#no hate no surprise no revulsion

[mikimeiko]

Bodies | 06. The World is Yours

[toybreaker-kr]

Thinking about a big tiddied dom leaning severely dysphoric pre-op trans boy taking me home after a nice innocent date (m4ftm).

You’ve never hooked up with anyone before, wary of being misgendered. But we’ve had a few dates and I’ve been sweet and respectful, so you invite me to your apartment, affecting confidence you don’t really feel.

We’ll start kissing immediately after we enter your apartment. I’ll crowd you against the wall like in the movies and you’ll think it’s romantic, if a bit corny. I’ll strip you of your clothes and when I reach to pull off your binder you’ll try to protest, try to say something along the lines of “Hey, actually I’d rather keep it on”. But I’m still kissing you whenever I can reach your lips and you let the moment pass, loathe to make it awkward. I told you I was gay, so there’s no way I’ll see your chest as anything other than masculine, right? You try to tug off my clothes but I kneel and moan that I want to suck your cock. You like the way I worded that, so you let me pull your pants and briefs off.

I’m completely clothed and you’re completely naked when I yank the door open and pull you out into the hall.

You freeze for a moment in shock, then try to scramble back into your apartment yelling “what the fuck-”. I grab you from behind and shush you. You don’t want your neighbour to come out and investigate, do you? You really want them to see you like this? Tits and pussy out?

You tremble as I push you closer to your neighbour’s door until you’re practically peering into their peep hole. I lazily hump your bare ass and you can feel my hard on through my jeans. You can’t quite believe this is happening. I grab your fat tit with my left hand and snake a hand between your legs, ignoring your clit to play with that feminine hole you so loathe. My fingers just shy of entering, press just enough to burn a little. Deliberately stretching you out.

“You know,” I say conversationally, “I’m actually straight. It’s hilarious that you thought a gay man will ever want you. Your tits were practically bursting out of that sports bra you call a binder.”

I jiggle your breasts and laugh. “Do your neighbours know you’re a woman pretending to be a man? I mean it’s pretty obvious. I bet they won’t even be surprised if they open this door right now. Not surprised that you have huge udders, just shocked and disgusted by how much of a perverted skank you are.”

With a hushed and shaky voice, you demand to be released. I pull out my cock, rub the length against the underside of your pussy and you freeze again. ‘Absolutely no go zone’, your bio had said. I press a smile against your cheek and amuse myself by smacking your pussy with my cock. I adore how much you hate it. I can’t wait to break you in until you love it.

You’ve changed your tune, quietly begging to stop instead of making demands. Despite everything, you’re getting wet. The slap of my cock against your labia makes it obvious to anyone who might hear. I squeeze your tits affectionately when you start to cry.

I wriggle a finger in your vagina, then two. You act like a bug has crawled up there instead. I reach in as far as I can and feel the brush of your cervix on the tip of my middle finger. “You feel that? That’s the entrance to your womb. A man can just press his cock head flush against this and breed your womb with his cum. Then a fetus will grow inside you until your belly fills with water and gets bloated and heavy with a baby ‘cause that’s what you’re designed to do.”

You try to twist away in revulsion but I press you harder against your neighbour’s door and you have to still to stay quiet. I pull out my fingers and stroke my cock with your cunt slick. I kiss your ear. “I won’t breed you if you do as I say. I don’t particularly want to take care of a baby either, but I’ll have to if you disobey. So for the both of us, you can be a good girl, right?”

You hate yourself as you force yourself to nod. I make you say it. It feels like something in you dies as you whisper against the door, ‘I’ll be a good girl’. Then, you’re biting back a scream as I force my cock inside you.

It’s a tight fit. It feels absolutely wonderful to force myself inside your virgin cunt. With firm presses and sharp jabs. It feels the opposite of wonderful to you. You’re desperately trying to suppress the sobs from the pain and violation. You Can’t be seen like this, you just can’t.

I give you some respite once I’m hilted inside you, taking a moment to luxuriate in your warm tight insides. I pull your hips back with me, walking backwards until you’re arched, hands and forearms braced against the door for support. I pull out a little, then thrust into you, satisfied when your heavy tits swing forward and smack against the door. You gasp and try to cover your tits to reduce the noise but I pinch your ass hard in warning and tell you to resume the position. You swallow down your protests and obey.

For the next ten minutes, I fuck you roughly, the sound of my balls slapping against your thighs are drowned out my the smack smack smack of your tits knocking on your neighbour’s door. There is no way your neighbour hasn’t heard by now. Maybe they’re standing on the other side of the door, shocked and frozen with indecision. Maybe they’re watching through the intercom, guiltily pleasuring themself to the sight of a girl with big fat tits being raped against his front door. Or maybe they haven’t noticed, headphones drowning out all other noise. Maybe they’re not home. You have no idea, and that makes it worse somehow.

My hips stutter as I get closer to coming and you beg for me to pull out. I say I will if you say you’re a girl and beg for me to breed you. You cry. It’s a trap. You know it. I know you know it. But there’s no other option than to try. So you sob ‘I’m a girl’ and you beg. Force yourself to omit the ‘don’t’ as you beg ‘please breed me’.

And I do. I press my cock against your cervix with one last thrust and fill your womb with burst after burst of cum. You didn’t know you’d feel it all. The twitch and pulse of my cock and the hot sticky wetness filling parts of you you wish you never had.

You feel empty when I pull out. In more ways than one. But don’t worry, something else will fill that emptiness soon.

[moonspirit]

Pregnant Annie headcanons ft. some Papamin Propaganda #12:-

requested by @leitouris

Atleast some of this is a repeat from my earlier papamin posts, but nevertheless, I hope you enjoy!

When Annie first finds out she's pregnant, she spends a lot of time wondering how to tell Armin. She has many options: surprise him? Give vague hints? prepare a candlelight dinner? or spend an evening at the beach in the sunset where she'll look into his eyes and say, "You're gonna be a papa..." ?

But you know what? She's not really very good at the "planning romantic things" bit. Still, she wants to make it special, so she settles for dropping hints here and there. Because he's so SMART right? Surely, he'll figure it out?

Turns out Armin is very DENSE when it comes to things like this.

He says: "What's this, Annie? Why are you giving me a picture-book for babies?"

And he says: "Annie, why is this towel so small? It's like it's meant for babies... oh haha, I get it, it's very good for cleaning corners!"

Annie becomes incredibly frustrated and ends up spending an hour throwing darts on a picture of Reiner's face to calm down.

One day, however, she comes home to the sounds of loud crying and sobbing. She finds Armin in the bathroom, sitting on the floor, her positive pregnancy test clutched to his chest.

And he says: "Anniiiiiieeeeeeeeeeee, y-y-you're pregnant??? And you didn't tell me?? I'm going to be a dad?!"

How can the world's smartest man also be so stupid sometimes?

So the pregnancy reveal is a disaster. Of course it is. They're both idiots.

Anyway.

As her body changes, slowly, Annie also begins to feel incredibly uncomfortable and a little insecure. She was always so sure and certain about her body before, in her size and strength and speed. Things are not like that anymore; she's gaining weight, sometimes her back hurts, a lot of the times she feels sick and slow too.

But every time she feels awful, Pieck begins to talk about her baby; about who it's going to take after, what the baby will look like, etc., and it makes Annie feel better. Armin also tells her how beautiful she looks and how lucky he is to be with her. How she's a great woman and that she's going to be an amazing mother. Every night. Every night when she cries, feeling scared, he's there, combing her hair and whispering into her ear until she falls asleep.

The morning sickness is BAD. Nausea and vomiting and revulsion to certain smells. Everyone, Armin especially, tries their best to make things easy for her. In this time, Armin learns to properly cook! (Jean teaches him).

Months pass, and as Annie's belly swells, she can no longer wear her usual clothes and has to resort to loose, flowy, comfortable dresses. Armin's very happy with this! It means he can see Annie in pretty floral prints and fluttering hems!

Whenever the others drop by (Jean, Pieck, Connie & Reiner), they always end up fighting with each other over baby names. Pieck has the best ideas, Reiner has the worst ideas, Jean hates everything because he only likes fashionable names, and Connie's the only one with normal suggestions. Aruani watch them loudly argue in the living room, bored and tired of the noise.

