#information hoarding instinct

[thegreatyin]

the knight of claws (aka the scoundrel) would primarily be a support/prep builder that tests persuasive and glasswork with like. one or two weirdly Really Really Good Damage Options if you can get your preparations high enough. and all of their checks would be stuff like spying on the target in their dreams or taking mental notes via weird violant memory powers and what little damage options they have are just them "calling a friend" and having mr cards "just so happen" to sic an army of neddy men to beat up and poison the target for you. they insist this isn't cheating. it is absolutely totally cheating.

the real appeal of heart's game isn't the insane profit or the fun deck shuffling/teambuilding shenanigans. it's the joys of imagining what your fallen london PCs would do if they were recruitable accomplices

[astrofaeology]

Mars in the Signs

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ᡣ𐭩 Please support me by reposting, liking, following me and commenting your placement. Mars is one of the malefic planets in astrology it represents inplusivity and recklessness, however in modern astrology it also represents action and desire.

0º is the degree which doesn't have a coresponding sign assigned to it. It's a fresh new degree and will amplify the themes of the sign that it's in

Aries (1,13,25º) With Mars in its home sign, the impulse to act is immediate and powerful. These individuals possess a raw, untamed energy. They are often the first to volunteer, to start a new project, or to forge a path where none existed. Their anger, when triggered, is usually explosive but short-lived, like a wildfire that quickly burns out. They thrive on competition and personal challenges, seeing life as a series of quests to conquer. Their drive is intensely self-focused, which can make them seem selfish at times, but it's often more about initiating than about hoarding. They are naturally competitive and often excel in sports or any field requiring quick reflexes and courage.

Taurus (2, 14, 26°) When Mars resides in the earthy and fixed sign of Taurus, its fiery energy transforms into a powerful, persistent, and methodical drive. These individuals are motivated by a deep desire for stability, security, and tangible results, approaching their goals with unwavering endurance and a remarkable capacity for sustained effort. They are not easily rushed or swayed, building their lives and projects with deliberate care and meticulous attention to detail. While slow to anger, once provoked, their resolve is unshakeable, and their resistance to change can manifest as profound stubbornness. Their assertiveness is often expressed through their ability to acquire and maintain resources, focusing on creating comfort and material well-being.

Gemini (3, 15, 27°) Mars in Gemini channels its assertive energy into the realm of communication and intellect, making individuals quick-witted and highly adaptable. Their drive is fueled by an insatiable curiosity and a need for mental stimulation, leading them to constantly seek new information, ideas, and connections. They excel in debates, enjoy verbal sparring, and can effortlessly juggle multiple interests or projects simultaneously. However, this versatility can sometimes lead to scattered energy or restlessness if they lack sufficient mental engagement. Their anger often manifests through sharp words, cutting wit, or intellectual arguments, as they prefer to fight battles with their minds rather than through direct physical confrontation.

Cancer (4, 16, 28°) With Mars in the sensitive and emotional sign of Cancer, the planet's typically outward and assertive energy often becomes internalized or expressed through protective instincts. These individuals are deeply motivated by the need for emotional security and fiercely defend their loved ones and home. Their assertiveness can be indirect or passive-aggressive, as they may struggle with direct confrontation, preferring to retreat or use subtle emotional cues. When their boundaries are crossed, their protective nature can emerge with surprising force, similar to a crab snapping its claws. Their drive is profoundly linked to nurturing, belonging, and creating a safe haven, making them highly attuned to the emotional atmosphere around them.

Leo (5, 17, 29°) Mars in Leo ignites a bold, expressive, and confident drive, propelling individuals to take center stage and pursue their passions with dramatic flair. They are natural leaders who inspire others through their enthusiasm and unwavering belief in themselves. Their motivation stems from a powerful need for recognition, creative self-expression, and admiration for their unique talents. When angered, their reactions can be theatrical, loud, and demanding of attention, as they feel a strong sense of personal honor and pride that must be defended. This placement suggests a vibrant physical presence and a strong desire to leave a memorable mark through their actions and creative endeavors.

Virgo (6, 18° ) When Mars resides in the analytical and meticulous sign of Virgo, its energy is channeled into practical, efficient, and highly organized action. These individuals are driven by a powerful need for perfection, order, and improvement in all aspects of their lives. They are often highly skilled and precise in their work, focusing on details and striving for optimal functionality. Their assertiveness is expressed through diligent service, critical analysis, and problem-solving, as they are constantly seeking ways to refine and optimize. While they work tirelessly and effectively, their critical eye can sometimes turn inward, leading to self-criticism or anxiety if their high standards are not met.

Libra (7, 19°) Mars in Libra fosters a drive centered on balance, fairness, and the pursuit of harmonious relationships. These individuals are motivated by a deep desire for justice and equity, often acting as mediators or advocates for others. They prefer to achieve their goals through diplomacy, negotiation, and cooperation, instinctively seeking compromise rather than direct conflict. However, when pushed to their limits, especially regarding perceived injustices, they can become surprisingly fierce in their defense of principles. Their assertiveness may manifest as a strong commitment to partnerships or a drive to create beauty and equilibrium in their environment, though they might struggle with indecisiveness when personal desires conflict with the need for harmony.

Scorpio( 8, 20°) With Mars in its co-ruling sign of Scorpio, this placement imbues an incredibly intense, powerful, and strategic drive. These individuals are motivated by a profound need for transformation, uncovering secrets, and exerting deep influence. They possess immense willpower, unwavering determination, and the ability to endure incredible challenges to achieve their goals. Their anger is deep, brooding, and can be long-lasting, often manifesting as calculated revenge or an obsessive pursuit of what they desire. They are highly resourceful, passionate, and will commit fully to their chosen path, driven by an inner force that allows them to navigate profound emotional and psychological depths.

Sagittarius (9, 21°) Mars in Sagittarius ignites a boundless drive for exploration, freedom, and personal growth, propelling individuals towards new horizons and philosophical insights. They are optimistic, enthusiastic, and possess a strong desire to understand the larger meaning of life, whether through physical travel, academic pursuits, or spiritual quests. Their assertiveness is often expressed through direct, sometimes blunt, communication and a fiery conviction in their beliefs. While they are naturally adventurous and embrace change, their impulsive nature can lead to restlessness or a tendency to over-commit, constantly seeking the next great adventure or profound truth.

Capricorn (10, 22º) When Mars is in Capricorn, it operates with exceptional discipline, ambition, and a pragmatic focus on long-term achievement. This is an exalted placement, signifying that Mars's energy is channeled into highly effective and responsible action. These individuals are driven by a powerful desire for success, status, and material security, approaching their goals with unwavering determination and a strong work ethic. Their assertiveness is expressed in a controlled, authoritative manner, as they patiently strategize and overcome obstacles through sheer perseverance. They are motivated by a sense of duty and a need to build lasting structures, often excelling in leadership roles that require stability and strong organizational skills.

Aquarius (11, 23°) Mars in Aquarius fuels an independent, innovative, and often unconventional drive, pushing individuals to challenge the status quo and contribute to collective progress. Their energy is expressed through intellectual pursuits, group activities, and a passion for social reform, as they are motivated by a desire to create a more equitable and forward-thinking future. Their assertiveness can manifest as a detached rebellion against traditional norms or a sudden, unexpected outburst when their freedom or ideals are threatened. They are future-oriented thinkers who prefer to solve problems through logic and ingenuity, often finding unique and humanitarian approaches to their goals.

Pisces (12, 24°) With Mars in the compassionate and ethereal sign of Pisces, the assertive drive becomes more subtle, intuitive, and often indirect. These individuals are motivated by empathy, spiritual connection, and a deep desire to help others or express themselves through creative endeavors. They may struggle with direct confrontation, often preferring to avoid conflict or channel their assertiveness into artistic pursuits, healing modalities, or acts of quiet service. Their energy can be highly adaptive and chameleon-like, easily influenced by their environment. While they possess a gentle spirit, their drive is often fueled by a profound sense of compassion and a desire to bring peace and understanding to the world around them.

DISCLAIMER: None of my posts are intended to cause strife and if it doesn't resonate leave it. This post is a generalisation and may not resonate. I recommend you get a reading from an astrologer (me). If you want a reading from me check out my sales page.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Hello, I came to say that dragons are mythical creatures often depicted to be possessive in mythology and literature, sometimes known for their immense power, territorial instincts, and the symbolic association with hoarding wealth and treasures...

Twisted Wonderland in context, Malleus Draconia was confirmed to be a dragon fairy (essentially a dragon who can take a shape of a man), and I was curious if Malleus may have exhibited possessive traits in canon, whether through main story or vignette...?

The reason I ask that is because mischaracterizing characters or making them OOC is the last thing I want to do when it comes to writing or analyzing...

**Sorry if I was not able to word it in a way that you can understand what I'm trying to convey because sometimes I feel inferior that my wording may come off as blunt or insensitive. I just want to leave a brief note that I don't mean to come off as rude or dismissive. I appreciate your understanding!**

In my opinion, Malleus in canon is protective but not possessive. What do I mean by that? Glad you asked. Let's start by laying down some definitions.

In this situation, when I say “protective”, it implies good intentions. It means actively looking out for others' safety and wellbeing. To be possessive, on the other hand, implies a more controlling desire to own or to restrict another's actions. It’s commanding and demanding all of a person’s attention and love. It means having a disrespect for others' autonomy and instead trying to displace it with your will. (Yes, I know that you're probably automatically thinking of The Big Exception of book 7, but I will address that later in this post so hang on for a moment!)

This gets long, so buckle up! We’ve got a lot to talk about.

First thing's first, a lot of the "possessive Malleus" interpretations originate from fandom, especially when it comes to yandere, yume, or generally romantic fan works. (And to be clear: This is NOT to shame the folks who enjoy these kinds of works; I am only listing them here as examples.) Oftentimes this occurs due to individual fans bringing in ideas from media outside the bounds of Twisted Wonderland. This is totally expected and normal; there is no such thing as someone who has an interest in ONLY a singular thing. We will naturally apply our previous knowledge to help us understand and interpret new information.

For example, in irl mythology, fae are hurt by iron--and even in Disney's own films, such as Maleficent, iron is depicted as harming fae and sapping them of their power. This led to many Twst fans headcanoning that iron does the same thing to fae in Twisted Wonderland. However, we learn in book 7 that this is NOT true. Fae, particularly nobles, do find the smell of iron nauseating, but the metal does not appear to impede their powers or hinder them in any way. Lilia and his men are still able to dispatch several Silver Owls (who are dressed in iron arm and battle with iron tanks and other machinery) without issue.

Another example that’s pretty popular is fans believing that whole “if you tell a fairy your name, it grants them power over you” thing. Some have claimed this will come into play in book 7’s final battle. Others claim this is the deeper or secondary reason as to why Malleus doesn’t reveal his own name to Yuu until book 5, as giving his name would grant Yuu power over him. However, there’s nothing in-universe to suggest that names have cultural significance to fae or that any sort of power or status is granted by relinquishing one’s name. Yuu (or Malleus’s hundreds of other classmates) have also demonstrated no such control over him.

Remember: what is true outside of Twst, including in Disney's own works, is NOT necessarily true inside of Twst.

Going back to the initial question, I believe that "Malleus is possessive" is also a headcanon of a similar vein; fans are coming into Twst familiar with other mythos which state that dragons are possessive, territorial, and greedy on top of being powerful. Because Malleus is a dragon fae and is known to possess great power, it's very easy for fans to see the parallels between him and the dragons they already know of. This then leads to them filling in the gaps of his personality and projecting other stereotypical draconic traits onto him. In Malleus's case, this was extremely easy to do because it took a few years for him to see any significant spotlight in both event stories (Glorious Masquerade) and in the main story (book 7).

I think the easiest way for us to analyze whether Malleus is protective or possessive is to examine his closest relationships in the narrative of Twst. I will not be counting Sebek and Silver individually here, as they are both his bodyguards and Malleus maintains a mostly professional relationship with them. Instead, we shall look at Malleus's attitude by looking at his relationships with Lilia and Yuu, then proceed into discussing related behaviors.

