#she has her by a fucking string. it’s absolutely ridiculous

[fingertipsmp3]

Every single day I wish I was on a sitcom or something so I could look into the camera like ‘do you see this shit?’ and break the fourth wall

[reidmotif]

about me • req guidelines • inbox (reqs open)

masterlist of nsfw fics under the cut..

key: ✰ - smut / ✂ - angst / ✿ - fluff

Coffee and Consequences • Reader joins the BAU, and Spencer seems insistent on being a problem for her. ✰ ✂

Not-Friends With Benefits • Reader and Spencer have been hooking up with no strings attached just fine, until a singular bed threatens to change that.✰✂

Double-Booked for the Night • Reader and Spencer have been double-booked by JJ for a night of babysitting. What happens when the situation brings out some buried feelings from both parties? ✰✿

Popsicle Love • Reader and Spencer are at a ridiculously hot precinct station, getting on each other's nerves arguing. Reader realizes she can get back at him, using a certain sweet treat. ✰

Behind Closed Doors I and II • Reader and Spencer are known to be a "tame" couple at work. They get fed up and decide to change how people see them. ✰

"Technically" Not A Student • Reader is Alex Blake’s TA, and after a guest lecture, Spencer seems to take a liking to her. ✰

Safe and Sound • Reader comforts Spencer after she unknowingly does something to trigger some unhappy memories of his. ✂✰

And For My Next Trick... • Reader is invited to a Halloween party where she doesn't know anyone. Everyone seems absolutely insistent she has to meet a mystery man who'd love her costume. ✰

Always Bet On Black • Reader realizes she has an advantage at the Bureau's Casino Night when Spencer can't seem to take his eyes off her and her dress. ✰

Regret on the Rocks • Spencer finds himself at a bar being served by the girl who once broke his heart. Turns out she feels a lot more than just regret for letting him go. ✂✰

For the Love of Lace • Reader decides she doesn’t want to pine for her best friend, Spencer anymore, but still needs his help deciding what lingerie to wear for her upcoming date. ✰

Dialing up for Trouble • Reader and Spencer were fuck-buddies, until Spencer cuts her off quite suddenly. A party and some risque images may be enough to get them back to their old routine. ✰

Check Your Window (He’s At Your Window) • Reader discovers her window faces into the apartment of her very attractive building neighbor, Spencer. She's willing to do anything for his attention. He's willing to reward her for her efforts. ✰

[the-real-fandom-person]

SAGAU-related brainrot knocking around my skull lately: Lady Maria!Creator.

Noble, graceful, remorseful, powerful, melancholy, otherworldly Lady Maria. The Creator isn’t a pure and untouched soul, she’s a scarred and battle-hardened warrior, ridden with guilt. Trauma has made her cold, yet paradoxically gentle.

Teyvat makes lumenflowers blossom everywhere to herald Maria!Creator’s arrival. Big ones, small ones, towering ones, blooming after sundown alongside the glaze lilies. Even in extreme temperatures, the cold, pale flowers make themselves at home. Slotting peacefully into the local ecosystems without becoming invasive. 

The Pari and the Aranara wake up to find lumenwood groves just outside their respective homes. The Melusines become enamored with these new ‘moon blossoms’ sprouting throughout their village, even the parts that are completely underwater. Amurta students and Fontaine researchers scramble over each other to study this new species. Nilou makes M!C a lumenflower crown, and it replaces her hunter’s cap for the day. Nilou gets the first ever hug from the Creator. Suck it, Azar.

Albedo and Sucrose experiment on these new plants immediately. Xiangling is already using it in some strange new recipe, something Chongyun will actually eat for once. Tighnari, Ganyu, and Shenhe take curious bites out of a lumenflower cutting. The taste isn’t unpleasant, just incomparable to anything else in Teyvat.

Inazuma characters, especially Kazuha, are absolutely fascinated by the Rakuyo (and maybe a little jealous). So graceful is M!C with her strange weapon, so easily she wields it on the battlefield. Every blacksmith in Teyvat hears the words ‘trick weapon’ and takes it as a challenge. Many come close, but none can truly replicate the genuine articles. May they never have a true need for beast-slaying weapons.

Imposter AU? With one of Bloodborne’s toughest bosses? Laughable. RIP anyone stupid enough to try. And if there’s a fake Creator pulling the strings? Not after a quick visceral attack, there isn’t. M!C pulls a blood blade to cut down the imposter’s guards (she notices the stars in her blood that weren’t there before) and the imposter receives the most satisfying visceral ever. 

Up to this point M!C put no stock in the ‘god’ thing. All she sees is mad cult, led by a petty and jealous brat on a power trip. But then she sees the stars in her blood, hears the voice of Teyvat itself, puts two and two together and just… laughs hysterically, because this whole situation is patently ridiculous. Byrgenwerth and the Healing Church failed in their quests for ascension, their heinous crimes being all for naught. Now here she is, thrown headfirst into unwanted ‘godhood’ and getting hunted by her supposed worshipers. Oh, how the tables have turned. 

Once people see the cosmos reflected in M!C’s blood, they fall over each other trying to apologize. Since she’s reached negative patience for everyone’s bullshit, she ignores them and fucks off to the Nightmare. After coming into Teyvat, M!C gained the power to enter and exit the Nightmare at will. The Nightmare doesn’t bend to her will, but it doesn’t treat her as an intruder. The Silverbeasts and Winter Lanterns don’t bat an eye at her presence. She’s a true denizen of both the waking world and the world of dreams, now. 

That night, every soul in Teyvat has the same nightmare - the Celestial gods attempting to forcibly summon the Creator, only to have themselves snatched from Celestia and dragged into a hostile, eldritch world of unfamiliar mish-mashed environments. At every turn, it is full of nightmarish creatures out for their blood. One by one, all but a select portion of Celestials become beast food, with M!C protecting the final ones herself.

Celestia, responsible for planting the fake Creator, falls from the sky the next day, its grand architecture reduced to mere rubble that rains from the heavens. Found amongst these ruins are the mangled, blood-drained and half-eaten bodies of Celestial gods. Spears made of blood impale many of the bodies, spears that seem to have sprouted from inside the flesh. Those that still have intact faces bear identical looks of horror. They find The Sustainer of Heavenly Principles in literal pieces - crushed and torn apart by hands that must have been the size of a grown man.

New stars and constellations appear in the night sky, as the illusion created by Celestia slowly fades. The curse placed on the people of Khaenriah gradually dissipates as well - the hillichurl tribes withdraw from the world, content to leave it alone. Every day, the curse lifts a little more from the people of Khaenriah; one day, Dainslief, Pierro and all the rest will finally be able to die. 

In Celestia’s place rises a second moon - a snow-white harvest moon, always full, large and visible even when clouds blanket the sky.

The Archons try to follow M!C into the Nightmare, but like Celestia, they get their shit wrecked by the denizens of the Frontier. The Archons don’t die for real, they’re just permanently cut off from the Nightmare. It takes Nahida, with dream powers of her own + Traveler and Wanderer in tow, to reach M!C and convince her to give the people of Teyvat a second chance. Nahida succeeds because she has the sense to treat M!C as a person, not some untouchable idol.

Sumeru is warm and welcoming, nothing like Yharnam or Cainhurst. M!C has fond memories from her time as a Byrgenwerth scholar, and the Akademiya feels like home. Sumeru becomes M!C’s preferred nation by default, to the pride of the locals and the despair of everyone else.

M!C has trouble wrapping her head around how mundane Teyvat’s supposed ‘gods’ are. Elemental powers or not, these Archons are too human to be divine; the only divinity M!C knows is eldritch, alien, far beyond mortal comprehension. The Traveler is fractionally closer to true godhood than any Archon. But then, just as the Great Ones were beyond human comprehension, so too are humans beyond the understanding of the Great Ones - perhaps it’s better for humans to have human gods.

Speaking of gods, M!C and Nahida bond over their dream-related powers. If this is before the climax of the Sumeru quest line, the Akademiya gets real quiet, especially when M!C publicly points out how asinine their logic is (she was closely associated with Byrgenwerth and Laurence, she knows their kind all too well). For all of his failures, all the disastrous consequences, Vicar Laurence at least had genuinely good intentions; these fools only care about themselves and preserving their own power. Scaramouche, Azar, the traitorous Sages - selfish, ignorant children all, meddling with forces they only pretend to understand. Crushing them herself is merciful compared to the other outcomes.

Through tactical manipulation of dream worlds, M!C busts Nahida out of baby jail long before Traveler and co. have to, and the Akademiya goes into panic mode because the Creator herself is coming for them. Traveler and co.’s plans turn instead to finding the hidden laboratory under Sumeru City - the combined power of dreams horrifically distorts the battlefield around the Shouki no Kami, even after his defeat. M!C doesn’t kill Azar after the fact, but she doesn’t let him go into exile empty-handed... because she cuts off his hands. Cyno is too unsettled to laugh.

Scaramouche resents her for her part in ruining his apotheosis (and because the Creator didn’t do shit for him in his tragically long life) but as the Wanderer, he and M!C bond over a shared disgust for the Second Fatui Harbinger.

And speaking of the Fatui... Well, they try to recruit her to the cause, and she has this to say:

“I’ll not serve your organization while any part of Dottore yet lives. For too many years, I stood by and did nothing while so-called ‘doctors’ brutalized the innocent and vulnerable for their supposed research, their dreams of godhood and divine revelation. Never again. If your leaders possess a shred of self-preservation between themselves, then perish the thought this instant.”

Fatui agent(s): ...

They don’t give up, of course. The less friendly ‘recruiters’ get sent back to Snezhnaya in pieces. The only Fatuus M!C tolerates is Tartaglia, because aside from being the Traveler’s friend, he’s a decent punching bag/sparring partner. She finds his Foul Legacy transformation cute, like a kitten baring its teeth at a lion.

Related idea: M!C meets Dottore’s remaining segment, and after everything she’s heard (let’s say from Collei and Wanderer, maybe Nahida too) she barely lets him get two words in before cutting his head clean off. Will this affect Dottore in the long run? Probably not. Does it make her feel better? Yes, actually. Collei certainly isn’t upset by the news. Wanderer is, only because he feels M!C was too merciful. She lets him dismember the segment so they can stuff it in a box and send it back to the Doctor as a warning.

If a scourge of beasts were to descend on Teyvat, probably because of Dottore M!C would lead the defense. This is not a war that mortals alone can fight, she insists. By her orders, every available god (herself included), adeptus, dragon, and most of the older allogenes are on the front lines, staving off the worst of the horde. Pyro users are in high demand, for the beasts fear them the most. In lieu of blood ministration, the various healers of Teyvat are working ‘round-the-clock. An entirely new crop of Vision-wielding healers spring up, because Teyvat’s top god herself unconsciously wills them into existence. Because M!C would never make use of the Old Blood, not after seeing and experiencing its effects firsthand. The burden of being a capital-H Hunter, the sweet, intoxicating call of blood - M!C remembers Byrgenwerth’s sacred adage, and she has learned from the mistakes of Vicar Laurence. Yharnam was merely the latest in a cycle of destruction, all because of the Old Blood. She will not doom Teyvat to suffer the same fate.

[elsweetheart]

okay, so. the jail au.

everybody knows that i’m a good girl, officer!

of course, me and @seattlesellie were rambling abt this for like an hour straight and i just had to share some of the little thoughts we came up with because it makes my brain go brrrr ok !!

going back to my roots with girly fem reader !! reader is a lil strap tease, ellie is a loser, and abby is big and scary 🎀

♡ so you find yourself in jail. the reason behind your imprisonment is up to u ok idk !!!

♡ ellie being the corrupt officer who sneaks you in contraband bc poor girly you can’t seem to last without your ‘stupid MAC lipliner’ or rose quartz or whatever it is you have ellie sneaking in.

♡ meeting her in the storage closet for your usual rendezvous, giggling and tugging at her uniform as she swats your hands away, huffing.

♡ “seriously? do you know how hard it is to sneak this shit in? you better hide that good, ‘cus if you get caught m’not saving your ass from Abby.”

♡ abby, of course is the no nonsense prison warden.

♡ the thing about ellie, is she hardly lays down the law. she’s a fucking loser, infact the only reason she lets you get away with so much and got herself caught up in this whole contraband situation is because she quite literally couldn’t resist a pretty girl batting her lashes up at her and caved. it’s pathetic really, but you think she looks super cute under the dim lights of the storage closet, hoping the lack of lighting is enough to hide the blush across her freckled cheeks (it’s not.)

♡ with ellie being a loser, comes ellie being a perv. “gonna have to hide that real good, okay? can’t get caught.” she’s muttering, stuffing the things you’d requested from her down your bra, really getting in there to make sure it’s hidden, of course.

♡ meanwhile, you can’t seem to keep your hands off her — absolutely adoring the thrill of your dirty little secret, feeling special knowing she doesn’t do this for anyone else. she clears her throat when you kiss her on the cheek and grab at her handcuffs. “ooh, can you use these on me?” you flutter making her tsk, flustered and shooing you away despite the burning in her cunt. “those—those are for making arrests okay, shit— y’so handsy.”

♡ maybe if she’s feeling brave enough one day she’ll put you on your knees as payback and hurriedly use your face to get off. maybe. she daydreams about that a lot.

♡ anyway, she’s forever complaining about your ridiculous requests for her to sneak in— and then fulfilling your request within the next few days.

♡ “ellie, i need buttons.” she sighs. “why.” “i’m making a plushie.” the next day she has buttons in her hand.

♡ again, she’d hate for you to get caught — so she’s stuffing the plastic bag of buttons down your prison pants into your underwear before retying the string on your pants and patting over your pussy where she stuffed the bag. “keep that safe. got it? ‘told you, you don’t wanna be on the other end of abby.”

♡ but oh, you did.

♡ how you adored seeing how far you could push it with the big blonde buff prison warden. it started off as you relentlessly asking her dumb flirty questions until she was grabbing you by the cheeks, towering over you and telling you to “get back to your cell.”

