#mastering tedium

[tonycries]

Executioner Style - R.S.

Synopsis. How long does it take for the demon king, Ryomen Sukuna, to figure out why you summoned him? Three hours. How long until you wonder whether you’ll make it out of the bed aIive? Well…

Pairing. Ryomen Sukuna x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, demon king! true form! Sukuna, dp, Sukuna’s second mouth, big tongues, oraI (fem rec.), he’s BIG, making it fit, cervíx kíssing, tummy buIges, MARATHONS, creampíes, ínnapropríate use of POWERS, unprotected, DOUBLE the cúm, cúmplay, slight bréedíng, d slipping, HEADLOCKS, manhandIing, he calls you “master”, p talking, p sIapping, squírting, he goes FÉRAL, ríding his second tongue, spítting, overstím, making Sukuna whíne, breaking the bed, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 9.2k

A/N. RlP that puthy ayyyy!!

Lo and behold, late tonight found you boredly thumbing through pages upon yellow, moth-eaten pages of a dusty demonology textbook you’d acquired from the very back of your campus library.

And maybe it was sheer tedium, maybe it was your recent lack of…satisfying exploits - but the man in the illustration you were currently ogling at was smokin’ hot. 

“Ryomen Sukuna: King of Demons.” 

Your eyes greedily skim from his tall, towering figure, to those naturally chiseled abs. And was that a second mouth on his sculpted front? 

Television whirring softly in the background, you thumb over the short, scrawled-out incantation right underneath his picture. According to what the book claimed, it was for those who wanted to summon the king. Oh…couldn’t hurt. Right? 

Biting your lip, you let out a huff of disbelieving laughter before starting to incant it. 

Stuttering, unsure.

And once you’re done, well, nothing happens.

You set aside the book with a sigh, turning to the tv that was now only playing repeated, flickering static. What else did you think would happen? Pressing frustratedly on the remote, as if-

“Summoned me, mama?”

Fuck.

The book you were just reading described Sukuna as big - but he was big.

And standing right in front of you.

Well over seven feet, muscular frame taking up every inch of your cozy living room. You can’t help but gape at everything from the cherry blossom-pink strands of slicked-back hair, to the thick rings tattooed ‘round his feet. 

And he had two of everything - two sets of big, beefy arms just covered in veins that popped when he crossed his arms, two sets of dangerously crimson irises that roamed over your cutely trembling figure sprawled across the couch.

You had. Summoned. A demon. 

And he really did have a second mouth gashed across his stomach.

“Or should I say…” Sukuna’s husky baritone sends stark shivers skittering across your skin, something he’s sure to not miss. He lets out a low whistle, “-master?”

“Wh-who are you?” You’re sputtering out stupidly, even though you already knew the answer to that question. It was right there, boldly titling a section in a textbook that you were two seconds away from throwing at the demon’s head right now. 

“Heh- as if those puny human arms could do much damage to me.” He’s gruffing out, “I might even like it.” 

It hits you in an instant then. Sukuna’s plump lips curl ever-so-smugly when your mouth drops at the realization that he’d just read your mind.

What the…fuck.

Your heart pulsates so loudly that you almost miss his next few words-

“Language, mama.” Sukuna’s feet thud! thud! thud! closer to you, every step reverberating an echoing shake of your apartment infrastructure. He kneels until he’s almost eye-level with you, and you can’t help but shiver at the heat radiating off in scorching waves from his hulking body. “Ryomen Sukuna, King of Demons.”

“W-well I’m-”

“I-I-I already know who ya are, silly brat.” He mocks, with a roll of his eyes. Rude, you huff. “The first dumb lil’ human to summon me in eons. And the first one so pretty, too- keh, don’t let that get into your head, just tell me what you summoned me here for.”

You’re shaking your head frantically, every ounce of will in your body trying not to think about just how you’d summoned the fucking demon king because you were…horny. “Can’t you just- I don’t know- leave? Go back?”

“Doesn’t work that way.” He seems to be enjoying your pain more n’ more by the second, both devilish mouths curving up into a smile that showed off his gleaming canines. Sharp. 

“What if I take it back?” You try to reason, hands throwing exasperatedly in the air. “Un-summon you so you can go back to your…wherever you came from, and I don’t have to tell my landlord about changing the rent.”

You probably looked a mess right about now. But, at least in your defense, how were you supposed to know that spontaneously-borrowed demonology books might actually work?

And Ryomen Sukuna looks at you with all the patience of someone - a demon - that well and fully expects you to have known. “Stupid human. First you summon the king and then you want to send him back? I should curse you and fifty of your generations for this.”

Heaving out a sigh, he seats himself on that cottony carpet of yours. So monstrous, so strong that every piece of loose furniture is thrown two inches in the air once he does. 

You yelp as you cling onto the tufted cushion of your dear sofa. 

“I, Ryomen Sukuna, am contracted to stay in the human world until I accomplish the task my new…master has summoned me for.” He drawls out, pinkish brows quirking. “So spit it outta that pretty lil’ head now before I should hope you know how to take care of the demon king.”

You breathe, voice as fragile as if it was about to shatter into a zillion pieces against the slightest gust of air. “Take care…of a demon…king.”

“The demon king.”

Great, your brand-spankin’ new roommate was the king of demons. 

“F-first things first.” You move to get up from your helpless position, trying not to let your knobbly knees trembly unsteadily as Sukuna watches you with interest. 

Shit, even seated he was such a staggering size. 

All rippling muscles and big, big…

Shaking your head to rid it of thoughts you knew he’d enjoy, you disappear into your laundry room to find the biggest oversized t-shirt you had stored away. 

Striding back into your living room, you find him still sitting obediently for you. Unimpressed at your findings, yet still obedient. You’re presenting the piece of cloth back to him like a shield, “Wear a damn shirt.”

For your sake more than anything. Because it didn’t matter what baggy white pants Sukuna had on, having his upper half so shirtless and…attractive really wasn’t helping. 

Fuck, if you thought the illustration was hot then it didn’t do enough justice for the real thing. 

“Haaah? Stupid human customs. This get ya silly brain distracted or what?” Sukuna grumbles, though one of his four arms reaches out for the t-shirt. Close. And before you can snatch your fingers away, just one of his long blackened nails skims your sensory pads. 

Too close.

Just one split-second touch and the king’s sultry eyes widen, nostrils flaring a fraction once he takes in a deeeep breath. You can’t force your eyes away from the tight, toned heavals of his cushy pecs fast enough, snapping your eager gaze back to his as if nothing ever happened. 

Only to be met with a leer. Sleazy. “Though, maybe I don’t mind, mama.”

You find the rational part of your brain pricking with slight concern at the whiplash-like change in Sukuna’s tone. Though, most of it is overcome with utter relief as he wears the top.

Even though it doesn’t change much.

Despite being a t-shirt so big on you that it travelled all the way down to your knees, it barely even covers half of his cursed second mouth. Pulled so taut that you could map the exact circumference of his puffy, maroon nipples. And the slightest movement makes your tense living room ring out with a threatening riiiip–!

And on either side of Sukuna’s ridged obliques, he’d punctured gigantic holes for his two extra hands to flex through. Large and intimidating. 

Raising a teasing brow, “This better, master?”

No, your mouth waters. And yet, somehow manages to shape out, “Y-yes.” Desperately whirling your pupils anywhere but at him, they finally find themselves landing upon the tick-tick-ticking clock on the far end of your wall. 12:01AM it showed. “And it’s late, I have early lectures tomorrow so…”

You didn’t. And you hastily pick up the demonology book from your coffee table to make sure that Sukuna couldn’t sense lies. Given the little you know about him already, you wouldn’t be surprised.

“So you can make yourself at home on the…” You’re wincing, realizing that your shabby couch was much too small for an above-average height human let alone a fucking demon. 

“Hmmm?” Before you can do something stupid, like offer Sukuna your own bed - or better yet, you right along with the bed - he clicks! his thick fingers. And in a sudden puff of smoke, your humble sofa had transfigured - exactly the same, but bigger.

Big enough to fit him.

Shit. Your tummy lurches, he really was the real deal.

And even though you felt slightly disgruntled about the way this all-new furniture was jostling your poor television stand, you’re giving him a jerky nod in reply. Alarmed, you dart towards your own bedroom with a soft gasp of something like ‘goodnight!’

Hopefully when you woke up this would all be some strange fever dream.

.

.

.

You couldn’t sleep.

Though, that’s not for a lack of trying - no, according to your glaring phonescreen, the time was 2:53AM and you’d spent almost three hours tossing n’ turning fussily in your bed. 

And it was all Ryomen Sukuna’s fault - well, indirectly. 

Because you might not have heard even the faintest peep from him since you’d slammed your bedroom door shut, but you mind still raced a mile a minute over the fact that he was inevitably there.

And the fact that…you gulp, your thighs squeezing together through flimsy cotton shorts. You were still as horny as when you first summoned him.

…Fuck it.

Your patterned sleep shorts end up on a sad heap on the floor, padded digits gliding over just the swollen hood of your clit. “Sh-shiiit.”

By now your legs are splayed nice and close, heart curdling in your lower belly once you reach for that familiar second drawer on your bedside table. The one that’s hidden away. The one that opens up to show off a hot pink rose toy you kept for nights just like this.

Though, usually you didn’t have a demon sleeping over.

But you digress! Sukuna would be none-the-wiser; the demonology book had mentioned his superhuman olfaction, but it said nothing about super-hearing abilities.

They also did mention - several cautionary times - about the risks of summoning a demon, and how a summoner and demon shall live together as long as the task dictates. Sometimes even forever, with the contract sharing immortality. 

So… 

With this in mind, you’re biting down on the gummy insides of your cheek to push back the heavy pants that battle to depart. Eardrums perked in the direction of your door, your fingers scratch impatiently against the power button near the base and let the sinful bzzzzz knock on each of your four walls. 

Not a sound from Sukuna. Good.

The sparkly tip of your cute lil’ toy kisses your clit and you moan, smearing it in a wet little glissade around n’ around. 

It was sooo wet - your needy pussy. Even more so than usual, at this point your jittery thighs were just coated in a fresh lacquered layer of syrupy slick. Drenching down to your silky bedsheets and ringing out the most pornographic squelch after squelch.

“Fuh-fuuuck–” You’re whining, watery peripherals locked on the frigid vibrator tip teasing perfect eights near your sloppy hole. 

The plump crowned tip of your toy was such a pretty shade of ruddy pink - one that reminded you so much of Sukuna. Shit…maybe this was a bad idea. Because all you could think about right now was whether he would-

No, no you can’t go there. 

Spanking your throbbing clit with the firm base of it, silvery strands of slick dangle and squirt out from you repeatedly. Wanting and wanting, and no matter how much - you wanted more. 

Probably. 

“S-su…Kuna-” You spit a hot mass of webbed saliva that dollops down the tip of your rose toy, promptly aligning it in front of your dripping cunt. In front of where you wanted him- it the most before-

“Battery low…powering off.”

Heart plummeting to right between your legs, you take one look at the flashing battery indicator on your rose toy and sigh. “Fucking hell.”

“S’where I’m from.” 

“Fuck!” You drop both your vibrator and your jaw to jerk your head towards the origin of that low, rasping, unfortunately familiar bass. 

And there, hunched right in front of your now-open bedroom door, was Ryomen Sukuna. Two of his bulging arms homed right above the banister to your entrance, helping him lean down. Other two crossed over his bulky chest, grinning. “That’s the objective, brat.”

Perhaps you’re simply frozen, perhaps you like the way that Sukuna’s half-lidded eyes were rovering allll over your body without a shred of embarrassment. 

“H-haven’t you heard of knocking?” You’re whimpering, sticky thighs closing in together with a stinging plap!

And Sukuna has the audacity to look almost disappointed when he can’t see that heavenly sight between your legs anymore. Stepping one foot - two - into the clouded headiness of your bedroom. The pressure in the air was so thick that the maneuver makes your skin prickle with frosty goosebumps. 

He’s ignoring your previous question. Snickering, “I know you were thinkin’ about me, mama.” Closer. “I know you were moanin’ my name while you toyed with that pretty lil’ pussy. I could smell that you were in sweet ovulation ever since ya gave me this damn t-shirt.” Too close. His capped knees strike the edge of your mattress, making it groan underneath the weight - and you felt like doing much the same right about now. “I know why you summoned me here.”

There’s a beat of silence. 

Two.

Three.

Before you open your cottony mouth- “W-want you, Sukuna- please.”

And one minute Sukuna’s hovering over the end of your bed, colossal figure casting a shadow over your body - the next, he has two meaty palms slapping down on your ankles. Kissing your lips, kissing your thighs.

He’s draaaagging you from your position near the very tippity-top of your pillows to him. 

Down, down, down.

All the way until half of your ass dangles off the bedframe until he cups a ravenous handful of it. Tittering, Sukuna’s kneeling - the king is kneeling - on your bedroom floor with a dull thud! that makes your cunt flutter.

“Ohhh look at ‘er throbbing already.” He’s tittering, hazy gaze clinging to your adorably squirming body as if a moth to flame. The honed edges of his nails trace all along your thighs, raw carnal need. “That greedy f’me, human?”

“P-pleeeease—” You’re gasping, your own nails clawing red, red train tracks along his thoroughly veined forearms. 

One spank of his doughy soft-tipped fingers exactly where your slobbery hole was leaking the most, and the sweltering hot wetness of it is almost dizzying. You watch with your mouth agape as Sukuna brings his treacly covered digits down to his stomach mouth, letting it sluuuurp all the dewy goodness of your sugarcoated slick. “That all you can say?”

Another clingy slap brings you out of your sweet reverie- you’re hiccuping out a scratchy, “N-nooo. I wan’ your mouth, Sukuna- ngh, I want-” You can’t stop your eyes from drifting away to his toned front, that mouth.

And Sukuna notices, of course, he does. 

“Ohhh, ya really are a greedy lil’ thing, huh?” For a second, you swear his bloody lids widen in sharp surprise. Before Sukuna throws his head back with a cackle- “Of course, master, anythin’ ya want.”

Oh, that little nickname makes you arch.

Roughened, calloused hands crack your legs apart until the rounded curves of your knees hit your tits. Sloshing out a watery clump of spittle that puddles all over your overspilling slit, “But first, we gotta stretch this lady out reeeeal wide.”

You can’t even say a word, you can’t even register what he’s saying before Sukuna hunches over your damn bed and gives your pulsing pussy a good French kiss. 

And just as monstrously big he was - his tongue was just the same.

Putting your rose toy to shame, he’s prying open your gluey pussylips with a single swipe of his filthy muscle. Simmering tastebuds splashing soggy smears all along every nook n’ cranny of your cunt, the underside of his tongue comes thudding down your heated clit with a harsh thwack!

“Nghhhh– fuck, Sukuna”

“Can’t hear ya, pretty mama.” He’s groaning into your slick-glossed folds, the carnal vibrations making your heaving chest rip with such raw squeals. “Louder. Make those hah- pretty noises louder f’me.”

The fat of his tongue was licking you up deliciously. Urging out bucketloads of honeyed slick, bucketloads of moans upon moans upon moans- “M-more- mmpf!”

“Not you, brat.” Sukuna bites out, though his strained throat trembles with amusement at the way your cute voice pitches. Thrashing as one upper hand treks up to muffle your unhinged mouth, he makes such a big show of letting your pouring sap sliiiiide down his open tongue. “Shut up n’ let me talk to her.”

Slurring slurps upon slurps that thunder in his ears like his favorite song, each n’ every one that he nods along to. Such a lecherous conversation. 

“Mhm. Mhmmm, you’re heh- right.” His scorching hot breath tickles your pussy, and you can feel the way his handsome smirk curves into your aching flesh. “Yeah, she is fuckin’ filthy, huh? What a needy girl…” 

Every gyrating motion of his head grinding the tip of his nose into your achy clit, pressing down like his favorite toy button. N’ dragging your tender nub up and down up and down up and down. 

Clammy hips lurching the perfect curvature off of your springy mattress, your cute whines slip through his thickened fingers. “I-inside, want you- haaah-”

To which the only answer you get is Sukuna pressing down to shove your head into the softened pillows, snarling. Gritting his lustrous canines in a smile as his skin tingles with power-

Your perspiration-stuck forehead crinkles at the feeling of atoms and axioms stressing to a stop in the air all around you. Crackling with such power. 

“What are you- oh.” And then you’re kissing - not just anyone, but the king of demons’ second mouth. Transferred all the way from where it was slashed across his stomach right up to the pulpy mountain of his palm. Gooey tongue plunging past your lips and into your own maw- “Ngh- fuck! Su-Kuna- Kunaaa–”

“Hear that? Callin’ the king ‘Kuna’.” Sukuna tuts, nibbling along the outer lips of your cunt and leaving bitemarks for days. “N’ for that, suck my tongue a lil’ bit.” Pressing even deeper, “C’moooon, can feel the way you’re drooling underneath me. Open that mouth, mama.”

And how could you not let your gasping lips droop even further pathetically open?

Because the taste of his slithering tongue was so addictive, like mulled wine and the sweetest of something that made an urge inside your fuzzy mind yearn. Your lips swirl around his probing muscle and suck-

“There we go. Theeeere we go. Shit, the dirtiest lil’ human I’ve e-encountered my whole life- heh, where the fuck have ya been my whole life?”

Punishing you, punishing your pussy with a barreling crowned tip of his digits smooching your flooded entrance.

Drawing delicate lil’ hearts all over your rubbery hole before he flicks at your gummy orifice and sinks in. All the way till his attractive, stocky knuckle was just winking up at him from underneath your saturated lips as if to say hello. 

All glossy and soaked-through. Beast-like nails thankfully retracted, Sukuna’s fingers were just so thick that you could almost taste the fat circumference of him in your throat.

Just feel him swab every inch of your mushy insides without even trying, curling into every sweet ridge and geyser that makes your wailed whines sing. Louder and louder. The knotted mess in your belly tighter and tighter. 

Oh-so-loud even through his unrelenting hold on you, you’re feeling your dizzy pupils circle and circle the whites of your eyes before sliding all the way back.

“Should banish ya for that.” He’s tugging you to and fro with both his broiling hot maw and his fingers toying with your pussy. Eyeing the way you spurt out something so thickly viscous that it streaks down his wrist; he lets the stray excess slather all over your sensitive clit and suckles. “But I liiiike you- like this pretty pussy. What a cutie she is.”

Pussydrunk. You had the big, bad king of curses pussydrunk.

You don’t know whether he’s talking about you or your cunt and right now you don’t even have enough brain power to wonder.

Not when Sukuna’s second tongue rolls straight inside your unhinged maw, the scratchy graze of his buds driving you wild. The slap of his tongue against the roof of your mouth fills your dazed eyes with such copious volumes of tears.

Ones that make him gluttonous. He is a demon, after all.

You almost feel as if you’re about to break into hysterics once his parched, cursed mouth rovers all over the caramel-salted beads of your tears. Lapping n’ lapping it up off of your teary face. 

There’s a sudden plop! from below you, and you’re ogling once you feel your elastic walls stretch out even more under a second- third one of Sukuna’s fat fingers. Prying your syrupy pussyfolds aside with his teeth, he’s staring up into your heart eyes dead-on.

Scissoring them inside you, the knobbled fringes of his fingerpads whack back and forth into the targeted crevices of your sweetest spots. Probin’ into spots you didn’t know existed.

Holy shit, if his fingers were this big then how huge would his cocks be?

“Chehhh- don’ know where you’re droolin’ more from, here or there. Filthy human.”

Massive palm lumbering over your mouth to knock the gusts of wind off your lungs and make you bask in the wiped puddles of spit you’d made on his hand. 

You’re bubbling out in even more tears and mewls. “I-I’m so close.” Stuttered cadence reaching such a feverish high point, the insides of your thighs burn as you meet his thoroughly plapping mouth. “Gonna- gonna…”

“Yeah? Better cum soon before I make ya pay for makin’ this mess on me, brat.” He’s gruffing ‘round your pulsating clit, rumbles making you see white. One spank to your dripping pussymound, the other to right on your g-spot. “Hop to it, human- cum f’me. Cum.”

You didn’t need to hear the pressurized pop! of your eardrums to know you were cumming, because Sukuna’s mouth smiles against your lips. Both of them.

Slow, sensual while he dragged you heedlessly through your high. No matter how much your stimulated body wriggled and wrenched though the white-hot bliss, you were no match for his complete strength. 

Desperate.

He’s lapping up every. single. ounce of your gushing ribbons of slick like he was a man starved, and it was hitting the back of his throat in decorative gulps. 

Sukuna’s snarling canines entrap your pulsing clit, tugging— “What a goood fuckin’ girl. Ya like that? Like cumming all over the king’s face?” It makes the tips of his ears burn flaming red to watch the way your toes curl, panting. “Sweet. Sooo fucking sweet.”

So much leaking out of you and yet, it still wasn’t enough.

Still pumping your goopy cunt with solid thrusts, he’s striking your weepy hole with a slab of saliva that only leaves you wetter. The razor-sharp hit of it making the darkness behind your closed lids burst with stars. 

“P-please.” Your spit-slicked lips trembly non-stop, bleary eyes fighting to focus down at Sukuna. Where he was still addicted. 

“Hmmm?”

The mounds of your heels rest on his bulky shoulders and start to weakly push, “Please- pleeeease, m’s-so sensitive, Kuna- hck!”

“Oh?” His deep tone comes out almost…delighted. Thick locks of blushed pink plastered all over Sukuna’s sweaty forehead, and he has to spy up at your adorably awe-struck expressions through his long lashes. “S’that sooooo?”

Mean. He was so mean - and the only thing meaner than Ryomen Sukuna himself was both of his tongues. 

The one making out with your pussy steals another drawling drag over your quivering pussy, and the other shoves his lengthy muscle so far deep in your throat that he can almost taste your shocked whimpers. 

“Fuh-fuuuuck–!”

“Told ya already- that’s the heh objective, silly brat.” Sukuna’s hissing out as he finally, finally pulls away from your pussy with a resounding, claggy mwah! A similar plop! sounding from your mouth when he sets you free from that, too.

