#but sizing/spacing on the page was uh not working

[asynchronouscommunication]

behold, an anatomically incorrect lobsterman! Following the advice of 'make art even if it's outside what you have the skill for'. References: PBS Nature video about lobsters migrating, have exact image i used for referencing tail pattern: Video Here This head-angle from @null-entity 's deviant art. I should have made the neck less smooth line but this is honestly very cramped space on paper and pencil tips were blunt. This photo here. This uncanny looking photo from duck duck go images of the 'Upward Facing Dog' pose from yoga. I regret not digging more through null-entity's stuff first to try and find similar pose since he's got more the body type I wanted. THINGS I LEARNED: - do sketch first, don't start finalizing lines until after I check back with my references. Maybe get references first next time? Idk, I kinda liked just doing some doodles on paper and then going 'wait is this pose possible for normal humans even?' and vaguely remembering it was a yoga pose. - My original concept I wanted to do today (downward shot into water over edge of boat with mermaid looking up from depths holding phone in teeth) wasn't feeling right this morning, hoping to try it again later this month) - doing scribbly doodles for background was fun and I REALLY LIKE THE EEL'S FACE. He's like :V but happy v. Might be fun to touch this up in the future/try to polish it but my first...week or so of may overlaps with lots of work so rip.

[eqt-95]

💖 rough kiss / hot and heavy / making out

please👉👈

oh anon, i am definitely the wrong person for this one, but here goes nothing:

- - - - - -

Lena has a secret. 

No, it isn't that she’s doubling as a superhero in her free time. That’s Kara.

And no, it isn't that she has an unquenchable crush on her best friend. They'd solved that eons ago.

And definitely no, it isn’t that her toy collection is extensive and well-stocked. Everyone at game night already knows about that.

The secret went like this: 

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Lena replied with the innocence of a Luthor.

“So it just so happens that the bartender who has been making eyes at you all night is now being sized-up by my sister?”

“Correlation without causation. I thought you were a scientist,” Lena shrugged and tried her best to conceal a knowing smile.

“Uh-huh,” Alex replied with an arched eyebrow that said much more. “And that fact he grabbed your ass on the way to the bathroom?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Well I for one am not about to do a bunch of paperwork over an NDA because Kara can’t keep it together over this ass-hat groping you, so if you will excuse me-”

- - - -

And this: 

“Hey babe?”

“Hm?”

“What’s this?”

Lena looked up from her work and squinted at the letter gripped in Kara’s hand. 

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just some administrative stuff,” Lena hummed and returned to her work.

“Doesn’t look like ‘nothing’. It looks like you were served.”

The scowl that followed was one that could be seen from space which meant it was impossible to ignore from across their apartment. Lena rolled her eyes. 

“It’s just Morgan Edge playing bully again, darling.”

“Yea but,” Kara continued, eyes skimming the multi-page document that now had a few extra crinkles in it. “He’s suing for patent rights? Who does he think he is-”

“It’s nothing, really. I’ll handle it tomorrow.”

“You shouldn’t have to handle it in the first place.”

“It’s fine. Let’s just-”

But Kara was already gone through the terrace door and halfway across the city.

- - - -

And most of all, this:

“Ms. Luthor, The Sun has accused you of covering up nearly a dozen fatalities since-”

“Lena Luthor, it has been alleged that Obsidian North’s stolen technology was found in L-Corp’s latest-”

“Ms. Luthor, how do you explain the recent deaths associated with-”

“How do you sleep at night when your maniac brother is still on the loose-”

“No comment,” Lena repeated for the eighteenth time. She pushed ahead, trying to find a path between L-Corp’s front door and the waiting car that would take her home. Unfortunately, the best path was also the longest. Worse, when she looked ahead, her car was nowhere to be found. What she did find was wall-to-wall traffic and no chance of freedom.

Great.

More questions were hurled, a flash sent blotches across her vision. Another came an inch away and sent her staggering. It felt like a garbage compactor except worse because garbage compactors weren’t sentient creatures known for shouting lies while doing its job.

She clambered through the crowd and found a gap. She glanced around for her security guard who was lost amidst a second offshoot of angry journalists and misinformed citizens. Now wasn’t the time for manners as three journalists and an oversized camera pivoted toward her, so instead of waiting, she booked it down the sidewalk.

They followed with vigor and ignorance and a stubbornness that would have made Lillian proud, shouting rather uncreative conspiracy theories and growing closer by the second. Lena turned a corner then, in a move she might have patted herself on the back for, slipped into an alley. She breathed a sigh of relief until-

“Ms. Luthor-”

“Lena Luthor-”

“-you can’t hide from the truth.” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Lena heaved, staggering backwards in the kind of stereotypical way she mocked television shows for.

The cameraman was fastest, breaking into her personal space and jamming the lens into her face.

“Ms. Luthor-”

“-is it true Supergirl won’t speak to you?”

“-how does it feel having National City’s Darling reject you?”

What happened next might have been comical if Lena weren’t breathless, irritated, and fuming that her anniversary dinner was being interrupted by a wave of wannabe reporters hanging onto the coattails of the marketing dollars that funded their tabloids. 

Be that as it was, she was not in her usual smirky-mood when the burst of air sent all of them turning on heel to find an equally irritated and equally fuming Supergirl towering over them with the kind of anger usually reserved for the extra-bad baddies.

“S-supergirl,” they all seemed to whimper in unison. 

The camera was fumbled then dropped. The lens splintered with a deserved crack. A few short seconds later, it was the only evidence anyone with a press badge had been there.

“Where’d you take them?” Lena asked when Kara whooshed down moments later. She pushed off the brick wall and closed the distance, raising her hands to fix Kara’s ruffled cape.

“I considered the middle of the Pacific-” Kara shrugged.

“Oh is that right?” Lena smirked, letting her hands climb to brush an errant strand of hair into place.

“But then I remembered the whole ‘hope, help, and compassion’ thing,” she continued, her own hands finding a home on Lena’s waist. “So I dropped them off just outside the city limits instead.”

And there it was: the secret. Somewhere between Kara, all beet-faced and rage hovering over the cowering reporters and then dragging said group of gaggling reporters to the edges of town, Lena felt it - that tiny pang of warmth and safety and appreciation that always came with her overprotective Kryptonian. It also usually sent a tiny pang of something else through her.

“Well that was very big of you,” Lena replied, the gap between lips narrowing. “But just so you know,” she continued, her breath ghosting across Kara’s lips, “I had it handled-”

Kara skipped her lines and closed the gap, pressing lips, hands, and body against Lena until her back found the brick wall again and nothing but the taste, touch, and smell of Kara consumed her. Lips dragged to Lena’s jawline then neck then exposed shoulder. Hands grabbed against the restrictions of fabric. Lena cursed (again) the constraints of a supersuit.

“I really need to design you a new suit,” Lena huffed.

“Probably for the best.” Kara replied, fingers venturing dangerously close to public indecency. “Alex says we need to leave before someone sees us anyway.”

“Tell Alex to stop committing voyeurism. There are websites for that.”

“Oh, she did not like that,” Kara snickered, lips pressing a final kiss to the crook of Lena’s neck. 

“Turn that thing off and take me home, Supergirl.”

“What about our reservations?”

“I have other dinner plans tonight.”

- - - - -

ask game

[astralnymphh]

veiled affections ⚝ | ellie williams

☆࿐-ˊˎ farm!ellie x fem!reader

⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆

.

.

✧˖ ° 🕯 bright blessings!

AN: quick little smut to hold me off before i work on a bigger project/series fic!! more casual and less proofread like my last one but still pretty good ifya ask me <3

tags/cw: NSFW!! SMUT!! 18+ MDNI, usual playful bickering, one second of cuddiling, poetic ahh writing, very mild foreplay, hella dirty talk, lotsa swearing, oral (receiving) spitting, clit stim (receiving), petnames (babe, baby, good girl)

WC: 2k+

designated song: stargirl interlude - the weekend & lana del rey

synopsis; swept under your fossil gray wool blanket, a body deprived of slumber and living the effects of back-bending chores all around the farmhouse has you fatigued and yearning to supply the last ounce of energy with a bit of literature. eventually, ellie will set that book on rain check, and your fatigue, ..and her boredom. honestly, she'll definitely be the one to steal your energy instead of the book. 

radiance incarnate is what lies behind the glass pane just ahead of your bed-post. lunar light outstanding the dark night, never lacking a few stars that flecked the sky above the nocturnal forest, at least what you could perceive through a regular sized window. fusing with the comfortability of your mattress and cloaked in a warm wool blanket makes for a nice end-of-the-day reward while you immerse yourself in the realm of 'the odyssey'. ellie's not in bed. not in the room. she's presumably downstairs finishing up something, so not a clue of her coming is on your mind.

you wriggle around the soft bed altering your position to have one leg bent and the other draped over, the book upheld by the bulk of your thigh making it easier to flip through. page by page, word by word, space and time diminishes around you and is replaced by this entrancing world of mycenaean greece portraying the aegean sea. the room was dimly lit and still, minus the muted sounds of an owl and crickets chirping beyond the wooden walls. serenity lasts for a good half hour before an upsurge of hard rubber footsteps wake the floor by the bedroom door to the right of you.

"hey babe- ooh, what'cha reading?" ellie's voice grapples your focus to her profile, attired in her white shirt, grubby denim and converse that look like they've been dragged to hell.

"the odyssey." you respond as she begins to lurk closer, arms crossed.

she swipes her tongue across her lips, saying, "y'know.. savage starlight might be more.. fun to read?" in an obviously sarcastic note, creasing her brows together accompanying a brass smirk.

"to you, maybe. I actually enjoy this a lot." you cave the book over your chest, sitting like a roof, "you just don't have a mature taste."

"whadda'ya mean? comics are for everyone, and actually easy to understand." she clambers atop of your hips, descending her face upon you, "unlike the odyssey."

"pshh, the odyssey is a classic." you highlight.

"you're just mad that im right." 

you pucker a pout, slowly lifting the book between your noses till ellie knocks it down plumb on your collarbone.

"ah-uh," she intently strikes spires into your eyes with her persuasive peer, narrowing those lids in an undeniably tantalizing way, "can't ignore this now."

"you're right." you spat out and divided the space with your book again.

"c'mon.." she prys the book from your limp grasp, leaving it astray to the bed adjacent to you, "I'm here now, aren't I?" a humbly intimate whisper croaks from her toothy grin.

you banish your sight to the headboard above, pondering the words that would wisp from your lips, "I have a few pages left, babe, then we'll do whatever.."

"mmk, 'gonna lay on you though." she giggles and shuffles along the length of you, interlacing your limbs together and smushing her cheek on your stomach. her arms swathe your hips and tuck underneath your butt.

the book diverged from your fingertips finds its way back, cuddled between your thumbs and eclipses ellie's head from your vision. your pupils root back to the muster of sentences lining the page, with a certain breath gusting onto your mildly exposed midriff.

a scant minute survives before a husk is heard, "mmph- so warm.." the tip of her nose drags on your skin as she faces downward, marking an indulgent smooch to your abdomen. 

that brought a melliferous smile to draw out, instilled with admiration from her speckled kisses. it anchors your attention unwillingly when these kisses continue but you'd rather void it and tread on with reading as ellie treads on with a rampancy of taunting kisses. normally, this'd be blasé, but tonight, it's turning your tides.

ellie muffles, "wann' kiss every inch.." her nibbles subside in target of your navel, nuzzling on the pouch of your belly and biting your shorts' band, "fuck.."

"els."

"mhm?"

"what're up to?" the book slants down.

"you."

"elsies.." 

"just showin' my love.." her tone airs up and turns raspy. 

"I think it's more than that." you dig at her transparent peak in sensuality and prod her foot with yours.

ellie can't necessarily disprove this, she was blatantly horny but wanted to keep that 'under the covers' till you shared the feeling outwardly. a shameless smirk paints her mouth regardless, "y'know what I really wanna do?"

"what?"

a gnaw at her lower lip fracts the answer briefly, uttering, "I wanna eat your fucking pussy." and blunt she was, verdant eyes fastened to yours. she's so eager for you, clawing at your loins.

a shudder bolts the extent of your nerves and you clench around nothing but a throb at the contents of her question, visibly ruffled up by it, "babe.." 

