#is it perhaps.. the fat part that is cringe

[mecachrome]

very selfishly would love more of ur thoughts on oscar accommodating and mirroring lando.... as an insane landoheadTM ive been watching lando slowly match oscar's energy in the past year and its been driving me insane and ur SO right that oscars done the same thing!! kind of crazy kind of losing my mind would love to get more thoughts out of u

!!!!!!!!! hi kira i would LOVE 2 talk about this. also this answer may or may not be 2k words long

god there are so many Angles and Frameworks and Contexts through which it is possible to examine 814's dynamic that i constantly feel unhinged about it. and probably sound unhinged as well…… pls note that all of this is pure insanity from my insaneperson brain ⚠️ ;__; ok where to begin.

to me the thing about 814 mirroring each other is that in reality it's actually a metaphor for many different things ❗️ on one hand you can interpret it Literally as in a strictly physical sense—the idea of mirroring someone as running parallel and positioning yourself firmly opposite each other, as constructing intricate rituals in order to NOT touch the skin of other men, being so specifically magnetically repulsed that any contact is accidental and fleeting and causes you to spring away as quickly as you'd met. but then there is also the other sense of mirroring that is….. more amorphous and conceptual, e.g. how oscar has in many ways indirectly orbited lando his entire career and how although they've only been teammates for a year now lando has technically been a primary reference point of his throughout a majority of his teens. AND what i think is so interesting about that too is that if you look back at oscar's Evolution As A Person, you could argue that he's been purely Himself As He Is Now for a very long time... yes there've been minute fluctuations in maturity and just general cringeness and muscle growth and cheek fat etc. etc. but at least outwardly in how he communicates with other people and displays his mentality / innate habits / mannerisms he's basically been his fully realized adult self since he was like 17??? which obviously cannot be said of lando norris who has grown massively in appearance and perspective and assuredness and so on from the ages of 17 to 21 to 24. yet this constantly evolving & changing your_choice_of_lorde_album Growing Pains lando has always been a sort of distant static fixed point in the future of oscar's mind… hmmm. that's just part of it tho

basically 814 as they are now are sooo fascinating to me because again They Do Not (Consciously) Touch but they've still very gradually managed to build off the foundations of oscar's subconscious teenage mirroring by turning it into something… well perhaps not quite fully intentional (and isn't that almost better in the end!!!) but certainly more self-aware and generally conscious. basically: the Negative Space of landoscar's demonstrated "affection" is where their reciprocity lies! if that makes sense.

and i guess what i'm trying to get at is that… on surface level, it's easy to say that 1) Oscar has always only ever been himself (generally true) and that 2) As the guy who came into f1 at 19 and was continuously expected to meet his more extroverted teammates' energies lando is the one who's habituated to experiencing marked change (also fairly true), but this still obfuscates equally important facets of their personalities: i.e. that oscar may be the more ~intellectually~ inclined of the two (which also who Cares. completely totally off-topic LOL but personal pet peeve of mine is people acting like there is a discernible difference between a-level maths and whatever private tutoring lando did after dropping out when their job title is lichrally F1 Driver…?! both are negligible fractions of fractions of whatever postgrad coursework the team's Actual engineers have done!!! but anyway), my personal argument is that really oscar is so consistently himself BY having zero concept of himself. whereas lando….. actually does possess a very strong inner character and intense, at times destabilizing self-awareness but also boasts a higher eq that enables a very high capability for social camouflage.

……????????? this is like a 10-paragraph intro. What am i getting at.

so basically. Yes. mutual accommodation……. i think my main point is that despite lando's strong baseline character and idiosyncrasies and particularities and fussiness and general weirdness, He Can, when necessitated, (as long as it doesn't completely contradict his moral impulse etc. etc.) soften that edge and adapt to another person's expectations—Even if just to maintain bearable social rapport & conversation. whereas on the other hand oscar can sometimes actually be a lot more malleable because he doesn't really hold strong conviction in much outside the few non-negotiables in his life ??? (read: racing...) like yes he's still competitive in challenges and is pedantic as shit but also he kind of just Doesn't care……. so basically he's the perfect fit for lando. because he DOESN'T expect anything from lando and lando DOESN'T need to camouflage himself for oscar and because oscar interprets things straight-forwardly and at face value and reads lando's intentions in good faith and honestly probably like 30% of lando's overthinking is a result of people constantly assuming the worst of him so i think on some level it's like 👉 👈 when you're both a little weird and also weird in these little different ways but in the end those minute shifts are what make you compatible and fit you back together again ?!?!?!? as i said it's the negative space of it all.

so really landoscar are not totally "opposites attract" but they're also not identical "mctwins" or whatever because Nuance and Secret Third Thing and what's truly critical about their mirroring is basically that 1) they don't EXPECT the other person to do it 2) they don't INTENTIONALLY do it and 3) it only happens because they're intensely aware of the other person's personality and mannerisms and appearances... bref IT'S ABOUT THE CATALOGUING!! like lando saw oscar in 2023 for the first time and immediately went oh you've gotten taller? oh you have big arms now? and they can't help pointing out each other's hair and ALSO >portrait painting (gets ko'd) "do you like purple?" "...uhhhh i can do now" like WHO SAYS THAT? ANDDDDD this was after oscar had picked purple to begin with but lando was like Nooo you can't do that :/ so oscar changed even though he'd argued that he'd "already committed to it" literal moments prior. Many such cases (i'm not finding a chair anyone?). they make me feel insane.

right let me just finish up with a few more moments (if you're still reading i'm sorry) but Vocabgifset is kind of a rough overview of how, at the very beginning, i think oscar did come in with a very undefined approach to How To Be A Teammate ? and was ready to treat lando as he'd treated rob and logan and fred and whomever and maybe even reflecting the atmosphere as reserve at alpine a little bit idk—essentially more visibly abrasive and pedantic and generally annoying. Also (ahem) perhaps how he'd seen lando act around carlos and daniel before... Guy who has carlando tweets in his twitter likes. 😔

but of course lando REALLYYY doesn't like being unnecessarily corrected over ultimately inconsequential things and again his demeanor is far from bombastic when it hasn't been demanded of him, so i think oscar quickly recognized that in his character and learned to just play along with what lando liked and wanted—not because he was preoccupied with lando getting annoyed at him or thought that lando was sensitive or whatever and not because he himself is a pushover because of course there is a healthy & endearing amount of push/pull to their dynamic but just because he sincerely respects lando and with that respect understood that he didn't need to "force" their dynamic when it would prosper by just being himself and more importantly letting lando be himself……….. Or something.

which imo is basically the basis of their current communication style: a lot of wordless meaningful looks & expressions (because they're both entirely honest people in different ways) (SEE: VIRGIN RADIO UK) (the thing Is that lando has no verbal filter but oscar is the one with 0 control of his expressions and deeply revealing permablush), oscar always folding to whatever lando says in an interview, jumping into frame and following along lando's message in the british f4 anniversary video, listening to lando's music through the walls of their driver rooms, and of course any instance of their Soft Talking Voices such as → "yeahhh you're up there" "aww (genuinely a little pleased and flustered)" and CAT 5 behind the scenes smoothie convo and oscar patiently waiting for lando to finish speaking and not wanting to enforce his presence but always being there and ready to help him….. like the worst part 2 me of the "well-represented" video is that andrea turns to lando first and tries to help him but lando is Still processing and Not listening so THEN he looks at oscar to be like um i don't know the word and that's when andrea looks back at oscar expectantly 🥲😭😩!!!!!!!! what if i dyed. honestly. the category is truly just oscar being susceptible to Lando Norris…………… i could go on.

also >RANDOM MOMENT TOTALLY NOT IMPORTANT but the yes/no challenge is so devastating on every conceivable level and yet One thing that i do not think is discussed enough! is the way oscar physically leans into lando's space on the table every time it's his turn to answer the questions and Specifically how in round 1 the media people were trying to get his attention to tell him to put the mic pack into his pocket but he was soooooooooo focused and fixated on lando's face right up until lando turned to speak to the camera that he didn't notice for like 3 minutes. GAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH. argh. the problem with oscar is that he's SINCERE. truly. "are you ready oscar piastri?" [zero hesitation whatsoever] "i am ready lando norris 🥰"

of course it's not like oscar doesn't introspect whatsoever because obviously he is very capable of self-assessing when something is important by an objective measure of success (aka recognizing deficits over a lap), but relative to lando's specific brand of overthinking & online lurking habits then oscar very much does.... basically underthink??? yes he overcomplicates simple ideas by being too literal but really as a person & conscious being he's great at living in the Present and filtering out excess noise. er... i won't delve too much into the ojp Learned Behaviors of it all and why he's so charming to older people specifically but basically Wwyd if an F1 driver microdosed autisticswag? joking. mostly. but i def agree re: your tags that oscar is never actually consciously trying to be a WELL AKSHUALLY guy because it's just fundamental expressive compulsion alkdsfhaldfh.

also specifically one of my favorite tiny little 814 things OAT is when lando says something unexpected or ridiculous and oscar parrots it back all high-pitched and breathily and disbelievingly like? Girl. this is super jank but perhaps you understand....... 😔

in the end it's getting asked >what have you picked up from lando and oscar saying Well everyone hmmms but not in the Special Multifaceted Uniquely Expressive way that Lando does ! whom I not only know well enough to intimately recognize this mannerism from but have also elected to mention multiple times in this interview. and at the end of the day...? maybe that's romanze

is this anything… idk. also i offer you the jankiest gif ever because i had to remove zbrown to fit them together (Which perhaps is also a metaphor for reaching each other Across The Distance NO PHYSICALITY REQUIRED!! ok i can't just keep saying see: [another random ass example] so i'll stop now but also see: eyebrow raise knowing smile at the end of the sim city video.) anyway why's this such another crasyinsane little moment of how they communicate with each other?! is it just me ?????????

alskfhsfd ok i'm so sorry. thank u for letting me ramble incessantly 🧡

#ask

[toxicpineapple]

sees the soft angst prompt starters

'hey, i've got you. it's okay' with gokumota mayhaps?

Group therapy spirals out of control startlingly quickly this morning, with Miu leaping out of her seat to accuse Kokichi of not caring what he did to everyone and Maki lunging to attack him after his rebuttal. Gonta hears his name tossed around in the chaos more than once, either to shame Kokichi or by Kokichi—though it’s admittedly a bit hard to make out what Kokichi is saying with Maki’s hand around his throat—but Gonta feels his throat locking up, his chest starting to constrict.

He knows that, when it comes to things like this, when it comes to what happened during and after the fourth trial, Gonta ought to have an opinion, but his memories of what happened when Miu died are already so warped and fragmented. Headache-inducing, truly. He can’t think back on it without starting to hyperventilate, as he’s hyperventilating now, his stomach churning and his knees knocking together with trembling so violent he genuinely thinks he might break his chair.

When Tenko finally jumps to her feet, yelling that everyone be quiet, Gonta stands too. He’s not quite as abrupt as Tenko, but being larger than her the movement is still enough to draw eyes. They pierce his skin, singe his arm hairs, not unlike his own execution, and suddenly Gonta’s vision is starting to darken at the edges.

As a child, Gonta remembers hunting for food with his family. It was a necessity, but a part of Gonta had felt guilty for the way the prey animals would turn around and run off. They were only trying to survive, after all—but Gonta was a predator, and well, he needed to eat too.

Now, Gonta thinks he is more akin to a squirrel or a deer, because he barely even registers it as he flips around and darts out the door. He opens it so hard he thinks it slams into the wall, and the loud bang makes him cringe, but not so hard that he can’t run. Past the sound of his blood rushing in his ears and his own haggard breaths, Gonta can’t hear anything, not any of his friends who might be calling out to him and not even his own footsteps as they pound against the tile.

He must find somewhere to hide, or perhaps he just collapses, but eventually he finds himself curled up into a ball on the floor, back pressed into the wall, hands tangled in his hair. Even there, all Gonta can hear are his own strangled, gasping breaths; all he can feel are the tears biting at his eyes and the sharp sting in his scalp.

Accordingly, it startles him somewhat when something touches his leg. Gonta jumps, hands falling to the floor as he scrambles back, but goes still when he sees who it is. Kaito is in front of him, half-kneeling, hands extended and expression tight with worry. When their eyes meet, Kaito manages a smile that blurs after a moment. Or, well. The smile doesn’t blur, but Gonta’s vision of it does as fat tears drip past his waterline.

“Momota-kun,” Gonta chokes out.

“Hey,” Kaito murmurs, voice impossibly gentle Gonta as he leans forward, arms still spread to invite him closer. Gonta all but falls into his chest, hands creeping out to fist in the back of Kaito’s shirt as something like a sob—more of a panicked howl—fights its way out of his chest. “I’ve got you, big guy. It’s okay.”

It’s less the words themselves that mean anything to Gonta—people say it’s okay all the time without any real meaning behind it—and more the fact that it’s Kaito, who is warm and close and smells familiar, that really starts to make Gonta’s trembles subside. Simultaneously, he can’t seem to stop crying, hiccuping sobs muffling themselves in the fabric of Kaito’s sweatshirt.

Kaito doesn’t seem to mind, at least. His fingers thread through Gonta’s hair and he makes these shushing noises, yet Gonta doesn’t feel like he needs to be quieter at all. There’s a shame to it, sure—but not from Kaito’s end.

If anyone had to find him, Gonta is glad it was Kaito.

“I’ve got you,” Kaito mumbles again. “You’re gonna be okay, buddy. You’re gonna be just fine.”

Strangely, despite the noise still crowding out the inside of Gonta’s head—he knows.

#gokumota #momota kaito #gokuhara gonta #falls to my knees #gonta...

[thesistersarcheron]

Pairing: Eluzriel (Elain/Lucien/Azriel) Chapter Word Count: ~1k Summary: Fifty years after the war with Hybern, Lucien and Elain’s relationship has softened into comfortable, if a bit distant, companionship, marked mostly by the Solstice gifts they send to one another every year. And he’s fine with that. Completely, totally fine. ——— Elain and Azriel have had fifty years to learn how to navigate the call they feel to one another and Rhysand’s restrictions on their relationship. What they haven’t figured out is how to deal with Elain’s unresolved mating bond with the new heir of the Day Court… or the growing fondness they both feel for her mate. But perhaps, with a bit of encouragement, Lucien can be persuaded to help.

Part 1/3 of a fic for @sjmromanceweek. Read this fic on AO3 here!

It started with a pair of pearl earrings.

Well, it started with a pair of enchanted gloves, but Lucien still cringed to think of the way Elain never wore gloves and had never worn gloves. Really, it wasn’t his fault; he couldn’t get within ten feet of her without one of her sisters spitting fire, and then a war had been on, and then, after months of being not-so-subtly herded away from his mate and her garden, he’d finally taken the assignment overseeing the Spring Court and the mortal lands to give her the space she clearly wanted.

So he’d gone to a plant nursery in Spring and asked the kindly old faerie behind the counter what a female who liked gardening might want for Solstice. He’d bought the gloves on her recommendation, hoping they would at least fit Elain’s delicate hands.

He was pretty sure they had, but that was beside the point. The fact of the matter was that Lucien liked to forget about the gloves. He was fairly certain Elain had donated them to one of Feyre’s charities that collected coats and blankets and gloves for orphans or widows or the elderly several weeks later, and that was fine by him.

But she did wear jewelry, and quite a lot of it.

So it started with a pair of pearl earrings.

Jewelry was easy. Jewelry was simple. Jewelry was hard to fuck up, as long as one stayed within the bounds of good taste. 

And Lucien had known for centuries that good taste was hard to come by in the Night Court, so he made sure Elain never wanted for elegant, classic pieces.

So the pearls were followed by a band of diamonds for her wrist the next year, and then a long rope of pearls to match the earrings, and then several bangles of twisted gold and jade that he picked up on assignment in Xian. A few decades passed where he and Vassa sent a joint gift of thick teardrops of turquoise or garnet or rose quartz from Scythia every winter, and Elain started sending back letters with small, thoughtful odds and ends. 

When he’d finally returned to Prythian, finally forgiven his mother’s secret-keeping and accepted his place—mind-boggling as it was—as the sole heir of a Solar court, he’d offered up his services as a diplomat to his new High Lord.

To his father.

It was then, when Helion dispatched him to give their regards to Rhys at the Hewn City’s Solstice ball, that Lucien caught sight of Elain wearing a pair of onyx studs embellished with her initials… as if someone were carving a secret place for her in the brutal dark. In a fit of something approaching jealousy, he gifted her a ring studded with fire opals that winter. Another year passed, and the next Solstice she wore a tiara formed from twisted vines of jasmine, studded with dusky amethysts and warm rose quartz and fat pink pearls—a new piece for the royal family’s collection, commissioned especially for a lifelong princess of the Night Court.

It was a tiara, he realized as he caught the barely there glint in the eye of Rhysand’s spymaster and information broker, that was meant to make a statement.

He saw her again at the autumn equinox celebration in Velaris—Helion had outright refused to send him to Eris’s week-long revel—with thick silver cuffs on each wrist, topped with cabochon sapphires as big as Siphons. Azriel caught his eye over a glass of whiskey, and Lucien could have sworn the shadows wreathing the tips of the other male’s wings were laughing at him. 

So he called in a favor with his friends in Dawn.

Nuan had teased him, but he secured a signet ring engraved with whorls that were just a little too reminiscent of his eye to be entirely innocent for Solstice. It even contained wondrous little mechanisms that whirred and ticked like clockwork, just a bit too loudly for the wearer to ignore. 

Elain sent back a new lap desk crafted of warm redwood that reminded him of home, and it wasn’t until months later that he found a small thank-you note tucked in a clever, hidden compartment.

And so the years passed, and suddenly fifty had gone by. The tension between them melted into comfortable, if distant, companionship marked by gifts and whichever family gatherings Feyre saw fit to invite him to, and Lucien was happy to leave it to rest. 

She was young—so, so young. She deserved to heal in peace, to find herself without a mate breathing down her neck; Lucien had decided long ago, when he first set out to find the firebird queen, that he wouldn’t stand in her way. 

Anyway, Elain made no noises about dissolving the bond. She hadn’t begrudged him when he took up with Vassa in the aftermath of Koschei’s defeat and spent the rest his fiery queen’s too-short, mortal life at her side—the faint echoes of emotion he felt from her whenever she was reminded of him were only ever happy—so Lucien shoved down the instinctual, possessive urges of the mating bond and left her to her Night Court intrigues.

That is, until the next Solstice, when he caught a ticking, whirring glint of gold on the Shadowsinger’s smallest finger.

But before instinctive jealousy or irrational fury or the gut-punch of betrayal could set in, his own clockwork eye shifted and focused anew on the fresh scar that ran the length of his third finger—and the invisible, thrumming band of power that stretched away from it…

All the way to the identical scar on Elain’s hand.

Happy SJM Romance Week, everyone!

#elain archeron #lucien vanserra #azriel shadowsinger #eluzriel #elucien #elriel #luzriel #acotar fics #my fics #a court of thorns and roses #elain #lucien #azriel #it’s smut #it’s pwp #please do not expect much more than idiots in love and complete filth with this one

[aromanticannibal]

amateur art advice from an amateur artist.

disclaimer. this isn't for people who want to make art their jobs (some of the advice may be useful to you, but some will very much not be). keep that in mind.

1. it's okay if you're not good. seriously. what matters is that you're creating and having fun (and if you're not having fun, perhaps there's something wrong).

good is subjective. when I was 13 and I drew big pretty anime eyes for the first time, I was super happy! and for me, it looked good. and it still looks good for someone out there, just like how people tell you how good your art looks when you think it's mediocre. it's not. your art is good, because you made it. Its true quality does not matter until you need it to for work. You're still learning, be good to yourself.