The gulp of scorching air you’re drinking in almost chokes in your throat once you get a good look at Sukuna.

The entirety of his pointed chin, up to the curves of his high cheekbones was just covered in a thick topping of your slick. Glistening rivulets of it hitting your open thighs with pap! pap! pap! You could barely see his eyes through those mussed-up bangs of his - but you could tell they were wine-red and just as drunk, glassy, gone. Overworked tongue gliding slowly all across his glossy lower lip. 

And was he- was Sukuna blushing?

“Oi, don’t think stupid shit.” His grumbling cuts through your whirlwind of thoughts, rouge-dusted skin flushing even darker. 

Without another word, Sukuna darts his peripheries over at the splashed pools of your dumbstruck spit on his palm - his now-normal palm - and smirks. “Keh- so messy.” And before you can rebuke, before you can bluff, he spanks his drooly hand over your cunt and smears it down everywhere. 

“Sh-shit, stop teasin’.”  You huff and puff, unable to look away from the huge bulge that was tenting Sukuna’s billowy pants. He looked big…more than big, actually. And your thighs clench as you wonder whether twice of everything applied down there, too. “Wan’ you s-so badly, Kuna.”

“Huuuh? Don’t tell me that human brain o’ yours is cockdrunk already.” He scoffs, catching your gawking. “Impatient impatient. I haven’t even accomplished your first request, spoiled brat.”

“What first…”

Oh.

Oh.

The leaden ball in your throat grows about tenfold as Sukuna straightens up from his sexy slouch, showing off the way the lower half of his too-tight t-shirt was so drenched that it was see-through now. 

Sopping even wetter by the second when his other maw slobbers with torrents of greedy drivel at the just the sight of you. Drooling through the fabric. “Guess we got a lil’...impatient.” He thumbs over the mess he’s created.

Just at sight of you.

Pulling- ripping that useless shirt off of him, Sukuna lets his fat, massive stomach tongue flop! out between your boneless legs. Fuck. 

Striking you with the flat underside of his oversized tastebuds, proudly licking up the fresh batch of slippery slick that’d just begun pouring out from between your folds. Anticipating. Tense. 

Filthy.

“Would ya look at that?” Sukuna croons with that mean tonality from above, two arms wrangling your legs pinned open. Wiiiide so that his cursed maw can fit between. Another hand roaming down to his bulge and massaging, “Was just complainin’ about being ‘s-s-sensitive’ but look at ya now.”

Before you can even blink, his colossal tongue constricts out until it’s about two, no- maybe even three feet long. And just as thick, too, he has to swirl n’ swirl all over your drenched inner thighs, the crevice of your pussy, your tight hole before being able to fit just the tip inside. 

“Oh my- o-oh- ohhh fuck!” You’re shrilling with cracked vocals, feeling the slushy inches of his tongue crawl past your walls. 

Shit. He felt even bigger than he looked - and that was saying something. 

Sukuna’s stomach mouth was just so biiiiig that he wasn’t easing even halfway inside your awaiting cunt before the ridged texture of his tongue scratches your g-spot. He doesn’t even have to try until he’s stretching out your pulsing pussy in ways you’d never even imagined before. 

Suddenly thankful for the way the king had trained your gummy walls to open up just earlier, you’re clawing at your best, soaked-through bedsheets. Fisting them. Tearing through. 

“What happened to ya?” Sukuna croaks out in a thickened voice, leaning over to change up the angle so that his second tongue was pinpointing your tenderest orifices. Purposefully flicking over to peck your cervix before he slobbered allll over your magical spot. “Not so t-talkative now, huh?”

And it was true - just about the only thing you’re managing through the masses of drool overflowing your mouth were broken syllables of “Yes!”

Only to get strangled inside of your throat all over again when he stretches out his tongue and lets it slather your heated flesh with a clingy coating of salivated spit. Probing and probing oooout until he somehow skims over your throbbing clit. 

You’re letting out the cutest moans of his name, so loud that you faintly think your neighbors will have a thing or two to say. “K-Kunaaa—” If you make it that far, that is. “P-please, can’t any nghhh- longer.”

“Again, mama?” 

“Yes, yeeees- fuck!” You don’t know where you’re fountaining more from, thick drool seeping from both sets of your lips. Every slap! of Sukuna’s tongue makes you buck even more animalistically, “Please. Please, m’not gonna…”

You feel a clawed hand hang off of the curve of your lips, tugging on your glissading body so that you crawl backwards and hit Sukuna’s pink happy trail with a spank!

“So fuck back in hngh- t’me, human.” He groans, holding you stockstill until you can do nothing but drag and trawl the stinging mounds of your ass over his sculpted front. Guiding you to pound back, to rut– “Ride me. Ride me.”

Your mouth floods with fresh flints of heat and drivel, “Wh-what?”

“Fuckin’ ride my tongue like a good girl.”

Shivering, it’s all you can do to plunge your hips in such a messy back and forth. Core tensing, pussy sloshing slick, head bobbling like one of those stupid dolls. Long tongue reaching eeeeeverywhere, every time you guide him to your most favorite spots - his, too - he gives you a congratulatory swat of his perky tip.

Grunting, “Faster now. Faster.”

On shaky legs, your tempo is so fuckin’ messy that you feel your skin flare up until it’s as if you were melting. Repeatedly. 

Melting all over Sukuna’s girthy tongue, where he was furiously pumping in and out of you. Your knees creak, letting him drill the curve of his plump budded muscle into your g-spot. In a deep kiss over n’ over n’ over–

And with a final sluuuurp, you’re falling apart on the king’s tongue all over again. Your high sprinting all down your bent spine as if it was the first time, no less intense. 

No less sudden. No less leaving you yelping.

“Oh- oh my god-”

“Jus’ your cute ‘Kuna’ s’fine, brat.” Sukuna has the audacity to giggle - giggle - at the way your dazed eyes criss-cross apple sauce. And it was so cute how your pussy couldn’t stop throbbing and creaming around his mouth. “What a slutty pussy ya have.”

You tremble with the bolting aftershocks of your orgasm, the high making your brain a stupid fuzz of nothingness. “S-so sensitive-”

“Yeah yeah, she’s sensitive.” Forcing your mouth to fall into a perfect oh! when he promptly slaps your quivering pussymound, rudely. Bucking his hips in a little one-two to fuck you through your soaring high, the friction makes you keen-

“Kunaaa–”

“Chatty chatty.” He’s leaning over to crash his lips filthily against yours, suckling on the sugary beads of spittle that leaves you like his favorite dessert. Sharp fangs sinking into your wobbly lower lip, “Why don’tcha beg for a change, lil’ human?”

You’re sputtering, “Wh-what do you mean-”

“Beg.” He pummels two fat fingers between your mouth, slithering the bulbous crowns of his finger against the back of your thrashing tongue and pressing. Hard. “Beg for your king.”

So smug.

Even smugger when he leverages the hold inside your mouth to open you up widely agape and spit- One generous helping inside your maw, another generous helping from his stomach mouth inside your cunt. 

“P-please.”

“What was that?”

“Please!” Tears streak hotly down your cheeks, and your pretty sounds make his cocks twitch. “Please…fuck me, Sukuna.”

He pulls his long fingers back with a smile, satisfied. Lips curling even wider at the saturated globules of spittle that dribble from the ends of your mouth n’ to the tips of his buried digits. “As you wish, master.”

Your heart raced so hard it almost hurt as he’s tracing a teasing few fingers over the thick hem of his pants. The usually-loose fabric was now so packed with all the endless inches of him that it took a few tight tugs for Sukuna’s leaking, globular tip to peek through.

Immediately a juicy trail of pre butters from his divot in a creamy topping. You spy just the spatter of his scratchy pubes tufting together - drenched, the same rose pink that his cockhead was blushing. 

“S’pink.” You babble off mindlessly, a drunken smile gracing your face. “S’cute.”

“Cute.” Sukuna breathes out, crimson eyes wide. Crazed. And both sets of his mouths leer as if he couldn’t believe what the fuck just fell from your mouth. He’s seething, “Cute?”

With only one hand stuck to the edge of your waist like adhesive, he flips your entire body ‘round so it sprawls into the plush mattress and pins you down. Kneeing your spine so you squirm helplessly, pushing and pushing until you whine.

You hear a long teeeeear–! echo in your ears, and as you get your thoughts together you’re realizing that he’d torn his royal trousers off. Adding it in a pile of tatters beside your bed, right with your newly-ripped sleep shirt. 

Sukuna’s rugged hips hump against the mounds of your ass like an animal, and oh…he really did have two sets of everything. 

Exclaiming breathlessly, “S-Sukuna you can’t be hngh- serious.” Fuck, he was serious. Dead serious. And a singular look over your shoulder told you that so were his cocks.

Aching, swollen. You count about thirteen inches - each. 

So thick that they were proudly fatter than even the girth of the tongue across his washboard abs. Stacked one on top of the other, his upper shaft was slightly longer, dripping wet with sappy globules of precum that formulated a little puddle underneath him.

At this point you’re openly gawking. 

Because not only were they massive - they were textured. In the most prominent of puffy veins zig-zagging all down Sukuna’s pinkish-beige length. Darker at his heavy hilts, rubier right on his mushroom tips. 

Your mouth waters hotly just aching to feel all of him - both of him - inside you…

Spank! The demon soothes over those five exact prints of his fingers on your ass, then moving over to your damp pussy to gift yet another swat. “Intimidated? Ya wanted ta fuck a demon, so you’re gonna fuck a demon. Tch- spoiled brat.”

Letting off a pitchy mewl, you sliiiide the crevices of your cunt all over his drenched cocks. “Give it t’me- fuck, I n-need it so baaad.”

“What was it ya said, lil’ human?” Sukuna grouses from above, you yelp when you’re feeling his second mouth lather down your thighs allll over. He rests two hands on your hips and ruts– “Oh yeah- cute.”

And before you know it, you feel like you’re being split apart. 

You feel like you’re seeing heaven behind your shuttered lids and smooching Sukuna’s monstrous, rotund head with your lungs. So impossibly thick that he was swabbin’ around your insides just by settling himself inside your welcoming channel, greeting your sponged cervix with a nice snog. 

“Oh yeah…cute.”

Strong, heavy hands are the only thing holding you up as your knees weaken, and a hand wraps gently around your throat from behind. Lurching you up, up, up to meet Sukuna’s mouth in a kiss.

Holding you up, with just one hand.

“S’this ‘cute’?” He seethes against your dangling-open mouth, ridged buds hot. His own words hot. “Yer real fuckin’ lucky m’going easy on my lady, mama.”

Going easy on you?

If this was going easy on you— then you didn’t know what to think about him going hard.

But it’s like the very idea was simmering right underneath Sukuna’s sweltering hot skin, just brimming right underneath every motion of his body. About to break through. About to make him snap when he plants a thorough pound. Then doubling to two. Four. Eight. 

“Oh f-fuuuuck–” You’re sobbing out, useless head haphazardly tumbling until you’re peering face-to-face with the way he was battering rams inside of you. “So deep- s-so deeep-”

A hand of his flies up to muffle your ever-breaking moans, the sloshes of your drool sticking against his doughy flesh in strands. 

“Kehhh- ya ever stop makin’ a hah- mess?” Sukuna tightens his vice-like grip on your throat, and as you raise your head he makes sure to dig his fangs into your pulse. Planting another thwack of his bruising palm, “Just sh-shut up n’ take it like a good girl, yeah?”

“Y-yes.”

“Say it. Say it f’me.”

You’re sobbing at this point, and a third of his hands spank your waterfall of a slit until you manage to look up at him. Spank after spank. “G-gonna take it all.” You’re sniffling, “Like a- like a good girl.”

It was impossible to utter anything more. 

His sleek, bloated tip was an expert - rovering over each of your hidden nooks and crannies. Dappling out thick wads of pre that you felt swash around you with every slap of his hips. Rough. 

And it was a damn good thing that the king had stretched you out so much, because he was long. Driving a spherical welt right where his cock whacked your sheened cervix, and he was still pushing. Still rutting until his slightly unruly hair tickled your tender lips. Deeper-

“Ohhh can ya f-feel that?” Sukuna stutters out in scratchy heavals of air. Slowing down his harsh cadence until it reaches a looow n’ slooow pace that leaves your voice pitching into equally lazy whines 

There wasn’t anything that you couldn’t feel.

You could count every curvy bump of his veins massaging your deepest innards, the wet texture of his slick-glazed shaft tunnelling into you like a madman. Like he was addicted. And Sukuna’s chubby breeder balls sizzle against the backs of your thighs as he feels a hand up your stomach.

Feeling for that one spot near your cervix - your womb. That one spot he was fucking a rounded tummy bulge into you. 

“Feel me heh- making you bulge with all of me, pretty mama?” He leans a few degrees backwards to thumb at the way your pussy was quivering, your stretchy hole flexing n’ molding all around him. “So big that this pretty pussy doesn’t know what ta do w’me.”

You’re trembling at the feeling of his secondary tongue sleazing over your dripping entrance, everywhere and anywhere. 

Like he doesn’t know what to do. Where to ruin you. 

He’s drawing a long line of translucent spit up until he reaches that gorgeous mound on your stomach. Circling. Worshipping right where he was fucking you stupid. 

His tastebuds loop once around your leg and start jostling the angle so that your clit grazes with something thick. And hot. And…rock hard. “N’ I’ve only put one in.”

“O-only- fuck-” You’re voice wavers and cracks unstably when you cum once more. You can’t even control it - can’t do anything but cry out with every jolt of your body. Every spark. Every flash of heat when you’re lolling helplessly backwards. 

Sucking his teeth in from the way your warm insides squeeze him on instinct, “Oh- you’re sensitive, mama.” You’re barely half-opening your eyes before he’s rummaging your insides everywhere. 

Ballooned-up cock crownhead poking the bullseye of your g-spot, he licks up such greedy flicks in and out. The only blissful sensation you’re given other than the trawling grinds of his other vein-covered shaft smacking against your nub.

“Kuna- Kuuuuna—” You’re mumbling, feeling the slope of his cylindrical outline slide in feverishly. “Give me ‘nother- other–”

“Don’t you talk t’me outta ya pussy, brat.”

“M’serious.” Your voice shakes ridiculously much, thickened with lust and pure need for more, more, more. His ripped abs press deeper to listen to your adorable whimpers, “I want it. Want it s-so bad.”

“How cuuuute.” With a swift, thundering slap! you’re feeling the mushroomy tip-top of his matchingly achy cock pry between your gluey pussylips. “Better not blame me when ya end up ngh- pregnant, master.”

You think you might be crashing headfirst into your fourth orgasm - perhaps even your fifth when Sukuna lets his swollen, blushing tip nudge against your tight lil’ entrance. Fluttering, stretching when he pokes away your dewy folds and grinds in–

You’re flinching at the wet plap! plap! plap! of something wet hitting your back - only to realize with a turn that Sukuna was drooling. With saccharine lines of saliva overcoming each side of his maw. 

Dilated pupils so dark that you can barely find a trace of red, Sukuna bores into your eyes. Hypnotized. “Take it.” He pants against your lips in great gales of summer heat. “Take it.”

If you thought that one of Sukuna’s massive lengths was enough to make you dizzy, then you weren’t ready for what two could do to you.

He’s barely flopping in his rigid, tight crownhead past your snug hole before your mouth bursts at the seams with ripples of sleek saliva. 

“Fuck- fuuuuuck!” Your fleshy cervix almost stings with the way he was mazing all through inside. Pushing n’ pushing until the strawberry-pink divot right in the middle of his throbbing cock also kisses the goopy bottom of your pussy.

He was spreading you wiiiidely open.

So massive that you’re left squealing after each spanking jackhammer. Your gripping pussy nothing against the way his slicked mess was coating your mushy insides, swirlin’ around and around until his globed tip locates sweet spots you’d hidden away.

Jostling and sliiiding against each other, the viscous jetstreams of his pre glissade down each of his lengths. Throbbing inside you at the very same pattern of your heart going ba-dump–! Prodding away until you’re weak, the curled hairs decorating his bases rub your skin raw. 

One of his fattened-up shafts shovels into your bruised n’ battered g-spot, while the other digs away at your fleshy cervix. Both at once. He’s poking and prodding and stretching.

Two in one. 

In the blink of an eye, Sukuna grabs your neck with the curve of his big, bulging biceps. Dragging your poor head into a fucking headlock of all things. 

One hand smearing open your cunt to slobber down each inch by fucking inch, the other crowning your sweat-dampened head to push you down. And two more were guiding your delicious hips. He was treating you so rough. Manhandling you. 

He was so sculpted, all curves and firm muscles that massaged your backs soothingly. Sukuna’s sweat-laminated abs smush and scratch some primal itch inside of you.

“Mmmm, made ta take my cocks.” Sukuna rasps in your ear, all primal need. “This turns ya on? Doesn’t it? This-” The final of his rugged palms press into the base of your spine, arching you right. “-makes ya wanna fuh-fuck?”

You’re nodding and nodding, head lolling back into the cushion of his pecs. So lush.

And it’s all you can do that Sukuna finds not a single shred of shame in surging up his cursed tongue once more to thwack! your bulging pussy.

Tightening the headlock until his veins pop out and rub the tender skin of your neck. Until you’re wheezing for desperate air- “Hehhhh, even f-fuckin’ deeper now.” He palms over the bulge at your tummy that had now grown in size. Raising a dark pink brow, “Even bigger. Feel me all up inside?”

Flawlessly, Sukuna raises the tendril of his tongue to wrap around your adorably throbbing clit. Outlining slobbering little hearts that having you screaming-

“Yeah? Tell me. Tell me.” Stretching and stretching and stretching until a claw-ridden thump presses into the lecherous protruding bump. It’s so firm and heavy underneath his sultry touch. Dewdrops of his cream splattered everywhere, “Tell me all-” Pressing down hard. Harder still. Snarling, “-tha’s on your ngh- mind, silly brat.”

“K-Kuna–”

“Yeeeees?”

“M’gonna cum!”

Within just two blinks of your tear-heavy eyelashes, Sukuna’s got you flipped onto your back. Chin hitting your chest at the slight bouncy recoil, a shrilling whine of disappointment makes its way to your throat-

Right before Sukuna fucks it back in again with a fast burial of his weighty cocks, and then your upcoming orgasm.

You can’t even string together slews of proper syllables anymore, your tongue smacking uselessly inside your unfastened mouth. You cum looking allll up into Sukuna’s loving eyes. 

“Tch, wan’ned to see your- ngh- your cute face when you cum.” He grabs your teary pussymound with one bulky palm and gyrates on your overstimulated clit. “Cum. Cum.”

And not only do you cum – you’re squirting. 

Barely even realizing it before it registers in your mind that the sploshes of watery liquid coating your body wasn’t just tears n’ sweat, it was your sappy slick spraying out in bucketloads. Utter bucketloads. 

The streaming spurts of it struggle to burst past your lips with the way that he’s ramming furiously into you. Aggressively, even. You’re whimpering with each fat webbed mess that manages to trickle down to the sheets below your ass.

“I-inside.” You’re muttering, inaudible. And yet, Sukuna hears - of course, he hears. The perches of his barrelling cockheads giving a dangerous sort of twitch!

And that’s all said before the king of demons glues together your sticky inner thighs with piling heaps of his cum. Gasping. He’s finishing in such a vulgar way that marks you as his from the inside and out. 

First his upper length, and then his lower. Twin rivulets of stringy seed that hit the back of your pussy with a squelch–! so loud that it rings in your buzzing eardrums. The mass weight of it so much, so striking that you almost find yourself wincing. 

Flooding every ounce of space inside you — and not only did his monstrous cocks bawl out way more than your average human, he had two of them. And oh, it was so hot…

“Fuck- fuck fuck fuck fuck!” Sukuna growls, hips papping yours mindlessly. You swear you’re seeing the skin around his pelvis redden angrily at the impact. “Fuh-fuck I— fuuuck.”

He’s hunching over you, skin against boiling hot skin. Speckles of beaded sweat seem to trail down from Sukuna’s temples and fizzle in the mere air between your bodies. 

Rough, rugged fingertips cling onto your hips, and two more of his hands throw your twitching legs pliably over Sukuna’s bulky shoulders. Locking them behind him, bending and bending and bending into a mean mating press. 

He was just pumping you full, and that inflationary bump in your tummy swashes over with ribbons of cum after every thrust. Making both you and your overworked bedsprings whiiine.

“O-oh my god.” You gasp, tiny clumps of air your current salvation. Sukuna flicks his eyes drunkenly over to you and meets your mouth with his palm - manifesting his second mouth there in a sloppy, sloppy kiss. “Mmmm—”

“Wh-what did I ngh- s-say, pretty mama?” Sukuna’s smug tone was gone now. Hoarse. Cracking into so many octaves higher, even. 

You’re only watching through partly-spellbound eyes as he languidly slithers a hand down to cup both rummaging shafts still plugged away inside you. Firm. His sweat-slicked brows furrow, boring down at you through strands of cerise. “Y-you can jus’ call me–” And then you feel it happen. You feel him harden. “-Kuna.”

Scrambling up onto your elbows, “Kunaaa—”

“Atta girl.”

He was getting impossibly harder.

Bigger.

And you swear the fat girth of his matching cocks were even thicker than usual. Plumping right inside of your slick-glued walls, your pussy sticks against him like gum when he throb-throb-throbs rock. fucking. hard. 

Feral-like shafts twitch and flinch with even the tiniest of your primal clenches, prodding your cunt like magic, and you were quite sure that it was magic- 

“Blood manipulation.” Sukuna grins, still catching his breath. And yet he was already moving, already rocking back n’ forth. “Ohhh- you didn’t th-think we were done, right?”

You whirl your eyes downwards to watch in some animalistic awe at the bump formulated on your tummy, oh-so-obvious now. And Sukuna’s ramming juts leave the bloated mound jiggling.

“Fuck- fuuuuck–” Mewling, as if a broken record. But it doesn’t matter how many times you’d repeated it, just your pretty voice makes it Sukuna’s favorite song. “M’s-so…”

Sensitive. 