"can I?"

nary a gloom of doubt inhabits your mind, the way she's laying on your body, patient to taste you revs you up like a torrent of arousal. oh my fucking goddess. it's making you go wild.

"yes.." 

"shit- m'kay, lemme just.." ellie wrinkles up the sheet in her fist, tossing it overhead till her head was obscured by it. the amber hue of her hair is subtle under the thin pearly sheet as she slithers down between the interstice of your thighs.

maybe the now carnal environment made it inconvenient to carry on with the perusal of your book, but you're elevating it back up from your sternum regardless. the vivid thought of her eating you out while you read is a bit elating, is it not?

ellie's cunning lips park at the epitome of your core, locking her biceps under your slack legs and dangling her still shoe-clad feet off the beds' brink.

"can't wait to see that beautiful fucking pussy.." her veiled voice has strings of raw ardor plucking in her throttle rippling onto your clothed entrance with a muggy pant on every word.

an unheard gulp passes through to the trench of your chest, sending out a reflex of sweet sensations to your pelvis, whimpering, "mhh- ellie.."

"shhhshhh.. i got'chu.." 

she begins to pleat your panties over themselves and slip them off your legs, whizzing them away to some lifeless nook of the tucked-in sheets.

"fuck.. shit-" ellie heaves in awe, even day after day of seeing you bare, it's so titillating to her, drool is abandoning her lips.

the paragraphs living on the pages merge into an unintelligible blob as your vision drowses and the only sensation you can detect is her breath lathering your exposed slit. an open 'ptui' is heard prior to a wet glob landing on your clit and evoking a jolt from your body.

"so sensitive.." she pokes fun at your reaction, slapping her digits down on your sappy pussy and rubbing the spit through your folds, which to much avail, juts your body again.

"fck!" you hack out a swear at each writhe and prod.

"yeah, like that?" 

the grip on your book tightens, causing it to tremor in your shaky hold.

"gonna taste so fuckin' good, mmh.." she murmurs to herself but you catch the gist since immediately after her lips envelop your clit and enlist deft torpedo laps to it.

a heap of pleasurous pricks throb in your cunt and garner a gentle mewl from your chords, whining, "gh- mhhhn.." tenderly in growing bliss.

ellie laps your clit in brisk flicks while sucking it up with noises similar to kissing resounding through the sheer fabric cascading over her head.

you observe the cover moving with every mild thrust of her head, creasing and shuffling with the halo of her hair. a hand prowls from the sheets' hem and searches for anywhere to rest, to which you beckon it to your breast.

she realizes this and gives it duo squeezes for good measure and her unemployed fingers knead the squishy flesh of your ass, all while smirking.

"mmhh~ I wanna see you.." you mumble into the whafted-shut book, knocking off the already sliding sheet with your knee to reveal a flushed ellie with her nose buried in your crotch, her pretty face poised between your thighs, stuffed in your cunt.

her irises hark this newfound horizon before her and diffuse an intense glare that shudders your soul, sinking her lips deeper into those parted folds and drinking up your sticky deluge.

her mouth disconnects with threads of saliva and slick following, "this pussy tastes s'fucking divine, you know that right?"

"y-yeah.."

"could go down n'you for breakfast, lunch n' dinner.. fuck- baby.." 

ellie retreats her keen tongue, dipping into your entrance and soaking up the lewd coating of your walls. oral sounds of her mouth practically having a make-out sesh with your puffy lips overflow the room and bounce like an echo betwixt your ears.

"ohh my godd.." your moans enhance and amplify in the sea of ebbing relief and flowing pleasure.

her pecan speckled skin tinted with rose is glazed with a sinful slick from how far she pushed her face in, a terribly arousing sight to behold when she withdraws to praise her own work.

"how's m'pretty girl doing?"

"s-so.. closee.."

"want' you to moan my name when you do, yeah?"

"o-okay.."

"I wanna know how fuckin' good I make you feel." her sharp curses stay unyielding in her expression.

"mh-mhghmm.." your throat clogs up in anticipation.

ellie pours over your bare stature one last time before gripping the back of your knees and pushing them up till your feet meet the sky.

"that's better."

her lips smash into your cunt once again and prove to be frothing with a craving for you, clenched brows and grunting into your groin intently. she explores every attainable inch like she knows it, licking up your pre-cum like it's the last fucking meal on earth.

"oh- fuck!" you wail out, webbing your fingers in her frizzed up locks by habit.

her inhuman speeds catch you out of the blue, binding her tastebuds with your natural taste and delighted in every millisecond of it. she hoists onto her knees and hovers over your bottom half, wriggling her tongue over your entire opening and sending that abused clit into overdrive.

"el-ell.. ellie! i can't fucki- ah!" a high squeak blazes from your gullet.

she blurts out, "cum on m'fuckin' face." submerged in your folds.

"els.. mh!"

it's the end for you when she starts purposefully moaning on your bud, finally ushering your climax to dull your senses and numbfuck your consciousness. your reality is painted with a globe of starlight just by the heavenly feeling of it.

"good girl..-fck, there there..." ellies gingerly tone conflicts with her devilish play, drinking up the breach of cum gushing from your orgasm.

"oof.. jeez.." you recline your legs once her hands flee, huffing your way down from the celestial heavens.

ellie clambers up and collapses next to you, a smug and prideful visage staring back at your profile. 

"did ya finish those pages?"

"erm, no." 

she butts off a laugh, "eh, well.." her palm advances your bangs, hooking them behind the conch of your ear, "ended up having more fun, yeah?'

"i- yeah.. I guess.."

"you guess?"

"coulda been a lot better."

"whaaaat?" she mimicked an offended countenance.

"like it's nothing to write home about-"

"u're just trynna rile me up!"

"what if I am?" you boldy tease, tutting your skull side-to-side.

and that's ellie's one weakness, teasing. her brows hike, hollering "ohhh- I see how it is!" and rolls on top of you and thrusts her pelvis down with clear intention, "c'mere-"

"fhmm--" her willowy finger seals your lips, heeding the provocation you've cast into her mind.

"you're on."

⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆

hoep you enjoyed <3

[shera-dnd]

I am back on my bullshit, and with my bullshit I mean over analyzing small details in media

In this case the recent pages of Kill Six Billion Demons (read it! READ IT! IT'S REALLY GOOD!)

Specifically the framing and layout of the pages

so if you're familiar with Tom's work you know he's pretty much allergic to normal comic layouts and simple panels

and even when there are two panels side by side they're never the exact same size

but then we get to Wheel Smashing Lord, pages 77 and 78, where Gog Agog puts our protagonist, Allison, through the horrors of a talk show

and we got side by side panels, with the exact same size, evenly spaced, and with no art or anything between the panels

Of course this is partially done so as to simulate the framing of a TV show, so we get stuck in this TV screen format

buuuut I wouldn't be making a long ass post if this was the only cool thing this paneling was doing

Because what it does is also trap Allison in this neat little box of Gog Agog's influence

Bitch is literally controlling how Allison is framed. She's limiting Allison's range of motion and limiting how we get to see her

but then what happens?

Something that is outside Gog's control. Someone who she has no influence over

So they get to exist outside of the framing, because they're not part of her show

Then the very next page Allison decides she's sick of Gog's shit and how do we see that happen?

She breaks the frame. She gets up from the interview chair and just like that the TV format is broken, and with it Gog Agog's control and influence

Gog cannot contain Allison anymore and so neither can the frame

From this point on we're back to classic KSBD page layouts, except for one little detail

Now Allison gets to exist unbound by panel frames, while Gog Agog herself remains almost entirely trapped, because this bitch just managed to put herself into a corner

aaaaand that's all I got because that is literally the most recent page and it came out yesterday

So uh yeah this comic is really fucking good. Now go read Kill Six Billion Demons!

[demodoggonetired]

After a few months of off and on again work, @cuips-not-cute 's Cyclical is now bound!!! 489 pages, 21 signatures, and about 1.25 inches thick!

And you should read their fic here!!

{Breakdown under cut!} - Contains Spoilers!

Uhh where to start with this. My first attempt at: a more standard book size (fun), a full cloth book (no problem here), full page illustrations (okay results), and chisel trimming (uh oh!).

(Suffice to say I need more practice with that last one, the foredge could have been worse, but it coulda been better - a little wonky but we'll just say it's got character).

I think what I'm most proud of is the color cordination of it all (and the end papers, oh my what a fitting find).

Materials: Made with Cialux bookcloth in night blue and Spanish MM marbled paper for the endpapers. The cover graphics are yellow Siser HTV, a black HTV, and Cricut metallic gold HTV (not near as shiny as one might like). Bound using linen thread and archival pva glue, endbands sewn using single strand embroidery thread in a double core style. Printed on Hammermill 20lb cream paper.

Cover: Cuips mentions Slaughterhouse Five at the start of the fic with a quote, so I used that as a bit of a jumping point for the cover design. Specifically this edition. Only instead changing the red for the blues of the upside down and a somewhat orange-ish yellow (both colors of which we see a lot in the fic). The skull and crossbones is similarly swapped with the hourglass on its pedstal in the UD woods with a flower and petals around it. The back cover showcases a sheep dog's wolf collar hehe. My biggest grief with this cover is that for some reason, one of the HTVs leaked glue when pressed. It doesn't look bad, just adds an odd shinyness but thankfully isn't sticky. Weird!

Title Page: A negative space hourglass with UD vines outlining the shape (perhaps a XII hidden in there too...). In the middle is a repeatedly circled sphere with sand pouring out and the title flipped to be reflected below.

Other tidbits that I think are neat:

All timeloops in the fic end with things dissolving into sand, so I tried to add a little falling sand graphic at those sentences.

The chapter end notes are titled "notes for past self" and the next chapters summary and beginning notes are "notes for future self" because it felt like it fit the timeloop theme

"say it out loud, it'll be okay" (with the Steve and Robin sheepdog and cat) and "enter sandman" have my favorite chapter title illustrations (oh man the feelings I have for the cassette tape..)

the book notes page has the same vine graphic as the title page but this time with flowers on it!

Overall I'm really pleased with how this bind turned out! It was a lot of fun and a bit of a journey to make!

+Bonus timelapse of sewing some of the signatures 'cause I find it fun to watch:

[miasmal-sweetness]

Eye Level

NSFW - MDNI - 18+ ONLY

My brain is currently refusing to cooperate and work on any other writing until I spit out my dumb little one-shot with my favorite trope (size differences) with one of my favorite demons. So here ya go. Hopefully I’ll be back to writing out my planned Cloud fics afterwards.

Eye Level

Summary: Alastor x reader. 4.1k. You're short. You know it, everyone at the hotel knows it. You've assumed that it's some sort of divine punishment for whatever sins you committed while alive, but it's really not so bad, as long as no one hides your step-stool. Today, you've found a new problem with it, though, when you try to get a little closer to your favorite 7-foot-tall demon.

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, dead dove do not eat, size difference (reader reaches Alastor’s hips), smut, reader is gender-neutral with reference to having a vagina, reader wears a dress and bloomers, Alastor being sadistic, reader being a masochist, Alastor calls you “good girl” because I’m a sucker for it

The red light of the sky outside is bleeding in to the hotel, burning your eyes and causing an ache in your head. You want to shut it out, but Niffty is busy cleaning all the windows. Rubbing your right temple, you shift on the couch in an attempt to angle yourself away from the worst of the light as you continue to read your book. The words on the page seem harsher than before against the rough, yellowed pages. In addition to Earth’s actual sunlight, you also find yourself missing the convenience of heading out to the pharmacy to pickup some painkillers that weren’t illicit substances.

“Something the matter, dearest?”

You lift your head at the sound of Alastor’s voice. He’s blocking the light as he stands in front of you, his long shadow easing the pain in your head. You have to crane your neck to look at his smiling face, but you’re used to it at this point.

“Oh, I just have a headache,” you say with a light shrug. “I’m okay. How are you doing?”