I believe it's indisputable that Lilia is one of the most important people to Malleus. Lilia trained him, taught him, and trained him. He is basically Malleus's father figure. The fear of losing Lilia is what causes Malleus to emotionally spiral and take drastic measures in a desperate attempt to avoid that unhappy ending. His entire motivation for unleashing his UM is "not losing [Lilia]!" You would think that if Malleus was going to be possessive of anyone, it would be with Lilia. But the truth of the matter is... he's mostly just... not? Lilia is a very sociable person in the student body. He's frequently gaming with Idia, taking care of or lending wisdom to others (Silver, Sebek, etc.), hanging out with Cater and Kalim in their club, interacting with dorm leaders and freshmen when Malleus is absent for ceremonies, and more--yet Malleus doesn't seem to express any jealousy over sharing Lilia. I'd also like to add that although Malleus lacks parents, he doesn't really show envy over Lilia treating and calling Silver his own son instead of himself. Oh, Malleus certainly does express jealousy to some extent. Who would forget the time in his Dorm Uniform vignettes when he crushed Lilia's phone? The thing is though, the times when Malleus is upset are not fueled by not wanting to share Lilia or wanting to monopolize his time. In the previous example I cited, Malleus broke Lilia's phone because Lilia had received a picture Kalim and the other dorm leaders took after a meeting. Even the dialogue exchanged implies this; Malleus did not automatically get mad when he noticed that Lilia had a notification, he only got mad after realizing he was excluded from something the other dorm leaders were all involved in. Malleus was upset that he was not invited, not that Kalim was texting Lilia. Additionally, it is stated that the dorm leader must grant permission for others to use the lounge. If he wanted to, he could withhold the permission for Lilia, who wants the lounge for his farewell party (which everyone is invited to), or stipulate that he wants a more formal affair with just Diasomnia members present. Malleus doesn’t act in this possessive way though. He grants Lilia what he desires without issue.

Next up for scrutiny is Yuu! Now, there's some gray area here because part of Yuu's relationship with Malleus is defined by how much the player projects onto the self-insert/blank slate character. Please note that, when I discuss Yuu, I am leaving out individual interpretations and going STRICTLY by the information presenting in canon.

It can be said that Malleus slowly develops a fondness for Yuu's company over the course of the main story. At first, he is surprised and maybe even a little disappointed that someone has taken residence in Ramshackle--it used to be desolate, which makes it a perfect spot to visit on his nightly strolls. However, Malleus soon finds amusement in the fact that Yuu, not being of this world, has no clue who he is or what his status is. This grants him the freedom to speak at ease with this human and to "be himself" in a way that he cannot be with others, who typically cower at his name. You could also argue that Yuu telling Malleus they may have found a way home expedited the despair he felt in book 7, as he learned so quickly that two of his friends would be exiting his life soon. This, however, is not possessiveness. It's normal to have fear and anxiety about losing the people you love.

Malleus's voice lines also do not indicate possessiveness. Yes, there's the usual and expected fanservice-y lines where he invites Yuu to come and engage in various activities with him, but nothing in those suggests he would exclude others or become upset if they also wanted to join. (Are you telling me that Malleus wouldn't want to talk for hours on end about the glory of gargoyles to TWO people instead of just one?????) Additionally, all the characters get similar fanservice-y lines, so it's not something exclusive to Malleus. There was one line that gave me pause: "You always seem to attract a crowd... More so than I'd like, really." Buuut I think this could be read a number of ways, not solely in an ‘I want you all to myself’ way. Malleus actually does like to be alone, hence his nightly strolls. The line can therefore also be read as Malleus enjoying solitude or one-on-one conversations as opposed to addressing a group. In that case, it's a personal preference and not necessarily a sign of possessiveness. He’s definitely not completely averse to group activities though; there are lines where Malleus invites Yuu to do things with him and other characters. For example, from his PE Uniform: “Sebek has been badgering me to help train him. I'll permit you to join us. ... You're coming, I trust?”

The guy generally doesn't get angry or annoyed if Yuu mentions having other friends or managing the 7 member VDC/SDC group. In fact, he sometimes encourages Yuu to interact with others. One of his birthday lines is, "You needn't linger and focus on me to the exclusion of others. I want everyone to enjoy the party, yourself included." Malleus doesn’t so much as flinch or react when a complete stranger kisses the back of Yuu’s hand either. If he was truly possessive, wouldn’t he have gotten angry or—at the very least—have frowned or tried to put some distance between Yuu and said stranger? Yet Malleus doesn’t really react or comment on it despite being present.

Malleus seems to understand that it's not very polite to demand all of someone's time or attention--and this makes perfect sense of his character. He is a royal, and that means he was taught proper manners. Malleus has even indicated before that his grandmother stressed the importance of observing etiquette, particularly around invitations. You don't just invite yourself to functions or insert yourself into others' lives if not extended said invites... and Malleus, for the most part, adheres to those rules. In various voice lines, he even frets over committing social faux pas, wondering if he has offended his peers with certain behaviors. For example, from his Masquerade Dress: "Flamme shoots me stern looks on occasion. Have I behaved improperly in some way...?"

Malleus is also not generally possessive when it comes to his items or territory. He wants to share cake with others; eating a whole one gave him heartburn and now whole cakes are his least favorite food. Additionally, he tends to welcome people to Diasomnia rather than chase them out or expel them. (After all, they so rarely get visitors in the first place.) Malleus will at least hear out the reasoning for seeking him out. As an example, Leona (someone who has had a rocky history with Malleus) goes to Diasomnia in his Ceremonial Robes vignettes to exchange robes after a laundry mix-up. This is a stark contrast to the highly territorial Leona, who attacks a magicless human in thd Botanical Garden and also allows his own students to wail on Yuu and co. for simply walking being in Savanaclaw. Leona joins in on this bullying too. I think it's pretty clear that Malleus handles guests with far more tact, grace, and patience than his fellow prince.

I want to point out that though Malleus is usually amicable with guests, there are exceptions. Ramshackle, as I mentioned earlier, is a place he enjoys a lot. He indicates in his Halloween Dress card that “If anyone dares to damage [this] dorm, I will be as a lóng and reduce them to cinders. I have become rather fond of that place, after all.” Indeed, he does act on this promise in Terror is Trending and comes close to striking down Magicam Monsters for disrespecting a place he holds so dear. Is this possessive though? Yes, it’s a place he loves—but it’s also a place where his friend Yuu lives.

There are many other examples of Malleus going to extreme lengths to protect the things he loves. He vows to destroy Rollo Flamme, who poses a threat to his people, the fae (who depend on magic as their way of life, and the sentient gargoyles, whom he has recently befriended. He unleashes his mighty magic to attack those who wound his pride. He stops time and kidnaps the entire student body all for the sake of including ghosts in a Halloween celebration. And, of course, he sends Sage’s Island to sleep in a desperate bid to stop losing everyone. The majority of these behaviors involve him lashing out at those who pose legitimate threats to things he cares about. It’s not as though be is acting for no discernible reason or because he is doesn’t want his loved ones being with people other than him. Does that make these actions right? No, absolutely not. But I would say they are definitely more protective than possessive.

Very rarely is Malleus actively preventing his peers from spending time away from him. Sure, he gets upset that he’s not invited to join them and sure, he wishes people would invite him too—but there’s a difference between longing and being mopey about this and acting so domineering he’s breathing down the necks of others to only be with him. He is not stopping people from being with their friends and family. He is not stopping people from using his things or entering his territory. Even when he makes everyone sleep, he grants them the space to craft their own dreams and doesn’t even make the dreams center around him and his own involvement on their lives. Oftentimes the dreams involve several other characters that are important to the individual dreamer and Malleus does not appear at all. (Again, this doesn’t mean using his UM was the best move to resolve his issues; I’m just saying his actions were not necessarily possessive.)

So, in conclusion, I stand by the thesis at I proposed at the start of this post: Malleus is largely protective, not possessive, despite what many fandom interpretations would have you believe.

[gildedpomegranates]

There was so much potential for interesting conflict between Vi and Ekko in s2. And no, I'm not talking about how they sidelined Ekko and avoided his reaction to Enforcer Vi. Specifically, their conflicting approaches to change and the fact that Ekko and Vi are foils.

With one thoughtless act from Marcus, Vi was frozen in a single moment, locked away for years and understandably unable to accept that everything as she knows it—everyone she loves—changed. And for a character whose origin revolves around time-travel, Arcane!Ekko is surprisingly future-focused. He remembers and mourns the past, but he focuses on what can be fixed: the future.

This is best highlighted with their contrasting, equally flawed views of Jinx. Vi refuses to accept Jinx (that her sister changed and grew up), while Ekko adamantly denies any trace or remanent of Powder. "She's [Powder] still in there... I know my sister." vs "Powder is gone, Vi. All that's left is Jinx."

s1 doesn't dwell on Vi's reaction to Ekko and the Firelights, which is understandable. Every second the gemstone remained missing, the risk for escalating conflict between Zaun and Piltover increased. However, s2 was a missed opportunity to expand on their relationship, and to explore more of Vi's change-aversion.

Here is this kid her and her siblings collectively accepted. A little shit who spied on people and got them information, and who she tried to teach to fight, only he had two left feet. He'd chatter endlessly given half a chance. Here he is seven years later, alive and grown-up. Not just a scrawny brainiac anymore, but a fighter. A big bad leader, just like she used to be.

Is she proud of him? Does she mourn the kid he used to be? If she had gone back to the Firelights, would she instinctively try to step back into that leadership role, only to find it filled. By LITTLE MAN, of all people—the kid she used to hose down after the scrap-yard.

And on Ekko's side, he grew up too fast. Had to, to survive and take care of his community. But when Vi comes back, does a part of him want to revert back to that little kid, looking to his big sister to tell him what to do. Or does he jealously hoard his leadership and everything he worked to build, leading to conflict between them.

[thegnomelord]

Shark

- 🦈

(Brainrot time! Blame dougielovelove for their new work. Had a bit of a bad day and i usually dont write spicy things

This one can be set in monster au. Readers a captain of a whole different task force meant for oceanic endevours. Im talkin the readers a shark hybird (biased) their lieutenant a whale hybird, sergent an orca or a pufferfish, their newest recurits a fuckin salmon, the works.

They're close knit, heck even poly if you want. Price and the Reader meet through connections with Laswell. They find out they hav the same target, price is stubborn and wont drop the mission, despite how most of his team is not suited for water.

Reader respects it and they work really well together. A bit too well, even to the point theyre considering merging the teams.

Completely honest, Price is starting to fall for their fellow captain. I mean how can you not, they've swooped in and saved them countless times, preventing the oceans waters from completely swallowing them in the dark abyss.

Not to mention his sergents and lieutenant are just the cutest, so eager to do well and work together with his own. Just protective instincts, hit him to the point hes pickin everyone up and scentin them. They're his hoard now.

Reader and Price are settleing paper work in his office. Readers busy writing down important information and signing off reports, but price cant help but stare. How swift his hands move as each words is made and written, how tight his claws grip the pen with every small minisucle flick of the pen.

He hiccups a small flame when their fellow captain decided to extravagantly spin his pen when he trys to recall the missing info. How smooth it moves between his blackened fingers, swirling and turning flipping all between nimble and flexible rough- and hes hard.

Reader realizes Price is distracted, before he can call out their name, he glances down just to see whats got him so wrapped up in his mind.

Now all i can think about is Reader forcing Price to focus and finish his paperwork while hes got both his assets shoved up his ass. Price is just a mess, making his paperwork a completely unusable. Yet, the reader still wants him to finish, becuase if he dosent Price definitely wont.

Or they decide to have some fun, release the pent up desire the poor dragons been keeping buried. A soilder be it 141 or be from the readers own team, walks in. Can't help but love how the stoic draconic captain looks so small and pathetic under his co-leader. Joining in on the fun just to see how wrecked this great leader can get.)

Okay, this is cool and my horny is up but I made a few changes as I like characters to be more mythological and just animal hybrids, though those are cool too

CW:NSFW, quick and rough, subbot Price, Gaz, Oc sergeant, domtop reader

Price loves you. But you are one cruel bastard.

Those big rough hands of yours trace his taught belly, webbed fingers making a shiver crawl up his spine and stealing what little thoughts are left in his head as one of your hands trails down the smooth scales of his tail. "Come on dear captain, just a few more pages to go." You purr, chest rumbling against his back like the thrum of an engine, your lips tickling his pointy earlobe.

Price swears he's going to die; pants around his ankles and legs spread, stretched so wide on both of your shafts he can feel your heartbeat by the way your cocks twitch against his walls, each labored breath making his hole clench down desperately, his own hard cocks left hard and unattended.

It would be one thing if you claimed him like he wants you to, pushed him flat on the desk and fucked into him like he's nothing but a bitch to pump full of your cum.

But you don't. You just sitting inside him, hard and throbbing and still despite how much he tries to tempt you by clenching down. Price finds himself cursing the amount of patience you have.