Your thighs writhe every time he dabs his full, rounded crownheads against your g-spot. Beating. Shuddering. With a sob, you’re fisting the splintered mahogany of your headboard and pulling yourself–

“Oi oi. Where’d ya think you’re ngh- runnin’ off to?” His lengthy stomach tongue creeps between the wetness of your thighs to circle one of your limbs and drag you dooooown into him. Grating your tender clit into his soaked hairs. 

“D-dunno if it’ll all-” You nod haplessly towards the ever-gushing sploshes of seed and slick swamping out of you. “-fit.”

“Oh, I’ll make it f-fit, lil’ human- don’t you hah! worry.” Sukuna snickers, scraping your scalp with one hand to stop your cute wrangling. Pushing you down, spearing you. “You just sit baaack n’ take it.”

The room wrings with a sudden slap! Once. And then twice. And then so many repeated times that you couldn’t count how many harsh rolls of his hips it took for you to cream ‘round Sukuna’s cocks once more. 

You can’t even feel it at this point, can’t even breathe.

But that familiar knot at the base of your stomach twists and suddenly your vision blanks with white-hot euphoria. 

Mere trembles but intense. It’s so good that your toes curl, clawed nails dragging down his broad back.

“Cumming again?” He’s musing, curved veins stretching your fluttery core. It was so cute the way even biting down on your trembly lips can’t stop your moans. 

And then you throw your head back with a sob of ‘K-Kuna’ and Sukuna thinks he’s going fucking insane. Veering right down the one-way street to madness as he swivels his hips hypnotically to draw a pretty milky heart at the base of your cervix.

Before topping his masterpiece with such aroused oodles of cum, and ohhhh- the demon’s finding himself tilting his head back attractively. Just addicted to watching the way your tight pussy overfills past the brim with all his sugarcoating seed.

More. 

More more more. 

Allll night long, and even when rays of dawn break through your fluttering curtains. Birds chirping outside, cards revving, and yet the only constant was that repeated spank! of skin on clammy skin.

He’s filling you up with second helpings, thirds, fourths- you’ve lost count at this point. 

In every position possible, on every surface until the both of you felt more like animals than people. Though, well, maybe Sukuna’s demon-like nature was rubbing off on you. More n’ more every time he filled you.

So much so that the torrential currents of it - thick and taking up every inch of space inside your snug channel - are pushing Sukuna’s fat, veiny cocks out of your pussy. Out past your flashing folds.

He had you back on the bed now, the plush mattress so soaked-through that every ram makes it ring out a soggy schwf! Your legs dangle down somewhere near Sukuna’s slobbery mouth, where it was supposed to be some hazy mess of a mating press - his favorite. 

And it’s slippery. 

His pulsating lengths are having trouble pushing and sliiiiding off of your sheeny folds, lathering itself in more and more of an utter mess that the both of you were making. 

But what Sukuna didn’t expect was for your throat to burn with a carnally furious whine. Ripping up and out of you once you’re reaching a shaky hand below - not even managing to close your hands around both his hilts - and squeezing them back inside with a waterlogged plop!

He’s fucking you like it was second nature, something dark and primal that made his entire body wrack with shivers. That made this famed king look at you with tender wonderment- before slamming a free hand down on your wooden bedframe. 

So powerful that the poor furniture cracks! right down the middle where his hand lay - and that was not the only thing that broke.

No, Ryomen Sukuna was close in second place as he flaps his peripherals scrunched shut with a grunt. Those slapping rams increasing in pace and sound until he empties his breeder balls once more. 

And it felt like the nth time he was gasping into your parted mouth while he cums. 

Both dicks all soooo sensitive n’ red while they swirled around thin wires of squishy cum, opening up your tummy bulge so full that Sukuna can’t help but thumb over it fiercely. 

“Please- please–” You’re begging now, and you think that the trembles of electricity bolting from between your legs meant that you, too, were orgasming. Not even properly. For the…what time was it now? “Inside. Inside, Kuna.”

“Inside.” He echoes, as if it was the only thing he could. “Inside. Gonna k-keep it ngh! all inside, pretty mama. Yeah, fuckfuckfuuuuck- gonna be mine.”

Oh, he was babbling now. He was actually whining. 

Gingerly licking his kiss-bitten lips at the frothed ring of cum that painted his happy trail white. The schwf-schwf-schwaf of his tickling hairs polishing your skin with swift smears left you drooling. 

And Sukuna was, too. 

From both mouths that bubbled with glinting tracks of sweltering hot saliva. His wheezing gasps strained, “H-heir.” He’s cupping your treasured tummy - your womb. Overfilled. 

Sukuna watches with bated breath as your filthy, cockdrunk brain told you to open your mouth wide and slurp up a few of his leaking wads.

“O-oh.” More cum sticks against your thighs like icy white frosting, spraying inside and outside and everywhere. “Fuuuuck- yer real interestin’, human.” His perspiration-sheened forehead drifts down to yours, curtained with unruly pink hair. “R-reeeal interesting…master.”

Ah, that makes you throb.

And it makes Sukuna’s shaft veins pulse rapidly as he cums - though, only in a few lecherous pearls of ivory sap. All adding onto the sploshing waves of seed inside you- before the rest of it is nothingness. Even though he feels it, even though he knows it.

You just made the king of demons cum dry. Even with his superhuman powers, ohhh your stamina was fit for a…queen. His queen. 

Sukuna lumbers down a beefy arm, loving the way your eyes ogle his every muscular flex. His own glazed over with a teary film.

His thick n’ ready fingers wrap around his sloppy bases - not even minding the mess, he loved it. Both holding his sagging weights up and slipping himself through the filthy, saccharine puddles inside. Your heart races with anticipation once you feel the bzzzz of powerful energy in the murked atmosphere between your legs; his blood manipulation at work again.

Ohhhh fuck, you already knew his night was going to be a long one. Never-ending perhaps. 

Your suspicions are confirmed when Sukuna’s dual tips twitch–

“S’never gonna b-be ngh- enough.” You’re batting your lashes sensually, words still hitching with the constant shocks of your orgasms upon orgasms. “M-maybe you should just ah! stay here w’me, Kunaa—”

And oh, he simply grins a wicked grin like you’ve never seen before. “A-anything. Anythinganything for my fuuuuck- master.”

“B-but you’re gonna hafta help pay rent.”

“What’s a…rent?”

A/N. Hope you have a lovely week <3

Plagiarism not authorized.

[bitterkarella]

Midnight Pals: Coffee

[at unicorn fuck club] JRR Tolkien: ugh everyday the news is worse and worse! Tolkien: it seems that certain hunnish practices have taken root in America CS Lewis: oh that sounds bad Tolkien: quite!

CS Lewis: look i know times are bad jrrt Lewis: maybe this will cheer you up Lewis: travis baldree is going to be telling his latest story of low stakes and cozy vibes Travis Baldree: i call it Kelpies and Kitchen Implements

Baldree: so this is a story about an orc who decides to retire from the murder business and use the money that she made in the murder business to open a coffee shop Baldree: i know that kind of raises a couple questions right there Baldree: let's just breeze past that

Baldree: cuz, god, the daily grind of adventuring really gets you down Baldree: everyday, you're just slaving away slaying dragons and finding treasure Baldree: God! i'm so BORED of all this peril and excitement! Baldree: i would trade it all for some nice invigorating tedium

Baldree: that's why i decided to open this coffee shop Baldree: [inhaling aroma from freshly brewed coffee] hmm! love that distinctly coffee-like smell of coffee! Baldree: [sipping cup] mm! love that distinctly coffee-like taste of coffee too!

Baldree: you know, after a while, an orc just gets tired of all the adventuring Baldree: cuz you know no one ever told her life was gonna be this way Baldree: your job's a joke, you're broke Baldree: your love life's DOA

Baldree: welcome to Tom Beanbadil Baldree: we have romano, cubano, americano, lothlorieno, and mordoro Baldree: what can i get for you? Tolkien: wow what a quaint little shop! Tolkien: i really like the acoustic pan flute music

Tolkien: uh yeah i would like theeeee Tolkien: the mocha frappacino double dungeon master delight Baldree: whole milk ok? Tolkien: do you have oat milk? Baldree: we have soy Tolkien: Tolkien: uhhhhh GRR Martin: c'mon hurry it up! Martin: we don't have all day!

Baldree: and for the rest of you? CS Lewis: i would like the cinnamon raspberry Obama sonic blast with 12 pumps of syrup Lewis: also i'd like to buy one of these CDs of acoustic pan flute music Baldree: which album? "Rhythms of the River of Life" or "Global Heartsong?"

Tolkien: excuse me where do hey get the coffee beans in this fantasy world? Baldree: i don't know, jrrt, where do they get the taters in middle earth? Tolkien: Tolkien: that's Tolkien: that's different Baldree: is it now?

Baldree: coffee is nice Tolkien: [slowly drifting into contented haze] so nice Baldree: but then there's a mob boss! Tolkien: what!!! Tolkien: ugh! Tolkien: i was told that this would be low stakes! Tolkien: i distinctly heard it would be low stakes!

Baldree: don't worry, you can bribe the mob boss with pastries Baldree: speaking of which do you want a biscotti with your coffee? Tolkien: oh! you know what Tolkien: yes Tolkien: yes i do

Baldree: if you enjoyed this story, be sure to watch for the follow-ups Baldree: tiamats and toaster ovens Baldree: paladins and potholders Baldree: sorcerers and spatulas

[aylen-san]

Which of the Valar Strikes Terror into the Dark: A Confession of Sauron

In the name of the Great Sauron, Lord of Mordor, Gorthaur the Cruel, Maia of the Ainur, former disciple of Aulë, and heir to the will of Morgoth.

For long ages I have stared into the flame, and the flame has answered me with fear. But among all the shadows that flit across the walls of time, there is one whose name is not whispered even in the darkest halls of Angband. One of the Valar, whose very form strikes dread into even me — he whose heart was long ago torn from his chest and replaced with a forge's crucible.

You mortals believe that Darkness knows no fear. You are wrong. Even darkness knows when to whisper.

No, not Manwë. His thunder and wind are mere ornaments on the throne of tedium. He commands the storms, but he himself is as soulless as clear water. His wrath is ceremonial, and his justice — too white to ever leave a stain.

Nor Varda, though her light slices through my flesh like glass through veins. I have learned to live in the light, like a rat in a temple: quietly, patiently, with poison tucked behind my teeth.

Not Ulmo, nor Yavanna, nor even Tulkas with his sweaty, brutish rage inspires true terror in me. They are predictable. They are roles in a play I have watched a thousand times.

But there is one.

Námo. Mandos. Lord of the Dead.

When you are Sauron, you do not fear death. You are the embodiment of what comes after. But Námo... He is not merely the keeper of the dead. He is the silence in which music rots. He is the sentence carved not on parchment, but on bone. In his presence, even I feel the chains I thought long broken — still there, though unseen.

Mandos does not shout. He watches.

He does not punish. He waits.

Oh, how I hate that waiting. It drips like water in a cave where time decays. I can stare into the fire of Orodruin for hours, convincing myself I am in control. But sometimes… on rare nights, when the western wind dares touch even Mordor, I feel his gaze. Not angry. Not kind. Just… final.

Understand this: Námo is not wrathful. That makes him worse. He does not seek vengeance, nor deliver judgment. He accepts. Like the void. Like eternity. Like consequences you thought you had outwitted.

When Morgoth was taken for the last time, Námo said nothing. He simply stood. And the Dark, my master, fell silent. You have not seen fear until you’ve seen the Great Rebel avert his gaze from the One Who Does Not Forgive. Not out of vengeance — but out of principle.

My Nazgûl ask me sometimes what awaits them after. I smile. I tell them: nothing. That the Rings are stronger than fate. That I will carve a door in destiny itself and seal it shut from the inside. But every time I say it, the walls of Mordor feel just a little colder.

Funny, isn’t it? All-powerful Sauron, afraid of silence. Afraid of a gate that does not creak. Afraid of a judge who does not speak — because you already know the sentence.

If I had a soul, I’d say it trembles. But I have only will. Will — and terror before the one who will one day simply walk up and place a period. No roar. No rending. Just — an end.

So which of the Valar strikes fear into the Dark?

Not He Who is Light. Not He Who is Sea.

But He Who Waits.

Mandos.

And if I vanish one day — do not look for me in battle, do not seek me in the storm. I will be in a hall without windows, where no one screams. Where all has long since been decided.

And even Darkness is silent.

[wickedwitchofthegalaxy]

☞𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒞𝑜𝓈𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝒶 𝒩𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓈 𝑅𝑒𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓈𝑒☜︎

☠︎ 𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒯𝒽𝓇𝑒𝑒: 𝐿𝒾𝓋𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝐸𝓇𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒶 ☠︎

𝒫𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔: 𝑨𝒏𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏(𝑪𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒔)𝑿 𝑭𝒆𝒎𝑷𝒂𝒅𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒏!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: None!

𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 1.9K

𝒮𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎: Read. Learn. Understand. It is not a command, nor a kindness. The door is still open. You could leave. But you won’t.

𝒩𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈: This one’s a bit shorter, but don’t worry, the next chapter will be a longer read. As always, any tips, advice, or kind words in the comments are greatly appreciated. 🥰

P.S. The guy in the first picture is my idea of Luther Koth.☺️

As always, banners done by @cafekitsune !

Enjoy 🖤

The walk to Master Koth’s office felt like stepping into the future you’d been imagining for so long. The sun seemed brighter, the air smoother, as if the universe itself recognized the monumental shift in your life and enhanced every detail. 

You could hear it, the faint churr of success, yet the ground beneath you seemed to be offbeat. You should’ve felt exhilarated, filled with the same feelings you had when it all finally clicked last night. Instead, the magnified rays on your cheeks, the mixed chatter of people, and the pure oxygen in your lungs caused a subtle tinge, a disconnect from the universe's gracious gift. 

Walking out of one of the common areas and rounding a corner, you’re met with a long staircase. The polished stones gleamed tauntingly, worn smooth by years of passage, and it even seemed indifferent to your arrival.

One step at a time, you ascend the mountain of prejudice stone, reaching a demure, unmarked door that might be a portal to greatness or tedium. This was the start of something new, but what exactly had you started? The memory of Anakin’s words hissed in your mind, immutable and absolute.

‘She’ll never see the frontline.‘

You had dismissed it then, chalking it up to his penchant for control, but now as the door is in sight you weren’t so sure. 

You reach up but pause, your hand hovering just shy of the wood. A pang of self-awareness hits you, like the snap of a tether stretched too tight, or a crisp backhanded sting to the cheek.

How many decisions had led to this moment? 

Every training session, every late-night study, every grueling test you’d barely scraped by, they all lead you straight here, to a plain door that looked like it belonged to an afterthought, a threshold that mocked you with its ordinarity. 

Ironic, isn’t it? Calling a mirror a door, when what stares back at you is neither an ending nor a beginning, just a reflection of the cost. Stripped of ceremony, stripped of worth, until all that’s left is the hollow familiarity of getting exactly what you wanted, exactly the wrong way.

You adjust your posture, straightening your robes, and force yourself to exhale these twisted thoughts.

This wasn’t the time for hesitation. 

Jedi didn’t hesitate. You were a Jedi. Or, at least, you were trying to be.

Your knuckles still, faltering slightly before you ball your hand into a fist and rap on the door, sharp, purposeful, and way louder than you had meant. 

The smell hits you first as the door creaks open, old, aged paper, and something else, faintly sour like the room had been sealed away from the living for far too long. You were still taking it in when your gaze landed on him, and every thought in your head came to a disturbingly quick halt.

His skin had an unusual clarity to it, luminous but not unnatural, like it had been kissed by a lifetime of sleepless nights rather than sunlight and his hair, a light brown, fell in loose waves that framed his face in a way that felt frustratingly witting. But it wasn’t his hair or his skin that struck you most, it was the angular cut of his features, as though someone had chiseled him by hand. His cheekbones were rawly defined, throwing shadows across his face, while the line of his jaw was softened only by the faintest hint of stubble.

His eyes were the trap. Large and dark, each iris flecked with gold, as though fragments of a star had shattered and lodged themselves deep within. They were tired but not apathetic, not dead; they were exhausted. Beneath his right eye, a pink scar had made a home, adding an unexpected asymmetry, making his beauty feel... human, less sculptured.

Jedi aren’t supposed to care about appearances.

You aren’t supposed to care.

And yet, you can’t think of any proper thoughts.

He blinks at you, his expression neither welcoming nor dismissive. There was a peculiar vacancy to him, something almost meditative.

"You're Y/N," he said, and the sound of your name fell from his lips, as though it were the first time it had ever been spoken correctly. His voice was a dulcet murmur but with an edge of precision like every word he spoke had been carefully pre-picked. It carried a faint accent, the syllables falling like drops of water, lilting and crisp, but with a warmth that rounded each word. 

"I am," you managed, the words sticking for just a moment too long. Your heartbeat sped up, followed by a strange flutter in your chest. 

He didn’t move immediately, didn’t offer his hand or any motion of formal introduction. He stood with one hand on the door, blocking your entry, while his eyes observed you with this… veiled fervor, like someone who had already seen too much and had no questions left. 

"So, uh... Can I come in?" You began, the silence and his eyes pressing into you, causing words to fly out with little forethought. 

He tilted his head ever so slightly, that same cloaked intensity in his stare as if the answer you were looking for was already written somewhere in the air between you. It was more like he was testing a theory, one he had long ago confirmed, yet he still felt compelled to look.

“You may sit.” He said finally, the elusive yet stark vibration of his words made the previous silence seem planned. He adjusts his robe with a lazy shrug, letting the fabric gather higher over his broad shoulders, before turning and moving deeper into the room.

It was a mess, but not the frantic kind. No, this was an intentional disorder; a beautiful chaos. The air smelled of ink and dust, a stale mixture of human neglect. The shelves sagged under the weight of books, their edges curling and yellowing with age, while maps and charts hung from the walls at odd angles, marked with hurried notations in handwriting so jagged it looked angry.

And then you noticed the bed, or what passed for one. In the far corner, a low, makeshift cot was crammed into a small alcove. Blankets were tossed over a frame, the sheets still rumpled as if he had just left it moments ago. The sight of it makes your gut drop. It was becoming nauseatingly clear that your next years as a Padawan would be a never-ending study session and not about any kind of physical, combat training or adventure.

The floor is littered with various documents, some marked with jagged red lines, others are crumpled in what might have been frustration, or merely neglect. A few of them bore different markings, black slashes underlined urgent phrases, bold markings that screamed urgency, yet they too lay discarded like scraps. You try to step carefully, avoiding the documents, as though stepping on one might shatter the fragile stability of the space.

Taking the seat he had gestured to, you sank into it. It felt as unwelcoming as the rest of the room; hardwood, straight-backed, with a cushion that felt like it hadn’t been replaced in decades. Despite the tightening in your bones, you force yourself to sit tall, drawing on the posture you had been trained to maintain. But your propriety only made you feel more out of place. This room, this man, this moment, it all felt wrong. This was not the future you had envisioned, and the gap between naive expectation and reality wedged beneath your ribs, a feeling that dragged you down even as it rooted you in place. 

Across the room, Master Koth hadn’t so much as glanced up, already absorbed in the papers spread across his desk.

The sound was endless, his pen, a rhythmic scratching punctuated only by the soft rustle of a page being turned. Hours passed without a word and eventually, your modesty dimmed, you outright stared at him as he worked, taking him in. His hands, long, elegant fingers dusted with ink splatter, moved as though the act of writing was an extension of his breath. For a moment, it felt as if you were intruding on something sacred.

“This arrangement is... unconventional. You understand that, don’t you?” 

The utterance of his voice shattered the quiet like a single note in an empty cathedral. He didn’t look up, didn’t pause in his writing.

You blink, caught off guard, and scramble for something to say. 

“Uh… sure…?” You shift, your posture wavering for a moment before your arms find place on the armrests, and you straighten back out.

He tilts his head slightly, still focusing on the papers in front of him.

“I imagine this isn’t what you were expecting.”

“I... wasn’t sure what to expect,” you say, your voice steadier than you felt. That earned you a glance, brief but burrowing, sticking you in place while assorting and discarding you in a single sweep.

“Good,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. He set the pen down with care as he leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking in protest, and finally his full attention fell on you. The shift exposed a faint scar under his chin, curling to the back of his throat. Your gaze caught on it, drawn to the raised, pink edges. It was an old wound, years healed. Before you could stop yourself, your eyes traced its path, scanning every new fragment of him the motion would reveal.

“You’ll find,” he began again, his tone slow and almost cynical, “that much of what you imagined about becoming a Padawan will not align with reality.” A pause, deliberate. Then, “The Order does not train us to dream, only to serve. You may want to hold onto that distinction, it may spare you disappointment.”

His words were made of steel, gliding cleanly between armor you hadn’t known you were wearing. Your head nodded, unsure whether he expected agreement or silence. There was no challenge in his tone, no arrogance, just an unshakable certainty that made arguing seem pointless. 

He gestured toward the precarious stack of books teetering on the edge of his desk, again without any turn of his eyes, as if even acknowledging the assignment was beneath him. 

“We’ll begin with these. Read the first three by tomorrow.”

Their spines are cracked and faded, their titles scrawled in languages you couldn’t even begin to identify. Your hands trembled uncontrollably, the blood draining from your fingers until they felt like hollowed-out husks. You didn’t have a hatred for studying, you loved to read. Loved the way words could take shape in your mind, and transform into something more than scribbles on a page. But there was something about this that crawled through you, a sickening cinch that spread like poison. Not just the books. Not just the room. The feeling was so new it remained nameless, as you scooped the books off the edge. Your fingers hesitate before closing around them, light at first, as though they might burn. They didn’t, but the weight of them sank into your palms, heavier than they had any right to be.

Master Koth’s eyes had fallen back to his work, dismissing you without words, and the longer you stood there, the smaller you felt, as if the room itself were absorbing you. You turned toward the door, but his voice stopped you just before you could take a second step. 

“You’ll adapt,” he said, not kindly, not cruelly. 

Just certain. 

“Eventually.”