2. you've heard the PRACTICE advice from everyone ever, so I'll go with something different : try new stuff.

for all the summer holidays of 2021, I didnt draw at all, only doodled silly cats because yknow. mental illness. when I drew again, I tried drawing a full body pose, which I never succeeded in doing before. and I did it! obviously it wasn't perfect, but it was the best ive ever done. and now im pretty okay with drawing poses!

so try new stuff. try to draw busts from another angle, try to draw profiles. draw noses, draw combat poses, draw folds and old people and fat people and black people because i know most of the starting artists start with one type of character and stick to it (for me, it was front facing busts of skinny white girls with straight hair and no nose).

this also counts for objects, and animals, try to draw them (and try to draw people if you've only ever drawn animals or objects)

and again, it does not matter if it doesn't look good at first. don't get discouraged. your favorite artists have something they struggle with, the most famous and respected artists have struggled with some things and probably still disliked some parts of their work at their peak.

3. look at people. try to draw who you see. if you don't get out much or are scared to draw people when they're with you, then draw from photographs you have, or references (im begging new artists to look at references of actual human people. I'm on my knees. references are important, study what you see).

study your own face! when you take selfies or when you put on makeup or even just when you see your reflection - if you can, look at your face, the shape of your eyes, your nose, your lips, your face. I rediscovered this year that I actually have freckles and realized I have more of them on one side than the other. I realized my face is actually pretty androgynous and I have a soft square jaw. look at people. look at yourself, look at everything around you.

4. learn and try the tips other artists give you. once someone said that to draw both eyes the same way, you had to draw them at the same time, step by step, instead of doing one then the other. and it works! for me at least. don't be afraid to try stuff. you don't even have to keep doing it if you don't like how it looks or doesn't fit with your style, that's fine! just try to do things for a while, and if in the end it doesn't work out, you at least know this is a thing that exists and you know it doesn't work for you. knowledge is useful.

5. STOP. BEING. SO. HARD. ON. YOURSELF.

no one cares there's 10 years old kids who can draw better than you. no one cares you're starting at 30 years old, or 40, 50, any age that isn't teenagehood. and if there's people who care, they should not. you should draw because you want to. if drawing isn't making you happy, then stop, or try something else. if you are able, take art classes! do whatever makes you happy and stop thinking what you're doing is cringe, or bad, or ugly. it does not matter. what matters is if you're having fun or not. how "cringe" or "basic" it is does not matter.

I hope you keep loving art and I hope you keep doing art because there are people who want to see it. even if you think it's mediocre, even if it really is, even if you're a beginner. I hope you never stop doing art because you think it's never going to amount to anything.

good luck doing art, and have fun!

#this has been in my drafts forever! #if you have more advice for amateur artists #do tell in tags reblogs or otherwise #artblr #artists on tumblr #art #drawing #traditional art #digital art #art tips #art advice #new artist #queer artist

[pocketramblr]

any totk thoughts (just from osmosis bc idk if you've played it)

i haven't played it or really sought out watching it but i still have things from osmosis and i will say them,,,,, under the cut. very disorganized and randomly spoilery etc etc

Things I Would Have Done Differently If I Were Sonia

1- Been named "Zelda" instead. (nin10do you COWARDS are you really scared to have two different characters separated by untold generations named zelda NOW??? NOW YOU THINK THATS CRINGE???? fool. You did that in your first ever sequel and it was amazing. now you look scared and stupid. kill the part of you that cringes instead. In my head her name is Zelda and i dont care.)

2- not married that fake "Rauru". Like. OG Rauru is a cool fat ancient sage with an animalsona who protects the nukes away from everyone else and when you accidentally mess it up he hides and keeps you safe until you can go fix it. This new one is some imperialist that everyone is sooo obsessed with because his waist is snatched now. Or maybe i'll be more generous and say it's because they're furries that's more fair. But still like. Please there are others to simp over. he was all "oh im the first king of hyrule' and i was like 'oh.... no you're not'

(its actually ok that we have um. yet another first king of hyrule. Because we can have 3 first kings of hyrule, since we have 3 iterations of ganondorf now too. but we should still have 3 first zeldas. and we only have 2. because they messed up sonia. come on it would have been all NICE AND CLEAN AND BALANCED if there were 3 first kings, 3 first zelda, and 3 ganondorfs. This is the series about 3!!!!! but.... well perhaps next game we can have a third first zelda. perhaps i can be patient.)

(also love that we have a 3rd ganondorf. do you know how often i had to explain he does in fact reincarnate and that fsa ganondorf is a different one from oot? but now everyone knows theres more than one but less than the number of links even if they dont know exactly how many ganondorfs there are so. close enough! now ill just pretend he had a 3rd seperate origin story as well instead of 2 origins shared between 3 come on let the guy have something.)

This is unrelated but I think the Zonai are the evolutionary link between Ooca and the botw!Rito (since they did not evolved from the zora like ww!Rito). They look kinda dinosaur-y to me. i guess they're supposed to look kinda goat-y too? and rabbit-y???? i dunno i think they're generally fun. And also might be the results of unethical sheikah experimentation yeah i don't forget the temple of shadow............

OH and im very glad (our) Link wasn't the hero from the tapestry with Zonia. theres apparently some other Zonai hero with red hair who's briefly in it? i wish that Zonai was also named Link and got more to show but i was really not a fan of time-looping this poor link too, he had enough of that with the 100 year nap. if i can't have a gerudo link, at least we have a zonai hero maybe

but also in sooooo many fics i reserve the right to completely ignore this game. if it doesn't fit where i planned it didn't happen. this is like hyrule warriors to me. in another timeline.

LOVE all the yiga stuff and getting to fight with friends now. its what link deserves and his friends deserve. LOVE LOVE that Zelda and Link are so codependent there's not a word in the hylian language for them. i am a qpr truther for this particular zelink but i think that if these two were offered a way to fuse into a single being they would at least STRONGLY consider it. unhinged. love them.

incredible outfits for link and i love slowly discovering them as art passes my dash.

The way this world is even more open than botw is such a feat, the open engineering is just fabulous. I hope to see a new drone every week. Torturing the koroks is just. its horrible but i laugh every time .kjhghjkkjhjk whyyyyy these poor little tree dudes (*chanting 'crucify this one too' in my head*)

the way this game tried to both continue the botw 'honoring past games' and did a new 'gaslight you about the other games never happening' is a wild balance. Like, TWINROVA SHOWED UP??? in what i think is a very subtle detail in a memory??? maybe there's more of them in the game but it seems to be the same level as like 'hero of the winds' mentioned plus some salt around hyrule. excellent love that. but i also just saw a post gushing about how great it was that this game made this link theeeee most important specialist hero eeeever and the master sword was only ever for him and um. i just hope that isn't true. i think this game should add and not take away.

but hey twinrova showed up and there was that cool goth gerudo too!! i stan her.

oh and redeads in gerudo town or whatever it was? AMAZING. gerudo town was all spared from the calamity in the first game with no guardians making past the desert so having the town taken over and terrifying with the upheaval is just a good show of stakes stepping up.

OH!!!! and my number one favorite thing is that Link can make a drink that he was too young to order in botw. funniest possible thing that dude can do.

#i said the things i didn't like and then the things i did like... #so sorry to be negative at the start but i do love so many things i promise kjhghj #i just also have THOUGHTS that i havent been able to say so. yeah #anon #pocket talks to people #every single thing i just said was gained from osmosis. so . pinch of salt

[ala-baguette]

Never a Free Elf

Between a recent Discord conversation about Kreacher and writing a KWTL scene that features him, I have suddenly been reminded how much I love my grumpy little dude.  So enjoy a throwback my old Kreacher fic, just because.

Summary:  Kreacher rallies the house-elves to fight at the Battle of Hogwarts. Relationships: Kreacher & Harry Potter Rating:  T 6k words  |  Originally posted on AO3 here

“We’ll be back as soon as we can, Kreacher.  If all goes well, we should be home for lunch.” “‘If all goes well,’” Master’s blood-traitor friend intoned dryly.  Such a negative brat, he could be.  Did he not have faith that Master’s plan would work?  When Master had spent weeks and weeks devising it?  He supposed the other two had helped, but in his mind, it was Master’s plan.  Master was going to retrieve Master Regulus’s locket and Master was going to complete the task that Kreacher had failed.  The credit would go to Master.  Not this brat.  But Master Harry was fond of the brat, so Kreacher would not rise.  And after all.  The blood traitor had been kinder to Kreacher of late.  Kreacher was begrudgingly growing fond of Master’s friends. Even the Mudblood was not so very bad, he supposed.  That thought made him cringe.  Oh, what would his Mistress have said to that…?  No. Perhaps he was better off ignoring them, as he did whenever possible.  He would merely direct his attention to Master Harry. “Kreacher will have a steak-and-kidney pie ready for Master when he returns,” Kreacher croaked.  He bowed as low as his old back would permit.  Once he would have bowed so low his ears would brush the ground.  He hated that his body struggled to keep up with his work these days.  Mistress would have found this bow shameful.  But Master Harry never seemed to mind.   By the time Kreacher straightened, Master and his friends were already leaving through the kitchen door.  “Bless him,” he heard Master’s brat friend say, and Kreacher beamed before reminding himself that he did not need the approval of blood-traitors.  Their voices continued as low murmurs as they retreated up the stairs.  They never liked to wake Mistress, after all.

Kreacher turned and cleared away the coffee and hot rolls he had served for breakfast.  Master had not eaten much today—none of them had.  A pity, that.  They would need their strength.  But Master never knew what was good for him.  He would be hungry when he returned, and Kreacher must not disappoint him. Kreacher crossed to the pantry and paused to take stock of the necessary ingredients for a steak-and-kidney pie. There was tinned beef stock in the pantry.  It would cut down quite a bit of time to use the tinned variety.  Making stock from scratch was such an arduous affair, even with magic to speed it along.  Mistress Walburga was always very particular that he should not use the tinned stock. She always claimed it was too salty. But Kreacher doubted Master Harry would know the difference.  Perhaps he could skip that step.  His back was aching, and he did not much fancy standing at the hob for all that time skimming off the fat.  He stared at the dusty tins of stock, absently sucking on his teeth.  One gnarled hand reflexively came up and ran across the smooth metal of Master Regulus’s locket which lay against his chest.  Then he set about gathering the necessary marrow bones and vegetables to make the stock from scratch. The morning ticked by.  Kreacher glanced at the clock on the wall as he finished crimping the pastry over the top of the pie.  It was near lunchtime and Master and his friends had still not returned. Had their plan gone awry? Kreacher could feel Master in the corner of his mind, just like he always could.  Just like he had been able to feel Master Sirius before him.  And Mistress Walburga and Master Orion and… and Master Regulus.  Over the course of his six hundred years on this earth, Kreacher had shared room in his brain with countless members of his noble family.   An elf could always feel his Master’s presence. It was a part of their magic. What good was a house-elf who could not immediately Apparate to his master’s side when he was needed?  Once, Kreacher had happily shared his mind with several members of the Black family.  But they had gone out, one-by-one, like the snuffing of candle after candle at the end of a long day.  Then there had been only Master Sirius.  Then there had been only Master Harry.  Sometimes it felt lonely with only one master left.  Kreacher still felt the empty places where so many others had once been. When Master Sirius had died, Kreacher had reviled at the feeling of Master Harry entering his mind.  It had been an infringement of all he believed in.  The Black family line had ended and now a half-blood Potter had forced his way in, just because of a slip of paper Master Sirius had spelled.  It was violating!  It was not to be born!  Kreacher had begged and begged whatever god might listen that Mistress Bellatrix would replace Master Sirius and had cried and sobbed when he had found it not so. Without thinking, Kreacher again caressed the locket hanging around his neck.  Things had changed since that day. Kreacher had changed.  Master Harry had changed.  They understood each other better now.  And Master Harry cared about Kreacher, Kreacher was sure of it.  Back then, Kreacher would never have believed that he would now find comfort in Master Harry’s place in his brain.  This small corner where his master’s presence sat quiet and undemanding.   Kreacher focused on this small corner of his mind for a moment, cocking his head to the side.  Master was not so very far away.  He was here in London—Kreacher could feel him in the direction of the Ministry, just as he should be.  Kreacher had no reason to think things were not going according to plan.  But why then was it taking them so very long? And why then was he so worried? Kreacher sliced a slit in the top of the pie to allow steam to escape, snapped his fingers to preheat the oven, and slipped the pie in.  He distractedly dusted off his hands on the tea towel he wore as he looked at the clock again.  Then he jumped.  He looked down at himself and furiously brushed the flour away.  Master must not return to see him looking so filthy!  Oh, the shame of it!  Kreacher would not have it.  He waved his hand over the table to clean away the remnants of flour and bits of pastry.  Then looked around the kitchen for his next task to complete while the pie baked.  But it was all sparkling clean.   Perhaps he would have a chat with Mistress Walburga’s portrait.  Kreacher hesitated.  He knew Master Harry did not like Kreacher talking with his mistress.  But he had never expressly forbidden Kreacher from doing so.  Still… Knowing that Master Harry would not like it made it feel like a betrayal. But he did so miss his mistress.  For so many years, she had been his only company. After Mistress Walburga had died, the only one left in his mind had been Master Sirius, and he had been locked away in Azkaban.  Kreacher had been left in this house with no one but his mistress’s portrait to give Kreacher instruction.  One little chat could not hurt. Kreacher climbed the stairs from the kitchen onto the ground floor.  All these steps in the house were becoming more and more challenging for his old stiff knees.  He wondered when his body would give out, and he would be unable to work.  At such time, he was sure Master Harry would do him to honour of mounting his head on the wall beside those of his forebearers. Master Harry respected Kreacher, after all.  Master Harry would want to do him this honour. He approached the dark velvet drapes covering Mistress’s portrait.  But before he could do more than pat the frame, he froze and jerked his head to the front door, ears flapping.  Master Harry was home! But something was wrong.  Kreacher had felt Master disappear from the Ministry of Magic to the south and reappear immediately just outside the front door as planned.  But why then would he immediately Disapparate again?  Now, Kreacher could feel him some two hundred miles to the west.  So far!  Why?  Why would he go so far and leave Kreacher behind? Kreacher was looking to the west in the direction of his master, but he startled as he heard the sound of an unmistakable scream of fury coming from the other side of the front door.  Then there was a thump, and he suspected whoever was on the other end had just punched the door in frustration.  Then there was silence.   Kreacher dared not move.  He sank into the shadows behind the curtains covering his mistress’s portrait, peering out toward the front door.  Then he heard, rather than saw, the doorknob being jiggled. Another pause.  And with a bang the door flew open off its hinges.  Kreacher sunk back still further into the folds of the drapes.   Two cautious footsteps sounded as the unknown trespasser crossed the threshold.   “Severus Snape?” the voice whispered out of the darkness as Kreacher knew it would. The new-comer had not expected it, however, for Kreacher heard him jump and curse as he stubbed his toe on the doorframe. “Lumos!” came a harsh voice, and a light ignited, shining down the hall into the darkness.  It passed over Kreacher’s location, but he was well hidden.  Gingerly, another footstep crossed further into the hall. And, as Kreacher peered out through a gap in the curtains, the tall, ghostly figure of Albus Dumbledore rose up from the carpet and charged toward the intruder. “What the bloody hell!  I’m not Snape!  I didn’t kill you!  Gerroff me!” But the figure of Albus Dumbledore had already burst into a cloud of dust and disappeared.  For a moment, there was just the sound of a few shaky breaths coming from the dark figure, shrouded in the resultant dust cloud. But this gradually transitioned into quiet huffs of laughter.  “Not so scary now, are you, you old codger?” Then the figure advanced again.  And as he emerged from the cloud of dust, Kreacher could make out a tall man with hard, blunt features.  Kreacher recognised the face from photos he had seen in Master’s Daily Prophet.  This man worked in the Ministry.  High up in the Ministry.  Which meant he was no friend to Master Harry. “Homenum revelio,” the figure muttered, looking around the hall.  He waited, but nothing happened.  The man merely stood there, looking around the entrance hall. “This is headquarters….” the man muttered to himself.  “The fools brought me straight into the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix!” There was quiet again for a moment.  Then a sound escaped the man’s throat that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob.  “Thank Merlin.  Harry Potter may have escaped, but I can give him this!  The Dark Lord will not punish me too harshly!  I’m saved!” And then the man began to laugh.  It was a small quiet laugh of relief at first. But it grew.  Became more hysterical.  More manic.  And as the pitch and volume crescendoed— “FILITH!  HOW DARE YOU TRESPASS ON THE HOUSE OF MY FATHER?” “What the—” The man whipped around, pointing his wandlight directly at the portrait of Mistress Walburga who was now screaming at the top of her lungs.  Kreacher reflexively patted his mistress’s frame to calm her, even if he shrank further back behind the curtains.   “BEGONE FROM THIS PLACE!  HOW DARE YOU BESMIRCH THE HOME OF MY FOREBEARERS WITH YOUR UNWORTHY PRESENCE?” He could hear the man approaching cautiously. Kreacher had to leave.  And leave quickly.  He would be discovered at any moment.  And then what?  He did not care for his own safety.  But Master… Kreacher knew too much.  And he feared what methods the Dark Lord would have to extract that information.  He would be putting Master at risk.  No, he must leave.  But where? Where could he go?  He could not return to Master—Kreacher was bound to this house and Master had not summoned Kreacher to his side.   Hogwarts.  It was the only option.  Master had sent Kreacher to work in the kitchens in Hogwarts last year, so his bindings extended there.  If staying in the Black ancestral home was not an option, he would default to his previous instruction.  He would be safe there.  He could blend in with the other house-elves.  No one would look for him there.  For he was below their notice.  He must go to Hogwarts.  He would wait there until Master Harry summoned him, as he was sure to do.  For Master Harry cared for Kreacher.  He was sure to call for him, sooner or later. And just as a long-fingered hand curled itself around the drapes just over Kreacher’s head, preparing to rip them aside, Kreacher Disapparated.   Even as he deserted his post, Kreacher found himself thinking of the steak-and-kidney pie, still in the oven. It would be burned by now. Kreacher must punish himself. Mistress Walburga was always very adamant that he should punish himself should ever he burn the dinner.