"Sweetheart," He groans, voice too light and whiny for his own ears, head thrown back to give you a heatless glare. "C'mon, don't tease me." Price tries to grind his hips down but you hold him firm.

"Not until you finish those reports." You grunt, authoritative, and Price is stuck between wanting to bite you in revenge and trying to stifle a pathetic whine. "Go on, you only have a few pages left."

Those damn reports. Price can barely read his own handwriting, a light tremor in his fingers from the way your cocks press against his prostate. "Cruel bastard." He growls, sucking in a breath and clenching around you.

His chest flares with pride the second your claws dig into his body, not even your mind able to hold back the animalistic need to buck into the tight willing heat surrounding you. But it's a double edged sword — a hiccup of flame sparks from his mouth, your cockheads bumping his prostate and making a bead of precum spurt from his cocks.

"As if you're any better." You growl in his ear, your hair tickling his skin as you roughly nip at his though hide, pleasure and pain loosing their borders in his mind.

He doesn't notice the nicking on the door, but Price is ready for hell to swallow up when he finally registers the door open, his blue eyes rising to meet Sullivan — your hippocampus sergeant — who looks just as mortified to walk in on you like that as Price.

Sullivan's dark horse ears flicker back, the iridescent scales along his cheeks turning from ocean green to a vibrant embarrassed pink, "I- is this, this a- I can leave if, if, if- this looks like a-" The poor man stumbles over his words, eyes bouncing between Price's debauched form and your amused face.

It gets worse when Gaz pokes his head in behind Sullivan, "Hey captains are you-" His jaw falls, pupils dilating like he's a crow that just saw a shinny penny. "-oh."

You just chuckle, rough voice putting Sullivan at ease. "At ease boys," You snort, don't even attempt to hide anything, one hand sliding down to stroke his cock, so slick with his precum that his shaft slides through your hand just from you squeezing it. "Need something boys?"

Even from here Price can see the way Sullivan's eyes darken as well at the deep moan that tumbles out of Price's throat and Price has to bite his lip to keep the noises in check.

"I-" Sullivan sucks in a breath, scales slowly turning to the shade of an overcooked lobster. "I. . . I forgot."

"Can we join?" Gaz asks, chuckling at Sullivan's wide-eyed look. "What? As you weren't thinking it." He shrugs and places a kiss on his cheek when Sully nods meekly.

"I don't know." You hum, letting go of Price's cock to tilt his head to you, meeting his eyes. "Do you want your boys to help you keep focused?"

Price swallows, knows that all that awaits him should he accept would be pleasurable torture, but his bones burn with the need to have his hoard close to him, taking care of him for a change. "Yeah," He growls, less whiny and more demanding.

You hum and roll the chair back to create space for the two men beneath the table, "On your knees." You don't miss the way the authority in your voice makes both men shiver.

"You heard him," Gaz grins and pulls Sullivan towards you two by the hand, reminding you more of a puppy than any harpy as he happily gets on his knees.

Your gaze skirts to Sullivan as he tentatively settles on Gaz's right, pitch black eyes hidden behind that fringe you keep telling him to cut. "You alright with this Sully?" You ask, knowing the man's sexual experience is limited to one girlfriend and your team, and even then he's shy about many acts. "You don't need to do something you're unsure about. No one is going to be mad."

"I, yes. I want this." He swallows, looking back at you. "I, uh. . . I got some pointers." He says shily.

Gaz just snickers and throws his arm over Sullivan's shoulder. "I helped," He says proudly, wing spreading out to wrap around Sully's back.

"Rubbing off on my sergeant already huh?" You snort, your attention turning to Price when he growls, capturing his lips in a kiss to placate his demanding draconic side while your hand lets go of his cocks — an open offering to the two sergeants.

"Only in a good way." Gaz grins and leans in, opening his mouth and pink little tongue lolling out to lick at one leaking cock like he knows Price likes, lips wrapping around the tapered head and sucking on it, amusement bubbling in his chest when you hold Price's hips firm so he can't buck up.

Sullivan follows suit, less confident but still willing, holding the other cock in his smooth scalled hand and tentatively giving the crown a kiss, dark eyes watching both of your reactions as he slowly trails kisses around the cumhole, growing bolder with every small whimper until he's gently suckling on the tip like Gaz had done.

"You're doing good Sully," You praise, even your voice is hoarse from the way Price squeezes down on you now that the two sergeants are servicing his cocks. "You too Gaz." You reach down to gently pet his hair so Kyle doesn't feel left out, "Both of you, so good for me and Price."

Price, for his sake, may as well be a mindless animal from the way his brain is steadily melting out of his cocks like a lit candle, moaning low in his throat, his eyes closed to just feel the pleasure that's assaulting him on both ends. He can tell the difference between Gaz's and Sullivan's mouths, the duality of firm swipes of the tongue across his shaft and the kitten licks on his most sensitive parts making his head swim, hips trying uselessly to fuck into the hot mouths and your own cocks.

He whines when you grip his hips firmly. "No," You snort, both arms keeping his hips still so he can do nothing but endure. "You're not getting off until the job's finished."

Price shivers, "Bastard." He growls weakly, his eyesight blurry as he tries to focus on the document.

"Pot, kettle." You grin against his skin, helping guide his arm towards the documents where he left off. "C'mon, it's just a few pages, then your sergeants will be able to reward you fully."

[artbyblastweave]

You think Americans would abandon the dollar in the event of a zombie apocalypse? I don’t. Everyone says bartering or bullets or bottlecaps would be more essential but our first instinct when shit hits the fan is to hoard shit we don’t need lmao

1 of 2

So I'm not an economist. If I were, I wouldn't have time to post here. So everything I say on the subject should be taken with an appropriate grain of salt. But I do think that even outside of a strictly American context, it's always an interesting standing worldbuilding question about what happens to the currency in the event of a zombie apocalypse, because how the people in the world prioritize or deprioritize physical currency can act as a barometer for A.) whether the crisis at hand is actually apocalyptic or B.) whether the characters perceive the situation to be apocalyptic. Which outlook is appropriate shifts from continuity to continuity. In Romero's Dawn of the Dead, for example, you can easily imagine some idiot who views the disruption as an easy payday, gathering as much cash as possible from abandoned homes and completely failing to understand the paradigm shift in which he finds himself; this guy would in fit seamlessly alongside homicidal racist SWAT guys going hogwild against minorities and newsmen blindly repeating outdated information in pursuit of ratings. By contrast, you can pretty easily picture a side story in Shaun of The Dead about some guys who correctly realize that all of this will shortly blow over and proceed to make thousands of dollars by jumping wealthy-looking zombies for the contents of their wallets.

Then, of course, you get to the third kind of status quo represented by, among other stories, Army of The Dead-not a good movie but a very fun one- a middle-ground where the outbreak is genuinely apocalyptic but localized, and, in that context, yeah, hoarding currency is very incentivized in a run-for-the-border kind of way. Whole premise of the movie, in fact. Configurations like this, where there's a clear dichotomy between where the rule of law is and isn't in effect, with a whole bunch of dead people's stuff very abruptly up for grabs and with a very clear market of people who'd buy it, is a setup I personally find extremely compelling and am looking to do something with myself at some point.

[revalition]

OCT 20 - HALF LIGHT Let the body take control. Threaten people.

half light!! I really like this guy. had some fun with today's doodles

lots of commentary and quotes under the cut!

Half light name translations!!

suspicious, chiaroscuro, twilight, semi-darkness, dusk, instinct, dawn, primitive instinct

thought it was interesting that there's a mix in here of more literal half-light (dusk, dawn, etc.) and the fight/flight aspect (instinct, suspicion).

I do think his name works best in english. But I like the french version Clair-obscur too. that's the one that translates to chiaroscuro, but clair = clear and obscur = obscure for context... I want to say it's less direct than the others, but I speak french and I don't speak the other languages so if there's any double meanings there I would miss them sadly. localization is so cool...

quotes!

this guyyy

I wish I could tell if he's even being sarcastic or not. I want to say yes, cause he does have a sense of humour

see, see? (points happily)

sorry half light I don't remember you being the lie detector skill??? why's he being such a brat

hehehe half light loves telling anyone to fuck off -- even your own skills

nooooo half light! of course he would jump all over a conspiracy theory

this is during the tribunal -- my first playthrough my odds of success got worse and worse as I avoided throwing the bomb and half light was absolutely right. (though the second time around I got the difficulty down a bit cause my harry wasn't dumb as bricks and actually had some stuff to stay to improve things)

thank goodness for the calm skills that balance some of these idiots out...

he's so over the top. my poor high strung guy...

APOCALYPSE COP HALF LIGHT my most beloved. he knows greek! it's okay if it's a coping mechanism harry, you gotta do what you have to to survive...

he gets *so* pissy when he's told no haha

this one is big but you have to read it!! half light losing it for absolutely no reason! logic's information hoarding reflex! (understandable) volition, volition my most beloved looking out for half light <3 he gets overstimulated okay

he just wants to swear okay?

this is delightful hehe

volition fighting for his life to stop this guy from exploding constantly

one second later him being calm about it

wow that's... super embarassing

this guy creeping you out and then getting upset when you act on it

half light at high levels makes me sad :( poor guy...

okay my dude

half light unlocking the fuck off dialogue option!

unbelievable! someone password protecting their data???? the horrors

re: the leopard bodysuit. electrochemistry is sooo unconcerned

poor half light...

hehehe

hghk he's so... like that. all the time.

that's all for half light!! my first playthrough had pretty high half light and he was kind of a lot? I actually didn't like him much at first, he was a lot (the first time I played my anxiety disorder was also unmanaged and I wasn't too fond of harry's anxiety embodied lol). but he totally ended up growing on me <3 he's great. I really missed him and his unhinged comments in my low fys second playthrough.

[ao3komorii]

On the Hunt (Astarion/Reader)

Happy Halloween! I want to write something for Raphael eventually, but here's a shorter Astarion thing for now. Hope you enjoy the story :)

----

You had gotten very good at detecting when the light left his eyes.

It happened a lot less after Cazador had been felled, but often when Astarion had little else to focus on, his red eyes travelled back in time, back to his own world of pain and loss and hopelessness.

It didn’t help that with all that he had gained, he had lost the sun, left to see the light only from afar, his memories of its warmth nowhere near enough.

You had happily joined him in the night as you set out to cure him of his condition, but like anyone, Astarion still had bad days.

You had figured it was going to be a less good day when you had woken up in the middle of the day, your body sensing the absence of his next to yours. Drowsily opening your eyes, you easily spotted your silver-haired partner sitting at the edge of the bed, staring silently at a rectangle of light shining through a small slit between the curtains you had closed when you had first entered the room at the inn, as you always did.

You closed your eyes again, allowing Astarion his moment, knowing that you fussing over him every time would only make things worse. Instead, as you allowed yourself to fall back to sleep, you decided to do something to make tonight as exciting as you could to help give the vampire an escape from his losses.

When you woke next, Astarion was next to you in bed, his meditative pose telling you he was actually asleep. You stared at his peaceful resting face for a long moment before turning your focus to those still-closed curtains, the shade of the barely-visible sliver of light telling you that it was at least midday.

Setting about your pseudo-morning routine, you began to brainstorm a solid plan to distract Astarion from his ongoing plight.

He was likely starving for blood, you knew that much. Without a power-hungry cult looming constantly over your heads, there were much less fights to be had in cities that didn’t result in legal consequences, and you could only safely let him feed from you so often without risking your health. And without Withers around, you couldn’t risk your life quite as stupidly as you had before.

But it had been over a week since Astarion had last had your blood, and you had been considering finding a bandit camp or seeking out some wild animals just to get his mood up when an idea struck you.

It was perhaps a bit sooner than the two-week timeline you had both agreed on between larger blood donations, but you found yourself ensorcelled by the idea of putting on a little hunt for him, just with you as the prey this time. A little test of his instincts as it were, keeping your real reasoning close to your chest, not wanting him to think you were pitying him. And what was a little anemia if it was in the name of cheering up your beloved?

You were sitting at the small wooden desk in the room, itemizing your carefully-hoarded spell scrolls when Astarion came out of his trance, leaning down beside you before you realized he was even awake.

“You’re up early,” he remarked curiously, and you froze up in surprise, doing your best not to look like you had been caught in the act, casually reaching to hide your scroll of disguise self under a more conspicuous hypnotic pattern. “Now what could be so important that you decided to deprive me the pleasure of waking up next to my love?”