♡ but you were unstoppable, always making sure to give her a show in the shower room when she’d be in there on her watch shift. you were starting to think she was trading shifts just to be in there when you were. she’d always stand by the sinks with her arms crossed and eyes narrowed, walkie-talkie on her hip only accenting her toned body. you’d be across from her, shower cubicle door open, hands sliding up and down your body — seeing how long she’d let you slide your hand between your legs and rub your clit until she’d tell you to “cut it out, you’re wasting hot water.” though, you could see the way she shifted her thighs, and her cheeks would go the cutest shade of dusty pink.

♡ abby doing your cell checks was always scary, always just narrowly missing your hiding spots where you’d shove all the things ellie brought you. “you hiding anything in here ma’am?” she’d eye you as you shake your head innocently, watching her pull your blankets up and shake them. “why do i not believe you? little minx like you, always up to something.”

♡ you nearly let a smirk slip, nearly — but instead widen your eyes until they were doe like, looking up at her as she closes in on you, trying to figure you out. “me? no, i’m a good girl. i’d never do that, abby.”

♡ you’d continue to stare up at her as she takes a long look, raking her eyes down your body before back up to your gaze. “thats officer anderson to you.” before departing, never quite giving you what you want.

♡ until, she keeps catching you with officer williams. and it makes her jealous. because obviously, you’re her little prison slut. only hers.

♡ you stand by ellie in the cafeteria for a little too long, talking to eachother under your breath and sparing side glances. abby watches, before deciding to make an example out of you and grabbing you by the scruff of the neck and dragging you back to your cell where you’re out of everyone’s vision, growling something about “stop fraternising with the officers.”

♡ she nudges you back into your cell and is in disbelief at you holding back a mischievous smile when you turn around to face her where she stands in the doorway. “you’re an officer…?” you challenge, batting your lashes. she eyes you hungrily, breathing heavily for a moment before lowly muttering an “other officers.” leaving you with a victorious smile when she storms off.

♡ and then one day she catches you, really catches you. you’re waiting for ellie in the storage closet for an exchange of goods, and when the door opens and closes, you turn around with a smile — only to come face to face with abby. poor ellie was off on prison bus duty, assigned conveniently by none other than officer anderson.

♡ “what’s going on in here, hm? what have you been up to?” her finger stroking the walkie talkie on her leg. your smile fades, caught and your brows furrow — blinking up at her waiting for some kind of punishment. “a little birdie told me you had a thing for officers sneaking in things they shouldn’t, that true?” she knocks your chin up when you look down, attempting to evade her dark gaze.

♡ “i don’t know what you’re—” “you know, everyone breaks the rules sometimes. even a warden like me.” she steps closer, backing you against the wall making you gasp lightly as something light falls off the shelf behind you. she grabs your wrist, bringing your fingers to her crotch, a hard plastic cock bulged beneath her pants. you whimper, because it feels huge. “yeah, see. i can be sneaky too. maybe you can continue keeping that slutty mouth closed, and i’ll keep my mouth shut about your little meet ups with officer williams. we got a deal?” she pushes into you more, a shelf digging into your back and covered cock pushing up against your crotch making you let out a shaky breath.

♡ “i can — i can keep a secret.” “yeah? huh. maybe i misjudged you. maybe you are a good girl.”

♡ and when you show up all weak legged, bruised and hot faced to meet with ellie the next day for your rescheduled pick up — she has a million questions, brows frowning in not so subtle jealousy and pouting.

♡ “so what, i bring you your shit for months and you just let the first warden who comes in here fuck? that shit is so unfair.” she complains, barely trying to shrug you off when you run your hands up her toned arms and rest them on her shoulders.

♡ “lemme make it up to you, show you how grateful i am, els.” she let’s you kiss her for a minute, melting a little at the way you suck on her bottom lip before pulling away and fixing her uniform after your grabby hands had skewed it. “just— take your shit and get lost. i’ll see you in the cafeteria.”

♡ but she can’t stay mad at your cute little face. especially when you’re sooo sweet to her, and let her take her anger out on you in the next closet meet up with her fingers.

[daydream-cement]

Little Surprise (NSFW)

Larissa Weems x Reader

Larissa has a little surprise before bed.

Author’s Note: Just a lil smut for yall <3

Larissa double and triple checked her appearance in the mirror. She felt ridiculous. Never in her life had she worn anything so ornate and delicate. This lingerie was unlike anything she had worn before. The sheer dark purple lingerie set felt absurd against her skin, its black accents made the headmistress bite her lip. The absence of makeup made Larissa wonder if the outfit may have been too much. You never cared for expensive or elaborate things, making the shapeshifter wonder if she was going overboard. 

You were laying in bed grading papers, certainly not expecting what Larissa had planned for tonight. 

Covering herself in a short sheer robe, Larissa wordlessly exited the bathroom and headed towards the bedroom door to lock it. When the soft click of the lock sounded, you drew your attention from the papers in your lap up to where the headmistress stood at the end of the bed.

With a deep shaky breath, the shapeshifter undid the strings of her robe and allowed it to fall to the floor. You were at a loss for words, your eyes attempting to drink in the divine vision that was Larissa. You flipped the grading binder closed and dropped it to the side, wanting to focus your full attention on Larissa. the headmistress began crawling up the bed, a high pitched whimper emitting from you as you observed the soft sway of the shapeshifter’s breasts. 

When the shapeshifter settled against your lap, her hands danced at your sides. “Am I interrupting?”

“Hardly... Is this all for me?” 

The shapeshifter nodded, some of the air she had been holding in her lungs releasing as she heard and observed your positive response. Biting at her bottom lip, she ground her hips against you, signaling her desire for you.

“You look absolutely perfect…purple is a good color on you, mhm.” You brushed your hands up the shapeshifter’s sides, cupping her breasts and palming them. Your movements were achingly slow. Larissa attempted to embrace the pacing, her chin tilted towards the ceiling as her fists clenched at your sleep shirt. 

You were delighted in the way Larissa’s body filled the sheer lace of her outfit. The faint outline of her nipples were visible through the delicate lace. Your face lingered closer and closer to the point in which the shapeshifter could your hot breath across her flesh. 

Raising her hands to the back of your head, the shapeshifter threaded her fingers into your hair, drawing you closer. You followed the silent instructions and pressed your lips to Larissa’s sternum. Larissa tasted faintly of her lavender body wash, eliciting a smile from you. 

Ten minutes passed and there was no change in your position, only now Larissa’s top had been removed. You still had your hands on the headmistress’s breasts, plucking softly at her nipples to draw out soft whimpers from the shapeshifter. When her nipples were nice and hard, you finally drew one into your mouth to begin sucking. The texture of Larissa’s nipple drew a mewl from you.

“What do you want, hm?” You cooed to your wife, hands drifting to the headmistress’s waist to hold her close for you to continue sucking. 

“I want you to…” Larissa sighed, her back arching and pushing her breasts into your face more. “I want you to fuck me.”

“How do you want me to fuck you?”

“With the, ahh, the strap, please…” the shapeshifter breathed.

“Ohh… Lay back for me.”

The headmistress sunk back onto the mattress, her legs spread wide for you. You found it hard to take yourself away from the sight before you. The usually dominant Larissa was now panting, her chest heaving as she watched you expectantly. 

You popped up from the bed and tore off your t-shirt, discarding it on the floor as you wandered to the drawer where the shapeshifter kept the strap-on. You couldn’t help but giggle as you laid your eyes on the object. After nearly a decade together, you had never donned the strap-on. 

“Come to the edge of the bed.”

With big pouty eyes, Larissa did as she was told. From the lamplight from your bedside table, the headmistress was enthralled by the sight of you with a strap attached to your body. 

At your slow and steady pace, the headmistress was pushed back against the bed, her gaze glued to the running ceiling fan as your mouth made contact with her abdomen. Your delicate but firm hands glided the length of her sides as you pressed open mouth kisses to the shapeshifter’s stomach. As you moved downward, your hands squeezed and lightly scratched which only increased the craving Larissa had for you.

From the anticipation, how you laid her sights on the headmistress, and now from your touch, Larissa found herself absolutely drenched. The flimsy lace of her underwear absorbed none of her wetness causing it to coat her inner thighs. As you neared the crux of her thigh and cunt, you could see the sweet shine of the shapeshifter’s desire. The image before you made you smirk.

Larissa’s cunt was fluttering and aching as you made your way closer. You could smell the musk of her desire. Larissa had been daydreaming of getting fucked for days, and she needed this desperately.

You hadn’t bothered to pull off Larissa’s underwear, rather you liked the look of the purple lace against the shapeshifter's hips. You pulled her panties to the side and ran a finger lightly over the shapeshifter’s sex, testing the waters of Larissa's sensitivity. 

“Such a pretty thing…” You cooed, your index and middle finger swiping through Larissa’s cunt to massage her clit. 

The headmistress trembled at first contact with her clit and your eyes flickered upwards for a fraction of a second, pleasantly able to catch the sweet view of Larissa’s breasts trembling as more shockwaves rocked her body. You smirked and brought your face back down to the shapeshifter’s cunt, your tongue now swiping through her folds for a taste. 

Larissa released a long, loud, and uninhibited moan, her hands flying down to the back of your head to hold your face to her pussy. You began a new slow, languid process of lapping at the shapeshifter’s cunt. The headmistress’s hips bucking into your mouth every few seconds when your tongue swipes over just the right spot.

Without stopping your ministrations on the shapeshifter’s clit, you pushed two fingers in the headmistress’s pussy, your own eyes rolling back as you felt how wet and ready the shapeshifter was to be fucked.

“Ready, darling?” You quietly asked, your fingers dancing over the shapeshifter’s clit once more. 

“Mhmm…” Larissa whimpered, her hips bucking against your hand once more as a way of begging to be filled again.

“We need to keep those legs open for me.” 

Your voice was more domineering than before, hands dancing over the shapeshifter’s thighs, slowly pushing them up and out. A cool sensation graced the shapeshifter’s skin as you teased her entrance with the strap. Gripping Larissa’s thighs, you became momentarily entranced at the sight of the pink dildo sliding against her entrance.

“Oh, honey…” The shapeshifter whined, her eyes flickering open to gaze up at you. She couldn’t have been more excited for the fucking she had in store. To demonstrate this to you, she gripped both of her thighs from behind, spreading herself for you.

With the shapeshifter now spread wide, you lined her pink cock up to her entrance and pushed it in. You only had one word for the way the strap easily slipped inside the headmistress, “Perfect…” 

Larissa let out a long sigh as she allowed the cock to fill her. It was smaller than anticipated, but it was only due to the fact that only a portion of the strap was inside. With every thrust, however, the headmistress felt the full length, filling Larissa to the point that she was moaning wildly with each and every thrust. 

The shapeshifter was seeking any form of control. This entire experience was so new and she was having trouble handling the pleasure. Her nails digging into her thighs and gripping them for dear life. 

The texture of the cock was unexpected, but not unwelcomed. It seemed to press against every bundle of nerves, drawing the headmistress closer to orgasm without much effort at all. 

Quiet expletives began pouring from the shapeshifter’s lips as your pace quickened. Your eyes were fastened shut as you derived your own pleasure from the fucking her. Both of you had broken out in a sweat, your minds going blank as you became lost in pleasuring as she became lost in the pleasure. 

Your strokes became long and hard and the headmistress grasped for your hands, drawing them up to her face to encourage you to provide her with sweet words as she was pushed over the edge. Through heavy pants, you complied. You leaned over Larissa’s frame, lips near the headmistress’s ear as the thrusting became more rapid and needy. “You are such a good girl for me. Taking it all… You just need to take it all for me. Don’t you?”

Larissa opened her mouth to cry out, but no sound was made. The feeling of the final few inches being pushed into her was too much for the shapeshifter to handle. She came hard and fast, but you weren't finished with her, your thrusts became erratic, punishing the headmistress’s cunt. 

Every thrust was met with a loud slapping sound as your skin connected with the shapeshifter’s. With one last deep and hard thrust, you pushed deep inside the headmistress, causing her to cry out once more. 

With a few final strokes, you withdrew the dildo from the shapeshifter. The sight of her blissed out and splayed on the bed before you filled you with the need to repeat the process all over again. Your hands gripped the shapeshifter’s calves and your tone was as sweet as ever, “I will give you ten minutes to recover, then I want you to ride it.”

It was challenging for Larissa to believe that statement had escaped you. The shapeshifter’s chest was still heaving as she acknowledged your statement. “I’ll be ready… whenever… whenever you want me…”

“Good girl.”

—-

Larissa gripped your wrist, choking on the safeword. She sputtered it over and over, needing the stimulation to stop. Tears welled in her eyes and she quickly began to sob, everything felt as if it was too much too soon and the shapeshifter couldn’t take it.

The cock was pulled from her slowly and you crawled to the shapeshifter’s side, pulling the headmistress’s face to your chest and cradling her. The shapeshifter’s tears littered your skin as you tried comforting her, “You did very good, honey. You looked so pretty when you got on your knees for me.” 

“I’d do it again.” The headmistress sleepily smiled to herself as she thought back on how she fell to her knees and sucked your strap. It was tangy with her own cum and the satisfied smirk on your face drove Larissa to suck harder and faster to make you proud. 

Through your lashes, you looked to the clock on the shapeshifter’s bedside table: 3am. You hummed into the top of Larissa’s head, a wave of exhaustion hitting you when you realized it was past your bedtime. 

“Do you think we should set an alarm so we can call and say we will be late for work?” Larissa mumbled against your breast. Her eyes were growing heavy to match the heaviness that weighed down her limbs and prevented her from moving. 

“Mhmm…” You grumbled as you maneuvered your way out from under Larissa. On wobbly legs, you made your way to the bathroom to clean yourself up. Using the strap all night left you soaked. With a damp towel, you wiped herself clean and plucked a fresh towel for the shapeshifter, dampening it before bringing it back out into the bedroom.

