#Master of Hallucinations/Illusions

[tofuless]

Doodle of that lil challenge my brain wanted to do. I don't have enough time to finish this but I figured I'd throw it out there lol.

Oc fusion challenge is surprisingly fun

[undiscovered-horizon]

Die Happy - Sanji x Reader

SUMMARY: Sanji is disillusioned about your lack of interest in him. Someone like you could pick and choose among princes, kings and emperors. What's a measly cook to you? Nevertheless, his lovesick heart continuously rejoices when you choose him to waste time with.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 1.3k

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Part 2 -> "Maelstrom"

Sanji has never believed in ghouls, witches, faeries and the like. However, when he met you his belief began to shatter:

Like a dark sorceress covering the whole world with a curse, you lured all the influential, important men like fire does moths. At first, Sanji fooled himself that all those generals, merchants and noblemen only wanted something pretty to hang onto their shoulders but reality destroyed his comforting illusion when the said men offered riches most people couldn’t even fathom. If you asked them for an armada to sail to the Grand Line, they’d only ask what type of wood you’d prefer. Despite something akin to world domination lying at your fingertips, you always laughed those offers off, telling your powerful suitors that you would think about their words and get back to them.

Sanji once asked whether you’re truly considering marrying one of the generals or kings. Some more naive part of him hoped you’d say no. Alas, the truth, once again, was his adversary:

“Obviously!” you giggled at his silly question. “But I won’t marry the first one that offers me wealth and whatnot. First, I’d like to see all of my options and the world…” your voice trailed away as you vaguely pointed around the two of you. “Well, it’s a big place. Many more kingdoms to visit.”

But to his own demise, the cook was a fool unlike any other. He had no chance at winning your heart, no matter how much he’d try. Still, his untamable desire egged him on, whispering sweet songs of your grace. Even if he could taste your lips only in his imagination, he could do his best for you to have a reason to keep him around like a dog that begs for scraps at his master’s table.

Sanji knows he’s only hurting himself, only furthering his desperation when he makes you smile or earns a speck of your affection. Every dawn, he promises to free himself from your sorcery but when dusk comes and his left with the Moon, his only confidant, he realizes that he could never possess enough power to cut himself free from you. You’ve pierced his heart right through and if he pulls your knife out of his chest, he’s bound to bleed out and die. It’s better if he lets you have complete control over his mind and soul - it’s the only way he will make it out alive.

He’s left cold and lonely on that night. Soft, silver moonlight washes over him through the small porthole in the wall of his room. The sea is almost black at this hour of the night but it becomes a mystical sapphire when the Moon’s glow washes over the lazy waves making them glisten like pure diamonds.

Diamonds… maybe if he had diamonds, you’d see him as a man and not just a shipmate.

Quiet knocking on his door wakes Sanji up from his thoughts. Before he has a chance to get up and open the door or tell the guest to come in, the mysterious visitor enters out of their own volition.

Your tired face makes Sanji think about painting in museums - the ones all connoisseurs consider “classics” and “timeless”. The silk shirt you’re wearing looks not only awfully expensive but, which is much worse, to be a men’s size. Its hem ends right underneath your buttcheeks, threatening to expose your body should you lift your hands. In the darkness of his cabin, you appear as nothing beyond a phantom, a hallucination born out of desperation. And just like a ghost, you’ve come to haunt and torment him in the sweetest of ways; in a way only you can.

“What’s wrong, love?” he asks in a raspy voice. Sanji is doing a great job at appearing unaffected by your rather scantily clad form.

Carefully, you close the door behind you and walk towards him. Your skin glows when you step into the rays of soft moonlight pouring in through the porthole. Dishevelled hair, half-closed eyes and a slightly puffy face - Sanji has imagined you this way countless times but never actually seen. He can feel his body burning up, telling him to seize the opportunity, to wash you in the most charming and suave words he can think of.

“Nami kicks while sleeping,” you say quietly. “I swear to god my whole side is bruised at this point. Can I sleep with you?”

Sanji has to remind himself to breathe and to do so calmly. He’s cool, completely in control of himself. His mouth feels unbearably dry.

“‘Course you can,” he answers casually. With a swift move of his arm, he lifts the duvet. “Come on in.”

The pure bliss that suddenly appears on your face forces Sanji to take in a sharp, ragged breath. It’s an expression he also imagined one too many times when his desperation poisons his mind - not that he’s willing to admit it even to himself. He knows it’s wrong to even entertain a scenario in which you would grace him with such an enraptured face. Still, his will is not as strong as he often makes it out to be.

“Sanji, you are my salvation,” you tell him while getting under the covers with him.

“I know, love.”

It’s both strange and natural, the way your body fits his. As though the two of you have done it so much the memory of your muscles twists and turns your limbs to rest in the most comfortable and intimate way. The odd familiarity makes Sanji think that maybe in another lifetime this is how he always sleeps. He wishes he could find himself in that reality even for a second. Alas, it’s too far out of his reach.

“Damn, you’re really comfortable,” you mumble against his chest. Your hot breath makes him shiver. “And warm. I don’t think I’ll be going back to my bed.” A small grin of cosiness appears on your face - one that Sanji will never forget.

His broad chest and strong arm normally go unnoticed by you but now they’re like a fortress. And just like high stone walls are an unspoken promise of security and happiness, his firm hold on your body is a silent oath of a good night's sleep.

“Stay as long as you want,” he whispers back to you. 

Maybe if you weren’t so exhausted, you’d notice that his words aren’t a statement but a plea. They’re the last thing you remember before drifting off to a restful slumber.

Your breathing slows down and gains a steady, shallow rhythm. Keeping you close to his chest, Sanji allows his hands to gently brush against your arm and back. His movements are feathery, almost fearful. He wouldn’t want you to wake up and change your mind about spending the night beside him - he can indulge in his heart’s desire but he must do so carefully.

“If you only gave me a chance,” he whispers into the night.

Knowing you’re asleep and bound to remain ignorant of his affections, Sanji kisses the top of your head. His lips linger against your hair while he takes in the scent that haunts him day and night. Unknowingly, his grip around your body tightens at that moment as though he has suddenly grown most terrified of having you disappear. Too many nights he’s dreamed of this exact scenario only to wake up to a cold, empty bed.

When the dawn arrives and you leave his arms, this little moment of affection won't mean anything to you. It means nothing now. Sanji knows this very well. He doesn't try to lie to himself that maybe you'll wake up a changed person and finally see him as more than a friendly comrade. Although tonight means nothing to you, it holds an unspeakable weight to Sanji, who will forever gloat about the fact that when you needed help, it was him you turned to. It was his arms that guarded your sleep for a few hours.

Fighting off sleep until he collapses, Sanji revels in the feeling of you against his body and pretends, even if for one night, that you’re his the same way he will always be yours. Watching you sleep cuddled into him, he swears he could die happy now.

[saphronethaleph]

Backpack Bnuuy

“Your training,” Yoda warned. “You must complete your training!”

“The whole point is-” Luke began, biting off the words. “Look, I know it’s a trap, but my friends are in trouble! The reason why it’s a good trap is that it’s going to work, and it’s going to work because I won’t abandon my friends. I don’t want to be someone who would abandon my friends.”

Yoda looked thoughtful.

“A good point, you make,” he conceded. “Still. Face Vader alone, you must not.”

“I don’t have a choice,” Luke objected.

“A choice, there always is,” Yoda chided. “A good choice, less often. However…”

His cane swung up to point at Luke. “Wait there.”

Luke stood there as instructed, confused, then glanced at Ben’s spirit.

“Do you know what this means?” he asked. “Was he always this odd?”

“Not really, no,” Ben replied. “He’s really been able to focus in the last few months.”

Yoda came back out of his hut, holding a fuzzy animal.

“Here,” he said, putting it down. “A travel sized Jedi Master, this is.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that, Master,” the animal replied, shaking out his long ears. “Good day. I am Master Ikrit.”

“Small enough to fit in your ship, he is!” Yoda said, with a nod. “A pacifist, he also is.”

“I can explain myself, Master,” Ikrit replied.

“...have you been there all along?” Luke asked.

“I was actually on Yavin Four,” Ikrit said. “Meditating on the Force. I… lost track of time a bit.”

“Missing for four hundred years, you were,” Yoda pointed out.

“I said I was sorry, Master,” Ikrit replied. “I did skip the whole… massacre thing, though.”

His tail flicked slightly, then he launched himself in a Force-guided leap that placed him neatly on Luke’s shoulders.

“As my old teacher says, I am a pacifist,” the lapine-feline Jedi Master said. “Fortunately, the World Between Worlds does not involve violence. Do you have a backpack?”

Luke blinked, confused.

“...a backpack?” he repeated, carefully.

“I will be your emergency evacuation mechanism,” Ikrit told him. “Through my four hundred years of meditation on the Force, I became aware of the ways in which distance itself is an illusion. A very persistent illusion, to be sure, but I can take you from one place to another in an instant.”

His ear bounced. “...so long as I already know the destination, that is. Distance is an illusion, but getting lost is not. I only got here by following my padawan bond with Master Yoda.”

Luke still felt confused.

“What’s a padawan?” he asked.

“An old term, it is,” Yoda supplied. “A Jedi term. A term for the one who learns while a Knight or Master teaches.”

Around a day later, Yoda was humming to himself and cooking when there was a thump outside.

“Master?” Ikrit called. “Do you know how to heal? I’ve got Luke and his hand, but… there’s an and there.”

“Always rushing around, young kids these days are,” Yoda grumbled, taking his cane and stumping out of the house. “Lost, you did?”

“I don’t think so,” Luke replied, staring at the stump of his hand, then winced as Yoda began making passes over the gap and lifted his severed hand to intersect with the stump. “I lost the fight, but… Leia and the others escaped. I can feel it. I won.”

“Good,” Yoda said. “You did learn the lesson.”

“...does that whole process of going from world to world involve hallucinations?” Luke asked, looking at Ikrit and away from the healing process going on with his missing hand. “Because I swear I saw a really big wolf.”

“Oh, that’s Dume,” Ikrit said. “I’m… not really sure what’s up with him. He’s nice but I’ve not spoken to him much. I think he used to be human?”

His ears flicked. “Sorry I didn’t catch the lightsaber.”

“All right, that is,” Yoda said, firmly. “Make a new one, we will.”

He pointed his stick at Ikrit. “And then, take him to Yavin, you will. Get in touch with his friends from there, he should. Visitors, I do not want.”

[skyeslittlecorner]

im the anon who messed up the request, im pretty sure i requested the kings when mc is reborn as a devil, a while after gabriel killed them and they get reunited with the kings

(sorry if it doesnt make sense english isnt my first language & thank you!)

-🌙 anon

Hello 🌙! Everything is clear now, I actually hadn't received this request before. Good thing you asked again, because I'd love to write it 🙏

The previous parts: first and second

Satan's depression had seriously worsened since you were gone, though only some nobles saw it. His explosions became more random and much more powerful. One day, after a fight, he was walking through town when he saw something familiar. It didn't matter if you looked like your old self or not, he recognized you. He reached you, grabbed you in his arms and started whispering your name fanatically, showering you with kisses. Sitri followed him, certain he had gone mad and was hallucinating, only to be kicked. You were confused at first, but hazy memories began to come back to you as Satan took your breath away with a kiss. You tangled your fingers in your king's hair, promising that you wouldn't scare him like that again.

Mammon will recognize you when you come to see the palace-tomb erected in your honor. Somehow you felt like you should come there... and you realized why when you were pulled into a large chest. Even though he has enormous strength and huge arms, he hugged you so gently that it was as if he had a porcelain figurine in his arms. He picked you up and cupped your cheek. And then the buttock. His eyes are dreamy, he has finally found his greatest treasure. “Welcome back home, Master.”

Beelzebub didn't recognize you, or at least he didn't believe it was you when his drunk brain told him so. He had to get rid of his sadness somehow, and alcohol and casual sex... didn't help, but what else was he supposed to do? Especially since that pretty devil who joined him in the lounge looks so damn much like you? He's sure that when he gets sober, you'll disappear again. You will be showered you with kisses and caresses, he’ll steal you away all night long, assuring you that he loves you, that he will never leave you again, that he will do everything to make you come back. This is the first night in your life that you will wake up and still have him by your side. Sober. In love. And happier than ever in his life, because he realized that these were not his drunken delusions. It's you.