You shuffled your scrolls and maps into a messy pile, aware of how his sharp gaze followed the action with suspicion.

Turning from your papers to meet his eyes, you did your best to look innocuous. “I was thinking we could do something different today.”

“Oh?” Astarion’s face lit up with intrigue. “And here I thought I’d be in for yet another day of rifling through dusty old tomes written by dusty old men who haven’t even met a vampire, let alone possessed any useful information about one.”

You let out a huff of laughter, equally aware of the bad information streak you had been on for the last month, the most useful information coming from a thoroughly depraved romantic vampire novel that Astarion had found significantly too much enjoyment in reading out to you whenever he had gotten bored of reading whatever vampiric history tome he had discarded when its contents proved valueless.

“I was thinking–”

It was probably to your benefit that Astarion leaned in to kiss you, cutting off the sentence you hadn’t quite figured out how to phrase. The kiss was chaste, the smug vampire pulling back with a smirk, clearly enjoying having caught you off guard.

“You were saying, love?” he teased lowly, and you willed yourself not to fall for his distractions like you usually did.

“I was thinking we could go on a hunt today,” you said at last, Astarion raising an eyebrow in response.

“You know I always relish the chance for some meaningless violence, but why all of a sudden?” he asked, always way too perceptive for your own good. “What’s the hunt? It had better not be another cluster of ooze. It took me far too long to remove their slobber from my weapons the last time I had the misfortune of stabbing one.”

“No, no ooze,” you dismissed with a laugh. It wasn’t like you had wanted to do that job either, but it had gotten you the funds to pay for your last three inn stays. Summoning up your courage, you tried your best to not look as embarrassed as you felt. “I was thinking this time you could hunt… me.”

Astarion’s eyes glinted noticeably as he leaned in towards you, a hand resting on either armrest of your chair, his arms caging you in. “Am I to take this as a request of a more carnal nature? Because I am very willing to oblige.”

His voice was dripping with quiet ardor, the cheeky vampire using the tone he knew would lure you into bed with him every time, but not this time. You wanted something that would catch him off guard entirely, leaving no room in any part of his mind for his latent sadness to set in today. There would be plenty of time for sex later, once he had been fed.

“I was thinking more along bloodier lines,” you said, Astarion’s resulting frown at his seduction attempt failing more than a little cute. “I know we agreed to every two weeks, but I do have that vibrancy potion I’ve been saving.”

Astarion leaned back out of your space, looking quizzical, but not unhappy, so you took that as a sign to continue.

“Since this is a special occasion, I thought it might be fun to make you work for it,” you said with a conspiratorial smile. “Neither of us have been to this city before, so we’re on an even playing field. I was thinking if you can find me by sunrise, my blood is yours. As much as you want, since the effects of the vibrancy potion will last until then. If you can find me, that is.”

Astarion grinned wide, his pristine white fangs on full display. “Oh darling, I hadn’t taken you as someone who makes gambles they haven’t a hope of winning.”

You felt a flare of competition spark within you at his surety that he would win. Just because this was supposed to end with your blood on his teeth didn’t mean you were going to make this easy for him.

“If you’re so sure you’ll win, then maybe I’ll set off now and get a head start,” you shot back teasingly, reaching into your bag on the floor and downing the small vial of forest green vibrancy potion in one go before standing up, licking the last stray drop from the corner of your mouth to make sure the potion had maximum effectiveness.

Astarion’s eyes closed as he took a long inhale, which told you that the potion was indeed working as intended. When his eyes opened again, his pupils were blown wide, looking every bit the vampire ready for a hunt.

“Your blood smells even sweeter than the first time,” he spoke in a strained voice, posture so rigid he looked like he might snap if you moved an inch closer to him. “If I wasn’t such an honorable vampire, I’d already have you.”

Keeping any comments regarding his honor to yourself, you lifted your bag, sweeping the papers on the desk into it before slinging it over your shoulder, heading all the way to the door before turning your head back to face the shirtless, sleepy-haired vampire with a teasing smile.

“Good luck, Astarion,” you told him. Knowing how desperate for blood he had been the first time, he had to struggling even harder than he looked to be holding himself back right now.

“I don’t need luck,” he replied smoothly, sitting back down on the bed, hands fisting tightly onto the sheets. “There is nowhere you could hide where I can’t find you, my love.”

His sultry tone made you flush, and you quickly fled the room, knowing you had to go now before your willpower gave out.

Emerging onto bustling early evening streets, you knew that you had until the sun fell to find a place to hide. Making your way down the main street, you made sure to stop and chat up a perfume salesman, accepting a heavy dose of one of their floral samples in the hope that it would disguise the smell of your blood to the hungry vampire that would be on your trail within the hour. Your scent taken care of, now there was just the manner of your appearance.

Stopping by a busy clothing store, you stood before a long mirror in a deserted corner of the store, pulling out your disguise self scroll and getting to work.

You left the store a purple-skinned tiefling with long ruby-red hair, clad in a skimpy black dress with a long slit up the thigh, gold jewelry accenting your neck and illusory horns. If Astarion was looking for a disguise, you doubted he would think you would take on such a gaudy one, the stares of people as you passed telling you that you definitely looked the part of a lady of the night.

The sun had begun to fall as you walked the streets, intending on getting a decent distance away from the inn before finding somewhere to hole up when the dark set in. There was no doubt that Astarion would have the advantage in the dark, so you had to be as well-hidden as possible by then.

It felt too much like cheating to set up in a noisy tavern, though it wasn’t exactly like you had set any concrete rules before setting out, but still, you dismissed the fleeting idea. You wanted to make this hard for Astarion, not impossible. You didn’t often have enough gold for vibrancy potions anymore, so you wanted to make this one count, but Astarion would have to earn it first.

You had your momentary doubts that he would even agree to your proposal, given he had his moods sometimes, but his reaction had surpassed even your most hopeful expectations. You knew he wouldn’t be holding back, and you would hate yourself if you didn’t at least put up a fight.

You stopped to feign interest in a group of dragonborn musicians playing in a park as you considered your options further. You could cast a hypnotic pattern and pretend to be captivated by it as well? But you couldn’t sustain that one for long, and there was no telling when Astarion would pass by here. You could blur yourself, but that was likely to end up attracting his attention rather than evading it.

Lost in your thoughts, you took altogether too long to realize the passing of time, coming to the sudden realization that the sun was now just the tiniest sliver in the horizon. Astarion was definitely out by now, who knows for how long while you were zoning out.

You followed the crowd’s lead, clapping for the performers as you took subtle glances around you, not seeing any silver hair in the area. Still, you had wasted too much time here. You needed to move.

With most people in the park distracted by the performance, you were easily able to misty step your way across the park, exiting into what looked to be a district of… lesser repute. Here, there were women and men dressed in less than you were, hanging outside gaudy establishments and trying to draw customers in. You were just passing by a gnome and a scantily-clad human making out so loudly that you briefly wondered if either of them had ever kissed anyone now before when you ran into an issue.

“Haven’t seen yer sweet ass ‘round here before,” a male voice slurred, a large half-orc stepping into your view, or rather completely blocking it with his bulk.

“Excuse me,” you spoke flatly, immediately on guard. You moved to walk around him, but this only seemed to egg him on, as he moved in turn to step to the side and continue blocking your way.

“Ain’t no tieflings at tha bars, not anymore,” he spoke angrily, waving his arms wildly around as he talked, large axe glinting from its place on his back. “It ain’t the same when those other broads ain’t got no horns to grab while I plow ‘em!”

You could easily discern the reason why tiefling women seemed to become scarce around him, regretting that your choice of disguise had now led to this unexpected issue. You wouldn’t want to talk to this creep on a normal day, but you really didn’t have time now. You weren’t sure if your ego would survive being caught by Astarion less than an hour after the hunt had begun.

While you were confident that your disguise was flawless, the half-orc was being so loud that you would catch anyone’s attention right now. Looking around, you noticed the eyes of many of the seedy crowd were on you, but as expected, nobody was stepping in to help you, clearly wary of attracting the wrath of the drunk brute.

Sighing internally, you resolved to yourself to give this guy one more chance to leave you alone before you made him. What a mess you had managed to find yourself in.

“I’m not interested,” you said, not intimidated in the slightest by the half-orc who was at least a head taller than you. “I’m asking you nicely to walk away.”

The half-orc scoffed loudly, making a show of looking around, the onlookers all averting their gazes, not wanting to be involved, their eyes shifting back to you when the brute finished his overdramatic display before turning back to you with a cocked brow.

“Well I don’t see no man here ta claim ya,” he boasted loudly. “And Barorth don’t recognize no other claims on the womens he wants anyway!”

He would probably have been luckier if Astarion was here, the snarky vampire possibly content to mock the half-orc without him realizing rather than what you were going to do to him if he didn’t leave you alone.

“Not interested,” you repeated flatly, deathly intent plain in your voice, at least plain to anyone but this moron, who instead reached out to take one of your arms in his grasp.

“‘Nuff talkin’,” he grunted, hand clamping down on your arm. “Those tits are just–”

The second he touched you, you blinked, immediately activating eyebite, your eyes turning into teeth-ringed pools of black.

“Go,” you snarled at the half-orc, his grip falling from your arm instantly, an all-too-loud guttural groan leaving his mouth before he turned and ran. You didn’t dismiss eyebite until he was out of sight, glaring after him the entire way.

Taking a breath to calm yourself down, you blinked and your regular eyes returned. How much time had you wasted on that moron? He was lucky all you did was traumatize him, the brute likely to have suffered a much worse fate if it was Lae’zel he was hitting on. Hopefully he would leave any real tieflings alone after your little display.

Frustrated, you moved to the less busy side of the street, ignoring the people there who now stared at you in shock. You were far enough from Baldur’s Gate that very few people would recognize you even if you had your real appearance, but there was definitely going to be gossip spreading now about the tiefling escort that sent a half-orc running away with just a look.

And then you were striding past an alleyway, intent on figuring out your next move, when a hand darted out, clasping firmly around your wrist and pulling you into the alleyway, finding yourself quickly pinned to the stone wall by your assailant’s body.

Amused red eyes stared down at you, Astarion running one hand down your side to rest on your hip. “One hour and you’re already finding your way into trouble without me. Darling, I’m hurt.”

You knew he had you, despite your feigned appearance, but your pride wouldn’t allow you to give in so easily.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you sniffed with very false confidence. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to–”

“Spare me,” he dismissed. “Did you really think you could hide from me in plain sight when I know your scent, your taste so… intimately?”

You wanted to protest further, but any words you were going to say turned into a pleased sigh as Astarion leaned in to kiss at your neck.

“You do make a rather fetching tiefling, my love, but I do think I prefer the you that I wake up next to every morning,” he spoke against your neck.

You smiled despite yourself, finally giving in and allowing the disguise to drop, Astarion holding you to him tighter in response, but his fangs still hadn’t made their way into your neck. The smell of your blood had to have been driving him crazy, he had said as much earlier, so then why hadn’t he claimed his reward yet?

“You win,” you conceded, unable to stay mad with your beloved so close to you, even in the dingy alleyway whose prior inhabitants had likely been either a murder or a messy hookup. “My blood is yours.”

At your words, Astarion pulled back from your neck entirely, further confusing you. Noticing your questioning look, he gestured out to the street, where some onlookers were barely visible, but their attention at least seemed to be on their own business now.

“I won’t be playing the part of the heinous vampire attacking the fair maiden and risking some do-gooder rushing to your rescue with a stake meant for my heart,” he explained disdainfully. “No, I think my prize would be better savored in a more private location.”

You could still see just how bad his hunger was getting to him, so it was obvious that you weren’t making it back to the inn. Looking out over his shoulder, you spotted a private enough looking rooftop several stories above some seedy-looking bar, placing your hand on Astarion’s arm as you summoned a dimension door.

“Good enough?” you asked, drawing Astarion’s gaze to the matching door waiting on the roof.

“Not quite the caliber of the Blushing Mermaid, but I can hardly be choosey when it means I get more of your delectable blood,” he answered.

That was as much of a yes as you figured you were getting out of him, and so you activated the door and found yourselves instantly transported to the actually-not-too-bad-looking rooftop.

It was barren, but clean. Seemed like nobody really came up here, as all that was on the roof were a couple ratty-looking chairs and a large rug that looked like it would be worth some money if it weren’t for a large stain on one corner that was either blood or red wine.