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The months stretched on.  And still Master did not summon Kreacher.  Oh why, oh why would he not summon Kreacher?   Kreacher could feel Master Harry inside his head.  His master moved frequently.  Every couple of days, Kreacher would feel his presence disappear from one place only to reappear immediately somewhere quite different.  Constantly, his master moved all about the country.  To everywhere except to Kreacher’s side. Frequently, Kreacher thought of going to him. But it was not the place of a house-elf to go to his master if his master did not have the mind to summon him.  A house-elf’s place was not to be seen or heard.  It was to serve his master quietly, efficiently, and out of sight. But how could Kreacher serve him from here?  How frustrating this was. At his place in the Hogwarts Kitchens, Kreacher chopped vegetables in preparation for the evening’s dinner.  He wiped his hands on the tea towel he was wearing.  He had spilled soup down his front at lunchtime, but he had not bothered to change. Who was there to care if he was dirty? Abruptly, Kreacher dropped his knife and turned his head.  Master was moving again.  But it was different this time.  Master Harry had stopped for an unprecedentedly long time somewhere far to the southwest.  He had stayed there for two full weeks.  Kreacher had never known Master to stay in one place so long since he had abandoned Grimmauld Place.  It made Kreacher worry that Master had been injured. But just that morning, Kreacher had felt his Master disappear and reappear in the direction of London.  Yes, Kreacher was quite sure Master was in London. Diagon Alley, he thought.  This seemed a most dangerous a place for Master to be going.  Kreacher did not like it.  And he had been there for several hours now. But now Master Harry was moving.  He was moving north.  But something was odd.  Very odd.  Normally, Master would simply Apparate to his next location.  But this time, he was moving at a steady pace.  Fast, but nowhere near as fast as Apparition.  And far too straight a line to be using any Muggle transportation.  Kreacher cocked his head, staring across the kitchen, but not really seeing it. Staring in the direction of his master. “Kreacher finds this very odd. Very odd indeed,” he muttered to himself. “Kreacher is still waiting for his master to summon him,” came a mocking voice beside him.  Kreacher looked around to see Tobbin depositing an armful of carrots on the counter, next in line to be chopped for dinner.  “Ooh, when will Kreacher give up and accept that his master has forgotten Kreacher.  That his master does not want him.  Kreacher must be a very bad elf for his master to have sent Kreacher so far away.” Kreacher glowered at the other elf. Kreacher would never truly fit in here. The loyalty of these elves lay with the Headmaster of Hogwarts.  And they all knew that Kreacher’s loyalty was elsewhere.  And they looked down on him for it.  “Tobbin tells lies,” Kreacher croaked.  “Tobbin should shut his mouth and not say things he understands not. Master Harry cares for Kreacher. Master Harry merely wants Kreacher to be safe,” he snarled.  “Tobbin is just jealous that he does not have so great a master as Kreacher has!” And he grasped a carrot and with a harsh swing of his knife, cut away the greens with unnecessary force.  But as he continued peeling and chopping carrots, he knew he was so angry at Tobbin because he spoke the things that Kreacher feared.  Perhaps Master Harry had forgotten him.  Perhaps Master Harry did not care for Kreacher. He suspected that the only reason the Hogwarts house-elves continued to tolerate Kreacher was that Master Harry still held their respect.  Rumours had reached them last week that Dobby, their former colleague, was dead. Killed by Bellatrix Lastrange. And rumour also said that Master Harry had been seen digging a grave for him.  A grave with a tombstone.  A grave such as would be dug for a wizard.  Such as would be dug for an equal.  It was a great honour.  And the elves of Hogwarts recognised it.  Kreacher wondered if his master would do him the same honour one day.  But no.  Kreacher was not ambitious.  He wished for nothing more than for his head to be mounted on the wall among those of his forebearers. Dinner prepared and laid out on the five tables of the kitchen, Tobbin snapped his fingers to send the meal up through the ceiling to their corresponding tables in the Great Hall above.  Tobbin was very proud of this duty and was sure to be available every mealtime to complete this most privileged task. “Nasty little show-off, Tobbin is,” Kreacher muttered to himself.  “Lording it over the rest of us hard-working elves.  Oh one day, Kreacher will show him.  One day he will see.” As they all set about washing up, Kreacher again paused, head swivelling.  Master had stopped.  He had settled directly to the south, but closer than he had been to Kreacher in some time.  The Lake District.  Yes. He seemed to have stopped here. Kreacher suspected he would set up camp for the night.  It must be getting dark outside at this hour.  Kreacher went back to washing dishes.   The evening was drawing to a close.  Soon the students would be in their beds and the house-elves would venture out to clean the house common rooms.   CLANG! Kreacher had just dropped a large soapy stock pot.  It now rolled back and forth on the floor of the kitchen, its hollow sound ringing around the room.  All eyes had turned to stare at Kreacher.  Then they sighed and shook their heads at him and returned to their work. But Kreacher didn’t care.  He didn’t care what these elves thought of him.  For his Master was here.  He felt him.  He had just Apparated into Hogsmeade.  He was here! He had come for Kreacher! But the joy Kreacher felt dissipated as fast as it had come.  Master Harry must not come here!  It was not safe!  He must know the Death Eaters had control of the school.  He would be caught for sure!  He must go away.  Far far away. Kreacher stood there, stock pot forgotten on the floor.  He sucked his teeth unsure what he should do.  A particularly small and kindly elf named Kiffy zipped over and picked up the stock pot.  She patted Kreacher on the shoulder sympathetically before proceeding to take over washing the dishes Kreacher had abandoned. Tobbin Disapparated.  It was his job to provide turn-down for the Headmaster. Tobbin thought himself very important because of this.  But at that moment, Kreacher was too preoccupied to care about Tobbin’s self-importance. Kreacher did not know what to do.  He did not want to do anything that might alert the Death Eaters to his master’s presence.  He stroked the locket hanging around his neck over and over to bring himself comfort. He, of course, felt the moment Master Harry entered the castle a short time later.  Kreacher paced the floor in front of the fire.  He prayed his master would give him instruction.  The minutes ticked by, excruciatingly slow.   There was a crack as Tobbin reappeared in the kitchen.  “Elves! Master Headmaster Snape warns us there may be an attack on the school!  He tells us to keep to the kitchens out of the way!” There were squeals and a flurry of commotion as elves around them cried, “How?” and “Why?” and Tobbin was immediately surrounded by elves seeking more explanation.  Tobbin proceeded tell all he knew (which Kreacher did not think much), looking very important. But Kreacher did not listen.  His fear for his master had redoubled.  Let him call Kreacher.  Let Master call him.  He could Apparate him away from this place.  Just let him call him. Sounds of commotion could be heard from above. Hundreds of students were thundering down the stairs above them in the direction of the Great Hall.   Outside the kitchen door, he heard the Hufflepuffs leaving their dormitories, heading up.  The elves stared up at the ceiling trying to discern what was going on above. And still Master Harry did not summon him. And then a voice rang out.  A high-pitched cruel voice.  A voice Kreacher would know anywhere, though a voice he had not heard in nineteen years.  “I know that you are preparing to fight.”  There were screams amongst the house-elves as they clutched at each other, looking around in terror for the source of the voice.   “Your efforts are futile.  You cannot fight me.  I do not want to kill you.  I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts.  I do not want to spill magical blood.  Give me Harry Potter and none shall be harmed.  Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you will be rewarded.   You have until midnight.” Kreacher looked up.  All around him, elves were looking at him.  But he didn’t know what they could possibly expect of him. There was more commotion up above as students seemed to be ushered out of the Great Hall and up the stairs again.  But the elves merely settled in to wait.

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The hours stretched.  The house-elves of Hogwarts huddled together in fear, flinching and whimpering at the sound of every bang and crash and explosion from above. A few times, the castle rattled so hard, dust drifted down on them from above.  Kreacher hoped they would not all get buried down here if the ceiling caved in. He did not cower like the rest. He paced back and forth, back and forth. He must be ready when his master called him. A couple hours into the battle above, Kreacher felt as Master Harry moved away across the grounds.  He was far from the castle now.  Or was he in Hogsmeade?  He would be near the boarders, but Kreacher could not understand how he could have gotten out of the grounds during such a battle.  

Then a shudder went around all the elves of the kitchen as one.  Kreacher squinted at them trying to understand why they had suddenly all gone white and cried out in shock.  But then Kiffy wailed, “Ooh, Master Headmaster Snape.  He is gone, he is gone!  Ooh, my master!”

“I is feeling Mistress Professor McGonagall,” Tobbin said, looking very shaken.  And several house-elves nodded that they too cool feel a new Mistress taking charge.  And around the room there was crying and moaning.  Kreacher could not say if they truly grieved for their master’s death or merely for the loss of his place in their minds.  It was not a pleasant feeling and one Kreacher knew only too well.

But he could not dwell on this long.  For just a few minutes later, the harsh voice of the Dark Lord sounded again.

“You have fought valiantly.  Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery. Yet you have sustained heavy losses. If you continue to resist me, you will all die, one by one.  I do not wish this to happen.  Every drop of magical blood spilled is a loss and a waste.”  Kreacher seethed.  Not elf blood.  The Dark Lord cared nothing for elf blood.  He had been plenty willing to sacrifice Kreacher to the inferi.  He was responsible for the death of Master Regulus. And now he claims that magical blood is precious to him?  “Lord Voldemort is merciful.  I command my forces to retreat immediately.  You have one hour.  Dispose of your dead with dignity.  Treat your injured.”

“I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you. You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself.  I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest.  If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, then battle recommences.  This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me.  One hour.”

Kreacher did not realise he was shaking his head until his ears smacked him in the face one after the other.  “Master Harry must not listen to him.  Master Harry must not go.  Master Harry must call Kreacher to him, and Kreacher will Apparate him far from this place.”  But still, master did not call him.

But Kreacher felt relief as he felt his master turn away from the forest.  Master re-entered the castle from his place far far out on the grounds.  Kreacher felt him upstairs now.  Kreacher breathed a sigh of relief.  He was not laying down arms so easily.  

His relief was short-lived, however.  For not long after, Kreacher felt Master leaving the castle again.  Walking in the direction of the Forest.  No! Why was no one stopping him! Where was the blood-traitor brat and the Mudblood?  Was that not what they were good for?  “Call Kreacher to you, Master,” he groaned, still pacing back and forth.  “Call Kreacher.”

The designated hour came and went. Kreacher and the others watched the clock on the wall.  They knew when the hour was up.  And with no sounds from above, Kreacher saw as the elves began to fidget and fret again.

But Kreacher felt hope.  The hour was up.  And still his master lived!  He had not gone to the Dark Lord.  He had a different plan!  A better plan.  Master was clever and resourceful.  He had found a way to escape!

Kreacher felt his knees make hard contact with the floor.  

It was very swift in the end.  One minute Master Harry was there, a comforting weight in Kreacher’s mind.  

And then he was gone.  

One more candle snuffed out.  The same as Master Regulus.

“Nooo,” Kreacher croaked.  Tears were streaming down his snout-like nose, but he made no effort to wipe it.  “No no no, Master Harry!   Noooooo.”

Kreacher knelt there on the kitchen floor, rocking backwards and forwards.  Sobbing into the quiet kitchen.  Dimly he was aware of the other elves watching him sympathetically.  They knew.  They understood.

Kreacher was clutched his hands over his ears, screaming his grief at the loss of a part of himself that had so needlessly been torn away.  He was gone. Master was gone.  He didn’t know how long he sat there, crying.  But after a bit, he was left gasping on all fours as the shock wore off.  And slowly his mind began to register something even more horrifying.  

Master Harry was dead.  He was gone.  And no one had taken his place.  He had left Kreacher behind again.  But now… now Kreacher was horrifyingly, terrifyingly alone.

When Kreacher had passed to Master Harry, he was no longer a member of the Black family.  He had passed to the Potter family.  But Master Harry was the last of the Potters.  There was no one left.  His line had ended.  His house was finished.  And Master Harry had not written a will as Master Sirius had done.  There was no one there.    

Kreacher stared in horror at nothing. Tears no longer streaked down his face, for he was beyond tears.  He could feel the crunching stiffness of the skin of his cheeks from the dried salt on his face.  Gently, he probed the corner of his brain where his master should be.  But there was no one there.

Kreacher was a free elf.

“No.  No,” Kreacher muttered.  “No. Kreacher is not wanting it.  He is not wanting to be a free elf.  Come back, Master Harry.  Come back.”  Anyone. Please please, anyone!  He would even serve the blood-traitor Weasleys, he didn’t care, but there must be someone.  He could not be alone.  He could not. “Come back, Master Harry!  Come back!” he screamed into the quiet void.

And then Kreacher blinked.  For much to his surprise, Master Harry did come back.

Kreacher sat up slowly.  His back was stiffly erect where he still knelt on the floor.  He probed at the corner of his mind again.  And sure enough, that was Master Harry.  He was sure of it.

His eyes roved around the room, trying to see if this made sense to any of the other elves, but of course they could not feel what he felt.  They were merely sitting, avoiding eye contact, giving him privacy in his grief.

There was an eerie silence that had fallen around the castle as they sat, waiting.  All that he could hear was the crackling of the fire and the periodic sniffs of the frightened elves around him.  

And his master was moving.  Moving out of the forest in Kreacher’s direction.

Kreacher merely sat, perfectly still, trying to make sense of it.  How? How was it possible?  Master Harry had been gone.  He had died and left Kreacher behind.  But now that place in his mind told him that his master was back. He was there.  Moving closer and closer.  At last Kreacher felt Master’s presence nearly just above him.  He cocked his head and stared up toward the ceiling of the kitchen, completely mystified.

“NO!”  Several elves jumped as the sound of a scream from the Entrance Hall above broke the silence.   Then more screams joined in.  

“No!”

“No!”

“Harry!  HARRY!”

“SILENCE!” came the Dark Lords scream, magically amplified to ensure not one person missed a single word.  “It is over!  Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs!”

There was quiet for a moment.  Then, “You see?  Harry Potter is dead!  Do you understand now, deluded ones?  He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!”

All around the kitchen, eyes were darting toward Kreacher.  Eye full of pity.  For the house-elves knew the pain of losing one’s master.  Or they thought they did, for Kreacher doubted the elves of Hogwarts who passed from Headmaster to Headmaster could ever understand in earnest. Kreacher ignored them.  He merely sat there, shaking his head in bewilderment.

He did not understand.  His master was alive!  He could feel him!  It made no sense!  “Master is alive,” he croaked, more to himself.  “Kreacher can feel him.  Master is alive.”  The other elves merely looked at him with even greater pity.  They thought him mad.  Slowly, Kreacher rose to his feet.

There were more cries and voices from above, but Kreacher paid them no mind.  It was too difficult to gather what was going on upstairs.  But of one thing Kreacher was certain.  Master was alive.  And Kreacher would go to him.  He did not care that Master had not summoned him.  If he had to punish himself for it, it did not matter.  He had to see his master.  Had to understand.

But in that moment, he had a sense of clarity about one thing.  No, Master Harry would not call him to his side.  But Master had not forgotten Kreacher.  He had not left him behind.  He had been fighting for something bigger than Kreacher.  Bigger than himself.  But he would not fight alone.  Kreacher would not have it.  

There were bangs and screams coming from above again, and his fellow house-elves were cowering where they crouched, frozen in fear.  Scoot surreptitiously sneaked closed to the table, clearly preparing to dart underneath it, and Kiffy buried her face in a handkerchief.  No one spoke, but with every

bang

from above, there would come a flinch and a whimper from around the room.

“Is the house-elves cowards,” Kreacher said into the quiet.  All around him, wide eyes turned his way again.  “Is the house-elves not serving this school?”

“We is serving as best we can,” piped up Scoot indignantly.  “But we is not knowing what to do.”  The other elves nodded their agreement, ears flapping, eyes brimming with tears.  

Kreacher stared around at them in awe of their idiocy.  “We fight,” said Kreacher plainly.

“We is house-elves, Kreacher,” reasoned Tobbin. “We clean.  We cook.  We is not knowing how to fight.  We is not strong enough.”

Kreacher stared around the kitchen.  Then he marched deliberately to the nearest knife block on the counter, and drew out a sharp carving knife in one sweeping motion. “House-elves is strong enough,” he declared.  All eyes were on him, and Kreacher was not sure if their looks were out of awe of his bravery or of his insanity.  “House-elves is not weak.  House-elves is powerful.  House-elves is having more powerful magic than any of those wizards upstairs. Maybe even the Dark Lord.  It is time house-elves learned to use it!”

All around him, his fellow elves were exchanging glances.  Yes, Kreacher was quite sure they thought him mad.  But it did not matter.  “My master is giving his life for this cause.  He is giving his life to save everyone in this castle.  Kreacher include.  Tobbin included.  Scoot and Kiffy and Nippin included!  My master is dying so the elves can have a better life.  My master is giving Dobby a wizard’s burial because he is believing elves are good.  He is believing elves deserve more.

“Kreacher knows the Dark Lord.  The Dark Lord cares nothing for the lives of elves. He is seeing us as expendable.  Weak.  Less than nothing.  But Kreacher will prove him wrong.  Kreacher is alive because wizards like Master Harry and Master Regulus think otherwise. And Kreacher will fight for their cause. Kreacher will fight for Master.”

Kreacher glared around the room, challenging them.  “And the elves of Hogwarts will fight with him,” he concluded, his voice dropping deadly soft.  Again, the elves exchanged glances amongst themselves.

“But… Master Headmaster Snape instructed us to stay in the kitchen,” said Nippin hesitantly.

“Master Headmaster Snape is dead,” Kreacher replied savagely.  “Mistress McGonnagall is being the house-elves mistress now.  And your mistress is now upstairs fighting.  Defending Hogwarts as the house-elves should be doing!”

There was a murmur around the room, and again. Uncertain looks were exchanged.  

“We fight,” said Kreacher vehemently, staring around at all the frightened faces around him.

After a small pause in which several house-elves merely stared at him in fear, Tobbin rose to his feet, giving a small nod. Kreacher could see him trembling, but he stood with his chin held high in that self-important way that Kreacher always hated.  Kreacher braced himself for the inevitable argument.  But it did not come.  “We fight,” Tobbin intoned back.

Kreacher glared around at the rest of them. “We fight!” he said, louder this time.

There was a murmur. And then more elves were getting to their feet.  “We fight!” they called back.  

“We fight!”

Kreacher cried.

“WE FIGHT!” the whole room chorused back. And no one was left seated.  And in a flurry of motion, all around the kitchen, elf after elf was helping himself to knives and cleavers.  One grasped the poker from the fireplace and another the small hatchet used to make kindling.

“FOR MY MASTER!  FOR THE DEFENDER OF THE HOUSE-ELVES!” Kreacher called.

“FOR THE DEFENDER OF THE HOUSE-ELVES!!!” they all screamed back in unison.

And as Kreacher stormed up the stairs toward the Entrance Hall with a hundred elves at his back, he cared not that his back ached or that his knees were stiff.  He cared not that he could be killed in this effort.  As Kreacher charged out, carving knife held high, all he cared about was getting to his master who needed him.

And as they burst through the doors and swarmed out into the Entrance Hall, Kreacher called to rally his compatriots. “Fight!  Fight!  Fight for my master, defender of the house-elves!  Fight the Dark Lord, in the name of brave Regulus!  Fight!”

Kreacher made this choice for himself. It was not because he was ordered to do so.  He made this choice because it was want he wanted.  He made this choice because it was what he believed in.

Kreacher was not a free elf.  Kreacher would never be a free elf.  

For he was a part of something bigger.  Something more.  

“FOR MASTER!!!”

#Harry Potter #harry potter fanfiction #hp fanfic #kreacher #kreacher & harry potter #house elf #elf magic

[macaronnya]

Fresh(?) Impressions (10)

Other parts: |Trickstar| |UNDEAD| |2wink| |Ra*bits| |Akatsuki| |fine| |Ryuseitai| |Knights| |Valkyrie| |Switch| |MaM/Double Face/Crazy:B| |Eden| |Alkaloid|

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Hello Enstarries~☆ It is the 10th part already! With the trio Switch here! There really are a lot of idol (groups) to go through huh....I think I get now how the wayback machine works, so I hope I can finish this series next week or so to finally begin reading the "!" stories. Ngl, it's a lot more enjoyable to learn about everyone like this. I'd probably be too lazy otherwise lol.

DISCLAIMER!: Everything said here is for entertainment purposes only and not meant to attack anyone. This is not an accurate description of any characters but my subjective rambling for fun, so please don't take it too seriously. (Just to be safe, I'm kinda scared of elite idol fans) Also, you will hear me mention other games a bunch of times bc I'm that bad and uncreative at explaining and I'm still grieving A3!EN's shutdown. Eng is my 2nd (or 3rd?) language so there might be some weird grammar or spelling mistakes. And I write at 3 am usually.

Without further ado...Let's Ensemble!☆

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You wouldn't think they're magicians at first glance, which is not a bad thing. Honestly, I don't have a lot to say about them. Their outfits are decent. A bit weird maybe. Sora's variation is the only good looking one. That's because the shoes just don't fit with the long trousers and the big thunder symbol with its thick black outlines on the vest look ugly and it's kind of too much with a third color (red/blue). And I don't like the zippers. Or the belts. I like the the necklaces though. Their music is pretty decent, too. At first, it wasn't really to my taste but it does make for nice background music, is what I discovered after going shopping and having Switch songs come up. It's generally upbeat but a bit more lowkey compared to Trickstar. I

A bit funky I think and hmmm...idk how to say this but it often uses these snyth instruments??? I have no idea what you call them but like, sounds that don't belong to a classical intrument, y'know? I sound like a grandma. I guess they kind of give the music the sparkle, as they're modern magicians and all. I like I "witch" you a happy Halloween and Omoi no kakera. Oh, I almost forgot to mention this, it's neat how everyone has hair highlights.

