn1ghtm00n]

uuuhh lore time I guess I don't knoooww

(update from last time I posted a similar one. Not much changed, I just wanted to rewrite it. sorry if it's shitty, im not the best writer : ()

it might be messy. I might rewrite or change some of this

no judgement pls im trying my best

tw: blood mentions bdhddbb

•Midnight doesn't really care about anyone unless they're one of his closest friends or has something valuable that he wants (power, weapons). Although, he wouldn't really admit any of this since he doesn't want to ruin his reputation. Midnight will proceed to get as much information about anyone as possible, so he knows who's his target and who isn't. He'll also 'befriend' them as an attempt to get closer. When the right time comes, he goes after his targets without a second thought. He kills them off (or, well, sometimes he doesn't exactly finish the job) and grabs what he's laid his eyes on for a while.

•Midnight doesn't do this for no reason. He's paranoid and he believes that if he doesn't kill them, they'll go after him instead. He's convinced himself that this is completely justifiable, and he's just defending himself, but it doesn't really excuse the pleasure he feels. He hears voices, a ton of them, and they just add onto the brutal thoughts he has. Although, he also doesn't tell this to anyone. He doesn't want to be seen as insane or dangerous.

•Midnight isn't exactly alive. Well, he's literally an angel. He has two types of hallucinations - good ones and bad ones. The good hallucinations genuinely calm him down, make him feel at ease. They even comfort him at the toughtest times! They help him escape his reality. Meanwhile, the bad hallucinations are basically the opposite. They make him feel like shit. They activate his aggressive and more violent side, which isn't the best time to interact with him. Midnight's mind plays with him alot, and at the time of his death, he probably shouldn't have had access to his dagger.

Midnight made his way to his apartment. It was an exhausting day, but when hasn't it been one? He leaned against his wall as he looked down. His eyes widened in surprise. A puppy? Is that a.. puppy? He doesn't have one, right? Well, he'll return it later or something. It's in his territory, so he might aswell have some fun with it. It's not everyday that you find a random dog in your home.

He crouches down, staring at the puppy intently. It was asleep, but it woke up as it heard Midnight crouch down near it. He reaches out to touch it, gently petting it before grabbing it. It feels overly light, but he doesn't care. Maybe it's not fed enough.

He brings the dog to his face, feeling it lick him gently. Midnight smiles, giggling. He feels happy. This goes on for a couple of minutes before he brings it to his chest to hug it. He wants a hug, and he's glad that he's able to get one, even if it isn't from a human.

That's when he snaps out of it. The pain spreads through his body, making him scream. He stops hallucinating, staring down at the dagger impaled right into his chest. Midnight drops to his knees, shaking uncontrollably as it only gets worse and worse. A pool of blood surrounds him. He touches his face, examining the cuts. God, it's all a lie. He can't have anything nice. He breaks into tears, collapsing onto the floor.

In his last moments, he manages to extend his arm, trying his best to draw something. It hurts. His arm hurts. His body hurts. He feels his consciousness slowly fade away, but he still tries to fight back. He finishes drawing his moon symbol, smiling. What was that for? No one's gonna find his dead body anyway. What's the symbol for?

Everything fades out.

•Midnight is fully blind in his angel form. His wings are made out of his ribs. Basically, they have been deformed and bent out. His ribs grow longer frequently. They stop at a point, most likely when he's moments away from getting ripped apart by them.

[ndostairlyrium]

Let him send the troops for once, I beg you

[theartingace]

A Season 2 'cover' to go with my initial cover design!

[taphwa]

[ghirahimbo]

also, in totk there’s very few mentions of the champions and calamity ganon, and a lot of the stuff from botw seems to have been retconned, like the sheikah technology etc. i feel like that would be such a bittersweet world for post-calamity link to be living in 😭

yes..... yes :')

It's one of my main issues with TotK, to be honest. I think Majora's Mask was able to get away with being a sequel because they took Link literally out of Hyrule, leaving the previous story intact. TotK, because it wanted to take place in that same Hyrule without leaning too heavily on BotW, ended up practically dismantling the old story instead. I think there are many ways they could have paid respectful homage to BotW without the new game completely revolving around it, and retconning/ignoring so much kinda defeats the purpose of it being a sequel at all in my mind? But yes, I do think it would be bittersweet for him 😭

[butchers-dead-hands]

sorry I made Daniel submissive and breedable :/ Oh well, there's other characters

[nekomasmngr]

had the most tiring concert weekend experience ever and i just want to hyperfixate on idol!kuroo fics or bf!kuroo supporting my fangirl side fics this week to cope with the pcd but i looked at my schedule again this week and omg even if my body is seriously so, so sore, i remembered i have to be out and about for events and shoots, givE ME STRENGTH!!!