(Secretly Armin has a loooooooooong list of girl baby names that he hides from Annie).

But Pregnant Annie is soon glowing. With happiness, with excitement, with some wonder and bafflement that still lingers even after the first trimester. It's hardly believable that there's a new life growing within her. A bit of hers, a bit of his.

She cries a lot.

Late nights are spent in their dim bedroom with the windows open. On the bed, leaning against the headrest, Annie cradles her swollen belly while Armin, laying by her knees, his chin propped up by a hand, talks. He talks a lot to her and the baby in that soft, smooth voice, of everything and anything. He tells the baby she's going to love the world, that she'll love the sea, that she'll love the sky, that she'll love her mother the most.

"I love you both so much," He murmurs, holding Annie in his arms and stroking her hair. "From the ends of this earth to the moon and beyond."

(You see, Armin's very certain it's going to be a baby girl).

When Armin's not around, Annie too, talks to her baby. Quietly, a little awkwardly, but she talks. She tells the baby, "Your father, he talks a lot doesn't he? He's really looking forward to holding you in his arms... he told me that when you were sleeping last night. You're going to be a curious troublemaker, I can tell."

Baby kicks a LOT. Armin jokes that it's all Annie's genes - great lower body strength and powerful legs.

LOTS AND LOTS OF ARUANI KISSES AND CUDDLING.

When they go shopping for baby clothes, Armin very conveniently ignores the boy-section altogether, much to Annie's annoyance. He's desperate to be a girl dad, pls don't blame him.

All that said, Annie's pregnancy cravings are outrageous and awful! She wants all the strangest combinations of food to ever exist! Fish and ice-cream. Tons of plain sugar and soup. Ice and pickles. These combinations will kill an ordinary person, but she's a hungry mother-to-be, what can you say? Armin's very scared sometimes, but humours all her cravings anyway. Midnight trips to the nearest convenience store and ice-cream shop? He'll do it.

But her favourite pregnancy food is steamed sweet potato :3

Everyone is HELLA protective of her. EVERYONE. Armin most of all, because he's hopelessly panicky and over-protective, but when he's not there, Reiner and Jean are fussing Annie over the smallest things like she's incapable of doing shit by herself. Pieck says: "Why are YOU guys so scared? Annie's the one who's pregnant, not you!"

When Mikasa's around though, she's hovering behind Annie like some dark force from the underworld.

But still, the pregnancy isn't easy. There are scares, like sudden bleeding and several emergency hospital visits. But Aruani get through them, somehow.

What makes the final trimester bearable is Connie, the resident jokester. He cracks so many bad jokes for Annie one morning and she laughs so hard and her water also breaks.

...

EVERYBODY PANIC!

Aruani baby is eventually born to a cheering, tearful crowd.

Armin breaks down crying when he sees his baby's tiny face and tinier hands.

Mama Annie is relieved, sweat clinging to her forehead, out of breath and exhausted, but when she reaches out to hold her newborn in her arms, she realizes with a laugh, that indeed; those big blue eyes are definitely those of a curious troublemaker's.

[illdowhatiwantthanks]

Hii! Could you possible write something more with Emily and her partner self harming? You write it so incredibly well and I find so much comfort in it, it’s insane. Maybe Emily finding out for the very first time when her partner is actively doing it? <333

Hi, anon! I'm always happy to write hurt/comfort about self-harm. :) It's my genuine hope that it brings people comfort and helps them feel less alone. Much love to you! –illdowhatiwantthanks

Doxxed

Emily Prentiss x fem!reader Warnings: BIG self-harm warning!!!, cutting, blood, mentions of past familial abuse, homophobia, bigotry, use of slurs, explicit language (please let me know if I've missed anything!) Word count: 2.2k

Summary: After you leave a comment in support of a Pride post, the conservative fanbase of the organization comes after you in full force. You can take a lot, but it's more than you can handle. And you're tempted to resort to old, unhealthy coping mechanisms.

One comment. One stupid, stupid comment. That’s all it had taken.

Don’t listen to the haters! Happy Pride! 🏳️‍🌈 Thanks for the support!

You’d left it thoughtlessly, carelessly even, on the Washington Nationals Instagram post for Pride. Frustrated by all the hate and homophobia in the comments, you’d left one of support. You wanted the other queer fans to know they weren’t alone, and for the social media team to know that their post meant something.

You hadn’t expected it to blow up. You hadn’t expected to be the sole target of the Nationals’ conservative fan base. The first few comments, you’d ignored:

WTH is a they?

bro, what is “they” 🙏💀😭

your an npc you cannot be talking

not a fan

I think you mean IT

the Support your dad never gave you huh?

you need to read your bible

by haters you mean 95% of the population?

So, they’d found your profile. They’d seen your pronouns listed as she/they. Your page was private, they shouldn’t have access to anything else. You took deep breaths, turning off your Instagram notifications, trying your best to ignore the red notification alerts climbing into the hundreds, then the thousands.

But the first phone call? That had taken you off guard. It was an unknown number. You shouldn’t even have picked up.

“Hello?” you’d said, so innocent, so unprepared.

“Is this Y/N Y/L/N?”

“Yes, this is she…”

“Do you mean they!? You fucking dyke. Bet your daddy diddled you when you were little, huh? That’s why you’re so fucked up now!? I could fix that real quick. You just need a real dick shoved in you. Where do you live, baby? We can arrange that! You’re disgusting. You need some real cock in your life.”

It was so aggressive, so vulgar, so quick and angry. You couldn’t have gotten a word in if you’d tried. You hung up, shocked, silent. You were used to homophobia. You were used to hate and bigotry. You’d grown up in a place where people had called you a dyke on the streets, where churchgoers pulled you aside in the grocery store to pray over your “lifestyle.” Your parents had hated you long before you came out of the closet, so their revulsion wasn’t a surprise and it didn’t hurt, not any more than they’d already hurt you.

But you were so far away from where you’d come from, and you were so used to feeling safe here. You had Emily and you had the BAU and you were, generally speaking, free to walk around and live your life as your full, truest self without fear. The fact that this phone call, the hatred that came with it, had invaded your home, your safe space–it shook you. You were physically shaken.

But the calls kept coming. Again and again. Nonstop. So many they overlapped one another. So many that your voicemail box was full. And then the emails started. You knew you shouldn’t read them, shouldn’t listen to the voicemails, shouldn’t open up Instagram and scroll through the hateful comments. But you couldn’t stop yourself. And everything you read made you feel lower. You could handle a lot of hate, but this was past your threshold. It was the comments about your family that got to you the most. How did they know!? How did they know where to hit you the hardest? Where you were already weak and wounded and it wouldn’t take much to break you?

Emily was away on a case with the BAU. You wished she was here. You’d feel better if she was with you. More solid, less affected. Somehow, the bigotry never got to Emily, not like it got to you. You knew if she was here, she’d hold you, she’d set up some sort of fancy FBI phone trace and figure out who was calling you, she’d shut down your Instagram or take your phone from you so that you wouldn't be able to read the comments. She’d tell you she loved you, that you were beautiful, perfect, exceptional. She’d tell you that what these people said about you, how they made you feel, was not real, was not who you were. She’d remind you that who your dad thought you were, how he’d treated you, what he’d done to you–that wasn’t you either. That you were hers and you were your own. You were brave and strong and beautiful. But she wasn’t here to tell you any of that, and somehow telling yourself those things didn’t carry the same weight. By the time you fell asleep that night, you were in a spiral of such self-hatred, such hopelessness, such unending anxiety at each buzz of your phone–you hadn’t felt this low since college.

When you woke up the next morning–a Saturday–you turned off your phone, determined not to let the haters get to you, to take control of the day, of your emotions. You meditated. You listened to your favorite music. You made yourself some breakfast.

You stepped outside to go on a walk, knowing that fresh air and movement would do you good, keep you from spiraling further. But you stopped dead in your tracks when you turned to shut the door behind you. Spray-painted in angry red over the door frame of your townhouse was FAGS BURN IN HELL.

You went back inside and slammed the door behind you, trying not to cry. Too much. It was all too much. They had your socials. They had your email. They had your phone number. And now they knew where you lived. Every bit of safety and security you’d worked so hard to build here seemed to be crumbling around you, and there was nothing you could do about it.