Stepping away before Astarion could get too carried away, you rummaged quickly through your bag, pulling out one of the many arcane lock scrolls you knew to keep on hand for situations like this, sealing the door so you wouldn’t be interrupted. Job done, you went to turn back around, not wanting to keep the vampire waiting.

“Well, I think we’re—”

Astarion was way closer than you expected, having silently closed the gap between you while your back was turned.

Shaking off your momentary surprise, you smiled at him, turning your head and pulling your hair back so your neck was left bared for him to drink from. So you were caught off guard when he instead backed you up against the door, caging you in with his body and catching your mouth with his own.

While you were confused, you weren’t opposed, your eyes sliding closed and arms coming up to rest against his chest, the gentle buzzing of the magical lock against your back all but forgotten at the things Astarion’s tongue was doing to your own.

You were having a hard time telling if he was actually this turned on, or if he had just turned his switch on, as much as you had tried to break him of the habit of feeling like he had to perform sexually if he wasn’t feeling it. Recognizing you should probably make that discernment now, you pulled back from the kiss, Astarion’s lips shifting to kiss at your neck.

“It’s okay if this is just for blood,” you spoke, trying to keep your voice steady despite Astarion suckling on a particularly sensitive spot. “You don’t owe me anything for my blood if you don’t want to.”

Astarion pulled back from your neck at last, no bites taken, instead reaching a hand down to take your leg in his grasp, pulling it around one hip and using the opportunity to grind his clearly hard cock into you, the resulting feeling fluttering your lashes as you tried desperately to focus on the seriousness you were trying to inject into the moment.

Astarion saw your serious expression and only smiled, a small little smile so unlike the openly flirtatious ones he used to send your way back when you had first explored each other’s bodies.

“Trust me darling, you mean far too much to me to ever treat you like you’re a favor to be traded in,” he spoke quietly, hips still rolling into yours as he spoke. “You’ve given me too much to ever be repaid. But no need to fret, my reasons for wanting your body now are just my own selfish lust.”

He didn’t need any words from you to know he had you, one broken moan at his hips rutting perfectly against yours enough of a response for him to return to your mouth, one hand sliding under your dress to press firmly on your clit as you kissed fervently, doing your best to keep up with his tongue as you felt warm enough for the both of you even on the chilly rooftop.

The greedy vampire could only go so long without claiming his reward, mouth moving to your neck the second he felt you getting close, sinking his teeth into you at last as he barraged your clit with attention, the twin sensations of blood loss and orgasm feeding off each other in beautiful harmony, Astarion prolonging your peak with his talented fingers as he drank from your neck until you laid boneless against him, panting above his head.

“I love you,” you breathed, Astarion breaking from your neck to return the sentiment with a bloodstained smile.

And then it was your turn, pulling him to your mouth and grinding up into him, the vampire’s own panting breaths loud against your mouth. Astarion moved his hips back into yours, his pace nothing like the practiced, even rhythm he’d had back when he was playing the part of what he had thought you would like. His groans now were entirely his body’s reaction to yours, and the thought burned deeply in your core.

Neither one of you content to keep things going with clothes still on, your hands moved to the clasp holding your flimsy dress together, while Astarion smoothly discarded his own pants, his hands then coming back to maneuver you onto your back on the non-stained section of the rooftop rug, your dress splayed out under you helping to guard against the slightly rough texture of the rug.

“This is a sight I will never tire of,” Astarion groaned, ripping his shirt up over his head, his underwear following and leaving him entirely bare to your wanting gaze.

He looked every bit the vampiric seductor in that horrible novel he liked to bother you with, red eyes and bloody mouth gleaming in the sparse light the rising moon provided.

You watched his expression spark with debauched pleasure as it was plainly obvious how wet you were as he practically peeled your underwear from you, one hand returning to work at your clit, his own cock looking so hard that it must hurt.

“Astarion, please,” you begged, reaching out for him, your lover effortlessly evading your grasp as he worked you closer and closer to orgasm.

“Not yet, my love,” he chided lowly, knowing you could do little to resist his efforts right now. “I rather enjoy getting you so worked up. I could spend hours listening to your pretty cries as I bring you over the edge again and again, but I suppose that potion is only good until sunup, and I am so hungry.”

“Then come here,” you prompted, already feeling clearheaded from the vibrancy potion rejuvenating your blood supply so quickly.

“How could I refuse?” he replied happily, slotting himself between your legs.

Wrapping your legs around his back, you pulled him down, the vampire smoothly lining his cock perfectly to hit deep inside you as you pulled his mouth to your neck.

“You are too perfect,” Astarion murmured against your neck before biting down.

You decided it was better for you to start strong while you still had the blood supply to energize you, using your legs around his hips to start a slow but deep rhythm. Astarion needed very little coaxing to keep up, one hand coming up to angle one of your legs higher, the resulting shift making you cry out as he started to hit against a spot inside you that only he had ever been able to find.

You had always prided yourself on being the talker of your little group, able to talk your way in or out of trouble when needed. But here, under the snarky vampire you had come to cherish more than anything, you were wordless, barely able to manage more than his name as Astarion moved his focus from your neck to thoroughly ruin you, blood-red smirk telling you he knew exactly what he was doing with every grind of his hips.

It took almost embarrassingly no time for you to finish again, Astarion’s keen senses picking up on it immediately without you having to say a word.

“I do so like to see you like this, darling,” he said, slowly his pace down as you came down from it. “So thoroughly ravaged that you couldn’t recite a spell if you tried.”

You knew that he wasn’t unaffected, the slow roll of his hips telling you that much, but you found yourself determined to exhaust him just as badly, a tall order for someone of his stamina, but you were going to try your best.

With as much grace as you could manage with legs that felt like jelly, you withdrew from under him, pushing him back so he was sitting back, staring at you with loving eyes more black than red as you climbed onto his lap, settling back down on his cock, intent on riding him until he lost himself.

Astarion’s hands quickly found the back fastenings of your bra, unhooking it with a satisfied growl and tossing the garment aside, allowing him access to lean down and lave kisses and bites across your chest as you continued to ride him hard.

You were slamming your hips into his now, running a hand through his hair, his increasingly loud groans of your name telling you that he was finally getting close. With a shuddered breath, his hands went down to your hips, holding you still against him as he came, teeth sinking into your neck once again in tandem.

You slowly stroked his hair, in no rush to free yourself from his embrace, even as you could feel stray droplets of blood running down your neck and onto your chest.

With a pleased sigh, Astarion’s hands went from your hips to around your back, pulling back from your neck to see you smiling at him, the sight sending him leaning forward to kiss you, his peaceful expression one you could look at forever and never get tired of.

“Here I was thinking all I had to thank that grotesque nautiloid for was my freedom,” he mused between kisses. “If it hadn’t found you too, I’d probably be dead, hunted by that gur and delivered to my death. Never thought I’d be so grateful to a damn illithid for plucking me off the street.”

“Yeah,” you smiled. “This makes even the whole parasite insertion thing worth it, if I get to be here like this with you.”

“How sweet,” he huffed in response. “I however could have done without Gale’s lectures on morality. And Lae’zel’s snoring.”

“And the Withers lecture about how you were distracting me from my quest,” you added with a laugh, recalling the at-the-time awkward talk with the skeletal man the morning after you and Astarion had first slept together.

“I don’t know about that, my dear,” Astarion replied slyly. “You did seem a touch distracted after that first night. I recall you stepping on several fire mines that Shadowheart had warned us of not five minutes before. Hard to blame you though, I mean really, just look at me.”

“Having fun?” you sulked, pulling back from him to cross your arms across your chest, trying to appear annoyed but fully aware your point was not well made considering he was still inside of you.

Astarion didn’t let you get far, arms pulling you back in. “Not so fast, my love. As I recall, my reward was to last until sunrise, and I intend to reap it in full.”

[talon-dragonbeast]

today i want to talk about my hearthome, the coniferous forest, and how i lived there as a dragon. ill be using the words "memory", "remember", and the past tense a lot as an aid, despite me not having a past life. this is because they are noemata, things that never really happened but which i know to be true and are as important as any past life memory. this gets pretty long, so lets begin already.

i dont know how or when I found my forest. i was not born there, and although i know there mustve been other dragons somewhere, none ever visited my forest. if i had to guess, im pretty sure i was born among other dragons, but left them once i reached adulthood. im a pretty solitary dragon, as ive talked about before on this blog, and i have a pretty strong protective instinct. so once i left my fellow dragons, its no wonder i would choose a territory of my own that i could defend from others. and ive always preferred colder climates, so the coniferous forest was perfect for me.

my forest was not huge, but not too small either. it took several hours to walk from one corner to another, so i spent all my day patrolling it. my den was located right in the center, in a cave with a hidden entrance where i had my nest made of moss and my hoard of found objects and shiny things. the cave was tall but small, not uncomfortably so (i could stretch out comfortably without ever touching the walls), but just enough so that it made me feel cooped up and safe. right outside my den was a river that led to the mountains surrounding the forest, and marked the end of my territory. the mountains were a vantage point from which I could see any approaching enemies, so they greatly aided in my territory's defense.

the weather was not great, but for me it was just perfect. a dense fog in the morning that blocked the first rays of sunshine, the air always humid and heavy on the tongue, so cold it stinged the back of your mouth and made breathing difficult. light rain fell almost constantly from the gray skies, turning to snow in winter and thunderstorm in spring. the ground was always slightly damp, covered with brown pine needles and green moss, the soil underneath so dark it was almost black. the trees were tall and intimidating, all coniferous with a rich mix of pine, larch, spruce and fir, silent guardians much as I was. sometimes, the rain would stop and turn the forest into a nearly dreamlike place, with the sky a blue so intense it hurt the eyes, the sun shining with a strange energy that seemed to cool instead of warm. on those days, the air seemed to stand still, everything becoming so quiet you could almost hear the silence, as if the whole forest was holding its breath.

there were animals in my forest, of course. deer and fish and mice and elk and, most importantly, crows. i held a close relationship with the local murder that was similar to the symbiotic relationship between wolves and crows in the wild. they helped me locate prey, informed me of intruders and accompanied me on my patrols, and in return i gave them part of the kill, protected their nests and helped them with any trouble they might get into (you wouldnt believe the kinds of shenanigans the little buggers would manage to find themselves in!). i was at the top of the food chain, and was in charge of maintaining the balance of the ecosystem. i helped the forest, and the forest helped me.

there isnt really a conclusion to this. today im feeling a bit nostalgic, probably because the weather is getting colder and colder and it reminds me of home. my forest, the home of my heart, to which i can never return. writing this has made me feel a bit better, but the pain is still there. the truth is, i still miss it terribly. i miss my den, how safe it made me feel. i miss the crows, my murder, my only companions. i miss feeling the ground beneath my claws, the crunching of pine needles and the soft cold dirt underneath. i miss the emotion of the hunt, the long naps under the sun, the stargazing of an infinite night sky.

but what i miss the most i think, is the feeling of belonging. of being part of the ecosystem, not detached from but actively participating in it. in this human life, its too easy to forget i am an animal too; humans seem so keen to separate themselves from the natural world that they have forgotten that they are part of it like any other living being. i guess what i really miss is simply being able to leave my mark somewhere. feeling that i am doing something. feeling important, needed. but again, dont we all?

[lovingsoul111]

My random headcanons for BEN 💕

He becomes irrationally furious if someone lies to him. Not because of the deception itself, but because it feels like betrayal. BEN bonds intensely when he chooses to trust, and breaking that trust makes something snap inside him.

He sometimes just… disappears for days.Not to be dramatic, but to observe. BEN often slips out of sight, not because he’s sulking, but because he’s lurking. Watching people, systems, places. His curiosity is obsessive, and he’s constantly gathering knowledge.

He hates water. he absolutely loathes being submerged or even splashed. It triggers something instinctively hostile in him. He associates it with helplessness, and that infuriates him. Not because of the fanon Ben drowned but I do lowkey feel like BEN isn’t the biggest fan of water.

He hoards information like a dragon hoards gold. Game codes, access points, blackmail-worthy data, even people’s secrets, he collects and stores it all. He’s meticulous about what he knows, and he never forgets anything

He dislikes being touched without consent. Even if he likes someone, surprise physical contact can trigger sharp, hostile reactions. It’s not about fear, it’s about control. He must always be in control.

He loves puzzles and mind games. Logic games, riddles, codes, BEN’s mind craves complexity. The harder something is to crack, the more he enjoys it. He’d much rather manipulate a situation mentally than rely on brute force.