5/10 - average but they have some good songs

Natsume Sakasaki

I do adMIT. While reading his Ep.1, I was more or less distracted by his magic of changing the text font as well as his speech haBIT. Maybe anone can do it and I just haven't seen it yet? But I saw that when he talked to Tsumugi it also changed? I cringed when he called us kitten. He seems like a gentleman but I just....don't vibe with him. He has a nice voice, though. It's rich and thick like condensed milk but not as sweet. He's a fortune teller so...yeah. Nothing comes to mind. Looks pretty chill otherwise.

4.5/10 - a dude but ehhhhh

Tsumugi Aoba

Why does everybody hate him? Perhaps my brain is exaggerating some memories but I remember him being really dunked on by magic redhead anytime he exists and a lot of others as well? His memes show him very pathetically if I remember right. He does seem to be a bit of a pushover but not really meek? I want to say I like his fluffy hair but somehow I hesitate. He has a normal voice but smoother than the average. Like, milk. Normal 3,5% fat milk instead of plain still water.

5/10 - a dude with glasses

Sora Harukawa

I think he's genuinely bebi but I can't bring myself to not dislike his voice. It's like muffled blackboard scratching. I thought he was just a normal happy go lucky sunshine shota but the bit of him having synesthesia came outta nowhere. I wonder if it's just like a trivial trait of his or if it's more explored. I was convinced that he didn't go through anything too hard but when he apologized for his laugh and talked about wanting to experience others perspectives, it gives me the feeling he definitely has experienced some kind of rejection due to his condition and general personality as well. Which is sad, you shouldn't apologize for being happy and expressing it, unless the situation is inappropiate ofc. That might also be the reason why he wants to bring happiness to others in need, like he once was. Btw his laugh is indeed a bit annoying. I'm sorry 🤧 maybe I'll get used to it with time.

5.5/10 - apple juice, smth most like but I prefer to drink only once a month

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Conclusion

This part might actually be shorter than Valkyrie's 🗿 Switch is just very lukewarm.

Now, just a small pet peeve rant that came to me after Natsume's Ep.1, that not necessarily just applies to him specifically, but I really hate the trope of "Oh, be careful around wolves, I am also one of them you know?" I know it's supposed to bring the fact, that they're potential love interest as well, to attention but to me it just seems like they're saying they're fucking perverts. Like, shouldn't you be happy, she feels comfortable enough with you to be in the same room or smth? Women especially know just how dangerous the world can be for them specifically, let them feel safe for 1 sec asshat. Like, doesn't Japan have train sections for women only bc the harassments got that bad? Women always hear to be careful at night, watch for their drinks, have some self-defense or escape tips, etc. Not attacking another person, let alone a women, should be fucking normal. Not even common decency. What is romantic about that?????? I know they all just mean it jokingly and all but I just cringe, whenever that happens. If you're already in an established relationship, that's a bit different but otherwise it's just weird and uncomfortable.

Phew, that was a mouthful. If you wanna share anything, just be mindful of others and keep in mind it's all just for fun here. My wrist is killing me so much rn. Until the next post ~☆

#ensemble stars #enstars #Switch #macaron rambles #it is not 3 am rn but 1 am!!!

[littlemountaintownrp]

he’s gonna go play with the Harry Potter kids

Craig has been accepted! Please submit his blog for us to follow!

out of character info

Name/Alias: Sam Pronouns: she/her SAME INFO AS BEFORE Character that you’re applying for: Craig Tucker Favourite ships for your character: Let it happen baby

in character info

Full name: Craig David Tucker  Birthday: May 13th Sexuality, gender, pronouns: gay gay gay, he likes long big cocks, he’s a super super gay (he/him) Age and grade: 18, senior Faceclaim: Declan McKenna Appearance: 

Craig had once been the tallest boy in class. He had come upon his growth spurt in late elementary and early middle school. He had shot up inches over the course of a couple of years, more than most of his peers. That, however, stopped almost immediately coming into high school. Now Craig stands approximately five feet and three inches tall. Most of his classmates are taller than him, something that drives him insane. He is rather convinced he’s due for another growth spurt, soon. Boys went into puberty later and longer than girls, after all? 

At least that’s what they said in health class. But in this fucking town? Who knew what information was correct. He was still hoping for one, though. 

Aside from his short body, Craig thinks he’s an okay looker. Being seventeen, his face has acne peppered beneath freckled skin. A genetic thing, according to his mother’s medical history. It doesn’t bother Craig too much, it’s manageable most days and as far as he’s concerned, doesn’t take much away from his appearance.  As mentioned above, he’s also got freckles on his skin. Not many, the lightest dusting across cheeks and nose that are most prominent in the sun. Adding to his face are two blue eyes, matching another set in his year in one of the most annoying ways possible. Topping it all off is a mop of floppy, dark hair. Craig isn’t one to style it much, mostly letting it go to where it pleases. 

Moving from his head, Craig styles himself in your typical teenage boy fashions. Jeans that fit too tightly (or perhaps this was a typical small gay kid thing? Craig didn’t know nor care, considering everyone in this school was fucking gay now. Stan’s gang couldn’t let him have this one fucking thing?), tee shirts with witty remarks and references to obscure pop culture things, ankle high converse drawn on with silver and black sharpies by friends and boredom alike. 

He’s fairly slim, something Craig likes to call “skinny fat”. His frame is small, but his body is made mostly up of soft chub, especially, Craig notices and cringes at, on his stomach. Probably from too many sugar filled coffee’s from Tweek, the fucking enabler. Especially since the kid tends to bring cupcakes along with it. He can’t say no, he’s not going to be fucking rude here okay? He could easily fix it and tone himself up, get into gymnastics or something but honestly, he couldn’t be bothered to care most days.

More or less, Craig liked his appearance. His legs were longer than most parts of his otherwise short body, and maybe he still had to wear braces, but hey. He was confident enough in how he looked to not really care much about it. He pulled on whatever he could grab most mornings or whatever piqued any sort of interest when he got ready for the day. He didn’t care. Except only enough to try to look effortlessly cool(er than Stab Morsh and his merry band of idiots).

Personality: 

He’s often uncaring, monotonous and unenthused when it comes to his peers and the hobbies of his fellow classmates or the adults in the town. Often times they were thirsty for whatever drama the town had going for it while they were growing up. Things these days were calmer, something he preferred greatly. Calm and steady, just how he liked it. 

Uncaringness aside, it goes deeper than that for Craig. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, Craig’s quite emotional when he’s not meaning to be. He’s got a sharp temper, certainly. It comes with being easily annoyed or pestered, after all. Not explosive, or necessarily violent. His words can have a sharp, harsh tone to them, and his insults are rarely veiled. That’s not to say Craig won’t throw a punch now and then. He’s been known to be goaded into a fight every now and then. He grows tired of it quickly, not seeing much point in it. 

It’s not all negative though. The boy has a big heart. When it comes to animals, even Craig can’t stay stone faced. He melts instantly, regardless of whatever the creature is. He prefers the company of animals toward that of other people, that much is clear. Hurt one, or even speak badly to an animal, you’ll hear and ear full and maybe a kick to the crotch from him. Whatever punishment that Craig would see fit at the time of the crime. 

Overall, Craig likes to think of himself as a stone cold bitch with a heart of gold. Maybe that wasn’t the case to everyone else, but damned what they think anyway. They didn’t matter much, Craig had bigger things to worry about…

Like the weird little thing he’s got going on with the whole insomnia and night terror thing.

History: 

Most histories in this group start off with your average boring “born to blank and blank on a cold stormy night of eighty four…” shit, but not our beloved Craig, here. No, no no no. Craig was conceived not on a cold, stormy winters evening.There was no romantic power outage or rose petals strewn on beds or conception on the first night of a honeymoon. None of that sweet bullshit his mother spilled to him when he was a kid asking questions. He didn’t believe it. But what Craig didn’t know was the truth. A strangely hot, humid April afternoon. The parents of South Park in that strange age wherein some of their friends were getting married or having kids while others weren’t doing much of anything. 

So was the case on that afternoon, wherein Randy Marsh and Laura Tucker ran into one another at the bar. Thomas was at work, Laura bored, Randy drinking from the news of his wife’s second pregnancy. Eventually one glass of wine and a beer turned into several each and a messy quickie in the bathroom that neither probably remembered. 

So was small town life, one supposed. There was always drama behind the scenes and on center stage. 

Well, some time later did Laura notice something strange. A bit of weight gain, a bit of sickness, and nine months later popping out a dark haired, blue eyed baby boy. Her first kid, with her upturned nose and pouty lips. His eyes were stunning, but odd when both she and her husband sported green. What was most unusual was the thick dark hair, and eyebrows to match. It was when Craig was dried and washed and all that good stuff, when Laura took him properly into her arms an ran her fingers through the soft dark hairs that it dawned on it.

Looking up to her husband’s face, Laura’s smile at her first born faltered when it seemed as if both parents realized something. Though their education often lacked when growing up themselves, both knew better. Dark hair didn’t come from two fair haired parents. Was Craig the son of the mailman?

Or someone else? 

It was never spoken of, but from that moment, Thomas never seemed to consider Craig a son of his. There were times, of course, where he treated Craig as if he was nothing short of his own flesh and blood. But it had felt so forced, Craig had sensed better than to really believe it once he started picking up on the small signs. 

When the whole Peru event rolled around as kids, Craig hadn’t been able to help but wonder any number of situations. He could have been adopted, maybe? But that theory died when Craig could fully grasp the idea that his family had little money, especially not enough to support an adoption. Besides there had been birth photos of him, couldn’t have been faked. He’d been in his mother, and there was photo and video evidence to prove it. 

Maybe an affair with a Peruvian man? But his skin was rather pale in colour, and his eyes oddly blue for those men of South America. His connection with Peru and the whole Guinea Pig thing must have just been coincidence. 

As Craig grew, his relationship with his father grew more difficult. Teenage rebellion and back talk made it fall fast, the support he’d had when he was ten and cute and gay long gone as he grew into a small body and showed little interest in anything, let alone anything remotely masculine that wasn’t animals or space. 

Quick enough it descended from screaming matches and slamming doors and groundings, the day Craig took a book and threw it with what might he had at his father. The look in his eye had Craig frozen to floor just long enough he couldn’t resist the back handed smack he’d gotten across the face from his dad. It had snapped him out quick enough, Craig’s voice breaking as he bellowed how much he hated his family, hated his dad, the whole nine yards only to be met with a blow to the gut that he wasn’t Thomas’ son. 

He should have known. He did know. But he didn’t ever really want to hear it. Without thinking, Craig had spat out a harsh “good, I’m not surprised mom never wanted to breed with you.” This time, Craig had been quicker on his feet as he turned and bolted up the stairs to slam his bedroom door shut in his fathers face after he’d been chased to it. The fighting between the two hadn’t stopped since, harsh insults thrown to one another nearly every time they saw one another until it escalated to the point wherein Laura was crying,and Craig was being dragged by the hair, ear, or upper arm to be tossed into his room and the door slammed shut. 

Craig would usually open it a few hour later, backpack stuffed with closed over his should and pig in his pocket, hat on head, to trek over to someone else’s home to spend the night. Until his mother called his phone in tears, the next evening, begging for her baby to come home.

Headcanons:  - A virgin, but he’s lying and say’s he’s not. He’s never even had a real penis near his face. -Works Taco Bell part time -Doesn’t have any desire to go to college, intends to stay in town.

#application #Craig tucker

[sophieharkersdiary]

April 15th continued

Part two: Entry Sixteen

April 15th continued

My little secret kept for now I was now burdened only with the discomfort of my breasts which plagued me. I did what I could in attempting to keep it from marking my countenance while it being simultaneously at the forefront of my mind. I fear I botched this badly too, for I had never been quite good at that capability to ‘deceive’ as he put it. That was a trait of his character.

I expected some comment to the matter, but it was that we descended quietly to the dining room where a suckling pig was presented as my meal gleaming and juicy with an apple stuck through its mouth so that I was distracted by what I anticipated to be a worthy and pleasant distraction from those two hot stones of pain which continually kept my breath shallow.

He allowed me to set to myself without much disturbance, a piece of reading material being his specific mode of preoccupation beyond serving me my wine. Always red and always slightly different in age and effect; this one had the strong notes of oak and apple, with spiced notes I could not place and was quite well paired with the meal.

This was a pleasant formality allowing for my ‘human needs’ to be met, though I wondered as I enjoyed the fat suckling how soon it was to be that I was the one with the apple in my mouth. I took note now too of a crate within the room which heightened my particular wondering of this. Noting the shreds of packing materials peaking from the cracked open lid.

“It’s quite good.” I remarked politely my movements slower and more considerate but my eyes lingered upon the crate, admittedly uneasy.

“Don't worry its not for you,” He remarked strangely without looking up from his papers but seemed to know the object of my interest as if he read my mind. A chilling thought. “I received that recently, but I had not thought to unpack it considering It will soon have to be repacked . Then it occurred to me it may bring some interest this evening.” He closed his book, to which I had not caught the title of, and rose in that easy way he did, apparently intending to satisfy my curiosity.

From the crate he produced a smaller box, though still quite large and within that.

A gramophone.

“I had a feeling you would appreciate it, and was hoping you would consider joining me in a dance.”

“Oh.” The sound fell out, unconvinced.

“I will need some practice.” He continued and offered his hand. I was still very uncomfortable but it was impossible I felt, to appropriately refuse him so I took his hand as it was offered and tried to keep the wince from my face as he pulled me into position of a waltz which I am quite sure I was to find he needed very little aid in. 

“There is a Polka version I think, if you prefer.” He teased in a half whisper leaning to my ear, and I wrinkled my nose, and shook my head altogether a little too seriously. Knowing that kind of dance by which the movements were quite fast and almost leaping I cringed.

“Something, gentler perhaps?” I requested placed my hand in his in a manner familiar to me. One within his hand, the other at his shoulder while he took my waist.

“I can’t say you strike me as someone who requires gentle handling Miss. Harker.” I pressed my lips, restraining a smile in order to glower which hardly passed.

“And what pray tell gave you such an impression?” There was something wicked in his eyes at this and I narrowed my own.

“Its a compliment.” He assured me without giving answer to that secret innuendo.

“Even if that was the case,” For which I would not admit. “I care for the consideration as much as any woman.” He briefly turned away to begin the music and resumed his place, pulling me into step before it even began. Then it did, crackling slightly as if it was working out the wrinkles of the sheet music in that funny way.

The music was strange in the air, hovering displaced between the heat of the fire and the cooler interior were which stretched up to the vaulted ceilings, the music seeming to hover like a find mist and echo back strangely from the high arches.

“Is there something repressing that constitution I find so favorable?” Ah, and here the snake finally revealed itself about my ankles, having been only invited there by myself. I looked down at my feet as if I might see it there and shake him of, but it was an ample excuse not to answer, if only he would have permitted it. “Looking down is terrible form.” He chastised.

“And yet you claim to need practice!” I muttered, flustered and still trying to bite back my discomfort. It was strange to be touched by him in so rigid of form in such a way that it was almost proper, yet somehow this only made it a stranger and subversive encounter. For I was too aware now of that line and how quickly it might be crossed. His hand cooled my feverish one, my long fingers clasped dispassionately.

“A small deceit.” He said, “In order to secure you.” The hand at my waist a gentle pressure.

“Ah.” We were spinning as one does for these dances and the pain was ever present. Keeping myself so Rigid, I was keeping up but was tiring quickly and I kept my focus upon his chest, attempting to block out the whirling of the room and the increasing throbbing.

I might make it to the end I thought. But we spun.. And spun.

It was then a sudden shock to feel warm wetness creeping at my front. Spreading with a peculiar swiftness upon my chest.

My step hitched and I looked up, sensing that something perhaps had dropped down upon me, perhaps water from those high ghostly arches above me…

But there was only the Count, my dancing partner who seemed to catch my genuine bewilderment and was only matched by his own. His dark brows drawing together as his gaze traced down and we swayed to a stop, his nostrils flaring delicately.

The warmth spread, and my gaze followed his, my having leaving his to bring to the spot attempting to understand.

Beneath the blouse, the wetness surged up, and those two swollen stones throbbed still. A terror of mind made me fear suddenly that I was somehow bleeding. Gushing blood . My hand flew to my breast, my eyes down in shock expecting crimson, but though there was dampness, it came away like water, something soaking through from beneath. At first there was just confusion and then as my breast throbbed, horrific understanding.

“Oh god.” Humiliation was swift and crushing, like a vice about my throat I snapped about myself crossing my arms about myself and turning away. I thought of nothing but escape then, nothing but retreat.

I tried to leave but he stopped me, securing me by the sides of my arms..

“Please don’t!” I shouted, my voice a ringing clashing cymbal to the now garish music, joined then by his wondering kind of laughter, like a shock of ice as he withheld me from my escape

“No! Don’t run away,” There was the edge of excitement, feverish to his murmur, and secured by his grip I could not hope to.

Hot tears of shame burned my eyes as even more heat gushed from beneath my dress.

Was this not Justine's same betrayal? For all she strove for goodness and virtue, she was defamed and brought low by violation at each turn. Despite the pain I pulled my arms tighter about myself.

His hand remained on my arms but he circled to face me, I felt it by the trace of his hand and the sound of his voice despite my tightly shut eyes.

“Don’t cover yourself.” He exalted again, not forcing my arms apart but ever so gently from where he now touched my forearms applied a coaxing pressure delivered by his velvety voice.

"Please, this is awful." I begged, I felt as if I might go mad, that I could not bear this humiliation as I had born the others.

"No, its beautiful- Let me see you, in your weeping virtue.”

My shame echoed hollowly with the music, which soon stopped and unable to seek escape I turned my head away. Allowing him to pull my arms free and spread them so that he might see the ‘weep’ of them swelling beneath the fabric of my blouse, hot tears soon joining the stains.

For you see I had come into milk.

Was this gods punishment? That, my breasts wept now with nourishment for a child who starved two days ago!

His gaze disseminated me to my basest parts piercing the veil of my humiliation and drinking me in gluttonously. I tried to swallow a weak sob which quaked up and burned at my throat, where it finally burst into a contraction and I swallowed around it. Despising him but also myself all the more.

Finally he released my arms and I dared look at him to see that very look I’d known to expect: smug and sensuously hungry. He leaned in, hands leaving my arms and skimming to my hips.

“If you desire a nurse mate, I will all too gladly attend to your discomfort.”

“Bastard.” I hissed and struck him one blow to the chest. Loathing him. “Whatever you did to me likely produced this!” I accused madly, for I didn’t even really believe it, I wished it was to be true. But he denied me this too, laughing.

“Not an effect by me I’m afraid. Though I have never seen such a reaction, you are intact, are you not Sophie?” Mortified I shot him a horrified expression of indignation. “Yes, I thought so.” He surmised.

"Gods punishment most likely." He snorted in disdain and disapproval of this notion.

"No likely the little runt stimulated a very natural biological response, though I've never witnessed something quite so provocative. Is there pain?” I was oddly soothed by this clinical explanation, for it made much more sense and, affording me firmer ground which to walk I regained my sanity a little by that alone.

“They feel like stones.” I admitted and sniffed pitifully, wiping my tears away and again removing my eyes from him.

I was lifted suddenly, becoming weightless, and I gasped startled and flinching to grab something secure which was of course my host who had swung me up into his arms to carry me as a bride.

“What are you doing?” I squeaked, perturbed more by instinct than anything else for I could do nothing either way.

“Don’t fuss.” He instructed and though I was not soothed, I was subdued.

I found myself carried to that all too familiar sitting room where he placed me upon the Canape. Uneasy by his silence and his fixed look upon his eye as I settled back from his grasp. He neither stood nor sat. and Instead lingered before me half hovering where he sat me, with eyes drawing me in as they had before to that welcoming vacuum, that alluring look which offered both sanctuary and pleasure. His hand came to cup my cheek which only was a little tender now, and stroked my lip with his thumb.

