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sanisse · 1 year

Note

For Kinktober- Lindir + mommy kink? 👀

This one got long but I was in my feelings about it. Thank you for this lovely prompt choice!! Lindir is just…Hngg. So soft. So sweet. He’s perfect for this one. If there are typos I’m so sorry I wrote this at 2AM in the throes of a bout of insomnia.

KINTOBER 06. - MOMMY KINK - LINDIR X READER

Spice level: 🌶🌶🌶🌶🌶(fluffy but also a bit filthy tbh)

Warnings/Notes: MD/lb dynamics (not heavy but it is present), overstimulation, very very very very mild consent play (with a safeword check-in). It’s absolutely nothing heavy. Lindir just asks the reader to push him past his limits because it helps him personally to reach subspace. Lots of aftercare! this is much more of a soft dominance hurt/comfort bent than anything else. As much as I do enjoy wrecking Lindir, this concept had me no thoughts head empty.

Translations: naneth - mom/mommy, tithen pen - little one, gwinig - baby boy, tithen melda - little love, mîr - jewel/treasure

Lindir lies curled against you, face tucked beneath your chin as you stroke his back, his hair, his ear. He’s exhausted today. Elrond does his best not to overwork him, but Lindir often pushes himself too hard against Elrond’s best efforts to make sure he doesn’t.

You took one look at him the second he entered the chambers you two share and ordered him straight to bed. Lindir had protested. You wouldn’t hear it. You had coaxed him there, promising to hold him. The second you had pulled up into your arms, he had started to cry.

He apologizes for it when he finds his voice again. You shush him and tell him that you don’t mind. That he can cry if he needs to. You know it’s his body’s natural response to the sheer anxiety that’s always lurking in his mind. He has so much trouble shutting his brain off. The tears are catharsis. Release.

When he finally seems to have cried his fill, you dry his face and get him a glass of water, then hold him again. Lindir obediently drinks what you give him, shucks himself out of his clothes to get more comfortable, then curls back around you. He feels so delicate. And still, he still holds tension in his spine. Like an overwound clock, his heart ticks frantically against yours.

“You need to rest,” you remind him, tone half-scolding.

“I know,” Lindir says miserably.

You card through his hair. Still, he is so tense. You ask: “Can you relax your shoulders for me, tithen pen? Take a deep breath? Really slowly?”

He presses a bit closer at the endearment, blushing but pleased. He likes to have tasks handed to him. It gives him something tangible to think about. He sucks in air, then lets it out in a hiss. It’s not ideal, but it’s something. You feel his body loosen a little in your arms.

“Good boy,” you murmur, and kiss his forehead.

Lindir lets out a tiny whine and melts. You feel his cock stir against your stomach. You can’t help a soft sound of surprise. You don’t mean to rile him up. You just know how much he likes to hear that.

“Please,” he whispers. “Could we— could you—? I just need things to be simple for a time? I—I cannot—“

You croon another comforting noise and hold him a little tighter. Sweetening your voice, you ask him: “Do you want naneth to take care of you? To make you feel good?”

Lindir mewls and nods, flushing to the tips of his ears, suddenly so hard.

You kiss his forehead again, then guide him to sit upright with you and draw him into your lap. Lindir rests his head against your breast and closes his eyes, just listening to your heartbeat.

He is so pretty and perfect it hurts. Like he’s made out of porcelain, cheeks painted rosy pink, mouth plush and soft and slightly parted. He gasps and jerks when reach down and pet his cock with the crook of your finger.

“Please, naneth—“ he begs.

You lift his head by his chin to kiss him on the mouth. “I’ve got you. Relax for me, gwinig. Can you be good for me?”

Lindir nods frantically and remembers to take another deep breath.

He shivers as you close your hand around his cock and stroke him. Your pace is slow, has him bucking up into your hand, dissolving into noise, incoherant and gilded with sweat.

“Does it feel good, tithen melda?”

Lindir nods again. “C-can I—?”

“Yes,” you tell him.

He splits apart only half a minute later with a gorgeous high-pitched yelp, shaking. You gasp in delight and keep stroking him right through it. Speeding until he’s sobbing again, but this time from pleasure.

“Can you do another for me?” you ask him.

You want to wear him out. You want to wring him dry.