And you knew then, like you were watching a film of yourself, watching something that had already happened, that you would go to the bathroom. You would take out a fresh razor blade, and you would drag it across the skin of your forearm. That you would bleed, and the blood would be the tears you didn’t let yourself cry. Just like it had been all those years ago, when you hid from your dad in the bathroom. Like it was in college when you figured out you were gay and hated yourself for it. Like it had been when your dad had died and you’d gone to his funeral and you’d lied and told Emily the wounds were from the barn cat scratching you.

It was magnetic, inevitable almost. The more you fought, the more you hated yourself for not being able to resist, which only made you crave the sharpness more. You looked at yourself in the bathroom mirror and wondered at how easy it was for everything to fall apart around you. The self-confidence, the security, the life you’d spent years, decades even, building, it all seemed to be crumbling. From one stupid comment.

You held the blade to your arm, a little shaky, knowing that once you did it, you wouldn’t be able to take it back. The line of blood was familiar, almost a relief, the pain an old friend, one that you’d kept away for so, so long. You hated yourself for doing it. You hated yourself for enjoying it. But you enjoyed the hating, too.

So focused were you on the lines, the series of parallels and perpendiculars you were carving lightly into yourself, that you didn’t hear the front door open, didn’t hear Emily call your name, voice dripping with concern having seen the angry message. You didn’t notice her at all until she was at the bathroom door, eyes wide and panicked, frozen. Before you could react, she’d lunged forward, grabbed your hand, and squeezed, forcing you to drop the razor blade. Her voice came to you as if through water, blurry and hazed and distant, as she wrapped your bloody arm in a towel.

“Honey, stop, stop!!” she called, frantic and shaky. “What are you doing!?”

The moment you made eye contact with her–and saw how scared you’d made her–you broke. Tears streamed down your face and you choked back sobs, sinking to the bathroom floor. Emily lowered herself with you, making sure to keep your arm tightly wrapped, caressing your face with her free hand.

“Hey,” she cooed. “It’s okay. What’s going on? Can you tell me? Please talk to me, baby. Please.”

You didn’t answer, couldn’t seem to catch your breath or find your voice. You simply buried your head in the crook of her neck, trying to regain some semblance of security.

Emily rubbed your back, resting her chin on your head. “Is it about the writing on the door?”

You nodded, sucking in a shaky breath.

“I’ll get someone to take care of it, okay? But… honey, why did that make you… why did you want to… hurt yourself?”

“It’s not just the door,” you confided, sniffling. “It’s the phone calls and the emails and the fucking Instagram comments.”

“Wh–?” Emily sounded deeply confused, even as she ran her fingers through your hair, placed kisses at the top of your head.

“I left one comment, Em, on some stupid fucking baseball Pride post to say, like, Happy Pride! Thanks for not being bigots! And all the fucking bigots in DC came out of the woodwork to dox me.”

Emily exhaled, mind racing. First, she had to keep you safe from yourself. Then she needed to keep you and her and your home physically safe. Then she needed to get your digital safety under control. Emily was a fixer at heart. And she was determined to make you feel safe again.

“And why the fuck do they keep bringing up my dad!?” You choked out another sob.

Understanding flooded through Emily, and she held you a little tighter, a little closer. It was your dad. That’s what had really triggered you. You were used to homophobia. But you hated being reminded of your dad. Emily rubbed her thumb along the bloodied towel around your forearm, a realization sinking in, one that broke her heart.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve hurt yourself,” she whispered, more to herself than to you. It devastated her. How could she protect you from yourself? From your past? She couldn’t go back and change it, no matter how desperately she wanted to.

You could hear the heartbreak in her voice, and guilt flooded into all the hurt places inside you, all the places the blood had left empty. You buried your face in your hands.

“I’m sorry, Em,” you cried, shrinking into yourself. “I’m so sorry.”

But the more you tried to squirm away, the harder she held you. “Hey,” she soothed. “It’s okay. I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’ve been through things that make you want to hurt yourself.”

Her voice broke, and you wrapped your arms around her waist, your instinct to comfort her kicking in. She was shaking, you realized. She was scared.

“But, baby, please don’t shut me out,” she continued. “I’ll do whatever it takes, okay? Just… I don’t… I don’t know how to protect you from you.”

You sat up and looked at Emily, her eyes now swimming with tears. “Emily,” you said softly, wiping her eyes with your thumbs. “That’s not your job.”

“It is my job,” she insisted. “It’s always my job to keep you safe.”

You exhaled shakily, lifting your arm to wet a rag at the sink, and handing it to Emily, uncovering the angry red cuts on your arm. You pulled gauze and medical tape out of the bottom cabinet drawer and set those next to you.

“Here,” you said, extending your arm, knowing that Emily would feel better with something tangible to do to help you.

She dabbed at your arm with the rag, her fingers gentle and cool against your skin.

“It’s not something you can fix, Em,” you told her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she focused on your wounds, eyes swimming. “I need to go back to therapy.”

She nodded, deep in thought, smoothing the gauze over your wound, and carefully taping it in place.

“But you could get Penelope to shut down the internet trolls?” you suggested, venturing a smile. Your heart wasn’t in it yet, but you knew that with Emily here, it would be soon.

Emily ran her fingers over your arm, placing a small kiss on the bandages. She smiled at you, sad and determined and angry and scared, and squeezed your hand. “Oh, I will fucking end the trolls. Starting with the asshole who fucked up our door. Bet that idiot’s not expecting the FBI to come knocking.”

You giggled, and she pressed her forehead to yours and, for just a moment, everything was okay.

You knew that Emily couldn’t make you better. She wasn’t magic. And even the best relationships couldn’t take away all the hurt of the past. But Emily made it easier for you to make yourself better. She made you want to do the work. And, for that–and for so many other reasons–you’d love her forever.

[crevicedwelling]

i would like you to know (i may have put it in a reply to a post before but still) that your blog has really helped with my fear of centipedes. the way you photograph and write about them has really helped me work through my irrational revulsion and helped me appreciate them as just another cool animal. i’d still never keep one, and i definitely promise never to handle one barehanded, but now i don’t scream or panic when i see one in the garden while i’m digging and i don’t feel grossed out or afraid when i look at pictures of them. i’ve been a lot less phobic for a year or two now and the work you do with outreach on your blog means a lot to me.

thank you for these words! I do think a huge part of invertebrate phobias come from the fact that we are only ever confronted with them in surprising situations and are not taught about what they are or what they are doing here. I hope by teaching people that all hated animals are just little guys trying their best, that more people can come to realize that bugs are fascinating and valuable beyond whether or not it is scary or capable of harming you.

[ibrithir-was-here]

After the last Blood of My Blood update, I can’t help thinking of what this has set in motion on Jonathan’s side. Mr. Holiest Love. Mr. Loyalty Unto Blasphemy. Mr. Almost Mauled His Own Son on Reflex.

This is going to sit with him and fester. Just as his human self bent against the grain of expectation by his peers, his undead self will bend against the impulse of the Vampire simply because he Wants to Undo the Sin of Frightening His Son. A desire at odds with blunt id, but Jonathan has always been singleminded, alive or otherwise. If he Wants to work against impulse, then he will succeed. (With a strain.)

Which I could see coming to a head with Mina near the bloody haze of the climax. Mina, Dracula’s other ransom, his wine-press turned usurper. Mina, acclimated to vampirism for twenty long years. Mina, sharper than fangs or steel at her most wrathful—and wrath she has in spades. So much that I wonder whether her forestalled vengeance on Dracula might overpower other imperatives, however briefly.

Something happens.

Something gets in her way.

Something touches Her Jonathan.

Something that makes her strike out blindly at… Who?

Arthur or Jack?

Lu?

Quincey, trying to shield them all?

(And, surprise surprise, almost failing because his Mama cannot see him through the red veil of Hate.)

(Wrath.)

(Stopping me stopping us raised a weapon to him to my Jonathan mine mine how dare they dare you wasting time He is getting away again fools and jackals dead dogs don’t bite don’t delay call down thunder and the storm and—)

And Jonathan tackles her. The bolt misses, barely. Hell as they wrestle, hiss, bay; until Jonathan gets her hands in his and locks her eyes in his stare. His plea.

“Look through me, Wilhelmina. See what I see. What our boy sees. Please. Look.”