“Wonderful as always, darling,” he assures. “Why don’t you join me for a cup of coffee upstairs? I’ve found it works like a charm for a headache.”

You perk up at the thought. It’s a little late in the day to have coffee, but you’re not one to turn down a drink and a snack with Alastor. You take care of most of the cooking for the hotel, since Niffty took over your old job of cleaning, so having something made by another person is a nice treat. Plus, he’s good company—he’s the most polite person you think you’ll ever meet in Hell.

“I’d love to,” you say, sliding off of the couch. You smooth out your dress and tuck your book under your arm; you can finish it another time. Your certain that if you were taller, Alastor would do the gentlemanly thing you see him do with others and link arms with you, but that’s not really possible at your height. Instead, he leads the way by engulfing your little hand with his.

You’re barely focused on the small-talk he makes with you as he guides you up the stairs. His gloves are smooth, and you can feel his claws tickling the skin on your wrist and hand. You know that, as much as Alastor enjoys invading other people’s personal space, he does not enjoy allowing others in to his personal space. Despite this, he has been rather open to your presence; picking you up, holding your hand, ruffling your hair. It feels nice. It makes you feel special—like he’s bestowing an honor on you just by patting you on the head, one that the others don’t get.

You nearly trip over a step, and it snaps you out of your thoughts. Alastor stops you from hitting the ground by extending his arm, letting you put your weight on him for balance.

“Careful, dearest,” he chides, “I’m not always here to catch you.”

Your headache is back, caused by the heat rushing to your face and chest. “Right, thank you,” you mumble, ducking your head. “I-I was just thinking.”

“About what?” You should have seen that coming.

Your eyes dart around as he guides you towards his room. “Uh, j-just—the book you lent me,” you spit out. “I’m almost finished with it. It’s really good.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” he says, holding open the door for you. “It’s not often I meet another down here that enjoys a good book.”

You smile and step in to his room—immediately, you’re hit by the scent of paper, candles, wood that is well-cared for, and decaying leaves and other plant matter. You know his room changes. You know that what you see is different from what the others see when they enter. You’ve heard them mention the swamp that makes up half of the room, often complete with a decaying deer. Every time he has invited you in, however, it has been nothing other than a lovely room that looks like it belongs in some fancy townhome from the 1920s.

Just another thing that makes you feel special.

“If you have a favorite book, I’d love to read it,” you suggest as you slip out of your shoes.

Alastor’s grin grows even wider than usual. “Really? Well, I’ll have to think about it; I have quite a few in my collection that I favor.” It’s a lie, an excuse to put this off for later. There’s something he doesn’t want you to see. You can sense it, deep down in your gut, but you ignore it. He’s always shielded your eyes from the bad—from the gore of Hell, from those that would try to take advantage of you, even from some of the arguments among the others. This is no different.

Moving on from the topic, Alastor snaps his fingers, and a tray of coffee and small snacks appear on his dining table. He’s added cream and sugar for you; he doesn’t understand your sweet-tooth, but he does indulge it.

“Oh, and a treat for you, little one.”

He snaps his fingers again, and when you next blink your eyes, you find that a dish has appeared on the tray. It’s a slice of cake—the same you remember ogling outside the bakery window the last time you went outside the hotel. The hotel doesn’t offer payment for your services, so your measly pocket change was not enough to get it. He must have noticed your longing for that delicious, soft piece of cake. You don’t even remember the last time you had the luxury of cake. The last time was probably when you were alive, and you have the feeling it was one of those store-bought cakes that are dry and covered in thick, sickeningly sweet icing.

This cake is fancy. This cake is fluffy and standing tall, covered in berries and whipped cream with just the right amount of sweetness. And most of all—it means that Alastor paid that much attention to you on a silly outing that he didn’t need to be a part of.

“Thank you, Alastor!”

You throw out your arms and wrap them around him. It’s a chance as good as any. The closest you have come to hugging him is when he’s picked you up and carried you around like a doll. Surely a gift like this means he would be okay with it—although, the second you touch him, you realize you’re probably reading a little too much in to a slice of cake, and maybe it’s because you forgot to eat lunch.

Your arms wrapped around his legs, your feet in between his. And now you remember just how short you are compared to him. Normally, you’re either staring at the ground or you’re turning your head all the way up to look at his face, which makes it easy to forget that your head reaches an… unfortunate location that you have just unknowingly pushed yourself against.

Your face is burning again. Your head is throbbing. If you weren’t already condemned to Hell, this would probably have gotten you in. Your cheek is right against his groin. You fear looking up at his face for a reaction, but you do it anyway and see that, despite his smile, he looks to be just as shocked as you, if not more. And then it changes. The shock is fading. His eyes are getting darker, and that strange look in his eyes—one that you’ve never seen on him—is directed at you.

You force your body in to action. “I-I’m sorry!” you squawk, stumbling away from him. “Um! I-I just—I was excited; I didn’t mean to—uh, s-sorry, sorry!” You’re clumsily making your way back towards the door, nearly slipping from the lack of friction your socks have on the polished floor.

Alastor takes a step closer to you, and you bristle, picking up the pace. “Ma cher, don’t—”

“Sorry!” you cry one last time, slipping out the door and in to the safety of the hallway. You dash to the end of it and around a corner, where you wait to hear any signs of him following. Nothing. The only thing you hear is your own racing heart and the blood rushing through your body. You feel hot, shaky, and a little sweaty—your feet are sweating through your socks.

Your socks.

You forgot your fucking shoes in his room.

Groaning, you sink down to the floor and peel off your socks, freeing your overheated feet. You replay the event in your mind as you stare emptily at your toes, wiggling them all one by one. You just had to go and try to hug him—you couldn’t just be patient and wait for him to one day, just maybe, initiate it himself. At the very least, you could have been more careful. You think it might have been a nice hug otherwise. You can still feel the crisp fabric of his pants and the warmth he radiates; you can smell the light scent of smoke and cologne on his clothes. The button of his pants had been against your cheek, and you have no control against the intrusive thought of how the bulge in his pants had felt.

Smacking your cheeks with your palms, you shake your head, as though it would toss the thought out. You need to stop being a little creep and get your shoes. You have one pair of shoes, and you are not willing to walk barefoot anywhere in Pentagram City. The longer you leave them there, the more likely you are to abandon them entirely in hopes of never having a confrontation with Alastor. Well… maybe you could ask Charlie to get you a new pair of shoes? You groan at yourself; you’re already trying to get out of it.

You push yourself to your feet and dust off the skirt of your dress. You take quiet, slow steps towards his room. You can do this. Just don’t think about it. Did he like it? No, stop it. Did it excite him, like it excited you? Stop that! You’re wet—maybe from fear, maybe from arousal. Your hands are shaking as you reach for the doorknob. You contemplate whether it would be best to knock or simply crack the door open and grab your shoes without entering. Alastor is polite, though; you know he’d much rather you be decent and knock.

Heart racing, chest heaving with tiny and anxious breaths, you tap your knuckles against the door. It opens almost immediately.

“Yes, dearest? Have you calmed down now?”

You can’t bring yourself to look at his face; instead, you resort to looking at your bare feet. “I—um, I realized I forgot my shoes here,” you mumble, fidgeting with the hem of your dress.

He laughs at this—it makes you shiver, and you hope he doesn’t notice. “You were in quite the hurry,” he teases. “What scared you so badly, darling?”

You mean to simply snatch your shoes and flee, but the moment you cross the threshold, he’s closed the door behind you. Your heart is pounding, as though it thinks you’re sprinting down a hallway from a monster. But it’s just Alastor! He’s never harmed you, only kept you safe—and yet, you feel like you’re caught in a trap. You can feel the warmth of his body radiating from behind you; he’s close, and for once, you wish he’d be less comfortable with you in his personal space. Despite this, you can’t bring your dumb feet to move. You are caught like a deer in headlights.

“What’s wrong, pet?” He’s never called you that before. It’s new and exciting, even though you internally scold yourself for the warm feeling building up in the depths of your gut. “Why have you gone quiet? You’re not ignoring me, are you?”

His fingers ghost over your hair as he speaks, his hand finally coming to rest on your shoulder. It’s not as though you’re hiding your discomfort well, but that doesn’t stop him. Alastor’s left hand comes from behind you and cups your chin, slowly drawing you back until your spine touches his leg. You shut your eyes. You won’t look at him; it makes you feel at least a little less exposed, even if you know he can see the red in your face all the same.

“I don’t appreciate the silent treatment, dearest,” he warns, giving your cheeks a squeeze. “I guess I’ll have to find a way to snap you out of it.”

You’re lifted off of your feet; the sudden feeling of instability makes you open your eyes, even though you try to resist. Before you can register it, Alastor has dropped you on his bed—a bed that seems rarely used—and is now kneeling before you.

“You’ve been terribly rude, pet,” he chides, resting his hand on your knee. “First you get so close to me, then you run off and leave me wanting? Now you come back and refuse to say a word to me.” He clicks his tongue in disdain; its the feeling of his claws digging in to your skin that truly express his displeasure. You shift in place, but keep your mouth sealed. Your mind is blank, anyhow.

When his claws pierce your skin, you move out of reflex, jerking your leg away from his hand. Alastor’s grip is iron-clad and holds you in place so tightly that you can’t even move it a millimeter. Your skin feels hot and cold at the same time, and goosebumps are running up and down your arms. Your mind is getting hazy, to the point that your vision blurs as his other hand creeps up the skirt of your dress.

You try to control your breaths, try to look anywhere other than him. He’s relishing the sight of you as his fingers curl around the waistband of your frilly bloomers. He grips your hip harshly—you know it will leave a reminder in the form of a bruise later. His thumb lightly brushes over your clit, and your toes curl in response. It’s like he’s fascinated by the response your body has to it; he’s watching every twitch, shiver, and shake as he toys with you. Finally, a mewl escapes your lips. Something about the noise draws him out of whatever it is that he’s thinking, and he looks you in the eyes.

“I’m nothing if not a gentleman, darling,” he says, relaxing his grip on you. “So… yes or no?”

This is closer to the Alastor you’re familiar and comfortable with. He looks so calm and pleased that it’s like it’s just another day for him, one where he does not have his hand in your underwear and he’s just making you feel special by gracing you with a pat on your head. The familiarity is reassuring, and you’re such a sucker for how special he makes you feel, so surely there’s no harm in this…

“Yes,” you finally eke out.

Alastor’s grin widens; his thumb immediately resumes teasing you. His other hand strokes up and down your thigh, his claws tickling you and leaving red streaks in their wake. You moan again and are met with the reminder of his watchful gaze; unable to take the feeling of scrutiny anymore, you grab the lapel of his coat and tug on it.

You hear him chuckle and crack your eyes open again. He’s released you—for now—to shrug off his coat and set it aside.

“An eye for an eye, pet?”

He doesn’t give you a chance to agree to this suggestion; he pops open the buttons on the back of your dress in one quick motion. Your dress is pulled from your body, leaving you and your bloomers entirely exposed. You instinctively cover your chest with your forearm. This is hardly an eye for an eye—and you know, deep down, that he knows that and enjoys every bit of imbalance between you two. And you do, too, even if you don’t want to admit it.

His hands are on you again, this time running up and down your waist, back, thighs, and chest. He’s parting your legs and moving in between them, leaning down to press his lips to your throat. You whimper, now suffocated by the dizzying smell of tobacco. Alastor gives you a gentle peck, before his teeth graze your delicate skin and earn a moan from you. You instinctively bristle from the delightful pain, and he pushes your legs apart again.

“Relax, sha,” he murmurs against your neck. “Relax. Would I let you get hurt?”

Yes. He absolutely would. You know that, and you stuff it down. Who cares? Who cares if you get a little hurt? If he lets it happen? If he’s the one to do it, if he’s the one watching and enjoying it, that’s all that really matters.

So you relax for him and melt in to his touch, letting him guide you down to the soft bed. You don’t resist when your bloomers come off. You’re completely exposed to him, and he’s simply standing over you, grinning at the sight. The one sacrifice he does make is his gloves, shedding them to feel your skin in its full glory. His hands are much warmer without his gloves on; the feeling of them rubbing your legs is soothing.