Lindir weakly moans and nods.

This time, you’re faster, harsher. You know Lindir likes a bit of pain mingled with his pleasure. Lindir just says thank you, thank you, thank you and cants up into your hand, then comes again with a ruined moan that you swallow with a kiss.

“Good boy. You are doing so well for me,” you tell him. So proud of you, gwinig.”

He moans again. His cock gives a halfhearted little twitch, leaking all over your hand. You draw up to tease the head, now raw and red and oversensitive, and Lindir squirms in your lap, whimpering, but makes no protest.

“I want you to take another,” you whisper in his ear. “Your body’s all overworked and we need to wear you out so you can sleep, alright?”

Lindir wails into your shoulder, trembling.

“I—I can’t, naneth,” he pleads.

You still your hand, frowning, and drop your tone to something softer. “Can you tell me a color, gwinig? Please?”

Sometimes he likes to be pushed past his protestations. It helps him to get out of his own head. Still, you want to make absolutely sure that’s what he wants you to do.

“Green,” Lindir breathes back.

“You’re positive?”

He nods and reaches up to loop his arms around your neck, crowding even closer to you, like he wants to slip inside and live there. Like you’re his whole world. You let out a relieved breath and start to toy with the tip of his cock again.

“You can,” you tell him, “You can do it. I am going to count down from twenty and you’re going to come for me again. Do you think you can do that for me, gwinig?”

The sound Lindir lets out is absolutely filthy. He rolls his hips and begs: “Please—“

“Use your words, mîr.”

“Don’t stop,” he pants.

You cradle the back of his head and keep him pressed to your chest as you stroke him, letting him reach up and palm your breast as he whimpers, pure liquid in your arms, twitching like he wants to both get away and thrust up into your fist.

You count. You count. You count.

Twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen…

Lindir’s grabs onto your other arm, clawing at it for purchase, too overwhelmed and overstimulated to do anything else.

Sixteen, fifteen, fourteen, thirteen…

You draw up to make a fist around the head and milk him. Lindir jerks. His hand curls around your wrist so hard he draws blood. You don’t mind.

Twelve, eleven, ten, nine…

“Please,” he whimpers, “Please, naneth— I can’t—“

You pause. Reassure: “You can. You can do it. You can be so good. You’re doing so well, gwinig. So close. Just a bit longer. Can you do that for me?”

He keens at the praise and melts again. When he nods, you say good boy, and I have you and keep pushing him higher and higher all the way to:

Five, four, three, two…

ONE.

“Come,” you command.

He lets out a long, tortured sound, shudders, hammers up into your hand to drive himself the rest of the way, to obey — because that’s all he ever wants. He loves it. Loves how nothing matters in this moment except for the buzz in his skull. The consuming lightning that strikes his cock when he falls apart, shattering with a wrecked, high-pitched, hoarse scream. He comes dry. There’s nothing left to give, and you know you finally have him where he wants to be: in that fuzzy, warm, content, simple place where his mind will finally give him some peace.

“There you are,” you soothe, “Good boy, Lindir. Well done.”

You draw him back up into your arms. He clings to you as you rub his back through the aftershocks, massaging his shoulders and neck.

When he finally finds the energy, he mumbles: “Can we have scones? Will you read to me?“

You smile and kiss his head. “You can have whatever you want, sweet boy.”

Half an hour and a hot bath later, Lindir sits cocooned in the duvet, sleepily munching on scones while you read him his favorite book.

#Lindir #lindir x reader #Lindir x You #the hobbit x you #LOTR x you #sanisse's kinktober 2022

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oldestenemy · 1 year

Text

Time isn’t solid in the Spiral.

That is what they learn.

When they land choking and sobbing in the heart of Bartleby, as the Spiral Key for Azteca turns to ash in their grip. As they drag themselves in a dead sprint to the center of the Myth classroom, stuttering and coughing and coated in glittering glass dust from Xiabalba. Cyrus Drake ushers them to Ambrose’s office before the students he’d been lecturing can look too close.

He does not ask if they are okay.

Ambrose says there was nothing they could do.

Nothing they could have done.

The wizard wants to scream that there is—there was—there could be—

Perhaps the Headmaster can see the way their whole body begins to coil like an overwound spring.