She does. Suddenly, there she is with the closest thing to a reflection she’s had in twenty years.

But all she can see is Him, wearing her face all over again.

It’s enough to crack a fissure in the Vampire of her just as Quincey’s tears left a wound in Jonathan.

The Harkers are not human. They never will be again. But the revulsion of finding similarity with Dracula to the point of endangering those they love—

(Yes, I too can love.)

—might just veer them back from the Pit.

tl;dr: I am very normal about this AU

Oh goooooooooooosh

THIS

I honestly just have no words but YES

[magicisinbooks]

Gluttony x the reporter

Kingdom of the Cursed

Whatever levity Gluttony had been feeling was gone in an instant, replaced by an icy glare. I followed the direction of his gaze, surprised to find the object of his loathing was a beautiful, prim noblewoman. Her pale blue hair was coiffed in the style of proper English ladies and her elegant dress buttoned up to her neck. She wore kidskin gloves that ended past her elbows and an expression of revulsion as she spied the host, her gaze cutting from across the room. She leaned next to her companion and whispered something that sent the other noblewoman tittering.

"If you'll excuse me." Gluttony's mood darkened further. "There's a party crasher in our midst." Without uttering another word, Gluttony strode off toward the giggling ladies.

"She's a journalist from the Shifting Isles. And she rarely has anything flattering to say about the royals in this realm. She's been particularly vicious with Gluttony." [...] She called his last gathering 'perfectly ordinary and utterly contrived. A predictable, uninspired evening.' " [...] My brother quoted it so often, it stuck. Gluttony was furious. He has since thrown the most lavish, over-the-top, debauched parties he can." "He wants her to eat her words." "Amongst other things, no doubt." I couldn't help but smile. "Hate is a powerful aphrodisiac for some."

Kingdom of the Feared

"Prince Gluttony is correct about one thing-his feast will make guests wish he'd end them all." Gluttony's easygoing smile vanished. "My dear, if my parties had the ability to kill, I'd personally deliver your invite." "That was as clever as your idea to lace wine with slumber root, promptly knocking all your guests out. At least that time it wasn't sheer boredom that put them to sleep." She gave him a cutting smile before dropping into a curtsy.

"Trust me, demons are not just asking about the curse's return. They live in fear some superior reporter with a penchant for snobbery will ruin their good time." Gluttony shooed her away, promptly earning a fierce glare.

Gluttony robbed his hands together, a devious expression falling into place. "You know? That viper gave me a great idea I think I'll offer her a glass of wine laced with slumber root and kick her and her assistant out. Then we'll see who thinks I'm unclever. At least we won't have to worry about your coronation party hitting the gossip columns."

He glanced around a crowded room, pausing on where Gluttony and the columnist stood a foot apart, not speaking.

Throne of the Fallen

Gluttony at the very least ought to know better-he was currently involved in a war with his own reporter in the Seven Circles.

Gluttony's reporter printed this just today.

Before this article was submitted to print, the ever-lacking Prince Gluttony was questioned about a guest he'd hosted the previous night, but he refuse to comment or confirm any part in the game. [...] Gluttony remained mum, hinting only that it was likely a lover sneaking out after overindulging in sin. [...] That the prince would attempt to play coy and fail spectacularly is unsurprising. Gluttony is the least clever of his brothers.

The reporter he was feuding with hadn't responded to the invitation Envy had sent, and he was sure Gluttony's foul mood had nothing to do with that.

[julemmaes]

prompt for nessian: nesta and gwyn come to pick up emerie from a frat party (idk why) but the only way for them to leave is for nesta and gwyn to beat eris and balthazar at beer pong. cassian wants to tell eris to fuck off but nesta has it handled

The way I've been playing with this prompt in my head since you sent it it's embarrassing. The amount of ideas I got for this, stop me rn

Also I posted another Nessian lil thingie yesterday night in case you missed it

Word count: ~2.3k

The loud music coming from inside the frat house was making the windows shake and the faint rumble of the glass had Nesta grimace in disgust. 

She didn't hate drunk people, she certainly loved music and she'd have kissed someone's feet if there was even the slight chance they could free her from the awful torment that finals week was just so she could freely attend a well-organized party. But frats, on the other hand. 

There had been a time during her first year where Greek row had been her home, she'd lived and breathed their parties, made pacts with the devils—only to be brutally rejected by everyone she'd called a friend after she broke up with her ex.

Nesta hated frats, despised them. And it was personal.

Reaching behind her and taking Gwyn's hand in hers in a silent agreement not to let go, she walked right into the beast's den, welcoming the stench of testosterone, alcohol and smoke. 

The air was stifling and the heat was already making her sweat. The floors were sticky and Nesta remembered all the mornings she'd been put on cleaning duty.

Entering the wide living room, she went up on her toes, searching the faces for a familiar one that didn't give her shivers.

Emerie had texted them that her dd had bailed on her and left her behind and she was lucky both Nesta and Gwyn had been studying in the library and not already asleep. 

But she wasn't picking up her calls and Nesta was getting antsy, so here they were.

"Let's check the backyard!" Gwyn shouted over the music after looking for Emerie in all the rooms. 

A few people in passing said hi to them, even seeming surprised to see her in the house. Nesta didn't stop for a single one of them, she just wanted to get her friend and leave.

The moment they walked out back, fresh air hit her face and she took a deep breath. The music was somewhat muffled here and only a few small groups where outside, chilling as the party was coming to an end.

"C'mon, Ems, you told me you'd play with me tonight. You can't leave." 

The sentence snapped her attention to the pool, where Eris Vanserra was standing next to Emerie, blocking her way. 

From their standing point, Nesta could perfectly see her friend's face when it crumbled into utter revulsion. 

"Oh boy, did you just call me Ems?" She asked, scoffing. "Do I look like an ambulance to you?" 

Gwyn snorted next to Nesta as they started walking towards the pair. 

Eris' laugh made Nesta irrationally furious, but nothing compared to what his next words roused.

"Listen, you made a promise. You're not leaving until you beat me."

Oh, fuck no. 

Nesta was almost to them, ready to push the fucker into the water and be done with whatever the fuck this was, but someone else piped in. 

A low, gravelly voice, belonging to the man of the hour. It was hard not to recognize his timbre when he personally invited the entire university to attend his team's games every other hour through the speakers scattered across their campus. 

"Leave the girl alone, Van Boy. You sound a word closer to a restraining order." 

Nesta's eyebrows shot up. Cassian Navarro helping her friend out against his teammate wasn't in her 2023 bingo card. 

He was sitting on the benches around the stone brazier, some other recognizable faces with him. He had an arm on the back of his seat, his head turned back to look at their small circle.

"Thanks, cap, but I've got this." Eris sounded annoyed by Cassian pitching in and Nesta relished in it.

Emerie laughed, shaking her head. "You so don't, and I will throat punch you if you don't move out of my way. I wanna leave." 

Eris grinned, "Your friend left you here, isn't that right?" 

Nesta was one second away from stepping in, but, if she had to be completely honest, this little theater play was unfurling quite amusingly. Plus, she knew Emerie could hold her own. 

"Cut the bs, Vanserra," Morrigan Nevin, honorable the cheer squad, stood up, crossing her arms on her chest. She nodded towards Nesta and Gwyn and said, "And Little Miss Archeron over there looks ready to fight, so I'd recommend you let her friend leave and call it a night."

All eyes turned on her in a beat. She wasn't surprised Morrigan knew her name. After all, her younger sister had just started college and from what little they'd shared, Feyre seemed to be fitting right into this crowd. 

Nesta's eyes though—treacherous fuckers they were—landed perfectly on Cassian. He, too, was staring at her and, with a cheeky smile, he lifted his hand in greeting. She pressed her lips together.

Eris faced her then, his mouth curling even more at her dead serious expression. 

"Look what the cat dragged in," he mused. "Hadn't seen you in a hot minute, thought you'd stopped whoring down Greek Row a while ago." 

Gwyn stepped forward, her face red with immediate anger. "Fuck you, you don't know what you're talking about." 

Nesta loved her friends, she truly did, but this piece-of-shit-no-one didn't deserve their time or attention. 

"Em, let's go." 

Emerie stepped around Eris and he didn't say anything as she neared the pair. Didn't even glance at her, only kept staring at Nesta.