“Alastor,” you mewl—for a moment, you realize just how pathetic and weak you sound, but decide that it’s fine to be pathetic and weak for him and slip back in to your haze. For every inch of fog clouding your mind, Alastor seems to gain a new degree of focus. You can’t tell exactly what it is he’s so focused on, so hungry for, but you enjoy it all the same.

“You sound so lovely when you say my name.” His voice sounds so different now—animalistic, growling. Your heart rate spikes again, but you’re not about to back out now, so you enjoy the adrenaline rush as you gaze up at the ceiling. You hear a shift of fabric, feel him moving between your legs as he looms over you. He slips one hand underneath you to feel the small of your back, and you finally realize what he’s about to—

“Ahh!” you hiss, curling your spine as you reflexively try to escape the source of the pain. You’re brought back to the reality of your situation for a brief moment; Alastor is over seven feet tall, you are definitely not, and he is definitely entirely proportionate for his height. It hurts, worse than anything you think you’ve felt before. You feel like you’re splitting open, despite how wet you are and the fact that he’s barely inside of you.

Alastor’s hands hold you in place by your hip and your arm. You can feel his own excitement and agitation from the tightness of his grip—so tight he’s trembling in the slightest—and the hint of sweat on his palms. “Behave, sha,” he orders through his teeth. He’s trying to suppress your squirming as much as possible, but you can still wriggle in his grip, and every movement of your hips sends a wave of pleasure through him. “Relax and behave.”

Your body is slowly adjusting to the pain, and his voice is bringing you back to that lovely, pleasurable haze. You force yourself to stay still and breathe through it.

“That’s it,” he murmurs with a sigh. “Good girl.” You shudder at the words, and he pushes himself further inside of you. You don’t struggle this time; you simply yelp in pain and squeeze your eyes shut to bear it. He releases your arm to grab you by your chin, forcing your head up. You open your eyes, your face contorted in pain; he’s smiling, of course. It’s a feral, sadistic smile, but it’s not quite the same one you’ve seen before he rips apart some idiot trying to wreck the hotel. This one is different, and you hope it’s one he’s reserved only for you. No matter how frightening it is, you’ll still delight in the honor.

You manage to relax a little more, having adjusted to the feeling of being torn in two. Alastor sighs at the feeling and once again pushes further inside of you. Every effort of yours to behave will be rewarded like this—with more pain, blood, and tears that prick your eyes. You had your chance to say no. You still could. But you don’t. You’re special. He wants you. And you want him—you want him to degrade you, too.

“It hurts, doesn’t it, sha?” he coos in a tone of faux concern. Still, you whimper and nod, curling your fingers in to the linens beneath you. “I know, pet, I know. It must hurt terribly.” Another inch inside of you, another swallowed scream.

“P-please,” you beg. You barely even realize the words are spilling out of your mouth. “I can’t—I can’t take it.”

“You can,” he assures, his hand moving down to your throat. No matter how much he wants to, he doesn’t squeeze. Not yet. He’ll save that for another time, another day. There’s nothing wrong with denying a bit of pleasure now to make it sweeter later. “You can and you will. I will make you.”

You try to scream when you feel the sensation of a burning, sharp pain pierce further inside of you, but he clamps his hand over your mouth.

“No,” he breathes. “You won’t make a sound unless you’re quiet about it. I am the only one who can hear you. This is just for me.”

You swallow back the scream; it feels like it’s still stuck in your chest, making it ache as it tries to beat its way out through your sternum. It’s too painful to breathe. Every single movement is painful. This is as far as he can go without really hurting you—without you truly breaking apart. You can smell blood. You feel like you can maybe taste it, too. The sight of it only spurs him on, and he pounds in to you without any concern for the pain it will cause you.

You can’t even scream; it’s too sudden. Once the waves of pain truly set in, you let out a weak cry and grab on to his arms in an effort to steady yourself. Spots of all colors are appearing in your vision as the sounds of the room—skin against skin, muffled groans that he’s trying to hold back, your own crying—get further and further away. Your grip on him loosens, and he notices.

“I can’t keep going if you’re sleeping, pet,” Alastor taunts, grabbing you by your chin and squeezing. When your pupils only dilate further, he takes a handful of your hair and pulls, giving your head a shake. That does it; you’re awake enough, for now. “There you are.”

You can’t escape the pain. You just have to live with it. Any time he sees you slipping out of consciousness, you’re awakened with a sharp jolt of pain. And now his movements are too fast, too harsh to even begin to pass out. Tears freely flow down your face at this point, as freely as the blood pooling beneath your thighs.

“A-Alastor,” you sob, one hand reaching up for him. “Please.”

The pathetic sight of you stupidly reaching for him is what sends him over the edge. His claws curl in to your skin, and blood drips on to the linens beneath you. He’s looming over you as you feel warmth replace the feeling of an icy knife in your belly, spilling out of you and on to your legs. His eyes are closed, he’s panting, and his brow is furrowed. You like the sight of it, but you can’t fully enjoy it when he’s still causing you so much pain.

Finally, his eyes open, and he pulls away from you without warning, sending another ripple of pain through you. You’re throbbing. You feel like you’ve been impaled and suffocated. You definitely did not cum. And yet, when the look on his face softens, the pain lessens. He’s back to the gentleman you know and adore.

“Oh dear,” he sighs, resting his cheek against his hand—a hand covered in your blood. “Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?”

As he helps you bathe and feeds you a potion to help heal some of your wounds, you let that haze settle in permanently in a part of your brain. As long as he makes you feel special, as long as he calls you sweetheart and pet and sha, you’ll take whatever pain he throws at you.

[unicyclehippo]

Confession (one word WN prompt)

for @possibilistfanfiction

//

one

//

beatrice talks to mother superion in a way you don't really understand. it's serious and solemn but not forceful. like there's space around the words to breathe, space for something extra. to your untrained ear, it sounds a lot like respect. or, the phone calls always start that way but toward the end, beatrice answers questions more slowly. with more thought. with more hesitance. and then you doesn't know exactly what it is. trust, maybe.

you're eavesdropping, of course, tucked up at the kitchen table with a book of writing exercises that beatrice had bought for you, presented to you without fanfare because you'd been struggling, quietly, with gripping a pen and getting letters to come out the way you meant to shape them, which normally wasn't a big deal but there were some words that seemed important enough to be written down and you'd like to be able to do it, you'd like the option. you've been working diligently at it (will insist that you have, even when the page goes missing, ripped out of the book, because the lines you were copying transformed at some point to your name and beatrice's nestled side-by-side and that's. something to think about later.) but there you are, ankles hooked around the chair legs, pen clutched tight between stiff fingers, and you stop pretending to work and stare through the narrow window of the doorframe as beatrice begins to pace the little box of your apartment. her meticulous steps. three, from her side of the bed almost to the wall. then a slow, smooth turn. then comes the breath, the space around her words, the openness you've been waiting for since superion's last call, since the first time you heard it.

'yes, mother. i will, mother.' beatrice stops. turns toward the kitchen. she doesn't seem surprised to find you watching, so you don't pretend guilt. just wink at her. beatrice lifts her eyes to the ceiling for a split second—a nun's version of rolling her eyes—and then back to you. 'now?' she tilts her head like she's sizing you up, like your next training session is here and now. you grip the pencil hard enough that it creaks. 'of course. she's right here.'

me? you mouth.

beatrice nods.

you shake your head. no.

the choice—obey superion, be kind to you—presses beatrice's mouth into a flat line. 'may i mute myself, mother?'

'fuck.'

beatrice lifts the phone from her ear and shows you, mutes it obviously. she sets it down flat on the tiny coffee table you'd found and picked out. it had a white and black chessboard feel to it; you'd thought beatrice would like it. it's too small, even for the awful low couch, but beatrice always takes her coffee there when she goes over the bar inventory or to read.

'you don't want to speak to her?'

'no!'

'why not?'

god. she actually sounded confused. 'because she hates me, bea. duh.'

'she doesn't.'

you snort. 'uh yes she does. i'm the halo bearer who isn't fit to wield it, blah blah blah.' there's a flash of memory—dust in the catacombs, dust in your hair, your nose, the warp of a scar tucked out of sight. the surprisingly warm skin of a cold woman. a miracle, she had said, of the highest order. her voice had been shaking but her hand was perfectly still because when the world is breaking, she had a task, a path straight before her to walk. she was like beatrice like that (and you feel your fear give way a little because if she's like beatrice then she can't be all bad, can't be very bad at all). she had faith in their cause, in her own purpose. but surely she didn't have faith in anything vincent said anymore because vincent - vincent and adriel - and shannon - and so she couldn't possibly think that you were—

'ava?'

'yeah,' you hear yourself say. 'yeah, okay, i'll talk to her.'

beatrice frowns before she can stop herself but she picks up the phone and brings it to you. sets it in the centre of the table. what a bitch. if you want to take it, you'll have to reach out and actually take it. and then she says, 'i'm going to the store. do you want anything?'

'what?'

'from the store.' she looks at the phone. says quietly, the first few words reluctant, like she's still deciding whether to speak them or not, 'mother requested to speak with you privately.'

'oh.' the call time keeps ticking up. superion hasn't hung up. you wonder if you leave her waiting for a few minutes whether she will. 'chocolate. icecream. pads.'

beatrice nods. takes her wallet and the keys from the bowl by the door and slips outside.

you look at the phone for another thirteen seconds and then snatch it up, shooting to your feet. you move toward the front door and shuffle into the corner, press your back up to it. unmute yourself.

'hey.'

there's a brief pause, then,

'ah. ava.' superion sounds the same as always. cool and clipped. you try not to feel extremely fond of it because she isn't beatrice and probably talks like that because she's got a stick up her ass, not because she's a very repressed lesbian. well. fuck, she could be.

'sup.' you wince. bad start. 'uh. be-atrice,' your tongue rolls over her full name, spitting it up, because what's gods rules about having a favourite nun? is that, like, bad? what about feeling fond about a nun? bad, right? 'she said you wanted to talk.'

'i did, yes. firstly, you should know that these calls are made on protected lines. you should never call me from another phone.'

there's no fucking risk of that, you think, and you say it too. 'yeah, there's no risk of that.'

'good.'

'is that all?'

'no.' she paused. then, carefully, 'we haven't had much occasion to speak privately.'

'aside from when you tricked me into thinking the convent was under attack and then told me i killed myself? i think you said everything you needed to say.'

if you were hoping—and you definitely were—that being snide and bitchy would put her off, you are unsuccessful.

'that was wrong. i was wrong,' she says. 'you proved that when you returned to help our order. you proved that, though you should not have been asked to. i am sorry.'

your hand trembles. you want to break the phone, or yell at her, but there's only one safe phone and beatrice would be pissed and you don't think that you can yell right now with your breath all caught up in your chest. you wish—you wish you could breathe like beatrice had. you wish you could talk like beatrice did with her. instead, you just say, 'okay,' kind of awkwardly.

'okay,' she repeats. then her tone sharpens and you realise that she's been speaking to you this whole time sort of gently and that's. weird too. 'you returned to aid us in our task, which is not over. is more dangerous than ever. this is a difficult time even for those of us trained in the order. if you are having any difficulties, i want you to know that you can talk to me.'

'no, i'm good.'

'there is nothing you are struggling with?'

struggling? well. you took a train through beautiful countryside all the way to switzerland. you've seen so many beautiful things since you came back to life but this is so beautiful you forget to blink and your eyes go blurry trying to drink it all in - sky and lakes and trees and mountains that climb and climb and climb to the sky and you go breathless, which beatrice had told you was the altitude adjustment but you knew was love, tight in your lungs, for getting to see this. you'd taken her hand excitedly and she'd gone stiff and cold. you'd let her go, and she hadn't unfrozen. the announcement that you had arrived in switzerland had made beatrice look like she was going to puke for a few minutes—she picked it, she planned the trains, and she'd done it because it was far away and safe and secluded and you both needed to hide. you're coming to terms with the idea of life, a little terrified that it's going to be like this for a while (forever?). a weird mix of really fucking great stuff—dancing, feeling your body move and get stronger as you learn to fight, getting to train with bea, writing, sex, climbing rocks, swimming, stuffing your face with flaky buttery pastries, the feel of different fabrics on your skin—and really fucking awful stuff—betrayal, adriel, nightmares, falling, the tug in your gut when you sense a wraith and have to move on, leave it to hurt some innocent because you're undercover and you can't help—and then the just sort of uncomfortable stuff—beatrice telling you she organised her own train to boarding school and going quiet for an hour, the numb prickle in your fingers and toes when you wake up before the rest of your body.