Leviathan rarely accepts audiences, much less from random devils, so when you came, he was going to dismiss you. Instead, his heart almost stopped when he saw you. He forgot about dignity and got down from the throne, came closer, cupping your cheeks in his hands. “It's… it's you. You're back.” Even though he had his illusions, deep down he didn't believe in them. But you chose return, you chose Hell, you chose him. You are so brave and beautiful that he feels jealous. His subjects can’t look at you, because it makes him jealous, too. He will hang his entire throne room, offering you his arm. You will be taken to his palace, and he will order to prepare a welcome fit for a queen. This day will go down in history as a national holiday in Hades.

[maxwell-grant]

Thoughts on the master of fear, Scarecrow? Also, fave design, he has so many good ones (second BTAS, his trading card one, mistress of fear, Gaslight,, fear for sale, the Arkham Games etc)?

Hey so, do any of you remember Batman Live? It was this really fun, extravagant stage show that touched on a lot of Batman hallmarks and was generally a really fun time as far as I recall. I went to the São Paulo premiere with my family, and I was a little too young to really recall most of it now, but some things I definitely remember like the huge Joker hot air balloon made of performers in bodypaint, or the comedy sequences in the Iceberg Lounge. The one thing that stuck with me the most was when the Scarecrow showed up. Batman goes to Arkham Asylum and the entire comedy camp tone drops dead, as he walks in and finds all these bodies in straightjackets hanging from chains, and the doors open as The Scarecrow walks towards him in stilts, summoning loud smoke eruptions that are poisoning and weakening Batman as he leers over him. That part actually did scare me as a kid, and it was probably the first time I had any kind of feelings on Scarecrow imprinted in me.

I was introduced to The Scarecrow as this uniquely horrifying villain who could terrify through presentation alone. I didn't particularly understand what the fear gas was, I was too taken with that ungainly thing up there with the stilts and all those people turned into cadaverous decorations, lurking from the endless halls of the asylum, who towered over everyone and placed Batman into a writhing breakdown with a few gestures, and never appeared again until the cast roll, completely absent from the rogues gatherings after. Granted, of course that's because the stilts prevented him from joining the fight scenes, but that helped to reinforce his mystery. He wasn't someone Batman was going to punch back, no no, the Scarecrow simply vanished as soon as he was done with disarming Batman, and you'd just have to pray for that unfathomable creep to never show up again.

And I'd say this might be part of why I've never been too big on the fear gas, in part because I was first enraptured by a version of The Scarecrow who clearly didn't need it that much, or at least, could do much more besides it. The Scarecrow is, I'd say actually one of my top 10 DC characters, half of that on the basis of his designs, but he's a character who tends to really, really struggle under a lack of cohesion and being subordinate to his gimmick, much more so than the other rogues. The fear gas is a good gimmick, but it is just that, a gimmick, and one that's usually reliant on how far can the story push the horror and the visuals to at least make it effectively scary for us, otherwise it gets incredibly boring very fast, and it's not even a gimmick exclusive to him since so many other characters have similar mind control/illusion abilities/gadgetry at hand (and to say nothing of Hugo Strange, who first used fear gas and who quite frankly kicks the Scarecrow's ass in terms of quality storylines, although Hugo does that to most of the other Batman villains too)

The Scarecrow has become the go-to character for hallucination sequences / revisiting character traumas, which frequently makes him less of a character and more so a convenient plot device, a problem heightened by the larger issue here that is his inconsistent motivation, or lack thereof. He lacks the kind of "breakout" stories that his fellow major Batman villains have had that usually cement an ongoing characterization, and his most famous/celebrated appearences in mass media don't really do much to combat the assertion that he is shallow and weak and whose only asset is the gas (namely, his boss fights in Arkham Asylum, which are all about the fear gas hallucination scares, and his role in Nolan's Batman, which is very fun, but also purposefully plays him up for ridicule and lack of depth next to the other villains)

These days, the Scarecrow is a tedious pip-squeak. His schemes lack verve, his cruelties stir little in the way of frissons. Haunted by cliché to an even greater extent than the other rogues, he’s often brought low with a single sock to the jaw delivered by Batman, or by finding himself on the receiving end of his own fear-inducing concoctions. He often acts as a pawn in the hands of bigger, badder third parties. He’s ostensibly a stand-in for the figure of the reductive, smug and hypocritical psychologist, nicely bundled up for the audience to humiliate in effigy - TheMindlessOnes's rogue review for Scarecrow

In "Nothing to Fear" it is explained that Jonathan Crane has always had this "thing" for scaring people. (Just as Snidely Whiplash had his "thing" for tying women to railroad tracks, I suppose.) But this is a wan kind of motive. One senses sadly that the real motive for the Scarecrow's behavior lies in the writer's need for someone to do something reprehensible. At the root of the matter may be a difficulty in sorting out the Scarecrow's ends from his means, with a consequent confusion between the goals the Scarecrow intends to reach and the tactics he employs in reaching them.

As a psychologist specializing in phobic disorders, Crane knows how to induce fear and trembling in his victims. But this tells us nothing about what the Scarecrow wants to accomplish. And without a sense or statement of what those goals are, the writer will be tempted to substitute means for end and make the Scarecrow's goal simply the scaring of people. Usually his actions are woefully underexplained - Dreams in Darkness' review by Toonzone

You might think that I'd be advocating for the Scarecrow, then, to disregard a need for a motivation and become as unknowable and horrific as possible, to recapture the awe I felt at his Batman Live self, but no, not at all. For one, I don't think the best version of anything is necessarily the one that made the most impact on me as a kid. Two, there have been some attempts over the years to remove Scarecrow from the toxin or seriously amp him up as a threat, and frankly, most of those have only made the character dramatically worse and more boring (I don't remember the name, but there was a Batman story a while ago where he goes on a big scary killing spree with no toxin just to prove he can and it was fucking terrible). Three, and the big one here, is that this pretty much forces you to get rid of Dr. Jonathan Crane, and I think that does a disservice to the character's potential. I think that's giving up on trying to make him work as a character and I don't think you have to do that.

My preferred characterization for Crane is one that emphasizes his nature as a scholar turned supervillain. The cold and misanthropic and neurotic nerd professor who spent most of his salary on books and took to terrorizing the city as a costumed criminal in part because he wanted money to buy more books. Who takes off the costume mid-crime spree to school his henchmen on specifics of brain chemistry, who gets revenge on those that wrong his students or even employs them as henchmen, still the same guy who thinks there's nothing wrong with firing a loaded gun in a packed classroom as a demonstration. Far less interested in human connections than he is in human reactions, things that can surprise him or that he can catalogue or research or write about. Someone who's not a sadist for sadism's sake, but who doesn't really see you as a person so much as he sees a test subject. I like Crane as a snarky humorous heel who thinks of himself as amoral and mature while doing horribly immoral and childish things, the Herbert West or Rusty Venture of Batman villains (James Urbaniak is definitely the voice I'd pick for him).

My preferred kind of motivation for him is something along the lines of how he's portrayed in most of Kings of Fear, where he puts Batman through the wringer in part as an attempt to get to him and cure him once and for all, or issues #4-5 of The Batman Adventures where he induces city-wide illiteracy in part as a protest against the city's failing education. In Gothtopia he makes all of Gotham hallucinate their perfect ideal lives, eliminating the crime rate but causing the suicide rate to spike up in return, and yes it does turn out to be the set-up for a really generic "fear gas everyone with blimps and make everyone twice as scared" pay off when his involvement is revealed, but I always thought Scarecrow being able and willing to do that, to create these huge and even benevolent-seeming social experiments, as an idea with legs. Fear State was frustratingly halfway there, with the initial set-up of Scarecrow pursuing a theory for fear-based social upheaval, but on top of not being very good, it also wound up that he was just doing the same old thing again and had Batman call him out as someone who just wanted to gas the city and make everyone scared again and never changes and does anything different, which seemed like Tynion defeating his own purpose of trying to make a defining Scarecrow story and address his lack of one, completely failing to address the why the character has that kind of problem and upending itself for meta commentary before doing anything interesting.

Even Kings of Fear, easily the best Scarecrow story of the past decades if not outright ever, kinda ends in a bit of a cop-out where The Scarecrow has to be wrong ("Even when he's telling the truth, he's lying, and even when he's right, he's wrong", Gordon tells Batman to reassure him, to nullify the past 5 issues criticizing and tearing into Batman from every angle imaginable), and he has to be a sadist who just wanted to fuck with Batman and uncover his worst fears because it's what he does. Why does Scarecrow want to unravel people and wrench their worst fears into the surface? Because he's a sadist who gets off on it? I guess that's the canon answer most of the time, but it's such a boring, weak one. Because he wants revenge on the world / bullies? Still weak, done better by other villains even. Because of an unspeakably traumatic childhood that taught him the world was ruled by fear and therefore driving him to become it's master? Okay, but it still doesn't actually answer what he wants to get out of doing what he does.

We know that Jonathan Crane was a fragile youth routinely terrorized and abused by others and plainly traumatized by his experiences. We know that he is learned and brilliant and given to introspection and fantasy.

From this base it is not hard to imagine Crane turning into a man fiercely devoted to solitude and study and capable of a murderous rage when his privacy is violated. It is possible, in other words, to imagine him as a reactive force, in the mold of Freeze, systematically terrorizing and destroying anyone who crosses him but rarely wanting to start trouble himself.

Or we can imagine him as a mercenary, a specialist hired by others for nefarious purposes, but who is not himself strongly motivated by particular rages or desires.

But if the Scarecrow is going to remain a sadist and a sadist only—if he is going to be moved only by the psychotic desire to harm others—we ought to be made to feel the seductive power that sadism has over its practitioners; we should be made to feel and appreciate the hot and sour joy that comes from the purposeful humiliation of another - Dreams in Darkness review by Toonzone

It's kind of a frustrating pattern in a lot of his stories where he gives a reason for doing something, and it turns out to be a cover for yet another sadistic fear gas attack, but his cover reason was a more interesting motivation for him than what he actually was going for. A villain who mainly just gets a kick out of hurting people and concocts bullshit excuses and reasons to justify said hurting? The Joker does that already, but the Joker always clearly states what he wants and has all those ways to make cruelty for cruelty's sake entertaining. If that's all The Scarecrow is also, no wonder he's going to be so incredibly lacking most of the time (nevermind the fact that he's never going to be the guy most infamous for gassing Gotham City).

Yes, he may be sadistic and cruel, he may enjoy what he does too much, and maybe there really isn't any kind of realistic explanation as to why a man would dress up as a scarecrow to commit terrorism and spray innocent people with chemicals to make them terrified, but refer to the guy he's fighting. "Realistic" is the wrong term. The issue here is less "why" the Scarecrow does what he does, and more what is he hoping to get out of it. Granted, this is less of a concern if you're playing The Scarecrow as a figure of horror, someone who's not even really human underneath that outfit. But I think that locks away much of his versatility. The Scarecrow needs Jonathan Crane, and I think there's good stuff to like about that awful man.

I like Jonathan Crane the sardonic pragmatic scientist who still embraces his hopelessly ridiculous life, a guy who's not nearly as above it all as he'd like to be and has wants and needs moreso than he really likes to admit. I like him as a book lover, as a fan of horror, I like him as the kind of guy who'd send fan mail to Elvira and break out of Arkham just to catch a Halloween parade and guest star in a Scooby-Doo movie for a change. I like him as someone who'd have a decent working relationship with the other rogues and pal with the Legion of Doom and get into a physical spat with Riddler over a chess game. Someone who custom-makes his own outfits and equipment, who makes scythes out of animal bones to fight Batman with, who picked the scarecrow motif in part because it was a term of derision his colleagues used on him.

Who pours himself over his research as he records his theories in a tape recorder, the kind of guy who grouses at having to clean another cell because he's getting annoyed at his test subjects killing themselves, seriously guys the cleaning supplies for this batch were as fresh as they could be, and the iguana amygdalas I used should be stopping your neocortexes from overreacting this strongly. Subject #3 over there got over his fear of centipedes yesterday and he hasn't screamed all morning, I'm gonna need the rest of you to stop being such babies, okay?