Another intentional pause. 

A final scratch of ink against paper.

“Or you won’t.”

[docgold13]

Introduction

There are many, many super villains in the realms of fiction, comic books, cartoons and movies.  When encountering such villains, these costumed cads and dangerous dastards, it is of the utmost importance that one know the precise type of malefactor is at hand.  While no two villains are exactly alike, as a whole these scoundrels can be roughly categorized into a systemic taxonomy; a classification based upon the qualities of threat, capability and ambition.

This taxonomy is sequential in respect to the level of danger, commitment and aspiration.  It begins at a first rung with the lowly Goons, moving quickly to the dangerous Enforcers, then the mercurial Rogues, followed by the calculating Lieutenants and finally the Nemeses… the most dangerous villains of them all.  

Goons

First let us look at the Goons.  These are the minions, the henchmen and stooges who use their powers to do the bidding of a more sinister and scheming master. 

Goons can be quite formidable, possessing a great deal of raw strength and power.  Yet their lack of foresight, aspiration and direction leave them in the position of playing the role of pawns.  

Whether it be the result of laziness, naïveté, psychological difficulty or some manner of deficiency, Goons are easily manipulated.  They are frequently duped or cajoled into doing the bidding of others.  Sometimes they will perceive themselves as being equals with those they serve.  In truth, however, these misguided flunkies are almost always viewed as disposable... as mere vassals who will be sacrificed or simply discarded on a whim.  

Criminal organizations will frequently have numerous henchmen who are nameless and interchangeable.  What distinguishes a super villain Goon from the more garden variety lackey is their physical power and capacity for destruction.  They possess all the raw ability to be a more substantial menace but none of the imagination, presentation or drive. They simply lack the je ne sais quoi needed to be a more fully actualized embodiment of super villainy. 

And yet this does not make the Goon any less dangerous.   Indeed the Goon’s fragile ego coupled with their destructive capability can lead to threats on par with a natural disaster.  

Conversely, the Goon can sometimes be the most likely type of super villain to be turned, moved toward the path of heroism.  Most Goons just want to be seen and valued, to garner a place where they feel they belong.  More sophisticated villains will take advantage of this unmet need, offering the Goon a sense of purpose.   If a hero can convince a Goon that they are being manipulated and offer a more authentic sense of validation, the goon may very well switch sides and become heroic.  

For the most part, however, Goons are rather satisfied with their lot.  They are often simple souls with simple needs.  Being a Goon affords a sense of direction and license to be destructive bullies.  

The Enforcers

When the raw power of a super villain Goon is coupled with a heightened degree of shrewdness, confidence, avarice and capability, the end product is often The Enforcer. 

These are the mercenaries, assassins and bounty hunters… the guns-for-hire who are brought in for a specific task (commonly the elimination of a hero).  These villains are not interested in taking over the world, garnering power and influence, they just want to get paid.

Said payment is most often money... but prestige, thrills and a bolstering of one’s ego are also a commonly accepted currency.  Sometimes Enforcers will be pitted against a specific hero and the simple opportunity to best that hero, to show themselves as the superior entity, is motivation enough to take on the job.  They can be like big game hunters, in desperate search of a new and bigger trophy to add to their ever-growing collection.

Some enforcers may be motivated by mere boredom.  They tend to be thrill-seekers and super villainy is an irresistible rollercoaster that acts to quell the tedium.  It is not uncommon for there to be a degree of sadism to the enforcer... even psychopathy.  Their passion is doling out pain and destruction; they revel in being feared.  They are dangerous and unpredictable and will endeavor to succeed at any and all costs.  They are not to be taken lightly.  

It is not unheard of for Enforcers to have underlings of their own, aides or minions who will assist in their schemes.  Or they may work in conjunction with Goons.  Yet their values are strictly mercenary.  Their morals and philosophy are entirely for hire.  Some Enforcers may adhere to their own, personalized code of conduct... yet it is a strictly idiosyncratic (and often malleable) matter. 

Phrased simply, they are not individuals to be trusted; an Enforcer will turn on their employer the moment that it better suits their interests. Beware, my friends, Enforcers are danger incarnate...

Rogues

Rogues are outsiders, individuals who just do not fit in with the common and traditional conventionalities of a given society.  They are misfits, freaks, square pegs in a world of round holes.  Yet they also have power; they are capable, smart, ruthless and shrewd.  They do not fit in, but they do not need to; they can force their worlds to accommodate to them.  

Rogues are outlaws.  They take what they want when they want it.  Rarely is there an overarching agenda.  Rogues do not crave power, they do not want to rule the world.  They just enjoy a good time, desire the finer things and will take all that they feel they are owed. 

Many factors can go into the making of a Rogue.  Circumstances of their upbringing, their appearance, deprivations of different kinds, accidents… all maters that have put the Rogue in a place of alienation from society writ large.  In some regards they are victims, perhaps not always innocent victims, but victims nonetheless… and victims with agency.  For they have power and the capability to extract whatever vengeance or retribution they feel they deserve.

Not all Rogues are victims of misfortune.  Some merely possess a sense of entitlement and a desire for adventure.  Morality, for better or worse, is just not a central feature in the make up of the Rouge.  They see the world around them as a harsh and unforgiving realm and they will take what they want, do as they please, simply because they can.  They are not motivated by hate, avarice nor a diminished sense of self esteem.  They are supremely independent and the needs, feelings and wellbeing of others are not matters of any great concern.  

The super villain Rogue has much in common with the archetype of the Trickster from myths and fable.  Tricksters are breakers of boundaries who enjoy disrupting societal principles and norms.  These are often supernatural beings whose playful antics act to mock authority and question assumption.  Rogues are similar.  They too seek to disrupt authority, upset balance and turn social decorum unto its head.

Whereas many Tricksters of lore aim to teach lessons regarding the hubris of mankind, Rogues tend to be much more self-serving in their conduct.  Rogues are not agents of chaos, they just want to express their freedom and garner wealth and renown.

While Rogues often prefer to work on their own, they are by no means entirely above joining forces with other villains in working toward a mutually desired goal.  Although it is rare, a Rogue may even allow themselves to be employed by a Nemesis, a more diabolical cad whose overarching desires very much do not align with their own.  In these situations, the Rogue’s hand is either forced or they are simply biding their time for the ideal opportunity to engaged a well-planned and self-serving betrayal.  

It is the Rogue’s refusal to adhere to societal principles and the law that often brings them into conflict with heroes.  And the sympathetic qualities of the Rogue can sometimes cause a hero to question their own beliefs and moral alignment.  The Rogue represents a defiance toward the status quo of a given society... that existing state of affairs that maintains social and financial stratification.  The status quo is never an entirely fair system, it will always benefit some at the expense of others,...and it can be tempting to forcefully push back against the inequities that exist therein.  Indeed there have been many a hero who has fallen under the sway of a charismatic Rogue when made to see said inequities.

 And yet Rogues tend to be quite selfish.  They have been wronged and use it as an excuse to do whatever they please and put their own needs above all others.  In so doing they may end up hurting others in the same fashion they themselves had been hurt.  These Rogue could be heroes, yet frequently lack the sense of selflessness that truly makes a hero heroic.

Under the right circumstances, however, the Rogue can find themselves in the role of the antihero... acting as a protagonist despite lacking the traditional qualities most often associated with heroism.  This is most often the case when the Rogue’s goals put them into opposition with another villain, particularly a villain much more vile than themselves.

Although some Rogues may fit into the role of an antihero, it does not necessarily make them any less dangerous.  The primary characteristic of a Rogue is a rejection of the normative confines of a society.  And this can include the confines of morality.  The Rogue will resort to murder and mayhem if they deem it a necessity.  So beware, my friends, beware.      

The Lieutenants

In some regards, Lieutenants are the villainous analog to the hero’s sidekick.  They are the primary right-hand operatives of the arch villain… an amalgamation of a partner, field commander, conciliary and moll.  They are neither a Nemesis nor a Goon, but something in between.  

Quite often the Lieutenant will be a good deal more competent, pragmatic and even more intelligent compared to the villain they serve.  They could easily be a leader in their own right, yet lack the megalomania that is at the heart of a true Nemesis.  What these lieutenants do possess, however, is a deeply seated need to belong... to have a parental-like figure that offers direction and purpose.   Some even love the villains they serve and remain at their side for this reason alone.  

Lieutenants crave power and respect, they feel a poignant need for validation and this will often lead them to battle against the heroes with vigorous intensity.  They can be the most dangerous kind of villain of them all in that they are highly motivated and intelligent as well as desperate to succeed; almost like a child who will do anything to win the approval of a parent.  

The neurotic nature of the Lieutenant’s motivation frequently leaves them a good deal less sadistic and malevolent compared to the Nemeses they serve.  They are not bloodthirsty or callous; many may even have care for the innocent lives that a dastardly plot might harm.  And yet the need for approval acts to outweigh any moral qualms they may possess. That being said, it is not entirely unheard of that a Lieutenant will turn on their leader if the destructive stakes become far too high.  

Somewhat akin to the Goon (or even the Rogue), the Lieutenant possesses the potential to turn to the side of good, to be redeemed and become something of a hero.  The Lieutenant is highly capable and shrewd, but not above manipulation.  Often times they will find themselves in the service of a master who does not have their best interests in mind. 

Discovering that they are not as valued by their leader as they may have thought can help the Lieutenant rediscover their sense of honor... a clearer picture of right and wrong.  Herein there becomes an increased likelihood that the Lieutenant will turn and aide the heroes... possibly even become a hero themselves.  

Of course this is not to say that every Lieutenant possesses a staunch code of honor or secret heart of gold.  Some are just as rotten and despicable as the cads they serve.  They have pled fidelity to their masters and many see the orders they have been issued as on par with a godly and righteous decree.

At the same time that many Lieutenants are unquestioningly loyal, others can be duplicitous.  Again, it is not uncommon that a Lieutenant will actually be more competent compared to those they serve.  And some possess the ambition to usurp their masters, concocting fiendish schemes to depose their leader, take control and ostensively matriculate to the position of the Nemesis.

This particular dynamic is quite often at play with the ‘secret lieutenant.’  This is something of a subcategory reserved for those second-in-commands who are initially believed to be the primary villain… only for it to be later revealed that there is an entity even more diabolical above them.  

Nemeses often cherish their anonymity, preferring to remain a more secretive threat from behind the proverbial curtain.  To this extent they need a Lieutenant to stand in as their vassal.  It is not uncommon for these proxies to be misidentified as the primary Nemesis.  And more often than not, these secret Lieutenants become accustomed to the power they wield... harboring resentment toward the shadowy overlords that they secretly serve.  Sometimes they will take action to achieve their ambitions… yet it rarely works in their favor and a Lieutenant’s efforts to usurp their masters will frequently have deadly consequences.  

There are reasons after all, that Lieutenants and Lieutenants and Nemeses are Nemeses.  The qualities that make for a true Nemesis are as insidious as they are dangerous.  They are not so easily overtaken nor replaced.

Nemeses

This brings us to the are the baddest of the bad… the arch foes, the megalomaniacal would-be conquerers whose devilish schemes put us all in grave peril.  The pinnacle of villainy; the foil to all things good, selfless, noble and heroic.  The Nemesis!

The primary feature to the Nemesis is their motivation.  They have a keen notion of how things should be and will stop at nothing toward imposing their will so to bring their goals to fruition.  Such goals may be power, conquest, revenge or the acquisition of fabulous wealth (or all of the above).  Regardless, the Nemesis believes that fulfilling this goal is a righteous purpose, that it is a destiny ordained unto them by some manner of a divine source.  

Most Nemeses do not see themselves as evil.  They are the heroes of their own stories and believe themselves to be in the right.  Furthermore, any who oppose them represent an effrontery that need be eliminated with extreme prejudice.  Theirs is a glorious purpose and nothing nor no one may be allowed to obstruct their destiny.  

With such lofty ambitions, it is frequently necessary for these Nemeses to create elaborate organizations… secret and sinister syndicates composed of various operatives, agents, minions and flunkies.  The Nemesis can be extremely charismatic ideologues and they usually have little difficulty in recruiting scores of cronies and henchmen willing to lay down their lives in the service of a master.  Whist some Nemeses have to resort to paying their underlings or at least putting forth the promise that the toiling will result in power and riches, most are simply able to amass a loyal following through their magnetic charm alone.

The true qualities of the Nemesis often comes into greater focus in juxtaposition to their arch enemy.  The primary foe of the Nemesis acts to define them, highlighting their traits in contrast to their opposite.  The more good and pure the hero the more twisted and evil their nemesis. One acts to complete the other like two sides of a scale equally balanced.

Indeed it is not unusual for a Nemesis to become obsessed with their arch foe... so much so that many Nemeses may even hesitate at the opportunity to finally vanquish said foe.  They can come to feel actualized by the conflict and may fear a loss of identity were their enemy to be truly eliminated. 

Many heroes will have multiple arch enemies, but Nemeses themselves are more exclusive, monogamous in who they see as their principle foe.  Furthermore, they can be quite jealous when it comes to the attention of their arch enemies.  So much so that it is not unheard of for a Nemesis to lend a hand to their foe in doing away with a third party interloper.     

Not every Nemesis is cut from the same cloth.  Some can be mere mustache-twirlers… finks who commit evil deeds for the mere sake of it.  The more memorable and fully actualized Nemesis, however, is complex and nuanced.  There is an element of the inscrutable that can provoke fascination.  They are like elaborately colored serpents who elicit equal measures of fear and curiosity.  

Despite their despicable acts, the Nemesis can frequently be found to be a rather sympathetic figure.   Similar to the Rogue, the Nemesis is rejecting of the societal status quo.  They believe they know better, that imposing their will can bring about much needed change.  Considering the various inequities and injustices entailed in any society, the promise of change can be very alluring.  Tearing something down is always easier than creating something new; and the Nemesis excels at the former whilst offering mere promises of the latter. 

Add to this the flamboyant charm and sleek aesthetics of so many super villains and it can all come across as quite alluring.  And this attraction can be greatly magnified in those feeling even the least bit alienated by the confines and restrictions of a societal equilibrium.

Most all Nemeses are idealists.  Their ideals are twisted and egocentric, but they are idealists nonetheless.  In their heart of hearts, these cads honestly believe that the imposition of their self-serving values will bring about their notion of a better world.  Even the ones who claim to be nihilists, who say they just want to see the world burn, harbor the desire to harness power and refashion it all in the cast of their megalomania.

The Nemesis is an enjoyable character only to the extent that they do not win, that their schemes remain unfulfilled.  And if said plot is at least partially accomplished, the fun part is their histrionic efforts to put down resistance and maintain their tenuous grip on power.  

Conversely, Nemeses who too closely parrot real life horrors become unenjoyable entities for the audience.  There are plenty of villains who are racists, who commit sexual assault and/or who adhere to repugnant philosophies.  These baddies do not fully qualify as super villains.  They are just regular villains.  Super villains, like superheroes, are figures of fantasy... they are meant to be fun.  A true super villain, a real nemesis, may toe the line of real-life horror but should not overstep it.  

Not all Nemeses pose the same level of peril.  The Nemesis covets a world bent to their whim, yet not all possess the faculties needed to constitute a true threat.  Many nemeses are capable, shrewd and cunning; whilst others can be plagued by hubris, myopathy and just plain incompetence.  And others still can demonstrate great prowess in one instance and then great blundering in the next.  The same passion and unwavering drive that fuels the Nemesis can also lead them to make costly, foolhardy decisions.  Nevertheless, a buffoonish villain can be just as captivating and fun as one who is sophisticated and poised.  

Of course any summation of the Nemesis, or super villains in general, would be incomplete without addressing the matter of how frequently villainous characters have been used in stories as thinly veiled stand-ins for the queer community.  

This is done through a kind of coding… subtle and not-so-subtle hints that the villain is something other than heterosexual.  Male villains are often presented as effeminate or flamboyant, female villains as masculine and butch.  This is meant to have the effect of making the Nemesis appear more deviant and dangerous.  As well as make their ultimate defeat by the hero somehow more satisfying, reinforcing the erroneous notion that being queer is in some way morally wrong.  

This queer-coding of the villain is not always consciously intended to be homophobic/heterosexist, but it often has that effect; and perpetuates harmful stereotypes about the LGBTQ+ community that can lead to real-world discrimination and violence.

There can be a strange and entirely artificial conversion of machiavellian manipulation and the disrupting of traditional notions of gender.  This is the idea that those who are transgender, women who act masculine or men who act feminine, are somehow engaging in a sinister chicanery.  That they are temping and coercing the innocent and vulnerable into embracing deviancy.      

This is not the only way in which the Nemesis has been used as a means to present social-political agendas.  Near countless forms of bigotry and prejudice have been repackaged in the form of a sinister Nemesis.  The ‘yellow peril’ style villain depict people of Asian descent as cold, calculating and soulless; whereas the savage ‘witchdoctor warlord’ presents Black and Brown people as primitive, superstitious and godless; and the hook-nosed ‘miserly masterminds’ puts forward Jewish people as conniving, greedy and unscrupulous.      

Ironically, as time has gone by, this politicizing of the villain has only acted to make the Nemesis even more intriguing and appealing.  In that the Nemesis embodies all that is debaucherous, forbidden and deviant, the hero becomes more and more forced into role of the foil.  The hero must be pious, chased and entirely pure of heart.  They become flawless and such perfection in the realm of fantasy and wish-fulfillment is rather boring.  As the hero becomes more two-dimensional and un-relatable so too is their arch Nemesis made more alluring and empathetic.  

Indeed this has led to heroes gradually become more like villains in an effort to keep them interesting.  The sterling white hat of the traditional hero has been traded in for something a slightly grittier shade of gray.  Heroes have become more grim and steely, brooding neurotics fueled by past trauma.  This may seem like standard fare in the here and now, but it is a base dynamic heavily borrowed from the villainous Nemesis.  ...imitation, as they say, is the most since form of flattery.  

Thus concludes our brief summation of villainous taxonomy.   Does every super villain fit perfectly into one of these five categories?  Likely not… but as close a fit as necessary.  And certainly there can be movement between the levels: Goons who matriculate to Enforcers, Rouges who go on to become Nemeses.  By and large, however, these are fixed positions and most all super villains can be seen as occupying one of these taxonomical genres.     

[snowfolly]

A Silver Tapestry

Chapter 1: The Wrath of God

After the ice demon, Astarion, attempts to assassinate a god for his master, he finds himself bound, once again, to yet another deity.

His punishment is to serve the God of Winter for a time unknown to him, and his hours are filled with mundane tasks until the day that the god, Taliesin, asks the demon to spar with him.

Sparring leads to something much more than daggers at held other another’s throat, and they must learn to navigate romance with restraint as they fall hopelessly in love. However, all is not perfect, as Astarion must be freed from Cazador's grip before the time on Taliesin's binding curse is up, or he will have to return to the devil — which will not only tear him away from his divine lover, but certainly result in his death.

Taliesin must move carefully to avoid letting the entire winter realm, and perhaps the entire world, fall to ruins for the sake of liberating his beloved.

Or

A love story about a god and the demon that tried to murder him.

(Expect Whimsy)

CW: Violence, Pain (Astarion is Punished for attempted murder and has a bad time.)

Read on ao3 (link wasn’t working so here’s the whole thing lol)

-

Astarion’s stomach twisted into a sick knot of dread as he was led shackled and shambling to gaze wide-eyed upon the face of a god — one that he had tried rather unsuccessfully to murder only hours prior.

Early morning daylight softly backlit a wall of snow, which was falling steadily in an open space behind the lord of the winter realm. It threw his throne into partial shadow as motes of mage light drifted around his darkened form, bathing him in an ominous cerulean glow.

The god sighed dramatically, sprawled across his throne in an absurdly casual position — his legs dangled lackadaisically off of one onyx armrest as his elbow laid on the other; he propped his head on his hand as he regarded Astarion — who he clearly thought to be no more than a pissant — with weary disinterest.

Astarion swallowed dryly, realizing the god couldn’t even be bothered to sit up straight to judge him for his crime, lowly frost demon that he was… and this did not bode well.

At all.

“On your knees,” the deity murmured as the wall of snow behind him abruptly gusted into the room with an intense howling rush.

It whorled around Astarion from the ground up, and he gasped as the air was violently snatched from his lungs by a wind so frigid that he was certain they'd be ruined to ice. Cold typically didn’t bother him, not like this — he was a godsdamned frost demon, after all — but this was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. It was freezing torment, sending his entire body to chills and causing him to panic as he closed his eyes and struggled to breathe.

Was this it? Would he not even be able to speak to the deity before he died? Was this to be his end? He’d known this was a futile task, but he hadn’t had a choice! Cazador had commanded him, it wasn’t fair, but it never was…

“Fall to your knees, demon,” the god repeated with more vitriol and less tedium in his tone as Astarion’s eyes flew open to realize that the assaulting blizzard had been halted as quickly as it had been set upon him — and yet somehow he remained standing. Before he could properly gather his senses, the gauntlet-laden hands of godsknights unceremoniously grabbed at his shoulders, forcing him to fall to his knees with a sickening crack and bend low in prostration before their lord.

Astarion wasn’t at all sure how he could perspire after being nearly frozen alive, but a drop of sweat fell from the demon’s brow before it froze in midair. The tiny pellet of ice clinked against the marble floor and he took a deep breath to still himself, casting his eyes down as his mind raced, attempting to fathom a way out of the rather bleak situation at hand.

It was a rather futile attempt.

There was simply no way he could escape. He had no weapon — nor would he be able to use one if he did — his hands were bound tightly behind his back, and his ankles were tethered just as securely. His magic had also been dispelled so he could use no incantation to attack or remove his iron shackles, and even so, what chance did he stand against two armed knights and a god? He grit his teeth, for he had not a snowball’s chance in the summer realm.

This undignified moment was likely to be the last in his pathetic life — and pathetic though it was — he did not want it to end. He was not ready to die. Especially not like this!

At least in the pitiful life he led under Cazador he could still hold onto hope… but being damned by a god wouldn’t even allow him that meager respite. His soul would be lost forever to wander in the shadow hell. Darkness would become him, he would feel no passion, no joy, or hope — only the agony of biting cold and sorrow, of endless loss and shadows. Forever.