“Let me taste you Sophie.” He asked and followed with the sensual press of his mouth against mine. I struggled against the eagerness of my body's response for which his mouth called, the intensity in my breasts, the ache throbbing almost now to pained arousal as his mouth consumed mine, tongue seeking the heat, imploring for more than this taste. His hand skimmed that tightness of my bodice and I flinched withdrawing.

“N-no.” I said despite that lurid desire coiling in me, despite the respite offered in his eyes which darkened in frustration.

Here then was his nature, for denied by my words yet helpless bodily to stop him. He reached behind me, his hand moving up my back. With the jerk of movement he tore the fabric of my shirt, and dug to the corset below. Beneath his hand it seemed to fly apart, splitting at the laces as if cut by a dagger.  

There was an aching release of pressure but a redoubling of panic.

“I thought what I desired mattered to you!” I shouted, attempting to clutch the fabric which I knew would soon be torn by force.

“Consider it taken under advisement.” He answered in a voice thick with anticipatory desire. “Turn around the necklace.” He instructed then. I hesitated, taking a shuddering breath and a few more tears leaking out before obeying.

Feeling for the object and as one might turn a mirror away from one's sight I turned God's sight away from me, allowing the cross to hang heavily from my back and not between my breasts as was I fear to become familiar to me.

“Good girl.” He pulled apart my garments like tissue paper and threw them into the fire which brightened. Consuming the fabric hungrily as he hungrily drank in the aching engorgement of my breasts, fluid no longer flowing but sticky and uncomfortable, the apples hard and flat, stretched by this invasive swelling. It all happened so quickly I had not yet begun to cry had I might given a moment to move beyond numb shock.

“You know I’ve never tried this before.” He descended fully, coming to kneel between my legs, which to get nearer he pushed up my skirts and jerked my hips, pulling me at an angle so I might be closer. Much as he did days before in the bedroom. He took my right breast into his mouth, cupping the breast as he did.

There was pain, but my body responded eagerly to this latching, coaxing suck and what there was of discomfort was layered by this strange sort of sense of soothed completion despite myself.

After an eager draw as I began to feel the flow and felt the contraction of his swallow.

He stilled and withdrew with half lidded contemplation as one might roll a tester of wine upon their pallet.

“That's quite pleasant actually. Not like blood but there is something palatable, some life essence and a certain flavor that's distinctly yours .” I returned his gaze, hateful and betrayed and his hand moved to my thigh. A cool invader working up my skirt to my thigh making me squirm with a fresh burst of distress.

“I can smell your arousal Sophie, can we not… Enjoy each other?” He asked, with that milk dew upon his lips and those heavy eyes. Instead of just tears I was angered immensely by this, by him. For all the world I didn't hate anything more profoundly than I despised him.

“My body may not be mine to control but that does not mean I will welcome this… perversion .” In response his eyes still locked upon my face as his  tongue gleaming and pink extending to lewdly circled the pink swell and hard nipple eliciting a gasp as the sensation, sang. His chuckle puffed air upon the sensitive flesh.

“Then I suppose you will have to enjoy it unwillingly , but we both know you’ll enjoy it all the same.” He said, bowing now to suckle. Helpless I was lost to the torrent of feeling, loathing but unable to deny the truth in his words, my belly was tight with the aching pleasing cramp and I fought the urge to squirm. My hands first balled into fists by my side soon clenched around his head as he drew a long suck, his hand working the breast as one might work the udder of a cows teat to coax the milk into his hungry mouth.

My thighs squeezed tight, attempting to close, but only succeeding in clamping at his sides where he was nestled. My body and my breaths shortened as his hand stroked down the lengths of my thigh as one strokes a beloved pet. Drawing as he did so, the stocking and slipping higher, within the inner part of my thigh beginning again to work upwards. I could not help the buckle of my body, like the quake of a racking sob, only tied to that terribly pleasing and maddening ache seemingly tied to the suckling draws and the way his fingers circled my flesh working up… Up.

I felt a heat and dampness growing at the crux in which he diligently worked towards, fabric barred his ascent and I shuddered to feel them torn away from my body like the tissue of my blouse.

It was the slow agony of Moonlight Sonata played against my flesh with all its lurid beauty, agony, despair, and dark anticipation.

His hand had worked to the apex of my thighs and as he touched me ‘there’… It is almost impossible to describe, there was bodily delight at this new pressure that was all at once maddening as it was ecstasy. His hand working almost, rolling to stimulate in such away that my body clenched to the point of pain and clutching his head I squeezed him all the tighter as this rollicking madness and desire becoming consummate need building.

Was I Justine then or Juliet? The virtuous punished for it? Or the sinner meeting her delight?

I made a shamelessly profane noise, but I was not to wake from this dream as I had in the library so long ago where he had pinned me. For this was not that luring devouring of my mind, only my body. And here I was present mentally without the shroud of confusion his eyes had once spelled for me.

In a strange way, I now consider, that hypnotism , if that's what it might be, had offered some kind of respite. And had been perhaps on his part almost a kindness. A removal of my inhibitions which stood in the path of his desire. Lacking that he now tore through them and here was just myself, Justine and Juliette, the virgin and the coaxed whore who bucked under the adept motions of the monster who could employ his skills of seduction so artfully and I was left without the psychological comfort of submission. Here it was body and mind clashing, and the body was winning.

A queer sublimation was building within my body, which bucked like that of a rebellious unbroken filly. Squirming under the calm steady hands of an experienced trainer. I did not know what peak I was striving for only that I was becoming more desperately near it at that moment, my hands clasped his head my fingers, knotting into the thick black hair clutching at the root as I drove arched my body, but into his mouth and hands.

The sudden departure from his mouth from my breast was an unbearable cruelty.

“No.” I whimpered despite myself and he laughed again at me, his hand still working as his eyes delighted in consuming the heat of my pleasure heady with his own goading satisfaction for a moment before taking my other breast and bringing himself again to feed from the second as he had the first. “Oh please, oh please.” He sucked hard, and his hand merely rolled again, but my hips gyrated, my thighs squeezing about his body, everything as tight and aligned, my back arched like a bowstring as the final strum, the final note plucked sent me finally cascading into over that edge.

A profound ecstasy overwhelmed me.

It was like… an Immutable silence of spirit... A rapture so complete that it became an absolute amnesia of self and in place of the void of feeling, was an absence of pain so perfect. So Complete, that it was the closest one might imagine being bathed in the love of god himself.

An ecstasy of bodily absolution, I was held in suspension from time as this power moved through me, rollicking and throbbing like the most exquisite chorus, my body a divine instrument which the notes passed.

It was peace that tasted of eternity but disappeared like a dream disappears from one's mind upon waking.

Though resonating through me it grew ever duller as the noise of something travelling quickly passes, and I helpless and shuddering was left throbbing by its remission and returned back to my bodily senses.

I was still wrapped about him. His head still bowed suckling, though his hand finally ceased its coaxing motion and withdrew to my outer thigh and behind my hip as if to keep me locked to him. My body hummed with the dulcet ineffable depth of languorous satisfaction and contentment, distress of my mind was a distant call, gaining speed, but not yet arrived.

Strange then I found I was crying. Not any agitation of the mind then I think, more like the expression of milk at my breast, and the lurid slick feeling between my thighs. Merely another expression of excess, another relief.

Tears like April rain, easy and sweet, releasing down my cheeks.

His mouth came away and I was pulled seamlessly down from the canape and into his lap. Straddling his legs and brought into an embrace, his hands moving up the naked exposed flesh of my back to my shoulders as he kissed my neck. Was this the moment? And if it was, did I mind or welcome it? Where had my spine gone? My certainty, my resolve? It was melted, dissolved and in its place was boneless and a queer tenderness as I continued to weep those gentle tears like a child might cry softly. He parted to look at me, his hair distempered and askew and his mouth flush and dewy with those dark intoxicating eyes still heady with hunger and which now fixated upon this new nourishment, the tears. Can there be a more erotic visage of a man than this? I was a chalice to his thirst and nothing could have been more seductive, or confusing to me in that moment for how it lured me sweetly to the point of feeling strange affection.

He himself seemed absorbed in some tenderness, but perhaps I was merely confusing this as such, in the heated glow of that tide which I was now washed ashore of. He cupped my cheek to bring me to him, to his mouth which captured gently these little drops with his lips and tongue as he'd done upon the turret lewdly, he now supped tenderly.

He felt like a man, almost warm and brought to breathlessness from passion. This too brought another small ache and fresh sweet sorrow to find their escape from beneath my lashes. He traced his way back to kiss the prancing surge at the hollow of my neck. I was suddenly sleepy, and my mind erred, as boneless as my body.

“When you kill me, will you grow younger than you are even now?” I do not know from where this question arose, or if even it might cause him anger for the distraction. He was still enjoying my body with his lips and for a long moment I thought perhaps he meant to ignore me and considered that to be as well when finally his words hummed against my skin.

“You know no one ever asked me that?” He said, not angry or displeased but almost thoughtful and with the slow sentimentality as I might imagine two speaking docile after lovemaking. “But no, I seem to be fixed to the point in which I died.”

“That is to say you were a man once?” I was earnestly interested to discover this, though perhaps it was silly to admit it I'd had either avoided the concept completely until then.

"What did you think I was?" He asked an I felt rather silly but rallied.

"Mephistopheles? Evil in the flesh." I suggested and this pleased him and the rumbling laugh was shared through our bodies.

"Mephistopheles was nothing but a fickle spirit." He said and continued. "No, not quite. I was living and breathing once. Even I suppose, eating in just such a way from another woman a very very long time ago… In many ways some things haven’t changed.” And he cupped my breast which though still tender were not nearly so heavy or dense but in fact relieved. “I still do enjoy playing with my food.”

A lance of pain, though my tears had now subsided. A reminder of the coldness which held me, the coldness of stone too and this echoing hollow place where I was the last thing alive.

“Do you know the most unbearable thing about you?” I was returning to my torment now, my confusion. Conflicted between despising him and adoring the languid feeling as he held me... Of feeling his fingers stroke my back and the glossiness of his hair which begged fingers to neaten.

“Tell me.”

My first deep and easy breath was somewhat shuddering.

“You're charming.”

“I see.” He kissed now above my right breast.

“It's only that when one expects to be murdered, villainy is expected but it's quite another cruelty to be charming about it.”

“Shall I bring home more babies?” I felt my mouth tugging down at the corners and the first urge to leave overtook me, he must have felt the tension of the thought in my body or read my mind because his grip flexed about me as if to let me know he had no intention of allowing me to escape.

“That is exactly the sort of thing I need to be reminded of. What does that make a person when they can be charmed by someone despicable enough to eat children?” That was my own question my own torment, laid bare. That I could be brought to desire... to be comforted or charmed by such evil. What did that make me?

“I don’t eat them.” He denied tartly, only puzzling me but sighed, continuing without explaining. ”And you mustn't blame yourself, you know. I’ve had a long time in which to practice, this particular art.” There was that wicked smile which still managed to coax a tug in the deepest part of my belly. “-Though admittedly this was an exceptionally excellent first-”

“ You don’t-?”  It was with queer revelation that it struck me right then that my fathers ghost was not so ghostly, and the small puzzle pieces which Marianne had left clicked into place along with that marked sensation I had felt earlier that I had not been alone here after all. Help us .

"Your not the only pet I keep Sophie." He said against my flesh and my skin crawled faintly. A pet he fed babies. I did not press because I feared he'd gain some scent of where my mind went and instead I thought of another question.

“How long, have you been alive or… Dead is it?” I asked, returning his look only a little taller than him as I sat upon his lap.

“Undead.” He corrected then continued with a thoughtful knit. “The years were more difficult to mark then but I must have died in… 1476, or 1477. It was winter, I remember that.”

I had not really been expecting this, my mind gaped at the sudden depth of that admittance.

“But that's… nearly four hundred years .”

“Give or take twenty or so.”

The mood changed from the sluggish intimacy to something less unified. My mind returned with it the feeling of shame and dirtiness now at my bodies lingering feelings of enjoyment.

“Will you take me to bed?” I asked, hoping I would not be forced to walk the cool halls in such a terrible state of disarray. It occurred to me distantly I now lacked basic undergarments thanks to the violence of his desire.

“Yes.” He said and I was lifted by his easy fluid unnatural strength, my legs around him almost able to hook at the back. It was intimate, this closeness in a way which the bridal style of carrying lacked.

I remembered my father carrying me in such a way to bed and I wondered queerly if he too remembered this as he carried me, and a small knot of anguish formed in my throat like swallowing around a stone and I tucked my head to the darkness offered by the curved of his neck feeling only rise and fall his stride.

I did not notice my room had been reached until I was being lowered and my eyes opened to receive the soft glow of lamp and the cool of a room unlit by fire. I unlaced myself and sought refuge shivering beneath the sheets. My necklace tugged reminding me of its position hanging opposite and I fingered the chain as Dracula began starting a fire in which would keep my room warm from the night. My window, I noted now was closed although I could not remember fastening it, It did not seem to matter though Dracula rose to draw the curtains closed.

“There will be crates soon delivered as I begin preparation to move. The gypsies will be attending them.” He told me and I was uncertain why. Was he concerned I would speak to them? He seemed to notice my soiled night dress as he moved returned to where I lay. “I can have some items brought for you to wear.” He commented picking up the ruined garment.

“There are times when I think simple brutality would be more endurable than this.” I told him.

“Well I suppose I might enjoy seeing you left mostly undressed.” He said and I could not help but study his face as if searching for that mark of that dizzy age I'd first seen. Remembering now the feral creature I first laid eyes on. Apparently I’d trailed off into thought  because he was giving me a strange look and I realized I hadn’t answered.

“Why are you doing this?” But then I knew that didn’t I? I sighed then and wiped my tired eyes “Never mind, I know that.”

“Then why do you keep asking?” He asked sounding only a little exasperated but not seriously so as he came to perch upon the side of the bed as my father once used to before reading me a story or tucking me in.

“I think because I keep hoping for a more endurable answer, the waiting is… It's own dread.”

“First not enough time, and now too much?” He chuckled and the bed depressed with his weight as he made himself comfortable by my side. My listlessness would not abate. Too much was occurring and all of it left me so much more confused. The terror and violence brought against my body clashed with that very sames bodies anticipation for more. My mind felt frayed and I think I was just desperate for something solid, for worse or for better. Some certainty in this mire.

“Are you… Waiting for something which pleases or displeases you?”

“Is it conceivable that I am merely enjoying your company until it is no longer practical?” He offered and this was an answer in itself. I found despite this I was in fact not anymore comforted at all and looked away from him. At once terribly homesick as the room became all at once vividly foreign to me as if it was my first night there.

“Then it is to be defined by days…” Why was I so desperate for this limitation? Why must I stretch to feel the edges of my confinement when I might turn in turn in the endless dark oblivious until that last sweet moment of ignorance. “Will it be cruel or kind? slow or painful?”

“It might be kind, yet slow if done properly. It would be a crime to take you quickly.”

“If I was so precious it would be a crime to take me at all.” There it was all: my morbid self pity and vanity all at once.

I was not expecting his answer which came with a kind of bitterness of his own.

“No, out there you would be wasted, you’d shrivel, or rot or worse… Be forgotten by time, ruined before you’d ripened and discarded.”

“How easy it is for you to distill what would be for me an entire life to live between those moments, of love, monotony... Surprise!” I hated how easily he could demean what he was taking from me. But his eyes quickened with a passion I was not expecting and all almost tenderness.

“Yet there will be that end all the same. A waste.”

“Was it not you who said it was the end that was inevitable, only what is written between is of import? Yet you take my agency and mock me for trying to delude me I have any. A waste for who I might ask? Not for me,” There was that deep rooted bitterness softening his eyes as he looked upon me and I could not help but be… Stirred by that in some way despite myself. In those eyes there was a glimpse of a long dark road and the chill of some deep ache never to be soothed.

“I have been alive four hundred years , Sophie, and will be alive likely four hundred more. And you, after four hundred years have given me some very fine firsts… And once I take you I will carry you with me until the end, perhaps to the end of all things.” It struck me that his reverence was genuine, but it was the reverence spoken softly as one speaks of someone already dead, and this thought stirred to bloom the seeds which had been laid within me to fruit.

“Is everything already dead to you? Simply because of its inevitability to end and the seeming inevitability for you to continue?”

“Yes.” he said with the slowness of one never having it elucidated as such but finding the truth in it and he shifted closer to me upon the bed. I could see by his mouth he meant to kiss me, and I accepted this kiss. So much for my reluctance. So much for any goodness. It was such a good feeling though. Were all kisses like his? His were each different as if with each he bore a separate intention in mind and with it his mood.

This was a tender thing, his gentle before parting from mine to move lower to my jaw and lower still. Ever with reverence and I sensed the shift of his intentions and in my body sounded a mixed thrill of alarm as if some part of me sensed his dark hunger and responded to it the way an animals instincts might. Dread, mingled with curiosity, my breasts tingling strangely as if for some anticipation remembered but forgotten.

I felt the pulse of my flesh meet his lips which parted and felt the gentle press of teeth upon the rind of my flesh.

There was a savage puncture which made me gasp, like ice down lancing into my heart, searing through my neck and deep into my shoulder. I whimpered but the feeling soon changed, a pleasant wave of almost numbness, but nearing a euphoric pleasure spreading liquid up my body. Oh, it was a kind of sweetness. He could not have lingered for more than a moment and my mind was heavy with a sweet kind of mist that threatened to over come my vision. Even the sight of his savage face did not frighten me as I looked upon it. Teeth, and blood marked eyes, my blood blooming like the mark of strawberries upon his lips which he again graced to kiss mine sharing, as it were in my 'flavor' with a languid tongue.

‘Sleep.’

It was not spoken, I was sure of it for his tongue was pleasantly engaged. I obeyed that issuance however it came readily. Departing at the last by the feeling of that tongue and the metallic warmth of my own blood.

It is by the next day that I made this account.

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#bbc dracula #bram stocker's dracula #claes bang #fanfic #horror fanfiction

[unseenlife]

The Worm

He is not the Worm. In the park he tries with pen and paper to express it. That morning the pen felt good enough in his hand but now is cumbersome and alien. He only makes circles and circles overlapping circles. Men weren't meant to speak or write, he thinks in wordless musings. The pen flies, spewing ink from its fountain tip. He drops the yellow notepad, which began as notes on an important client and devolved over the week into lines and shapes and circles. A dog barks viciously at his heels and he flees the bench and the predator chases until something yanks it back hard. The dogs harass him wherever he goes because they know.

His legs split and something tears. He gallops into the trees and throws his weight into a ruin, a Worm cave as far as he can tell. His groin hurts and his legs feel wet but he doesn't know what to do about it. It's quiet and cold and lonely but not more lonely than anywhere else. His tatters fall to more pieces and feel better on his skin for their destruction. His head swings back and forth like a pendulum, a comforting gesture. With no one to see, he gives up the tiring effort of walking on two legs and crawls on hands and feet and draws circles in the dirt with a finger.

Besides hunger and sleep, only the circles drive him. The Worm cannot arouse him. There is no attraction to it, primal or instinctive. The more circles he makes the more he knows them and all his will beds to their creation. When Man climbed down from the trees he did so for this purpose. Perhaps the Worm was already waiting in the mud and lured him down. Or all man's development served this act, beyond utility or art. He didn't know. He couldn't even wonder as a Worm could. But why should it?

When it overcame Man, the Worm forgot itself and didn't consider it was not its host. It burrowed deep in the brain and into a blindspot of its own science. The Worm couldn't discover itself, couldn't see itself if it stumbled on the truth by chance. It was Man. But this man drawing circles wasn't the Worm.