It must be terribly liberating for Crane, to transcend mere ugliness and become inhuman. Of all the rogues, he’s easily the one who takes Batman’s “I need a disguise; I shall become a beast of the night” schtick and runs with it the farthest - TheMindlessOnes's rogue review for Scarecrow

And that's for Jonathan Crane, man of science. The Scarecrow, however, is not science, he is unreason incarnate, and to me what most makes The Scarecrow work as a Batman villain has nothing to do with "they both use fear as a weapon", I always thought that was a bit shallow of an angle to pursue (most, if not all, the villains rely on fear, it comes with the whole "crime" thing). The two have a stronger connection via the costume, the theatricality, the becoming a creature of the night angle. None of the other major Batman villains are going into their costumes the way The Scarecrow is. They have their personas and varying degrees of division between them and their "real selves", but few of them are wearing outright identity-separating Halloween Monster Costumes with separate names and personalities they can dip in and out of at their convenience.

And I'm gonna interrupt myself to answer your second question. I couldn't pick just one design, so counting the Batman Live one above, I picked 10. These are not in order and they're not necessarily how I'd design him, I'd say my actual favorite Scarecrow designs are fan-made, but if I was going to pick out of "official" material these are the ones I'd go for. It's time for:

(Left-to-right: George Pratt's Scarecrow pin-up, Phil Jimenez's Scarecrow design, Ed Natividad's concept art for Suicide Squad)

(Left-to-right: His TNBA design by Bruce Timm as drawn by Luciano Vecchio, Alex Ross's design for Justice, and Tim Sale's Scarecrow)

(Left-to-right: Kelley Jones' design for Kings of Fear, Jeremy Raapack's design for Legends of the Dark Knight #25, Scarecrow's design in Happy Halloween, Scooby-Doo!)

*cough*, anyway: Most of the other rogues with their signature suits or masks or body distortions don't tend to have closets full of different variant Batsuits and scarecrow costumes to choose and devote to their cause and ideal, that they sit at night tailoring on how to make scarier or more loaded with weapons, that they might even have conversations with, things that sit in their closets waiting because both of these brilliant men, men who have (or at least had) different civilian lives, men who could stop doing this at any time, who both decided that becoming a Halloween monster prowling the streets to inflict terror is a necessary, even productive use of their time.

And I think that's the key word I want to end here, productive. I think The Scarecrow needs to be more productive. Because even if he's not aware of it, he is achieving progress via his research, and there is one way he's proved his ideas: Batman walks out of every fight they have stronger. Every encounter they have is a test that Batman resists and walks out of more able to cope with his own traumas, or at least, better able to resist them being weaponized against him. I always wanted to explore the idea that Crane is genuinely convinced he's doing people a favor or at least achieving something via all these horrible Scarecrow campaigns, and one thing he has achieved is that Batman is never not prepared for chemical attacks or assaults on his mind, Batman resists ungodly trials of willpower and determination and courage, in part because he has to deal with the Scarecrow pumping terror juice in his brain semi-regularly.

The fact that Crane loses and gets beaten up and has to retry schemes again and again and kill people and join the costume parade just to lure Batman is fairly inconsequential to him, so long as it gets results. He's not interested in dissecting Batman's brain or being more like Batman, that's Hugo Strange's thing. Hugo Strange needs Batman to be fearless, allmighty and perfect, where as Jonathan Crane wants nothing more than to unearth and study the fears and kinks in the armor, the dead last thing he wants is a perfect man. Hugo Strange wants to crawl naked into the mask of the great and terrible fascist and never come out, where as The Scarecrow wants to crack open all the masks in the world and feast luridly on whatever seeps out.

Batman isn't just the ultimate trial against his fear-ruled worldview (or even affirmation), and he isn't just a breakthrough waiting to happen: he might be his greatest success as of yet. A case study on the success of exposure therapy, proof of potential medicinal applications for his formula, the greatest guinea pig of all time because he won't die no matter what you pump into him, you name it. So what if all those other people couldn't stomach the procedure, so what if those precious innocents are too weak and stupid and useless to not get in the way of research, it's clearly worked wonders for those who could take it.

And if the future belongs to men like Batman, if all of these superheroes and supervillains are the way things are going to be like forever, if the future is Bat-shaped and as vast and uncertain and horrible as the forces shaping it, the future needs to be prepared. The future needs to grapple with it's past and face it's greatest horrors and become stronger for it. There is no such thing as overcoming fear, there is only living with it, embracing it, bowing to the primordial instinct that knows the answer before you do. Mankind grew and developed it's intelligence and tools out of fear, fear of the bigger predators out there, fear of the other cavemen, fear of starvation and death and everything they couldn't understand and master until they learned to fear it. What better knowledge to pass along than fear? And who is better qualified to teach about fear?

Maybe Crane isn't just another monster with a grudge, maybe he isn't another costumed revenge killer, maybe he isn't just a power-tripping sadist bully out to torment others because he can, and maybe he isn't a hopeless traumatized madman who destroyed his professional and personal life in a monstrous quest to satisfy an obsession ruling his soul.

Maybe he is a sane response to an insane situation. Ever heard that one before?

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Length of Years: A Rapunzel Retelling

The woman in the tower brushed her hair. It had long ago turned white, and had grown to cover most of the floor in her little stone room. She braided it with lightning speed, her gnarled fingers confidently completing the familiar task.

Her gaze wandered through the chamber filled with the works of a lifetime. Tapestries she'd woven. Books she'd read and written. Dresses she'd designed. Plants she'd carefully tended until flowering vines framed her one window to the outside world. Evidence of arts she'd mastered, skills she'd developed--once sources of pride and joy, and now simply the remains of an empty life.

Now that her mother was dead, what did she have to live for? She'd sacrificed her life out of loyalty to the woman who'd given her everything; she'd never dreamed that someday she'd be the one left alone. This tower room had been her world; now that world seemed pathetically small. A dismal showing for so many decades.

She sang to banish the thoughts--song was her only weapon in her war against the hostile silence. The song was a light ditty from her younger years, about a bird in a cage, flying free. She'd sang that song often, once upon a time, to an awestruck audience. The only visitor this tower had ever held.

Unbidden, he appeared before her mind's eye. Young. Strong. Dark-haired. Square-jawed. With scarred hands and a dimpled chin and laughing eyes. He'd come to see her, day after day, and filled her world with a joy she'd never before known.

He'd asked her to leave with him; she'd refused, for Mother's sake, again and again, until he'd spoken so abusively against Mother that she grew offended for her sake, and told him to leave and never return. He'd obeyed her wishes, as he always had, and now she had nothing left of him but memory and regret.

She sang all the stronger as the memory turned to sorrow. She'd had her chance and thrown it away. Time had devoured any hope she'd ever had. What was the use of wishing otherwise? She was, and would be, now and forever, alone.

Even the song couldn't change that, so she stopped singing.

And in the silence, she heard a voice.

"Rapunzel! Rapunzel!"

An illusion. A hallucination. A phantom voice conjured by an abundance of memory and solitude and a lack of anything else.

The voice persisted. "Let down your hair!"

The voice was weaker than the one she remembered. Graveled. Worn. Aged.

But beneath it all, a familiar tone that brought her mind back to a time when she was fair-skinned, golden-haired, slender, willowy and oh-so-young.

She raced to the window with a speed she hadn't been capable of in years. Her joints creaked as she leaned far out the window, clinging tightly to the ledge to maintain her delicate balance as she looked down.

At a man in well-worn travel clothes marked with the royal coat of arms.

"I heard your singing," he said.

His hair was shorter than she remembered, gray and frazzled but still remarkably thick. His square jaw had grown jowls, his face had grown lines, his eyes had grown dimmer. But his smile as he gazed upon her was as bright as the one she saw in her memories each night.

With a bow that was slower but no less elegant for the passing of years, he asked, "My lady, might I ascend?"

With a joy she hadn't known she could ever possess, Rapunzel gathered up her endless white lengths of braid and let down her hair.

**

The climb took longer than Rapunzel remembered, but at last her visitor reached the window, and Philip Peregrine Bertram, prince of Whitbay, entered her chambers once more.

He bent double as he caught his breath. "Has your window always been that high?"

"It hasn't moved," Rapunzel said.

And neither have I.

Philip heard the unsaid and more valuable words. His gaze, when he stood straight and looked at her, held the compassion she'd always admired. "I heard of your mother's passing."

"It was very sudden." Mother had collapsed in the middle of a conversation, just after a climb up the tower in the rain. Rapunzel had buried her body beneath the stones of the tower's lowest level.

"My sympathies," Philip said.

He was the first to offer them, in all these weeks. Despite the hatred Rapunzel knew he had for her mother, she knew his words were genuine.

That, more than anything, brought the tears to her eyes. "Thank you."

Philip offered a handkerchief, which she took without shame. "Do you have food? Supplies?" he asked.

Rapunzel nodded, glad for the switch to more practical matters. "There are garden boxes here in the tower, and a boy comes every week with supplies."

"And you've stayed?"

She shrugged. "I had nowhere else to go."

No one else to go to.

He heard these unspoken words, too, and his face, as he sighed, seemed to age another ten years. "Rapunzel," he breathed. "I am so very sorry."

His voice held such depth of regret that she knew he apologized for far more than her mother's passing.

Despite herself, Rapunzel's words of response sounded far younger than the girl he had known. Like a child's--small, delicate, broken, plaintive. "Why did you never come back?"

"You asked me not to," Philip said. "And I had my pride. I might have returned, when my temper cooled, but then there were the wars, the diplomatic missions, the voyages, the marriage treaty, the children..." He sat wearily on her window ledge. "By the time life slowed down, I assumed you'd long ago moved on, and it would have been disloyal to seek you out. I only came to the village by chance and heard the locals speaking of the woman in the tower. Then I came to the woods and heard your song..."

He trailed off as he gestured to the room around them.

"I see," Rapunzel said, though she could barely even imagine it. An entire life full of war and travel and conflict and change happening quickly enough to obscure the passage of time, while she'd stayed here in the same set of rooms as the long, slow seconds marched lazily by.

"Did no one else ever come to the tower?" Philip asked, sounding almost desperate to hear some hint of joy from her life.

"No one," Rapunzel said simply. "Mother made certain of that."

Philip's jaw clenched, and there was a spark of the old fire in his eye, but he did not speak ill of the dead.

"I never mentioned you to her," Rapunzel said, "but she must have been suspicious--I wept so often in the weeks after our argument. She set barriers and traps in the woods after that. Spread rumors that I was mad and violent. The only outsiders who ever came were the boys who delivered supplies, and Mother always hired slow-witted lads who didn't ask questions."

"And..." Philip swallowed back some emotion. "And she was your only company?"

"She was never unkind to me," Rapunzel said, for she hadn't been, whatever her other crimes. "She made certain I never lacked anything I wanted."

"Except for freedom."

Rapunzel shook her head softly. "For a long time, I wasn't sure I wanted that. If I left, how could you find me? And by the time I believed you'd never come, I knew enough of the world to know I was safer here."

"Friendship, then."

"I did want that," Rapunzel admitted. "You don't know how much." Her fists clenched and her words quavered. "Sometimes, I thought it would break me."

Philip rose to his feet and caught her hand between his. "But it didn't," he said, with soft reassurance.

"Not yet."

"It won't," he said, with the firm compassion of age. "Not while I live." He raised her hand between their faces and looked deep into her eyes. "We've lost so many years, Rapunzel. I can't begin to atone for what you've been denied, but I can make certain that you're denied it no more. Come with me. Leave this place."

Rapunzel felt as though the tower had crumbled beneath her, leaving her no firm place to stand. It was more than she had dared to hope for, not for years and years and years. "How can I?" she whispered. "Your wife and family..."

"My wife passed nearly ten years ago. My children won't deny me the comfort of your friendship."

She gazed out the window toward a distant world glowing with a purple sunrise. "It's been too long," she said. "Too much life wasted. So little time ahead."

Philip's eyes, when she looked back at him, were as bright as those of the boy she'd once known. "Then we'd best not lose another minute."

**

Her head felt impossibly light. Her hair felt strange where it brushed against her shoulders. She secured the long, long braid to the pulley outside her window, then let down her hair one last time.