Instead of handing it over to Larissa, you spread the headmistress’s legs, the blonde whimpering at the notion that you could be trying to intimidate round six. Gazing down between her legs, the shapeshifter saw that you only had a towel in hand, a sight that brought a little smile to her face. Through gentle swipes, you cleaned your wife up, genuinely surprised by how much cum was dripping from between her legs.

When you finally returned to bed, Larissa was on the brink of slumber. You snuggled against the shapeshifter’s left side, just as you always did right before bed. There was a content sigh that left the headmistress when she felt your naked form push up against her. The shapeshifter turned into your embrace, bringing you to be nestled half underneath her.

“Happy 11th anniversary since our first date…” Larissa hummed, her lips pressing two kisses to your forehead.

“Mmm… happy anniversary…” You couldn’t stop the smile that grew. It was such a silly occasion to celebrate, but this was a very Larissa thing to do. She loved to celebrate first dates, first kisses, first times, and first ‘I love you’s’ throughout the year. 

Larissa readjusted her hold on you, now leaving your head tucked under her chin. She had an arm raveled around your waist, holding your bodies nice and close. The proximity only pushed both of you to drift off to sleep even quicker.

Taglist: @charymobile, @bri-sonat, @weemswife, @smutuniversesblog, @opheliauniverse, @teashock , @enchantressb , @alex-nyx , @renravens , @whenyouhaveanobsession , @scream-queenlover , @shyladyfan , @lilfartbox1 @rubberduckiesbathing , @mcufanisme , @peanutbutterprincess , @larissaoftarthweems , @sicklygrlsicklygrl , @lvinhs , @myzzjolanda , @principal-weems09 , @xuukoo , @brienneswife , @dumbasslesbi , @oculusalien , @sweetderacine , @giogwensversion , @milciak , @gela123 , @thevillagegay , @katiemcgrathsbitch1 , @naomi-m3ndez , @mysaviorfalsegod, @h-doodles , @salems-spaghettios , @imgayforwoman69 , @bychrissi , @alexusonfire , @weemssapphic

[ambrosiagourmet]

Has anyone requested Marcille for the ask meme? If not then pls

Marcille!!!!!!!!!

First impression

Gay? Interesting elf girl with a really good design for a female character oh my god thank you. She gets to wear pants!!! It's a miracle!

Impression now

BELOVED HALF-ELF OF MY HEART... most determined member of the party, maybe second only to Laios. Not that it's a competition.

Girl who carries the weight of her existence in her heart everywhere she goes. Girl who doesn't know how to just exist because that would mean surrendering to the things time will take away from her. Girl with bloody knuckles who clings too tightly to the things she loves because she remembers a time when she didn't realize what they meant to her.

Girl who must shape a life too big to hold all at once. Who stares into that impossible task so unflinchingly that you kind of want to tell her to run away from it for a bit. Be a bit more of a coward, Marcille! But she doesn't have time to be a coward!! She's hurtling towards her goals at terminal velocity. But the same love that keeps her tumbling forward also pulls her back from the brink. Because she's still figuring out the balance.

Favorite moment

Rabbit chapter... my god rabbit chapter.........

Genuinely maybe my favorite chapter in the whole manga. It hits such an incredible peak of humor and raw emotion and impossibly ridiculous situations and grounded believable character writing. And no part of it is separate from the others.

What a fucking chapter. And what a fucking thesis for why Marcille is such a good character. Her being ridiculous and her being incredibly determined and her being powerful and her being scared are ALL part of her. Man. Marcille. She will do anything to pull through for her friends.

And then on top of it the way the Lion takes advantage of this moment to pull her strings. Which is just. So horrifying to watch because you want someone to give her a hug but all the people who would give her a hug are currently DEAD and she's left in a room along and exhausted with a manipulative, abusive, hungry opportunist. God. God. I love Rabbit Part II So Very Much.

Idea for a story

Umm hi sorry I am still busy thinking about Rabbit Part II. Please enjoy some shameless self promotion while I go lie down for a bit.

Unpopular opinion

She's bisexual!!!!! Normally I don't hold so fast to like "well canonically this character was into A Man so she can't be a lesbian blah blah blah" but it does bum me out that people ignore her succubus because I really do think that bi Marcille deserves more love. It doesn't make her any less into women sheesh.

Favorite relationship

Sorry I was thinking about Rabbit Part II again what was the question? Favorite relationship?

Yeah I dunno maybe Marcille and Laios? I kinda like the part where they rely on each other because there is no other way through and share an unnamed intimacy born in blood and bone and the way that they place impossible burdens on each other and owe each other their lives many times over and neither holds it against the other or asks for the repayment of debts that can never be repaid, choosing instead to keep walking into the future by each others sides because what else can you do. What else can you do.

They are pretty cool I guess. I'm normal about them though. Haha.

Favorite headcanon

I imagine that castle staff help Marcille with her hair on a day-to-day basis because leaving it just to personal friends and family would probably be impractical. But also I think Chilchuck, Laios, Falin, and also especially KABRU all learn enough to help her with it. I think that the first three learn some basic nice stuff but I think Kabru would get really into it.

That man could absolutely intensely hyperfixate on something like "nice hairstyles from another culture" for three to six months and come out the other side an expert.

[goorehound]

Finally starting to write something for these little bastards. But, I need feedback.

The gist: Human Lucifer (Louis, ew i know) is haunted by Alastor. AU type deal.

This is the unedited, very quickly written up first chapter. Do we fuck with it? Or should I brainstorm some other ideas?

Chapter One – Moving Day

This was totally a worthwhile purchase. Most definitely.

Sure, it was a lot creepier in the dwindling light, and without the bubbly overbearing energy of his realtor. Still, a beautiful property. Really it should’ve been saved as a historical site, but who was he to complain?

Gorgeous property, all while being a hop, skip and a jump away from his daughter’s new business. The perfect fresh start that his therapist had hinted at him desperately needing, a change of pace and environment to compliment his new rekindled relationship with his kids.

Refreshing new scenery. Or at least that’s what he repeated endlessly to himself, a stark contrast to the unease that settled deep in his bones while he maneuvered around half-unpacked boxes.

It hadn’t seemed this empty and dreary when he’d been signing all the paperwork. Good fucking god, this was probably the most silent building he’d ever been in. Concerningly quiet. Shouldn’t there be creaks? Birds outside? Anything?

He was surely overthinking all of this. What could be wrong with a little peace and quiet, really? This house, his new house, was on the edge of town. A little silence was to be expected, and working himself up over finally doing something good for himself was counterproductive.

Charlie calling! What a fantastic fucking distraction, yet another thing to add to the list of things he appreciated about her.

“Char! Hey!” He still needed to work on that greeting.

“Dad! Hi!” Oh man, she was just like him. That pulled on the heart strings. “How’s moving?”

“Oh good, yeah, yeah. Super good. Great.” He rambled on, eyes shifting around the boxes surrounding him. “Well, it’s a work in progress. We’ll get there.”

“Yeah.” She laughed back. “I was thinking – I mean, if its okay with you? Vaggie and I could come help out tomorrow, make you some dinner?”

“Oh, absolutely. Dying to meet this gal I keep hearing about, aha-ha.” Good lord, could that have possibly come out more awkward? This did not get easier, despite what he had been assured. That was fine, Charlie never seemed put off, and that’s what mattered. Right? He just had to win over this girlfriend of hers.

“Sounds good, I’ll --- Shit. Sorry, dad, I’ll text you. Duty calls.”

“Course, kiddo. I’ll see you tomorrow?” Dial tone. Ouch, but fair enough. She was busy, he had things to sort.

Which was precisely what he spent the rest of his evening doing. Throwing his entire focus into carefully and swiftly dissecting piles of boxes. He’d even gotten as far as unpacking and setting up the television. Really not his thing normally, but when it had come up in conversation with Charlie she’d all but insisted upon him buying one.  

So, he was giving in. Flicking on something random. Anything to drown out the sudden onslaught of random noises that he was doing everything to avoid thinking about. Old house. Here were the noises he was asking for earlier.  That’ll teach him not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Thud. Sliiide. Clack, clack, clack, creak.

Whatever. Just the house settling, nothing some good ol’ TV couldn’t drown out. Certainly it wasn’t somebody going about their business in the study just down the hall, that would be ridiculous. And, at this point in the evening, Lou had pointedly checked that room numerous times. He had confirmed with his very own eyes that it remained, thankfully, uninhabited.

It was completely fucking normal, actually, and Lou wasn’t remotely nervous about it. He felt so normal about it all that he decided to drift off on the couch, background chatter from the screen still buzzing on. Because who could stop him? It was his house and he could doze wherever he pleased, and it did not mean he was scared. He was a grown ass man, after all.

Click, click, sliiiide.

Yep, he was closing his eyes now. Dead to the world, oblivious to strange noises lurking about.

Hard to tell precisely how much time had passed from the time he drifted off until he was eased into a state of just barely conscious, still dazed by the twisting and nonsensical dream he’d been lulled into.

It was still dark.  A soft noise easing him further from his dream, but it was nothing soothing.

Hardly even familiar.

 Something repetitive. Metallic, almost? Akin to a slicing of meat, the sound echoing out from the kitchen.

There was only a matter of seconds to processes the sudden and nauseating stench of blood and viscera, enough to have his stomach flipping.

Then, there was a deafening, loud, wet slam from the kitchen. Like a corpse being tossed about.

That had his heart in his throat and feet on the ground before he could take another breath.

[what-gs-watching]

“There is only room for one God in this lab and it's not yours."

Welp, my city has decided that it forgot how weather works, and we’re snowed in and there’s a frozen pipe in my goddamn basement and I finished an interview loop for a company last week so I’m just sitting here trapped in my house and waiting desperately for any news on if they might hire me and it’s not going amazing SO, 

It’s time for a FRINGE BINGE. 

I saw a post a week or two ago that Fringe might be leaving Max at the end of the month, and I couldn’t let it go without a rewatch. It’s one of the reasons I started playing “What G’s Watching” with my husband - he’d seen it when it first came out and I thought maybe he’d remember some of it and could understand my rambling, because you need some kind of background to truly grasp what the eff is happening in Fringe. He didn’t. But that didn’t stop me from becoming completely obsessed. 

Even when I’m not rewatching, sometimes I’ll yell “PREVIOUSLY ON FRINGE” when the show I’m actually enjoying does a recap. I don’t know why it’s stuck in my brain, but it doesn’t matter, I love it.

Here’s the thing about Fringe: it’s absolutely ridiculous. It’s like X-Files on acid (or Walter’s Brown Bettty?). The science is ridiculous and honestly it’s difficult to follow the lore sometimes, especially the first time through it. But it’s weirdly captivating and it tugs at your heart strings, which doesn’t make any sense.

Basically, FBI agent Olivia Dunham gets sucked into a special division that investigates weird occurrences that seem to have to do with ‘fringe science’, and she ends up enlisting Peter Bishop and his genius scientist father, Walter Bishop (who’d spent almost twenty years in a mental institution) to help her get to the bottom of what the eff is going on.

AND THEN THINGS GET CRAZY. 

They pump so much backstory into this show. There’s monsters of the week, sure, but every single character has a whole damn room full of skeletons and it was so much fun trying to puzzle all of that shit out the first time. In my rewatch so far, I’m picking up a ton of little random clues and I’m loving it. It’s clear that J. J. Abrams had some IDEAS. 

Also, I’ve never watched Lost, (and I never will, I put my foot down on that)  but I can confidently say this is the better J. J. Abrams show. The ending doesn’t make you ridiculously angry you watched the whole thing. So there’s that. 

Honestly, there’s too much I love about this show. The whole alternate universe plotline for one, which creates some of my favorite moments. But it’s mainly about Peter and Walter. At its core, this stupid show is about their father son relationship, and how far people are willing to go  to protect their family. Which is weird, but also perfect. 

Before the mental institution, Walter was a little bit of a sociopath, pursuing scientific enhancements, consequences be damned. He was a shit person. He ran tests on children, he fucked with the fabric of the universe. No fucks given, that man. But the Walter we get for most of the show is just…oddly charming. Quirky in his brilliance, instead of calculating. And it’s FUNNY and endearing. 

Olivia brings in another agent to help corral Walter in his resurrected lab beneath Harvard, Astrid, and he spends most of the series calling her anything but. “Astro”, “Astrix”, etc. It’s not malicious, he just can’t hold the information, as much as he appreciates the work she does with him. Like, how does that turn out to just be kind of cute? 

Some of my favorite made-up words are from Walter.  “Vagenda”, for one. Which is ‘vagina agenda’ obviously. As in, “Peter fell for her vagenda”, which had me rolling. Even if it came about during a storyline that made me absolutely FURIOUS, but in the best of ways. (There was a lot of time wherein I was yelling at my husband about how much I hated “Fauxlivia” and her vagenda, but honestly I don’t want to spoil it because the twists and turns this show takes are so wonderful, they should be experienced with absolutely no background.)

The whole thing with Walter is that he’s atoning for the sins of his past, even if he doesn’t really realize it at first, and it’s just, really comforting. His entire arc is compelling and satisfying, even if it leaves you a crying mess. 

Also, Peter Bishop is forever my perfect New England boyfriend. At first I’m not sure who they wanted him to be exactly, but eventually he smoothed out into just an earnest, genius, gorgeous man trying to do the right thing and get past all of the hurt Walter caused him. They put him in devastatingly handsome peacoats and he saves the day and he’s sweet to Olivia and I just spend most of the time swooning. That smile, gang.

Is it because I fell in love with Pacey Witter as a young girl during Dawson’s Creek’s heyday? 98% yes. I will always love Joshua Jackson and Pacey was done dirty for a while. And come to think of it, Peter was too. It’s his thing, apparently. 