[cubicpeebles]

The bird anatomy post I reblogged reminded me of these little goobers I created a while back!

I can't believe I forgot about my silly crows...

[4giorno]

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

[azure-clockwork]

I love the genre of (usually male) engineers who know they’re smart and think that makes them magically experts on everything. Homeskillet, you’re a mechanical engineer and programmer who isn’t even really good at either, and you’re attempting to tell me (the team’s electronics gal) and our EE about quadrature encoders. You’re just wrong but you won’t let me get a word in edgewise. I have been staring at our wiring diagram til my eyes bleed and I have done six other projects with similar motors. Shut the actual fuck up.

[goldalarm]

swore i wouldn't become addicted to the kudos but they took hold of me and I do resent their absence

[gallusrostromegalus]

The Van Has Officially Declared It Spooky Season

---

I've got my parent's van for the week and it seems determined to establish my status as The Local Cryptid by terrorizing an innocent 7-11 clerk.

...I might need to back up a bit.

My mother is an eminently sensible woman who knows herself well, and when The Plauge hit, she knew she'd need some sort of mentally and physically engaging craft project to keep herself from going insane and massacring the local zoning and water management boards (even if they have it coming). So she and Dad acquired a utility van and converted it into a camper van because while they love camping, they're past the age where their joints and immune systems will tolerate sleeping on the cold ground in a nylon tent.

They did a terrific job of it and my mom taught herself woodworking and carpentry and now the van has it's own cabinets, fold-away dining table, and removable queen-sized bed with memory foam mattress. My Dad was already a computer engineer, but he learned the dark magics of automotive software and electronics to install after-market backup cameras, a media player that would take a terabyte hard drive and a solar-powered battery and outlet so they could wake up and just turn on the kettle and griddle for breakfast without having to exit the van into a cold morning on an empty stomach.

Truly, the height of Camping Luxury.

My parents are both in their mid-seventies and my primary life goal is to be at least half as cool and hale as they are when I get old.

Anyway, they take it out at least a dozen times a year and it works fabulously, but, being as I am on good terms with my parents and also finishing the process of moving house, I've been borrowing it to move large and cumbersome objects that will not fit in the back of my equally lovely but minuscule Honda hatchback.

It's a Great Van. Very easy and comfortable to drive. Stunningly good MPG for it's size. The best cruise control I've ever had in a car.

It's just also. Quirky. Mischievous, even.

---

If this van has a fault its that it bears the unfortunate affliction that all lightly used white utility vans have in that the combination of an utter lack of branding features and the large dent/scrape I accidentally put on it while trying to escape a Denny's last Thanksgiving means that this vehicle is one addition of a Badly Spray-Painted "FREE CANDY" on the side away from being the sort of vehicle you see in an edgy horror movie.

It's got the same issue that Doberman Dogs have where they look like the sort of creature that likes to snack on toddler's faces whilst actually having personalities made of marshmallow fluff. This vehicle is unnecessarily menacing and I think nothing short of an airbrushed Epic Van Wizard will correct this. People see this van pull up and lean over and squint suspiciously at me when the driver's side door opens, and then look moderately confused when, instead of Charles Manson, a small, potato-shaped creature with neon purple hair and a statistically unlikely assortment of dogs emerges.

My own two dogs, Herschel the Hanukkah Goblin/Corgi and Charleston Chew The Taco Dumpster Dog, Do Not Like The Van. Even with the bed in it, they have a tendency to slide and roll around in the back, and both WILL chew through dog saftey belts or other attempts to secure them in there.

On the other hand, my house mate's dog, an exceptionally tall standard poodle whom we lovingly call "The Creature", loves the Van because SHE wears her doggy seat-belt with only mild complaining and gets to sit up in the passenger seat like A People.

Also like A People, The Creature likes to stand and walk around on her hind legs. It doesn't hurt her and it's entirely voluntary, but every so often I will feel a hand on my arm and instead of my husband or friend, it's a canine that's taller than I am on her hind legs who wants to stare at my face with soulful, concerned eyes. The Creature's favorite thing is that she is exactly the right height for me to hold her arm in Genteel Fashion and walk around the pet food or hardware store with her like I'm a count escorting a debutante around a royal ball.

---

As it stands, I am set to inherit this vehicle whenever my Honda gives up the ghost, and I fully intend to paint an Epic Van Wizard on it when that time comes.