Astarion had come close enough to assassinating the divine being before him, and he had no choice but to face any punishment that the lord saw fit — and the frozen hell, grim as it was, was a likely outcome…

“Wake up!” The god said, snapping his fingers as Astarion’s eyes darted up once more to face the source of his inevitable end.

“Assassin! I was going to ask your name but that matters not, foul creature such as you are. Pray tell though, Fool — what daft bastard sent you to murder a god?” the deity asked contemptuously, still not deeming it worth his time to move from his lounging position. Astarion swallowed nervously before he cleared his throat to speak. He knew that the god knew exactly who had sent him, but alas…

“The Lord of Ice…”

“Oh my! You’d be clever to address me by my title, Fool,” the god said in annoyance as he flicked his wrist dismissively, and one of the knights roughly pressed the butt of his spear into the back of Astarion’s neck, forcing him to bow lower before their liege.

His title, though? This god had many monikers… Lord of Snow, Your Resplendence, Your Magnificence, God of the Winter Realm, Taliesin — so on and so forth.

If the situation wasn’t so dire he’d come up with more interesting epithets, but it’d be more shrewd to try and weasel himself out of eternal damnation. It would likely do him no favor in the end, but Astarion figured it would be best to grovel, kiss a bit of ass and address several of the lord’s stupid titles.

“Resplendent Lord of Snow, God of the Winter Realm, Taliesin,” Astarion managed in a quavering voice as the godsknight gave him another smarting blow on the back of his neck, causing Astarion’s crystalline horns to knock painfully against the marble floor. He felt one crack and he grimaced as some shards of it fell, tinkling like broken glass near his eye. “The Lord of Ice and keeper of the Frostlands, Cazador, my m… master, sent me.”

“To what end?”

“Well… to slay you,” Astarion said in confusion. Just what in the lower hells were Taliesin’s motives? The deity already knew this information, why was he posing questions as if he did not? Was it all simply to humiliate Astarion further?

“Damned devil. What have I done to slight Cazador this time? I extended my goodwill to him, inviting him to my little fete for the first time in centuries and he couldn’t even be arsed to make an appearance!” The god scoffed. “Is it a coincidence, Fool, that he sent an assassin on the same night?”

Of course it wasn’t.

“My master saw… well — he saw the invite as an insult, Your Resplendence. He’d said the summon to dine and be merry with a sworn enemy was the… the height of disresp…”

“Naturally he would, the fuckwit,” the god said sharply, cutting Astarion off. The demon stared blankly at the floor which lay scarcely an inch below his nose. His tail flicked anxiously as his eyes followed the veins of gray streaking haphazardly through the white marble, and he realized that this could be the last thing he’d ever see. How pathetically glum…

“What does Cazador wish to accomplish by sending a lowly demon to try and kill me? Again. Any thoughts on that rather preposterous maneuver, expendable one?”

Astarion knew that his master had sent many other demons to attempt to end Taliesin’s life in the past, well before his forced servitude, but none of those failed assassins had ever returned to his master’s keep. Cazador’s motivations were just as much of a mystery — what did he wish to accomplish, sending them to die?

“I do not know his intentions for those he sent in failed attempts on your life in years past, Your Resplendence. He ah… my master simply gave me the order to take your life,” Astarion said, recalling that the devil had gone nearly mad with rage since he’d gotten the invitation months prior. Rants regarding Cazador’s hatred for Taliesin were nothing unusual, but the tirades had gotten more and more frequent in the weeks leading up to the event.

The devil would often take his anger out on his imps and demons, throwing bottles of wine at them, having them whipped… and well, torturing them one way or another. Even if Astarion was sent back to his master, his fate would likely not be much better than the one he now faced. Cazador also had the capability of damning his soldiers and servants, casting them into the shadows — he’d seen it done to a steward once, and it certainly was not a pleasant end.

“Did he wish for you to take my life in an attempt to steal my full divinity?”

“Y… yes,” Astarion stammered. He thought that motive was clear — the soul stone meant to capture the god’s divinity had been taken from him, along with the rest of his possessions aside from the clothes on his back when he’d been thrown behind bars. The intention for the assassination was not hidden — and why else would Cazador be so adamant about ending the god? The devil was not subtle about his resentment of Taliesin, who held dominion over the entire realm — including ‘his’ Frostland.

“I see,” the lord murmured, as Astarion took another deep breath. It was nonsensical to even question the god’s interrogation, though. He was prodding and poking for something.

“Did you know, Fool, that your craven master had endeavored to assassinate me — desperately, I might add — for centuries before giving up and sending expendable little demons like you to try and do what he can not, and never will. So I commend you, Fool! You're the first of his flock that has ever come close to fulfilling his laughable dream. Good fucking job!” Taliesin’s wrathful voice reverberated sinisterly through the immense chamber as his diatribe ended, causing Astarion to flinch and flatten his ears against the painful echo before a deafening stillness fell upon the room.

His eyes continued to follow the streaks of gray in the marble, and the frost demon’s heart pounded out of his chest as he waited for something to happen — anything.

There were eight branches on one vein, and one of those veins held capillaries of another eight.

A killing blow, a word of death, racking pain, or the promise of eternal suffering — anything. But seconds wavered into minutes, and minutes turned into what felt like an eternity — and there was only lingering, dreadful silence.

If he wasn't so close to the veins, his eyes would adjust and he could probably see even more jagged branches coming off of the capillaries.

He did not want to die, the gods and devils only knew that he did not want to die! But this fraught suspense would surely end him, and perhaps that would be okay. He couldn’t be damned if he’d just go ahead and die of terror, right?

How many veins of gray streaked the marble in this immense throneroom? The branches would outnumber the stars, surely…

“What to do with you, what to do?” the god said finally, startling Astarion back into the moment as the sound of footsteps made their way toward him. He closed his eyes tightly, fighting tears as sweat continued to drip from his clammy brow, and the footfall stopped just before his pitiful hunkered frame.

“Look up at me.”

Astarion raptly obeyed, lifting himself from his deep bow to stare up wide-eyed at the god. Despite his short stature, he was, without a doubt, the most intimidating creature that Astarion had ever witnessed. There was an aura of intensity swirling about him, furious and radiant in its command, and Astarion’s body began to tremble in response.

Taliesin stepped closer, standing above Astarion with his arms crossed over his partially bare chest before he bent at the waist to get a better look at the demon, leaning in so that he could see every freckle on his divine face, the delicate ring on the left side of his nose, his thick eyelashes surrounding… oh gods, his eyes…

It’d been too dark during the attack so he hadn’t noticed those horrible, wonderful eyes.

It was as if they contained the winter itself — molten silver flecks fluctuated and sparkled within pupilless irises of shadow, deep fuschia tinted — no, aubergine… then indigo. The colors continuously shifted like fog within black onyx — mesmerizing and terrifying in equal measure.

Despite Astarion’s fear, he couldn’t help but find himself in awe of the divine beauty that Taliesin possessed as he tilted that lovely, timeless face, studying the demon with pinched features — as if he was observing something foul and small. Nothing more than vermin. Less than vermin.

"I could make you serve me for a decade or ten — centuries even! Or I could change you to a carrion crow, damned be your wings for I would pluck and cage you. Then you could never attempt to end me again," the god said, thumbing his chin and tilting his head to the side in a deviously playful way that sent a fresh shiver of trepidation down Astarion’s spine to the tip of his tail. Taliesin's face brightened as if he’d suddenly realized something wildly profound, and his large, frilled ears perked up, sending his many earrings jingling as he cocked an eyebrow. "But by all rights, I should kill you, send you to exist eternally in the Frozen Blight. Yes?"

Astarion’s thrumming heart skipped a beat as his stomach sank nauseatingly. That was it. That was the name of that damnable hell that he was bound for at any moment.

“Yes,” the demon whispered in reluctant agreement, ears lowering in defeat. As much as he hated to admit it, he should be killed for this transgression. There was no way of talking himself out of this one — he’d held the poisoned dagger to Talisin’s throat. An indignant, stray tear ran down his cheek as the god clicked his tongue.

"I suppose that I’ve decided a proper judgment for you, then," the lord finally announced, his tone barely above a whisper as he placed the back of his thumb under Astarion's chin, raising the demon's face to stare at him even closer — perhaps to get a good look at the person he was about to damn for eternity, or perhaps it was to relish in his abject horror and humiliation. The frost demon's lip quivered as those hauntingly beautiful eyes bored into his, and his mind shattered in terror as they instantaneously went entirely silver.

Gods and devils, this was it.

This truly was the end.

Astarion's gaze remained locked with Taliesin’s for moments or centuries — he could not be sure, and to his astonishment dilated pupils appeared as the irises imperceptibly changed to a muddy purple — soft and…. sweet? The god smiled, lopsided and sheepish as the iron shackles binding the demon grew uncomfortably frigid before they began to loosen in a flurry of mist.

Astarion was dumbfounded. Was this some sort of sick game? What in the godsdamned hells was happening?

"I must apologize in advance, demon — for this is going to hurt," the god of winter said in a genuinely apologetic tone, and Astarion's mouth fell agape as his shackles clattered deafeningly to the stone floor.

His eyes flashed an unsettling silver once more, and Astarion flinched as the god gently cupped his cheeks in his hands — hands that were far warmer than the demon had expected — and he was suddenly enveloped in the same gently swirling mist that had released his fetters moments earlier.

Taliesin bent in even closer to Astarion in a strikingly intimate way — almost as if he was going to kiss him — causing his heart to skip a beat as the compelling scent of cedarwood, rose and black pepper flooded his senses. His skin prickled as the god passed up his lips to whisper into his ear, his breath cold and mint and tantalizing...

“Witness me,” Taliesin whispered, and Astarion experienced sudden, blinding white light and harrowing pain encircling his throat.

Astarion’s stomach tightened into a ball as excruciating tendrils of agony crawled over the tender flesh of his neck, searing and stinging as his nerve ends were set sickeningly alight. He could not move to claw at the affliction nor could he scream in horror, for he could not catch his breath or gather his mind to do so. Tears streamed down his cheeks as his knees gave out, and his existence was naught but torment. He could not take it anymore — there was no way he could withstand this suffering, gods … there was simply no way!

Words in a language he did not know came from somewhere far, far away before he heard the common tongue spoken once more — ‘I’m truly sorry’, it said, as his vision ceased entirely, and then there was no sound at all. There was no sense of smell or any more pain, no enveloping cold or the warm hands of a god — there was only darkness.

[mrfancyfoot]

Plots & Prosody: Prompts

Raphael x Evie (f!OC)

.

- Bite of Cold -

"Just because Raphael must dispose of the many enemies standing between him and his rule of the Hells doesn’t mean he needs to be wasteful.

Or: Raphael presents Evie with some nice, new hides of his enemies furs to fight off the chill of winter that has come to Baldur’s Gate."

Prompt: Warming the Chill

Happy Solstice! I’ve been ill (again) and wanted to write something warm and seasonal between some other stuff.  This installment swings kinda wildly from dark power fantasy to cute fluff to dark/very suggestive romance. :)

.

Rating: M / NSFW Word Count: ~2k Timeline: Plots & Prosody, Part II - Canon Tags: POV Raphael; Evie (She/Her Pronouns Used; Has Fox Features); Hellhounds; Dark Romance; Fluff; Indulgent Schmoop; Date Night; Story Time; ❄️ Seasonal Gift Giving 🎁; Raphael’s Theatrics; Raphael Has a Praise Kink if You Look Close; Raphael's Thinly Disguised Size Kink; Devil is Smitten; Only Soft For Her; Devil Courtship Warnings: Violence & Gore (Skinning an Animal); Murder; Possessive Raphael; Voyeurism; Highly Suggestive Sexual Content (Referenced PiV and Oral - No Sex "On Screen," but Raphael's gratuitous in his language)

Main Fic (Rated E/Varied): AO3 + Tumblr | Master List (contains related prompts)

[Quick Context: After being isekai'd by the nautiloid, Evie spends most of Plots & Prosody Part I (Game Events) “befriending the devil,” yet denying him her soul.  Once things settle after game events, Evie goes about her new life kick-starting her business and re-inventing modern-day things. As somewhat of a demi-ro cinnamon bun, she remains oblivious to Raphael's attempts at courting her and chalks many of his more questionable behaviors up to cultural differences.]

Part of my devil courtship series.

❤️ Thanks for reading! :3 ❤️

It wasn’t often that he fouled his own claws with the mind-numbing task of dispatching pitiful devils but a pair in particular had caught his eye as they skulked about through the shadows, searching for weaknesses and information among his forces to take back to their master.

Winter was blanketing the City of Baldur’s Gate and through the strife and ruinnous magics, a brutal cold had descended upon it.  He recalled the frequent shivers and complaints of the chill from his little fox. Until it was safe to do so with Avernus fully under his reign, he could not move her more permanently into the heat of his home and embrace.

But…

Being a provider of warmth in another manner was the next best option as he continued to woo her.

“You should feel honored.  Your pathetic hide shall now grace another - a gift for the future Archduchess!”

Snapping jaws and sharp claws were no match for him.

He admired the dense, rippling fur of the hellhound within his grip, its toothy maw wide and long tongue lolling about in a manner belying more life than its owner.  Its brethren lie broken and motionless at his feet.

With a surgically careful claw, he sliced and rent the hides from pungent, bloody flesh, uncaring of what became of the mass of slaughtered carcasses dropped to the dirt.  Thrilling, though, it may have been, to skin them alive and shrieking, he decided against chancing anything less than perfect for his gift through their struggles.  Raphael now thought only of how best he should present them to her.

The only challenge due him in this battle had been in avoiding unduly marring the hounds as he struck them down.  A successful endeavor for the hunter!

He had his spoils delivered to a skilled furrier.  After three days' time, he paid them a visit to inspect and collect the final products.

What awaited him were two glossy, soft pelts of midnight black fashioned into a pair of blankets and a scarf that retained their hellish heat and would repel even the harshest of winter chills.

He ran a hand over the finished furs.

Magnificent.

.

.

Wishing to bypass the tedium of being made to wait in her receiving room by her housekeeper, yet still invoke that mystique of a courtly suitor, he arrived, instead, just beyond her balcony doors.  With the curtains drawn open, he was able to silently spy inside her bedroom.

Evie was seated at her vanity readying herself with her back to him.  For their evening out, she had donned a conservative, green, velvet dress and blackened, sheer stockings.  The sash around her slender waist was bowed above the dense fur of her tail, the tip of which swayed just above the floor.  Her fingers worked quickly to thread strands of curling auburn hair into a braid, pinning it behind her ear with a matching bow.  

She did like her pretty collection of hair bows and clips and combs.  

They lent to the air of flirtatiously chaste innocence that he knew merely guised the seductive vixen beneath.  He would look forward to peeling away the layers like gift wrap to reveal the pale flesh beneath later.

Now, as practiced…

He rapped sharply on the glass causing her to whip around in surprise.  The fox lept from her stool and rounded her bed, unlocking the bolt and twisting one of the knobs to push open the door.

She looked up at him with a bright smile and waggle of her tail.  “Hi, there!  Come in, come in.”

“Good evening, my dear,” he returned as he took the door from her and closed out the chill behind himself as he entered her room.  

“A bit early today, yeah?” she teased as she returned to her vanity and prised open a small tin.  “I was just finishing up, though.”  Her finger rubbed a balm into her lips.

A quiet sound directed his attention to an odd contraption sat upon her bedside table that hadn’t been there when he visited the prior tenday.  A large glass container was filled with gently gurgling water and misting it into the room at intervals.  “A new apparatus of yours?”

“A humidifier!” she exclaimed with pride.  “My skin’s gotten so dry with the cold, and I picked up a bit of a morning cough from the dry night air.  It’s helped quite a bit!  Keeps the plants happy, too.  Since I don’t have a giant pool in my bedroom and all.”

He smiled at the ribbing but frowned as another thought occurred to him.  Avernus was inhospitably dry and his pool of restoration served multiple purposes to create comfort within his home, but her bedroom provided there was isolated from it.  His hospitality could not be found wanting by his intended.

“It is a clever thing.  Next you visit my House, let us devise a solution for your quarters.”  Though he could merely provide himself, he did love listening to the unique ways her mind worked.  And allowing her to aid in such decisions bonded her closer to all that would soon be hers.

“It is pretty dry there, too.  I can just make another,” she shrugged.

“I believe we can do better for a more permanent fixture.”  He regathered himself and straightened.  “But that is a distraction for another time - I did arrive early for a reason.”

“Oh?”  Evie canted her head, curiosity piqued.

With a grin, Raphael strode to stand in front of her fireplace, closing her curtains with a snap to set the desired atmosphere.

He heard her quiet gasp, “Story time!”  She picked up her vanity stool and moved it closer to watch raptly.

“As the Avernal sun cast shadows about the desolate land, sneaking from between the depths of ruddy mountain and cliffside, I did spy a pair that moved,” he began his captivating tale.  “Hellhounds!  Intelligence gatherers working fleet on their feet for Archdevil Zariel.  Monstrous canid devils with coats of blackest pitch and glowing maws that spit and drool fire.”  The fire behind him sparked forth embers with his words and she jumped, her eyes wide.

“I, of course, could not allow such beasts to cross the line of battle and weasel their way around my forces!  Away, I lured them, to an outlying crag, whereupon I descended in ambush from the very shadows through which they moved.”  He dimmed the fire and drew forth a clutch of flaming embers into his fist held up in mimicry of one of the hounds’ flaming mouths.

“Though they howled and thrashed their claws about, neither was any match for my might.  But!  As I fought, I took the utmost care to preserve them whole.”  He dropped the embers from his hand and they fell glowing to the floor as they extinguished.  “My enemies were soon crumpled - dead at my feet with nary a scratch upon them thanks to my diligence.”  Arms spread wide, he dipped into a brief bow to signify the end of his short performance and heard her begin to clap.  He then held a finger aloft to pose his question that halted her applause, “And whyever should I have bothered to expend such effort, you may ask?”

He approached Evie, falling to one knee as he brought forth one of the furs with a flourish.  Her lips parted in shock as he draped it about her shoulders.

Dainty hands rose to clutch and pet along the fur in wonder.

“For you, my dear, to chase away the bite of the harsh winter chill that has befallen this city.”

She looked from him to it, appearing unsure.  “For me?  This is…them?”  Torn on the gift?

Smirking at her form swallowed within the dark fur, he replied, “It is, indeed!  Hellhound hides retain their magical properties to produce heat.”  His hand rose again and the rest appeared neatly folded upon her bed.

“Better than letting them go to waste, I suppose,” Evie reasoned to herself as she eyed them, a means to justify acceptance of the gift.  Silly woman, were animals not routinely hunted for their furs and hides and any other parts deemed of use?  These curs should be honored to be repurposed thusly! She brought the fur to her nose and inhaled contentedly.  “It smells like you.”

Inwardly, he thrilled at her obvious approval.

With the fur cloaked around herself, she stood and walked to the bed.  Standing in front of the other furs, Raphael watched as she pitched forward and planted her face into them.  “So warm!” she crooned happily as she rubbed her cheeks against the furs.  “We should go before I fall asleep like this,” Evie warned.

With reluctance, she stood and shook her head.  Pivoting on her heel, she marched to him and threw her arms wide.

Though he was becoming used to her affectionate mannerisms, her sudden embrace was still unexpected.  But not unwelcome.

“Thank-you for the gift and thinking of me, Raphael,” she said into his chest.

“But seriously, we need to go before I doze off.”

He pushed the pelt down from her head. “Mm, should you look closer, there is a scarf atop that pile, so you may still enjoy it when we step out.”

“A scarf!”  Evie pulled away and bounded back to her bed to properly inspect the others.  She unfurled the hound fur from herself and laid it out on the bed.  Picking up the scarf, it was quickly wound around her neck.  “You thought of everything!”

Brimming over with fiery pride and ego, his eyes followed her as she flitted about her room adding rings to her fingers, a bracelet to her wrist, grabbing this and that to shove into her purse - all the while continuing to be very vocal with her praise.  If they did not soon depart, there would be another reason they would not be leaving this room.

.

.

Raphael tipped his head back and closed his eyes, enjoying the crackle of the fire and the quiet of a city blanketed by snow.

Beneath the warmth of pillowy covers and new furs, the softness of her bared body pressed against his.  He yet felt the phantom touches of her lips upon his neck and the scrape of her claws across his scalp; heard the echoes of her whimpers and cries; tasted her essence on his tongue.

Impatient was he for her to rouse once more.  His hunger and thirst for her had not yet been sated.

This had been an eventful night of dining, music, and coaxing the fox into the lively steps of a dance.  How he had revelled in the surreptitious glances of envy, lustful stares, and covetous glowers that his date drew.  He commanded her attentions; those bright, glittering eyes ever upon him.  Did she know the desires and appetites she stirred within others?  That every giddy shake of her tail, twirl of her skirts, and murmured moan of delight around the fork passing her lips hardened another member, wetted another sheath?

He could hardly restrain himself to wait until they had returned to this room to lay his claim to her body.

Evie slept soundly at his side, ignorant to the growing number that approached him for her favor, for her access - to use and abuse.  Ah, the wicked and craven fantasies that deluged their tiny minds!

His fingers slid absently through the mussed curls of her hair as he mused personally acting on some of the inspiration gleaned.

They would never know the aroused blush of her heaving bosom, the prick of her fangs, nor the pulsing squeeze of her quim. It was his name she called as she writhed impaled.  It was his seed that now painted the walls of her sacred vault and soaked the sheets beneath them.  None but he would know her softness.

For he was a possessive devil.

[zepskies]

Why We Love the Boys

As promised, here is my review of Supes Ain’t Always Heroes. I actually used to write book reviews in my high school journalism days, so here we go!  

What this book is: A masterful deep dive. A study on character psychology, the source of the comic and show’s inspiration, and the narrative themes illustrated in The Boys that parallel American culture and our real lives.