Philip secured her in the braid like a harness, and slowly lowered her to the ground. When her feet were firmly on the grass--it was so much softer than she'd imagined!--he climbed down and landed beside her.

Philip took her hand in his. "Are you ready?" he asked.

She nodded, too full of joy to speak.

"We'd best be on our way, then."

With her face toward the sunrise and her hand wrapped in his, Rapunzel strode forward and left the tower behind.

[pianokantzart]

I've seen quite a few times the scenario where Bowser would torture Luigi to get to Mario but I've been thinking: What if King Boo would torture Mario to get to Luigi. How do you think Luigi would react to that? How would Mario react to that situation?

You know me anon. You know me well.

Okay, so... I headcanon that unless murder is his end goal (which it often is to be fair), King Boo is way more averse to physical torture than Bowser is, even with the powers of his crown's gemstone at his disposal. This is not because of a sense of pity or dignity, but because he's been dead for so long that finding the fine line between making someone suffer and accidentally making a new ghost out of his victim is kinda difficult.

What he lacks in ability to deliver controlled physical damage, however, he more than makes up for in his ability to deliver psychological damage. He likes toying with people's fears, making them feel small and helpless, dangling hope in front of them before violently ripping it away.

Also! In Luigi's Mansion Dark Moon, he was referred to by E. Gadd as the "Master of Illusions." So... let's say... he learned how to make someone experience intensely realistic hallucinations of anything he desires.

That would quickly become his go-to move in terms of delivering the most trauma possible, and he'd do it well, using Mario as a guinea pig to fine-tune his powers. So, for as long as Mario is in captivity he's living the most horrible, visceral nightmare possible, rewinding and replaying with a new terrible twist every time, watching loved ones suffer and die, unable to do anything about it. By the time Luigi reaches his brother, Mario doesn't know what's real and what's fake. He's too frightened to speak, too frightened to move, unable to believe anything he sees. No matter what Luigi tries... no matter what he says or what evidence he tries to provide... Mario can only brace himself for the moment everything is once more ripped away.

King Boo is proud of his handiwork. He not only found the perfect form of vengeance, but he broke the most revered hero in the surrounding kingdoms like a cheap toy. His first mistake was showing his hand– indirectly revealing to Luigi and E. Gadd the full extent of what he can do. His second mistake was assuming Mario's pathetic state would render Luigi crippled with fear. His third mistake was being so bold as to confront Luigi right at the moment he discovered what had happened to his brother.

Luigi wasn't frightened the way he expected him to be. Luigi wasn't even mindlessly enraged, which King Boo counted as a possibility. The green plumber went absolutely numb, pursuing the ghost with the cold determination of the machine he carried, unflinching and unmoving no matter the attack thrown at him– psychic or physical.

He only allowed himself to break down long after the fight was won. When he was ushering Mario toward E. Gadd's lab, Luigi at last crumpled to the ground, arms wrapped around his brother as he sobbed. Mario... though still unconvinced this wasn't another hallucination... could not help but hug his brother in return.

[acupofqueercoffee]

“Offer me the deathless death”

Andromache the Scythian x Female Reader

request ( found here ) by @nightly-polaris

|･ω･) go wild, you said and go wild, i did. i included as much of the provided details as i could. hopefully, you’ll find it agreeable

cw : 18+ 18+ 18+ 18+ 18+ // dubcon-ish // ✂️ ✂️😼 // overstimulation

casually quoting hozier for all my andromache fics. that fight scene on the plane and the way she grabbed nile by the jaw tho 😩 wanted to incorporate it in a fic ever since i saw it, and fucking finally did

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Hallucinations. A fever dream.

Anything but reality is what you tell yourself, and what a job you have been doing thus far! Fantastically foolish if nothing else. Cocooned in a bubble of lies that spill forth none other than your lips, and illusions that are carved by your very mind itself, you harbour not a droplet of doubt that the reality in front of your eyes is nothing but bona fide.

People after all are the most masterful at fooling themselves.

Ensnared in a web of deceit weaved by your fingers lie no hapless preys, but you, yourself, who revel in the sweet taste of false security as you do in the richness of the creamy warm chocolate drink that coats your tongue.

Even though business in your shop today is notably satisfactory if not the most profitable, it is not the digits that matter to you the most. Your little shop is borne purely out of your profound passion and desire; obligation is out of the picture. It is where you feel the most at home, doing what you love while bathed in the aroma of freshly ground coffee and cocoa.

Amidst brewing a cup of americano as per the order of a customer with stylish sun-glasses and a striking jawline, your dress is accidentally soiled. Little do you know, the scatter of black and bitter constellations along the pristine white of your sleeve is merely the dawn of a darker, more bitter happening.

──────── ༻✿༺ ────────

Finding you has been relatively easy.

When the familiar dreams begin plaguing her usually dreamless nights, a telltale sign of a new immortal on the horizon, Andromache has half a mind to ignore them altogether. Had she not seen the places that stoke recognition amongst the wild tapestry of images, she certainly would have. But alas, her target, as it so happens, is no stranger to her. By no means does the Scythian know you. Nor you, the Scythian. New immortals bring together with them an assortment of risks, one of them being the exposure of their secret. It is with such knowledge in mind that Andromache feels obliged to set out for you despite her reluctance. You living in the neighbourhood of her temporary place of residence only makes the search all the more convenient.

Being a warrior for many a millennium has developed a vast array of tactical traits into personal trademarks. Those that once upon a time had had to be mindfully exercised, now occur as easily and effortlessly as breathing, involuntary more often than not. Beneath the dark shades of a spectacle perched on a well-defined slope of a nose lies a pair of sage green eyes, scanning the vicinity of wherever she goes like an eagle on a hunt. They have landed on it then, during her visit to a store, standing adjacent to it is a cafe in the name of “Trouvaille”. The Scythian is not one to be easily intrigued, but what a lie it would be to say that the charming building with its vintage air and curious name had not tickled her fancy. Or its owner whom she has noticed is all sweet smiles and dulcet eyes.

Eyes which she has only seen from afar then, now she stares directly into them. Protected by the shades, the intense greens study you with brazen openness, roaming all over your frame, from the tiny clips that decorate your cascading hair like colourful Christmas lights to the butterfly pendant that dangles from a simple silver chain, hovering directly above the dip of your throat, from the little flower prints on your dress, the skirt of which softly caresses your thighs, to occasional glimpse of seemingly soft flesh that teases the Scythian, left uncovered by a pair of white thigh-highs.

It is retrieving you that is the hard part.

Immediately upon arrival, Andromache has read your features for perhaps a trace of recognition. You paying the Scythian a visit in her dreams can only mean one thing after all: that she, too, must have appeared in yours. Yet, no widening of your eyes greet her, only a smile that does not waver.

“Hi, welcome to cafe Trouvaille. What can I get you?”

“Americano will do. Hot.”

Beside the fact that it is broad day light, a few people roam the place. As capable as Andromache is of manhandling you, it is not in her best interest to attract attention. The situation calls for patience. Rushing will spell only more trouble at best. Wait she must, and so, wait she does.

Leisurely, the Scythian sips her coffee, studying you periodically as she does so. It is after some minutes have ticked by, the cup of coffee sitting on the table, empty and cold, that she decides to fish a book, leather-bound and well-worn, out of her backpack. Thumbing through old pages, Andromache spends the better part of the wait indulging in literature, until one by one, people start trickling out of the shop.

In due time, it leaves only the Scythian and you.

The sky has taken on a deep orange hue by the time she stands to approach you. She eyes you surreptitiously, and upon confirming that she is not at the receiving end of your attention, the Scythian moves to lock the door. Ever the diligent wielder of caution, she does not forget to flip the little dangling plate. The letter “We’re closed.” that is carved into the wood will help ward off potential visitors.

Even as she walks towards the counter, you do not seem to notice her for you are kept occupied by the book in your lap, fingers busy scribbling onto paper. It is the tinkle of porcelain on marble as she drops the cup and saucer atop the counter that finally has your eyes zeroing in on her. She watches you watch her. Backdropped by the sunset with her shades finally tucked away into the pocket of her jacket, the sight of the Scythian brings about a subtle shift in your mien. Although fleeting, the furrow of your brows that must have been imperceptible to others, does not go unnoticed.

“Hello, again. I hope you’ve had a good time.”

The smile that you give her is sweet, if not the most genuine.

“Why don’t we save the pleasantries, hm?” The smile that touches her lips, in contrast, has a hint of sourness. “You’ve seen me before.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t believe I have.”

Your answer only brings about a twofold increase in the Scythian’s irritation. Judging by the slightest delay in your response, she knows that you are well aware that she has not meant it as a query, and so, she says as much.

“It wasn’t a question.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You must have mistaken me for someone else.”

The adamant denial from you has strong, slender digits tightening around the strap that is slung over one shoulder.

“Do I really have to spell it out for you? You died, and then you woke up, saw a bunch of people you had never seen before in your dream, including me.”

“But, that was- No. Surely it was-.”

“Look, kid-” Forming into a thin line are Andromache’s lips as she takes a moment to compose herself, slowly huffing out an exhale through flared nostrils. “-I know you’ve got questions but I need you to come with me first.”

“No. No, I don’t think so. This isn’t real. None of this is real. Leave, please. I need you to leave.”

Lips that slowly curl into a smirk and a chuckle that comes out dark and dangerous. “It’s cute that you think you have a choice.”

Battered boots that come to rest just shy of polished loafers.

“You know…your folly is, dare i say, commendable. Reality is not just something you can rewrite, and yet, you managed an impeccable job of tricking yourself into thinking what you believe to be the truth is the truth.”

One foreboding frame that looms like a predator and the one that cowers like a cornered prey.

“Alas, I almost feel bad for shattering your little illusion. But then again, I’ve done a great many questionable things in my life having lived as long as I have. What significance would it make to add another?”

“What I saw in my dream. They really happened.” It is a question albeit not being voiced like one. The Scythian does not find the need to answer. Why bother when the answer already lies in your hand?

At her silence, a look of horror dawns on your features. “You’re a murderer. You and your friends. I’ve seen them. I- I’m not- I can’t.”

“Oh darling, a rose without thorns is but a weed, easy to be plucked, to be trampled on. You’re one of us now. You will come with me whether you like it or not, and you will do so this instant.”

Every single step you hesitantly take back is met with an immediate footfall of boots as they fall right onto the place that your loafers have just vacated. It goes like this for a while, you actively ruining the close proximity, and Andromache rectifying it, until there is nowhere for you to flee, and your hips collide with the counter edge.

“Why me?” She parries your plea with a nonchalant shrug, face impassive. “Beats me.”

“Please, I-” Tears glisten in your eyes, murmuring beseechingly. “Let me go. I can’t kill. I know nothing about fighting.”

While her hands grip the counter on either side of your waist to cage you in strong arms, her lips lower to the shell of your ear, breath warm as she speaks. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. You can kill. In fact, anyone can. You just have to listen to me.”

“No! Let me go! I don’t want-” Yells dissolve into a yelp by way of digits seizing your jaw.

“I’ve gone out of my way to exercise great forbearance, but it is running terribly thin. It would do you well not to try it any further.” She husks threateningly, feeling the softness of your cheeks giving under the roughness of her battle-hardened fingers. Salty droplets drench her digits as tears start spilling in rivulets down your cheeks.

“Go on, bite me with those baby teeth. Scratch me with your little paws.” She taunts. “Why, would you look at that! All bark and no bite. How pathetic.”

It is as she says this that your teeth sink into the palm that is pressed tightly against your mouth. The unexpected retaliation has her stance faltering, and although you manage to break free from her bodily confines, the Scythian, being far more nimble and dexterous, hardly has to break sweat in recapturing you.

“You're a stubborn little thing, aren’t you? Two can play that game, although don’t say I didn’t warn you. Breaking men, after all, is considered one of my fortes.”

Wrists locked behind your back in her iron grip, and body bent over the marble counter, Andromache revels in the quavering of your body beneath her own as one wicked hand, like a sneaky serpent, slowly slithers up your thigh.

“Are you-” A whimper flies past your lips when your arms are pulled taunt, shoulders craning uncomfortably. And then, she yanks, hard and unforgiving, until you are forced onto your feet, back colliding with her front. “Are you going to kill me?”

Andromache cannot help but laugh at your question, a rich throaty sound that brings about the erection of soft little hair on the nape of your neck.