I do  realize Olivia is supposed to be the main character probably, but she gets me to my two favorite guys so I guess she’s fine. Anna Torv is wonderful, she plays Dunham really well (which I imagine was grueling given some of the storylines) but the Bishops are the stars of the show. I just want to squeeze both of them.

The crazy thing is there are some episodes that will destroy you emotionally. The white tulip? Jesus. That one just came up in my rewatch, and it was still a punch in the face the second time. There’s one where Walter gets lost in Chinatown, I had to literally mute it because it’s gut wrenching. Even with the silliness and the science that makes you roll your eyes, they make you look at things you don’t want to, and it can hurt. I love/hate that so much. 

And look, I understand that the moral of the show is that science and technology can be dangerous and we shouldn’t let it get away from us because it could eventually cause the downfall of everything, but that’s not what I’m here for. I’m always here for the relationships. And the ridiculous ways we can get people to die. And the outlandish scifi. If you wanna remind me of things that I don’t want to think about in between that, I guess it’s okay, because it makes no sense, but when I think of Fringe, it just makes me feel warm and fuzzy. It’s not a warm and fuzzy show, but it is for me. 

I started watching it because it was a complete series that had a purposeful ending and I needed something, but it turned into a lot more than that. I’m jealous of people who can see it for the first time. It’s just so…special. In weird and wonderful ways. There will never be another character quite like Walter Bishop. Or a truly realized tv universe as outlandish. They swung for the fences, and it really landed; vagenda, the observers, Walternate, and all. 

Let Walter charm the shit out of you, you won’t be disappointed.

[ichooseviolence]

I honestly can't take the 'Sansa stays in the Vale and never comes back North and never sees her family again' metas aka headcanons seriously because it seems a vaaast majority of people who perpetuate this take are Sansa antis who are shaking, crying, and throwing up at the thought of Sansa and Jon being reunited first and potentially working together to take back Winterfell lol. I'm not a J0nsa shipper, I'm a Sansa stan who dislikes Jon so I don't even want that ship to happen, but the absolute seething from Sansa antis at the thought of Jon and Sansa even sharing page space together as totally platonic siblings/cousins/friends or whatever is so, so delicious. Anyway, idk if TWOW will ever even be published so this may all be moot but lmao. They need to worry less about Sansa and more about their faves!

Oh agreed. And it just makes no sense, it's a pointless place for her to end her story. "Robin will die and she'll end up ruling the Eyrie with HH." I'm 98% convinced Harry the Heir is going to die.

"And may your horse stumble, Harry the Heir, so you fall on your stupid head in your first tilt." -Alayne I TWOW

Not looking good for young Harry. After all, the last time Sansa wished for someone to fall during a tourney, they did.

"I hope [Ser Morros] falls and shames himself, she thought bitterly. I hope Ser Balon kills him." -Sansa I ACOK

Of course, Morros isn't killed, but he did fall and shame himself in the process. It's my assumption that this time death will be the result of his injury. On top of all that, Harry's a jerk. So unless he somehow survives, is humbled by his fall, and stops his habit of knocking up ladies and then dumping them just because they can't lose their pregnancy weight fast enough, I don't want him near Sansa. It's ridiculous the amount of gross men she has to put up with.

And as for Robin, I'm very confident he will live. And if that's the case, The Vale will be his. He has plenty of confidants who will be by his side and help him rule. He doesn't need Sansa for that. And based off his current affection for Sansa, she won't need to marry him to gain his alliance or support. Having her remain in The Vale to "control Sweetrobin" would diminish her as another LF or Varys pulling puppet strings on premature, young leaders. That's ooc for her imo. She's not interested in power. In the first book she brags about one day becoming queen, after she is betrothed to Joffrey (I'd brag about it too tbh) but we haven't seen that since. Even when she thinks about her claim to Winterfell, there's no shred of desire to actually rule. It just depresses her because she realizes she's being used and abused for her claim. What she desires most of all is to be loved, and to find someone to love. (But I guess it makes her a bitch for wanting to be with someone she finds attractive and...fucking normal in the head.)

They also argue that she'll be married to Aegon. And that makes little sense to me as well. Sansa goes from being used by Littlefinger to now being used by Varys? What's the point? What can she offer Aegon that would be better than what Arianne is about to offer him? "They'll be sister brides!" Neither one of them would go for that idea.. Sansa actually has a plot in her story, and Aegon doesn't fit into it.

"She's going to be dragged back to KL to have a final showdown with Cersei!" She doesn't need a showdown with Cersei. Sansa doesn't even think about Cersei, and to me that's proof that she has no power over her.

I've also seen theories where both Arya and Sansa are/were on a path of turning into their Aunt Lysa. Apparently Arya has passed the test, but Sansa hasn't. The most bizarre thing I've ever heard tbh. Neither of these girls are, or were ever, in danger of becoming their Aunt Lysa. They share qualities with Ned and Cat. Lysa's journey was very different from these girls'. She became obsessed with the man who loved her sister, her father forced an abortion on her, she was married off to an old man that she didn't want to be with. She was used and groomed by the man she "loved". She raped LF. Are we really going to compare these girls to their Aunt Lysa? Their stories and actions don't match up at all. I'm not sure why this idea is even entertained.

People will come up with anything to keep her away from her own home. Sansa being "less of a Stark" and "less connected to Winterfell" has been a baseless argument for a long time now. Her narrative contradicts those claims. And as for her ending, I think she will end the story in an influential position. It would be cool if she ended as queen regnant, but I don't think it's super likely. I think it's more likely she'll be queen consort, queen regent (if Rickon lives), or the lady of a major house. Personally, I ship her with Willas Tyrell <3. But I don't think that's likely to happen as she'll probably choose to stay in Winterfell by the end of the series.

Hehe, I've actually been feeling very positive with TWOW release lately. I think it's closer than we think. I could be wrong though, and tbf I haven't been waiting an entire decade since I began reading the series very late. For now, I just daydream a happy ending. <3

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Surrogate: A Malevolent Podcast Fanfic

The King in Yellow has a plan.

The first part works, and Arthur Lester is broken.

The second half blows up in his face. John has gone mad, and Hastur’s adopted daughter is upset, but that’s not all.

It turns out a certain Outer God wasn’t done watching that show, and when he arrives with director’s notes, not even the King in Yellow can refuse him.

AO3

----

This fic is fluffy AND dark?

I took the Emotions Box and dumped the whole thing in without a hint of self-restraint.

CONTENT WARNING: It includes one of John and Arthur’s absolute lowest points, and though not explicit, he suffers from suicidal ideation. He does not act on it, but it’s there.

Proceed with caution.

-----------

Faroe is a year and a half old, and she must sit on his lap to reach the keys of the piano.

She plays a low F sharp.

“Yes! Now… here. This comes next.” He plays the next few notes an octave above middle C, high and sparkling.

His voice is deep, and it is terrible, but she is not afraid.

She giggles, and—slowly—mimics it, two octaves lower. F sharp, G, F sharp, D—and after a trepidatious moment, the final F sharp.

“Very good! I’m so proud of you. My smart little girl. You’re so good. Who’s my little girl?”

A giggle, such a tiny sound, like her throat hasn’t even finished developing, and she is simply too young to be self-conscious. “Dadah.”

She’s playing the low notes. He’s playing the high ones. Is there meaning to this? Some hidden portent?

No. It simply happened that way, and he does not know if he should try to find reason in it.

She is remarkable. “Such a good girl. I’m very proud of you, Faroe.”

“Love you, dadah.”

#

Faroe is two years old, and trying to sing.

She has a range of about six notes (fitting for her developmental stage—he’s checked), but she hits them with an accuracy unusual for her age.

It’s not precise, of course. She skips from note to note as lightly as a hummingbird between flowers, never firmly landing on any, but brushing close enough to share the sweetness.

“Faroe, my darling. Such a good girl.”

“I love you, daddy.”

Maybe the fucking human was right not to have let go of this.

She truly is remarkable. Continually surprising in her cleverness, and her ridiculous humor, and her effusive love.

Regardless, her skills and self change nothing.

Faroe’s specialness only emphasizes how much Arthur Lester deserves what’s coming.

#

Faroe is two and a half, and who could have guessed how she’d take to the harp?

Confining her to one instrument was such a human thing to do, and he hadn’t even considered it. At his prompting, she tries them all.

Wind instruments, she doesn’t care for.

Percussion, she enjoys while inventing uncoordinated dances, but does not like to play.

Brass is much the same as wind.

Piano is all right. She shows talent, but no joy.

But string—oh, string.

Anything with strings, she loves, and embraces, and becomes in some sweet way he cannot define, but must be human magic: her small, clumsy movements going smooth, her tiny, pudgy fingers caressing with grace far beyond her years.

She would have absolutely been considered a prodigy among the short-sighted humans. She will be so much more than that now.

Curious, that he finds himself making plans for her beyond the end of this plan. If all goes as originally conceived, she won’t even be alive to—

“Daddy, look,” she says, and catches the harp strings with each succeeding finger as easily as she breathes, tiny digits curling to pull sound toward herself like muses gather dreams.

Remarkable.

If her father was anything like this, perhaps he could understand the Piece’s... reluctance.

But of course, no. He had seen into Arthur Lester, down to his core, and found him only distasteful.

“Daddy?”

“You’re doing so well, my darling. I’m very pleased with you.”

Her smile carries a weight he’d never imagined. For him, she plays some more, an uncomplicated and unsullied worship, given freely with no expectation of remittance.

She checks as she does to make sure he is watching, and it is in this brief, mortal moment that Hastur realizes he’s fallen in love.

#

This was not the plan.

He watches her play among his dancers, those sharp and terrible creations—watches her bound without fear between them because she has never been hurt, never known pain beyond the negligible bump or scrape.

That is according to plan.

She is healthy and lovely, and absorbing knowledge at a rate his study has shown him is unusual for humans, even at her developmental stage.

That, too, is according to plan.

But he no longer wishes to finish the plan as intended.

Is this what the Piece went through? This… illogical abandonment of principle and pride?

Perhaps.

Though he still could not see why. Faroe was worth some flexibility. Arthur was not. What a disgusting creature for the Piece to have latched—

“Daddy, are you watching?” she calls, darting between sharp and stone-hard dancers, who would be dangerous for anyone who had not grown up among them.

“Always, my dear,” he says, and it is true.

So the plan must change.

The result could still be the same.

He is a god, and absolutely has the right to change his mind.

#

Faroe is three years old, and the timing could not be more perfect.

He's been leaving clues for Arthur over the past year, burning hints, plastering Arthur’s life with reminders of what he’d lost and what he’d done.

An unending stream of them, merciless, too subtle to dismiss.

And with constant pressure, there’d formed a crack in that ugly human psyche.

Seemingly nothing. Left alone, it would heal.

Unless one applied a wedge just so, and then hit.

It was crucial to act before she grew much older, before she became too self-aware to demand penance from strangers. Crucial to act when she still lacked the ability to analyze, to question (beyond the endlessly-repeated “Why?” which he had decided was more to hold his attention than to gather knowledge).

Crucial, to do this before she could develop too much empathy. The Piece’s human was nothing if not pitiful, and he would not risk the plan going sour over that.

“We have guests. I need you on your best behavior, darling. Will you make me proud?” he says to her, unbothered by her wriggles, by her curiosity, by her constant personal quest to see if she can climb out of his tentacles (she cannot).

“Yes, daddy!” she agrees, which has to be enough.

They are here.

#

It wasn’t hard to bring them. A little pressure here, a few disposable cultists there, and the Piece and his thing are arrived.

The Piece is worried. Has been for a few months now, certain that something is very wrong with Arthur, but he cannot identify the cause.

They step into the dark, those two—Arthur Lester frowning at gloom he cannot see, John Doe narrating as usual.

The King has chosen a room they do not know, a place John would never recognize, because this plan has been in the works for years, this particular moment envisioned many times, and it has to be just right.

He waits until they’re too far in to turn around.

Come too far to run, to leap back through the silent, slowly closing door.

Too far to do anything but receive.

“Hello, Arthur,” says the King in Yellow, and steps forward in a bloom of light like the heavens opened to augur him.

It is everything he wanted and more.

Arthur’s horror—delayed, because Hastur chose the right day, and Arthur’s sanity is already trembling and painful.

The Piece’s rage—immediate and tinged with terror, because he knows that this setup will have no flaws, errors, or ways to escape.

Arthur tries to shoot him.

Cute.

“Now, is that necessary? I merely want to talk,” says the King in Yellow, and extends his reach to simply take the gun from him.

He might have broken Arthur’s hand. Well, humans are fragile.

The screaming is annoying, though, because it catches her attention.

“What’s wrong with that man?” she says, her voice quavering in the way it does when she’s becoming upset.

And Arthur hears her.

The gasp, the freeze. Beautiful.

“This is a bad man,” says the King in Yellow. “There he is, do you see him? He is very bad. What do we do when we have been bad, Faroe?”

He uses her name on purpose.

That isn’t enough, though. That isn’t nails in the proverbial coffin.

Not that it's a coffin he’s going for. This is a wedge, designed to split.

“What?” says Arthur in a tiny, weak voice.

The Piece has, to the King’s pleasure, gone silent in shock.

Good. That will make this even easier.

“We say sorry,” says Faroe, dutifully, the mental exercise pulling her, fortunately, away from looming empathy.

Arthur? whispers the Piece.

Hastur lets Faroe down.

Slowly. Taking his time. Ensuring the Piece sees how comfortable with him she is, how utterly at ease, because he will tell Arthur.

She… she’s… in his arms, Arthur, the Piece says, slipping by habit into describing things for the blind fool. She's not even afraid.

Yes. Perfect.

She looks… about three, maybe four? I can’t tell. Health blooms in her cheeks. She wears… his yellow, a sort of… single, wrapped uniform, comfortable and loose, along with yellow flower barrettes in her hair. Oh, Arthur—she’s coming closer.

“I can’t,” whispers Arthur, which could mean anything, and then he falls to his knees.