“Do not linger too deeply on this,” He says, voice still altogether too soft, too gentle. “For some places, Azteca will live on many centuries or even millennia yet—”

“—But not here, not for them, not for me.” The wizard spits, looking down at their hands still smudged with the remains of the key. And then they remember. They left a mark there. At the base of the statue that would vault them to Xiabalba. Just in case things went… badly.

They think Cyrus figures it out just as they finish the sigil of transport.

But the wizard is already gone.

Opening their eyes to smoke and the whistle-crash of meteorites as they hit the ground.

Somewhere distant, they hear screaming.

No, no no no it was supposed to be better—Maybe, maybe if—

Panicked, they draw the same marking sigil at the base of the statue and then teleport home.

The sounds of Grizzleheim’s familiar woods envelope them as their watchtower hall comes into view. But they don’t pay it any mind. They grab for the spiral door and after fumbling through their keys, pull out the one for Mooshu, if Emperor Yoshihito had taken the throne just before the fall of Celestia then maybe—maybe it was soon enough—

They do not linger in the brightly lit market of Mooshu’s imperial city.

The flash of their own spellwork surrounds them as they return to the mark in Azteca.

And there is still screaming.

There are still head and fist sized chunks of glass raining from the sky—

There is a workaround.

There must be a workaround.

Zafaria is no better, they are a handful of decades after Mooshu in time.

Dragonspyre—

…Would that work?

Would going back in time within a place itself work? Would it hold between worlds?

This time they run through the Zocalo to the spiral door, not bothering to go home, just marking the same sigil in the damp ground of the Quetzal Grove before—

Damnit.

Before returning to Bartleby’s core. Before running dead sprint out once more, this time towards the edge of the void left by the death school. Looking desperately for—

“Malorn!”

Malorn Ashthorn jumps a mile at the ragged shout of his name, and the smaller students around him scatter like startled fish. “Hey— I was—oh, oh gods what happened to you?”

“No time—” The wizard is breathless and their throat is still burning from the smoke, “—The Dragonspyre key, now.”

He seems to know better than to protest. The wizard can’t blame him. They don’t know what they look like right now, but they know by the time they were headed for Xiabalba everyone on Azteca was watching them as if they might explode at the softest touch.

Malorn pulls a chain with the key on it from around his neck, and barely has time to offer it up before the wizard snatches it away and takes back off. “Hey- hey wait!” He starts to follow but they do not have time or thought to look back. “What happened?”

The soft tones of their ever present companion invade as they reach the spiral door again.

As you turn the spiral key of Dragonspyre into the door, deep down, you know it will not work.

Shut up. Shut up.

If Raven wants to weave her impressive lies about fate—let her.

The wizard has called off fate before.

They will do it again.

The heat of the Basilica overwhelms them as they stumble out into the dim light of ruined Dragonspyre.

“Stop this madness.” Cyrus Drake is standing before them with the same words he offered to his own brother, moments before the wizard was forced to strike him down. And their barely-viable plan shatters before it can even begin. “You know better.”

“I don’t want to know better.” The wizard shoots back, and for a moment they can feel their spell deck burn in the pocket of their robes. Like their own body is ready for a fight they have not yet decided to initiate. “Get out of my way.”

Is this what it’s like?

Is this how he felt?

“Or what,” Cyrus questions, eyebrows raised. “Tell me—did you think like this when you first saw Dragonspyre of old? Did you grieve the trees at the academy who were felled? The hundreds of lives lost under the titan?”

“Stop it!” The wizard shouts “Stop trying to rationalize it— I can fix this, I can save them, I am supposed to—

“You are supposed to be my student, my responsibility, and a child.”

This is where the laughter starts.

It shakes the wizard to their knees where it turns into sobbing.

When was the last time they truly felt a child?

So what if they’re barely still a teenager.

No longer ten and facing off ghosts.

No longer fourteen and facing Malistaire.

Nineteen and facing Malistaire as a shade had felt even worse.

“I have to see it.” They choke out, looking back up to find their Professor still there. “If I don’t— I have to try.”

Cyrus seems to consider this for a moment, before nodding once and offering them a hand. As he pulls the wizard to their feet, he speaks at last. “Then I shall accompany you, if this is truly something you must do.” The formality reminds them of the moments after Malistaire’s death. When they had both stood shellshocked in Ambrose’s office.