They were about to turn around and leave when Eris spoke again.

"You used to party with us all the time. Guess Tomas really did fuck you up, at least that's how the rumor has it." 

Nesta stopped walking and glared daggers into him and she was seething when she spit at him, "I never partied with you. Even when I hang out with the scum that Tomas' close group is, I wasn't stooping as low as you." 

Eris' face dropped. And Nesta wasn't done talking. 

"They might all be assholes who don't give a shit about anyone but themselves, but they would have never held someone from leaving a party cause they can't find a better pastime." 

"Your friend made a promise," his stupid reply was.

Nesta glanced at Emerie, who shrugged and rolled her eyes at the sky, "I told him I'd play beer pong with him at the end of the party if he left me the fuck alone." 

She turned back on Eris, her face mockingly pitiful. "Can't find any friends unless you coerce people into spending time with you?"

"Aw, poor thing," Gwyn deadpanned.

"A promise is a promise."

"Fucking hell, Eris." Cassian called, "why do you always have to be so difficult?" 

"They're just afraid they're gonna lose. It's a simple request to play a game. Don't understand why it got all of you so worked up." 

Afraid? To lose at beer pong? 

Nesta knew she was playing right into his mind game, but she was stressed out because of finals, fed up with the way he'd treated her friend and she could've used the satisfaction that came with knocking him down a few pegs.

"Okay," Nesta said, "let's play."

Eris smiled, content that he was getting what he wanted. 

She jerked her head toward the house. "Go set the table." 

Cassian Navarro had stood up in the meantime, he'd walked closer to them and was now nearing her, his eyes fixated on her face. Nesta was—for whatever reason—excited about the prospect of him talking to her. She was waiting for it like one waited to get to the plot twist of a book.

She hadn't even noticed Eris walking inside, nor Morrigan joining Cassian, not until Emerie pulled on her elbow.

"Great move, now let's get out of here." 

Nesta jerked towards her friends, confused. "What? No, I wanna play."

Gwyn frowned, "Why?"

"He said we were afraid to lose."

Emerie snickered, eyes wide. 

"You're nuts, Nes. Let's just leave." 

"You know," his voice rumbled through her head. Nesta tensed marginally. He sounded so close. "You can go, you don't really have to play against him. He's just a harmless dickhead."

She spun on her heels slowly, tilting her head back to be able to look into his eyes, assessing his neck and the tattoos peeking from his shirt.

The silence stretched for seconds, minutes, hours before she found the words. She could only muster a sure whisper, his vicinity affecting her way more than she liked to admit.

"I have this under control, don't worry. And I honestly wanna play." 

Cassian's mouth opened in a sweet smile and his eyes didn't move from hers as he gestured for them to lead the way. His entire group had gotten up and now the ten of them walked inside the house. 

Nesta heard Morrigan talk to Emerie, ask if she was okay and found herself smiling lightly at the flirty response her friend gave the blonde. Give it to Emerie to look for a hookup at this moment. 

A significant amount of people had left the party and now only the fraternity boys and whoever they were gonna fuck tonight were sitting on the sofas and the floor. The music had died down and someone was ushering the remaining partygoers outside, someone else screaming about cheating boyfriends and fucking alcohol.

They reached the ping pong table in the hall, only a couple making out in the corner of the room. 

Nesta and Emerie stood at one end of the table. 

Balthazar Saraiva sauntered to the opposite side of the table, winking at both the girls like they'd been friends forever.

Nesta breathed out a laugh. She was going to destroy them. 

"What rules are we playing with? Bounce, no bounce? Who dunks can continue playing or we taking turns?" Emerie asked. 

"No bouncing, only direct shots. And we're taking turns." Eris replied. 

Nesta nodded, humming. 

An imposing figure stood next to her, like a giant statue. His arms crossed over his chest made his muscles look bigger and Nesta would be lying to herself if she didn't admit that it was distracting. 

"Ladies first," Eris drawled, "I'm giving you the starting advantage."

"No need," Nesta smirked and took the shot, dunking the ball on the first try. Eris stopped smiling. 

Cheering broke around them, but Nesta only heard the satisfied comment from Cassian, his glimmering eyes on her. 

"Atta girl." 

She couldn't have stopped the shy smile from spreading even if she'd tried.

The game went on shortly. Eris was missing every shot he could, getting purposely distracted by Azriel Behar and Rhysand Almeda. The two guys were really putting so much effort into making it difficult for him, walking behind him every time he had to shoot or calling out to him at the least appropriate moment.

Nesta would have asked them to stop in any other circumstances, wanting an honest and clean win, but seeing the way it was working Eris up, she couldn't bring herself to. 

They won the game in less than five minutes, Emerie only missing one shot, and when Gwyn came behind them and lifted both of them up in an improvised victory dance, Nesta felt lighter. 

Emerie smacked a kiss on her cheek and then started screaming profanities at Eris. 

"Looks like you need the ems now, uh? Cause you definitely got burned!"

Nesta cringed as everyone around them started laughing. 

She'd already been somewhat tipsy and chugging the four cups of beer Balthazar had managed to dunk had pushed her into drunk territory. Always the lightweight, their dark skinned friend. 

Gwyn dropped her to the floor again and as she laughed carefree at the ceiling, someone touched her arm. 

She turned quickly to her left, lifting her gaze up, up and up, until warm brown eyes met hers. 

"I get it you're driving?" 

The question took her by surprise. She frowned, nodding skeptically.

Cassian cleared his throat, scratching his cheek. He almost looked… nervous. "Then I guess my plan to offer you a drink is bound to fail."

Her face relaxed, she forced her lips to stay put, her eyes to not widen. He was looking at her expectantly, waiting for a reply. 

"I—" her voice came out scratchy. "Yes, sorry. Driving." 

She couldn't utter a fully formed sentence, apparently, but he seemed amused by it.

"Raincheck, then? Maybe Friday night?" 

Nesta was on cloud 9. What the fuck was happening right now? 

"Like a date?" 

Cassian smiled, "We can call it whatever you like, sweetheart." 

Nesta sobered up at that. She shook her head. "Don't call me that, that's for sure." 

His interest only grew with those words and Nesta saw the challenge flash behind his eyes.

"So, what do you say? Drink with me on Friday night?" 

Nesta studied his face a beat longer, trying to gauge his real intention. Was he playing with her? She was literally wearing sweatpants and a stained sweatshirt. And yes, she knew she was still beautiful in library attire with no makeup whatsoever, but he'd only spoken to her twice in the four years they'd attended college. 

And Nesta, well, she remembered that first time pretty vividly. She simply didn't want to dwell on it, because she knew it wasn't the same on his side. It had to be that way. 

Cassian's smile faltered. He took a step back, drawing a tight breath in. 

"Forget I asked." He whispered, still loud enough to be heard over the noise of their friends shitting on Eris in the background. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable–" 

"Yes." Nesta interrupted him, closing the distance again. "Yes, I'll come out with you on Friday. For drinks." 

Cassian reeled back, surprised. His smile came back full force and he nodded once. 

She nodded back, offering a weak smile in turn. She could do this. She just needed to hold back the excitement until she was in the car with her friends. 

He looked at her, running a hand through his long hair, and sighed. 

"I'll come pick you up then. At 9." 

"Sounds good, I live–"

He grinned, "Oh, don't worry, I remember."

Nesta's lips parted. 

His smile widened. 

He remembered. 

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[beechersnope]

Summer of Cum Days 13/14/15: moneyshot, prostate massage, come as lube

george/charles, warnings for intoxicated sex, sexual coercion, internalized homophobia, and charles being a terrible partner, 1011 words

***

They only ever do this when they’re high.

It’s tradition at this point, the slow, mellow exchange of hands that takes place when all their friends have gone home for the night, leaving just the two of them still sitting way too close together on a far too spacious sofa.

George isn’t like, into Charles, but he can appreciate the potent thrill of doing something he shouldn’t. He’s gotten over the hot, slick pulsing feeling of revulsion that had washed over him the first time he’d wrapped his fingers around Charles’s cock—mostly.

This time, though, Charles wants more.

“Come on,” Charles whines, his face pressed into the crook of George’s neck, breath hot against his throat. His accent is thicker when he’s crossfaded, a soupy mix of uvular consonants and nasal vowels. “Haven’t had a fuck in weeks.”