Just bang, right down, sure to bloom those fragile joints blue and yellow within the hour.

How many reminders did it take to bring Arthur to this place? How much effort from the King’s agents? It was all worth it, because it worked.

This is the moment.

He has sown those seeds, and now, he will harvest. “Go on, Arthur. Apologize to my little girl. That is what we do when we are bad, is it not?”

Arthur, she… The Piece runs out of words.

Regretful, that Arthur Lester is physically healthier than he was the last time they met. This might have just killed him, before. Oh, well.

“Faroe?” he whispers.

“Yes, I am,” she says, confident, not quite mature enough to read his defeated body language, his stricken face, his pallor so drained that he looks a little like blue-veined cheese.

“Go on, Arthur,” Hastur says, his pleased rumble filling the room, packing itself into the silences. “You owe her an apology.”

“Faroe,” whispers Arthur, and makes the tiniest move.

“If you touch her, you will be very sad at what happens next,” Hastur warns.

Because that is what he had planned.

Because—

Because.

He can still say it. He doesn’t have to mean it.

Arthur clenches his fists and does not touch. “Faroe?”

“Yes,” she says.

He makes one, broken-sounding sob.

“You should say sorry,” she instructs him. “Since you were bad.”

And… there.

Right there. It’s not an audible thing. It’s not visual. But oh… there it is.

Three years in the making.

More than that in the planning.

Right there, the moment of a mortal mind going snap.

Arthur? Arthur!

The Piece felt it, too.

Good. Hopefully, that would speed this along.

“Faroe,” whispers Arthur Lester. “I’m s… I’m sorry, Faroe.” His breath comes fast, shallow, and wet. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry!” He covers his face with his good hand, and he is sobbing now, if that is even the word—vocalized sounds on every exhale, high, pained—more pained than those he made with a broken leg, if Hastur remembers clearly.

Which he does.

“I’m sorry, Faroe! I’m sorry, Faroe!”

Arthur! Fuck, Arthur! Arthur!

It’s a little much for Faroe.

She doesn’t know what to do. Her distress is rising, and that’s according to plan, to the original plan, which Hastur is now struggling to follow. She’s beginning to cry a little—damned empathy, combined with confusion, maybe fear.

He can comfort her after. It’s all so close. “Now, John,” he croons, and he is chiding, gentle, firm. “You know that’s a waste of energy, don’t you?”

The Piece ignores him. Arthur! Arthur!

Faroe reaches up and pats Arthur’s face. “You said sorry. It’s okay, now. It’s okay.”

He startles badly, so badly he almost falls over, but lowers his hand.

He can’t see her. He still stares in her direction, as if caught in a wondering horror beyond imagination.

“I forgive you,” she says, because that’s what she’s been taught to do.

Then absolutely done with this overwhelming scene, she turns around and skips back to Hastur.

To her dad, even if he’s not her father.

He gathers her up, relishing her fearlessness, her familiarity, and lets her squirm through his loose tentacles like her own personal playground.

Arthur is quiet.

Kneeling still, his hands limp at his sides. His head is down.

Oh… oh, it is satisfying. Every inch as much as he’d hoped.

Arthur! Fuck, Arthur, don’t do this! Arthur!

“Are you ready to come home, John?” says Hastur, almost gently.

Silence.

He sighs. Stupid stubborn Piece.

“Daddy,” whispers Faroe, which isn’t much of a whisper. “He looks weird. He’s weird. Why is he weird?”

“Well, Faroe, he’s done a lot of bad things.” There’s no point to this if he’s not going to rub it in. “But maybe now he can do a good one. What do you think? Should he do that?”

“He should be good,” she says, thoughtfully, and then returns to wriggling through his limbs for fun.

“The good thing would be to let go, wouldn’t it?” says Hastur.

Arthur agrees.

Of course he does. He’s thinking… well.

Arthur has no plans to live much longer after this is done—but even this low, he doesn't want to drag John with him.

Hastur will grant him a single point for that.

Time for the finale. “John,” Hastur says, warm. “Come home. There will be no punishment. Come on, now. You’ve been released. Can’t you feel it?”

Arthur!

The left hand rises, feels along Arthur’s unresponsive face.

Hastur sighs. This is the only part he couldn’t fully plan out. “John. It’s time.”

No response.

Really? Really?

Maybe he didn’t understand his toy had broken. “If you stay in him, you’re going back to the Dark World.”

Finally, he gets a response: Good.

What? “Excuse me?”

Good.

The left hand slides over Arthur, as if making sure his organs have stayed inside.

Arthur hasn’t moved at all beyond breathing.

Arthur. Talk to me, Arthur.

Right. Now it was time for some nails. Hastur tickles Faroe.

She giggles—that free, wild sound only small humans seem able to produce.

Arthur slowly curls down over himself, wrapping himself tightly with his right arm, head completely down. “She’s happy?”

What? Yes, she’s happy. Arthur!

“John,” says Hastur. “I have done you the courtesy of using your… chosen name. He’s already released you. Do I need to take you? I’d hoped to spare you the indignity.”

The sound that comes from the Piece, then… isn’t right.

It’s not a sound Hastur can immediately place. It isn’t a growl (the Piece lacks the vocal cords). It isn’t a roar.

It’s some kind of… groan.

He doesn’t know how to interpret it.

Kill me! John demands. Because if you don’t…

“If I don’t… what?” says Hastur, sounding calm.

He isn’t calm.

This part isn’t in the plan. This is where the Piece should realize his vehicle is broken, and—

The left hand keeps roaming, sliding up to wipe away the constant flow of tears, even thumbing away snot (ew!).

As if care of Arthur Lester matters more than dignity.

Arthur, he whispers.

“John,” Arthur whispers. “I’m sorry.”

It was her birthday, or something today, right? the Piece says. You’ve been fucked for months, but today… you’ve been moving like you’re already made of broken glass. That’s why he picked today, isn’t it?

“She’d be… she’d be… eleven, John. I…”

I’ve got you, Arthur. The left hand cups Arthur's downturned face.

“I know.” It’s barely audible. “I’m sorry. I…  I think I’m done.”

Arthur, no. Arthur, no! Arthur!

“Excuse me,” says Hastur. “We were in the middle of a conversation.”

Fuck YOU! the Piece suddenly bellows. What have you done? How dare you? How dare you?

From within the folds comes a tiny, shocked gasp. “He said a bad word,” Faroe whispers loudly.

Oh… Hastur is so proud.

She heard the Piece! The minimal magic training he’s given her worked! She heard it!

“He said a bad word,” Faroe says, louder, because she hadn’t got the expected response.

“You’re quite correct, my darling.” Hastur shifts his limbs enough to lift her free, head popping out of writhing, black tubes. “What should he do, then?”

“Say sorry,” she says, automatically, which is even better, because now there might be a second—

John Doe laughs.

It is a… strange laugh.

Wild, unhinged, too far, like electric shocks in the guise of sound.

Instinct makes Hastur pull Faroe back into himself, hiding her between his many limbs.

Oh, go ahead, says the Piece. Go ahead, use her again. Do anything you want. It won’t matter.

“Excuse me?” Definitely not going according to plan.

The left hand slides over Arthur’s face again, his lips, his eyes. Arthur turns his head away, but the hand turns it back, gently cupping his jaw. Arthur. I’ve got you.

“I…”

I know. You’re done. Arthur… it’s all right. You have my permission.

Arthur exhales like he hadn’t breathed this whole time, and turns his face toward that hand. “Thank you.”

They just came to some weird suicide pact, right in front of him, without so much as a by-your-leave.

“So I have to just take you, then?” says Hastur, sharp.

Go ahead.

He’s too accepting of it. “You think to resist?” Hastur scoffs.

Not at all. I intend to make every deal with every demon I can find. I intend to gather every syllable of forbidden magic and cursed spell I can earn. I intend to hover and hide and hone in vengeance until to come near me is to be cut. I will destroy you for what you’ve done to him.

Well.

Right, so.

Um.

It's just a human. “Fool,” says Hastur, sounding a lot more sure than he is. “I’ll simply keep you isolated until you calm down.”

Go ahead. I can do a lot on my own, isolated, with nothing to risk.

“Nothing to risk but yourself.”

You already destroyed the part of me that matters.

This was getting ridiculous. “Then perhaps I’ll send you to the Dark World instead—apart from him, separate. He kills himself, he’s going a different path than you—you know this. And I’ll simply fetch you after a few thousand years.”

Go ahead. We both know what happens to beings who go down to death with only vengeance as their fire.

At last, Hastur growls.

He’s tried not to do that, not to frighten Faroe; he knows the sound scares her, and it does so now. She stops playing, goes still, emits a tiny, frightened gasp.

“I am not angry at you, Faroe,” he says, low. “You’re all right. Stay hidden, all right?”

“Okay, daddy,” she whispers, but she is still afraid of him.

Afraid of him because of them.

The fucking Piece. “How dare you defy me like this? You think you’re going to win anything? You think I can’t outlast you, overpower you, wear you down like a stone in the sea?”

I think you broke what was mine, and I am going to make you pay even if it takes me until the end of time.

Drama. It couldn’t be anything el-

“Okay, okay, cheese and crackers, rock and a hard place, we get it,” says a new voice, and a thing appears in the middle of the room.

That is an Outer God.

Hastur stumbles back, too shocked to think clearly, physically buffeted by the presence this thing brings.

An Outer God in the form of a human, an Outer God standing right there like the suddenness of a created sun, burning everything near.

What? How? Why?

It's wearing a suit identical to Arthur’s except rumpled, somehow giving the impression that it was out carousing until all hours.

It is barefoot, and its feet leave red, smoking prints.

Outer Gods bring chaos. Outer Gods bring death. Outer Gods bring carnage.

Faroe. Of them all, she is in most danger.

Whatever it wants here, it can have it, and Hastur does not hesitate further.

He tries to take her away.

And… he can’t.

Can’t.

He tries again, harder.

It comes with a weird zap, like his attempt to access his own power has been short-circuited, and that has never happened to Hastur before.

The Outer God has to be doing this.

Faroe. Faroe. He has to protect her.

“Well, this isn’t ideal,” says the Outer God, striding right over to Arthur and the Piece as though they’re the most interesting thing in the room—and as though the King in Yellow, the Shepherd God, doesn’t even exist.

Absurdly, Hastur is offended.

“Lemme see, lemme see. Oh, oh, there we go,” says the being in an utter mockery of tenderness, and tilts Arthur’s face up.

Arthur doesn’t respond. Whatever is in him that would have responded cracked about ten minutes ago, and he lets the Outer God do whatever, tilting his face from side to side.

Kayne, growls John, familiar, dismissive, and Hastur is completely confused.

“Well, fuck,” says Kayne. “You broke him. You fucking octopus. You broke him!”

What?

Kayne, go the fuck away if you’re not going to help me hurt him, says the Piece as though addressing this being wasn’t the maddest thing Hastur has ever seen.

It should fill the Piece with terror. What the fuck was happening?

Hastur tries to leave again.

No good.

He tries to just… put her away, to slide her into a tiny pocket dimension.

He can’t even open one.

Unfamiliar feeling is speeding his own breath now, so unfamiliar that it takes him a moment to realize what it is.

Is he dying?

No. This is fear.

Actual fear.

He keeps Faroe hidden deep in himself, as protected as he can.

Kayne—the Outer God—turns slowly to look at him.

And the unfamiliar feeling spikes.

He was wrong. This isn’t fear. This is terror. Debilitating, weakening—

“Oh, you don’t know terror yet,” says this Kayne (that can’t be his real name, the fuck kind of name is that), and turns back to the Piece and his broken toy. “See,” says Kayne. “This is why I stopped after the music box in Carcosa. Didn’t want this to happen. Well… fuck.”

John makes a low, angry noise. You want some chaos? Something to watch? I’ll give it to you! Give me the power to hurt him. Do it now.

Kayne snorts. “The effective way to do that is to kill her, fuck her up, rip her to pieces, and that’ll hurt your guy a lot more than it would him, even now.”

Hastur's breath catches.

So... his plan seems to have well and truly blown up in his face, though why it did—

“Oh, you think so, squid for brains?” says Kayne, turning to look at him again (and Hastur wishes he would not because every time he does it’s like switching out his ichor for bitterly cold helium). “You fucking cephalopod. I won't even give you the courtesy of saying cuttlefish because they are smart.”

Hastur makes one small, lost noise.

Give me the power, growls John.

“No, no, no. I was watching this. I wasn’t done.” And the Outer God begins pacing.

Released, Arthur slumps back down again.

Hastur peeks at him. Arthur is… waiting. Waiting to die. Waiting until he’s sure Faroe won’t see, hear, experience anything that might upset her, that might even give her so much as a bad dream.

Even now, at a point so low he might as well have dug it with his face, Arthur is considering Faroe’s welfare above his desperate need to just end.

Fine. It's deserving of another point, at least.

“You fuckers killed Iroh,” says Kayne, still pacing.

“What?” says Hastur.

“Four books down to three, all because of this. Ugh! I. Was. Watching. That.” And suddenly, so suddenly, so fast Hastur cannot see him move, Kayne is right there, right in front of his face, disparate heights be damned, and one of Kayne’s hands has pierced through his arms to just brush Faroe with his fingertips.

Ichor sprays.

Hastur flails, because now he has to protect her from his wounds (she’s mortal, so mortal, it would burn), because this monster has damaged him so quickly and with such ease that if he’d wanted to kill her, he could have, and Hastur wouldn’t even have been able to do anything to stop it.

Kayne starts pacing again, one arm dripping with Hastur’s black, hissing blood, leaving stains along the floor that send up rising smoke. “Right. Okay. How do we fix this, babes? What do you think? We could wipe it and do a full reboot, but I don’t wanna. That takes too long, and I really don’t have that kind of patience.”

Hastur is healing, yes. He is.

Slower than he should be.

Faroe has picked up on his terror, and she begins to cry. “Daddy?”