Your wrists are released at the cost of your cheeks bearing the brunt of her ire as rough fingers dig into your flesh. They flee from their cage between the two of your bodies to take sanctuary on her forearm, soft fingers grasping the sleeve of her jacket. “Where’s the fun in killing you when I can just have my way with you, hm?” Her hold around one of your thighs remains unrelenting while the hand on your jaw coerces you into craning your neck. Your head rests on her chest with a grunt, and you drown, held spellbound by the intense green of her eyes. “I’d rather enjoy the view of you crumbling beneath me than watch you bleed out only to come alive again.”

Although it douses you in shame, you have to admit that you are not entirely immune to the woman. How can you when she oozes charisma, frighteningly beautiful even as she looms over you with all the grandeur of a great menacing panther.

And then, too many things happen all at once; fingers that crawl into a forest of hair to grab a fistful, with a yank to the side, a throat that is bared for the predator above to conveniently sink her teeth into, the frenzied little flutter of a pulse beneath the flat of a warm tongue, chocked sobs that dissolve into a strangled gasp as a cold hand journeys into the waistband of an underwear.

Previously, your hands have found home on her thighs, fingers grappling fabric, but upon feeling wandering digits inside your underwear, one of them flies towards the offending hand, locking around a wrist.

“N-no. You can’t.”

“You would do well to remember that I am in control here.”

The Scythian’s growl is not only heard, but also felt on your skin as teeth nibble, mouth suck, and lips soothe the stings that afterwards will linger on your body in the form of dark blues and bright reds.

Horror and humiliation dance a wild tango whereas fingers waltz delicately along your folds, a condescending tsk echoing off your nape when they come away wet. Betrayed and backstabbed by your own body, mortification colours your face as not one but two of her sizeable digits sink into your heat with little to no effort. Although sudden, it does not hurt, though it stings, leaves you breathless still. Dewdrops bloom on your lashes and they drop down your cheeks when fingers in your core bury knuckles deep, abuse your tightness. You feel them in the very depths of your body, filling you so deliciously that when they wiggle so much as a little, it is more than enough to sucker-punch a breath out of your lungs.

Between her hot mouth kissing your neck all rosy and sore, her fingers cleverly caressing your insides, and her hand toying with your breasts beneath your dress, it is no surprise that your undoing greets you with a tidal wave of pleasure.

It is, however, a surprise to find yourself being shoved back-first onto the table, legs being pulled wide by fingers twining round your thighs. You are still suffering through a series of aftershocks from your first orgasm when her mouth attaches itself to your quavering folds, that wicked tongue immediately slithering into your hole. It does a cruel little nudge and your fingers wind up entwined in her hair. Instead of a reproach, it is a hum of satisfaction that you earn as the Scythian grabs a handful of your buttocks and devour you like a starved man.

By the seventh one, you are well beyond exhausted, brain foggy courtesy of being fucked into oblivion, and body agonisingly sore, littered with deep hues and teeth marks. Somewhere between third and fourth, if you recall correctly, she has stripped you bare, bar your thigh-highs, and completely rid herself off clothes, magnificent muscles coming into display. You have ogled them with barely restrained awe until your attention is swayed elsewhere by her mouth leaving traces of herself all across the expanse of your body.

Now, once again, you marvel at them, entranced by the impressiveness of her muscles that ripple with every roll of her powerful hips.

You barely recognise the face that is staring right back at you, reflected in the surface of sea green eyes, or the sounds that are oozing out of your lips. Sweat clings to the forehead of the woman towering over you as it does to yours. One of your legs is slung over her shoulder, and the other lies limp and useless between her thighs, as she rubs herself into your core with wild abandon.

“I- I can’t. Too much. It’s too muc- ah!”

“Yes, you can.”

She has taken the hand that goes to rest on one of her hipbones only to weave her fingers with yours. Now, they hover in the air, tightly intertwined, suddenly made much tighter by the white knuckled grip of your hand.

“Slow- nghh please! Be gentle.”

“You do as I say. Not the other way round. Is that understood?”

The desperate nods of your head is met with a bite to the succulent inside of your thigh just above the brim of your sock.

“Answer me.”

“Yes!”

“My word shall be your command, and you will dance to my every desire, won’t you darling?”

“Yes! Yes, I will.”

“You are mine after all, aren’t you? Mine to do with what I please. Mine to use how I see fit. Don’t you agree?”

“I’m yours- ngh- all yours.”

“Good girl.” She moans, movements escalating from lazy strokes to untamed gyrations.

“Andy.” She rasps breathlessly. “I want to hear my name dripping down those pretty little lips when you fall apart.”

And hear she does. Andy. Andy. Andy. Andy. Her name is all you can cry out as your juices mingle with one another’s, the combined essence soiling your thigh-highs as well as the couch beneath you.

Back curving, toes curling, you soar high, high into heaven, swimming amongst clouds, drowning in euphoria. And then, you plummet, down into the pit of hell, down into another one of those little deathless deaths. An intense blinding white replaced by an absolute dark.

When you awake, it is to the heart-melting sensation of lips softly caressing your forehead. You find yourself on the same couch that you have passed out, cocooned in toned arms, face tucked snugly into a warm, musky throat. Reflexively, you begin nosing the soft underside of her jaw before you are startled by fingers wandering down your very naked thigh.

“Look at me.” Obediently, you oblige, reluctantly leaving the pleasant warmth of her neck to do what she desires.

“What have I told you?” All too delicately, or as delicately as the callouses on her hand will allow, the pad of a thumb grazes the apple of your cheek.

Fighting against the urge to slip your eyes shut, you sigh dreamily instead. “That as long as I remain a good obedient girl, no harm will befall me.”

“That’s right. And are you?”

A nod as an answer prompts a pat of a forefinger on your cheek, and then, another. You know what she wants, so you give her just that.

“I’m a good girl.”

Not only do you see the smirk on her face, but you also feel it on your skin as she leans down to drag her lips across yours. “You forgot to mention whose, darling.”

“I’m a good girl, Andy. Your good girl.”

“And will my good girl obey my every command like she had promised?”

“Mmhm.”

A breath catches in your throat as her lips journey down down down, admiring the traces of none other than herself until that ravenous mouth adjourn to your hip, sucking the tender spot on your hipbone to make it all the more vibrant.

Although it has not been the main purpose of her doing what she has done, it is without doubt that Andromache gets a sick sort of pleasure out of seeing you covered in her marks. Every inch of your body and soul, all irrevocably hers.

You have said it so yourself, willingly given yourself up to her. That being said, it is purely her own greed that has her craving more and more and more of you. The scent of you that is sinfully sweet, heady and uniquely yours, makes her ache. The sight of you, like the dewy petals of an exquisite flower, pretty and pulsating, makes her mouth water.

It is with this insatiable hunger swelling inside of her that the Scythian sinks to her knees between your luxuriously smooth thighs.

“One more, darling. Give me one more before we leave.”

And you do, oh how you do even as one bleeds into two and two into three, because a good girl does what she is taught, does she not? And you are a good girl, Andy’s sweet little good girl to do with what she will.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

[selfaware-bungou-stray-dogs]

Self-Aware BSD meet the Internet. Short № 3

Description: After BSD gand gain an acsess to the rest of your phone, they also gain the acsess to the internet and YouTube. Unknown to you, they accompany you while you serf the Internet.

Slight Crack. OOC. Some dark humour in the A/N.

Self-Aware! Nikolai Gogol, Self-Aware! Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald, Self-Aware! Platonic! Alexander Pushkin, Self-Aware! Katai Tayama

Dazai, Akutagawa, Yosano, Ango and Junchirou cameos.

[Y/N] are watching this video:

In your phone/ BSD Mayoi app.

Dazai: Why? Why our dear Guiding Light are looking at that creature?

Akutagawa: *huffs and glares at the pug* If they have a real dog, I hope, it could be trained and it won't bother us.

Yosano: Maybe our dear [Y/N] just love animals. Be easy, you two.

Junchirou:*thinks for a moment. Then spoke loudly* Hey, everyone, I have an idea. Let's add a new card to the game with someone of us will hold a pug. I will use Light Snow to create a pug illusion.

Everyone agrees. They start discussing, who will be on the card. Suddenly, Pushkin steps in.

Pushkin: I was browsing the Internet earlier and found a story about Pushkin and Gogol from [Y/N] world. Something about their world Pushkin giving a pug to their world Gogol. There also was a merchant in that story. Let's recreate it. Gogol and I, plus Fitzgerald on the background.

After some discussion, gang agree.

They were ready. Pushkin was handing a pug to Gogol. Nikolai looked surprised. And Fitzgerald was standing on the background, smiling. Ango took the photo. Then him and Katai add new SSR card in game and send it to your Gift Box.

[Next day]

In BSD Mayoi app

BSD gang heard you.

[Y/N]: New gift? Okay, let me see.

Suddenly, you became silent. BSD gang became nervous. You start Google something.

[Y/N]: Why, devs? Just why?

Everyone was confused. Why you didn't like the card?

Katai: *who was monitoring, what you were looking at* Um... Pushkin, have you read the whole story about the pug?

Pushkin: *shake his head* No. Why? Certainly it wasn't something aful in the story, right?

Katai: *instead of answering, he turn on the screen, where everyone can read, what you were reading*

When they finished reading, Pushkin was nervous, Fitzgerald and Gogol was angry.

________________________________

For the next three days, Nikolai Gogol were a noisy neighbor to Pushkin. While he wasn't playing music or singing, he made so much noise, that others started thinking, that Gogol really was making sacrifices.

Gogol calmed on his own. Fitzgerald's help wasn't needed.

As for you, you do like the card. But, you were wondering, why in the world Pushkin's sprites has bags under their eyes.

_______________________________________

A/N: Story about Gogol's pug. It never happened in reality.

Gogol loved his pug Josie very much. She was a gift from Pushkin. When the dog died (Gogol did not feed the animal for weeks), Nikolai Vasilyevich became really sad.

Gogol began to have nightmares. Once, in a dream, the pug told Nikolai Vasilyevich that he was the Master and High Priest of the Ecumenical Order of the Octagon.

From that day on, the life of Nikolai Vasilyevich changed dramatically: every night an incomprehensible sacrifices began to take place in his apartment. These events were accompanied by ritual dances and singing of the choir.

A few days later, Nikolai Vasilievich's neighbor, the merchant Skorobeinikov, beat Gogol up. The hallucinations stopped the same day.

[writingquestionsanswered]

Hello! Thank you for your blog, I've found it most helpful.

Do you have any advice for writing a fantasy story set in the real world, i.e. low fantasy I believe, in dealing with the "friction" of magic intruding upon the "real" world? Magical creatures running around London seen by people, magical acts that should not be possible in the "real" world being witnessed by people, how do you deal with the friction? Do you ignore it? Or do you write it in with some sort of resolution that explains it away? Can it be a part of the story itself?

Hopefully this ask isn't completely incoherent. Thank you!

Magic vs Mundane "Friction" in Low Fantasy

When you have magic intruding into a normal world, there's bound to be some friction, though the exact nature of that friction depends on your story and the framework you've set up for magic. And, on a personal note, I think part of the fun of low fantasy is seeing how non-magical people react when magic intrudes on their world.

There are a lot of things to take into account when deciding how to handle the friction when magic intrudes in the non-magical world.

Awareness - Who has magic in this world? How common is it? How secretive is magic kept? In a world where magical traits are random and common, most non-magical people are probably aware of it because they likely know a magical person. In a story where only a certain group are magic--like the fae secretly living in the world--it's likely that fewer people are aware that magic and magical beings exist.

Governance - In some low fantasy settings, there's some sort of governance over magic, either via the magical world or the normal world, to limit its intrusion upon the everyday. There might be places and times where magic is and isn't allowed, or maybe there's a complete ban. In a place with limited or selective governance, it probably wouldn't be unusual for non-magical people to witness magic. In a place where it's highly controlled or prohibited, it would probably be unusual to witness it.

There can also be an agency that exists to downplay magical events, blaming them on a gas leak causing hallucinations, or a potent hallucinogen contaminating the water supply.