By a fluke, the Worm in his brain was dead. The world became grey and blurred. Birdsong stretched into a dull monotone. His body, evolved to something else's needs, troubled him to even move. All this articulation, the stimulation, the energy which didn't concern the circles. Buried in his head fat he remembered about the circles. The purpose of a long dead race. He shook his head back and forth, as if it meant something to someone. He twisted two fingers together into one prod and that way they stayed. He quit trying at those parts of him meant for the Worm. His eyes narrowed to his work and were almost blind after a while. People passing him cringed, looked away and ignored him. He was a worm-man because he lived on his belly in the soil and because he left winding little tracks wherever he went.

[unironicduncanstan]

🤡 real talk... i dont consider myself to ship dundie but with every passing day im realizing how much of the hate and mockery over the years has boiled down to just rly blatant fatphobia and how Weird it is that every other character, no matter how much of a joke they are written as, no matter how hard their canon is to tolerate, Eventually gets a decent amount of serious stans, EXCEPT the fat ones. they get some, especially now but. to most other ppl theyve all been designated fandom punching bags. owen Won season 1 and its taken what feels like Forever to shine a real unironic spotlight on him or nowen as a real concept. idk lads im not saying its evil to not vibe with these characters honestly freshtv doesnt write them with a lot of respect in the first place which makes it harder im just saying some of the jokes and memes are a little meanspirited and im personally retiring this as a crackship cuz it seems like a lot of ppl are trying to branch out lately and care abt the underrepresented characters and i think itd be rly fun and charming actually to just respect the fat confident girl and not act like it is so ridiculously funny to imagine someone fat and annoying tee em could EVER get the cool punk boyfriend bc itd be a weird contrast or w/e. like hey guess what chris mclean impregnated a mutant plant! dundie is honestly a bit more realistic in comparison,

#total drama #its a hot take i plan to be assassinated for but at least i got to look at horse gwen #ON E LAST TIME #oh also no offense but. duncney. if u think contrast is weird why is it that duncney #the most popular td ship of all time #is it perhaps.. the fat part that is cringe #and like would it be as weird if it was katie???????????? cuz . they are the same. character. in different body types. #but again i feel like a big part of this has to do with just #how freshtv treats its fat characters like a joke! the writing is very different for them but its still yknow #sad that like everybody else gets rewrites and lore and hcs and ships and fat chars up until the past couple yrs have been meme material #but theres definitley been some Equalitea lately like everyone is meme and serious material thats what i lov to see #but that means the ~niche~ ships are being brought up again and no offense but if i see u cringe!!! ⚔ #like no pls let us be entering a time of peace #im sorry but like unironically... dundie ri ghts.. .. .. #its time ok its finally time #original

[yanderenightmare]

dude I would kill for more DADDY DEKU, the last one gave me liffff, maybe like... "embarrassed to ask".... some anal?? plez and thank you Mizz Nightmare <3 I love all your work!

yandere dom ! MIDORIYA IZUKU

TIP-JAR

goodiebag WARNINGS: condescension, degradation, coercion, profanity, abuse, DUBCON/NONCON, yandere, manipulation, suggestive language, slight infantilization

BUNNYHOLE

She’d started to lose track of how much time passed during their session, forgotten what she’d done to get in the position she was in, forgotten what it was Deku felt the need to remind her of. Too much blood rushing to her head in her position of kneeling over his chest, her ass arched up and her face pushed down, cheek resting on his pelvis, running her tongue up and down the length of his cock nuzzling in her small palm, lips locked and sucking on the pulsating veins bulging from his erection. Or perhaps it was her way of forgetting where she was, her way of escaping, becoming numb to spare herself the humiliation, the frustration, the hopelessness and desperation of being subjugated, of being taken against her will, where becoming mindless was her only option when being in the hands of the madman.

Deku’s larger than life hands held onto her hips, held her in place, stroking the dome of her ass affectionately yet wantonly every now and again as his mouth swallowed down on the juices starting to spill drizzly down her thighs. Fat fingers, lined with muscle, coming to delve ghostly over her folds, with his tongue prodding at her entrance. She’d managed to block most of his praising and coos out of mind, focusing on coming, yet now… having lost count of how many times she’d done so on his experience dedicated tongue, with her oversensitivity blaring and buzzing in her lower abdomen, gnarling and crying for it to stop, it was getting harder by the minute to forget where she was and who she was with when he was still so very intent on lapping at her sensitive heat with his thick tongue again and again and again.

And he knew it.

“Such a good Bunny.” He cooed, slurping at her opening, the stiff pinching scratching of the beard on his chin an extra factor of teasing friction on the lips of her pussy, the action sending vibrations to simmer through her and a moan to spur from where she was nuzzling on the hill of his hairy thigh, her mouth guzzling down on one of his balls, letting go with a wet pop to allow the noise to leave her throat unstrained. “Getting so wet for her Daddy.” 

His sloppy tongue continuously licked up the ravine presented to him, making its way farther up than usual, playing with the other unused, and preferably so, tight hole.

She made a jump, hopping further down on his lap, face buried in his ball-sack, yet was quickly pulled back by the strong hands on her hips, cheek thoroughly smeared with a glistening mix of saliva and precum and tears.

As though understating yet not caring about her distress, his hands comforted by messaging circles on her ass-cheeks, perhaps in an effort to keep her at bay as well. “Just play with Daddy’s cock while he plays with your cute little butt, okay Bunny?” She’d gotten so very used to instructions, so used to bending her own will. 

His tongue found its way back to prodding at the tight hole, pummeling his fatness inside, seemingly trying to pry her open. “But, Daddy-” She tried, still in an effort to scramble away from his ongoing attack.

He would not have her disobedience, that time had passed long ago. His fingers starting to carve their presence into her midriff, stifling her attempt of escape. “Play with Daddy’s cock, just like I taught you.” He was firm in his demand this time, yet the same whine of condescension, of whiny patronizing correction, was still so disgustingly present in his tone. The voice that made her want to rip her hair out and strangle him with it. 

Yet, she obeyed. Mouth proceeding to slobber over his massive cock, suckling on every inch of his girth, licking paths over every enhanced vein, making him groan and buck his hips into her face, letting her head disappear between his strong thighs, massive thighs that could snap her neck if she made the wrong move. 

“Good little Bunny.” He drawled before he too continued. 

Mewls and adorable small whines escaping her focus on pleasing his cock, as his tongue crammed into the tight space of her butthole. More tears gathered at her eye-sockets, falling onto his cock, making her taste her own despair on her tongue gargling on his balls. 

“Bunny’s so hungry… sucking on Daddy’s balls like candy-apples.” She felt like gagging, not out of reflex, but out of disgust and wholehearted cringe for his words, but wasn’t given much space to feel anything but anxiety for too long, what with his thumbs making to spread her ass-cheeks further apart. He was happy to see she stayed in place, yet not surprised as the marks on her hips were already blooming with defined raw redness, evidence of just how intolerable hesitation and especially disobeying hesitation was in his cruel eyes. “Good girl.” He praised, hammering the thickness of his tongue inside her tight ass, now with the new easy access.

One hand shifted from its position of spreading her ass, pointer running over the budding hole curiously. 

She felt her guts churn at the act, fear riding her body full with goosebumps. “Daddy?” She squeaked uncertainly, sucking in a breath, relenting from her sloppy activity between his legs, fingers curling into the bedsheets in a manner of bracing herself.

“You’ve such a pretty little butt.” He stated, where the amount of adoration was terrifyingly present in his calm and collected voice. 

His finger quit its tormenting haunting and she sighed a relieved sigh, wet slicked face falling back onto his glistening manhood, tongue making to lick up his girth yet again. 

“Does Bunny want one of Daddy’s fingers inside?” Her fear rushed back, causing her to go all light-headed while his tongue lapped at the bud again, wriggling over the ring of muscle, drawing circles on it, ignoring her growing anxiousness fully. “Hmm, I bet Bunny would love Daddy’s finger inside her little butt.” She’d gotten used to his suggestive language, knowing what was best for her, but still she couldn’t help but way her options, even though deep down knowing how if Deku wanted something from her pliable little body, he was sure to get it no matter the struggle and fight she put up. “Filling her up-” His musings were cut off, the little girl on top of him fighting ever so slightly to move further away from his antagonizing mouth, pleading with her face shoved into his cock.

“No, Daddy please, I don’t-” He didn’t like that, holding her back with his harsh grip, keeping her ass well arched and presented for him to ravage.

“To me it sounds like Bunny is begging to be punished.” He warned, still playing his games, still with his disgusting tone masking the true sentiment of his words. “Do you want Daddy to punish you, Bunny?” One hand stroked over the plump flesh of her ass, threatening to strike the unprotected skin again and again until she complied with his wishes. She knew from experience she didn't  handle the pain well, always folding.

She backed down, better now than later with blooming bruises and a discomfort to sit for a week. “No, Daddy please, I’m sorry, I’ll behave.” She scurried back, scared into position, promptly sloshing over his cock with newfound devotion, moaning happily with his precum smeared on her face, anything to spare her from what cold hell he would show her if she didn’t.

He smiled, kissing the doughy flesh of her ass-cheek, welcoming her back. “Well then… tell Daddy how much you’d love his finger in your butt.” Hand returning. “Come on, don’t be shy.” Stroking over the bud of firm flesh, letting her feel the size of his fat finger, begging her to disobey him, begging her to cry and plead or to sob and force herself to obey his commands.

She chose the latter, knowing what other harsh torture awaited her was she not to comply like a good little girl. “Please, Daddy, please finger my ass.” He hummed contently in response, poking the hole ever so slightly, his fingertip sliding in the wetness of his drool. “I want your finger in my ass so badly, Daddy.” She whined, just like she knew he liked, wiggling her ass at him impatiently like the entitled brat he wanted her to be only for him to correct and humiliate.

“Bunny wants a finger up her little butt?” He spoke hurriedly in the spiked frenzied rush of her words, having them slur in drool as he kissed the hole sloppily, lightly biting the flesh of her one ass-cheek, again to scare her into playing the game.

“Yes please, Daddy.” She suckled on his girth desperately, letting false moans pass her lips as though she couldn’t get enough of his cock choking her throat. Playing the game, playing her part, surviving.

“This little butt right here?” He questioned, tongue flicking over the hole.

“Yes, Daddy please!” She started grinding her hips back into his mouth, knowing her enthusiasm is what his anticipation beckoned.

“Well, if you’re a good Bunny and play with Daddy’s cock then I’ll give this butt what it needs.” He needed her devotion, he needed her to understand just how under his thumb she was, he needed his ego satiated, his cruel sinister sadism fed.

“Thank you, Daddy…” She sobbed, fearing while knowing what he’d do if she were to disobey, resulting to dragging her tongue up and down his cock, hands working the base as she sucked, head bobbing up and down as she made cute little glugging sounds that had his stomach fluttering in utter bliss. “I love your cock, Daddy.” So sweet, just like he trained her.

He hummed at how precious she was, feeling somewhat proud of himself for having brought that out of her. “What do you love about it, Bunny?” His words pushed, but it wasn’t the only thing that was tormenting her. His tongue, burning and wet and forceful, dug into her backside, worming its way into her little hole as she tried her best, fighting with every nerve of her being, fear motivating her to stay perfectly still, though not managing to stifle the whimper.

Her breaths were shaky as she spoke to answer him before he grew impatient. “Daddy’s cock is so perfect and big, feels so good inside me.” He didn’t seem to care that she spoke with a cry in her voice.

His hand, having had rested on her ass as a warning, swung under, calloused textured rough fingers rubbed the bead of her clit, making her moan through her cries onto his cock. She was happy her position didn’t allow her to see his smirk. “I think Bunny thinks Daddy’s cock is scary, hmm?” His finger swirled, sandpaper-fingertip dragging over the sensitive swollen pearl again and again with little regard to how her stomach was curling. “A little intimidating, perhaps?” She rested her head on his thigh, her own thighs shaking, though his other hand kept her steady as his mouth sucked on her tender ring of muscle. “But Daddy’s a hero, Daddy would never hurt you, Bunny. Daddy loves you. You understand that, don’t you?” He asked, knowing damn well her answer would be scattered with how ruthless he was being with his fingers in her clit, abusing what power they had to make her bow.

“I love-ve you too, Da- daddy…” She drooled and sobbed out on his lap, wanting so badly to wind her thighs shut, protect what was about to burst, eyes closing and fluttering as her one hand dug fingernails into where they held her steady in the thick stiff muscles of his thighs, her other hand holding his cock, trying her best to guide him into her mouth so she could do as he demanded and save herself being scolded for not listening even though he was the one making it almost impossible to do much of anything except lie there and take it.

He stuck one finger, on long thick finger, into her sopping wet folds, felt her writhe before she could control herself, another finger still held firmly on her clit, drawing careful patterns he knew would make her mewl. “Daddy knows exactly how to please his little girl… and Bunny knows exactly how to please her Daddy, doesn’t she?” He asked rhetorically, words still carrying even though they were muffled into her ass. “I taught you so well.” His finger pumped, curling, scraping, hooking up into her spongey walls, making her mew. “Do you think Daddy’s a good teacher?” She could feel the curl of his salacious smirk as his teeth grazed past the lips of her pussy, tongue flicking, zig-zagging through the wet tender folds.

“The b- best.” She strained, inching further back as he was dragging, hauling her with his finger clawing at her insides.

“Good girl…” He purred, licking up and up until he met with the bud that now seemed to pulsate, her fear so endearingly on display for him. “I think Bunny deserves her prize.” His voice lowered, and she sucked in a breath with caught in her throat as she felt his hand, scathed and scarred and strangely rough and angled with how many times he’d broken his fingers.

He gave her much time to prepare, finger swirling circles onto the hole before dipping the tip inside. She scrunched her eyes shut at the feel of the tight skin of her hole stretching, forced apart to accommodate for Deku’s fat finger. The tight ring feeling as though ripping at the intrusion, tearing as he drove the digit slowly inside, a digit that seemed foreverlasting, growing thicker the more it inched inside her, until he was finally knuckle-deep.

She sucked with fervor now, in a way to pacify herself, gobbling down on his cock gluttonously. “Does it feel good, Bunny?” He asked, voice like honey so sweet it was burning. “My finger in your cute little butt?” He whined and mocked as he wiggled the length inside her, churning her guts in the prosses, earning small cries of discomfort from her slobbering on his cock.

“Yes, Daddy.” It was barely audible as she whimpered it into his thigh.

“Speak up.” He ordered, stern and stoic voice, still with his finger pumped and prompted into her tight ass, with the other hand’s fingers rubbing circles and pinching her swollen clit between them.

“Yes, Daddy.” Her back sloped as she tipped her head up. “I’m sorry.” Her one hand steadying her, placed in support on his thigh as the other tugged on his cock, fingers not managing to enclose around his girth as she messaged his length in long tentative strokes. “Thank you, Daddy, you feel so good.” She wasn’t exactly lying, and it was clear by the slick dripping that coated her thighs.

“Are you proud to have Daddy’s finger in your ass?” He asked, making her scrunch her brows, strangling herself with how hard she was trying to keep from crying. “You should be.” She cursed her existence, wishing she could take back whatever it was that had his eyes locked on her in the first place, whatever had him kidnapping her only to torment and use her as some slave. “To have Daddy’s number one hero finger pleasing your little quirkless butt.” And there it was, the reminder of how crucially inferior she was, such a perfect quirkless toy to feed his superiority-complex. “Tell me how grateful you are, Bunny.”

This was her life. Subjugated to a mere ragdoll for someone who’d do whatever the fuck they wanted to her, a life of belonging to someone, a life of a pet. “I love you so much, Daddy…” He groaned at her words, yet his fingers dug even harder into her hips. “You take such good care of me.” She just needed to tell him what he wanted to hear. “I’m hopeless without you. Thank you, Daddy.” Seems she did a good job, because he was shifting beneath her, hands letting her go for a second only to pull her into the new desired position.

“Come here, turn around.” He ordered, still in his frenzy, turning her around on his lap, making her sit with his cock smearing drool and precum over her stomach, hot against her skin where it bobbed up between the two of them. His hand and fingers glossy with juices from her pussy, came to grab her chin, cupping her cheek to still her as he pushed his lips onto her face, kissing her with hunger, as though in a hurry, his finger finding her ass again, sinking knuckle-deep inside her once again while grabbing onto the soft doughy flesh of ass, making her yelp against his lips, before he parted once more, a string of spit connecting them. “Does Bunny want Daddy’s cock inside her ass?” He mushed her face between his rough finger-pads, her lips puckered like a fish at him, eyes glossy with tearful plead, her thighs beginning to quake against him as she sat uncomfortably with his finger spearing her in the wrong hole.

Her bottom lip quivered then, eyes wide and brimming. “No- please… Daddy.” She would at least try to sway his mind, bargain her way out of it.

His look hardened, cocking an eyebrow at her resistance. “Is Bunny disobeying Daddy?” His grip on her face was past painful now, bruising, nails marking their presence, close to breaching her skin.

“No, Daddy, please-” She started, scrambling for something to save her, trying to make his hold relent, but falling short of making any savory excuses, reduced to mere whimpering as she accepted a preferred compromise. “My pussy would feel so lonely without you filling me up…” His fingers detached, yet only barely, still holding her chin, still controlling, though looking fascinated by the turn of events, pleasured with his little pet openly submitting to him, all with that adorable sweet voice. “I want your big beautiful number one cock inside me, please, Daddy please, I want you in my pussy.” She pushed forward to brush her breasts against his chest, grinding up into him in the process, hands brazenly stroking his cock all on their own command, forehead pressed against his as she did her best to seem seductive, licking her lips and maintaining eye-contact even as his green orbs seemed crazed and fervent and so dangerously feral.

“Bunny wants to come on Daddy’s cock, doesn’t she?” His tone was weirdly condescending, like he was talking to a toddler about getting ice-cream, and though she despised it with every fiber of her being, feeling like the tone itself was gasoline to a roaring raging fire, she did her best to swallow the smoke, knowing it would get her nowhere.

“Yes, Daddy. Pretty please.” She begged, and he wrapped his one hand around the small of her back, pushing her against his chest, his other hand still not having left, with its main finger inside her butt, doing small curious pumps into the tight flesh.

He licked the shell of her ear, a small chuckle coming out as huffs as his hand moved once again away from her back, to line his cock up with her still slick with spit clit, rubbing his cockhead over the bead before sliding it down to push open her sopping hole. “Can Bunny take Daddy in her cute little pussy with his finger inside her pretty ass? Yeah?” Tapping his thickness into her tightness while watching her nod in agreement, only slightly disappointed she didn’t repeat what she said once more, especially when it sounded so delicious dripping from her defeated lips. “Good girl, sit down on Daddy's cock.”

She eased down like she’d done for the past couple weeks, always surprised by just how thick he is, how stingingly and fearfully painful it is, always thinking it couldn’t possibly be as bad as she made it out to be previously though always proven wrong, thinking she ought to have stretched out to accommodate his size to a comfortable fit, yet not having achieved the pleasure still with how many times he’d ripped her apart.

“Hop on that dick little Bunny.” He whispered as she eased herself all the way down, cock fully sleeved inside her, feeling as she was about to burst, so full, so blown, yet he hadn’t any mercy left to spare. She felt his finger wiggle where it penetrated her backside entrance, how his cock and it messaged the wall that separated her two holes, feeling a new type of dangerous, giving her another worry even as the anxiety for what pain treading herself over his cock was already overwhelming enough on its own. “Come on, little Bunny, hands on my shoulders and jump.”

She hadn’t the mind to hold back the whimper, letting her seductive mask slip as the pain mingled pleasure demanded her attention more, hands unsteady as they gripped his shoulder, fingers running over those deep healed scars on his skin she’d gotten so used to tracing. She folded her feet over his legs, given her better balance as she began sliding him in and out slowly, at a pace she could hope to handle and hope was fast enough to please him and his beastly member.

He hummed, free hand coming up to toy with her breasts, grabbing it with those labor-knuckled fingers. “Such a happy little girl bouncing on Daddy’s cock…” He licked over his toothy-grin, salacious green eyes glistening with drunk toxic love-sick madness as he felt her tight suction on his manhood, gliding up and down, in and out, full and hollow. “What do you say?” He decided to tease, decided to make the hurt worse.