'there's only one bed,' you hear yourself say, because there's a lot going on, apparently, and humour is your default. 'and beatrice is hot.'

you can practically hear her eyes slam closed like steel doors. 'temperature wise, i hope you mean.'

'yeah, sure. of course. temperature wise. it's summer. she wears a full pyjama set to bed. flannel. it might as well be a waterbed, i'm sweating so much.'

'very well. i'll arrange funds for you to expand your wardrobes now that you have found a place to settle. is there anything else?'

do you still think i'm a miracle? what am i doing here, training? i fucked everything up. why don't you take it out? why don't you tell beatrice to take it out? have you told her to do it, is she disobeying? the thought makes you shiver. would beatrice disobey to protect you? do you trust me with the halo or am i just out of reach?

'all good.' you can't bring yourself to call her by her title. 'i'm training hard,' you offer, because she hasn't hung up yet.

'that's good. that's very good. you will need that in the days to come. there are trials ahead of us, my daughter.'

the phone in its clunky military-grade protective case creaks in your grip. 'i'm not your daughter.' she doesn't apologise, or take it back. she also doesn't say it again, so. whatever. 'say hi to camila.'

'of course. i will speak with you again next week,' she says, briskly, and then, 'goodbye. stay safe,' and hangs up, which is a bitch move because you think it would have been really satisfying to hang up on her.

you shuffle out of the corner, by the door. the conversation has you all knotted up and, like, weird. you toss the phone all the way into the next room—safely onto the bed because, safe phone line, beatrice would be pissed, whatever—and fold yourself back into the chair at the kitchen table.

the page is blank and white, the letters are big connect-the-dot looking things that you're supposed to trace over with your pencil. house. mother. father. sister. brother. daughter. son. you rip that page out too and shove it deep into the rubbish bin beneath the vegetable tops-and-tails you'd thrown out, prepping a stir-fry together with beatrice in the tiny kitchen you share.

[stolaz-the-artist]

May you make a murder drones au of nexo knights Please 😢

MURDER DRONES SPOILER WARNING

I mean yeah, that's kind of obvious.

This Is gonna be a loooong post. Longest ask I've worked on.

I didn't need to make so many drawings but I had so much fun I just kind of had to.

im gonna do everyone a favor and kind of digitalize my writing under each page, just in case its hard to read.

Serial Designator C

"I don't know because you won't tell me!"

"Oh please don't run! if I miss it will just prolong your suffering"

"Oh i do wanna be dapper *sigh* but alas"

Clay: Are you . . . new drones?

Macy: Uh, sure?

Clay: Hm. . . Well I have been saying we need more bots

Serial Designator W

"C-100110010! HOW DARE YOU LOCK YOUR MOTHER UP!? You let me out this instant!"

"Wait . . . Prom queen?"

Lance: He's literally so ungrateful. Like you're so cool.

"How did you even manage to knock yourself offline?"

*Rebooting. . .*

"If the other one survived after all this time it's truly a miracle"

Serial Designator F (Fletch)

Post limb change

Him and Izzy are very close friends (She think its cool when its revealed he's a Disassembly drone)

Was "adopted" by two worker drones (That W killed in an attempt to get him back)

He's a bit taller due to his torso, but because his legs cant fully support him, he's constantly hunching

"Im so tired of this shit"

Gets called names like • Loose-limb Fletch

•Drop-A-Limbs

•Disjoint-Drone

•Snap-off Fletch

Fletch: WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME?

Wanda: Literally barely anything. Just put the right limbs on

Wanda: Like what kind of idiot tried to connect Worker drone limbs to a Disassembly drone torso?

Macy Doorman

"Huh, knew illegal downloading all those Ned Knightly movies would come in handy"

"EAT PLASMA BITCH!"

Macy: One more buzzword and I'll do it

Jestro: . . . Equity Partnersh-

"Oh bite me"

Clay: Now im pretty new to this "Rebelling" stuff. But uh, do I have to fight my mom? Its just that-

Macy: YES!

Clay: sighhh Fine, lets do this

Aaron

"The hell happened to you?"

Aaron: So do you think they like video games?

Lance: Doubt it

Aaron: Then why are we here?

Lance: Blackmail

Aaron: Oh fair

One of Macy's best friends (And the friend she's had the longest)

"Super invited to my shindig next week"

Aaron, whispering: I mean, he's fun sized?

*sizzle*

Aaron, whispering: Ok so not fun

Macy: whispering: OH REALLY!?

Lance

Axl: Where's Macy

Lance: She went out

Axl: Out? Have she lost her mind?

Lance: Think so. Oh and Aaron went with her

Axl: Excuse me?

Lance: Yeah . .

Phone focus cuz tiny space

Wanda: This is so shit

Lance: I know right

Fashionista. Yes he knows there are non flip phones, he has one, but it just doesn't meet the same level of sass as a clip phone

Lance: Do you understand what will happen if you go out there? Let me spell it out; D-E-A-T-H! Are you out of your-

Aaron: I'll come lol

Lance: Yeah, no. You two gp enjoy dying. The hell you think this is, a shitty horror movie?

Axl

"Im gone for 5 min to get some actual edible snacks and everyone is dead!?"

Accidentally gave her the gun idea

Really fixated on food, spends a lot of time recreating food

His bigger legs make him a bit less flexible, but he packs a mean kick (home made)

Axl: There we go!

Lance: Aren't you worried someones actually gonna drink it thinking its actually edible- or drinkable I guess

Lance: But idk, people are pretty stupid here

Axl: Hm, no you're right

Decoration don't drink u'll die lol

Serial Designator J

"its tricked you! and if I promised you anything . . . It tricked me too . . ."

"Ha-ha! I-am so good-at-hiding!"

Is AD's most "trusted" worker (And with ,pst trusted I mean most easily manipulated)

Clay: What will the company do to us once we're done? How do we know the company wont get rid of us?

Jestro: Awh, im so sorry. You know the consequences of questioning the company

*virus*

Clay: Hm, fair enough

Monstrux

Merlok

Absolute Destruction

"The flesh demands invitation"

"Dropped this-silly"

Pre-skinning Merlok

Robot view

Monstrux: You look g-great, toots! hm . .

Monstrux: Have you considered a hat-tho

~*~

There's a few extra sketches I did for fun lying around, and if ya'll want that (plus the story line of what's happening) just tell me I would include it here but this is painfully long enough

(Oh and all relationships are kinda neutral here. They don't entirely line up with the show. Ship whoever I don't care)

Anyways, this took weeks to make (cuz of studying and the fact I got sick in the middle of it) but im rather happy with what I have came up with!

Always feel free to make asks like this! I enjoy them a lot! might take a while for them to come out cuz of school but I'll do my best!

(Also I'm aware some are a bit out of character, it was for comedic purposes)

[kerubimcrepin]

Episode 11: The Hairy Arachelmet

First of all, Kerubim's cup is in a dangerous ass place. If he spills it, he will have burns.

Truly, if Ecaflip wasn't on his side, he would be long dead.

Second of all, love that he begins looking at Simone when she's on The Ladder That Looks Like It Will Fucking Kill You.

When I first noticed this moment, I assumed it was Kerubim y'know. Ogling her. But now, considering this is the only time in the whole scene he's looking at her, I think he's looking at her because she's on The Ladder That Looks Like It Will Fucking Kill You, and if she began to fall things would be bad.

Btw, the only pictures Keke has in his home, anywhere where it's visible, are of himself, Lou, or some random scenery.

There HAS to be something psychological going on here, considering he is a father and canonically, uh, really normal about it.

Like. Whatever the reason for having Joris call him grampycat is, is the same for not putting up any cute pictures of Joris.

Something-something, his canonical guilt about killing ("""killing""") Julith, perhaps? Perhaps, feeling a bit too old for fatherhood? Maybe both?

On one hand, YESSS RARE SIMONE FAILGIRL MOMENT + i love it when people who are supposed to be good at something are bad at it.

On the other hand... Kerubim, your upbringing single-handedly changed the course of Joris's life so much, that, as an adult huppermage man, he uses a "magic wand" (log) to bash in people's skulls.

Kerubim yells at him to stop, and he just immediately stops and salutes.

It's never explained why Joris does this all the fucking time in the series, (besides the fact that he has ADHD. (To me. In my brain. I decided that he has it.)) but I think Kerubim did some Pikmin-style parenting shit on him.

Except instead of Pikmin it was probably something like "let's pretend I am a commanding officer and you are a member of the Bontarian army."

Okay, so, this is a whole can of worms we'll get in now.

This text is the famous Lorem Ipsum placeholder. The first two words are exactly Lorem Ipsum. Yet, I am mentally ill enough to sit down and translate this all.

So, uh. Yeah. I translated it by hand. It was painful.

The interesting parts are: the first page is the usual Lorem Ipsum placeholder with random edits, spaces, and changes. The second page is the original Lorem Ipsum from Cicero's De finibus bonorum et malorum.

I may be wrong with some of the spaces, because of the way the letters that look like " : :: . " and their weird sizes.

But also... Who give a shit?

Obligatory food moment: he is eating grapes and bird legs. Maybe tofu, or maybe other bird that size.

He is so fucking stupid.

My friend @dullard had pointed out that the way Kerubim's system works is probably by assigning a number to a direction.

I am not good with numbers OR directions, so I hope he makes a post about this. Or sends me an ask.

All I can point out, in regard to this, is the often neglected connection of Ecaflips to scrying and predicting the future and destiny.

So yeah. For all intents and purposes, Kerubim, with his level of luck, maaaay be a bit of an, uh. Oracle.

Though, I think he'd be scandalized by this idea I'm proposing here.

I suppose this episode's story takes place after the story in the episode 38, Dragokart Race, where Kerubim becomes a second place Dragokart champion.

Is this in any way relevant? No. Welcome to my blog, where I talk about literally the most useless Dofus facts. Anyway.

Adding to the list of Implied Adventures We Never See:

Literally everything to do with Atcham.

Kerubim working with Arachnees some more.

To be added.

Culture note: being a hypermage is associated with being smart and being able to predict how situations are going to go.

This blog may seem like it's pointing out the most obvious shit, but keep in mind, besides me wanting to gush about this show and write analysis pieces, this blog is also meant as a bit of a resource for Random Irrelevant Lore. For fic writers.

I may be the fic writers.

...It's interesting to think about how these cultural standards may affect Joris, who, in all honesty, is fucking stupid. There are pebbles where his brain should be.

Anyway.

He really is stupid.

For how cheerful this show is, this moment is a very stark reminder of the fact that Kerubim was fighting and killing people.

I think that the way he was describing this to Joris probably was something like "and then I sliced that guy in half". Which is both... very violent, and also not very detailed.

Your daily reminder that while searching for Ecaflip City, to get rich and be able to propose to Lou, he tried to fuck a pandawa girl, and DEFINITELY fucked these three. Sad! (Edit: that, or he was searching for it long before the proposal thing.)

Better late than never, Keke. Better late than never.

But it would have been cool if you knew that when you were [SPRAYS HIM WITH A WATER BOTTLE] an orphan, as described in the official text The Wheel of Destiny #8: Kerubim Crepin.

This is my legally required once-in-a-few-liveblogs Wheel of Destiny lore mention. You're welcome.

Joris looks like he heard what just happened, and like.... I know that this is just a funny animation moment.

but i want to belive so so badly, that, due to dragon possession, joris can hear whatever the fuck is going on with this hat, by intercepting its ~~psionic waves~~

that he just heard a spider call his father a motherfucker.

Is it not a wonderful vision of the world, that I just described here?