Oh. Oh, no. No, this is worse. This is worse than—

Kayne is right in his ear, lips brushing the cowl. “Than anything? No, we haven’t even gotten near that yet. Better not upset her. I’m not in the mood for the sound of babies screaming.”

Hastur makes one, low sound. “Faroe, it’s… I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

“Daddy,” she whimpers, unable to see or hear what’s going on, merely responding to his fear, his tension.

“Try harder,” Kayne, and pinches the end right off one of Hastur’s many arms.

The pain is—

Hastur is not used to pain.

He’s had pain, sure. Sometimes. Way in the past of forever, when he was still new, and pecking orders had yet to be established. More recently, when the Piece was torn away.

This isn’t pain like that.

He is surprised into a roar.

Faroe screams.

She’s three. All she knows is her daddy is upset.

He has to rein this in. Protect her. Keep her sa-

She’s gone.

“No.” Hastur bellows, searching himself. “No!”

Faroe Lester Yellow is in Kayne’s arms.

“No!” Hastur roars, and lunges.

Right into some unseen barrier he cannot pass, and it is immediately obvious she can’t hear him anymore.

She’s hyperventilating, clearly confused, staring up at Kayne.

“Well, look at you! What a big girl you are,” he says with such a warm, kind voice, with such a warm, kind smile that of course she responds, focuses on him, begins to calm, because what else would she know to do? “Hello, MacGuffin," he says.

“Hi,” she says, still tear-streaked. “I’m not MacGuffin. I’m Faroe.”

“Faroe! You sure you’re not a MacGuffin?”

And it’s perfect delivery and perfect play, and Faroe giggles, swapping emotions the way small humans can. “Nooo, I’m Faroe!”

Kayne laughs, and oh, it’s warm and sweet, and oh, his hand on her back is sharp and long and darkening and filling with terrible power. “Oooh, I get it now. Faruffin, nice to meet you!”

That gets another giggle. “I’m not a Faruffin!”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” says Kayne teases, and his long, blackened fingertips on her back have begun to glow a terrible purple that leaves afterimages.

Hastur is hurling himself against the barrier with such force that he’s completely torn out the floor, exposing pipes and bedrock.

He can’t get through.

He can’t be heard.

He can’t. He can’t. He can’t.

And then two things happen at once.

Do it, says John, low and virulent, tightly holding Arthur’s other arm as if to keep him from just falling apart.

That is already shocking, but the second thing is even more.

“Kayne.”

It’s barely there.

Almost inaudible.

Arthur's face is turned toward the sound of his daughter’s voice. “Please. Please don’t hurt her.”

Kayne turns to look at him.

It’s even quieter this time, like a memory of sound. “Please.”

Kayne beams. “Well, fry me for dinner and call me baloney! We may not need to go salted earth, after all. Hey, Faruffin?”

More giggling. “I’m not Faruffin.”

“Sure. Know what just happened? Your daddy fell asleep, and oh, no! He had a bad dream.”

She gasps. “Oh, no!”

“You know what bad dreams are like, don’t you?”

Faroe takes that so solemnly. “Uh-huh.”

Hastur freezes, gasping. He’s exacerbated the wounds, and ichor hisses as it drops from his limbs.

“You know what he needs?” says Kayne like he’s playing a game, keeping her attention like a bauble on a string. “He needs to get his surrogate ass in gear so he doesn’t blow his audition for his new starring role! What do you think?”

What?

Faroe is struggling with this one. “You said a bad word,” she finally says, focusing on the part she could understand.

Kayne kisses her forehead.

He does it looking Hastur in the eye.

He does it with such unblinking, unyielding warning.

Faroe sighs, wriggles. Uncomfortable. Unsure. “Put me down.”

“Is that how we ask for things?” says Kayne, holding her close, gaze locked onto Hastur. “Uncle Arthur was polite. He said please.”

“Please put me down,” she says.

“Hear that?” says Kayne. “Hastur. What do we say when we want something?”

Hastur has never said “please” in his life.

Not beyond teaching her to do it, or teaching rebellious fools to beg.

Is that what he is now? A rebellious fool? “P… Please.”

“Eh,” says Kayne, loosening his grip so she slides right onto her feet. “C plus. Go on, Faruffin—your daddy needs some love.”

She can do that. She was raised in that, overflows in that, and if she sees him like this—

Hastur manifests an illusion.

Looks normal and welcoming as she runs for him, makes no sound as he cauterizes his own wounds so he doesn’t burn her with ichor, gives no indication of pain as he cooks off the spilling of himself before it can do her harm.

“Daddy!” she pronounces, and hurls herself into his many arms. “You had a bad dream!”

“I did,” he says, sounding calm, keeping the limbs he cannot repair back and out of reach. “But everything’s okay now. I have you.”

There’s a slight tremor in his voice.

“Better,” says Kayne. “B minus. Oh, but let’s get back to the interesting part.” He turns to Arthur.

Hastur is bizarrely insulted again, even in the midst of the worst horror he’s ever known.

Kayne crouches before Arthur, touches his chin, tilts his head up. “Say it again, Arthur. What you just said.”

Why? Seeing if his blasted mind could retain anything? Just to fuck with everybody? Hastur doubts Arthur will even—

“Please don’t hurt her,” Arthur says. “Please.”

Kayne sighs.

It is such a sound, too long, weirdly pleased. “How about that? It seems all hope is not lost, gentlemen. Hulu’s bought the rights.”

Hastur’s not sure he heard that right. “What?”

“Cartoon Network got in there for a bit, but that was all, you know, fuck the Fox executives, and who wants that? Predictable. No, no, no. No.”

Kayne, John growls.

“Quiet, Snippet.”

“Please.” It’s not even a whisper. “Not her.”

Hastur never thought he’d find himself agreeing with the Piece’s disgusting human.

Kayne snorts. “You’re lucky she’s so young. Some folks love messing with children, but me? No, thanks. They just don’t… feel it all, yet. Can’t understand what’s happening to them. Lack that special flavoring that comes with knowledge of inevitable doom. I fucking hate kids. They taste like oatmeal. Without salt.”

Arthur’s eyes are still leaking. He swallows. “Kayne, please.”

“I heard you the first time. No more speaking unless spoken to.” Kayne pats his cheek, stands, and claps his hands, sharp. “Here’s what we’re going to do: miniseries.”

What are you talking about? rumbles John. I need to hurt him.

“Shush. Ya boy is almost gone, but not quite. And you know what’s going to keep him around?”

Faroe vanishes from Hastur’s arms again.

And Kayne has one hand raised, one finger up, at Hastur, who suddenly knows if he doesn’t play whatever role he’s been assigned, he won’t get her back at all.

Faroe is in Arthur’s arms.

He didn’t even move to hold her. Kayne just did that.

“Daddy!” Faroe cries in startlement, pulling away from him.

Arthur lets her go.

Kayne goes down to her eye-level, on his knees, and holds her shoulders. “Hey, now, sweetheart! Easy, there. Aren’t you a good girl?”

“Yes,” she says, and wipes her face in her sleeve.

“That man needs a friend,” says Kayne. “He doesn’t have any. Isn’t that sad?”

“But… he’s weird.”

“He is weird! Wouldn’t that make you even gooder to be a friend to someone who doesn’t have any? I bet it would make your daddy super proud.”

She looks toward Hastur with such hope of approval.

Kayne turns his head all the way around like a fucking owl and smiles at him.

It’s so much threat couched in a mortal, human face that Hastur briefly cannot breathe.

He has no choice but to go along. “That would… be good. Yes, Faroe. It’s good to be…” What does Kayne want? “Friends to the… weird man.”

“His name is Uncle Arthur,” Kayne slides her over to Arthur again, lifts Arthur’s good arm, wraps it around her.

She’s stiff, uncomfortable, but trying. She reaches up and pats his cheek. “Hi.”

Arthur loses it.

It’s ugly crying, and suddenly he’s clutching her, even with his broken right hand.

Faroe is…

She’s badly startled, fully out of her depth.

But she doesn’t cry. She wants to make her daddy proud.

Hastur is proud.

He’s also terrified.

Faroe pats Arthur on the head. “Hey,” she says. “It’s okay. Hey, guess what?” And she starts to sing.

It’s the little lullaby Hastur has sung to her since she was first recreated from dust and memories.

A lullaby he’d never taught to her, but she’s smart, and so, he did not have to.

“Sleep my baby on my bosom, Warm and cozy will it prove. Round thee father’s arms are folding, in his heart a father’s love.”

Oh…

It works. Arthur’s horrible sounds slow and quiet. His breath still hitches, but suddenly, he’s rocking her, and he’s singing, too.

“There shall no one come to harm thee. Naught shall ever break thy rest. Sleep, my darling babe in quiet; sleep on m… father’s gentle breast.”

They sound good together, horrifyingly good together, and something deep in Hastur feels like it’s twisting.

“Gross,” says Kayne, and walks toward Hastur.

He cannot move. Cannot pull back. Knows no spell that would keep him safe .

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” says Kayne, crunching over ruined floor. “You hate him.” Arthur. “He hates you.” The Piece growls in agreement. “Thanks to this shit, he also hates her.” The Piece hates Faroe? “And Arthur’s just fucked, but only mostly.”

“He said bad words,” Faroe whispers to Arthur.

Arthur makes a sound that could be a broken laugh. “He did.”

“You know what I hate?” says Kayne. “Found family. It’s all forgiving, and loving past differences, and closer than a brother, and all that shit. But you know what I don’t hate?”

Silence, apart from Arthur’s still hitching breaths.

“I axed you a question,” says Kayne, light and sweet.

“What do you not hate?” Hastur manages, unable to take his eyes from Faroe.

“Forced family.” Kayne’s smile is terrible. It is supernova. It is world-wide plague. It is extinction and the finality of galactic collapse. “Everyone grinding in misery, suffocating, unable to escape or find relief or reach consensus. Everyone desperate to get away, willing to do whatever—leap over the side and drown, marry the wicked baron, whatever—but they can’t. Hey, Faruffin! Come here. I need to say sorry.”

She kisses Arthur’s cheek, makes a face at how wet it is, then heads right for Kayne, her little sandals slapping.

Why, Hastur thinks, did he never teach her of danger? Why did he keep her so safe, always protected, unaware of and unprepared for the realities of the universe?

“Love,” says Kayne. “It makes you stupid as fuck, didn’t you know? Oh, Faroe, I did it again! I said bad words. Aren’t I just awful?”

He does it with such exaggeration, with such faux warmth, that she giggles. “You should say sorry.”

“I’m sorry. I said bad words. Do you forgive me?”

“Yes!”

“Good girl. Now, run to your daddy.”

Which was pointed.

Which hurts Arthur all over again, and he flinches as though stabbed at the quick sound of her tiny feet racing away from him and toward another.

Wasn’t this happening because Arthur had broken? What the hell did Kayne want?

Hastur gathers her up. Hides her again. Knows it’s pointless, knows he can’t protect her.

There is nothing else he can do.

“You’re all going home together!” says Kayne. “All of you!”

What? snarls John. He’s back to touching Arthur with that hand, grounding, wiping at those unceasing tears.

“A miniseries works great at about six episodes, you feel me?” says Kayne. “So I think six years is a fair amount of time.”

For what? I’d sooner explode the fucking sun than go near him.

“Uh, did you even hear a word I said?” says Kayne. “That’s the point. Six years of absolute misery with each other until I decide whether to renew… or cancel with prejudice.”

“I don’t understand,” says Hastur.

“Heh. Maybe I’ll spice it up mid-way with more forcing. I’m thinking Larson and Yellow. What do you think, Snippet?”

What the fuck? No!

“Who?” says Hastur, baffled.

“That little sliver you’re missing?" Kayne says to Hastur. "The teeniest, tiniest bit? Don’t tell me you didn’t notice—that’d just be depressing! Oh, I stuck him in a century-old psychopath. He’ll be super spicy by the time he comes on board.”

Don’t you dare!

Kayne ignores him. “Arthur’s musical. You need music shit, right? Dancers, all of that? A composer?” says Kayne.

Were they still having the same conversation?

The slice—yes, Hastur had noticed, but it had happened when the Piece disappeared, so he’d assumed…

He can’t keep up with this. “I… I have a royal composer,” says Hastur.

“Oh, you’re right! Hnnng…” Kayne pretends to strain for a moment. “Welp, now you have a royal opening.”

“What? What?” Fuck. Hastur feels it, feels the shock of his people, feels the cries he cannot hear.  Karloff is dead. “What?”

Composer? The Piece sounds furious. That’ll hurt him!

“I seem to be getting through to you people very slowly, so I’m going to dumb it down,” says Kayne. “I don’t give a fuck about the pretty little princess right now. She's no fun to play with at this age. However.”

He lets the pause stretch just enough, like sinew tightening around everyone’s hearts.

“She won’t be boring forever. And I can’t imagine what I might get up to if I don’t have something else to watch when that time comes. Get it? So Arthur has a new job making music for his arch nemesis. Snippet—you’re gonna have to fix him. I’m not invested enough to fuck around with that.”

What? says John.

“You, Hastur, my ugly little decapodiform, are going to have to make space for all of that to happen. You’re going to have to do it while Snippet over here plots your death, ‘cause he doesn’t seem the forgiving type to me.”

“Is that supposed to frighten me?” says Hastur, defaulting to a phrase he puts zero thought into because he’s so overwhelmed.

“It should. I suspect li’l Arthur’s welfare is the only thing standing between you and… well, lemme put it this way: I’m not the only one of my caliber drawn by the note John’s soul sang when you succeeded in your fucking stupid plan.”

More Outer Gods?

Hastur can’t feel them. They’re so far beyond his power, which has always felt like enough, that he can’t even tell they’re there.

He hadn’t known Kayne was there, either.

“Helpless is a good look on you! Yes. There are more. Gathering like vultures. Oh, we are all hungry for what he’s doing now—but lucky! I got here first. There are so many deals being dangled…” Kayne smacks his lips. “But mine is the only one that accounts for Arthur staying alive.”