It includes interviews from one of the comic’s creators, Darick Robertson, The Krip himself (Eric Kripke), and actors Jim Beaver (Robert Singer), Aya Cash (Stormfront), Chace Crawford (The Deep), Jessie T. Usher (A-Train), Nathan Mitchell (Black Noir), and of course, Jensen Ackles (Soldier Boy).

It also includes a small but significant ode to the creativity of fans and fandom (with a mention of fanfic writers)!

I’ll admit, I felt seen. 😊

Who wrote it: Psychologists Lynn S. Zubernis and Matthew Snyder, among several other contributors. Zubernis is a self-proclaimed fangirl of not only this show, but also of Supernatural and Eric Kripke in general. (That aspect definitely comes through in her writing.)

She is also editor of Family Don’t End with Blood: Cast and Fans on How Supernatural Changes Lives and There’ll Be Peace When you Are Done: Actors and Fans Celebrate the Legacy of Supernatural—both of which I now want to read.

As I mentioned, several other authors also contributed to this book, as their expertise and backgrounds lend to the subjects they’re covering, such as racism, sexism, the entertainment industry, the comic’s inception, and more.

Who wants to read this book: Anyone who enjoys learning about what makes characters tick. What drives their choices, their sense of morality and justice, and their trauma and strife that lead them to do heinous things. This book will help you better understand your favorite characters (and how to write about them).

Perhaps most importantly, this book is for anyone who wants to read it put into words, why many of us love The Boys, as well as Supernatural.

In a way, the latter is more escapism entertainment than The Boys. Because in this show, there isn’t much, if any escape.

Despite this being a “superhero show,” as we all know, it’s so much more than that. It’s a mirror held directly into our own faces: about why we enjoy heroes and antiheroes, and excuse the “bad behavior” of the ones we like.

About mental health, grief and loss, nature and nurture, coping mechanisms and the importance of choice in dealing with trauma; of racism, sexism, misogyny, weaponized social media, politics, corporate greed, and the power (and cruelty) of good marketing.

This book explores the true villain of the story...and it ain’t Homelander.

I’m going to get into my favorite aspects of this book—as well as an amazing chapter on Soldier Boy’s character study (and why we love him, perhaps too much).

There was also one small, but key thing I would add to that argument. But first...

The Mirror of The Boys on Screen

This world is a gritty, bloody, and at times all-too realistic take on how superheroes would be if they lived in our world.

They are the worst of celebrities, professional athletes, and politicians all rolled into one. They are the shiny products of a company and are marketed as such—and worst of all, they often buy into their own hype.

Some of my favorite quotes on this topic:

“The Boys often reflects darkness in our real world that is uncomfortable to watch. While we go through the tedium of our daily lives, trying to get by and using television or comics as an escape, it can feel difficult and overwhelming to confront the very real and insidious sources of authoritarianism, nationalism, and corporatism that are not just part of a story. “This show holds up a mirror and forces us to catch a glimpse of things we need to question, and asks us why we so easily believe the talking points of systems with marketing departments and press flacks behind them that carefully massage every word in order to get us to feel enamored with their product or policy.” (p. 227-228)

“The Boys works to reveal the nonaltruistic, sociopathic nature of contemporary US corporate culture. In a sense, The Boys uses the behavior of its characters to diagnose not an individual, but a culture.” (255)

In studying narrative I’ve learned that the best fiction and art serve to reflect the human experience. In this case, it’s something The Boys does expertly, even though it’s packaged in extreme, shocking, and often uncomfortable ways. But also in brutal, hilarious satire that’s fun to watch.

It “exposes real-world abuses, revealing many” of our own frustrations in American culture and in life in general (267).

Major Themes & Questions Explored

Several Boys themes are explored from a psychological, cultural, and narrative point of view, as I mentioned earlier. These are some of my favorite segments:

Toxic Masculinity & Narcissism

A whopper in The Boys, and the main theme of season 3. This book defines clearly what both of these words actually mean from a psychological point of view.

It also takes the bad taste out of your mouth that you might get from just hearing the words “toxic masculinity,” as it’s a phrase that can be carelessly thrown around to describe men and character traits that aren’t truly toxic...

How being emotionally available to your loved ones and not repressive of your feelings doesn’t make you weak, or less of a man. And how “being strong” doesn’t mean being physically violent and domineering. (AKA: the Big Swinging Dick™️ in the room.)

Narcissism is explored in a very interesting way. The book gives a diagram of different aspects of narcissists and how each character (Soldier Boy, Homelander, Butcher, and the Deep) falls into them.

Soldier Boy, for example, is classified as a “Classic Narcissist,” while Homelander a “Malignant Narcissist.” <- This will play into Soldier Boy’s character study, and the main difference between Soldier Boy and Homelander.

Butcher, however, displays narcissistic tendencies but is not, in fact, a narcissist. (More of an antisocial sociopath. Yay for him.)

Misogyny & Sexism

The classic superhero world of comics dates back to the 1930s and ‘40s. It has been, and in many respects still is a (White) male-dominated industry, where in narrative, female superheroes typically work under a male leading the team, as in Justice League, Teen Titans, and the Avengers.

As much as I love DC and Marvel comics, female characters have also been depicted wildly sexual for male readers and the male gaze, and non-supe characters have been written primarily as love interests and damsels for the hero to save. (Think Lois Lane, Lana Lang, and Mary Jane.)

Modern adaptions have given female characters more agency, but their foundations were rooted in underlying sexism and the mythic hero—an Odysseus-type with certain characteristics of male strength and heroism; and that goes all the way back to classic literature, like The Odyssey, Beowulf, and the Epic of Gilgamesh.

In The Boys, the female supes go through the same issues as their comic counterparts. They are treated how women are treated in the real world—marketable as sexual objects. Starlight’s forced costume change is a prime example.

Author Danielle Turchiano argues in the book that the women in power at Vought (Madelyn Stillwell, later Ashley) are given only so much power as men like Stan Edgar and Homelander give to them.

Stillwell, Ashley, and even Stormfront “drink the Kool Aid” of the misogynistic infrastructure of Vought, but they’re not truly “powerful” in and of themselves (112).

I would add that the only female characters that have or find true agency are Grace Mallory, Annie January/Starlight, and Maggie Shaw/Queen Maeve. Even Victoria Neuman is trying to work the political schematic and Vought by operating within the system Vought has created.

Mental Health, Trauma & Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms

This is a huge section, and rightly so. It kind of spans throughout the book, really, because all of these characters have traumas that inform who they are as adults making the (often grotesque) choices they make.

For many of these characters, it stems from their upbringing and fraught relationships with their parents, whether explicitly or implicitly explored in the show.

Butcher: Is an antisocial sociopath with narcissistic tendencies. Arrogant, emotionally manipulative, violent, and obsessive. He was also physically and emotionally abused by his father, led to use drinking and violence as a means to cope and express himself. His rage is so deep under his skin—he loathes himself for it (and his father), but struggles immensely to escape it.

Homelander (John): A malignant narcissist, the height of arrogance, and emotionally manipulative. He lacks empathy for others' pain, and in fact enjoys inflicting it. Yet according to Jonah Vogelbaum, "John" was a sensitive, gentle child who only wanted connection and love. Vogelbaum raised him like a lab rat and fostered him in a cold, detached cell. He was raised to be entitled and to believe he was an all-powerful god, the lord of his own kingdom within his mind, excused from the responsibility of his actions.

Soldier Boy (Ben): Also a narcissist; violent, arrogant, misogynistic, and often indifferent to the damage he causes, emotional or physical. Yet he was also emotionally abused by his father, who set high and exacting standards for what it meant to be a man. It drives Ben to try and prove his worth to his father, though he’s never able to. It fosters the lack of self-worth he probably feels as he seeks validation through fame, and what he believes power to be.

These three characters have many similarities, but also notable differences that set them apart from one another. And both Butcher and Soldier Boy use substances like drugs and alcohol to cope with their traumas—ones that their forced stoicism and sense of manhood won’t allow them to easily express.

“We see Soldier Boy use substances almost continuously in season three to deal with his PTSD from the childhood emotional abuse he received from his father, the betrayal and assault from his team, and the torture he endured from the Russian scientists.

“In the short term, the use of drugs and alcohol to avoid thoughts and feelings about traumatic experiences can be felt as helpful, but in the long term, it hinders one’s ability to process emotions and can cause a deeper depression from the guilt and shame of both avoidance and substance abuse.” (27)

Heroes, Antiheroes & Villains

This book explores two key questions that the show encourages you to think about:

Who the hell is the hero of this story?

And who is the villain?

The surface-level answer is that Homelander and other supes like him are the villains, and Butcher and his band of bros are the heroes (or antiheroes). But they commit just as questionable, sketchy, and downright murderous acts as the supes they’re trying to take down.

“Butcher is not really a good guy. He’s manipulative and self-centered. His reasons for wanting to take down Homelander are utterly personal. That it serves the greater good is almost a coincidence.” (9)

And if Butcher is not a hero, but a vengeful vigilante, then why do we root for him so much?

Well, we see his incredible flaws, of course, but I sympathize with his struggle in losing his wife and the life he could've continued to have with her. I root for the underdog going against the hydra head of Vought and the psychopathic Homelander.

I see in Butcher, as I also do with Homelander and Soldier Boy, their traumas and their internal conflicts, their deep-rooted self-loathing, and a desire, deep, deep down…to be loved.

(And to foster connection with others, even if they’re unable to sustain them.)

On the flipside, we have antagonists in this show who do truly heinous things. What makes them compelling even sympathetic at times, yet again, are their painful upbringings that have shaped them to be who they are. The supes of this show are byproducts of being treated like products.

Like the saying goes: Villains aren’t born, they’re made.

That’s why the real villain of this story is Vought International. It’s an allegory, and an indictment of the ruthless corporate greed that pervades American culture—and much of the world.

It’s why Stan Edgar is sometimes scarier to me than even Homelander (and was the true villain of my story, Break Me Down), if far more insidious.

Speaking of BMD, let’s get to it, shall we?

Here’s a (lot) bit about the Soldier Boy section of the book.

Soldier Boy: Why We Can’t Hate Him

I had to laugh out loud at the title of Soldier Boy’s chapter:

Loving the Villain: The Confusing Case of Soldier Boy

I’m not gonna lie. I felt called out. 😂

It is a confusing dichotomy. Soldier Boy is an absolute asshole. Misogynistic, narcissistic, arrogant, callous, violent…

But also deeply traumatized, a man-out-of-time, emotionally abused, a byproduct of the historically and culturally different time he was raised in, a man who just doesn’t get it…

And also charming, adorably grumpy, and undoubtedly attractive.

It’s hard to indict “Ben” as an unredeemable villain in the same way I do Homelander, the psychologist-labelled Malignant Narcissist.

Therein lies the main difference between Soldier Boy and Homelander: Soldier Boy doesn’t seem to take joy in harming others the way Homelander does...but, Soldier Boy still harms people, whether he means to or not. He is arrogant and callous, deeply traumatized and vengful.

Zubernis confirms many of my own conclusions and ideas about Soldier Boy, and why I still rooted for him to be better, and didn’t want him to die at the end of season 3.

As Zubernis rightly exclaimed during her own watch of the finale: “Noooo, don’t kill the Danger Grandpa Baby Murder Kitten!” (175)

Because Jensen did what he does best in his roles: He made us feel Ben’s pain.

“What’s funny is, in regard to Jensen playing Soldier Boy, you know he’s fucking fantastic, he’s just so good at bringing the audience, and it’s almost like—what I laugh about is, he was probably a little too good at his job!” Kripke said. (180)

And he continues, “In part it’s because of the fandom. So many people took his side in the finale, they’re like, Were’s on his side, fuck everyone! And you’re like, but he’s the bad guy and he’s trying to kill a ten-year-old.”

Were there fans who held this viewpoint? I’m sure. There are some radicals who don’t care about the humanity of characters or story and will side with their favorites, come whatever. But while I can’t speak for others, that’s not how I interpreted that moment in the season 3 finale when I watched it for the first, second, and even third time.

Yes, I think Soldier Boy was wrongfully willing to fight Ryan after cruelly batting him away. Do I think he would’ve killed him? I’m not sure. I think he would’ve continued to do what he had to do to get Ryan out of his way in his fight with Homelander. Maybe he would’ve been more violent than he intended, in the callous collateral damage he’d shown throughout the season. Maybe he would've held back at the last second. Or maybe he would’ve gone that far, if provoked.

It’s a tough call, as I think this character can go one way or the other in terms of his “villain” nature. We just haven’t seen enough of him in the series yet for me to make that conclusion on the canon-version of Soldier Boy. (In fanfic, I’ve explored my own interpretation.)

But overall, I think The Krip underestimated the power of Jensen’s acting.

…And the ardent nature of his mostly female fanbase. 😂

Why We Love Soldier Boy

The author cites multiple reasons for why we love Ben more than we probably should:

It’s Jensen Ackles: Fair enough. His talent speaks for itself.

Soldier Boy’s backstory: He was emotionally abused by his father and as a result, he has a complex regarding his self-worth, “something to prove,” and I would imagine a secret need for attention, validation, and praise.

He has trauma and PTSD: He is displaced from what is familiar to him and confused when the boys find him, and that is the least of it. He’s been tortured for 40 years. Can you even wrap your mind around that? (*cough cough Dean Winchester in Hell cough*)

He’s charming: In a sexy grandpa, adorably grumpy, lovable asshole kind of way.

We’re drawn to danger: Dangerous “edgy” types are fun, especially when you’re physically attracted to the character.

He has his moments of vulnerability: Jensen’s ability to play the nuance in the character is the ultimate draw. I felt his pain, could see his torture, and his resulting PTSD. He even admits that he longs for a family, even if his ability to bring up those children is questionable at best. 😅

But I think the one aspect that can also be considered is the character’s capacity for change.

Soldier Boy’s Potential

Again, I don’t think you can write off Soldier Boy’s potential for positive character development the same way you can Homelander, or even Butcher.

For one thing, we just haven’t spent enough time with the character. In season 3, a lot of his collateral damage after he escapes imprisonment has been accidental, or PTSD-induced. Though we can’t discount how he murdered M.M.’s grandfather via collateral damage (and was callous about it).

I think this is what drew me to write about Soldier Boy. For all his arrogance, his chauvinism, his massive ego and general bastardry, there’s still humanity in Ben.

In the book, Nathan Mitchell says something amazing about his own character (Black Noir) that resonated with me about Soldier Boy as well:

"One of the ingredients of a compelling character is contradiction. How does one aspect of our personality contradict with one another? [...] Who is he underneath? How might his true nature contrast with the demands of his job?"

Or coded for Soldier Boy/Ben: The pressures he puts on himself to be the type of man he thought his father wanted him to be.

Again, his sexist, misogynistic ideals are shaped by the time he was raised in, by being a product of Vought, and of his father’s emotionally abusive upbringing. Does this excuse or justify all of his behavior? Of course not.

But I do think those 40 years in captivity changed him from the careless alpha dog we saw in 1984 Nicaragua…

He admits to Crimson Countess, with tears in his eyes, that he’d loved her. That he waited for her and his team—arguably the only social system he had in his life—to save him. He’s gutted to realize that not only did she and the rest of the team never love him, they hated him. They traded him for nothing. Just to get him out of their lives.

For all he claims to be afraid of nothing, tough as shit, he is afraid when he goes to face Mindstorm. He knows what the supe is capable of, and he visibly takes a shaky breath and tries to steel himself.

For a moment, he drops the “Soldier Boy” persona that he wears like that fine tailored suit, and he tells Butcher that the backstory Vought created for him was a lie; he grew up a rich kid who got sent to boarding school, but flunked out, because "he was a fuck up." And his father couldn’t be bothered to lay a hand on him, implying he didn’t care enough about his own son to "discipline" him.

He is reluctant to kill Homelander when he finds out he’s Ben’s son (sort of). He even claims that he would’ve been willing to share the spotlight “with his own son.” — Something I doubt even Homelander would do.

Ben even seems to be fighting tears when he levies the same vitriol at Homelander that his own father did at him:

Homelander: “Weak? I’m you.” Soldier Boy: “I know. You’re a fucking disappointment.”

Let me be clear. I don’t think it’s up to someone to change him (like a love interest). I don’t subscribe to that thinking, that a woman can “change” a man.

For example: In season 2, Butcher tells Becca, “Who was I before you? Nothing.”

And yet, she tells him that he put her on an unrealistic and unsustainable pedestal, in which she felt like she wasn’t allowed to fully be herself, unable to keep him from flying off the handle in rage. That kind of relationship (where one is dependent on the other to “keep them in check”) doesn’t work as a lasting, satisfying redemption arc, and it often doesn’t work in real life either.

I do think, however, that a person is capable of change if they’re broken down enough (pun intended), and if they themselves have a desire to change. Someone they encounter can inspire them to be better, like Butcher with Hughie. That person can help support the other.

At the end of the day, however, it’s Ben that has to want to change.

If he wants love and connection, he’ll have to somehow want it, and try (and sometimes fail) to get it, thereby giving him agency and a redemptive character arc.

Now, obviously, it’s up to The Krip where Ben goes from here. He seems to have a more indicting vision of the character than I do (at least, so far). But we’ll see! The fan demand to bring back the character has already had Kripke confirming that Soldier Boy will be back.

Maybe it will encourage him to give the character a more satisfying ending than Dean Winchester got in Supernatural. Though granted, that one wasn’t his doing, apparently he was in favor of that ending, which ultimately culminated 15 years of monster slaying and broments under Baby's roof.

Comparing Dean & Ben

In his interview segment, Jensen talks about what, if any, are the comparisons between Dean Winchester and Soldier Boy. AKA: Wanting a father’s approval, and an undercurrent of “John Wayne”-esque masculinity in John Winchester that Dean sought to emulate.

Jensen also talks about where he drew from to not only embody the character of Soldier Boy, but bring nuance to him—and show the peeks of vulnerability under the bravado and stoicism.

“He’s so fragile and his ego is fragile. Just like Homelander. These bigger-than-life powerful heroes really have a glass jaw… “And everyone walks on eggshells around him [Soldier Boy], and they tell him that they love him, and it’s the same with Homelander. Then when all of a sudden he faces his old team and Crimson Countess says we never loved you, we hated you—that’s a gut punch for him. Because even though on some level he may have known that, he never thought he would hear it. “And he probably propped himself up around trying to believe otherwise, because how can you walk around knowing everyone you’ve ever cared about hates you? It’s too painful.” (191)

It really is. I inherently felt this about Soldier Boy (Ben) when I watched season 3 for the first time. That’s exactly what I got from his performance and thought, there’s more to this guy than the toxic masculinity he represents.

This guy just wants to be loved, like everyone else. He wants to feel important, and even after his father’s dead, “show him” that Ben is the man his father wanted him to be. And so, he bought into the illusion Vought painstakingly crafted for him.

Whether he can come back from that remains to be seen, but I choose to be optimistic until evidence points to the contrary. 😅 (Maybe we’ll see in season 4!)

So that’s my personal take on Soldier Boy and this awesome book. 💚 Thank you again @kaleldobrev for recommending it to me! I hope you all enjoyed my long-winded review and want to check this out.

And if you do read it, let me know! I hope to read your thoughts as well!

Tagging people who said they wanted to read my review on this book: @venus-haze @jessjad @kristophalis @sl33pylilbunny

[blazehedgehog]

Y’all ever feel hyped to boot up an old game again and 5 minutes in you’re like “OH WOW THIS IS BORING” 💀

Specifically an old game? No, not in a long time.

The older a game is, the more resources available to you to determine its quality before you ever pick it up. I talk to friends about games, I hear what they're excited for, or what they've liked in the past, there are Youtube videos and Twitch streams. I have also been playing games for a very long time. I know my tastes.

So, for example, I know to stay away from strategy games. I don't like them. Once in a blue moon I'll get the itch, mostly out of nostalgia, to load up something like Warcraft 2 or Age of Empires, since I had friends that liked to play those and they made me tag along. But I've never finished one of those games and probably never will.

The last game, and maybe the only game, to come close to what you're describing, is Wario: Master of Disguise for the Nintendo DS.

Because, I mean, I like Wario platformers. How could it go wrong? You boot it up, and immediately the first problem rears its head: it's one of those DS games that expects you to draw on the touch screen with one hand and play using the other. That's bad enough.

Worse: not only do they expect you to draw shapes on Wario to change costumes, there's TONS AND TONS AND TONS of touch screen minigames. Sometimes you do two or three in a row.

WORST: The game is also incredibly dense with text. Everyone is talking and talking and talking and talking, all the time. It's plot and tutorials and endless, endless boring, bland, "flavor."

The first level in the game is 20 minutes long and I'd wager only three of those minutes are actually the advertised platformer part. The rest is minigames and so, so, so much reading.

The dialog isn't good. The minigames aren't new or special. And the platformer bits are very slow and clumsy. It isn't just "bad for a Nintendo game," it's just a bad game. The whole thing is a constant, non-stop exercise in tedium. I'm not even sure I made it all the way to the end of that first level before becoming exhausted by how lame it was.

But... things like that don't happen very often, I gotta say.

[aryastark-valarmorghulis]

Lesmand set during Armand's little 18th century tale. They share blood, they [redacted], Armand goes through it, Lestat acts like Lestat etc etc

No name (Rating M, 3K)

I have an idea, Lestat had said.

In the flickering dim torchlight, flames and smoke licked the damp, moldy air, and Lestat looked like the God he claimed to be, a young God, the promise of modern times, a dark Jacobin, a Prometheus who swept away the crumbling coven with the promise of enlightenment.

And Armand, with no God, no Satan, no coven, no master, no children, nothing left but stale rules and the dull tedium of resignation tethering him to this vile ground, couldn’t reply anything but: “Tell me.”