[keepsmagnetoaway]

Giant-Size X-Men 1 (May 1975)

Len Wein/Dave Cockrum

Here we...here we...here we fucking go!

This is the most important X-Men comic ever published: more important than the very first issue, even. This is also going to be a heinously long post, so strap in.

Notwithstanding the last, uh, six months of posts, this is where X-Men really starts, with it re-starting. In the mid-70s, the team had been without a book of their own for years but sporadic guest appearances had kept the characters present in the minds of readers: many of those guest appearances had been written by Len Wein, who in 1974 became editor-in-chief at Marvel and decided to revive the X-Men, but cautiously: he was going to put out a special large-format issue introducing a new team, and then follow it with further occasional large-format issues, maybe three or four times a year. He wrote the first issue, and got Dave Cockrum to draw it, creating a number of new mutants for the team's rebirth and introducing them all in a series of virtuoso sequences. I'm trying to resist the urge to just post this entire comic, but snippets will have to suffice.

Right away - this is page 1 - we see that the issue of prejudice and fear is back at the centre of the X-Men story, where it has always belonged. Not all the characters were totally new, though: one of the had been seeded a few months ago in Incredible Hulk, as we have seen.

Banshee, meanwhile - who, as we know, is canonically a country music freak - was also returning (slight sigh).

That's an interesting start - three characters and none of them Americans - but what about some non-white characters, huh?

So. The introduction and framing of the non-white, non-Western characters in this issue - and in this run of X-Men, to some extent - is obviously, shall we say, heavy-handed.

And yet, here they are - the characters exist, and I think it's important that they are drawn from all over the world: the comic is working hard to emphasise that and in doing so slips over and over into caricature in the interests of foregrounding diversity. It's not great - it's aged pretty terribly, in isolation - but with the knowledge of where these characters (particularly Storm) end up it's difficult to read any of this as actively bad, I think.

Certainly the clunkiest of these introductions is that of John Proudstar, the Apache, and it's surely no coincidence that...well, we'll get to that.

So, there they all are.

And here is someone you do recognise.

This is a long section of set-up, (re)introducing Cyclops and explainign where the others have gone: Jean, Bobby, Warren, Lorna and Alex have all gone missing on a mysterious island that seemed to house a super-powerful mutant (Beast, the X-Man we've seen most of during the hiatus, is now fully off doing his thing with the Avengers and is not involved).

There's so much going on here: we of course are all totally familiar now with the original X-Men, but some reader picking this up in 1975 very likely wouldn't have been, so here they are crammed in and then immediately disposed off. Shout-out also to Cockrum's art here, of which we'll have much more to say as we go on, but it does a huge amount, packing in character designs, costumes, action and plot while still leaving room for effect and emotion that, at times, ism almost Neal Adams-like (here, as you can see, Cyclops was briefly depowered when escaping the island, though he gets them back).

Also, here's our next big theme: infighting, introduced when Sunfire quits and then re-joins the team in the space of a single page. This is both foreshadowing and a sign that this issue was maaaaybe trying to do a bit too much.

But fuck it, this issue is great. Can you imagine the sheer richness of picking this up on a newsstand as a kid. All these characters! All this lore! All this potential! And then we get to the action of the issue, as the team fights its way across Krakoa, which is a kind of pulp nightmare landscape.

Enjoy the drama, the design, the style of this whole page: the looming temple, the strange angles, the sinister greyness of the final panel. Everything here is at the top of its game.

And then the big - if slightly obvious - reveal that the mutant is the island itself. This art kicks ass, and in the meantime introduces another thematic strand in the whole nuclear testing/cold war/mutation angle.

The final action sequence is bersekly brilliant, full of ambitious layout choices and complex storytelling that pulls of the goal of showcasing all the various disaparate X-Men and getting them to work together.

Eventually the fire the entire island into space (??) and the issue finally runs out of room and ends.

So, yeah. This issue was so obviously great, and such a success, that plans changed, and instead of occasional big stories like this, X-Men was revived as a regular monthly book: or rather, because it was still being printed but only with re-runs of original era stories, it was revamped as a book with new stories, starting with issue 94.

That's where this read will go next - and, guided by my trusty reading guide, we'll go right through for about 50 issues with only occasional guest appearances in the meantime, returning us at last to the one long on-going soap opera that is X-Men at their peak. Can't wait!

[sarandipitywrites]

DRDW draft 2 update 12/5 (IT'S DONE)

yes, draft 2 of Dead Roots, Dark Water is DONE. all those scattered documents and pictures of handwritten scenes (why did i do that, i should have just typed them out right after writing it, uggghhh) are finally in one, edited, cohesive document.

[image id: a screenshot from a word processor. it reads: "Words: 176,697. Characters: 982,176. Page: 292 of 292. end image id.]

one absurdly long, edited, cohesive document. i didn't mean for it to get this bad i swear, this is fanfic, why did i do this.

and now we're on to draft 3! i'm planning on taking a week or so to work on the plot revision for The Art of Empty Space (and to not stare at this draft for a minute) and then i'll be working on draft 3 for the rest of december. after that, who knows? i want to start redrafting AES in january, but we'll see how badly this sinks its claws into me ;)

short excerpt because... end of the story, basically everything is spoilers. but this part isn't so bad

"And what? You think I could still be a sage?" "Sure, why not? Hey, maybe you could be a dark sage, too. You're probably better with that stuff than anyone else alive, at this point. Is that even a thing? Dark sage?" Jak snorted. "Yeah, I'm sure Samos would be happy about that. His own apprentice, a sage of chaos and entropy." "Fuck yeah, who wouldn't be? I can see it now: Jak Sabo, the first dark eco sage. Samos'll swear you in, teach you the secret handshake and everything. You'll go off and make your home in a shack in Boggy Swamp—" "I have to live in the swamp?" "Uh, yeah? Swamps are hotbeds of chaos and entropy, babe. Keep up. You'll live in the swamp, where only the worthy will find you and seek your teaching. You'll cultivate all these weird, awesome plants. You'll mutate a bunch of swamp rats to do your bidding. We'll never have to sweep the floors, 'cause they'll do it with their little rat-sized brooms—" "You'll be there?" Warmth bloomed in his chest. "Obviously. How else am I supposed to live in your attic?"

general taglist (ask to be added or removed): @innocentlymacabre

DRDW taglist (ask to be added or removed): no one (yet)

[endtown]

the amazing bear and nadine fic. chapter 1. 1,268 words.

hello all. it is kc. i was thinking earlier today about how much i miss writing the stupidest fanfic of all time without any kind of thought or planning like i did when i was 13. and i don't really involve myself in fandom spaces, so i decided.... why. not just do that for my ocs?

i'll update this post (or the next) with an actual summary when i come up with one, but i'm sort of just going with the flow for now. for the time being, i'll try to update this weekly or biweekly, and i have no idea where it will lead. so uh, feel free to leave suggestions and stuff if that's what ppl do.

anyways, enjoy!

It was normal for Bear to struggle with sleep. It was something that he usually didn’t mind, but the past few days, he had actually been resting well. So as he watched the clock on the wall, it all felt a lot more defeating than usual. Whenever he got more than one night of good sleep, there was always this small hope that maybe this meant things would just be better.

A naive thought, sure, but he couldn’t help it.

There was a typical routine that he went through when this kind of thing happened. Lay in bed for a while, hope to sleep, decide that wasn’t going to happen, and head into the little makeshift kitchen they’d set up in the library attic. There, he could listen to the radio and eat. Or read whatever book he was interested in that week. Or maybe, if he was feeling especially brave, even write in a journal. But typically, by this point, he’d given up. The goal was no longer to sleep, but instead, to pass the time before work.

After a bowl of cereal without milk, and some time spent listening to a man on the radio talk about the science of stars, Bear decided he was done waiting. It was a quick drive over to the only gas station in the town of Palmyra, leaving him 30 minutes early to open up but... Well, Bert wouldn't mind. If anything, Bert would go on some long rant about how Bear was one of the few in his generation with actual work effort, and whatever else older guys who were kind of balding liked to talk about.

(It was always something about "I wish my kids were this motivated." And Bear never said it out loud, but he wished sometimes that he wasn't.)

It was just him at this hour, Bert wouldn't show up for a few more. He had never minded opening the shop early, though. There was a sort of peace that came with the soft flicker of the lights as they turned on, the sound of a mop against the floor as he cleaned up, and the radio playing softly in the background.

Jean jacket always stays on at first, while he waits for the heat, but it's taken off and thrown over his chair behind the counter after a while. By the time the door is unlocked, he is stood in one of the aisles with a box of chips to unpack, dressed in simple jeans and a shirt. His boots were work boots, plain and simple. Only worn because they were borrowed.

It was early, meaning that aside from the occasional bell, there really wasn't much noise. At a certain point, Bear even decided to sit behind the counter for a bit with one of the books he was working through. This one, Lenny had promised, was a classic. The Outsiders. Just the right size book for a day like this one.

And while he can read through quite a bit, he certainly cannot read through the loud, obnoxious arguing that comes with a couple pushing in the doors at six, loudly insisting on including everyone in their debate. Well, everyone meant Bear, because who the fuck else was there to talk to?

(Passing cars? The only thing near the gas station was trees and the highway.)

The argument was over dinner plans, or something. He didn't care enough to try and work it all out, and instead focused on trying to finish the page he was on. But, mid thought, one half of the couple comes right up to the front desk.

"Can I get the bathroom key?"

Their hair is bright pink, matching nails and makeup. The outfit that they've got on is not only bright for a small town like this, but far nicer (and more revealing) than what Bear was used to seeing in town. It was funny, considering whoever they were with was dressed a lot closer to Bear. Except this guy's shirt had some kind of sports branding, while Bear's was basic.

And though he fumbles for a moment, that could easily be blamed on the time of day. Key is produced from under the counter, handed off, and pinky is gone. Bear doesn't have to look up to know that the guy, (a boyfriend? protective friend? general creep? he couldn't tell), had been watching the whole thing. With his partner gone, though, the stranger takes to finally looking throughout the place for something.

He comes up after a bit with some chips and a couple of energy drinks. The same brand Bear had at the beginning of his shift. The process of scanning them in is typical, reading out the total of around seven dollars to the guy, and waiting. Because the guy could just pay, and they could not deal with each other anymore. But of course not.

He pats his pockets, before groaning. "Fuck. I left Nadine with my fucking wallet." He mutters, and without saying much else, wanders off. There is another ring as the front door closes behind him, and Bear wonders for a moment if that will just be it. But the banging on the bathroom door and the yelling that follows is loud enough to be heard through the walls. So when the guy comes back in, Bear is not shocked to see how angry he seems.

"Have you got like. A fuckin'.... Extra key, or some shit? They won't answer the fucking door." And he wonders for a moment if the guy is worried about his potential ...whatever they were. But no, this is just pure anger. Bear doesn't get a second to even think before the guy is waving a hand in his face to make sure he's following along. So with a quiet nod, Bear produces the backup key. Of course.

It is an awkward walk out to the little bathroom they have set up, and Bear gives a gentle knock just to make sure he isn't going to open the door on anyone. But once again, nothing. The entire time, whatever this guy's name is, is muttering to himself about how much of a bitch Nadine was, and whatever else. It was less muttering, and more... whisper-yelling? Once again, making it hard to focus.

But Bear does get the door open. And inside? Yeah, absolutely nothing. Not even the original bathroom key had been left behind.

"THAT FUCKING BITCH STOLE MY WALLET!" Comes from behind him, making Bear jump just a bit, but it doesn't matter. It seems that interest has been entirely lost in the gas station worker, as the guy runs back to his shitty excuse for a sports car. Whatever he was doing, he was doing it without explanation and quickly. Well, as quickly as he could. There is two, three, four attempts to start the car before it goes. And then a few moments adjusting mirrors and settings before he finally drives off.

Bear is left with silence, again, as he watches the car disappear out of sight. Expression does not change, because not even an energy drink could perk him up to deal with shit like this. No, there is not a reaction from him until he hears a voice behind him.

"God. What a fuckin' loser."