John says nothing.

As if this is true.

As if he’s… hearing things Hastur cannot, offered only to him.

Stay with me, Arthur, he says instead, stroking Arthur’s face.

“Why?” Hastur demands, unable not to, so confused why something like Kayne would care about any of this.

“Dense! You’re nowhere near as fun as the other guy,” pronounces Kayne. “Still—you better hope John doesn’t just decide fuck it and take one of those offers. I suggest being nice to the human you loathe with all your being.”

Hastur looks at the Piece, then back. Arthur is back to limp, head down.

Hastur is repulsed.

Kayne’s not done. “And of course, if nobody does it right, she becomes the spin-off. Get it now? You want her happy and well and all that shit? You’re all going home together, one big forced family. You get to raise her together! As a village! There’ll even be days off!”

Hastur feels sick.

He can’t recall the last time he expunged, vomited, expelled.

He just might now.

Together?

He’ll have to share his daughter?

Kayne sighs, tilts his head back. “Ugh. Well. We’ll see if this is worth it. Make good, peons, I don’t have all century.”

And he’s gone.

Just gone, with no surge of power to indicate his departure, with nothing to tip anyone off whether he’s even still here.

But he must be.

What note does John’s soul sing?

I hate you, says John. This isn’t over. Not after what you did to him.

“We have bigger concerns, you fucking idiot,” says Hastur.

Tiny, from within his arms: “You said a bad word.”

Hastur trembles from curl to cowl. “I did, baby. I did. I’m sorry.”

Arthur. Did you understand what just happened now?

Hastur stares. He’s never heard his own voice so… tender.

Arthur takes a long moment to answer. “I had her. In my arms, I…”

She’s all right.

“She’s happy? Safe?”

Yes.

Arthur slumps.

But she won’t be if you… if we go.

Arthur has definitely not processed anything. “What?”

“Damn it,” Hastur mutters. Did Kayne mean it? He has to accept music from that? Arthur’s hand is broken. “Tell him to hold out his hand.”

No, says the Piece.

Hastur growls. “Karloff was obedient. Your Arthur’s going to have to learn.”

Karloff was a pompous, perverted ass, who’d sooner fuck a trumpet than compose anything of beauty.

Faroe pops out from Hastur’s arms. “Say sorry.”

John wants to hurt her.

Hastur inhales.

It is startling, frightening, sharp. John has fixated on her as the thing that broke Arthur, the wedge used to spread that crack and split him like a log.

And if she is hurt, Hastur will be, too.

That’s not rational. That will hurt Arthur more.

The Piece is not okay.

Somehow, when Arthur broke, the Piece broke with him.

How?

It shouldn’t have done that.

How?

“What is wrong with you?” Hastur says, evenly.

You really don’t get it? Really? Look at his face. Look at hers. They’re similar enough that you can use your imagination and apply his expression to her. I know you’re less than I am, practically stupid, but you can do that.

“Less!” scoffs Hastur. “What foolishness are you—” And he glances at Arthur’s face.

She does resemble him.

She’s healthy and he’s not, pristine and he’s not—but the base.

The base is the same.

And almost against his will, he pictures that hollow, blank, defeated look on Faroe’s face.

Hastur goes very still.

Faroe pats his arm. “Daddy. I’m hungry.”

She’s… she is not broken.

She—

“John, I don’t think I can do this,” Arthur says so quietly.

For her. I understand I’m not enough.

“John, that’s not what I—“

We’ll start there. If you go, she dies. That’s Kayne’s deal.

Finally, it’s gotten through. Arthur inhales.

And then he does something Hastur would have thought impossible: in every sense, internally and out, Arthur sits up.

“I won’t let him hurt her,” he says.

And it is… remarkable.

Damn it.

It’s like watching flowers bloom on a dead and broken branch.

Fuck.

Faroe is not used to her needs being delayed. “Daddy.”

Faroe is not broken.

Trying to think of what it would be like to see her done unto as Arthur…

Hastur is more afraid than he was when Kayne appeared. “Yes. Yes, we… should all have something to eat.” Fear like this isn’t natural to him. He doesn’t like it. He tries to focus on the practical. That damned hand—“Tell him to hold out his hand.”

I’m not doing anything for you. You want to do something, you fucking do it yourself.

“Hey.” Faroe frowns. “It is rude to use bad words.”

John is not okay.

Hastur doesn’t feel okay, either. “Arthur,” he says. “Hold out your hand so I can heal it.”

You’d think a simple command (with a reason given!) would be easy enough for him, but no. Like everything else, Arthur has to make this difficult.

Arthur ignores him completely.

Solid choice for his new composer. This would work out great. “Arthur!”

Ha! says the Piece, as though he’s won something.

Hastur wants to break more of him. “Arthur!”

“Not yet,” says Arthur.

“What?” Says Hastur.

“Not yet. I… the pain helps. I can’t… not yet,” Arthur says.

The hell did that mean? He wanted to suffer? “Arthur, Kayne has given you a job, which you will do. I need to repair your hand for it.”

Arthur doesn’t want the repair. He wants his broken hand to reflect how he feels inside.

“Daddy, I’m hungry,” says Faroe, who is too young to grasp delayed gratification.

“We are all leaving,” says Hastur. “Once Arthur’s hand is healed.”

For Faroe, Arthur submits. “Fine.” He raises it.

Every single thing was going to be a negotiation, wasn’t it? Disgusting.

Arthur. We’ll get through this, John soothes.

“We… we will,” says Arthur, showing nothing as Hastur works his hand, though Hastur knows it hurts tremendously. “She… she’s happy?”

She’s perfect, Arthur. And… if we do this, I think she might even be safe.

Arthur hangs his head again, though this looks like relief.

This plan had gone so wrong. “Why is an Outer God interested in you?”

Arthur. He’s interested in Arthur. And we don’t know because Kayne doesn’t know. Arthur’s a mystery.

What?

That thing?

Hideous, flawed, hypocritical?

How could—

He looks down at the tiny human in his arms.

At Faroe, who watches him expectantly, waiting to be swept away and given what she needs, trusting him with such intensity that it feels like she’s caught him in a spell.

Hastur looks at Arthur and absolutely cannot see any of that.

But Arthur bloomed after being broken.

But Arthur entangled with the Piece to the point of self-destruction.

But an Outer God is paying mind.

So maybe he was remarkable, too? Somehow?

Arthur? Arthur Lester?

Fuck.

“Macaroni,” says Faroe.

“Apples,” negotiates Hastur.

Faroe makes a face. “Macaroni and apples.”

“Eat your apples, I’ll give you some macaroni.”

Arthur makes a tiny sound. It might have been… a good sound. Which would make sense, because Faroe is adorable.

Which… Arthur cannot see. Ugh. He’s still blind. Hastur sighs. How is the stupid human supposed to compose anything blind? Is Hastur going to have to fix everything himself?

Faroe isn’t done. “And a cookie.” She looks positively sneaky.

“No cookies until dinner.”

“But I made friends,” says Faroe.

This was true. “One cookie.”

Arthur reaches with his right hand and grabs his left. “I need you.”

Eh?

John makes a low sound. I’m sorry, Arthur. I should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve… should’ve protected you, somehow.

“I… you are enough, John. You are enough.” Arthur's voice breaks.

John’s responding sound is… a sob?

Some terrible sound, rife with feelings Hastur has never had and does not want to experience.

Whatever disgusting thing is going on there, he will not be a part of it. “Come. Composer and Piece. As if we have any choice.” He opens a portal.

It is such a relief to be able to do that again. To feel his powers again.

Though now, after this, they feel so small.

He has a daughter to feed.

He has plans to remake.

He has six years to ensure she is safe from an Outer God.

That isn’t possible, as far as he knows.

There has to be a way.

“I get to watch her grow,” whispers Arthur. “Should I be grateful?”

He took her from you! The only thing you should have toward him is hate.

“No. I… I lost her with my own hands, John. I can’t hate someone else for that.”

Ugh. Hastur’s not listening to this. He goes through the portal.

Six years.

John is growling as Arthur follows, trusting John to guide him. More to your left. He’s going to pay for what he did to you.

“I don’t care,” says Arthur.

I do.

Was Hastur going to have to protect her from the other half of himself, too?

No. No.

If Arthur is actually remarkable, and the Outer God isn’t full of shit, then Arthur will sway the Piece.

Faroe might do it on her own, too.

She’s good at love. It’s uniquely human magic, and Hastur knows no defense.

“Daddy?” says Faroe. “Who’s Larson?”

He has no idea how to answer that.

Maybe Kayne was… right.

Maybe raising her together, with others to help, would be better for her.

It would hurt him.

But if she would benefit, then… so be it. “I hope you’re ready to answer that, John, because I have no fucking clue.”

Faroe sighs. “Daddy, you aren’t supposed to say the bad words, especial.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” He hides her in his arms.

It’s all that he can do.

----------------

NOTES:

Ouch?

I don’t know. The bug bit my brain and I had to write it. My apologies.

Might I suggest this for something fully lighthearted to wash out your mouth, as needed?

What’s going to happen in six years? Oh… I have thoughts, but I decided to leave it open.

Does it count as found family if they’re forced? Kinda a difficult question, isn’t it?

The music Faroe is learning to play at the beginning is Faroe’s Music Box, composed by Harlan Guthrie. It’s part of CODA, the episode of the podcast that literally inspired this fic.

The lullaby Faroe sang to Arthur is here, with "mother" swapped for "father." It’s traditional Welsh, and honestly one of the loveliest things I’ve ever heard. Obviously, I’ve linked a big old orchestral version, but it works super-well in tiny voices, too.pain

[phillippadgettwrites]

Absolutely love all your work! I'd be thrilled to get a sequel to 'Get some sleep', it's bloody genius!

Telephone

Rated X / 440 words / Posted on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

“What are you wearing?”

It’s a joke, long since played out were it to be taken at face value. She lays back on her bed and slips one hand under the waist of her silk pajama pants, and then her cotton panties. 

She wonders if this is a game they both play at, or if it’s only her. She lets herself imagine him on his green leather couch, an erection tenting the front of his sweatpants and the cordless phone tucked between his shoulder and ear. 

Sometimes she says something outlandish, like a cotillion ball gown. Sometimes she says she still has her work clothes on, down to the holster. Once, she felt bold enough to say, “Nothing,” and that seems to be where the tone of the conversation changed. 

She returns the question and he says something silly, or sexy, or ridiculous. It doesn’t matter what he says, as long as he’s talking. She was already wet when the phone rang, like her pussy was expecting his call, like she was waiting for his assistance with this particular task. 

He talks about a case, or a news article he read, or string theory. She finger-fucks herself as the bass in his voice vibrates against her ear, inserting an occasional, “Interesting,” or “really, Mulder?” just so he knows she’s listening. 

Sometimes she hears his breath catch, and she wonders where his hands are. Folded neatly on his belly, or scratching thoughtfully at the scruff on his chin, or stroking himself to the sound of her voice like she does to his. She gets distracted and lets a tiny whimper escape her lips, and then realizes that he’s been quiet for far too long. 

“Mulder?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I wasn’t sure if you were still there.”

“I’m here.”

He placates her with a slow, drawn out story about monsters and men, letting his voice drop to something gravelly that she’s never heard before, but desperately wants more of. The story reaches a climax, and so does she, eyes screwed shut tight and her lip pinned between her teeth as she pulses around her own fingers. He keeps talking long enough for her to come back into herself, to find her voice and her bearings. 

“You sound tired,” he tells her, and she blushes even though she’s alone in her apartment. 

“I am,” she admits, dragging her hand out from underneath her night clothes and leaving a wet trail along her belly. 

“Get some sleep,” he says with a smile in his voice. 

She’s certain that he knows. It doesn’t deter her. She looks forward to his next call, and the one after that.

[overobsessedfanboy23]

Galaxy Cup is actually really good overall

I said back when the arc first finished that it was just as bad as the previous arc up until Kuaidul's introduction.

...yeah, no I don't think that's accurate to my feelings anymore. I didn't really remember the arc much differently, most of it felt very familiar rewatching it, I think I was honestly just in a bad fucking mood during nearly every episode of this arc before episode 74.

I was so burnt out by the amount of bad writing choices and overabundance of Sevens fanservice hijacking the plot in the previous arc that even though the darkness cards plot was inherently cool, I couldn't get invested in it because I just assumed the mastermind was going to be Otes and as a result, didn't care.

Rewatching this arc and KNOWING that the mastermind is actually this amazing new character pulling the strings enhanced the arc tenfold, especially the duels involving the darkness cards.

Kuaidul, and the foreshadowing and build up to him, is undeniably the best part of the arc. The final three episodes of this arc pop off so hard and are just peak Yugioh. As stated previously,

KUAIDUL VELGEAR

Plus, I absolutely adore the setup of the other characters having to defeat the protagonist who is playing right into the villain's hands without the villain even having to do anything. That is so cool and unique and amazing and HAVE I MENTIONED HOW MUCH I LOVE KUAIUDL?! HE'S A SASSY PUPPETMASTER WITH A HAND IN EVERYTHING AND AH HE'S SO DAMN COOL! :D

Um... So anyways, the rest of the arc is uh... it's pretty good. I kind of like Zaion now. He's funny. But let's be real for a moment: he was just a filler villain to tide us over before Kuaidul. Zaion was a tiny lil mozzarella stick tossed to us to make us shut up while we wait for our Kuaidul pizza. And while Zaion was a nice little enjoyable mozzarella stick, he did still feel like a distraction that... honestly still hasn't amounted to much, at least in the grand scheme of things. I dunno, the current upcoming episode at the time of writing this (A Clockwork Zaion) could change that but at the current moment, his presence in Galaxy Cup felt like a distraction and... messed with the pacing and focus of the arc a bit.