A soft whine left her and he couldn’t describe the sick bliss that fluttered in his chest because of it. “Thank you, Daddy.” She forced out yet again, her voice all shaken and adorable.

And still he felt the wanton desire to push. “For what, Bunny? Be specific.”

She knew the drill, what he wanted to hear, but that didn’t make it any easier to force from her throat, even harder to relent from seething the words through grit teeth where she knew such aggression wouldn’t be tolerated, because nothing but her complete and full submission would be tolerated by Deku. “Thank you, Daddy, for giving me your big beautiful number one cock.” What was funny was that it was in a sense still true, despite her hating every word of it, despite her cursing the sentence, the praise, the gratitude. It did feel good, behind the pain, behind her disgust, it felt good. What more, Deku was the number one hero, not just the strongest man alive, but intelligent, knowledgeable and ruthless too, where it really would be unwise to not feel grateful for having been chosen by him, where people should be grateful he even chooses to be a hero at all, when he could just as easily be a villain, or a bloody tyrant. She should be grateful that she was given the honor of being his. Her body sure knows how to show its humility, doing its best to please him, showing him just how appreciated and welcome his touches are with how undeniably wet her pussy gets each time, clenching around his shaft as it drills deep into her, filling her out, completing her, pushing into that spongey spot deep within her, making her stomach flip, toes curl, clit buzz with pleasure, shamefully come all over him.

He made a moan of awe, patronizing in its nature. “Are you gonna come for me? All over Daddy’s cock.” She wanted to scream, throw herself off his lap, slap him, claw and bite and kick, but instead she was doing exactly what he said. “A happy little Bunny stuffed with Daddy's cock and his finger up her bum.” He whined, hand having glided down from holding her chin in favor of wrapping around her throat, nose touching nose, emerald steel-eyes keenly watching her every move, feeling her clench around him, making him hiss with pleasure like a snake.

“Yes, Daddy please.” She never liked snakes. Her new life was made of snakes. Snakes taking the form of ropes, tying her down, chaining her up, snakes in her guts, swirling and coiling and tickling that strange pleasure that had treacherous venom drip onto the snake that penetrated her, his arms like snakes around her waist, thick constrictors holding her still, keeping her trapped for devouring.

“Beg for it.”

She sucked in a beaten breath, forcing her will to comply to his wishes, swallowing her pride, subduing the fighter in favor of having her fall on her own sword, instead of digging her own grave. “Daddy, please can I come on your cock?” One would think the human soul gets used to humiliation after some time, but the ball in her chest hadn’t softened no matter how many times she’d offered up her dignity, no matter how many times Deku had forced her to her knees. “You feel so good inside me, Daddy.” She mewed in gratitude, moaning as he hit the right spot again and again, making her go blind as she tried focusing on what sweet nothings she needed to say. “I wanna come for you so badly, Daddy please.” He gave her a kiss to her nose then, meant to be sweet even though it would have revolted her had she been in the right mind to feel anything but forcibly good, all sweet with chasing her release, riding him, jumping on his length like a good bunny should.

“Good Bunny.” He purred an she had not the mind to feel like cussing, only desperately waiting for him to allow her release. “You see? Things are so much easier when you do as you're told, when you do what Daddy tells you.” He bottomed out into her tight heat, filling her up to the hilt, felt her body spasm with half panic at how deep inside her he was and half pleasure with how dangerous it felt to have her cervix molded by the shape of his cock-head burying itself in the spongey spot. “Come on, come on Daddy’s cock, make Daddy feel good.” She couldn’t refuse, even if he’d told her to hold it, she couldn’t, couldn’t stop the lightning to shoot through her, pussy clenching around his cock like a death-grip, strangling his length, sucking on him, milking his shaft, unsure whether she wanted him to pull out or stay inside her warmth, but luckily that decision wasn’t up to her, all she needed to do was not forget her manners.

“Thank you, Daddy…” It dripped from her mouth like sweet-tasting poison, tongue dripping with thick drool as she panted and mewled with how he continued warming his cock inside her, trying to push further and deeper inside even though there was no more space to be filled, resulting to a deep thrusting that felt as though he was about to push through into her womb.

He kissed her cheek as she numbed down to a relaxed exhausted limp body in his arms. “You’re welcome, Bunny… but Daddy isn't finished with you yet.” She felt her stomach twist despite knowing how she wasn’t done until Deku shoots his thick cream and paints whatever part of her body he had the appetite for.

Pulled from her high by the knowledge of how it was a psychotic madman who had granted it, as she felt said green-haired man guide her to lay on her back. 

“There you go, Bunny… such a cute mess.” He licked his lips, where she only barely tried to scurry away from his hungry lips gaining on her sensitive raw orgasm-glossed sex. 

She whined when his tongue dragged up her slit to drink her juices, flicking over her tender swollen clit, hands in his hair, trying their best to refrain from yanking him away. 

“Oh, Bunny’s so sensitive… did Daddy make you feel too good.” She squirmed beneath him, convulsing as he teased with his tongue and his lips and the light grazing ghosting of his teeth. “Look at you… Daddy’s little Crybunny.” He snickered, smirking as he gorged himself beneath her legs, loving the whiny moans and whimpers she couldn’t hold back, and how her hands tried ever so sweetly to nudge him off, how she dug the balls of her feet into the mattress to try and shuffle away from his attack, but not allowed to go anywhere with his arms locked around her thighs, keeping her just where he wanted her, shivering beneath him and only seconds away from crying and begging him to stop. “Does the little Bunny need her pacifier?” He hummed in askance. “Don’t you move a muscle, Bunny, I have a treat for you...” 

He hopped off the bed with a speed that went unnoticed while she blinked to find him position behind her, hovering above her face, thick and fat and veined from hilt to tip, tidy shaven green-stubble above his strutting proud cock, a path of longer hairs trailing up to his belly-button and sprinkled into a pretty growth of chest-hair the higher up his chiseled abs it went. 

“Open up, Bunny.” He tapped the glossy mushroom-tip onto her lips, smearing what concoction of precum and juices had mingled together there. 

She did as commanded, parting her lips yet making sure to wrap her teeth, knowing how he didn’t appreciate being bitten either by accident or not, having little understanding to how hard it was to fit him in her mouth without letting her teeth graze his impressive girth. 

“Taste yourself.” He groaned. “Suck me clean, Bunny.” He lightly patted the side of her face, fingers drumming on her cheek, telling her to hollow them in and suck on him. “There you go.” He praised, watching her struggle not to gag as he began lightly fucking the back of her throat, pushing farther down, liking how her already tight tunnel began clenching around him, trying to hold back the coughs. “Be a good Bunny and swallow all of me.” 

Usually he’d enjoy the feel of her nose dipping into his pelvis, but now with her upside down, he could feel his balls being poked as they smothered her only remaining breathing option. Still, he took his time, knowing how she could take a few seconds without air, enjoying the look of his fat cock down her throat, his hand testing a daring stroke over her jugular, watching to see if she would convulse and gag and splutter out coughs like she did the first couple of times he ventured deep, yet was proud to see her stay in play with only a few panicked spams of her chest. He probed even further as he lightly pinched the outline of his shaft between his thumb and index-finger, listening to her begin to whine, a submissive little prayer to let her breathe again. 

“Good Bunny…” He pulled out, large hands cupping her cheeks, telling her to remain lying there as he bent over to kiss her spit-slicked lips, his hand reaching over to palm her breast while the other reached farther to rub rough patterns into her terribly oversensitive clit, making her gasp out a strangled uncontrolled moan into his receiving mouth. “Come on, one more time.” He straightened himself, taking the opportunity to push through her open-mouthed panting with his dripping cock. “Get me nice and wet for your little Bunny-butt…”

Her eyes shot open, hands flailing instead of holding onto his thighs. “No-” She tried protesting, as she lightly tapped at his firm muscled ass with the face of her palm, slapping to get her discomfort across.

“No, no, Bunny, do as you’re told, do what Daddy says.” Deku chastised, grabbing her bothersome hands by the wrist and holding them behind his back, feeling her try to recoil away, yet well-trained enough to not bite as his cock pushed down her throat again. “Be a good Bunny and suck on Daddy.” He rocked his hips slowly back and forth, jutting lightly into her mouth. “Just like Daddy taught you.” His voice remained sweetly stoic, like a teacher or a parent, made her want to throw up on him, yet knowing how he didn’t stop last time she did, he just kept fucking her skull, even with the bile and acidic liquid burning in her throat. “Wash out all those filthy protests.” She whimpered at how his hands tightened around her wrists, balls lightly clapping over the bridge of her nose, swinging into her face each time he pushed until his entire length was enclosed to the hilt. “Teach you some manners Bunny-girl.” 

Her eyes stung now, with the built-up tears that now flowed freely, dampening her hairline before dripping into the sheets. 

Deku moaned, releasing her hands, needing his own to reposition his toy in the new desired position. “Up on your knees.” He remained staining at the edge of the bed, helping his darling kneel. “Posture, Bunny.” He chastised. “Arch that ass up for Daddy.” 

His hand spread flat in the space between her shoulder blades, pushing her upper-body down into the sheets, gliding to enclose around the back of her neck to keep her still while the fingers of his other hand stroked chaffed fingertips up and down the tender lips of her pussy, diving between her folds to gather slick wetness he used to push into her sore hole, curling two digits into the spongey velvet walls, making her moan into the pillow she was forced against. 

“Stay.” He ordered, all his warmth leaving her as she remained clutching and balling up the fabric of the sheets in her tiny useless fists, keeping her ass presented in the air, waiting with eager horror for Deku to return. 

She heard him open a drawer, then click open a lid, the squirt of something she had an educated guess of what was, listened to the slick sounds of him messaging the liquid into his hands, before his heavy steps carried him back to his position behind her. 

“Look at this precious little bunny-hole.” His fingers felt slippery as they rubbed and palmed her ass-cheeks, left hand lifting the plump flesh on one side, whilst the other moved to slide up and down the ravine before hooking a finger inside the top tight little ring of muscle. “Bunny needs Daddy’s cock inside her little butt, doesn’t she?” He pushed it in with ease now with the lube covering his hands, preparing the tightness by pumping the digit in and out, tickling the unsuspecting nerves that had never been played with before, the feeling strange yet surprisingly pleasant as his finger scraped downward, rubbing against a spot that had her pussy gushing around nothing. “Bunny’s tight little butt is just begging to be filled with Daddy's cock isn’t it, Bunny?”

She wasn’t too sure anymore. “No…”

He stuck another finger in with the first one at her reply, making her whine out a wail, toes curling, her one leg thumping up and down into the mattress, trying to shake and crawl away but not allowed to go anywhere with his hand reaching to recover the position it held before, holding her down, pressured around the back of her neck. “Up until now Bunny has been enjoying herself, but this attitude… tch, tch, Bunny... perhaps she needs a little reminder of who she belongs to?” 

She whimpered at the feel of both his thick fingers gliding alongside each other in and out of her tight tender hole, as she clenched around them and around nothing where juices were dripping down her thighs. 

“And there is no punishment without a little pain.” 

He’d only been dipping his digits in halfway, and she realized this once he decided to go knuckle-deep inside her, making her jolt at the foreign feeling of something going inside, much deeper now. 

She was arching her back up like a cat, trying to hide her ass from his antagonizing hands. “What have I told you about posture, Bunny?” His hand let partially go of her neck to glide up her spine, resting on the small of her back. “Give Daddy your hands.” She hesitated, taking her time to breath, feeling his fingers sink in, making her knees tremble, before she listened and folded her arms behind her, again like he’d taught her. “Now, arch your little Bunny-butt up for me.” 

She took small shallow breaths as she readjusted her back into a slope again, knowing what was coming, however as she felt it, big and warm and slick and soft like velvet, riding up her drooling pussy, his fingers disappearing from playing with her hole to make room for what would soon take their place, something much bigger and much longer, both his hands grabbing each her wrists, but not before making a cross of her arms, perfectly immobile for him as he lined his aching eager cock up with her pulsating little hole, she couldn’t hold back.

“No, please, Daddy, I’ll be good.” She begged, trying to scramble away, but being to late as she was left simply sobbing into the mattress, unable to move to any other position without it hurting with how his hands had bent her arms behind her back, yet despite knowing this he still took it upon himself to raise his foot and place it down over the side of her face, stomping slightly on it as a warning to keep still. Her movement obliged, coming to a halt, though not able to contain the trembling. “Please…” She tried one last time, though knowing he had no mercy nor patience left to spare her.

“Don’t disobey Daddy.” He fit his cockhead into the dip of her back entrance again, lining up the attack. “Now Bunny, beg for Daddy to fill your little butt up.” She tried shaking her head beneath the pressure of his foot, feeling her heart in her throat, pouting and scrunching her eyes shut, sniffling so adorably, yet he couldn’t take any pity on her when this was a lesson she needed to learn. “I said beg.” He pulled her arms back, as she screamed with how her shoulder-blades were close to popping out, his foot mushing her face harder into the mattress.

“Pl- please Daddy… fill me u- up…” She blubbered, every inch of her quivering.

He quit his torture, leaving her to simply snivel. “Good girl.” And then he started pushing.

Big bulging mushroom head entering slowly as she whimpered, butthole seizing around it, swallowing it up. “You see, Bunny?” His movements stilled, letting her get used to the new feeling of having something so big fit in the firm taunt hole. “Your little butt is sucking on my cock like a lollipop.” 

He aimed a drop of spit at where he was cramming inside her, the cold wetness hitting her with surprise as she slightly jumped on her knees, bouncing in the soft sponge of the mattress, the movement inadvertently making his cock rock with shallow thrusts in and out of her, messaging her opening. 

He moaned at the cute gesture. “Bunny’s so eager to receive Daddy’s cock, isn’t she?” He slid farther in, making her moan as his cock dragged along the wall that separated from her pussy, making everything tighten up, her pussy feeling so empty, clenching on nothing at all, yet feeling his fat length in just the wrong place, teasing her, making her so unbelievably wet. “Tell Daddy how good it feels, Bunny.” He pulled out again, beginning a slow tempo of lolling halfway into her.

He looked to her face, flushed red and squished together beneath the sole and weight of his foot keeping her down, lips puckered and bloated, cheeks tear-stained, eyes sparkling as she mumbled on small bubbling purrs, unsure pleasure painting her face, looking like such an endearing hopeless mess as he squeezed into the tight fit of her perfect plump ass. “It feels good, Daddy.” She quavered, shaky breaths and small sniffles leaving her adorable expression.

He hummed in return, sinking just a little bit farther inside her, feeling her tense as he did, an open-mouthed whine leaving her, drool hanging like silver string from her lips. “I think Bunny can be more creative than that, can’t she?”

She knew better than to disobey, especially when he already had her in such a compromising postion, knowing he wasn’t far away from pushing all the way inside her still accommodating ass, make her scream and possibly bleed as he fucked her through yet another punishment. “Daddy’s cock feels so good. So good with your number one cock inside me. I love you, Daddy. I love Daddy’s cock. Thank you, Daddy.” She drooled out as sweetly as she could, which was sweeter than honey with how hard it was to breath in her position of being pushed into the pillow beneath her, body slunk with no way of getting up, a proper prayer-pose as Deku stuffed her even fuller, making her mew.

“That’s right…” He groaned, hips rocking slowly and carefully back and forth, opening her little butt with his thickness, messaging her insides, teasing all the sensitive provoked nerves, poking shallowly into the spot that usually had her coming were it not on the other side, in her other hole who was begging to be stimulated in a way that wasn’t half-way fulfilling and half-way terrifying. “And to think Bunny thought she didn’t want this. Daddy still hasn’t heard his apology…”

“You’re right, Daddy, I was wrong… I do want this…” Another moan was forced from her as he inched even further inside, pushing into uncharted and unsuspecting tender areas, making her bleat and sigh ever so sweetly, unable to do anything but lie there and feel every inch of him stuffing her full, taking his time enjoying her tight hole.

He moaned in awe at her words, nearly slobbering. “Daddy knows what’s best for you Bunny.” Another inch had her feeling even fuller, as though he was in her stomach. “Daddy knows what Bunny wants and needs.” He fucked with the added length for a short-lived while until pushing another full inch inside, having her whine out a moan, her ass shaking like a little tease, wiggling at him, her arms also trying ever so slightly on reflex to pull out of his grasp. “Daddy’s always right, Bunny only needs to please Daddy.” 

He started sinking in inch after inch, unbothered or perhaps coaxed by how she struggled now, opting to bottom out fully, have his balls squished against her glossy pussy, his cock completely enclosed by her tight spasming butt, grunting out a shuddering groan of potent pleasure while feeling her little futile struggles trying so desperately to make him stop or slow down as he filled her up completely. 

“You just need to listen… and obey.”

TIP-JAR

#yandere my hero academia #yandere boku no hero academia #yandere #yandere deku #yandere midoriya #yandere midoriya izuku #midoriya izuku #Midoriya #izuku midoriya #bnha midoriya #yandere izuku #yandere izuku midoriya #deku x reader #daddy deku #izuku x reader #izuku mydoria #Izuku #izuku midoria x reader

[separatist-apologist]

Um can I have a part 2 to Lucien finding out about solstice? Pretty please?

You can have a part 2. I was not planning a follow up to yesterday's little sass-a-thon but apparently everyone likes bratty Elain and irreverent Lucien.

--

--

Lucien woke wondering if he’d imagined the entire night with Elain. It certainly didn’t seem real. She’d barely said one word to him for a good year and some months only to turn around and tell him to eat shit. He wondered what it said about him that he liked it. Lucien groaned, kicking the blankets off his sweaty body like a petulant child. He was tired of waking up alone and more tired still having seen the fire lurking behind his mates’ eyes.

Lucien padded to the bathroom suite, still naked from sleep. He perched on the edge of the tub, turned on the hottest water he could possibly stand, and sank into the scalding water until everything but the top of his head was visible. He was supposed to leave today, back to the mortal lands. Back to sniping with Jurian and arguing with Vassa and daydreaming about Elain when no one looked at him too closely. He still had his apartment in Velaris. Perhaps, if today went well, he’d spend a week in Feyre’s starlit city.

He took his time dressing and grooming, still more than a little irritated with Azriel from the night before no matter how his angry outburst had worked in Lucien’s favor. He certainly would not be outdone in the one arena he knew he could run circles around the male in. Lucien had always had a sense for fashion and what worked well. He didn’t need to know Elain well to know it was something she appreciated about a male.

If Rhysand was surprised to see him that morning, he gave no indication as he handed Lucien the morning paper at the breakfast table. Their silence was companiable enough, sipping coffee while Lucien tucked away tiny pieces of information about Night Court he thought might use as leverage at some point. It was nothing the High Lord wasn’t willing to risk, given how he prized information himself, but Lucien never passed up an opportunity to keep himself well informed.

He felt strangely content in that moment until Elain swept in wearing a gown of pale, shimmering gold that was altogether inappropriate for the softly snowing day around them. Rhys glanced up at her from his cup of coffee, one eyebrow raised for all Elain seemed to notice. She had tea and a scone and, without a word to either of them, sat across from Lucien. Lucien’s eyes roamed what part of her body she could see; the long-sleeved dress seemed to be made of paper and exposed her shoulders and collarbone to him. His fingers twitched around his own mug as the mating bond woke with a vengeance.

Touch her touch her touch her touch her—

“Lucien,” Rhys interrupted Lucien’s musing. Elain kept her eyes focused on the wall behind him, her big, brown eyes framed by too-long lashes. Was she wearing make up, he wondered? Or had her lips always been so pink, so—“Feyre mentioned you were considering staying for a few more days.”

Elain’s eyes focused, glancing towards the High Lord. Had Feyre said that? He certainly hadn’t made any promises outside of his own mind.