Impact - The level of friction also depends on the impact of the magic that's witnessed. If your magical character shows their non-magical friend that they can levitate feathers in the air, that's a pretty low key intrusion. Even if hundreds of people saw, it could be chalked up to some sort of "magic trick" or illusion and could be easily dismissed. But if someone's magic allowed a giant dragon to fly loose in the city wreaking havoc, an impact that big would have some pretty big friction.

Once you've fleshed out the above, you can start to think about how you want to address it. Do magical people simply avoid doing magic in sight of non-magical people? And if they do see it, there some way to make them forget? Or is magic an expected--or somewhat expected--part of everyday life, even for non-magical people?

Again, it all depends on what you establish and the needs of your story. Let me know if you have further questions once you flesh some of that out.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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[tofuless]

Compilation of my girl Nyx for whoever even remembers her.

Sadly I don't think I'd ever be able to do her story again, given the show is currently doing what was essentially gonna be her story with reality falling apart and realms merging. So that's going down the drain. But I might just full on pull Nyx out of the Ninjago fandom and use her for something else since I do really love her design and her abilities. Don't know what she'll end up in going forward but enjoy all that I had of her lol

[toxooz]

i'm sure you've described them before but i can't find anything on it so, could you describe the skate squad's powers if they have any?

idk if would say powers moreso just abilities BUT

Ponti with his HUGE ARMS can smash rip tear crunch squish impale ect. his bigass tail can put a hurtin too he can easily hold down a body under there, His ears can hear for miles if he really focuses, and finally his infamous death roll which is basically a gator death roll where they latch onto a limb and twirl tf outta their body

Abios eye has a bunch of phycological powers (oops) and can infiltrate the frontal lobe and get into someones head, see memories (spoiler alerttttttt 👀👀), and can manipulate feelings by controlling the brains chemical production, and probably a lot of other cool brain stuff i gotta get back on my neuroscience im rusty 😔 his eyelashes also emit pheromones that aid in all his succubs stuff but its close range

Ollie n his big brute strength ofc the fact that orcs are naturally super buff n strong but also his demon features where he does the thing similar to Gandalf when he makes the room all dark and terrifying when he's not fuckin around (it was heavily inspired by that) Ollie can make a room go cold and dark from his '''aura'' for lack of better word. His presence gives you the same chills as seeing a ghost and makes you hallucinate ect. That why when he does that ppl typically get too caught up in their body's fight or flight overdrive to be able to think clearly. I'd like to think he gives off Large Animal presence like as if u were in front of a horse or lion and that feeling is amplified when hes indoors lmfao AND he can also 'get in the head' as well like he can say some demonic shit that echoes off of the inside of the skull and can shake the very core of the soul (probably sounds like Sauron in tha head)

Kariiii has her dragon fire that's super hot and glittery so she can be a lil master of illusion if she wants. I'm thinking abt giving her gecko hands n feet so maybe she can climb on walls too if not she can still climb with her wing claws. She can lick her eyeballs and shes also got some fairy pizzaz that kinda works like a special 'aura' as well. She does have a hoarding pink things problem but she makes sure its at least presentable for the most part pfft

Remy oh bOI he doesn't have much goin for him but i think hes kinda got what Ollie's got just to a miniscule extent like he can make the room feel uneasy if he's all sulky and angsty but its only enough to mildly scare or irritate not so much 'strike fear into the hearts of men' cause hes also got that everlasting shadow over the eyes

he can climb like a monkey with his tail ( so can Abby) so ig he's rlly good at parkour

Oscar's got his slime that can be a blessing or a curse when it comes to sticky situations and in the water he's kinda a menace he is SUPER agile and uses his ears for fins when he swims. He's got a 2nd jaw in his mouth for grabbing prey and those teeth carry a nasty bite

Vinny may be soft n fluff but he's also got his lil needle claws and teeth and can be really flexible and agile as well cause son cats WILL fuck u up when theyre angry

[bonzosbunker]

BONZO’S FAKÉMON TYPE CHALLENGE: ROW 3

Link to Row 1

Link to Row 2

13. Fairy - Shrimple

The Fairy Shrimp Pokémon

“Primarily aquatic creatures, they clean their habitats by eating most algae in the area. Sometimes they can be seen floating above rivers and ponds.”

Krillipix:

The Jumbo Shrimp Pokémon

“Sometimes, Krillipix can be seen hovering above lakes or reefs. It is thought that witnessing groups of them fly at night will give you eternal luck.”

Evolves from Shrimple at level 35!

14. Ghost - Perfektyu

The Mimic Master Pokémon

“It looks almost identical to Pikachu, thanks to its expert craftsmanship and spectral illusions. After garnering more attention, it still seems lonely.”

Entry for its busted form:

“It has spent a lot of time making its disguise look as close to Pikachu as possible. If its disguise is torn by a strong attack, it rages violently.”

Evolves from Mimikyu by leveling up after defeating a Pikachu!

15. Grass - Oozwood

The Slime Mold Pokémon

“A frail Pokémon, it travels from tree to tree so that it always has something to take blows for it. Tree bark also happens to be part of its diet.”

Kryptree:

The Hide-Behind Pokémon

“No matter how you look at this Pokémon, you can never see its full backside, as it is always partially obscured by the trees it hides behind.”

Evolves from Oozwood at level 28!

16. Electric - Finglow

The Light Pokémon

“From its fingertips, it’s capable of firing beams of electric energy. It has a fixation towards shiny things, leading to squabbles with Sableye.”

17. Psychic - Nervungi

The Nerve Pokémon

“Nervungi communicate with eachother using feelers on their heads. They release spores that are known to cause severe headaches if ingested.”

Mycerebum:

“It fends off trespassers in its territory by inducing them with strong hallucinations. Although it looks smart, the brain on its head is only a mushroom.”

Evolves from Nervungi via Moon Stone!

18. Water - Gyueffoe “UB Sail”

The Drifter Pokémon

“This Ultra-Beast’s body is a portal to pocket-dimension that when entered, becomes impossible to escape from. It drifts aimlessly deep underwater.”

“Although it's alien to this world and a danger here, it’s theorized that it originated from a desolate moon with abundant water.”

[pen-and-umbra]

SE appears to be intent on slightly expanding Jenova lore, which was not present in previous installments. It will be interesting to see how this plays out in the remake, particularly in the Nibelheim flashback. 

The remake portrays Jenova as a master of illusions, citing her abilities to create visions during the Jenova Dreamweaver battle. The enemy's description posits the entity induces hallucinations, while FF7R Ultimania suggests that it messes with the minds of those who come into close proximity to it. Sephiroth elaborates on this in the first Rebirth trailer:

They say she's a monster. That she can peer inside you into the very depths of your soul. That she can become those you hate, those you fear, those you love.

The implication is clear: Jenova somehow probes an individual's mind, scans memories, and chooses an appropriate illusion to weave. Given that this predatory behavior was used on the Cetra, I assume that being injected by Jenova cells is not a prerequisite in and of itself, but it may serve as an amplifier, making an individual more susceptible to mind-reading and later indoctrination.

In light of this and the released Ever Crisis information, does this imply that Sephiroth experienced the same pattern when he came into contact with the Jenova vault in Nibelheim? With all the turmoil of looking for his mother/origins brought to the surface by Genesis' intervention, his mind may have presented an easy target to hijack. Could Jenova have created the illusion of Lucrecia in a tube — „become…those you love“? Sephiroth's onset of insanity aside, a woven illusion and mind manipulation could explain a seemingly absurd course of action, such as cutting off your supposed beloved mother's head and dragging it with you: he could have been seeing something else that a player — via Zack or Cloud POV — could not. Something woven by Jenova's hallucinogenic effects. Furthermore, his body language during the breakdown is not too dissimilar to that of Cloud in the Remake, when the latter experiences hallucinations. Gripping head, shaking, nearly doubling over, etc.

If Jenova remained in a vegetative state — bodily faculties disabled but brain/mind function intact, in whatever measure it applies to the entity — then coming into contact with a perfect live host, essentially a hybrid, such as Sephiroth, could have triggered a sort of awakening (in which case, a dormant state is a better description). Its next logical step would be to break free from confinement. Given Jenova cells' longevity and corruption abilities, it stands to reason that the entity could regenerate/reassemble its body if the "brain" remained intact. From that perspective, it makes sense that the only thing that truly needed escaping was her head. And sure enough, the deed was carried out.

If SE chooses to emphasize Jenova's importance as this lurking eldritch horror in Rebirth, the scenes provided by Ever Crisis could add a new and interesting angle to Nibelheim events. If her meddling with Sephiroth's head is brought into light, the Nibelheim slaughter may be mixed with Rhadoran or Wutai war scenes, with Sephiroth hallucinating himself back on the war-torn battlefield among enemies and "traitors". Could be a nice touch to show his mind slipping completely. In fact, it could fit in with the glitched fire sequence from Sephiroth's story announcement teaser, where his adult and teen selves intermixed and overlapped each other.

[creeperchild]

Ive done it! My Skeksona! His name is SkekFre! He is the illusionist and is a snow owl! This guy usually is night active. But since he is an entertainer in some way he needs to stay awake when it's light out. He is usually drowsy and quiet forward with his business. His pride of his own work can sometimes be a problem and jealousy and hatred fills his heart. He can perform silly magic tricks and even temporary illusions. Sadly through that he sometimes has hallucinations that he can't shake off. He can be quiet selfish too. If there is no benefit for him, he is usually not willing to help.

He does have a soft spot for a certain Ritual master. He will visit him at night and shows him the newest illusions he created and they talk all night over mostly theoretical subjects and and rituals. Mittens is a little mothcat that is used primarily for the illusions, because of the dust he produces. He is a sweet companion for SkekFre, but sleeps mostly in his cage. Hopefully I can make his counterpart soon enough (His name would be UrDey) <3

I swear to the old faith I will work on cotl stuff again ahhh!

[ficbrish]

A Ten Year

Rating: Explicit 18+ only!

[AO3 Link]

[Kinktober 2023 prompt thanks to @absurdthirst! October 26th - Tentacles, Angels/Demons]

[[TW/CW: Blood, tentacles, choking, magic drugs, alcohol]]

Summary: Vistri and Gale figure out a magical way to temporarily shift into mind flayers, and Astarion and Vistri take it for a test run.

Takes place during post-canon (10 years after). There are SPOILERS FOR THE ENDGAME OF BG3 directly under the line!

[Click here for my other Kinktober one-shots]

Gale blushed when they asked him for help.

Vistri wore her hands on her hips and that devilish smirk of hers, “You are this era’s grand master of illusion magic, are you not?”

It was the tenth anniversary of their Netherbrain victory, and Vistri and Astarion had something special in mind for the group’s festivities.

“And you’d do this…” Gale asked carefully, “At our little party?”

Vistri giggled and slapped him playfully on the arm, “No, silly! A party favor for everyone to take home. Something cheeky for after.”

Gale looked to Astarion for help, but that only made things worse.

Astarion sucked his teeth, “We’re not selfish, darling. We propose you make enough for all of us to have a bit of fun.”

Why did Gale ever suggest they visit him in Waterdeep? It was always something with those two.

“Can’t you just shapeshift?” he grunted.

They both had their hands on their hips now and were frowning at him.

“There’s no artistry in that,” Vistri complained, “Besides, it’s not a matter of appearance we’re after. Well, not just appearance.”

“We have a…” Astarion gave an expanse hand gesture, “Fuller experience in mind.

“A task easily managed by a sorcerer with an ancient draconian lineage such as myself,” Vistri taunted, “But I figured a wizard like you would be into the magical intrigue of it all. Think of it like a fun puzzle!”

“A wizard puzzle,” Astarion added, and then they exchanged one of those insufferable shared looks.

“You’re laughing at me,” Gale said.

“We’re not laughing, darling,” Vistri said in that voice she used to make devils willingly run back to the hells, “We’re humbly asking for your assistance.”

Despite himself, Gale was flattered. It was quite an interesting puzzle after all. What if, for just a night, they were able to become mind flayers?

There were three key aspects to this particular puzzle: First, taking on the physicality of a mind flayer. Nothing real, just a mimic (which mainly involved shapeshifting, as Gale previously suggested). Astarion and Vistri possessed the necessary arcane talents, but this treat wasn’t meant for just them alone, and the others were going to need a bit of help. Astarion suggested shapeshifting scrolls, but that wouldn’t be specific enough. So, Gale and Vistri wrote up their own scrolls with a unique spell tailored to their specific purpose.