“And that’s my problem, how?” George asks.

Charles doesn’t answer him directly. He scoots closer, shoving a clumsy hand down the front of George’s trousers without warning. George inhales a sharp gasp and tries not to reflexively fuck up into Charles’s warm, dry, too tight grip.

“I’ll make you come first,” Charles promises. “I’ll make it so good for you.”

And George might hate himself for it, but he’s never been good at saying no.

Less than fifteen minutes later, he’s on his back in Charles’s bed, legs akimbo, naked as the day he was born. And Charles is two fingers deep inside his ass.

George wants to believe that Charles’s galling lack of technique is due to the fact that he’s had several beers and eaten two pot brownies, but that would be giving him far too much credit.

“Do you finger your girlfriend like this?” George wonders as he stares up at the ceiling, head jolting against the pillow with every rough thrust of Charles’s fingers. He’s only hard because he’s high, he tells himself. Weed always gets him horny.

“She does not like to be fingered,” Charles replies seriously.

He doesn’t take the hint. Every jerk of the wrist is more forceful than the last, and George can’t help but let out a high-pitched moan—of surprise—when Charles somehow manages to jab his fingers straight into what George can only assume is his prostate.

It feels good. George wishes it didn’t.

“It’s no wonder,” George manages to bite out in between his own heaving exhalations. “You’re not using a power saw, you’re supposed to give it a little finesse. I bet you don’t even touch her clit.” That was probably going a bit too far, George thinks, but after all this there was no denying that Charles needed the constructive criticism.

“You don’t have a clit,” Charles replies dumbly. He takes his free hand, cradling George’s right thigh in his palm and pushes it up, bending his knee towards his chest. Then he fucks his fingers in even faster, this time managing to hit George’s prostate directly on every single stroke.

It feels—George doesn’t know how it feels. There’s nothing to compare it to, just the feeling of hitting a wall at nearly two-hundred miles an hour.

George knows Charles doesn’t even know what he’s doing, that it’s just dumb luck, but that doesn’t stop George from shooting all over his chest and stomach in approximately fifteen seconds flat, his cock untouched, the whole thing dirty and obscene and overly theatrical like something from a porno. He isn’t even sure what sound came out of his mouth when he came, but when his vision comes back into focus again, Charles is staring down at him with an expression George has only ever seen when Charles qualifies on the front row, a future victory within reach.

Charles pulls his fingers out quickly—too quickly—and doesn’t acknowledge the hiss of discomfort that escapes George’s lips at the sudden loss. George wonders (with a sharp tinge of disgust) what it must look like from Charles’s perspective, whether he’s as open and raw and gaping as he feels, whether Charles has created a wound in him that he wasn’t meant to have.  

George clenches down around nothing, pathetically, a silent plea, and it’s almost a relief when Charles plunges his fingers back in again, wet now with George’s own come.

“What are you doing?” George asks, still feeling a bit dazed from the orgasm that had just been wrenched out of him.

“I told you,” Charles replies, a bit impatiently. He pulls his fingers out again after only a couple quick probing thrusts and swipes even more come from George’s flat, trembling belly, using it to slick up his cock instead. “I wanted to fuck you.”

His dick is hard and heavy between his thighs, too big to point straight up at his belly button the way it should. George can’t even conceptualize the idea of having it inside him, not after the way that Charles’s fingers had rent him asunder. He shudders, thinking of steel-spark sensation of something that huge balls-deep in his ass, jackhammering away with no consideration for anything but the pursuit of Charles’s own orgasm.

George wonders if Charles would even bother to pull out, or if he’d come inside him just because he could.

“I could blow you,” George offers as he suddenly comes to terms with the horrifying vulnerability of having Charles between his legs, about to fuck him the way he fucks all his little brunette assembly line girlfriends.

Charles just stares down at him blankly, like he doesn’t understand. “I want to fuck you,” he says again, more insistently this time. He grabs the base of his dick, already shuffling forward on his knees to line up with the give of George’s over-sensitized hole.

George should tell him to fuck off: that just because he has a massive cock and a stupid nickname, it doesn’t mean that he can have everything he wants. But he doesn’t say anything at all.

He just lies back, listening to the chorus of their panting breaths cutting through the silence like knives, and thinks of England.

[six-earedshadowmonkey]

Warning: Pain Incoming

You all are going to hate me for this pic, but it was burning in my brain and I needed to get it out. This is a picture and a ficlet depicting Macaque’s death. Posting under a break because of gore. If you don't want to see blood, look away. You have been warned. (Click Keep Reading to see the complete image.)

Eternity

The fight had been long and hard. Monkey King was exhausted. He and this imposter had battled across three realms in their determination to prove their identity. Of course, they both knew who was the REAL Sun Wukong, but who this stranger impersonating him was, even he had no clue.

None born of Heaven nor Earth could tell them apart, and the resident kings of the underworld dared not speak the imposter's name.

The Great Sage was sick of these games by the time they reached the home of Buddha. He was tired, angry - no, FURIOUS! He wanted answers and he wanted them now! And he knew of only one other person who could give them to him!

Still - Standing before Buddha with his visual double, nothing could have prepared him for the name spoken when his opponent's identity was revealed.

The Six-Eared Macaque.

The same Macaque who had been his friend and confidant. The same Macaque who had fought alongside him in the Brotherhood. And yes, the same Macaque who had left him to the Jade Emperor's mercy when they failed to fell him, only to later rub salt in the wound by offering him a goddamned PEACH! As if that somehow made up for five hundred years of imprisonment! Too little, too late.

And after all that, here was that same. Fucking. Macaque. Harming his family, stealing their things and daring to do it all while PRETENDING TO BE HIM!!!

It was too much. Seeing those golden eyes staring back at him when the glamour was dropped was just too much. And something snapped in Wukong.

Macaque knew he was in for it. He'd never quite seen a look like that on his King’s face before. Maybe he had gone too far this time. He had only wanted Wukong to see that his 'Great Companions' weren't so great after all. He had wanted to save him from the pain, both physical and emotional, that those bastards were putting him through.

He didn’t know where the power came from - righteous indignation, maybe? - but before Macaque could blink, the Monkey King's staff had struck him with a force unlike any he'd ever had the bad fortune to be on the receiving end of.

The impact crushed his right eye and split his brow, but he barely even registered these things. How could he when he was flying like some over-powered missle through, not one - Not two. Not three, or four, or five - but SIX mountains! If that fifth one had been the last, he just might have lived to tell the tale. However, that final impact was just too much.

Colliding with the hard stone hard enough to shatter it, he slid to the ground and lay still. His vision was so blurry, he might as well have lost both eyes, but he knew it was Wukong he felt land beside him a moment later. He'd know that scent anywhere. He wasn't surprised at all that the other celestial monkey had come to gloat. What did surprise him, though, was the smell of salt mixing with his usual pungent odor.

Macaque couldn’t see Wukong’s tears, but he knew they were there. He didn’t hear his choked words as the Sage whispered, "No... Shit. I didn’t mean to...", but he felt it when he was lifted into his arms. As he drew his last breath, he let it go with a soft smile and a sigh of relief. His Peaches was holding him at last.

Rapid little twitches, like electric pulses - death throes Wukong knew - were all the movement left in Macaque’s otherwise still form, but the Monkey King still desperately pleaded, "Hey... Macaque! C'mon, Bud... Look at me!"

In that moment, he made the mistake of glancing at Macaque’s eyes, and felt a flood of revulsion overcome him at the sight. The right one was like a bloody crushed grape, the left bruised and swollen so only a thin slit of it could be seen. "What have I done..?" he lamented, voice shaking as it sunk in that Macaque was truly gone. "We were supposed to live together forever... We were supposed to eat... peaches... every day... forever." Wukong doubled over, holding his former lover tight to his chest, and let himself sob.

All that effort to make himself immortal, and now he'd have to live for eternity without the one person he wanted to spend it with.