Keep reading on ao3

[kafus]

i did some ridiculous technical BS in pokemon again

NOTE: not only is this post a very very long infodump from yours truly, it is also specifically an infodump involving a lot of pokemon glitches and exploits. even though i don't tamper with my games and everything achieved here can be done on original hardware with no hacking or what-have-you, some people still may consider this Cheating based on their own personal standards of legitimate gameplay. i ask that you please don't try to start arguments with me about pokemon legality and just take it all as an interesting technical infodump about gen 3 pokemon okay thank you <3

SO. i decided that before pokemon bank eventually shuts down one day in the probably-not-so-distant future and makes old gen transfer impossible, i need more ribbon master pokemon (AKA a pokemon with all the ribbons it can possibly receive from its gen of origin to the most recent gen it can transfer to) from gens 3 and 4. i've been meaning to ribbon master a pokemon from gen 3 based on my favorite singer, KAF (you don't need to know anything about kaf for this story whatsoever but you should check her out LMAO) and while musing over what pokemon would suit her best, it came to me.

FARIGIRAF IS JUST KAF'S FURSONA!! the monster teeth hoodie with the eyes. even has the dangly bits. like come on it's perfect. AND girafarig is obviously available in gen 3 so i could RM a kaf girafarig and then evolve her once i got to SV. Cool! Awesome! but here's the problem. I CAN'T SETTLE FOR JUST A NORMAL GIRAFARIG. I HAVE TO GO ALL OUT!!

i started brainstorming my ideal gen 3 kaf girafarig, and came to the following conclusions:

i obviously want the girafarig to be shiny. i mean come on

i want her to be a girl for obvious reasons, and gentle nature to match her personality. just because Armor Tail is better on Farigiraf i also want it to have girafarig's second ability, Early Bird. i'm not concerned with IVs because i think random IVs add flavor and that would add more tedium than i was already dealing with

i want her to be japanese language origin since kaf is a japanese singer (i can nickname her かふ that way too!)

i want the original trainer (OT) name to be PPさん (PP-san) in reference to the person who scouted out kaf's talent in the first place - he goes by Piedpiper online and my friends and i call him PP as a joke sometimes

i want the trainer ID to be 02018 because 2018 is kaf's debut year

since girafarig only spawns in gen 3 in the ruby/sapphire/emerald safari zone, i wanted to hatch a girafarig egg in firered/leafgreen for the kanto origin, which is impossible otherwise. FRLG are also really important games to me, leafgreen being the first pokemon game i ever owned or played, so that's a bonus

now you may be looking at this entire list and being like. What the fuck. how do you intend to shiny hunt girafarig with all of these hyperspecific parameters, especially in FRLG where the everstone passing nature doesn't exist and flame body doesn't even exist to hatch eggs faster. you will be doing that long after bank shuts down. and you're intending on doing this on original hardware too??? WELL. that's where ACE and RNG manipulation comes in babey. i am GOING to attempt to make this comprehensible even if you've never touched ACE or RNG manip in your life, even tangentially, but sorry if this is a bit of a mess it's pretty technical LOL. the rest of this post is going below a cut cause it Goes Places!!

ACE and RNG manipulation explained (kinda)

first off a quick overview of ACE, ACE stands for arbitrary code execution, which is the ability to run your own (arbitrary!) code within the game. this can be set up with a series of elaborate glitches, that break open the gen 3 pokemon games into letting you run your PC box names as code, enabling you to do pretty much anything you want. to be upfront, i'm not an expert on ACE - i understand it in an overarching conceptual sense and am able to follow ACE guides just fine, but i cannot write my own ACE code, which essentially requires you to know some GBA assembly. doesn't really matter for the purpose of this story though.

you can see an example of a tiny snippet of a larger ACE code with the PC box name below. it looks like gibberish but that's because every character used in the name corresponds to a specific internal value, which when all run together, is code!

i need ACE in FRLG because resetting for, or RNG manipulating (more on that in a moment), trainer ID (and secret ID, also more on that later) is pretty much impossible. ACE will allow me to change my TID to 02018 by essentially just telling the game to do so with my PC boxes. this requires me to set up ACE in emerald first since that's the only game with a viable entrypoint, and then use emerald ACE to make glitch pokemon that can activate ACE in FRLG when traded over.

as for RNG manipulation, that's a bit more straightforward, especially if you've ever watched a speedrun of... pretty much anything with random chance in it. games with random chance are not actually fully random because computers can't really be fully random, and in the older pokemon games with unencrypted and less advanced RNG (random number generator) algorithms, this is pretty easy to exploit.

this is a heavy simplification, but whenever you encounter a wild pokemon in RSE or FRLG, the amount of frames that have passed since the game was turned on are compared to a number that was generated upon boot, called the RNG seed. if you've ever played minecraft you can compare this to world seeds - the pokemon RNG seed determines all possible wild encounters in that play session in a similar fashion as minecraft determining the infinite terrain layout. this comparison determines every aspect of an encountered pokemon; its species, nature, IVs, and so on. so, if you were able to time your wild encounter (or any other type of pokemon encounter) down to the 1/60th of a second frame, you can get the game to spit out whatever pokemon you want at you! you just need a bit of typically invisible information first - the RNG seed, and if you're RNGing a shiny, your secret ID aka SID, which is like an invisible second trainer ID generated alongside your TID that is paired up with the TID and compared against any pokemon you encounter to determine if it should be shiny or not. both of these things can be figured out without hacking or tampering with games/save files.

the most common program used for all things RNG manipulation is called pokefinder and you can see an example of it spitting out what shinies are available on hoenn's first route in the first 100000 frames of the game being on with an RNG seed of 0 and my old TID/SID combo below. it's pretty damn cool to me tbh, i love RNG manipulation and i'm way more versed on it/experienced than i am with ACE

TLDR; rng manipulation is essentially a frame perfect, speedrunning-adjacent trick to get the game to roll the RNG in your favor, including for perfect IVs or shininess. for reasons that will become clear later, this is much easier to do in emerald than any other gen 3 game, so i will be using emerald for the RNG manipulation of the girafarig egg

with ALL of that context out of the way, this was the gameplan:

play through a fresh file of japanese firered (i don't own japanese leafgreen, RIP) all the way through the postgame to unlock trading with hoenn with the name PPさん, not worrying about TID for now. the guide i was following did not have a code for changing name with ACE in japanese FRLG specifically, so i figured playing the game again real quick would be a better alternative to trying to teach myself assembly in an afternoon LOL

set up ACE in my new emerald file i completed recently

use ACE in emerald to generate the glitch pokemon needed to run ACE in FRLG and trade them over. finalize the setup process over in FRLG too

look up possible gentle, ability 2, female, and shiny egg frames, and pick one that looks good to RNG manipulate in emerald, noting its PID (an encounter-specific ID number, pretty much)

figure out what SID, when combined with a TID of 02018, will cause that egg frame to be shiny - that way when the egg is traded over and hatched in firered, it will be shiny

do the RNG in emerald, trade over the to-be-shiny egg to firered, and hatch it after changing the TID/SID with ACE appropriately!! bam female, gentle, early bird, shiny, JP origin girafarig with an OT of PPさん and a visible TID of 02018. Pog!!

to execute that gameplan would take me an entire day, though...

step 1: play through firered

ok gonna be honest this is the ONE part of this entire process that i did not play on original hardware. i wanted to get to the Cool Parts of this process so i decided to play through firered on emulator. absolutely terrible picture sorry but i do actually own japanese firered, so i could dump the game legally to my computer to use speedup in mGBA with a little device called the Joey JR which connects the cart to my computer by USB like so

after that it was pretty much a relatively normal playthrough but obviously with emulator speedup. i used solely my starter blastoise to, well, blast through the rest of the game LMAO. after just a couple of hours or so i was right before the elite four, which i completed while in the car after moving the save file back to my cartridge with the same device, since i had to leave the house to go to a doctor appointment. i tried to take pictures of me beating the game but the sun was not doing the photos any favors lol. blastoise ended up being level 76 by the end. was easy with surf and an ice beam TM from the game corner (i just bought the coins)

unfortunately beating the game isn't the only requirement for trading with the hoenn games, so i also had to complete the whole sevii islands postgame quest... which required me to have 60 registered owned entries in the pokedex, which i wasn't really doing while speeding through the game initially, so i had a lot of mons to catch. i was still out of the house at this point (and playing at normal speed lol) so i wasn't really taking pictures, but i did make a stop at the power plant to look for an electabuzz despite it being an inefficient 5% since i needed a spare anyways for my leafgreen file unrelated to this story lmao. took a pic of it since it took a while to show up. anyway soon enough the dex had 60+ entries! i've played FRLG so many times that the encounter locations are memorized in my mind... i did all of this with no googling asdfkasfd

at this point i got home and was able to do the ruby/sapphire postgame quest on emulator with speedup again, so it was pretty easy. moved the save back to cart and i was done with step 1! obviously this didn't actually take me 21 hours of playtime, that was the emulator speedup's fault loool. from here on out i didn't touch any emulators again!

step 2: set up ACE in emerald

ACE time! i've actually set up ACE in an old emerald file before but i wanted to do it again fresh. i was following a guide pretty much to a T so i'm actually going to skip over the details of some of the steps since you can read about those more in depth over at the guide i was using if you want

TLDR; you have to trade for the NPC trade pokemon, DOTS the seedot and PLUSES the plusle, then EV train DOTS a specific way. these EV values cause DOTS to turn into a glitch pokemon egg 0x0611 when corrupted with the pomeg glitch (more on that in a bit), which, when hatched, runs the PC box names as code, aka ACE! why does it work? if you really want to know, there's plenty of stuff online about it, i'm not the best person to ask haha

it's worth noting that volbeat is really annoying to capture in emerald as it's literally only available as a 1% in one patch of grass, so i caught an illumise instead and bred them until a volbeat hatched lol. was much more efficient

also lol "Take good care of DOTS!" sorry i will be corrupting your son into demonspawn that lets me wield godlike control over your universe

after getting the necessary NPC trade pokemon all ready and moving them into a specific pattern in box 2 (i cloned them with the emerald tower cloning glitch) i had to perform the pomeg glitch. this involves using a pomeg berry to decrease a pokemon's health to 0 without causing a whiteout. this is achieved by getting a pokemon with at least 8 HP EVs to 1 HP and then using the pomeg berry on it, decreasing the EVs and taking off a point of health in the process (it's slightly more steps than this but whatever). i decided to use the camerupt i had during my playthrough of the game for this purpose. just took him to fiery path to get poisoned and walked until he was on 1 HP and healed him with an antidote lol

by doing the pomeg glitch and entering a wild battle, the game gets a bit confused since all the pokemon in your party are fainted and just sends out some sort of glitch decamark pokemon. in this situation, after viewing my camerupt's summary in battle and exiting back out of the summary screen, i was able to corrupt the DOTS and PLUSES sitting in my PC by scrolling up above the usual limit of the party menu, which reaches into data used by the first two PC boxes and fucks them up, ending up with, assuming that i EV trained correctly, a glitched egg that is about to hatch in a nest ball named DOTS with pokerus. this will run ACE when hatched! (if you want more info on this corruption pomeg stuff, check out the bulbapedia article for glitzer popping. yes that's what they named it)

step 3: use emerald ACE to set up firered ACE

so once again you can find a lot more detail on this process over at the guide i was using, but the TLDR of the matter was, i needed to put a bunch of codes into my PC box names to generate a few different glitch mons. specifically, i needed a egg that would hatch into a crobat (yes, fully evolved lol) with a singular glitched out move, that when used in battle in firered, would cause ACE to happen similar to how hatching the corrupted DOTS egg causes ACE to happen in emerald. i also needed a specific buggy shiny umbreon and a very strange glitchy egg.

even though this step was mostly a lot of tedious typing on the gen 3 keyboard (+ i had to redo things once because i made a typo at one point in the process LOL) it was so much fun! the game breaks in so many ways that you would just... never see during normal gameplay and it makes for some really good pictures and whatnot

first of all, when you hatch the 0x0611 egg, it hatches into a decamark of varying colors, in the case of the picture below it's almost imperceptible because the whole sprite is just a black circle, blending in with the background (sorry for the quality on this one, it's a screencap of a video clip i took).

additionally, trying to scroll over the hatched decamark in the PC or viewing its summary screen will crash the game, so to get rid of it, it has to be moved to the front of your party in the party menu, and then you go to the PC to release it through the deposit menu. since the cursor just defaults to the first position of the party and you don't have to scroll over to it, it's possible to release it from here.

oh yes and the umbreon/other glitch egg? similarly screwy - actually after generating them, their sprites are glitched out until you reset the game, so they look like this. behold their nonsense summaries:

after i had all i needed to trade to FRLG, i cloned an extra set of them with the emerald tower glitch again just in case i messed something up and got to trading! here's me receiving them on the firered side:

and last but not least, i'm a little obsessed with the way the glitch move looks in FRLG on the hatched crobat, absolute nonsense:

i finalized setting up the FRLG ACE (check out the guide i linked earlier for more info) and put everything into their proper positions, but before i could actually execute any code... i needed to know what SID i was going for!

step 4 + 5: look up potential egg frames in emerald and find an SID

soo now for looking at potential girafarig eggs. instead of using the program pokefinder which i mentioned earlier, i used a program called pokenav egg rng tool, which is exactly what it sounds like, a tool specialized for rng manipulating eggs with the pokenav in emerald. using it, i was quickly able to generate a whole list of gentle, female, ability 2 (early bird) eggs, and i picked one that was around 1300 frames in since that made for quick resetting attempts, but not so quick that i could barely make my inputs in time. the one i picked was frame 1381. with a TID of 02018, the PID D2C5EF55 would be shiny with an SID of 14962, so i noted that for later in firered. (i figured this out using an old program called RNG Reporter which is what i'm familiar with but i don't recommend using lmao. it's the "Pandora's Box" feature of that software though if you happen to look it up)

i won't make an entire guide on how to do emerald egg RNG here because it's a lot of steps, but i might at some point because the most up to date method isn't super well documented. anyways, here's a very paraphrased version of the process (this is also assuming that you aren't dealing with "redraws", which i wasn't... like i said very paraphrased):

get a pokemon with the ability lightningrod in the front of your party (i used electrike) to make pokenav calls happen more frequently, and a pokemon with flame body or magma armor (i used slugma) to make eggs hatch faster

get a male and a female of the pokemon you want to hatch, in my case girafarig. if you were RNGing IVs, the parent's IVs would be relevant, but i am not RNGing IVs so i didn't care and just caught the first girafarig i could in the safari zone

an egg is attempted to be generated every 255 steps after the parents are deposited in the daycare together, so by timing the usage of a max repel in such a way, it's easy to save the game exactly 10 steps before an egg is generated. do this

using a timer such as eontimer, soft reset and try to take that last 10th step on your target frame. this will also trigger a pokenav call (or lack thereof) and by looking for the phone call you got in the call column of the egg rng tool and whether or not an egg generated at the daycare, you can tell what frame you hit. didn't hit your target? just soft reset and try again, calibrating the timer for your own human error. this can take a while since the timing is precise to 1/60th of a second

once you hit your target frame, woohoo you did it just take the egg and hatch it! if you're RNGing IVs you would actually save before taking the egg and then RNG the IVs separately but that's a whole different thing i'm not explaining here since i wasn't RNGing IVs

i've avoided mentioning it this entire time till now, but emerald is particularly easy to do rng manipulation in because due to a programming error, the rng seed is always 0 - all encounters are predictable and you don't have to dedicate a frame perfect input to getting the right seed, making emerald rng a matter of one frame perfect input instead of two (there ARE ways to get emerald to generate a proper rng seed but that's unrelated here). additionally, its pokenav system means you can see if you got the right egg BEFORE taking it and hatching it... doing egg RNG in any other gen 3 game is basically a death sentence due to multiple untelegraphed frame perfect inputs that have to be executed in a row, plus really long wait times due to hatching eggs on a slower bike without flame body. there's a reason i was not doing this on four island in frlg.

but yeah now i knew what egg frame i was going for and was all prepared to do the RNG, so now it was onto actually executing it all:

step 6: getting kaf girafarig babey!!

before doing the RNG manipulation in emerald, i needed to change my SID and TID in firered finally! this required me to run two different codes, one for SID and one for TID. it was actually pretty painless since the code is nearly identical for both, you just swap out the values of each ID and one character changes in one box name to decide whether you're changing TID or SID. you can find the list of codes i was referencing here.

i was saving my one allotted video clip in this post for changing the TID with the glitched crobat move though because LMAO

^ shoutout to my qpp @/spikyearr for this one i fucking chokedSKFDDSFK

anyway, after doing that i went through the process of the egg rng in emerald (unfortunately no pictures because it's kind of hard to take pics mid-rng) and actually saved before taking the egg so that i'd be able to soft reset after hatching it - i just needed to check to make sure it was gentle and everything, and then i could soft reset, take the egg again, bike around to decrease the egg cycles in emerald since hatching in firered is super slow, and then trade it off before hatching it to go be hatched in firered. i knew it wouldn't be shiny in emerald, so i wasn't concerned with that. it only took 40 or so minutes of attempts before i got her!

and then AT LAST after spending my ENTIRE DAY ON THIS SHIT (like 10x the amount of time on the ACE stuff for the TID instead of the actual RNG itself LOOOL) i just had to trade the egg to firered and hatch it and i was golden!!!!! AAAGH here she is next to my kaf plushies!!!

also a picture of her summary screen after being traded to my english leafgreen!! i am assuming this will be easier to read for most of the people reading this post LOL

THAT'S IT. POST OVER THIS WAS SO LONG. IF YOU MADE IT THROUGH MY RAMBLING GOOD JOB. I HIT THE PHOTO LIMIT HELP ME

anyways yeah i'm gonna be ribbon mastering her and idk i might post about the process as i go. not immediately though i have a platinum playthrough to finish teehee. also if any of this was interesting to you i highly recommend trying out RNG manipulation, it's a really fun way to play pokemon games! gen 5, BW specifically and not their sequels, is REALLY beginner friendly for RNG manipulation as the timing is a lot less precise. check it out, there's plenty of guides online!!

[satoruni]

Can I request a snake x reader where he’s finally ready to propose to y/n and settle down? I’d LOVE a breeding kink being included in it too 😭😭 tysm even if you don’t post anything! I love your work <3

WARNINGS: f!reader, snake being a loser, age gap, rough sex, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink

You had found yourself increasingly frustrated with Snake. Initially, the thrill of covertly stealing kisses and sneaking into his room at dawn had its own charm. However the constant secrecy and his dismissive demeanour during the day began to wear on you. You grew tired of this little game and detested his feigned ignorance in front of everyone. The thrill had faded and had you yearning for something more stable, something more grounded.

Gradually, your attention soon shifted to Olmar, the son of Master Ketil and the heir to the vast farm. You were not blind to him fawning over you and his feeble attempts to impress you with his shockingly bad swordsmanship. It was best for him to remain here and you made sure it would happen.

Everyone was mortified to see you be more receptive to Olmar's affections.

"Hey, wasn't that cute thing hanging around you these past days?" Fox remarked casually one day. Snake simply gave him a cold glare before barking at him to do his job.

In truth, Snake had been noticing you and Olmar getting more and more closer each day. The sight of you two stirred a sense of envy within him despite him maintaining a nonchalant facade.

You were the one good thing in his life. In the midst of routine and tedium, your presence did bring joy to him. He didn't know why he even hid the relationship in the first place. Perhaps he believed he wasn't worthy of you or that he didn't deserve a fulfilling family life. These self-doubts and insecurities lingered in his mind, clouding his judgment and causing him to keep his emotions concealed.

So one day, Snake reached his breaking point and decided to interrupt you and Olmar's talk.

"Please move aside, young master" he muttered pushing past the skinnier and mortified Olmar without even sparing him a glance.

He proceeded to kneel in front of you, causing everyone around you to stop working as they looked at the strange sight.

"Uh, Snake, what are you doing?" Fox chuckled nervously as he looked at his brothers who stared slack-jawed at this uncharacteristic display.

With all eyes now on Snake, a hushed silence fell over the surrounding crowd.

"Listen," Snake murmured, his face flushed much to your shock and his voice tinged with nervousness. "I can't keep hiding this anymore and I can't bear to see you off with anyone else. I love you so will you marry me?"

Your eyes widened in astonishment as he opened his palm, revealing a stunning ring that sparkled in the light. A gasp escaped your lips and tears instantly flooded your eyes.

"Yes, you fool!" you replied, prompting cheers from everyone. Even Snake's men who found the whole thing to be incredulous could not help but feel happy for their boss.

You were waiting nervously on the bed, your heart fluttering with apprehension. As you sat there, lost in your thoughts, the door to the room creaked open, revealing Snake standing in the doorway. His eyes were heavy with lust and desire, making you squeeze your thighs together.

Snake then walks up to you and kisses you lightly on the lips, causing you to close your eyes and melt into his embrace. You kiss him again more deeply this time as he lifts you up and sets you down at the end of your bed, pulling your legs onto his lap so that your thighs straddle his hips.

Feeling bold, you pull down your shift over your shoulders and delighted in the way Snake's eyes darkened with desire.

"I really am a fortunate man" he said breathily. Snake's rough hands smoothed over the soft skin between your breasts, causing goosebumps to appear from his touch.

You moan sweetly as he sucks on your tits, feeling his hot tongue glide over your sensitive nipples and you felt yourself getting even more wet down there. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you guide his mouth back to yours so that you can deepen the kiss to which he eagerly reciprocated.

However, Snake wanted to take charge so he spread your legs, placing them on each side of his hips as he kissed and licked his way up your thighs. Snake then ran a finger along your wet folds and teased your clit, eliciting a gasp from you. His long fingers enter you, stretching your walls.

"Good girl" he whispers in your ear, making you tighten around him.

"Ahhh!" you breathed out heavily, your mind consumed by wanting him to just take you already.

Soon enough, Snake had entered you making you wince slightly at his large size. However, he was gentle, letting you adjust slowly to his size and you were able to find pleasure. Afterwards, Snake found his rhythm as he continually thrusted into you.

He truly did feel grateful to have you as his wife and the thought of you waiting for him bought him so much joy. However, his thoughts could not help but go to more lewd places, like you being heavy with his child. His mouth watered at the thought of your leaking breasts and your swollen belly, making him even more possessive of you.

While thinking this, his thrusts became much rougher and more powerful, causing you to stutter and moan underneath him. Snake enjoyed how your delicate body would spasm around him.