Setting was the next, but no less important, aspect. Turns out Astarion and Vistri’s idea of a full experience was a full, immersive, and detailed experience. Their vision required an illusion that would seemingly turn a room into the Astral Plane. Gale jumped at the opportunity to show off his expertise. Of course, they could always draw up another unique scroll, but there was always a risk of counteractivity. Besides, another scroll wouldn’t earn him bragging rights among his colleagues at the college. Luckily, Vistri always made sure to restock Gale’s supply of mushrooms from the Underdark whenever she and Astarion popped by. They could distill some of those into an elixir to induce a highly controlled hallucination.

It was the last aspect that was most intimidating.

“Just how do we capture the mind of a, well, mind flayer?” Gale mused.

Vistri’s brows were woven together in deep thought, “Hmmm?”

“Mystra’s tits! Were you even listening?”

She’d heard his voice, but her imagination was running wild with what could occur if they managed to pull this off. Shivers ran through her spine like a tremor as she thought of Astarion wrapping a tentacle around her neck, long fingers with pointed, ebony nails trailing along her inner thigh…

“Vistri!”

“What?”

“You weren’t listening to me again,” Gale fussed, “You’re off somewhere else. Let’s just break for the day. I have many other tasks that require my attention.”

“Gale!” she whined, “Come on, Gale!”

He frowned; a thick book tucked angrily under his arm. Vistri had to resist the urge to laugh. Gale was always so… Gale.

“Maybe tell your boyfriend to ‘come on’ you. Clear your head so we can get work done on our…”

“Sex magic?”

“I absolutely refuse to call it that.”

“Oh, look at you! You’re in a mood.”

“I am!” he said as he stormed off.

Fussing felt so nostalgic. Come to think of it, this was sort of like their own personal love language. Still, they spent so much time apart these days, the distance made Vistri feel guilty. As if she’d taken a lovely piece of cake only to smash it into the ground.

“Hello, darling,” Astarion greeted delightedly as she entered their rooms.

Together they made ten years fly by, yet Vistri felt like she was beholding his face for the first time, only just now becoming acquainted with his voice. She still felt like that when they reunited after being apart for any amount of time. Even just within the space of half a day.

Vistri pouted, “I think he hates me.”

Astarion affectionately pretended to be fed up with her, “What’d you do this time?”

“I… teased him a little.”

“Oh, come now! If he was ever going to hate you over that, we wouldn’t ever be invited to stay.”

Vistri laughed, and its ugliness made her the most precious thing. Astarion had no choice but to wrap his arms around her and feel her convulse against his chest.

His eyes were soft, “And I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

Vistri closed hers to soak up the heat and sincerity in his tone. It was sweeter than a song.

Their tongues did the rest of the talking. Then they found each other’s skin underneath their fine clothes. Passing breath back and forth until they eventually sunk to the floor and melted into each other.

Afterwards, they gazed in amazement while their chests wracked like stormy waves. Vistri wiped a drop of sweat off Astarion’s brow that threatened to fall into his eye.

“Let’s take a bath,” she purred.

When they all met for dinner later Gale was no longer peeved, but he had a look of madness about him.

“I’m feeling inspired,” he announced, raising his glass, “To us! And the pursuit of…”

“Debauchery,” Astarion offered.

Vistri smirked.

They clinked and sipped. Gale excitedly took over the conversation with theories on mimicking the psychic link of a mind flayer. Another elixir was obviously out of the question. One would just cancel out the other. And they’d already ruled out the use of more than one scroll.

“—but what if it’s something we wear?!” he exclaimed, the punchline to his lecture.

“Well, I like it,” Astarion said in a high, breathy tone. Then tilted his head and lowered his voice for dramatic effect, “Question is: What should we enchant?”

Undergarments would be the most fun, but those would probably end up discarded, breaking the effect. Any sort of necklace or diadem was a bad idea for the same reason. So, they went with the most basic answer, a ring.

“Boring, but sort of perfect,” Vistri said, “In theme with our little get together—It reminds me of that ring Omeluum gave us, the Ring of Mind-shielding, but—”

“Ring of Mind-flayer,” Gale joked.

Vistri chuckled, “Exactly. I think it could be nostalgic. Don’t you agree, love?”

Astarion swallowed a gulp of… well, somebody’s blood, and set down his goblet to take hold of her reaching fingers.

He nodded, “The rings themselves make splendid gifts.”

“Party favors!”

“Yes, dear,” Astarion patted her hand, “Party favors.”

Gale chewed thoughtfully and hummed, getting ready to say something.

“Do you think everyone will be ready to turn into mind flayers? Even though we wouldn’t be actually turning into one—I mean, we worked so hard not to after all. Now we’re making it into a game.”

“A sex game,” Astarion clarified, just because Gale’s reaction was always priceless.

“With your brilliant ring idea, anyone can skip the mind flayer bits and still have a blast” Vistri said, “But that’s the draw of it for me, personally. I like to face my fears in the bedroom.

“Really puts the whole vampire companion into perspective,” Gale muttered into his wine.

“I think it has the potential to be quite healing, frankly,” Vistri went on, “You know: Take control of the thing we used to not be in control of.”

“And fuck it,” Astarion added.

“But not… At the party. Right?”

“No, Gale!” Vistri scoffed, “Do you tend to host orgies at your other family reunions?”

“Fair enough,” he chuckled, “But you both better remember that. I’ll have no illithids at the party proper! Not when it’s my turn to host.”

The first tenday was a disaster of failed attempts. Their unique shapeshifting spell was easier said than managed. The rings ended up being the simplest part. After all, it was just a stack of enchantments: Warding to connect the pair, mind reading, and a mix of charm and psionics for the transfer of sensation and feeling. Those only took time because they had to be bonded pairs. The elixir proved to be just as tricky as the scrolls, but after Gale remembered to enchant the mushrooms, they had something viable.

Just in time, they pulled it off. The only thing left to do before the party was to give the whole experience a test run.

v---v                v---v                v---v                v---v                v---v

Astarion giggled and tossed his curls, “Ah-hah! I finally have a part to play. You don’t know how droll it’s been. Sitting around while you and Gale figure out the secrets of naughty magic.”

“Oh no! Have I been neglecting you?”

“You have!” he pouted.

“Rest assured, my beloved. What we’re about to experience… Trust me, it’ll be worth it.”

“Uh, oh. You’ve got that smile on your face.”

“What smile?”

“The one that says you’re about to eat me right up.”

“Lick the bones clean,” Vistri said between kisses.

“Promises, promises.”

“Speaking of promises: It’s all safe! We’ve already tried out each component individually, and you and I are just checking to see if the full experience lives up to our expectations. Which, obviously, Gale and I couldn’t test ourselves.”

“It would’ve made for an interesting plot twist if you did,” he teased.

Vistri raised one of her brows. She wanted to quip back, but her heart was beating too fast. The fantasy was so delicious, and now the actual moment was here. Whenever she walked or shifted her legs, she could feel the wetness between them, but her nerves were also frothing into worry.

“Are you sure you want this?” her eyes were so wide.

Astarion squeezed her hand and chuckled guiltily, “My love, I’ve been aching for this moment for days! The transformation is a little scary, mind you. But the very thought of surrounding you, with more arms than I can currently manage, is more enticing than any fear.”

“We can dispel the effect at any time! Drink another elixir, take off the rings—”

He stopped her with a gentle peck, “You’re rambling again, darling. We’ve gone over that many times. Try not to worry and just have fun.”

She nodded.

“It doesn’t hurt, does it?”

She shook her head, “Just like any other shapeshifting spell.”

“Nothing we haven’t done before.”

He winked and she blushed.

Vistri wasn’t aware she was feeling a little shy until she spoke, “Why don’t we start with the elixir?”

“Take me to the stars,” he consented.

The little bottle was enough for them to share. Vistri had two little glasses already lined up, but when she went to pour them, he pulled her closer, flush against his chest.

Astarion’s kiss knocked all thoughts from her head, leaving only sense. Her nerves transformed and ignited into a blaze, his tongue guiding her to the ache of the ravenous. Vistri couldn’t breathe, only gasp. Astarion punctuated it with his teeth, biting and tugging her lip. She groaned deeply in response.

Vistri couldn’t stand on her own when he wrested lips from hers. She held onto Astarion to steady herself, grasping the front of his tunic.

He took the little bottle out of her hand, “Be a dear and open your mouth wide for me.”

She did as commanded, tilting her head back a bit as he pulled out the topper. Slowly, he poured some of it onto her tongue.

“Don’t swallow.”

Vistri held it in her mouth.

“Good girl. Now give it to me.”

Astarion relieved Vistri of her burden, drinking the elixir from her lips. Then he tossed back the rest of the bottle and fed it to her in return.

The effect wasn’t immediate, but trickled in. Gale’s tower slipped away and became the Astral Plane. Furniture grew into rocks; and walls, cliffs. The ceiling was no longer a ceiling, but an impossible sea of comets and stars.

Astarion chuckled with delight, “You know. This is exactly how I remember it.”

They relished in the illusion together for a while. Vistri proudly pointed out all her contributions, and vented about everything she thought the elixir’s effect lacked.

“I really wanted to capture the smell of it, but we just… I thought maybe an ointment would do, but Gale almost lost all the hairs in his nose when we tested it. Do you remember how the place smelled?”

He thought for a moment, “Like burnt sulfur and strawberries.”

Vistri laughed, “Strawberry?”

Astarion shrugged, “That’s the way I always thought of it.”

“Something burning, magical, and a little sweet,” she agreed.

Her fingers lightly brushed along his arms while they sat and watched the comets dance. Under the stars, the gentle and ordinary became an aphrodisiac. Her touch was a habit; her fingertips always languidly stroked Astarion’s arms when they talked together like this. She was doing the very same now, paying no mind to her gesture or the way it made his skin feral.

Astarion took her hand and dragged it downward for Vistri to bear witness to the effect she was having on him. She stopped her breath, her body screaming for his.

“What do you say, dear? Time for the rings?”

In keeping with how they took the elixir, Astarion slipped a ring on Vistri’s finger, and she did the same for him. More than their minds, their entire consciousness became known to each other. Thoughts, feelings, and sensations were completely shared.

The arousal that roared like a bonfire under their casual intimacy was no longer a secret. Astarion could feel the throbbing tightness in her core, and her blood rush. The wet heat waiting for him beneath her clothes was as real between his own legs as the pounding of his stiffened member. These rings were already better than anything they’d tried since the tadpoles.

“A real mind flayer would be able to control what they exude to their thralls,” Vistri explained, not acknowledging his discovery, “But Gale and I figured a two-way transparency would be more fun.”

“I can feel both of our hearts beat,” he stated contentedly.

“And I know exactly what you’d like to do about it.”

Astarion’s thoughts were in her head, taking off her clothes. He could feel her excitement stir into a “yes” she didn’t even have time to speak. In the space of a second, Astarion made a proposition, Vistri accepted, he checked if she was sure, and she begged him to do it. Their lips didn’t move, their eyes barely shifted expressions. Understanding was intrinsic; experiencing each other’s experiences, like they were living in the other’s skin.

How about we never take these off? | You’d like that. Wouldn’t you? | Gods I would Gods I would Gods I would.

Piece by piece, they undressed each other. A tunic for a tunic etc., never removing their own items. Beholding each other, unwrapping like gifts, and bearing explicit witness to the beholding.

Like a god Like a god Like a god. | You are perfect. | Taste me. | Eat me up. | Like a god Like a good Like a god.

“One. Final. Bit,” Astarion was on his knees, punctuating his words with kisses trailing up her thigh.

He felt Vistri’s impulse to moan before he heard it bubble up from the depths of her. He pulled down the soaking strips of cloth that were her undergarments with just a finger. They came off so easily, as if eager to escape her legs.

His tongue met her other lips, just a tease he could himself savor. Vistri smelled the way her blood called to Astarion through her skin, feel the roaring tremble inside his heart as he banished his predatory impulses far away where they couldn’t harm her.

He looked up at her, lips shining with her slick, “Please let me have a taste.”

Devour you. | Devour me, | Consume you. | Consume me. | Never stop Never stop Never stop.