He secretly enjoys mimicry. BEN has a talent for mimicking voices, gestures, even writing styles. He finds it amusing, and useful, to impersonate people, especially online or through notes.

He doesn’t dream. BEN doesn’t sleep like humans do, and he doesn’t dream, but he remembers what dreaming felt like.

He watches you from inside reflective surfaces. Mirrors. Screens. Puddles. Even if you’re not logged in, he’s watching. And if you say his name while looking at a reflection? The lights might flicker. The reflection might smile back when you don’t.

IF you convince him to finally play a video game with you, he will be very competitive. If he loses, he’ll say the game was rigged. He’ll even mess with the code out of pure pettiness just so he always wins next round. I feel like BEN losing a game would humble him.

He reads into everything. If you send a message, BEN will analyze the tone, timing, punctuation, and word choice. He’s hypervigilant about subtext.

He has favorites, and you want to be one. BEN plays favorites obsessively. If you catch his interest, he’ll keep tabs on you. If he loses interest, you’re nothing. But if you hurt someone he likes? He will ruin you.

————————————————————————

THATS ALLLL!! If yall want anymore please ask! Like romantic hcs, scary hcs, etcccc! 💕

[serpentclaws]

@ Draconic Alterhumans

Guidelines:

not all dragons hoard things, but many of us have collections regardless; it doesn't have to be a draconic instinct hoarding situation for it to count

pick the MAIN thing. I know most people collect more than one thing. pick the MAIN one that you would tell strangers immediately about if they asked.

yes, yes, collecting feathers is largely illegal in the US. don't @ me about it, not everyone here is American

having a lot of one thing doesn't mean it's a collection. I have a lot of looseleaf tea and jewelry. I would not call those collections.

[justforbooks]

Fee, fi, fo…Trump: how an ogre won back the White House

Large, gruesome, brutal and gluttonous: Donald Trump is the archetypal ogre. So how did he manage to stomp back for a second term?

By Edward Docx

The animated film Shrek opens with the eponymous hero wiping his bottom on a book. Shrek then emerges from the toilet and we follow his swamp-savvy morning routine. He bathes his huge and oddly luminous body in mud. He brushes his teeth with slime. He kills fish for his supper with his flatulence. So far so good.

But Shrek’s life is about to be interrupted. Lord Farquaad, the punctilious local potentate, is rounding up various misfits and banishing them to Shrek’s swamp. The film has Shrek put up “keep out” signs; he dreams of building a wall; and he frightens anyone who comes into his swamp with fierce-but-fake-but-fierce shows of aggression. But it’s no good. Shrek soon feels himself overwhelmed by “squatters” (as he calls them) and is furious.

He duly sets off for Duloc, the city where Farquaad lives and where, by way of contrast, everything is unnaturally immaculate, idealised and perfect. Here he is greeted at the “Information Booth” by animatronic characters singing the Duloc Welcome Song: “Welcome to Duloc, such a perfect town / Here we have some rules, let us lay them down …”

Shrek is an ogre, of course. He does not like rules. He doesn’t like welcome booths that are the opposite of welcoming. Most of all, he doesn’t like fake characters singing annoying songs to him about how they are going to lay down the law.

Ogres are one of the most ancient archetypes in human narrative and they have been with us since we first started telling stories. In Japan, they are known as oni. In tales such as Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, ogres (or ghuls) are depicted as monstrous beings with a penchant for devouring humans. In The Epic of Gilgamesh there is a character called Humbaba – a giant guardian of the cedar forest. And, of course, there are ogres at the centre of the two foundational epics in western literature: the Cyclops, Polyphemus, in Homer’s Odyssey; and Grendel, who terrorises the mead-hall of Hereot, in Beowulf. As Seamus Heaney’s evocative translation has it: “Grendel was the name of this grim demon / haunting the marches, marauding round the heath / and the desolate fens.” Haunting the swamps in other words. And – yes – coming into town to get even in a bigly way.

And “bigly” is an ogre’s word if ever there was one, conjuring largeness, exaggeration, impact, something overwhelming; but also “bigly” is a dig at language itself and its pretensions to precision. You don’t have to be a writer to see the patterns. The ogres of folklore are always against written law. They are banished, exiled, cannibalistic creatures that inhabit a single realm outside “normal” society – the island (Polyphemus) and the swamp (Grendel). They are large and fearsome. They are gluttonous, violent and selfish. They consume without restraint and hoard wealth. They live for gratification. They are brutish and yet full of a lethal cunning and instinct. They are driven by a need to dominate or destroy anything they perceive as a threat. They lack empathy. They act solely out of self-interest. They are untamed beings of cruelty and desire and appetite. They are grotesques.

They are everywhere present in our stories because, of course, they are part of our struggle to understand ourselves. They represent the recurring preoccupations and apprehensions of the human psyche. They symbolise avidity and voraciousness. They are avatars for all the dangers lurking outside the safety of human society’s agreed norms and rituals.

Not just lurking outside, therefore, but lurking inside … lurking inside the human mind. Most of the time, we repress these traits in order to get along, and yet they persist – as drives and urges, as conscious and subconscious fears. In other words, ogres are not just monsters in tales but archetypal representations of the elemental aspects of our being. Indeed, if we step for a moment across one of the many footbridges between story and psychology, then we can see that ogres represent … the primal; also known as the id.

The id is the inner life we all of us share. The circuit board on which all of our various operating systems run – be they our politics, religions, tribes, nationalities. In the id, we find the collection of feelings and instincts that lie at the very core of the human being. Here lurks desire, lust and greed, avarice. Here seethes anger and aggression. Here is rage, raw, uncontrolled. Here, too, is jealousy. Here is the compulsion for vengeance. Here are the survival instincts: fear and anxiety. Here is euphoria, ecstasy, frustration, anguish. Here is the urge to act without reflection. This is the world of impulse, appetite and desire.

This is also the world of Trump. Trump is the nearest any modern politician comes to pure id. And one way to better understand his inauguration – and the strange folkloric spell of his seduction during the election – is to look through this lens of human story, of human archetype and psychology. Because it is on this deeper level that Trump broadcasts; it is here that he makes his powerful appeal; and it is here that he connects.

Indeed, the description of an ogre above might – without too much modulation – be deftly repurposed as a set of character notes for the future actors who will no doubt play him. The extra-large suits, the extra-large tie. The endless huge of it all. The hyperbole of speech and form. The anti-intellectual, anti-law, anti-civility. The lethal cunning, the canny instinct. The way he looms and thuds through the world – fist-inverted, heavy-footed, fee-fi-fo-fum. Trump doesn’t engage in a debate about “values” – no, sir; Trump smells your blood. All that grabbed pussy. All that hoarded gold way up the beanstalk on the 56th floor of Trump Towers.

Domination and treasure are two of the ogre’s preoccupations. Devouring is another. The teaser for the second term began thus: “They’re eating the dogs – the people that came in, they’re eating the cats. They’re eating … they’re eating the pets of the people that live there …” Eating, eating, eating, eating.

Consider Trump’s campaign visit to McDonald’s to work the frier in Feasterville, Pennsylvania. “Yeah, let’s make some more,” he says, “we got about 10,000 people out there … That’s a big crowd – huh?” (Double Jesus – for those paying attention). “I like it all,” he says, talking of the McDonald’s menu. “I like every ounce of it. Everything.” Then he gets to his political point: “I’ve always wanted to work at McDonald’s, but I never did. I’m running against somebody that said she did, but it turned out to be a totally phoney story. It was a big part of [Kamala Harris’s] résumé that she worked at McDonald’s – how tough a job it was. She … made the french fries, and she talked about the heat: ‘It was so tough.’” Then he adds with bone-grinding finality: “She’s never worked at McDonald’s.”

Think about what is actually going on here. Sure, the whole thing is staged. Sure, jobs matter. No, he’s not really working a shift. Of course not. Trump knows that you know and that’s why he’s still wearing his suit and tie. He never changes out of costume because he never changed into costume. (From where Trump is standing, from the point of view of the id, the rest of the world is in disguise; the rest of the world is fake.) No, what he’s saying underneath, what he’s transmitting, are messages to do with the primal pleasures of greed and eating … eating those everybody-loves-them-who-cares-if-they-are-bad-for-you fries. Even more than this, he is communicating: this job, working the frier, is sacred in an id kind of a way. And people who complain or lie about it don’t get that – and therefore can’t be trusted on anything else. Trump, on the other hand, Trump gets it. You’re hungry, he acknowledges, even for the bad stuff, especially for the bad stuff. Me too, me too.

“Can I give them extra salt?” he asks. “I love salt.” Yes, he does. And so do you. And then he starts handing it out for free to the drive-through line: “It is all on Trump,” he says, and turns around and asks, “I’m allowed to do that, right?” But the subliminal communication is again more potent than the seemingly casual question. What threatens my generosity in giving you these fries – what threatens our feast here in Feasterville – is the law, Trump is saying. And I tell you something: if the law dares to get in the way of a president feeding his people, then it’s just another fake law in a fake world, like all the other fake laws with which they try to punish and contain me, punish and contain you; the laws from which I will liberate you to eat more, and drive more, and fuck more, and have all the mores you want; it’s going to be huge.

Yes, sex is everpresent, too. As he serves the customers in their cars, Trump continually remarks: “You’re a good-looking guy”, or “what a beautiful woman”. Sex and food. Food and sex. One man says to him: “You made it possible for ordinary people like us to meet you.” And Trump says right back: “You’re not ordinary. I can see. Beautiful wife.” And then he hands the guy his order through the window of his car. He turns back again and says: “I’m having a lot of fun here everybody. Look at all the fake news over there.”

In one sense, that is the whole election – in that moment. All the fake news of human thought over there but right here with Trump … the truth of food and sex.

For our stories to endure, they must be fun as well as scary; every story and therefore every ogre in the storyworld also has to … entertain. And, of course, Trump knows this better than anyone. Indeed, fun is what Trump spends a great deal of time telling us he is having. He uses the word from time to time but his body and his gestures and his general don’t-give-a-shit deportment is also often about conveying fun. Fun is the bad dancing at the rallies. Fun is what he’s having with the fryer. Even the felonies are fun, too, right? If you’re an ogre. Because everyone knows you don’t get the gold without the bending a few rules and – anyway – the law is a pathetic joke to the id. The sex cases the same. Says Trump to the female lawyer grilling him in one of his harassment hearings: “I say this with as much respect as I can, she [his accuser] is not my type … Not my type in any way, shape or form.” And then he adds, addressing the female lawyer herself: “You wouldn’t be a choice of mine either, to be honest with you … I hope you’re not insulted. I would not under any circumstances have any interest in you. I’m honest when I say it.”

There’s no respect and he doesn’t care if you’re insulted. When Odysseus appeals for hospitality, invoking the gods, Polyphemus says: “We Cyclops care not a whistle for your thundering Zeus or all the gods in bliss.” Ogre-fun, it turns out, is often threat and menace because most of the time it’s just ogre-anger in a different key.

Transaction is another signifier of the id-world. Consider Trump’s book, The Art of the Deal. Think about the trumpeting of deals. Why is the deal so important? Because the deal isn’t about “values” or “morality”, it’s about self-interest. Come on, now: the real world is transactional, Trump grins. That’s the only thing you can really trust. In the id-world, you look not for nobility or fairness in your interlocutor but for weakness – greed, vanity, ambition, jealousy; you eschew the profound in favour of commodity and bargain. When it comes down to it, Trump reminds us, there will have to be a deal. So enough of your phoney “values”.

Indeed, seen from these swampy vantages – greed, sex, power – Trump is not a liar at all, he is a truth-teller. (Truth Social: “follow the truth”). He is honest when he says it. The world is primal, Trump whispers, everything else is made up or posturing and – deep down – you know it and I know it and everybody knows it.

Trump – as ogre, as id – not only understands all of this, he embodies it. This is what so many of the political podcasts and back-peddling pundits missed. Trump is saying, profoundly, “I understand you. I get it.” There’s an id-entity in there that he’s talking to beneath all those other identities we adopt. And it may not be noble or pretty – not at all – but it’s real and it’s ravenous and it’s rapacious and it’s irresistible.

Indeed, this is one reason why identity politics so often loses to the id-summoning assertions of populism. When times are precipitous and the polity is bitterly contested, human beings tend to back away from “argument” and “ideals” and edge back towards the dependable “truths” of the id. And the story world – where Trump broadcasts loud and clear – is so very powerful here because it darkly enchants; and because it occludes the complex world of actual issues, actual policy, actual debate, actual solutions. You don’t need a ground game when you’ve got an id-game. You don’t need leaflets about policy when you’re the latest main character in an ancient human saga all about wealth and food and sex and anger and fear and power and vengeance.