"Oh, Snake!" you felt his cum flood inside you, some leaking out.

"Hey, keep it all in," he laughed, kissing you passionately.

"Will we have kids?" you find yourself asking him shyly.

"We can keep going since my wife wants to be more thorough" you blush heavily at this eliciting a smirk from Snake as he continues to tease you throughout the night

[morgana-ren]

https://www.tumblr.com/baronvontribble/733180802575302656/thoughts-on-the-vampire-ascendant

Thought you’d enjoy this bit of whump bonus

They're right. One of my age-old sayings is "Don't make a deal with a devil." Initially it started out through playing DnD very young and being tricked repeatedly by my stepdad, who always had some way to outcraft us. It is only reinforced by DnD lore, where devils are self-serving and more clever than you. They will offer you everything you ever wanted and take away everything that made it worth having until you beg for death-- and even then, you will not get it. Your eternal reward is as their currency in some form or another. The vampire ascendant. They make a point to tell you that it has never happened before. That this is a new breed of vampire with all the lusts and appetites of man, and none of the weaknesses of their kind. In exchange for a paltry 7,000 souls, this deal can be yours. The post is right. They can get that through starting a war. Through a genocide. Through tedium and meticulous crafting. Through sending their servants out into the realms of men to trick those with enough arrogance and hubris that they would tangle with a cambion. So what else are they gaining? One thing I've noticed throughout the playthrough is Astarion has a shocking lack of forethought most of the time. He is smart, but he isn't necessarily clever. He doesn't have a devious mind. He's relatively straightforward most of the time, unless you count him trying to manipulate you. He would make a horrible chess player. He doesn't think moves ahead. He sees an opportunity and he takes it.

Obviously, this seems like the deal of a bloody lifetime to him. The souls are there already with no work on his end, and he doesn't have to do a single thing but torture his former master and recite some pretty words. Bam, instant ascendant.

What he doesn't realize is that this fully indebts him to the hells, or more specifically, his new master. See, devils do not only think one step ahead, and they sure as shit aren't going to grant power like that unless they continuously gain from it.

One of the fun parts of the Arch Dukes is that they are constantly throwing each other under the fucking bus. Each and every one wants to be better than Asmodeus. Each and every one plots above their station. They aren't content making petty deals with vampires. They want more.

If ol' Mephi is making this deal, he's doing so with ulterior motives. You can bet your fucking ass on that. And what better at Mephi's command than a souless, blood-hungry vampire with ambitions of making the world kneel at their feet? Astarion slaughters, and all the souls funnel right down to sweet Mephi, a part of the bargain that was thoughtlessly glossed over. Mephi gets his soul, and all that is left is a violent, warmongering vampire with endless thirst and the means to fill it. Astarion wants to be free so badly that at several points in the game, he offers his soul to other entities. Worst entities. Raphael, who is plotting something similar to Mephi, is one of these people. There's literally a conversation you have after meeting Raphael where he essentially tells you outright that he will sell what is left of his soul for a tiny bit of freedom. He might as well, right? He doesn't think, which is why you must do the thinking for him. Why would Mephi still allow the ritual to continue after Cazador had been slaughtered unless it didn't matter who took it? Why would he offer this in the first place for what is literally a paltry amount of souls? They do nothing alturistically. Nothing. Anyway, there's my thoughts on it.

[marabarl-and-marlbara]

hello mara, i hope you are having a good day today :]

what are your opinions on classic literature? or anything equated to classical stuff

GOOD MORNING LORD AND MASTER ANONYMOUS: HELLO!

it:s my first day waking up in december after a prolonged november due to me being so darn late with my subscriber post; and, you know: partially there is related to classic literature, because on December 1st, instead of finishing my letters i had been doing a graveyard shift from 3~12 cleaning dog cages and getting nauseous and feverish around the 10 o'clock, and this is relevant because i use this time to listen to audiobooks, and over the month i had finished Drood by Dan Simmons (which is about Dickens, classic literature) and which had led me to want to listen to Dickens's Bleak House (which is mentioned in Drood with a lot of sentimentality, and which i heard heard is 'like The Wire')--and though Dickens really should not be representative of all of classic literature: i can not stand Bleak House, but i do not dislike it; Bleak House is a story i want to enjoy but i need to read chapter synopses after each listening session because i can not mentally follow all of the characters, and at some point the story just breaks down into total noise (though this is less bad during the Esther chapters). so, as it relates to work: Bleak House has directly made me not want to listen to classic literature while cleaning dog cages from 3~12 because Dickens is too densely characterized and too slow, and listening to five newly introduced characters stand around the dead body of an opium-addicted law-writer blab about legal procedure for forty minutes was not helping my fever or my nausea or the tedium of cleaning floors--i dropped it for some Tiktok favorite book Liz Moore's God of the Woods and finished it on my shift, December 1st, and actually really enjoyed it as a brain-off thriller with some plot elements that made me think of the warmer parts of Twin Peaks.

But I like classic literature over-all, sort-of; it's a very broad "category" and I wouldn't say it's my favorite except on an author-to-author basis, ex: I'm currently really enamored by Henry James and think he writes almost like this strangely perfect alien who just makes these clunky inhuman sentences that are structured like total magic--and if my times are right, by the time his writing career was beginning to close, Gertrude Stein was making a name for herself; and then I have an interest in reading Woolf and Dorothy Richardson (I don't know if they'd be considered classic)--and the Russians (I'm reading Brothers Karamazov at the moment and while I am getting something out of each chapter, Brothers has me wanting for something shorter, because there are just so many books I'd like to read and my life is sort-of breezing through my fingertips). Moby Dick! I want to read that at some point. Master and Margarita(?) too, at some point, because I heard it's about a large satanic cat that materialized in a girls room and speaks with her.

But I like classic literature; my first exposure to it was Frankenstein in HS and I think that remains one of my all-time favorites--really maybe what set me off on loving reading, and to collect a bunch of 'classic' stories while a highschooler and constantly read through them (I got stuck on mythology for awhile) because I had this silly idea that I was like an RPG character and by reading this stuff I would 'improve' and become more erudite (reality is I mostly just became exhausted with stodgy slow books I largely wasn't enjoying);

so: more-so than classic, I just really hinge upon having an interest in the author; Henry James isn't a person I'd have thought myself really interested in, but he is fascinating. It's just passion and interest that drives me to read; if enough bad Tiktok videos hype up some trash book I'll want to read it or listen to it (I'm listening to All Fours by Miranda July, who narrates it and has a lovely voice, but this is total trash, I'm fine with it though); that's it lord and master anonymous, take care.

[whoreviewswho]

You're Serious? - The Time Warrior, 1973

A fact that is becoming somewhat lost to time is that Jon Pertwee's time on Doctor Who was very popular. This is not to say that the Pertwee era is largely disregarded in 2024 but it does seem readily apparent, as time marches on, that the prevalence of Pertwee as a definitive, monolithic icon for the general public has naturally dwindled. Or, perhaps, dwindled is the wrong word – Pertwee's Doctor has truly been eclipsed by even mightier, entirely totemic icons that came in his wake. David Tennant is THE Doctor and the only other challenger remains the indomitable Tom Baker.

But back when I was a kid, circa 2004/2005, Jon Pertwee's era was definitive. My mum, who grew up in regional Australia, recalled fond memories of watching Pertwee and Katy Manning pal around with the Brigadier. A formative step in my journey as a fan was a visit to Hobbyco in Sydney and begging my mum for the Corgi Doctor Who 40th Anniversary Gift Set of die cast models. Like any number of similar curios that shape fan memories, this particular set cemented what were, to my mind, the most iconic building blocks of the series – the Doctor (a S18 Tom Baker, presumably for painting reasons), the TARDIS (not to scale with the rest of the models), K-9 (with lettering in both sides), the Daleks (a Chase model), Davros (no notes), the Cybermen (Earthshock model that I apparently either never got or immediately lost since I have not memories of owning one) and Bessie (also not to scale), driven by Tom Baker. I vividly recall purchasing the set and the guy at the counter being excited to strike up a conversation. He was obviously a fan and talked fondly about the highlights of the series. What I realised in the years that have flowed on since is that, despite speaking highly of the Fourth Doctor and Sarah Jane, the most vivid of those rosy fan memories, the ones he and many other adults always relayed to me pre-revival, were of UNIT and the Master and the Sea Devils and Bessie* and the Axons and the Sontarans.

Put into perspective, this makes a great deal of sense. Leaving aside my home country's personal context (mid-'70s DW was infamously repeated on the ABC, a fact that was immortalised in DWM #104 when Tasmanian Jamie Hillard complained of the tedium of seasons eleven to fourteen being repeated twice a year, every year for the past five years. He was suitably rinsed by the UK fandom), Jon Pertwee's era was the most popular Doctor Who had ever been. While the show chugged along just fine during Troughton's tenure, it was in dire straits when producer Barry Letts inherited it partway through production of season seven, Pertwee's first, in 1970. It was only off the strength of what made it to screen that the programme was renewed at all. Throughout the four years that followed, Letts and script-editor Terrance Dicks retooled Doctor Who from Derrick Sherwin's vision of a hard-edged, political sci-fi thriller into the more accessible glam-infused comic-book show that raked in as many as ten million viewers a week for the first time since 1965. 

But a good thing only lasts so long and, by the time of late 1973, just as Doctor Who was kicking off its eleventh season, it felt like a natural end was coming to what had been an incredibly successful five years. Pertwee’s Doctor Who had became an institution in its own right. Not to get too ahead of myself but there is a strong case to be made that Tom Baker and the Philip Hinchcliffe's era ascent to being the most popular the show ever was in its original run owes as much, if not more, of its success to the goodwill and steadily rising audience of the Pertwee years than it does to its actual quality (and it is of a very high quality). This is entirely hyperbolic but I strongly believe that had anybody else been cast as Pertwee's successor, anything less than the perfect storm we got, the Letts/Dicks/Pertwee run of the show would stand out as the cultural peak even today. Bessie and the Brig would be wheeled out by the norms instead of the long scarf and K-9, that you can believe.

As everybody reading this article would know, the earthbound stories of Pertwee's time were notable for a distinct 'family feel', so to speak. Unlike previous eras, and any until 2005, the Third Doctor had an ongoing, regular supporting cast comprising of UNIT personnel and assistants as well as the recurring threat of Roger Delgado's Master. There is a familiarity and comfort to the Third Doctor's run. Over the course of the previous year’s season ten, however, Letts and Dicks decided that the format had well and truly run its course and the Doctor was propelled into space and time full-time once again, leaving behind the UNIT regulars as merely recurring characters. It was during this production cycle that Katy Manning had decided that it was time for her to move on from the show, departing at the end of The Green Death, the last story broadcast that season. The final serial of season ten's production block, however, was actually the first story of season eleven – The Time Warrior.

Throughout the 1973-74 season, a slow (and conscious) dismantling of the Pertwee era begun taking place as well as a distinct sense of a lap of honour for the previous four seasons. In real life, this begins with Manning's departure in 1973 which, while her own instigated decision, was encouraged by Letts for fear his two stars would jump ship at the same time. Letts and Dicks had themselves decided to move on by the time season eleven proper began production which ultimately left Pertwee, self-conscious of his self-proclaimed team breaking up, finally deciding to give up the reigns after the tragic death of Roger Delgado. Onscreen, of course, this plays out somewhat quietly masterful. Malcolm Hulke's Invasion of the Dinosaurs is a conspiracy laden, political thriller such as those of season seven (detractors would call it parody) and saw the departure of now disgraced UNIT captain Mike Yates. Death to the Daleks (the hardest to square this circle, tbf) called back to the season ten’s epic return of the ‘60s Dalek adventure and offered the last gasp of the traditional, Hartnell style adventure serial that still permeated across Pertwee's time. The Monster of Peladon offered a direct sequel to the fan-favourite from season nine with some nice, deliberate telegraphing of the Doctor's oncoming death. And then there's the grand finale, Planet of the Spiders, where the Third Doctor departs the show with his remaining UNIT family under a series of self-referential and, frankly, indulgent circumstances set off by his own cavalier behaviour. Season eleven is a twenty-six episode finale for the Pertwee era that retreads all of the highs and exposes its limitations quite deliberately. With all of this in mind, The Time Warrior, the series opener, is entirely lacking in this sort of farewell tour mentality stands out as something of a different beast for the year.

For each of their seasons on the job, Letts and Dicks made a conscious effort to open each year with a big event and season eleven was no exception. After an absence of eight years (no, The Time Monster doesn't count), the duo thought that it was time for the return of the historical story. Somebody who disagreed, however, was Robert Holmes. Holmes had been a frequent contributor over Dicks' tenure as script-editor and was less than enthused that his proposal, The Automata, was rejected for him to be reassigned an historical. Dicks suggested an adventure be set in and around a medieval castle (it was filmed between Peckforton Castle and Wessex Castle to stunning results) and Holmes agreed only on the proviso that no famous historical figures were to be featured and that strong science-fiction elements were to still be included. The story that made it to screen has become one of the most renowned and celebrated in the history of the show. Frequently, I see it touted up alongside the all-time greats in the franchise as one of the very best and a real highlight of Jon Pertwee’s time in the show. While I think that The Time Warrior is very good, and there is a lot that I really like about it, this level of high praise has never sat entirely well with me. I don't even really have a lot to say on it. I like it a lot, it is the highlight of season eleven and one of many high points of Pertwee's run, but I have never found it to be an unshakable classic. 

Let's not get too in the weeds too soon, though because Robert Holmes was a magnificent writer. Despite his personal disinterest, the man took his brief seriously clearly put in a lot of thought into getting the most out of this particular assignment. There is almost an overabundance of wit and charm and character to The Time Warrior's ensemble. As with most sharply intelligent people, Holmes was also obviously quite cynical and Instead of leaning into something fantastically Arthurian or romantically noble, he opted for a medieval world of pure grime and nastiness. This could be taken as Holmes leaning fully into the historical story's roots as an educational programme, insisting upon the most realistic depiction of the middle ages he could on a BBC budget for a family audience. I find this hard to believe. No, what Holmes was far more likely to do, and did, was recognise that this approach would have worked perfectly well and then take the next step which is basically to take the piss out of it. The Time Warrior is not just a witty script, it is hilariously absurd and over-the-top in every aspect of its conception. Irongron and Bloodaxe are laughably incompetent and self-absorbed but the pair it is in how gleefully squalid and brutal they are that Holmes relishes in. Yes, there is a realism to The Time Warrior in that it is not the Shakespearean or mythic depiction one might have expected from the Hartnell days how but the over-exaggeration of the repulsiveness and savagery of medieval life is what I truly adore. Mind you, this is largely just what's on the surface. Holmes is obviously doing here is writing an exaggerated depiction of middle-aged England that is functionally indistinguishable from England as it was in 1973. Holmes basically invented Blackadder. As great as this is, though, it doesn't always work in its favour. We'll get to Sarah Jane shortly.

A different aspect of this serial that has made it so iconic is its main villain. Determining that a small-scale threat would be easier both for him and for the production team, Holmes’ plot revolves around a single alien menace attempting to find his way home. Allegedly inspired by his recent reading of the On War treatise, Holmes was compelled to create an entirely militaristic villain and what he created was the character of Commander Linx, as performed by Kevin Lindsay. However well Linx is realised in the story, as much praise as anyone needs to be directed to make-up designer Sandra Exelby and costume designer James Acheson for their realisation of him. Linx, and by extension the Sontarans themselves, is a grotesque creature with a troll-like quality. It has not escaped notice for many that the species design is built around an extended gag – that part one cliffhanger. Still, fans continuously fail to appreciate just how goddamn funny Linx is. The characterisation is brilliant and nobody behind the scenes, until Steven Moffat, seems to realise that this is why he works.

Holmes, in no genuinely dramatic way, utilises Linx as a threat. What he is instead, besides a visual joke, is a scathing satire of militaristic ideals. That avenue also lends itself perfectly to the exaggerated depiction of the middle-ages. In his first scene, Linx emerges before the primitive natives, in strange armour with advanced weaponry, and claims that this new land now belongs to the Sontaran Empire as he plants a flag and assumes dominance over the people. It doesn't require much analysis to decipher what's happening here. Throughout the story, Linx, whose lines almost entirely consist of spouting rhetoric, offers to make weapons for the humans he's met, all the while condescending them and caring little for their lives and livelihoods. It's a simple but fantastically clever move; Holmes has taken the opportunity to depict the English, typically at one of their most mythic and noble periods, as a cowardly and cruel race to be easily oppressed and mocked. 

The Time Warrior also sees the debut of another mainstay in Doctor Who lore in Sarah Jane Smith. Created by Barry Letts in direct contrast to her predecessor, Sarah Jane was pitched to directly address accusations of sexism that the series had garnered by being an obviously capable, career-driven, feisty and adventure-seeking investigative journalist. Incredibly, the role was cast before Elisabeth Sladen had even auditioned and, if to weren't for an uproar made by Pertwee due to his not being consulted, the part would have gone to April Walker who was paid out of the part when Letts cast Sladen (after he'd arranged for her to meet Pertwee, of course). For perhaps the wrong reasons, Pertwee was entirely correct though. From her first appearance, it is impossible not to be enamoured by Elisabeth Sladen. She just has a natural charm in this role and a captivating quality that makes her so very easy to watch. 

As introduced in The Time Warrior, Sladen is certainly strong. She is well-defined, well-performed and plays a major role in the events of the plot. She is also at the core of the serial's biggest stumbling block which can come down to Holmes' poorly pitched snark. It is certainly one of Holmes’ regular tricks to lean heavily into sardony and lampshading things that, he at least considers to be, regressive and absurd ways of thinking. Sometimes this can really serve the story the is telling and the characterisation, it does so elsewhere in this one. Here, however, I think he misses the mark drastically and it comes off very poorly. In making the world of The Time Warrior such an exaggerated and vitriolic comment on contemporary Britain, Sarah has little place to assume control in the narrative and is rather brutally victimised by it. 

Sure, Sarah Jane is firmly established as a feminist icon and it is a fine idea to drop her into the wretched sexism and reality of how horrible women were treated in the Middle Ages but emphasis is all wrong and it comes off so mean-spirited to me. In a similar vein, so much of the Doctor’s dialogue is designed to tease her about her strong values. The effect of all of this is likely intended to be endearing, and it is certainly to be funny but it comes off so smug and unnecessary. Sarah's beliefs, and the entire concept of feminism by extension, are singled-out as a futile gesture. Women are put down, they have also been put down and they always will be. This is perfectly in line with Holmes' approach to storytelling and his flavour of social commentary. It is also does not work at all.

Even though the Doctor frequently becomes Holmes' mouthpiece, I must stress that Jon Pertwee is not the problem at all. At this point in his run, the actor is so comfortable and confident in his performance that it would be impossible for him to disappear in it. To be honest, this is really the last time he properly turns up during his run since the season eleven filming proper would ent begin for a couple of months after this (it was recorded on tail end of S10’s production). Despite his oddly sexist jabs, the Third Doctor is wonderfully charismatic and relaxed in this story. There is a lovely development of his character from the rather pig-headed, irrational and moody character from season seven to the more mischievous tutor role he starts to settle into here. It is a similar progression to the First and Twelfth Doctors though rarely garners the same recognition. 

The Time Warrior also has a few structural problems in my opinion, especially in episode three. The penultimate quarter of a Doctor Who serial always seems to be the hardest to write without playing for time, the three act structure is so familiar for a reason, and this one is no exception feeling like it does waste quite a lot of time with the Doctor arsing. Getting out of the castle and going back in and all for no really good reason other than to stretch out the runtime. Obviously, all of the antics are fun. This is a good production and Alan Bromley's only true directorial credit but it still has a bit of a sag, in my opinion. Is The Time Warrior a bad story? Far from it. Nothing as fun and as well made as this could possibly be considered wholly bad in my books. It is flawed, certainly but there is so much here to love. In a season of greatest hits, The Time Warrior stands out like a toad-faced git, chuckling with glee at how clever it is.

Later in the year, and despite the reservations of the BBC Head of serials, Holmes would be offered the position of script-editor for season twelve. He took the offer up and, in hindsight, it makes The Time Warrior somewhat of an intriguing curio. On the one hand, this is the last product of the creative fury that was season ten. On the other, it is a tantalising glimpse into what lies ahead around the corner. The Hinchcliffe era doesn't obviously have much in common with The Time Warrior, it is a lot funnier than a lot of those stories would be, but there is a more subtle stylistic shift to be seen here. This is not a comic-book adventure serial. The action is not explosive and the dialogue is not pulpy and punchy in the same way. The Time Warrior is more literary. Not inherently a better or even more intelligent choice but the distinction is palpable. Underneath the sheen of a gritty historical is a silly story about squalid and mean characters  whose lives are miserable and ambitions are low. Even with the Doctor, still under UNIT's employ, there is a clear sense of his ready to move on from this status quo. The wheels of the next era are slowly in motion. Even the title sequence has changed, slowly morphing into its next identity but it's not quite there yet. Instead of looking back on the era that is closing up, The Time Warrior sets its sights firmly on the future. 

It's not even close to the best Pertwee story though. 

*He did, however, question why the Bessie model featured a S18 Tom in the driver's seat saying that it was "mostly Pertwee" who drove the car. Throughout my childhood, I found it easy to reconcile this though thanks to Tom's appearance in the The Five Doctors photoshoot. It's obvious, really.

[eldritch-spouse]

Do you think mother Miara will ever have her own master list? Also a kind of unrelated question but could she fix her finger if she wanted to ?

[Eventually, yes. I kind of want to get around to that. She deserves it at this point.]

If you recall some of the earlier posts about Mother, you'll know her fingers each fragment into people's souls, marking them as her "shards", individuals whose lives she has observed and oftentimes orchestrated in order to mend her all-consuming tedium. Krulu's vessel is one of those shards, the last one standing in fact.

In order for Miara to fix her pinkie, she would have to either kill Admin -Something she'll never consider- Or simply wait for her to perish. And Krulu's lamb is going to live for a very long while, needless to say.

So, could she fix it? Yes. Will she? No.