The other peculiarity of The Van is that while Dad did manage to successfully install all his after-market electronics, not all the electronics get along. Sometimes, they fight for Dominance. The Terabyte Music Player and the Backup Camera have a particularly contentious relationship, and turning on the music has about a 25% chance of turning on the backup camera as well, and turning on the Backup Camera is equally likely to turn on the music.

Firthermore, The Van has a favorite song.

I am not kidding that Dad filled an entire terabyte hard drive with music and the software to sort it via the radio controls, but of all the Early Boomer Dad Rock (Kingston Trio over The Eagles) and Irish Folk and Symphonies and the entire discography of Weird Al Yankovic, The Van's favorite song- The one it picks to play as victory music every time it beats the Backup Camera at their weird electronic game of rock-paper-scissors -is The Liberty Bell March by John Phillip Sousa.

You all know this song already.

...but in case you've forgotten the tune:

Yeah.

The Van's favorite song is the goddamn Monty Python's Flying Circus Theme Music.

It does not play this song at a normal volume.

Every time I turn on the Backup Camera and it manages to turn the music player on as well, The Van insists on absolutely blasting this nonsense on at the maximum volume it's physically capable of producing, which I know is loud enough to be heard from the Denver International Airport's Pickup zone when they Van decided to start playing it from the economy lot about half a mile away.

Perhaps it's The Van's way of honoring the aesthetic sensibilities and sonic enthusiasm of Mr. Sousa.

...I can't help but wonder if the purpose of an Epic Van Wizard is to control this sort of faerie-like malarkey, and channel these chaotic energies into things like Spell of Don't Break Down In Nevada or Enchantment Of Always Have Good Parking.

---

So last Friday the 13th, I get a call from my friend and housemate, at said airport.

It's roughly 11PM at night, and I have already retired for the evening. I am in the exact minimum of clothing required to be a decent housemate and not scandalize the neighbors should I happen to walk by a window. My feet are up. There is a cat in my lap and fictional British people murdering each other in highly inventive fashion on the tv. -But my friend has returned from her friend's wedding,and either American or United Airlines has managed to lose her luggage, including, among other valuable possessions, the keys to her car. ...So she cannot just drive home as originally planned.

There are, as luck would have it, her spare set of keys not eight feet from me.

Being a good and decent person, I agree to bring the spare keys to her so she may get home before daybreak and not spend a semester's worth of tuition on an uber across the greater Denver traffic jam.

Being also that she Loves Activities, and it's her mom we're going to pick up, I elect to take along The Creature.

I am primarily focused on remembering how to get to the airport and not leaving my friend's spare keys on the counter, so I throw on a pair of flip-flops, step outside, remember that it's AUTUMN and my minimal evening attire is not sufficient thermal protection, step back in, grab the first coat in the closet I lay hands on, pull it on, check that I have her keys again and leave.

The trip to the airport is largely unremarkable, save that it becomes necessary for me to put on sunglasses to drive, despite it being nearly the witching hour and almost entirely darker than the inside of a cow.

It's necessary because this blissful darkness of night is violently punctured by a startling number of cars that seem to have installed miniaturized but no less powerful lighthouse bulbs in where their headlights ought to go so the oncoming traffic and sports cars that insist on tailgating me in the slow lane alike illuminate the road and my mirrors with the kind of radiance I'd normally associate with the arrival of a Seraphim.

I arrive at the distant highly discounted airport car lot where my housemate is waiting, deeply apologetic. It's nothing. I say. Once I see that your car starts up, I'm gonna go to that 7-11 across the way that I parked in front of, get a slurpee or something and I'll see you at home.

While she is retrieving her vehicle (an equally eccentric but much more stately Subaru that is old enough to be elected to congress) I rifle through the loose change in the glove box and discover that I have exactly $6.66 in small bills and coins. The Subaru, continuing it's long voyage into vehicular immortality, immediately starts up.

Upon her return, we all remember that my friend had all her camping gear in the backseat of the car and there is no room for The Creature to ride home with her parent, so I again assure her it's nothing, and will just take The Creature into the 7-11 with me. She is trained as a service animal and needs the practice after the plague.

I wave my friend off and turn to enter the 7-11.

I promptly trip over the jutting back bumper of The Van and fall, cartoonishly, face-first onto the sidewalk.

Fortunately, I have a lot of practice falling on my face, and have learned not to throw my hands out but instead cover my face, so my unexpected self-inflicted attempted curb-stomping lightly scrapes my hairline and nothing else -my sunglasses even stay in place- and I get up and resume my quest for a slurpee.

It's well known that the airport is a lawless place, and the 7-11 across from the discounted airport parking at the stroke of midnight is no exception.