And it’s interesting to note how our great writers smuggle in sympathy for their ogres’ retaliations. Notice, for example, how Homer describes Odysseus as polytropos meaning “wily” in his opening line. We sense straight away that Odysseus’s intelligence can also be provocative and irritating. Sure, Polyphemus only has a single eye but (like Shrek in his swamp) he was minding his own business before the Greeks turned up and started demanding hospitality. To add insult to injury, Odysseus boasts as he escapes, taunting the cyclops from his ship: “Cyclops, if ever mortal man enquire / how you were put to shame and blinded, / tell him Odysseus, raider of cities, / took your eye…”

But we sometimes forget that Polyphemus has the last laugh because he asks his father, Poseidon, (an id-god if ever there was one), to punish Odysseus: “Hear me, Poseidon, god of the sea blue mane who rocks the earth! … grant that Odysseus … never see his home. / Or if he must, let him come late, having lost all companions, in a stranger’s ship, and find a world of pain … ” The curse is a pivotal moment in the story. Homer – in this moment – is on Polyphemus’s side because of Odysseus’s hubris. And, as we know, it takes Odysseus 10 years (or two election cycles) to get back to Ithaca. And yes, there’s a world of fresh trauma waiting for him when he gets there.

Grendel, meanwhile, is not welcome at the White House correspondents’ dinner either. He is described as an outcast doomed to brooding, isolation and rage. But there’s also a counter-tone of pity in the lines: “It harrowed him / to hear the din of the loud banquet / every day in the hall, the harp being struck / and the clear song of a skilled poet / telling with mastery of man’s beginnings …” What enrages Grendel is that he has been excluded from the kinship, from the rituals of the banquet and the fellowship of music.

In this way, the primal and the rational are in antiphonal relation; one summons the other. The swamp and the city are always part of the same human story. Which brings us to the proper counter to the ogre’s appeal. Because of course the id is not the only truth of human relations. The cyclops has but a single eye. Human beings cannot – and do not wish to – live in the primal world alone. Death is redeemed not through deals but by love.

In psychological terms, the id is no more than a third of the human psyche. There is also the ego (wherein we are rational, controlled) and the superego (the internalised operation of moral standards and ideals). And, sure enough, our stories are also thronged with archetypes of love and reason, with saviours and sages, moral operators and wise rulers. For every Caliban a Prospero. For every Polyphemus a Penelope.

The task of the progressive, therefore, is to avoid appearing like Farquaad. In Duloc, Farquaad preens as he polices the rules. He patrols the borders of language and reaction. He holds up signs to tell the people what to do: “applause”, “laugh”, “aww”. In Duloc, everything must be perfect and pristine. Sure, you might just about put up with this if you are economically secure and Duloc more or less works for you. But the feeling of being reprimanded is the opposite of fun, and this certainly is no way to bring people outside with you. No, the would-be leader must surely be as perceptive and attentive toward the inner lives of their fellow human beings as are the enduring writers. They must seek again to make a real and more universal connection. And they must surely acknowledge appetite and desire and anger and fear – ideally with conviviality – and then offer something much richer: the rest of the human experience.

This manoeuvre – connection first, inspiration second – is what marks out the greatest politicians. Leaving aside secondary considerations such as the right-left or the right-wrong, think what Churchill’s demeanour transmits at its most simple: I get it about the whisky and cigars and the epic dinners – I do, my friends, I do – but still we must fight for “the worst form of government, except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time”. Or consider John F Kennedy’s persona and body language which (before he says a word) declare in the most charming manner possible: I get it about the glamour and the sex – none more so, none more so – but still we must aspire to go to the moon and “set sail on this new sea because there is new knowledge to be gained, and new rights to be won, and they must be won and used for the progress of all people”.

Of course, you have to be a remarkable human being to embody and encompass all of this. But then the leader of a democracy should be an exceptional human being – not in the sense of being merely virtuous, but in the deeper and more resonant sense of being emotionally and psychologically capacious.

In the meantime, welcome to Feasterville.

🔴 Edward Docx is a novelist and screenwriter.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[wallwriterstuff]

Part 2: The Yes Basket ||John Price x Teen!Simon Riley||

Warnings: Mentions of drugs. Implied child neglect, explicit mentions of physical injury and abuse (1 sentence mentioning bruises and being underweight). All the angst. Talk of foster care and sibling separation. Mentions of military discharge and injury. Minors should not interact with this.

Words: 2236

Summary: John Price has had plenty of foster children before him and knows how to support most of the behaviour he sees. A simple trip to the supermarket unveils a deeper need for understanding than he originally thought, and John is left scrambling for answers Laswell won't give him.

Chapter 1: To Soothe A Soul Next Part (3): Dirty Laundry ->

Simon Riley is a ghost in his home.

He’s barely seen the boy since Laswell dropped him off last week. The lack of weight on him clearly works to his advantage for sneaking about the place because Price has been startled by his sudden appearance at least twice, and his instincts are usually pretty good at detecting anyone in his general vicinity. Either that, or Simon must have gotten good at creeping around. Perhaps it was safer that way in his former home, less noise less attention. All Price knows is that he only sees the boy when he’s eating his food or using his shower. He uses the shower a lot. He can’t tell if it’s a novelty thing that he never really had before or if it’s perhaps a psychological thing that needs a little more investigating, but the boy spends at least an hour a day scrubbing his skin raw in the tub, only to appear in the kitchen afterwards with a pink face and hands and stinking clothes that undo most of the work he’s just done.

He still won’t let Price wash anything in the bin bag.

Simon’s living out of it, he thinks. Not that he has any access to that room now. Simon barely cracks the door when he knocks on it to inform him dinner is ready or to ask if he wants to join him in watching a movie or something with Riley. He’s been gentle about his approach on it to, not outright disregarding his belongings as a filthy nuisance in his home but rather asking him how he can help him look after them. He’s been stealing food to. Light-fingered little bugger got away with it for almost 48 hours before Price realised his fruit bowl was suspiciously low on fruit. He’s had children in his care hoard food before, knows how to deal with it, so today, he’s dragging Simon out into the big wide world whether he likes it or not to solve the problem. The echo of his knock on the wood is met by complete silence behind the door, and Price still feels that prickle of dread when Simon cracks the door open just enough to stare him down as if he’s the intruder, somehow.

The whites of his eyes are only just whiter than the pallor of his skin.

“We’re going to head to the shops together, get some groceries in. Since I’ll be cooking for both of us I want you to give me an idea of what sort of things you like to eat. You’ve got 10 minutes to get yourself ready, alright?” Price doesn’t phrase it like a question, knowing the answer would absolutely be no if he asked. Simon barely blinks, a minor twitch of his brows showing his displeasure through a frown. Price waits him out, watch’s carefully for any sign of resistance. Seeing no way out, Simon finally acquiesces with a short nod, slamming the door shut between them both. Price let’s out a quiet breath and turns to head back downstairs, sure he’s going to have to come and get him when the 10 minutes he’s given him to get ready is up. It’ll serve two purposes, he thinks. If Simon takes a walk with him today then the boy will get a better lay of the land, have a bit more freedom to walk himself to the park maybe or walk himself to school, when the time comes for that, but it also means getting in food Simon can have control over. Speak of the devil.

Riley perks at his feet and trots happily to the boy as he stamps his feet into beat up trainers at the bottom of the stairs. The laces are threadbare at best and there’s holes in the outer skin that let Price know they’re no longer waterproof. Maybe when they have to tackle the issue of school uniform he can broach the topic of new shoes. Forcing himself up, Price moves to the coat rack and takes down Riley’s leash and harness, the German Shepherd waiting patiently to be belted up. Simon says nothing, hands stuffed deep in his pockets and eyes cast downward towards his feet. He doesn’t force the boy to break the silence, wondering if Simon is just a bit stunted in his social development or if there’s something greater at play. He never can tell, still doesn’t know him quite well enough.

He offers Simon the lead anyhow, and the boy takes it wordlessly, walking out alongside him and not waiting for him to lock the door behind them. Price has to catch up, and just about catches a glimpse of Simon slipping a black surgical mask over his face. Price’s brow furrows, a shudder rolling down his spine when he gets closer and sees the shoddily painted skeleton jaw painted on the front of the mask. It doesn’t feel like a fashion choice.

God kid, what the hell happened to you?

It’s like walking with the angel of death, even the breeze in the trees seem to fall silent in Simon’s presence. Price isn’t one to easily be unnerved, hell his job demanded he have nerves of steel, but something about Simon’s silent and foreboding presence makes him feel the need to fill the quiet space with noise.

“I’ve got a basic list, bread, milk, all that stuff, but once we’re in the shop you can give me an idea of what sort of dinner you like.” He said. Simon says nothing, of course. He gets a handful of looks from neighbourhood gossips but ignores them steadfastly. He’s like an omen of death, dressed in all black, hidden under baggy clothes, and…not reaching for a single bit of food. Price realises quickly that this is going to be harder than he originally thought. He feels like a phony Santa with the fake jolly attitude as he tries to suggest different things and is met by a shrug each time. He’s lost track of the amount of products he’s picked up in an attempt to sway him when Simon finally speaks ups.

“I don’t care.” The blunt and abrupt sentence is punctuated with a voice crack that makes the boy visibly cringe, as if the visible evidence of his youth is somehow a weakness he’s unwittingly shown. Price watches him for a long moment, head tilted and eyes squinting slightly.

“I do.” It’s a simply sentence, not one he packs a lot of emotion into, but it garners him the biggest reaction he’s had so far. Simon narrows his eyes. That eerie presence he exudes magnifies ten fold and almost tries to envelop Price, like a shadow has oozed from the boy and tried to poke and prod it’s way into Price’s very soul to examine the contents. He holds his gaze with the most neutral expression he can and pulls out his wallet to hold out a crisp ten pound note to the boy.

“This here is for you to go and get snacks with. We're going to make a yes basket. Anything you put in the basket, you can eat at any time. No permission needed, it's your food to eat as you please. The only rules for the basket are that whatever you buy fits within your budget, you need to buy a mix of junk food and healthy stuff, and it's only refilled when we go shopping on Saturday. If you eat it all by Wednesday there's no adding extra's too it until Saturday. If you do find it's empty and your still hungry, you can still eat the snacks in the kitchen cupboards, but we share those, so you need to ask permission before taking them. Understand?” his explanation is met with a further narrowing of the boys eyes, but Simon isn’t fool enough to look a gift horse in the mouth. Whatever life he’s been raised in, Price gets the impression that reading and playing people, having street smarts, is something the boy prides himself on, and that’s what makes him snatch the money from his hand and stalk for the fruit aisle first.

Price doesn’t see that basket once it’s taken into his room, but his fruit bowl remains full. Whether or not he paces himself is beyond Price’s knowledge to, but he’s set the boundary and he’ll see soon enough if Simon’s pushed it. If the way he eats his dinner is any indication then he reckons the basket was empty on day one. He scarfs down anything in front of him like he’s a black hole gorging on any and all matter, regardless of whether he finds it pleasant or not.

The subtleties in Simon’s expression is what helps him tailor his shopping lists going forward. His nose wrinkles ever so slightly when he eats anything he doesn’t like, and the missing nutrition in his previous diet is quick to make itself known when just a fortnight of eating a more varied and rich diet makes the boy sick to his stomach. He tries to hide it of course, but Riley’s compassion doesn’t let the boy suffer alone for long. The scuffling at his door is what wakes Price, and he forces his prosthetic back into place with a grunt, thumping with groggy eyes towards the bedroom door. He hears Simon heaving the minute he opens up,  giving Riley a scratch behind the ears before he heads for the bathroom. He pauses just briefly before knocking on the door and waiting to see if Simon will invite him in. He doesn’t, of course, so Price pushes the door open, and tries not to heave himself.

Simon’s always hidden beneath his clothes and now he knows why. Pale skin is mottled by severe but aging bruises. The poor boys black blue and yellow, a tapestry of violence inked into his skin that he’s still recovering from, may never recover from. There’s bones where he’d expected at least some muscles. He wonders if the skeleton painted on his face mask is supposed to represent the skeletal structure he’s somehow kept upright and ticking over in whatever horrific circumstances Simon has had to call his life up until this point. Price wipes any trace of his horror from his face as he grabs a wash cloth and dampens it, placing the cool cloth on the back of the boys neck as he awkwardly kneels beside him.