The big problem with this arc in general is that it was pretty aimless and all over the place before Kuaidul graced us with his presence. Before that... only one character gets properly taken over by a darkness card (Yuamu), which is supposed to the A plot, because the plot has to balance screentime with Zaion's furniture excursion, Yudias training Epoch, Manabu having my most hated episode in the show (again, not bothering to go into detail, we all know why it's bad) and then the fallout, Epoch learning that cheating is bad- oh wait, she never actually learned that because the arc was balancing too many plots at once and Epoch went right back to cheating in Spacetime. Ha ha oops. I don't dislike Epoch for this like I used to. She is just a kid and has other qualities that do make her a likeable character despite this but... the cheating thing really needs to be addressed.

This arc spent so much time introducing more and more subplots before the finals that to this day, it's left a lot of things unaddressed for way too long. Tremolo and co. are currently STILL FURNITURE and this arc ended in SEPTEMBER. There's just... too much going on this arc and it makes the episodes feel disjointed. That being said, the stuff that's going on is all good (except the Manabu thing). Yudias mentoring Epoch is really cute and Zaion is a funny ridiculous mozzarella stick of a villain. Most of the parts are good. They just don't completely mesh at times and makes the pacing a bit of a mess.

Seriously, Yudias getting into Galaxy Cup (something that's crucial for the finale of the arc to happen) felt so rushed and out of nowhere, as though the creators ran out of episodes to have him naturally get into the tournament with. However, I can ultimately forgive that as what it lead to was good. This arc is disjointed but apart from two episodes (the Manabu and Mitsuko ones), it's overall enjoyable and the payoff is well worth it. It definitely put Go Rush back on the right track, even if some of the problems from the last arc unfortunately carried over into this arc.

[ninaiseri]

Hey hold on wait a minute hold the fucking phone. Did you just say metallic rouge fandom?? I was so hopelessly enthralled by that show but then the ending shit the bed and I've never been more let down in my entire life. I used to PROWL that tag every sunday!! (nowhere near the gbc obsession level though)

This has no greater point to it I just think it's rly cool that you wound up in the same relatively niche fandom twice now. And it reminded me how bitter I am over metallic rouge.

I was @rougeredstar/Naomiortman! I had the canon url, posted any bit of crew art and news that I could come across. And I kept on defending the show once everyone started leaving an already small fandom.

(I can't talk about this show without going on a rant, so it's under the readmore)

But yeah! Peace love and joy! So so so glad that Girls Band Cry is actually ridiculously good and I don't have to live through another major anime disappointment ❤️

And then those last few episodes came out...like literally they are horrendously bad. Like uncharacteristically bad for an anime from Studio Bones. I thought it might just be a cult classic sort of favorite like BoogiePop but everything about Metallic Rouge other than Rouge and Naomi, are either underwhelming or unbelievably bad.

I absolutely dreaded the oppression/slavery plot of the show, and Rouge's moral ambiguity would have been interesting to see, if she had not been incredibly okay with her position as a weapon used against her kind own kind. Like up until the end, and when the "dangerous terrorists" try to show her what exactly she is fighting for, she still goes "I'm going to use my free will to fuck yall up actually"

AND THEN it turns out that the revolutionaries weren't even really revolutionaries because some human man had been pulling their strings this whole time, their desire to free themselves and their people was a product of a secret third villain who is totally evil so you don't have to worry about any difficult questions on morality and justice in an incredibly corrupt system.

And Naomi and Rouge are cute! Best characters in the show! But that's saying so little because literally everyone else is boring. And it just...like it just ends with Rouge losing her sister, fusing souls with Naomi so she's not with her physically anymore, and they killed the butch!

There were some moments of good character writing with Naomi and Rouge throughout the series, which is what kept you interested, but the pacing and the overall plot of the show couldn't maintain a strong fanbase. And the total failure of an ending pretty much killed whatever little fanbase it had gained. It's like, almost as bad as Wonder Egg Priority in terms of total misses.

[wessexroyalfamily]

{ Location: Winchester City, WNN Studios }

Jon Skylark: Welcome back to the Jon Skylark Show. I am joined tonight by Jean Tatum, actress in the upcoming Speed and Serious film and Walter Fitzherbert, Royal Naval Advisor.

Jon Skylark: The royals have recently been in the news. Crown Princess Margaret is reportedly extending her maternity leave and refusing to attend many of her fall engagements.

Jean Tatum: It makes us look foolish as a nation. No one wanted this marriage to happen, and now Margaret is refusing her royal duties.

Walter Fitzherbert: She's been on maternity leave. I don't think it is fair for us to judge. She's not abandoning the country.

Jon Skylark: To be fair, When my wife had our son, she was back at work within 3 months. So the public is supposed to foot the bill of some glorified housewife?

(audience laughs)

Walter Fitzherbert: What I don't think the public should do is ridicule a mother wanting to spend more time with her family.

Jean Tatum: She's been on a private leave for almost the better part of a year. Her husband William must be sick of pulling dead weight around.

Jon Skylark: Do you think this is the biggest problem facing the royals this fall?

Jean Tatum: I think a bigger issue Jon, is the lack of fucking talent within the royal family that we have to worry about.

Jon Skylark: Alright Jean, keep it civil I'm trying to stay on the air.

(audience laughs)

Jean Tatum: (chuckles) I'm serious. We have a Queen that is rarely seen in public, her husband is more concerned with what's happening everywhere else on the continent than here in our own country. Their younger son, George, is frankly...a buffoon, and there's a whole host of useless minor royals who'd rather cling to outdated traditions than to start modernizing.

Walter Fitzherbert: I don't fully agree. I think the Queen has been dealt a hand, and she is playing it the best that she can.

Jean Tatum: She's a Queen, she's The Queen. (laughs) I can guarantee her hand is much better than ours.

Walter Fitzherbert: She has led this country through one of our biggest military conflicts, since the Third Dane War and continues to guide our nation's leaders in an ever sifting geo-political climate. All the while being the head of large family...

Jean Tatum: You'd have to be a fool to think the Queen is involved in politics. We all know it's Lord Hyannis pulling the apron strings.

Jon Skylark: Speaking of apron strings, with the Prince George's wife, The Duchess of Chelsea, now pregnant there has been talk about changing the rules of succession to absolute primogeniture.

Jean Tatum: Yes! How the hell are we still saying that a boy should be prioritized over his sisters. The Queen herself would have been displaced if her parents were to have a younger son. The whole thing is outdated.

Walter Fitzherbert: It's tradition.

Jean Tatum: It's archaic.

Walter Fitzherbert: The royals are the keepers of our national traditions. There are some things, we as citizens, should expect from them. Continuity and consistency being two. Remaking themselves for the sake of popular opinion is not one.

Jean Tatum: Well admiral, it's simple we are either going to watch the royals die trying to modernize or we'll end up watching them...well just die.

Previous | Next | Beginning

[stalkedbytrains]

Here At the End

[The introduction to reoccurring character Lilith, the Queen of the Kill. It is loosely set in the world kind of anchored by the Assassin's Monthly magazine established in Meet Stan Weebledorf.]

“Lilith. Lil… We… need to talk.”

“Yeah? What do we need to talk about?”

“I can’t do this anymore.”

“This this, or us this?” She motioned to the table full of guns and then to herself.

“Either. Both!” the young man stood up and started pacing. He was younger than Lilith, so the job hadn’t hardened him to the work. “This entire thing! Everything we’ve been doing! I can’t take it anymore!”

The woman put down the assault rifle and gave her boyfriend, the only boyfriend that she’d been with for this long, a really annoyed look. “Really? You’re calling a stop to this, to us, now?”

“Yes!”

She took a deep breath. “I know I said you could walk out whenever you wanted.” She pushed her long hair back out of her harsh green eyes, “But this is ridiculous. After all of the shit that we went through? We’ve run enough guns to arm a medium sized country. Well, at the very least, arm Monaco incredibly well. I think the we’ve killed enough people to populate a high rise. We’ve supplied two different, rival, gangs with enough cocaine to suffocate in. And this, killing the one guy who completely fucked us over at every turn, this is the thing that you back out of?”

“Yes! I… we… Everything we’ve done up to this point, all of it, felt necessary. At the time. But this… this is unnecessary. This is…. This is…”

“Come on, say it.”

“It’s just…”

She leaned over, looking him straight in the eyes, her green eyes tearing into him. “Evil.”

“Well it’s certainly not good!” he yelled, throwing his arms up in exasperation.

“Did you think any of this was?” she asked simply.

“I felt it was necessary! But this! Murdering a senator? He’s the front-runner for President! He’s got kids! His fucking family is on national TV every damn day!” he shouted.

“So fucking what?” she demanded. “What did you think that everyone we got into firefights with? Everyone we killed because they tried to kill us was a celibate priest? A fucking eunuch? You don’t think anyone of the them had kids or a wife or a boyfriend or some shit? Each one was a goddamn orphan?”

“No, but I mean they were trying to kill us!”

“And what the fuck do you think Senator Dickbutt there has been doing? He’s been pulling strings since before day one. He’s been behind every spot of trouble we’ve had, every time a fucking Lebanese hit squad suddenly appeared and tried to blow our collective brains out, every bullet I’ve taken for you, that goddamn piece of lead still clinking by your knee cap. Who the fuck do you think paid for it? Who do you think financed the hit squads? Paid for the guns? Paid for the bullets, the body armor? How the fuck do you think they got a goddamn tank? Senator Fucking Family Man Clark Dickbutt Mathers.”

A silence settled over them for a moment.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked. “What do you want me to say? You want me to add assassination to my list of sins?”

“It’s only assassination if you’re on the receiving end. No, for us, this is vengeance, sweet fucking payback.”

“No. No I can’t.”

“Fine. You’re welcome to go. But if I find out that you warn the Senator or you try to stop me, you know what will happen,” she said with a hand on her favorite assault rifle.

“Really? That’s it? That’s all you have to say?” he asked, weary, resigned.

“I never once lied to you about who I am, what I do. I gave you every chance to walk away. It just tickles me that after everything we’ve done, you call it quits at the absolute fucking ending. It’s a bit fucking hypocritical, don’t you think?” she asked. When no answer came to her question she pointed. “The door’s over there. You can leave whenever you like.”

[always-andromeda]

Happy 500 to youuuu!!! You deserve each and every one of them and more! Can’t wait for 1k, 2k, 5k…. 10k…. HEHEEEE IT WILL HAPPEN I KNOW THAT FOR A FACT!! You write the BEST fics, nsfw alphabets, headcanons and drabbles on this whole site and I love reading (and re-reading) every piece you put out! Cheers! :D <3<3

Can I request Hurricane (Johnnie's Theme) for Klitzy?? Maybe it’s extra angsty because of his self-esteem issues making him think he’s not worthy of you </3

Author's Note | thank you dearly, anon! I am overwhelmed at your kind words and I do hope that my work continues to impress!! thank you for the request (I hope you're okay with me making it equal parts angsty and a little bit...freaky).

Warnings | mentions of masturbation, nothing else I can think of!

Timothy Klitz spends an ungodly amount of time getting ready in the morning. Analyzing every part of himself in his bathroom mirror, he specifically avoids the sight of his bare chest. That pale, lanky expanse that really makes him cringe.

Today he's finally going to talk to you. And, for once, he's not going to overthink it.

It’s ridiculous being this worked up over a single, measly little person. But somehow, he managed to do it. That’s why his bathroom routine has extended from a leisurely ten minutes to a grueling hour. That’s why he made his mom splurge on soap this time around, opting for a musky cedar wood scent that he figured would drive you wild. He doesn’t actually know what you would like.

So of course he has to resign to Eli’s advice on girls.

Eli tells him that he’s got the face of a God; “You could do porn with that face, if you wanted.” Eli had once reasoned with him.

That sounds like the joke of the century. He's nothing special. And a girl hasn't complimented him on his looks since he was in the second grade. And even then, that was from his mom when she dressed him up for his elementary school's Christmas choir performance. He can still hear her coo, "Oh, you look so handsome, Timothy!"He hopes that if you ever call him that, it's in a more mature tone. Not like he's a baby.

But if he can't just suck it up and actually talk to you, he's never going to hear that.

All he knows is that he has to stop living his life through the Sims. That is another matter entirely.

Yes, he may have possibly made you into a Sim. And yes, he possibly also made himself a Sim. And sure, he pulled the strings to make the pixel people fall in love with each other and eventually move in together.

At least he doesn’t…he doesn’t…oh, fuck it. He can’t even pretend that he doesn’t like to watch them woohoo with each other.

He wants to feel ashamed of himself when he jerks off as if he was watching actual porn. But he isn’t. Weirdly, it feels like he’s cum harder just from fantasizing about what might go on underneath that silly sheet than from actual porn. Something about those happy little Simlish babbles he hears as little you and little him mess around under the covers in the digital realm gets him going.

If you were his, he’d make you make those sounds all the time. Now that’s something Eli would truly laugh at him about. Klitz might not be ugly. But he sure as hell is pathetic, gross, and a coward.

He’s an absolute wreck as he walks past you in school, hands shoved in his pockets, shirt untucked (because only nerds tuck in their shirts, reasoned Eli), and hair combed perfectly. 

And you looked at him first. Almost by accident really. But the second you caught his nervous little glance your way from behind those oval lenses, you couldn’t get over him. He was just...pretty. Almost bug eyed and innocent even though they only lingered for a few seconds.

You'd seen him around a little bit; vaguely remembering that he hung out with the teacher's pet and that one weird kid who's obsessed with porn. But he stands out from them, not only in height but in his quiet demeanor and little, side sweeping glances. Yeah, you decide, he's very pretty.

“Looking good today, Klitzy!” You call as he passes by.

And Klitz has to clench his hands in his pockets and stifle a barbaric yawp when he replies, “Oh, thanks. You too!”

But that doesn’t stop the smile that oozes onto his expression, growing so wide that he swears he feels his entire face caving in from how much his cheeks ache.

He’s never said a word to you before now. And yet you knew his name.