I know it's the stroke of Midnight because there's one of those Audubon society bird-call clocks that makes bird noises, and my arrival is heralded by the twittering call of a Summer Tanager. I am almost charmed enough by the unusual choice of chronological device to excuse the exorbitant Airport-adjacent mark-up of Slurpee prices. I stand at the machine for some time, trying to decide on a size for the price and guess what the fuck "Blue Lighting Blast" is supposed to taste like.

The Creature is being Very Polite but is somewhat agitated, I assume because she *just* saw her mother for the first time in three days and then she LEFT with no explanation, so The Creature is on her hind legs, staring woefully into my eyes, asking to be escorted around the 7-11. Even though that's not what she's not supposed to be doing, there's nobody else in here, so I let her hang off my arm and discuss various Slurpee Flavor options with her.

We eventually decide on an experiment in which I try a Small Blue Lightning Blast, and discover it tastes a bit like licking a nintendo cartridge but in a pleasantly satisfying way.

I go up to pay and realize something is amiss.

The Cashier is a young man staring at me with wide eyes, one had over the register and the other wrapped up in his rosary.

I look down at myself.

In my haste to reunite my friend with her spare keys and service animal, I had left the house in the following accoutrements:

Flip Flops. Not matching. It's below freezing outside. That last part is not particularly odd footwear for the weather in for Colorado, but it's an important detail for the rest of the ensemble.

Assorted scrapes, bruises, cuts and welts on my arms and legs that come with doing outdoor work and living in a house with three dogs and a fully-clawed cat that all want to be in my lap all the time. It's cold out, so vasoconstriction has pulled the blood away from my skin, a trait that served my ancestors well during the last Ice Age, but leaves me with pale skin to contrast the various wounds and I look like a corpse that fell out of the back of a pickup truck.

The black Bootyshorts with "CRYPTID" painted in bright red gothic font across my ass, that @theshitpostcalligrapher gave me for my wedding present.

A peculiar but extremely comfortable garment that straddles the line between "Lacy Camisole" and "Industrial-Strength Sports Bra" like the Ever Given straddling the Suez Canal. It is also Bright Red. with black accents.

The Jacket I had grabbed out of the closet, which is in fact, a black Velour Dinner Jacket.

The Tokyo-Ghoul inspired reusable anti-covid mask a friend made me with the set of Coyote Teeth.

My sunglasses, which are shaped like a Halloween Bat. The lenses are the wings and the body is the nose bridge. It is ALSO bright red.

A Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle that I have been audibly affectionately calling "Dear Creature" who is hanging off my arm like she's my Prom Date.

The Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle is ALSO dressed up in a black Dog Sweater that has white bones printed on it to look like its an X-ray jacket showing off her skeleton.

I look like I am taking my Very Fancy Werewolf Girlfriend to a particularly casual Dinner Party for Vampires, but the thing that's really selling it and probably alarming the kid the most is the fun accessory I acquired in the parking lot not five minutes earlier:

The "Small Scrape At my Hairline" is actually a painless but PROFUSELY bleeding head wound that I had somehow entirely failed to notice covering my face, neck, decolletage and magnificent cleavage with blood like a Tarantino Film Extra.

This does explain why The Creature has been delicately trying to use her bodyweight to push me down onto the floor for the last ten minutes. So I don't injure myself while we wait for the paramedics she hoped this kid called to arrive, you see.

The Creature has such a High and Naive Opinion of humanity.

I decide this social situation is already fucked, and the only way out is through, and with haste, before I start dripping on the floor.

"Hi there!" I say cheerfully, to indicate this is a visually alarming but not terribly serious situation. "Just a Small Slurpee!"

The Cashier has entered the relevant code into the register before I finish the sentence. His gaze flicks off me just long enough to look at the total, and he grips his Rosary harder.

$6.66

"Oh cool! I have exact change!" I say, taking the money out of my as-yet-unsanguined pocket without looking and slap it down on the counter. "You have a good night and be safe out there!" I wave, leaving.

I get in The Van, mortified, buckle The Creature up, and as I make to leave, I have to put it in reverse, which automatically turns on the backup Camera.

It also turns on the music player.

I make eye contact with the cashier as the dulcet tones of John Phillip Sousa boom from the van hard enough to make the windshield and the windows of the 7-11 rattle for the nine-and-a-half seconds I have to wait to be able to turn the volume back down. Not knowing what else to to, I give him a thumbs up, and leave.

Anyway, now I know what my Future Van Wizard has got to be dressed like, and what their familiar is.

---

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