[zilabee]

Sections of Ticket To Ride, by Larry Kane, which address anti-Semitism:

Early in the '64 tour:

About an hour into the flight, a word reached my ears that I couldn't ignore. In everyone's life, there are certain words that spark instant revulsion. I raised my head from my book and my mind raced quickly, along with the beat of my heart, when I heard the word kike. Worse yet, the ethnic slur came from the rear, where the Beatles and Derek Taylor were sitting. I didn't race to conclusions. After all, I could have misunderstood what was being said. I bit my lip and hoped I was wrong. Then I heard the word again, this time in part of a sentence, "The kike did---" I heard, though I couldn't be sure whose voice had said it. Although it's hardly part of the current hate vernacular, the word was used generously by bigots in the 1960s.

Irritated, disappointed and agitated, I got up from my seat and approached the rear, about five rows back. My growing-up years, especially those I had spent in suburban Miami, had sensitised me to words that hurt. And this hurt, especially at the time and place.

I approached the opening to the Beatles' small compartment, stuck my head in, and blurted out "Listen, I just want to say that I heard a word that really pisses me off. I'm Jewish, and I won't stand for that crap. I mean, whoever said it, can't you think before you talk?"

The beatles, Derek Taylor and Malcolm Evans looked startled. Sheepishly, without the courage to wait for an answer, I returned to my seat, figuring that the outburst would end my travels with the band, or at the least would rupture the rapport I had established in just a few days.

Minutes passed. The Derek Taylor came forward and knelt alongside my aisle seat. He said "Look, I'm really sorry. It came from me. It's just a word that is used quite casually in English life and I didn't mean anything." I replied, "But you didn't say it." I knew the voice hadn't been his. "What do you mean?" "I mean you didn't say it." Derek smiled. "Doesn't matter. It was said nonetheless. I'm sorry."

At that point I felt foolish about the whole thing. But I also knew that if I had let it go and ignored the slight, I could not have lived with myself the rest of the tour.

Minutes later, Lennon came over and sat down. I don't remember our exact words, but we had a relaxed and compassionate conversation about the roots of prejudice in Liverpool. It was a good talk. As we spoke, Ringo and George walked by. Ringo gave a wink, and George just said, "How you doing, Larry." Paul didn't make a special trip. He did pass by on the way to the bathroom and said "Great working with you, Larry." It was, I interpreted, his way of smoothing the episode over.

I felt good, but still self-conscious that I had responded so aggressively. Whatever the roots of the prejudice and whatever the reasons someone had spoken that word, I knew I would never hear it again for the remainder of the tour. And this incident did something else; it showed me that the Beatles possessed genuine compassion and feeling.

Two years later Derek [...] brought up the subject. I had long forgotten, but Derek had not. He confirmed that he wasn't the one who had said the word and that the boys had been embarrassed. When I asked him who'd said it, he changed the subject.

_____

Towards the end of the '65 tour Brian Epstein invited Larry for drinks in his rented cottage:

As the conversation progressed, I realised that I was serving as a depository for some pent up, constrained feelings. I listened intently as he expressed concern that he was losing his grip on John and maybe the whole group and described his fear that, without his presence, the Beatles' unity would divide into four separate camps. His words would be prophetic, but he didn't imagine that his own death would be a catalyst in realising those predictions.

I was surprised as Epstein described a growing paranoia. He looked pained when he described an awareness of the boys talking behind his back. He assumed that they were laughing at him. I told him I had never heard or seen anything like that. I could imagine that happening, but I was hardly an expert on their private behaviour and of course didn't make any guesses with him. [...]

And then, much to my astonishment, he addressed a subject close to my heart - anti-Semitism. This scourge was commonplace in industrial Liverpool in the forties and fifties, he said, creating a cloud of resentment that he unmistakably felt, even around entertainers. "Are the Beatles anti-Semitic?" I inquired.

"I don't think so," he said, "But it was always around them, so it may be in them." I never told him about the incident on the plane in 1964.

[asterouslyaesthetic]

i like to think the reason volo is so surprised that togepi likes him is that he actually hated togepi at first.

now, i'm assuming it's the same togepi as in PLA and dimensional shenanigans mean that he was pulled in with the wrong version of her.

so, allow me to set the scene, under the cut:

this story takes place almost six years before our protagonist (who is akari, in my heart) arrives in hisui. volo, seemingly a young man, arrives at cogita's place, due to a letter she sent to him.

she reveals to him that the pokemon nearby have been spooked badly by something, or someone. he agrees to take a look, if she'll share a particular book with him.

so, volo sets off and finds an injured hisuian decidueye, who attacks him with impunity. during this fight, he notices and correctly deduces that:

a) this decidueye was injured by someone, and

b) he has something to protect, likely a child

because of the book that's promised to him, and because volo sees value in having such a strong pokemon aid him, volo begins his attempts to "befriend" the decidueye.

the next day, while he's still injured (for which cogita displays motherly concern, which volo dismisses due to his resentment of her), he returns to heal the decidueye—and leaves some berries that not only help heal injuries, but are also good for young pokemon to eat.

this goes on for roughly a month before decidueye decides he can trust volo with the existence of his child—togepi, then a helpless egg. and volo, while he refuses to analyze it, actually enjoys spending time with decidueye. it's the first time he's done so in years, since the passing of the two pokemon who had followed him through his childhood (and died for it).

but good things aren't meant to last. though decidueye heals up nicely, he's still rather weak because of his injuries, which were long left untreated. he lasts for another three months before he entrusts togepi, still an egg, to volo, expending the last of his energy to go find an heirloom he and his deceased mate wanted to leave for their child.

and volo hates togepi for it.

every time he looks at the egg, he considerd smashing it. "if it wasn't for you, decidueye would still be alive." he can't fathom decidueye's actions, nor can he accept it as "selflessness (on decidueye's part)" instead of "selfishness (on togepi's part)".

mind you, togepi is an egg. she can't do shit.

but he always stops himself before he does anything he'll regret, eventually convincing himself that raising a pokemon from the beginning ensures loyalty—at least until togepi finds a better master, or learns that volo could do nothing for her father.

but volo, despite how twisted he is, ends up charmed by how togepi follows him around. even if he's rude and cold at times, though he does the bare minimum, she still looks at him as if he's hung the sun, the stars, the moon—even the clouds in the sky. and volo is weak to that genuineness, despite thinking that togepi has every reason to hate him, even though he internally treats it with revulsion.

[now, for an intermission, things volo has definitely thought about togepi:

(after she presents him with a daisy because she thinks it'll look good against his hair) "i wonder if there's anything in that empty head of yours. silly girl, you should be worrying about yourself."

(when togepi tries to change his towel when he gets a fever) "i know that it's only a matter of time. i know that. but if i close my eyes, i can return to the past and take you with me. so, just for today...i..."

(after someone says that it's amazing how well-behaved togepi is) "that's like remarking on a daughter obedient to her father. in exchange for gems and other finery, she plays a quiet, docile fool, until she has no need of him. that's why...i need to find the rest of those plates soon. so that...we can remain together i will never be betrayed."]

and togepi, despite being young, can understand volo is hurting, but is ultimately a good person. volo is not only the closest thing she has to a dad, but she's also the only one who can worm into his heart now, or so cogita says. so she makes it her life's goal to make volo happy, because she hates it when he's unhappy, even if it means making very questionable decisions and hurting someone else she loves.

[now, another intermission—things togepi has definitely thought about volo:

(after he smiles sadly) "ah...don't smile like that." (smushes his cheeks, causing him to snort and laugh) "please let him always be happy. please let me make him happy.”

(after witnessing a father-daughter pokemon duo in the wild) "a father? the way you're looking at them...it seems like you also don't know what a father is." (after being told what a father is) "ah, that's not true. it seems we're not the same. i have a father...and i'm not old enough to be yours..."

(after being told what volo wants to achieve) "if the world is remade...then will you and i ever meet?" (cuddles in beside volo) "but you said, 'we'll do it together.' so...whatever you need me to do...i'll do it."]

after all, it only makes sense that volo's pokemon are equally crazy, and possibly very devoted to him. that craziness is why n lies to volo—it's not that togepi tells n their plans, it's that she's frighteningly devoted to him, almost in the same way some members of team plasma acted.

[by the way, cogita also gifts him some letters from his deceased mother (who was her niece) that she found while cleaning. that's actually the reason she calls him, because it's his mother's birthday. they end up celebrating it for the first time in a looong time, and cogita thinks she might've raised him right (nope)]

[stagred]

　Alastor considers himself unfortunately human. He truly hates that he's a person with feelings and needs and desires. He wishes more than anything that he could shut everything down and just be cruel, but he can't. Losing people hurts. He misses his mom. He's jealous of Husk. Shit sucks. So his solution is to lie to himself about getting close to people, pick them apart and call that a relationship. And eventually when he strikes a vein while he's digging and he gets blood in his face, he's surprised by the revulsion.