And to his shock (dismay? he really didn't want to be in the middle of anything), he turns to see the pink haired stranger standing behind him, and in the middle of the tiny excuse for a bathroom.

Fuck this. He should've stayed in bed.

[dogwatch05]

Religion

Humans are Weird. Religion. There's so many. Now personally I am Christian and I don't know a lot about other religions, but I'm always open to learn about other cultures and beliefs if only to understand others better and to satisfy my own curiosity. But what if Aliens had never heard of Christianity before? Unlikely, I know, considering that Christianity is one of the most popular religions, but bear with me.

Aliens may not have religion, or they may have at one point and abandoned it once they became true spacefaring races. I present to you the Christian trying to explain to their alien friend(?).

I am not infallible, so if you have questions or think I got something wrong, please reach out to me.

Post writing note here (all my author's notes are written before the story is done): Man I don't like Rjoll and I'm the one who wrote him.

I would also like to add that while Rjoll did not become a Christian, he did develop a certain respect for Humans in general after hearing Christina's speech.

************************************************************************

Rjoll was a stellar xenohistorian. He prided himself on his ability to recall any fact requested of him about any race in the galaxy. But Humans had to come along and ruin that. With so many factions, tribes, countries, and realistic historical-fiction galore, Rjoll had his work cut out for him to become passably literate on Human history. Not to mention sifting the fiction from the reality. This is why Rjoll had done something unprecedented in his career. He requested a native of his subject of study. The Human had arrived yesterday and Rjoll was determined to use every second of the month that he had her.

As Rjoll navigated the labyrinth of a ship they were living on, he thought of how best to introduce himself. And what if the Human didn't like him? What if he made a fool of himself. What if the Human was a fool themselves and could barely do Pre-Calculus?

What was happening to him? He'd never had these doubts about himself before. He'd always prided himself on his self-assurance and his ability to deal with those intellectually inferior to himself. Having to depend on someone, especially such a new, primitive species like the humans, was something so new to him that he didn't know how to react.

Before he knew it, he was at the human's door. Sighing, he resigned himself to the humiliation he knew was coming and knocked.

"Enter!" came the call from inside the room. Rjoll was stunned. She should have stopped what she was doing and greeted him at the door to perform the standard greeting ritual of inviting someone into your living space. No species he'd ever interacted with had foregone this practice.

Uncomfortable, Rjoll opened the door and peeked inside. The human was siting on their bed with hands folded in their lap and eyes closed. Glancing around, Rjoll took note of the human's room.

Sparsely decorated, the room consisted of a single occupant sized bed, a bedside table with a drawer and lamp, a chest to hold personal items and uniforms, a desk and chair, and a wooden ornament hung above the headboard of the bed. On the desk was a notebook and pencil with a leatherbound book decorated with golden gilded pages and the same wooden symbol in gold on the cover.

The human muttered something under their breath and glanced at the ceiling before standing up and approaching Rjoll.

"Hello sir, my name is Christina. How do you do?"

"Uh...I am very well. Xenohistorian Rjoll at your service. I am under the impression that you are the human assigned by the Terran-Xeno Relations department to assist me in my research. Is this to be held true?" Rjoll was caught off guard by Christina's off-hand and informal introduction but he congratulated himself for recovering so well and redirecting the conversation in an appropriate direction.

Christina smiled at Rjoll. "Yes, I am to be your primary source on human history. I'm sure that you've read my file sent to you by the agency," (Rjoll had not, in fact, read that file)," but in case you haven't had the chance, I am a world historian back on Earth. If you require access to documents, I can give you supervised access to the human internet for research purposes only."

Rjoll was pleased that the human could apparently be professional and asked if they had a seat that he could use. Might as well be nice to the human so that he could get as much information out of her as possible.

Christina nodded and brought over the chair from her desk and sat on the bed facing Rjoll. "Well, lets get started then," she said," What would you like to know first?"

Glancing around the spartan room again, Rjoll focused on the wooden ornament. "Lets start with you. Who are you, what do you do, what's that symbol on your wall."

"Well," Christina started, "I've already introduced my self but I can do that again. I am Christina Carpenter. A civilian historian currently on government contract with the TXR department for the duration of your research currently set for one month. I served briefly in the United Earth Space Exploration Corp. Like the United Earth Space Fleet, but civilian, not military, and focused on exploration, not defending our space. As for that symbol on my wall, how familiar are you with human religion?"

Rjoll grumbled and mumbled, "Not very" before mentally slapping himself and speaking up. "I am not familiar with the majority of human related topics. Please explain everything to me as if I were a student, but without speaking down to me if you please. I can always get a more respectful human if you decide to not show me the proper respect."

Christina closed and rolled her eyes, then she took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and began speaking. "Alright. That symbol on my wall is The Cross. It is the symbol that represents Christianity, one of the most popular faiths on Earth with roughly 2.4 billion of the 7 billion humans on Earth being Christian. A monotheistic religion with the God being of three parts: The Father, The Son, and The Holy Ghost/Spirit. The holy text of this religion is called the Bible. Literally translating to Holy Book. There are sixty-six books within the Bible split into the Old and New Testament. The key beliefs of Christianity are: there is one God, we are all sinners, His son died for our sins that we would be forgiven, His son rose from the dead, and the Bible is the word of God as given to humanity.

We believe that God is a loving and good God, often referred to as our Heavenly Father because Christians believe that we are all God's children. Christianity is a religion that focus mainly on forgiveness, redemption, and relationship. We als-"

Rjoll cut Christina off. "Sounds like a weak religion then if you focus on forgiveness. What do you do if someone insults your religion? Turn the other cheek? Where's the honor in that. Weakness."

Christina smirked. Fine, she thought. Let's do it that way then.

"Actually, yes we are to turn the other cheek and grant forgiveness, mercy, and grace. But do you know how God's child, The Son, part of the Holy Trinity, died? Would you like to know?"

Rjoll nodded, convinced that nothing this human said would be able to change his mind.

Christina's smirk fell. Poor, poor Rjoll. He doesn't know what he is getting into.

"Jesus, the son of God, had 12 disciples who are also known as apostles. They were his students who followed him wherever he went. Jesus traveled and performed miracles and taught about God and the new kingdom to come. Well the Jews, what Jesus was, did not like that he was performing miracles and claiming to be 'The Son of Man'. Particularly the Sanhedrin. At this time the Romans had occupied the lands of the Jews, and the Romans were not merciful masters. Judas, one of Jesus's apostles, was paid 30 silver pieces to betray Jesus and identify him to Roman officials who had been convinced to arrest him by the Sanhedrin. A trial was held for Jesus and he was found innocent of breaking any Roman law by the Romans. The leader of the Romans, Pilate, still sentenced Jesus to death because of pressure from Jesus's own people.

Jesus was whipped until skin separated from bone, had a crown of thorns shoved on his head, and forced to carry his own roughly hewn cross through town to the place where his death would take place.

And do you know what we did Rjoll? We nailed the Son of God to a tree (common alternative name for the cross) and left him like that for six hours.

And still he did his work. He forgave a thief of his sins while they were being crucified together. He took care of his mother's future while he was being crucified, and when Romans mocked him, he asked his Father to forgive them 'for they know not what they do'.

So yes, Christianity is a religion that focuses on forgiveness for that is what we are called to do, but don't forget that the reason we can do this is because we were first forgiven by our God who 'gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believes in him should not perish, but have everlasting life'. The Son who was tortured and nailed to a tree through his wrists and ankles; who was left there for six hours before he surrendered his spirit.

So yes, we forgive and we find not weakness but honor in forgiveness because we strive to be like our God.

Humans, like many, are capable of terrible things. Many have asked if we are who we are because of our nature or how we are raised, and none have come to a definitive answer. And so many turn to religion and ask: If he can forgive, why can't we?"

[oliveroctavius]

"the loss of the long form serialized storytelling in comics in favor of writing for the trade has done so much damage to character relationships"

Yeah, but also:

Almost all Marvel/DC writers are still paid by output on a project by project basis. At ~$100 a page, that's $25,200 a year for a 21 page monthly book, no benefits, very rarely royalties for book sales. The incentive is to work on multiple titles as fast as possible. Any back research for character detail is a labor of fan love: that's unpaid work, and dealing with maybe 2-3x as many back issues as a writer in the 80s would have.

The (few) salaried writers are "exclusive": they can only write for that publisher's books. If their bright idea doesn't fit into an existing character's arc, they can either pretend it does, or pitch it as something new which (if accepted) will be company owned intellectual property. The "best" industry jobs are the ones with the least creative control. Forgive me if I don't believe the best creative minds end up there.

For the last couple of decades, there’s been a particular model to sustainable careers in comic book writing. First you do work at some of the smaller independent publishers to get the attention of the Big Two (DC and Marvel), then you transition into writing for the Big Two and work your way up the ladder to the highest profile book you can muster, and then you use your larger platform from your superhero work to draw folks back in to your independent work, often using the money from those big superhero books to subsidize your own books before they turn a profit. (James Tynion IV on Substack in 2021)

Miniseries/TPBs have serious upsides to those who can't afford to be continuity geeks. It's a graphic-novel sized contract guaranteed to get your name in front of a lot of eyes. It's a low risk gig that can still offer a rare level of arbitrary creative control.

"the main universe is meant to be a collaborative front"

Well...

The first and foremost thing the Marvel or DC universe is "meant" to be is a marketing tool. Creators who care have done beautiful and interesting things with the concept, but the fundamental unit of story in the MarvelDC model is the (copyrighted) character.

It's really the IP that sells. I'm the ultimate example. I came to Marvel with little experience as a writer in the early '70s and replaced Stan Lee on Spider-Man. It didn't hurt the sales. (Gerry Conway to Business Insider in 2021)

Henry Ford couldn't be happier: creative workers swapped out like cogs without disturbing the story-producing machine. A comic is more like a novel than a movie or TV show: a creator can do it solo, if given the space and time. The unique and fun "collaborative" element of superhero comics are a well-executed coping mechanism for decades of exploitative labor practices.

In the above case, Gerry Conway had a single decade to catch up on and was coached by the previous writer(s) directly. The weight of publishing history on individual writers is always growing heavier, TPBs or no.

If TPBs really are are giving creatives the control to screw over the IP for their own short term interests... that's sad from a fannish perspective but from an industry perspective, uh, yeah, screw 'em. If "playing super nice with continuity" was meant to be standard, then deadlines and compensation should represent the work that goes into that.

[marmie-noir]

Dance like no one is watching :: A Miguel O’hara ficlet

We stan Lyla in this house. Also, I am so down bad for this man it’s disgusting. I have this image in my brain of a geneticist spider who instead of fighting focuses on documenting all the spider men that join up with the society and also works with Miguel to help him make anything he needs really. The dynamic has so much cute potential!    The spiderlings, the name you had lovingly chosen for the younger spiders in the Spider Society, were really the ones to blame. It started with Miles, the teenager always having sort of song playing when he would swing on his webs. You had been pulling data from Lyla’s data bank when it had come through, the AI apparently listening in as well.

Then, it was Gwen, the charming white suited crusader having a more laid back music taste. You’d also snatched a few of her audio clips through Lyla as well, the AI all too happy to have someone to share the data with as Miguel was apparently not interested in music. Then came Hobie. He listened to everything. From punk metal to romance ballads to even some pop music that had you raising a brow. But still, Lyla gave it to you, delighted as she delivered the data while appearing in her little holo-form on your workbench as you slaved away in the labs.  