“Easy Simon, breathe.” He murmurs. Simon flinches form his hands, from his help, too used to doing things alone, but he’s just a child and he wants the one thing any child demands when they feel so awful nothing else helps.

“Mum.”

It’s a quiet croak, but it’s enough to shatter Price’s heart. He swallows thickly to get a grip on the lump in his throat before he pats the boys shoulder.

“Just me…have you had a sip of water?” he asks softly. Simon doesn’t turn his head, just leaves his head resting along his arm so Price doesn’t see the weakness seeping from his eyes. He shakes his head. Price gets him a glass of water, and they sit in silence until Simon’s ready to stumble back to bed again.

It’s the first time the silence doesn’t feel oppressive.

Price lets him sleep in the next day for as long as he needs, doesn’t ensure he eats breakfast as he’s now ensure just what to feed a stomach he guesses was previously empty most of the time, and instead calls up Laswell.

“John. How’s things?” her voice is tired and it sets his alarm bells ringing.

“Alright. Better, sort of. We’ve made a bit of progress, I think. How’s things on your end?” Price leans against the kitchen counter, watching Riley do his business in the back garden as he reads the pregnant pause before she spoke again. Not good then, he thinks.

“We’re alright,” She lied, “How can I help you today?” Price decides to let it go. Simon is his priority.

“Was wondering if we were any further forward with getting a doctor’s appointment for the lad, or even sibling visits. He mentioned his mum the other night, might do him some good to see his brother.” Price suggested.

Kate sighed, “Don’t push it John…Tom’s not good. Kid’s disclosed a lot since they were separated…Simon won’t be seeing him for a while yet. Doctor’s not called back yet, I’ll push it from my end. Is he well enough to wait?” Price’s head span for a second. Just what had the younger boy disclosed that had Kate so uptight? What had he seen? What had Simon seen? Or...is it something Simon had done? No, no that didn’t feel right. Simon was like a pitbull, preferring to puff up and look domineering but, under the right care at least, completely harmless. His burning curiosity might never be satiated. His job was to help the child, not investigate the case. No, no he had to leave that to Kate.

“I’d rather he was seen sooner over later. Could do with some help from a dietitian maybe. He was more undernourished than we originally thought and I don’t want to give him too much to soon.” Price relayed his concern neutrally, even as his mind raced ahead. “I’ll call today then and call you back when I have an answer.” Kate didn’t bother with a goodbye before she hung up. Price sighed, stared at his phone for a moment, and placed it on the side.

One thing at a time John, he thought, One thing at a time.

[lottiesnotebook]

Hi!!! It's so nice to see you over here, happy Friday!!! 💕 For Rhiannon (my beloved), maybe The Star tarot card prompts?

@miladydewintcr, as my favourite commenter, you get the first fic of my 30th birthday! if anyone ever deserved a break, it's Ms Rhiannon Hawke, so here's a little canon snippet of respite for her:

@dadrunkwriting

the star: renewal, hope, rest; “I feel at peace.” possible AUs/settings/ideas: star-gazing, lazy days, cuddling, spirit au

Justice/Hawke/(Anders but he's asleep), fluff

don't you dream impossible dreams?

Their consciousnesses do not follow a regular cycle of sleeping and waking, but Justice finds himself floating to the surface of their body most often when Anders is in repose. This is less frequent than his body requires, and more frequent than either of them would prefer - Kirkwall is not a place where justice is frequently served, and too often, it feels like the very walls scream his name, demand his presence, his action. It is hard to permit their body to sleep, even knowing its necessity, even knowing the harm it will cause Anders in the long run, when they both know that there are people out there who do not rest as they do, in a soft featherbed, with a beautiful woman twined around them. It is paradoxical that they both feel less guilt sleeping on the thin, narrow cot at the clinic, where the clattering at night might be rats or thieves, than they feel in Rhiannon Hawke's bed, and yet, it is so - it seems unjust that such comfort, such luxury, should be reserved for them alone, but neither of them are quite willing to share the one selfish choice they've made in seven years with anyone but each other.

Tonight, though, when Justice wakes, she is not where she ought to be, a shadow curled into their arms, or wrapped around them like some kind of diminuitive dragon around her hoard of lovers. Her pillow is warm, still imprinted with the dent of her head, and there is no sign of violence in the room, but she is not present, though her scent lingers within the closed curtains of the bed. He knows he should ignore her absence, close his eyes and try to allow their exhausted body some much-needed respite, but her bed is not near so soft or so warm without her as it becomes in her presence, and besides… Justice shares a body, a mind, a purpose with Anders, but he and Rhiannon are joined only by thin, fragile threads of impossible, remarkable affection, and he so rarely gets the chance to remember this when the body is his to command.

He does not have to go far to find her - she's out on the balcony, up against the sky, the stars crowning her dark hair, and she is so lovely that nothing in this world or the Fade could compare to her in this moment. She is also, he notes, underdressed for the chill of the evening - a thin robe over the gauzy nothing she calls a nightgown.

"I must inform you that Anders will be most displeased if I allow you to catch your death," he says, coming up from behind to wrap his arms around her. She is compact and solid and deliciously warm against the chill of the air, the perfect, intoxicating drug to all the senses he will never quite grow accustomed to.

She tilts her head up, brushes her lips to his jaw. "Lucky I have you to keep me warm, then, isn't it?"

His hands tighten instinctively on her waist, but her attempt at distraction does not fully sate his curiosity. "You are always the first to inform me that sleep is vital to your kind," he reminds her, "and yet I find you out here. Not sleeping."

She sighs, feigns a pout. "Must I always be held to my own advice? Isn't a girl allowed a little hypocracy?"

"You know that is inimical to my nature."

"I know," she agrees, and he can hear her smile in her voice before he can feel it against his lips: the sweet, mischievous upturn of her lips, the taste of her - burnt coffee and the roisin she smooths onto the bow of her lute. "I just couldn't sleep, forgive me?"

"If you tell me why." He smooths a curl of dark hair back from her face. If he could, he would smooth every woe, every trouble she has ever felt away with it- but he cannot. That is not his purpose, it is merely his desire. "Are you distressed? Unhappy?"

Perhaps the thought of sleeping next to an abomination scares her more than the thought of bedding one. He would not blame her if that were the case. They have seldom proven safe to love, even to each other.

She laughs, though, and shakes her head. "No, the opposite." Her smile fades, though, and she turns suddenly, uncharacteristically solemn. "I know this city's a shithole, and that a thousand terrible things happen every day, and that we don't stop nearly enough of them, but- would you think less of me, if I said I never thought I would feel like this?"

"Like-?" He does not know what he wants her to say. In love? Happy?

She tilts her head up to the stars, their soft, distant light falling across her face. "At peace," she says, softly. "After losing- everyone I thought I could lose, I still have you two. You're still here, watching over me, watching over all of us, and- the world can't be that terrible, when it still has this, right?"

He could tell her how wrong she is. He could tell her that even now, Orana sobs silently into her sheets from a nightmare she will never dare to speak of, that in the Gallows, an apprentice turns her face to the wall when she is told that she will never be Harrowed, that in Darktown, there are children who's lungs will never recover from chokedamp.

But in this moment, he does not say these things. He looks at her, in her too-thin robe and her crown of stars, and thinks: Were it in my power, I would bend the very fabric of the world to allow you all the peace it has taken from you. He cannot provide her with that. He cannot even add to it - peace and respite are not in his nature. But he can fold her into his arms, let it radiate from her through his bones, and say:

"The world cannot be so terrible, as long as you are in it."

[crimsonqueenmagnus]

“Tzeench, why did they send the thousand sons here? What was he after?” Thought one of the thousand sons as they look ever the edge, seeing a hoard of daemons belonging to Nurgle. “Oh, more war, gods damn it.” He mutters to himself as he looks around further and sees a host of gold. “Is that… I need to inform mother about this.” They think to themselves as they run back to the primarch and explains what he saw.

(Starter for @askthecaptaingeneral )

Magnus took a deep breath as she looked among her surroundings. The planet was, to put it lightly, in a ghastly state. Not much in terms of artifacts or curiosities to be found here. The primarch of the fifteenth could sense the presence of life on this planet not yet corrupted by chaos, but it seemed to be quickly fading. She brushed those thoughts aside. Although she would feel the agony when their lives came to an end, she could do nothing for them, regardless. Dreams, visions, nightmares, and some well-placed warp storms had placed Magnus and her children on this planet. It wasn't like Tzeentch to give them obvious orders, after all.

Her scouts returned to where she was stationed, and one informed her of the plague daemons of nurgle not too far from their present location. "Damn, of course." She said before readying her blade. "Children, wicked fate has brought us here, and we all know what we must do. Nurgle's rot infects this planet and infests every crevice. Let us show them the sorcerous might of the Thousand Sons! Burn every growth, every pox, every pustule, every fungus with a wrathful firestorm. All is dust!" She called out loud her words also reaching every sorcerer's mind and echoing within the armor of every rubric. The lenses of the rubric helms flickered to a brilliant red glow, and her children sprung to life, grasping tightly at their bolters and flamers with the same instinct they had during the Great Cruscade.

"Move out!" She announced, leading her legion onward to the battle she already foresaw bits and pieces of in her head. Sorcerer's on discs took to the sky and rubrics marched in perfect unison.

[moominpapasfanficblog]

The Dread Moomin Pirates AU

How Moomin Island Changed

As Moomintroll and Snufkin left the Pirate Bank building Moomintroll was practically overflowing with anticipation of Snufkin’s reaction. Finally, he asked Snufkin the inevitable question.

“So, what do you think of our hoard?! Isn’t it impressive? We managed to accumulate all that in only ten years, I’ll have you know!”, he said.

“It’s all very nice, but what good does it do you?”, Snufkin asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

“What good…..?! We couldn’t have built our ship, anything on this island without it!”, Moomintroll responded, in stunned surprise.

“Again, it’s all very nice, but isn’t what you’ve got now enough for you? Think of the amount of money in your hoard. Even if there were to be a hundred generations of Moomin Pirates, you could never spend all of what you have now. And, each generation would only add more and more that they could never spend. You’ll have to build more bank buildings and hire a lot more Hemulens just to deal with it all, and very soon. It just sits in your vault, accomplishing nothing. It’s all essentially useless to you. Imagine if you and your descendants worked on giving as much of it away to beasts that don’t have what you have as you possibly can instead of stealing more from them.”, replied Snufkin.

Moomintroll’s expression fell into one of deep thought, but he still instinctively gripped Snufkin’s paw for comfort and Snufkin happily returned his grip. Snufkin forcibly reminded himself to move slowly as he continued to corrupt the pirates to the Moominvalley way of life.

Over the month of August, as the other pirate groups came and went on raids and the Moomin Pirates watched over the island and waited for The Snork and Snork Maiden to finish their repairs to The Oshun Oxtra, Snufkin insinuated gentle reminders of their time in Moominvalley into his conversations with the adult leaders of the Moomin Pirates at every opportunity.

To his delight, Snufkin discovered that he didn’t have to do much more work with the young pirates of the crew. They had eagerly introduced the children of the Mymble Queen and the Fuzzy Pirates to the games that they learned in Moominvalley. Being the children of pirates, they played at being pirates all the time when they got together on Moomin Island. They didn’t know simple games like tag, hide-and-seek, or football at all. They joined in these games with enthusiasm and joy. The other pirate children even began adopting the simpler mode of dress that the Moomin Pirates had embraced while in Moominvalley.

By the end of September, Moominmama had established a womens group consisting of the Mymble Queen and her daughters, Madame Fuzzy, the wife of Captain Fuzzy, and her daughters, and the other female members of the crew of the Oshun Oxtra. It was based on Moominmama’s experiences of the Moominvalley Women’s Club. They began exchanging rescources from recipes to assistance, all without explicit expectations of profit or immediate returns.

The male pirate leaders were also changing their ways of operating and problem solving. Moominpapa could be regularly seen holding friendly discussions in center of the market area of the pirate community and having times of real leisure with Captain Fuzzy and the other adult males of the community. When Captain Fuzzy stopped wearing his pirate costume and most of the male pirates had abandoned clothing altogether along with him, Snufkin knew that the seed he had planted in Moomintroll’s head had born fruit, even faster than he had hoped. Snufkin decided that it was time for him to press his luck and make a really radical suggestion to Moominpapa. He steeled his nerves and rehearsed what he would say as he joined one of Moominpapa’s informal discussion sessions.

To Be Continued