　Metaphorically of course.

[cinebration]

Come Back To Me (Jack Russell x Reader) [Part 8]

Your boss pushes you over the edge.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Epilogue

Tagged: @lucy-sky​, @faeoftheapocalypse​, @theconsultingdoctor10​, @starfirette​, @bitchyglitterfox​, @thefandomqueenuno​, @scarlettsoldier​, @russell-ed​, @xasement​, @stand-with-cap​, @marvelenthusiast10​, @supermarvelgirl15​, @mobiusismyfav​, @killeromanoff​, @hawkins-2000​, @fangurldayandnight​, @liv-victoriano​, @randomchick546​, @g1m2g3, @gingermous​, @howlingco​, @vynsvision​, @jwjeepers, @rellasnowheenim​, @yelenas-lova​, @nyrovia​, @littlenosoul​, @allthingsvicf, @emiemiemiii, @lilyevans1, @n3rdybirdee, @kl0k​​​​​

Warnings: none

Gif Source: pedropcl

A golden warmth suffused you, radiating from your chest outward. Not even your check-in with Jaeger would dampen your day, not with the memory of the night before still fresh in your mind.

“I don’t have any updates.”

Jaeger’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Well, that’s no surprise, considering you were pursuing carnal directives instead of mine.”

You blinked, jolted out of your reverie of Jack’s lips on yours. “Excuse me?”

“I didn’t expect you to wine and dine potential suspects.”

You spluttered. “You were spying on me!?”

“I reserve the right to monitor your progress, especially on so crucial a bounty.”

You should have known the man would ruin your mood. Scrambling to maintain some sense of composure—you knew that caving to visible emotion would mean the man won—you ground your teeth as you searched for a diplomatic answer. “There’s no progress to be made until the full moon.”

“Every other hunter will be out looking for it then!”

“What do you want from me? I did the leg work. There’s no hide or tail of the wolf.”

“You didn’t search hard enough, then.”

Irritation pricked a nerve. “Bloodstone was a dead end. Elsa doesn’t know who the werewolf is or how they got in, and Jack wasn’t even on the premises when the werewolf attacked.”

Jaeger’s frustration disappeared behind a blank expression that sent chills through you. Steeling yourself against whatever he was going to fling at you, you waited in agonizing silence as he built himself up for the kill.

“Have you considered that Russell is the werewolf?”

Surprise froze your tongue. Of all the knives Jaeger could have thrown at you, that one hadn’t crossed your mind. “He isn’t.”

“He’s the only other person to survive the massacre. He just conveniently happened to be absent when the monster attacked.” He shook his head, scorn dripping from his words. “You’re better than this.”

Guts twisting with hatred and revulsion, you jerked to your feet fast enough to make your stomach spasm. Wincing in pain, you hissed, “I don’t have to listen to this.”

“You’re not considering all the possibilities. I want this bounty, and if your sudden incompetence prevents you from—”

“Then you do it!”

He stilled, his face blanking once again. It was the expression you most hated on the man, not least of all because it always presaged some attack that cut deeper than you ever expected it to. It didn’t matter that you were still recovering from a gut wound, that you hadn’t been able to talk to anyone about what it was like to be impaled and knowing it would be your last, slow moments of death. It was always the job first, the bounty. Jaeger’s commission for the kills and the paltry fees he handed down to the hunters who actually did the job for him.

You heard Jack’s quiet confusion the first night you had met him. “If you don’t like it, why do you do it?”

Before Jaeger could speak, you blurted, “I’m done!”

Surprise flickered on the man’s face, quickly shuttered by his iron control. “You’re done when I say you’re done.”

Frustration boiled hot in your guts. “Don’t make me go to the Guild and tell them you’re contracting non-Guild members.”

The words hung in the air, too late to be withdrawn. You watched Jaeger’s blank expression turn to steel, the muscle in his jaw flexing as he ground his teeth.

Forcing yourself to hold your ground, you stared back at him. “I’m done. I was done the minute I fell into that trap. As far as you’re concerned, I died in that pit. Good luck with your bounty.”

You stormed off with his gaze burning holes in your back.

Instead of triumph, the feeling of freedom buoying you, you felt sick, conflicted. Jaeger’s words whirled around your skull, inducing dizziness as you fled his office and hit the pavement.

You didn’t know where to go or what to do. The sudden urge to speak to Jack hit you like a train, but Jaeger’s toxicity lingered around you like a noxious cloud. You couldn’t talk to Jack, not while a seed of doubt burrowed into your mind.

He’s not the werewolf, you hissed at yourself, throwing yourself into the car and goosing the engine. He can’t be.

Fragments of your first meeting flitted through your thoughts. Hadn’t he said he’d been in the woods hunting? Or was he looking for a friend? What friend was stupid enough to stay in a forest plagued with a monster?

Head aching, you steered into traffic and headed home, your emotions a whirlwind disturbing what little peace you had found the night before.

What about the hunter who had shot at you both? Had he seen your silhouettes, weirdly joined shadows in the semi-darkness, and thought you both were the monster? Hadn’t he said something?

Wracking your mind, you fought mounting anxiety as the doubt burrowed further in. The hunter had said something just before Jack had left you. No, Jack had said something. You remembered his warm hands on your face, anchoring you before they were gone. The touch of his forehead and whispered words.

What were they?

Fighting frustration, you pulled to the curb and found yourself in front of Jack’s apartment complex, not your own. Disturbed, you sat in the car, both hands still clutching the steering wheel, the air-conditioning blasting but too frigid now to tolerate.

“Just ask him,” you told yourself.

Your grip tightened on the steering wheel, the plastic squeaking slightly under the increased pressure.

I don’t want to know.

You shifted the gear into drive.

A tap sounded on your window.

Jolting in place, the seatbelt and steering wheel keeping you from going anywhere, you glanced aside to see Jack’s carefree grin.

“Hey! Were you just about to come up?”

Swallowing thickly, you nodded and killed the engine.

[seeminglyseph]

I really wish I enjoyed mushrooms as a food. The people who do enjoy mushrooms enjoy them so much, like and they get so aggressive like “I don’t understand what’s wrong with people who don’t like mushrooms, like there’s just something mistakenly flawed in their coding.” And like. It is partially about the texture issues. I don’t like that sponge but also like. The flavour is not one that I like. I can’t explain it. Mushrooms taste like mushrooms and while they all individually have their own flavour which I admit sometimes can definitely be a good flavour addition to a combination, I don’t like the taste of the fungi themselves.

But the people who do like mushrooms always look so fucking happy. And aesthetically like. Mushrooms are cool and cute and shit. I love ‘em. I would love to grow them. I’d love to paint or sculpt them. I hated picking them in my yard because they were the poison ones and so it was fuckin pest control and they felt gross as hell. But no one likes chores. And it does suck like if I want like stroganoff or fettuccine half the time like surprise more mushrooms than any other ingredient in this sauce, good luck finding beef, chicken, or noodles. There is only mushroom.

Like I get it, most of humanity finds mushrooms in their edible form to be the most delicious food known to man and my revulsion based on taste, texture and over abundance is very weird and inconvenient but sometimes like. I’ve tried. All of your mushroom options. At 35 do you not think I have attempted to remedy the problem of not liking this incredibly popular food product? I can’t help it. If I could love mushrooms I would love mushrooms. I can’t.

[just-a-carrot]

There is no denying that Orlam is the fan-favorite of the bunch, so I wanna know, how do you feel about his popularity amongst the people? Did you expect him to become so well liked or was it a surprise?

it was unexpected LMAO

he received nothing but general revulsion and dislike until arc 3 came out and only after that did i see people start to like him more. tbh while working on arc 3 i was afraid it would make people mad (coming off of arc 2) and they'd hate orlam too much LOL then again the game in general was not doing that well before arc 3 so i wasn't feeling particularly optimistic in general. after arc 3 it started to gain a bit more traction tho 🤣

i don't know how i feel about it i just go with the flow i guess LDKFJASLDKF