You weren’t sure who had brought this song to your attention, which one of those adorably frustratingly talented young people had been jamming to this specific beat, but it was stuck in your head. Finally, after days of humming it and finding yourself swaying to it while mixing test tubes you gave in. “Lyla, play the damn song.” “You got it boss!” Lyla sounded almost giddy, the music bumping over the speaker system that was in the labs. Normally it acted more as paging, or played relaxing music while you were hunched over your slides and microscopes, but it appeared to be at least semi-decent as the familiar beat pounded through the mid-sized labs space. It was addictive in an annoying way, the beat and the singer’s voice making you do more than just swing your hips. Before long you had an empty beaker standing in place of a microphone. You were mid-serenade to a full sized Lyla complete with some of your best dance moves when the sound of someone clearing their throat had you jumping nearly a foot in the air, throwing the glass beaker at the intruder. Miguel’s large hand easily caught the glass, lowering it to his side with a raised brow and placing it on the desk. It looked so small in his huge hands, your own eyes lingering there before moving up to meet the crimson of his. “Oh, um, Miguel hi.” You tried to play it cool, brushing your hair behind your ear before your fingers tangled together behind your back. The music was still bumping and he watched you for a few seconds in silence before Lyla thankfully turned it down a bit before shutting it off completely. “What, uh, what brings you to the lab?” You asked, fighting off the blush that was threatening to consume you whole. It didn’t help that his eyes lingered on your face, a little smile touching his lips before his mask fell back in place. “Lyla said you had something for me?” Your eyes snapped to the AI who chose that moment to disappear from view, her holographic self blinking out of existence. Feeling more alone now than you had with the illusion of a friend you turn to face him once more. 

“I guess I do have the read out of Earth-8411’s Peter.” You said, looking down at the watch on your wrist and passing the data over. “Oh, now that you are here, could you give me more venom when you have a chance? I’ve burned through what you gave me before.” 

He raised a brow but went to sit down on one of the backless stools spread throughout the work space. “Hand me a vial, I can give you some now.” He offered, voice deep and filling the space. 

You move to grab a tube, approaching to hand it to him. Normally Miguel would bring you vials of the stuff for you to research, never had you seen him gather it yourself. 

Opening his mouth you watched with absolute fascination as his fangs grew and he placed a fang in the narrow glass vial. His eyes narrowed just a touch but then a thick yellow tinted venom slowly flowed from the long white fang. Once the vial was half full he lowered it, the fangs slowly going back to their more manageable size and he licked at the one he had used, almost out of habit. 

Holding the vial out to you it took you a few moments to grab it from him, fingers brushing slightly, finding the vial warm. “I’d give you more but I think I’m heading out and I’d like to have more just in case.” He said, looking up at you slightly as he was seated you were not. “Is that enough?” Glancing down at the vial you nod before looking back at him. “I’m so jealous. I want fangs.” That had both his eyebrows going up and his lips quirking in a smirk. “Really? They were kind of a pain to get used to.” “Oh, I’m sure, but like just dropping them like that? And having the toxin? That has to be sick, especially mid-fight if you wanna just make someone go to sleep quick you just have to make your suit do that cool thing you programmed it to do and-” You placed the half full vial in storage, capping it carefully. Turning to meet his amused eyes you pause and find you had been practically fangirling right in front of him. “I mean, it’s just different from all the other spiders and all, you are interesting. Scientifically.” Good cover.  His expression didn’t change, a quiet amusement in the lines of his face. “Yes, well. Thank you for the files, let me know when you need more venom.” Miguel said, turning and giving you his broad back as he went to leave the labs. Pausing near the door he called over his shoulder “Lyla, resume music.” The familiar beats began to fill the labs again, leaving you a blushing mess hiding behind your hands at your workstation, missing the little smile on his lips.      

[sentientgolfball]

A Study Place

An extremely self indulgent fic because I have one week left of college and I’m gonna LOSE IT

Summary: you’ve been trying to finish a project for the Ministry and struggle to focus and find a place to work comfortably. GN!reader interacts with Mountain/Primo/Omega.

The room was dimly lit and smelled of paper and ink. It was decently sized with a large window at one end and some large antique furniture. You had decided to make this place your own little work area when you needed a quiet and comfortable space. You had been staring at the book in front of you for at least an hour. You glanced down at the leather notebook in front of you still devoid of any words. You let out a long, deep sigh before laying your head on the desk. “This isn’t working” you mumbled to yourself before lifting your head and getting out of your chair. You had been assigned to the task of translating new ritual texts that the Ministry had recently gotten a hold of. That was 3 months ago. Sister was expecting it on her desk before the start of the next tour cycle of the Ghost Project. You had promised her it would be completed to perfection yet there you stood pacing around the room not sure how to continue.

You decided that the reason you couldn’t focus was because of the environment so you packed up all your stuff and headed out into the halls to look for a better work spot. You didn’t really have any idea where you were going. You walked for a bit mumbling greetings to any other Siblings you passed on the way before the idea struck you. The Ghoul den. It would be a perfect place to work. It was always warm in the room and covered in soft plush things. At this time of day, the ghouls would certainly be in a rehearsal with Papa so you’d have the whole place to yourself. Now that you knew where you were heading you picked up your pace a bit.

As you stood outside of the ornate wooden doors you felt a twinge of anxiety. You knew the ghouls wouldn’t care if you entered. You had been invited back time and time again since Aether found you wandering the halls at night so many months ago, but it still made you a little nervous each time entering into their part of the Ministry.

You gave yourself a small shake and pushed open the door. The common area was empty just as you expected it to be. You found a comfy spot on the large couch in the middle of the room and got your work back out of your bag. You stared at the ancient text in front of you and started taking notes. You became so lost in the translation that you didn’t notice the figure looming over you until it spoke

“What are you reading?” a deep voice asked. You were startled out of your concentration causing you to leave a line of ink down the page. You whipped your head around only to be met with the brilliant green eyes of Mountain. You looked at him confused for a moment. Weren't the ghouls supposed to be in a rehearsal right now? you thought to yourself. Mountain just stood there with a look of genuine curiosity on his face.

“It’s uh it’s a new text the Ministry got in but uh aren’t you supposed to be in rehearsal right now?” You asked, considering the thought that you have got their practice days mixed up.

“Nope, we ended early Swiss and Sodo got into it. Copia didn’t wanna deal with it.” The massive ghoul had started to move around the couch to come to sit next to you. While normally you love the company of the earth ghoul you knew it wouldn’t be long before the other arrived and if those two had fought so badly Copia sent everyone off you did not want to be in the den when they arrived.

You stood just as Mountain was about to sit, a look of confusion appearing on his face.

“I’m so sorry Mountain” you started “but I really need to get this translation done.” He then gave you a look of understanding before offering you a quick hug.

“Ya know the gardens are lovely at this time of day.” You could feel his voice in his chest as he said this. Maybe he was onto something. The only ones who are ever in the gardens are Primo and Mountain. You thanked him and apologized again for leaving so quickly before leaving the den. Just in time too you thought to yourself as you heard the shouting of the fire ghoul down the hall.

You took Mountain's suggestion and made your way to the gardens with a headache starting to form from the stress. It was a nice day outside, not too hot but not freezing cold. You took a seat at one of the stone benches littered throughout the gardens and got back to work. As you were writing something down in the notebook you noticed that Primo had appeared. You gave each other a greeting and got back to your respective tasks. You found it heartwarming how the oldest Emeritus brother spent his retirement in the Ministry gardens tending to the plants and educating the Siblings on the perfect ones to use in rituals.

After about an hour or so Prino approached you. “You look stressed piccolo, do you mind if I sit?” You looked up at the older man only with your focus broken did you realize you had a furrowed brow and clenched jaw. You moved over to make room for Primo on the bench and took the opportunity to stretch everything out. The man sat down and let out a content sigh. The silence hung in the air for quite some time before he spoke.

“What’s got you on edge mio caro fratello?”

You sighed “I’ve got this assignment from Sister Imperator. I had so long to do it but I pushed it off and now I’m stuck rushing that’s not the problem though” You looked at him and he urged you to continue

“I can’t focus. No matter what I do or where I go I just…can’t focus. I could’ve been done by now if I could just focus on one simple task!” You found yourself slowly getting frustrated as you admitted out loud how badly you were struggling with the work.

Primo considered what you said for a moment before responding “Do not be hard on yourself fratello, it will do you no good. Instead, you should focus on what is in your control. Sometimes we get so caught up in life we lose that control, but some things we cannot control. Try not to let it consume you, flow with it.”

The way he spoke was soft and his voice was full of empathy. He sat with you for as long as you needed. With his kind words and comforting presence you were able to get back to the text with less dread.

You were about halfway finished when Primo suggested moving indoors. You were confused by this until you finally looked up and saw the gray clouds blotting out the sun. You normally enjoyed the rain, even staying outside to sit in it on a few occasions but this time you felt that frustration creeping back over you. You once again gathered your things and made your way inside before. You said your goodbyes to Primo and thanked him again for the advice. At this hour you decided there was only one place left you could attempt to sit and finish your work. You had been avoiding it not wanting to spend another night there. You rubbed your hand over your face and sighed making your way to the archives.

When you arrived at the gigantic doors you pushed them open and made your way to the desk you usually sat at. You poured yourself into the text in front of you determined to finish so you wouldn’t have to skip any more dinners. The headache that had formed in the gardens was taking its toll the longer you skimmed through the pages. You paused and leaned back in your chair and groaned “I can’t do this” you said aloud to yourself.

“Damn Zephyr was right, you look like you’re about ready to fall over.” You snapped your head up meeting the gaze of Omega. The quintessence ghoul laughed “Don’t worry I’m not here to bother you I just came to check up” You finally processed what he had and silently cursed yourself. Of course Zephyr had been hidden here somewhere and saw you enter. You didn’t need a mirror to know you looked stressed.

“Omega I appreciate it but I really really need to get this work finished or Sister is going to have my head.”

“I know that’s why I’m here. I could smell your emotions from the other side of the Ministry. Zephyr just told me where to find you.” He held his clawed hand out to you “So let me help. You’ll never get anything of quality done in your current state.”

You considered his offer for a moment. It wasn’t long ago that you only knew the ghoul by name and a few stray glances, but after leaving your desk in the archives a mess one night you had been made to spend plenty of time with him on cleaning duty. You had come to enjoy his presence. His quintessence was stronger than Aether’s, it seemed like all one had to do was stand near Omega and they would instantly start to feel content.

He had a point though, you had been struggling all day to focus even before the little adventure around the Ministry which in turn caused your temper to flare. You sighed and finally took the ghoul's hand. Immediately you felt all the stress and frustration melt away replaced with a calm, warm feeling. You smiled up at him feeling your headache start to disappear “Thanks Omega I think I really needed that.” You moved to get back to work when the ghoul pulled a nearby chair over to sit next to you. You looked at him in confusion before the realization hit you.

“Oh, no Omega you don’t have to stay here I’m sure I can get this done with the little boost you already gave me.”

“Please, think nothing of it. Besides, I have reading of my own I need to catch up on.” he said this with a fanged smile. You could tell by the look in his eyes he already had his mind set on staying at the desk with you. You didn’t mind too much. If any ghoul was going to keep you company you were glad it was Omega. He was much calmer than the younger ghouls and if you ever got stuck on a translation or a ritual step he’d be able to assist you with his Infernal knowledge.

~~~

Finally. Finally after about an hour you were finished with the writing. You leaned back in your chair and stretched your wrist. You sighed deeply and felt your shoulders slump. You could feel the weight of your responsibilities physically lift off you. You saw Omega shift in his chair out of the corner of your eye before you heard him put his book down.

“Finished?”

“It took all day but yes I finished.” You could hear the tiredness in your own voice and hoped Omega hadn’t picked up on it. He always worried too much. Maybe it was due to his quintessence and who knows maybe he actually enjoyed being the one to worry for all the Siblings and ghouls, but you always felt a little guilt when he worried for you.

You didn’t miss the way his gaze softened when he heard you speak. He definitely noticed your mental exhaustion. But instead of remarking on it he just said “I’m proud of you. Not many people could do the work you do in such a short time. I mean it.” He smiled at you “now come on let’s get out of this dusty library.” He got up and put his chair back where he found it and tucked his book under his arm.

You stood in agreement and cracked your back. You were stiff from sitting in the same position for so long. You started to follow the ghoul out of the archives when you felt your stomach rumble. You had worked through dinner to get the translation finished and now you were regretting it. Without looking back Omega said “You know if we’re lucky the kitchen may have some leftovers still sitting out.” You perked up at the thought of food and hurried to match pace with the ghoul. It was nice to be finished with your work. You felt like you could finally breathe. You decided you were going to eat your share of leftovers, take a long hot shower, and sleep for the next 24 hours.