More than knowing what Vistri wanted, Astarion had his own desires for what to feel through her senses. A deep wave of security and bliss shivered through her whenever he wrapped his hands around her neck or teased his fangs against her throat. An ecstasy, so beloved it would have moved Sune herself to tears, beamed though Vistri when he started to rut, her knees tucked under his shoulders. The sanctuary Astarion found in her body was now a temple made for him. It sang his praises.

“We still… Mmmph! Uh!—Scrolls,” she struggled to say.

“If you let me die now, darling,” Astarion purred, “I’ll live longer for you later.”

He always knew when to hold back because their edges were the same, but now he had direct confirmation. He took them both as close as possible, then paused for Vistri to writhe and groan and plead. Then he’d start again, but slower, never taking them to the edge, but strolling nearby, until they both felt they were going mad.

Vistri offered her throat and Astarion took it. Selflessness and greed coexisted at the point of his fangs. She could taste her dragon blood on his tongue; cold, spicy, and a little bit sweet. The life flowing into him radiated through her as it slipped away. She could feel his senses heighten and become louder than her own.

His breath was thick with her blood when he leaned close and whispered into her ear, “Strawberries.”

Their laughter started and stopped as Astarion moved faster, groans overtaking their lips.

The illusory stars above were just like the ones that blossomed behind their eyes, their bodies wracking with pleasure. Astarion sank his teeth back into her as they rode it out. Vistri’s blood in the throes of her pleasure was the best thing to ever meet his tongue. It brought him to life.

“Wow!” Vistri exclaimed, making Astarion laugh again as he licked her neck clean.

“Gods, you’re perfect,” he murmured against her skin.

She was too preoccupied by catching her breath to return to compliment.

He frowned, “Why are you always the one out of breath when I do all the work?”

“Astarion!”

“It’s all right, dear. I quite like it when you pant like that,” he said heatedly, “Makes your tits jiggle.”

She pushed him off her with a big smile on her face.

“I love you too,” she smirked, calling out what lurked behind his tease.

“Oh, there’s no denying that,” he wriggled his fingers, “Not with these.”

Vistri stifled her laugh, “You were right. The rings alone make a good gift.”

Astarion clicked his tongue, “Party favors, dear. Are we forgetting?”

“You’ll have to bear with me, darling. A moment ago, I couldn’t even recall my own name.”

With that little comment, he was ready for the scrolls. After a quick Lesser Restoration cast for Vistri, of course.

“Before we go ahead, answer me this: How exactly does a mind flayer cum?”

“It doesn’t. Not technically. It feels pleasure, don’t get me wrong. There’s erogenous zones all over, and I’ll show you them all,” she narrowed her eyes suggestively, exactly in the way she’d picked up from him, “But there’s no biological climax in the way we understand it. How do I put this? There’s nothing for it to arrive at. Any sort of big, explosive, ecstasy it feels comes from its thralls.”

Astarion raised a brow, “All the more reason for us to take turns then.”

Are you sure you’d like to go first? | Yes!

“You worry too much, love.”

I can feel your nerves. | Pay them no mind.

Vistri let Astarion into her memories; her and Gale trying the scrolls themselves. The transformation from the scroll was nowhere near the real thing. Astarion’s body wouldn’t twist into a horror. He would only be drenched in a shower of sparkles that magically gave him another form. And tickled a bit.

“I know. I know.”

“I’m ready,” he assured her. This whole thing was his idea in the first place, after all.

Her heart wasn’t in her hesitations. It was beating so fast, begging him to get on with it.

“Tut, tut! Don’t be impatient now, dear. You’ll tempt me to draw this out,” he said winking with rakish affection.

Vistri’s entire being was rushing with thrills that exploded and died like a series of fireworks in her veins. Astarion couldn’t resist her like that. He had to have one more kiss with his own lips, one more pet with his own hands. He pushed a finger between her thighs.

“Oh, you’re a gorgeous little slut, aren’t you?” he moaned, “I just fucked you, greedy thing. Already soaking and trembling for me so soon after.”

Vistri clung to his shoulders and moved her hips pleadingly. A sweet hint of soreness was overpowered by the way his finger felt inside her. She tried to push it deeper, but he pulled it away.

“Blasted tease!” she cried out.

He chuckled, “I’m not done with you yet, dear.”

Astarion held out his hand, and Vistri fetched the scroll. His fingertips were practically salivating as they grasped it. Their minds crowded with fantasies of how to fuck and get fucked, creating a to-do list long enough to keep them occupied for days.

The longing to become his nightmares, and dissolve Vistri into senses alone with it, made Astarion’s voice tremble as he recited the incantation. It worked all the same. A shower of sparkles, that really did tickle a bit, engulfed his form and made him a mind flayer. Not a proper one, but as much of a mimic as magic would allow.

Astarion looked down at his swirling tentacles and felt the top of his pulsing head with thin, billowing arms. It was a little jarring, but that just made their blood run faster.

Oh, this is weird. I like it! And you’ve got such a delightful, perverted look on your face.

Vistri relished the way his voice boomed in her head. It shook her mind, like he was too big to take. Her need made her dizzy, all mixed up with his.

Look at you! Thanking the gods, whom you have no faith in, at the very sight of me. I say! This is fantastic.

He was already a lot taller than Vistri, but now he towered. Astarion was a frightening thing to behold in this form, and Vistri’s reflexive fear only stoked her hunger.

Interesting.

“What?”

Still not casting shadows.

“You’ll have to help me remember to tell Gale. He’ll want to take note of that.”

Vistri, I’m a mind flayer if you haven’t noticed. Can we tentacle now and talk about Gale later?

She smirked and came to him. Her delicious strut trying so hard to cover up her discomposure, but Astarion could hear the snarling in her core. It snapped with teeth that wanted to devour and be devoured.

Vistri reached out with hesitant fingers, letting them fall into his tentacles. They had a hard flexibility to them and felt oiled rather than wet. There were four, and she wanted them all around and inside her.

Astarion’s arousal was palpable and thick in the air, pressing in on her, choking her.

Touch me more.

This time her hands met him with surety. She stroked along his tentacles like running fingers through long hair. It made him purr. Almost like her hand on his cock, but not quite. It was more similar to dry humping in the dark, clothing a barrier between them that their heat seeped through—that dulled sort of rubbing.

Vistri put her mouth on them, licking him up and down. Their feet left the ground, levitating together above the floor. One of his appendages gently brushed her shoulder as another teased along her throat. She tossed her head back, surrendering to his touch.

How depraved do you want me?

Her hands crawled up his tentacles, tugging as they climbed, until they were eye to eye.

“Fuck me until nothing is left.”

Your wish is my command, love. Although I do have to leave a little something of you. It’s my turn next, after all. And I expect to get as good as I give.

She felt him on her chest, gliding downward. Then another snake around her waist. And yet another caress the top of her thigh. The fourth stayed where it was around her neck.

His query and her permission were communicated in a blink. Astarion brought his monstrous hands to the back of her thighs, grinding her against him out of habit. That also made him purr.

Ah, the promised tour.

Vistri’s voice was breathy and distracted, “There’s another erogenous zone between a mind flayer’s legs, even though they’re all…” She paused as the one on her thigh just barely brushed along her swelling middle, “Ten-tentacles.”

No, dear. I only have four.

The tip of the tentacle between her thighs was coating itself in her arousal. Vistri’s breath skipped, and she called out his name to ground herself.

I do love how you whimper.

He added pressure around her neck, feeling her pulse pound in his own ears. He could add plenty more, but Vistri hadn’t earned that yet. She begged him to get inside her, so he squeezed her ass and snaked another between her cheeks to poke around from the other side.

She was delighted, “You bastard.”

I know.

He wasn’t going to give her what she wanted just yet, the torture was too delicious.

When Astarion had enough of levitating and petting and teasing, he put Vistri prone on her back. Two tentacles toyed with her tits, squeezing and sucking them. She writhed under him, moaning and pleading for more.

Eager. Eager.

The other two wrapped around her legs and pried them apart. Tenderly, Astarion dragged a long, black nail along her inner thigh. Its sharp point gliding over such sensitive skin.

Hold still, lest I cut you. I cannot savor your blood in this form.

The throbbing between her legs was the clearest thing to him in the whole world. It was a prayer, and he was the god meant to answer. If Astarion knew life was going to be like this, he would have endured better those 200 years.

She reached upwards, inviting one of the tentacles on her chest to wrap around her wrists. Tightening himself around them felt like a marriage. Vistri gasped as Astarion pinned her wrists above her head and moved his nail to her completely exposed stomach. The threat saturated her senses and made her body tremble with vulnerability.

He took the opportunity to tease her folds. The feeling was so loud, it screamed inside his head. Unable to tell if the relief was for her or himself, Astarion finally eased his appendage inside.

Vistri’s cries echoed, reminding them this wasn’t really the Astral Plane, but a stone tower.

Don’t stop. | If he hears, he hears. If he hears he hears. If he hears he hears. | Don’t stop.

They didn’t stop. Not until her pleasure peaked too many times to keep track of. Vistri kept begging for more, and this effect lasted for as long as they wanted. It wasn’t until he added more of himself, and kept adding more; until his monstrous, huge hands clawed at her back as all four appendages writhed around and in and out of her, creating a cacophony of bliss the two of them got to share; that Astarion undid the spell, leaving her spent and sore.

“My turn!” he announced excitedly from his own lips.

Vistri pounced on him with kisses of gratitude.

“How was that for you?” she asked.

“Let’s just say you’re going to love it.”

There was a glazed look in his eyes, like Astarion was more arousal than self. Vistri smirked and kissed him with gentle tongue.

“I promise to give as good as I got.”

“You better.”

He didn’t know it was possible for him to be harder than he already was until he saw Vistri in that terrible form. There were so many new ways to be ravished.

Astarion pulled her to him, showing her where he wanted to be touched, wrapped, squeezed. He levitated with her in rapture. A tentacle teased his shaft while another wrapped around his thigh and flicked the tip of his head.

“Have mercy,” he whimpered.

But that’s not really what you want. Is it?

“No. I want—Gods above… I want to be taken. See myself spill over you. All of you.”

I want to do things to you that will make us both blush for days.

He chuckled, “Haven’t we already?”

When he pushed her to the ground and straddled her, Vistri snaked a tentacle up to his neck. She wrapped another around his waist, holding him in place. The other two snaked around his ass and thighs, prying them wider apart and squeezing. Astarion moaned.

His cock dripped and one of the appendages around his thigh rubbed it to wet him. His curls tumbled as he threw back his head. Slowly, the tentacle snaked around his throbbing bone.

You mentioned you wanted to watch yourself spill over me, dear.

His hands embraced the tentacles wrapped around his neck and waist, stroking them softly and begging through their minds. Her fourth appendage stroked the skin behind his balls and teased his hole.

You writhed inside me so well, my love. Would you like me to return the favor?

The desperate way he shouted “yes” turned Vistri’s purr into a low rumble. Enveloping Astarion in a warm mind’s embrace, she flooded him with memories of loving kisses as her tentacle entered him and found that special spot. His grip around her other tentacles was so tight, the thrumming pleasure almost turned to pain.

His ecstasy wasn’t shy. It cried out and eventually broke free of him. Vistri watched him lick the mess from her tentacles before dispelling the effect. Then off came the rings, and they fell panting into each other’s arms.

Astarion kissed her, happy to behold her usual form, “You are a gorgeous and wonderful thing!”

“I’d say that works pretty well,” Vistri remarked.

Astarion laughed, “You’re sure we want to give these out instead of hoard them all to ourselves?”

She melted into giggles, “Don’t be greedy. I know how to make plenty more.”

They ended up taking another elixir just to find where the bed was, a little something invigorating to restore them after such rigorous activity. When their room came back, they jumped into bed and sank blissfully into it together. Even though they experienced everything through each other via the rings, they still talked for hours about it under clean, silk sheets.

“I’m glad that we won, but maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if we lost,” he joked.

Her laugh echoed on the stone.

A few days later, everyone was finally gathered together in Gale’s tower. The others were uneasy when they found out Vistri and Astarion had been staying for a while before. They didn’t trust those mischievous grins on their faces.

“We have some party favors for everyone to take home,” Vistri announced.

“And we think you’re all going to have a lot of fun,” Astarion smirked.

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