“I have some business in the city,” he agreed, well aware Rhysand must know his only business was his mate.

“Are you planning to stay here? You are welcome to, obviously.”

Lucien shook his head as color began to creep into Elain’s cheeks. What was she thinking, he wondered?

“No, in my apartment,” he replied, catching how her eyebrows raised. Did she not realize he had one?

Rhysand’s violet-colored eyes shifted to Elain, his mouth curving into a smile. “I’ll have your things sent over, then. Please, feel free to stop by for dinner if you’d like. I know Feyre very much enjoys your company.”

Yeah, yeah, Lucien thought, still thinking of how Rhysand had shut Azriel down the night before. Not out of friendship, but politics. Still, it was better than tacit approval and, in some stupid, small way Lucien could appreciate the shrewdness.

Elain excused herself leaving Lucien to finish his breakfast and dress for the cold before making the trek towards his apartment. He’d try at dinner, he told himself. It would be easier to corner her somewhere alone, to let her lobby insults at him and, perhaps, kiss her on the mouth if she held still long enough for him to capture her face.

Lucien turned the lock to his apartment to find two things wildly out of place. His bags were sitting just inside the foyer next to a long, silver cape that was too feminine and small to belong to him, hung on the hooks beside the door. Just at the end of the hall, Lucien saw Elain in that same golden gown, arms crossed over her chest.

“I didn’t know you had an apartment,” she accused as he unwound his scarf.

“You never asked,” he reminded her patiently, his blood thrumming at the sight of her in his apartment. He could practically taste the argument floating between them.

Give me your worst.

“Must I do everything?” She asked him, arms crossed over her chest. He had to look away; she’d inadvertently caused her breasts to swell beneath her arms and Lucien was struck dumb at the sight.

“Not everything, no,” he replied, walking to the living room where she waited. “But perhaps something might be nice.”

She scoffed and Lucien dropped onto the cream-colored loveseat, stretching out his long legs as she watched her from the corners of his eye.

“I don’t owe you—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he interrupted, bored. “Why are you here, again?”

Because it was her, after all, standing in his apartment. She shifted, her boots still wet from the snow. She’d created a little wet spot on the hard wood beneath her feet. He would normally have cringed at that, but it was Elain, if she wanted to ruin her floors, who was he to stop her?

She bit her bottom lip. “To tell you how hideous you looked at breakfast this morning.”

Lucien laughed as he ran a hand down his chest. Elain’s eyes followed the movement. “Liar.”

She scoffed. “I’m surprised you fit in this little apartment at all, given the size of your ego.”

He couldn’t help himself as he leaned forward, carefully watching her expression. “You know, Elain, they say it takes one to know one.”

Her mouth dropped open again as she stood, stunned into silence for a moment. “You find me ugly?” She asked, dropping her arms to her side.

“Impossibly ugly,” he agreed, the lie rolling right off his tongue. Her cheeks flushed as he took a step towards her. He was going to kiss her, he decided. “And ill mannered.”

“It is your manners that are offensive,” she retorted hotly. “Though not nearly offensive as your face.”

Lucien hesitated, surprised by how her words stung a bit. It was a game and yet…she’d touched on something he’d privately feared from the moment Amarantha gouged out his eye. He could still recall, in the early days, how people recoiled when they saw the scarring, how even now people stared, surprised at the brutality etched into his face. He’d spent more than one night wondering if Elain too found him abhorrent to look at.

He arched a brow, his heart hammering in his chest. He didn’t know what he’d do if she truly thought him ugly. It would wound him far more than anything, short of a flat-out rejection of the bond. “Oh?”

Her eyes drifted towards his mouth. Lucien blinked, some of his fear ebbing. “Disgusting,” she murmured, inching closer. He held himself exactly where he was despite his muscles screaming in protest, demanding he yank her into him and kiss her senseless. “The ugliest man I’ve ever seen.”

“Liar,” he told her again. She blinked, head tilted, eyes half-lidded, her lips parted ever so slightly. This was what had gotten Azriel in trouble, wasn’t it? This moment, right here. He suddenly felt immense sympathy for the male. Lucien was also rooted in place, desperate to touch her, too.

“I know,” she whispered. Her eyes fluttered closed the moment he reached for her face, holding her just as she was so he could kiss her. Words failed him the moment their lips touched, the world melting into nothingness. Whatever he’d thought, however he imagined that moment paled in comparison to the real thing. She was soft, her lips sweet. Every single piece of her seemed to radiate an invisible heat his blood recognized by contact alone.

Mate. Mine. His body sang, urging him to take things further, to strip her of her clothes and mark her with his scent so thoroughly no other male could get within a mile of her without smelling him, too. He had to stop himself, unsure what she wanted.

“You’re a shitty kisser,” he told her, forehead pressed to her own. Elain giggled, the sound ringing through his chest.

“You’re so rude,” she responded with a sigh. “How can anyone stand to be in your presence?”

“And yet here you are,” he reminded her, poking her in the stomach. “In my apartment.”

She looked around, her eyes taking in his furniture, his shelves of books, his artwork. “Why don’t you stay more often?”

He shrugged, unable to meet her gaze. “There is little for me to do here.” That was partially true. Why torture himself and sit around waiting on a female who had no interest in him? He wasn’t that much of a glutton for punishment. Elain stepped away, walking towards the wall length windows and pushing back the curtain. Gray, snowy clouds did little to hide the cheery day around them as fat snowflakes were carried along in a winter wind.

“I have been cruel,” she said after a moment. Lucien came up behind her, resting his hands on her delicate shoulders.

“Perhaps. But not without cause.”

She blinked, twisting her neck to look up at him. “It’s just a lot…even now.”

He nodded. “I could help, you know. I’m not your enemy.”

“What kind of help are you offering?” She asked as she turned around, letting him twine his arms around her body. His heart stuttered for a minute. Pretty, she was so pretty—

“Whatever help you’d like,” he managed to choke out. Elain smiled slyly.

“What if the help I want has nothing to do with being made?”

He was going to die, he thought. He cleared his throat. “Could you be more specific?”

She was mocking him. “I often struggle with the laces of my dresses, for example.” She gestured towards the back of her gown, neatly laced with a golden ribbon. Easily undone, he thought, his fingers twitching. It would take one pull to have her dress pooled at her feet. He brought his face closer to hers, well aware that his thoughts were likely not well aligned with what she really needed. Time. Space. Room to get to know not just him but herself.

“Sounds like you need a friend,” he murmured, brushing his lips across hers before dropping his arms and stepping away. She huffed a sigh.

“Do you treat all ladies so poorly?” She demanded. Lucien was back on the couch, legs stretched out as he willed himself to calm down.

“Only the ones I like,” he replied with a grin. Elain plopped down beside him and took his hand, much as she’d done the night before.

“Lucien?”

He’d never tire of hearing her say his name. “Yes, Elain?” She scooted a little closer, her eyes locked on his. She was looking at the scar, he realized. Panic flooded into his throat.

“I lied when I said you were ugly,” she confessed. He exhaled the breath he’d been holding. “And I like the scars. You’re beautiful.”

He reached for her chin, caressing her sweet face. Lowering his mouth to hers, Lucien told her, “Ah, well. It takes one to know one, now doesn’t it?”

#elucien #elucien fic #elucien prompt #elain x lucien #lucien x elain #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #i think we all know a third part of this would just be smut #so perhaps we call it good here? #and if you want to see them bicker more #just send me an ask bestie

[herenortherenearnorfar]

prompts... the watcher in the water (maybe interacting with gollum), or galadriel & durin (any durin)?

The Watcher in the Water! Love an eldritch primordial being.

Rest. Rest. Rest.

When there is sound there is silence. When there is darkness there is light. They need each other for definition— but in some cases one is more reliant on the other. Something must come before a word is spoken or it’s not speech, just a continuation of noise. A rhythm needs pauses to shape its course.

The thing curled in the deep pool next to Moria’s gate cannot argue these points in favor of its existence. It has no inclination to learn speech, no interest in becoming a part of this place of this place even if only to consume it. It was here before the stars blinked on, before the seas condensed and the hot new earth cooled. Back when the world was not a world at all, just a soothing void, this was its place. It will outlast these interlopers.

They test him though. First the deep river caves where it dwelt away from the sun were drained by the machinations of some little surfaces creatures. It had crawled through cracks and crevices, even venturing into land on a moonless night, till it found a new home, a deep pool of alkali water replete with hidden niches. Then that home repeatedly violated by foul things which dumped their waste in his waters and are only dissuaded by great violence.

Tiring.

Before there were stars there was no need for such feats. There was only the darkness and the things that rested there, peacefully eating each other, growing fat and birthing new terrors in the pillowed silence.

The sea is said to be close to that freedom of old, the interloper who dwells there gives asylum to creatures great and small. But it’s too far too travel. The Watcher is a restful sort of rest; or perhaps simply a very wise one. After all, the ambitious ones of its kind, the ones who have learned language and swallowed what they shouldn’t have, inevitably went mad with it.

They forget, the light hungers too. It spreads in waves. Sound elicits more sound, propagates, goes on for miles. All the quiet has is patience, the long fading of entropy.

Another thing is coming, a noise thing, a light thing, though one of the cringing half tolerable ones. It paces behind the door, muttering to itself, every reverberation echoing though the bedrock and driving spikes through the Watcher’s jelly of unbeing.

“Said it isn’t safe, said it isn’t safe. It isn’t safe in here. Orcses and trolls in here.” Incomprehensible.

What matters is when the door begins to slide open and a grey little head, softly furred, peeks out.

“Hello? It’s just Gollum. Nice Gollum, gentle Gollum. Not good for eating, Gollum. The spider said so.”

These little goblins bring trash sometimes, they disrupt the unmoving surface of the lake. They have to be eaten, it’s the only way they stop. The Watcher surfaces just enough to reveal one eye, the one still healing from a previous attack (the little ones with the most hair were quick with their arrows).

“Nice snaily,” Gollum reasons, and the Watcher understands neither words nor tone. It understands that the little thing is edging closer though, one arm behind its back, and it reaches out a tentacle to grab the intruder.

Quick the world had changed, the creature drops its burden and darts back to the door, hiding behind the heavy stone bulk. The round parcel rolls twice and comes to a stop at the edge of the water.

The lake remains untouched, so the Watcher lets the little monster go. It squeaks, “Nice snaily, have the treat, Gollum will come back with more?” as it shuts the door.

The gift is the sawn off head of another one of the small loud things, jaw slack, neck unevenly severed. In death they are so much quieter, so blessedly still.

The Watcher observes it, admires the new placidity. Then, nothing that lives in the dark turns up food, it curls one tentacle around the prize and retreats back down to its deep dark home, to feast, to rest.

#prompts #the watcher in the water #silmarillion fanfiction #gollum #undercat-overdog

[spikebhm]

content creators are cringe and toxic for the community it puts all the power in the hands of normative beauty standards — the cabal of fats and their so called admirers are just milking a cash cow (pun intended)

you don’t see ffas following random guys giving them attention you only see “content creators” getting attention.

Piss off Bub.

That's a ... a whole lot to take in there! Besides seeping in pure insecurity I can tell that you think that anyone is entitled to someone else's time just because "they exist" is just wrong, like ffa's only paying attention to "content creators".

I can't even begin to understand what "cringe and toxic" means in context of content creators? Cringe? Debatable, it's totally ok not to be able to agree with someone but cringe is just such a bad word to generalize an immensely large group of people who find joy and success in sharing what they have with a community that they've worked on.

And how are they toxic?! There is certainly drama that occassionally happens between people, for sure but the community as a whole? There is nothing going around right now and if yes, it's always just between a couple of parties over some personal and petty shit. I don't see how content creators are toxic in the slightest.

Also how do you even put "normative beauty standards" and "fat" in one sentence and not just combusted on the spot? There are hundreds of content creators, SUPER successfull ones that have either limited depiction or none at all of their face, if that is what you mean by that? Because listen, here is a little hint and it might hurt, but even special snowflakes like you might understand that:

Beauty. is. subjective.

That's it! It's not really hard. A little something on this subjectivity:

Out of a 100 people who are into feedism, maybe 10 of those are into big men and only 3 of those like the content where a guy is not showing his face because they enjoy the fantasy to be able to project themselves into that scenario and that is FINE and LEGIT (that's how a lot of porn works, look up POV) and this person with his three new fans has to work hard to keep those three people!

And it's not just random, he puts effort into it! It starts with good angles, engagement with the community and just not being a whiney shit that only men are following you (little 'jab' at a certain content creator who deactivated his account not too long ago, pardon me~ ).

Whoever decides to follow and support someone, they do it because they are consenting adults! They say "it's worth my time and money to support this person in their endeveaors!" and that's fine, valid and totally ok!

I don't care what you call the people who admire others, be it a cabal, the cow milkers, whatever it is. I can clearly tell that you have no interest in supporting someone, you are just out there to get the free stuff and despise others who have success with it, the envy is palpable and frankly you need to grow up.

"you don’t see ffas following random guys giving them attention you only see “content creators” getting attention." Also what a bold statement. Sounds to me like you are a "random guy" who never got attention. Please excuse these poor women that they only see quality if it's actually posted in a nice and inviting way, the tragedy those poor random guys have to endure!

Have you seen the pictures that cis men actually post of themselves? They look like faceless mug shots in badly lit and dirty bathrooms! Eww! Here is a generalization for you!

I honestly wonder what it would feel like if you gave a little bit effort in your profile, a little bit more effort in posting pics, ideas, fantasies, engagement. Maybe try yourself at not talking about fetishes. Maybe compliment someone on their dress. Make up perhaps? There is lots to a person besides just their fetish.

The best conversations and friends you can make is through some really nice interactions and chats. Do you believe me when I say that I have a DM box FULL of FFAs who stayed around for the talk and not just the face and belly? I know it sounds crazy but believe me, when you put yourself out there as a PERSON, they will stay connected for sure.

All these problems could be solved if you were to give it a little bit more effort. This is not a "them" problem.

It's about you. When you start this change, you can become someone better, someone desirable.

It changes the tone with people if you would straighten out your back, speak in a clear voice (in text), fight yourself out of this pit of misery that you created yourself and start respecting people, their effort and their time. If you recognize their worth, they will do so too and gauge you differently then before. Perhaps as a person one day.

Maybe then an "ffa" will turn their head around and say "you know what, I really like your post!"

It's not difficult to be respectful. The difficult part is to admit your mistakes but you've probably never been taught to show weakness and admit anything to grow from it. Which is actually kinda sad.

I hope you can turn this around for yourself and become someone greater tomorrow, I believe in you, anon!

#Just admit your mistakes #I know that its hard to stand out but you need to find that niche that you can fill in #If you think you can only get recognition as a content creator then try it yourself #doesn't mean you have to monetize it #good luck anon and stop being so negative #also stay off those toxic socials #Sorry if my text is a bit cluttered but it's late and I have a lot of thoughts on this topic

[redorich]

Techno asker here! I have missed today's stream... Thank you so much for that plug though, it was a great read! I got to learn a new word too - asymptote.

English isn't my first language, and I covet more of the secret words it holds yet hidden from my grubby little gremlin hands.

Now I'm really looking forward to reading more of your Willbour and steal from his vocabulary. Perhaps, if you are up for it, when we see him coming to terms with his newly re-invigorated self and the memories that brings with it? Perhaps when he is on the hermitcraft server? Perhaps?

(Mammon is my sin..)

dude i’m gonna be real with you, your english is like 10 times better than most native speakers. you use cool words like “covet”, and your syntax is unique, but in a correct way?? who the hell granted you the right to be so smart

-------

Wilbur revives in the hot dog van. He isn’t sure what he does and does not remember.

All at once, it hits him. He sees flashes behind his eyelids, flashes of pushing the button, of making Techno and Tommy fight in a pit why did he do that, of the Final Control Room. He clutches his chest-- he’s wearing his yellow sweater again.

He hears his name being called by three different voices: two English, one American. They know what he did, they’re coming for him--

“He’s in the van!”

Wilbur looks around desperately for a place to run. He’s got no tools to dig and hide with, can’t leave the van or he’ll be seen. The door opens.

It’s Dream. Eleven and a half stacks of TNT.

“Hey, hey,” Dream says with a hint of a smile. “Calm yourself, have a carrot.”

He tosses Wilbur a handful of carrots. They fall on the floor and roll away. Wilbur pulls himself into a kneeling position. (When had he fallen down?)

“I want to be alone right now,” he says.

“No, you don’t,” Dream responds.

Wilbur bangs his fist on the floor, ever one for dramatics. His hair falls wildly in his eyes and Dream is uncomfortably reminded of Wilbur’s dishevelled-bad-boy look, as Dream had privately called it when Wilbur was leading Pogtopia. Now, Dream recognizes the look as pure instability, spilling over into the man’s physical appearance.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Dream says for a lack of anything else to say.

Wilbur seems to take Dream’s discomfort and quietness as a cue to spill everything in his mind. He’s hysterical, like an over-full blender running without its top on.

"My death was just and everyone rejoiced. I’ll-- I’ll do it again, you know. If you keep reviving me, I’ll go insane again and again, and hurt people and destroy because it’s all I do! It’s what I was made for, Dream! If you care about this server you’ll kick me out and leave me to rot all alone in some singleplayer world. Everything I touch turns to ash. They’re all better off without me.”

Dream crosses his arms. “Have you already forgotten why you asked me to revive you in the first place? I thought the whole point of all this is that you’d stop forgetting things. Like your brother.”

“Ah,” Wilbur flinches. “He’d... I’d only hurt him more. Drag him into my schemes, once I inevitably lose sight of my morality again.”

“So you won’t even try?” Dream scoffs.

“Like you care about Tommy,” Wilbur spits, suddenly acerbic. “I remember his death now-- or rather, the moment we believed he was dead. I saw the tower he was meant to have jumped off of, I remember the way he looked at the lava ocean. You did that to him.”

Dream cringes. Leave it to Wilbur to pinpoint his nightmares and speak them aloud. The van’s door slams open, and in marches Tommy, followed closely by Tubbo.

“Tommy--” Wilbur blanches. There’s no way that the two teens didn’t hear at least part of what he’s just said.

Tommy sticks out his hand to Wilbur, who stares at it blankly. Tommy shakes his hand in front of Wilbur’s face. Ah. Now he understands. Wilbur takes the hand in his own and allows his little brother to haul him to his feet.

Wilbur stiffens when arms wrap around him. Unbidden fat tears roll down his face. He glues his eyes to the ceiling in an attempt to stop crying.

“...Why?” he asks. “I’m evil, Tommy. Why are you doing this?”

“You’re not evil.”

Wilbur chokes on the lump in his throat. “It’s-- it’s my fault. Everything. My baby brother died... Why don’t you blame me?”

“Well, that’s a bit selfish of you,” Tubbo says lightheartedly. “Hoarding all the blame for yourself. I’m the one who exiled him. Dream’s the one who told me to do it, even if there was some possession fuckery going on,” he nods to Dream. “Technoblade’s the one who summoned two withers. No one’s free of guilt here. Deal with it.”

They all fall silent.

“Oh, does this mean that Wilbur’s getting a Hermitcraft-therapy-house-building-vacation now?”

Wilbur, Tubbo, and Tommy all turn to stare at Dream.

“What?” the man in question demands sheepishly. “Tommy got one, I got one. I assumed Wilbur was next.”

Wilbur starts laughing. It’s contagious; they all laugh with a tinge of unnamed emotion and just can’t stop, even though it wasn’t that funny.

“I think I’ll stay here for a while,” Wilbur finally says. “I need to stop running away from the things I’ve done.”

Tubbo puts his hand on Wilbur’s shoulder. The president of L’Manberg is two-thirds of Wilbur’s age and nearly a foot shorter. The gesture is comforting nonetheless.

#mcyt #hc x dsmp #hermit!tommy au #sleepy bois inc #tommyinnit #tubbo #wilbur soot #ghostbur #dreamwastaken #me.cpp #Anonymous