If this is how it has to be.

It’s better than not knowing at all.

~*~

It’s not better, in fact, the momentary silence of teleporting to the Quetzel Grove is almost worse for the bare trace of false hope.

The wizard steps far enough out to make eye contact with Pacal.

Until a metiorite comes down between them.

And they are forced to bend, this once, to the will of Raven, and her fate.

#wizard101 #wizard101 fandom #wiz101 #azteca #morganthe #arc 2 #still tapping. less murder.#lark is still playing funky wizard game from their childhood #i have a writeblr for this but shh

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runelocked · 6 months

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william has always shown his emotions very physically. this goes double for his positive emotions !! always humming whenever he's in a good mood, sweeping his wife off her feet in a dance to show his love, spinning his kids round when they were young just because it made them giggle and he couldn't help but laugh in return. he annoyed henry into adding custom dumb little songs to the diner just so he could perform them.

this doesn't change when he begins to lose himself either ! because of course i have to make this fucked up and sad like i do with everything i write ever. -- sometime after losing liz he found an old cassette tape he used to play when laughing with his children and when he rediscovers it, the house is almost never quiet. constantly playing, the only pause it takes is for him to reset and begin again - humming along whenever it's not playing. michael grew up in a house alive with music and emotion and then a house rotting with the corpses of both, and sometimes william will still dance, or play music, or seem just as animated as he had back then: but there's always an air of something wrong, something too tightly strung. movements not right, voice different. an overwound clock. there's just something so incredibly twisted and sad about william and dance and music to me ok

#(u) william talking tag #tw dysfunctional family #(( everything i post comes back to those years where michael was living with his dad and . yeah i have issues over them ithin k ))

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dailyadventureprompts · 2 years

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I'm not sure how problematic they are, but I'd love your take on Modrons.

Footnotes on Foes: Modrons

For those who might not know, I don't really like D&D's default "great wheel" cosmology because I find it flattens both the nuances of morality and the wonders of the cosmos into something shallow and limited. I don’t like it so much that in my cosmology Mechanus, the plane of eternal order tore itself apart like an overwound clock under the contradictory weight of perfection, scattering its chunks across the cosmos and providing an excuse for hi tech ruins without needing to do the whole “ancient aliens” routine.

Which brings us to the modrons, the workerdrones that kept Mechanus running. Built to be a part of the machinery they oversaw, modrons resemble gears, broilers, wheels, or geometric solids designed to socket into larger constructions and be shuffled around as those structures were maintained or reconfigured. Because modrons were designed to be simple and interchangeable, their minds were likewise streamlined, only containing enough room to fit a perfect understanding of their task and a debilitating anxiety that ensured they never wavered from performing that duty at their utmost capability. A modron tasked with opperating a particular valve on time would think about nothing but counting the seconds till the valve needed to be opened or closed, the same way that a group of modrons tasked with acting as a pillar would stand stock-still for centuries at a time until their overseer came and repurposed them for a new task.

While their designers saw them as efficacious, the modron’s biggest flaw was that if they ever got too stressed their simple minds would completely lock up, as they were physically incapable of improvising, skipping a step, or problem solving without direct supervision. This proved an even further flaw when their home plane blew up, and the Modrons were scattered across the multiverse with no one to tell them what to do, leading many to enter millennia long stress comas that they are only now awakening from as their clockwork brains trip one by one into a factory reset.

Adventure Hooks:

The thing with modrons as enemies is that they are both idiots and geniuses, in desperate need of someone to tell them what to do but possessing an intuitive understanding of mechanics rivalling that of the most brilliant engineers. A rogue artificer who’s managed to salvage and repair a modron assistant may find their little lackey improving upon their designs, skyrocketing their destructive potential as the modron reveals the fundamental mechanics of the cosmos to someone who might only have an interest in blowing things up.

Sometimes a group of modrons will remember their command hierarchy, and in lieu of being able to find a proper taskmaster or overseer, they’ll simply elect to build one. While their theft and manufacture of parts might provide the fodder for early level adventures, it’s not unheard of for a mesh of modrons working undetected to end up reactivating whole clockwork dungeons in the hopes of filling out their chain of command.

The party is tasked with stealing a rare automoton from a collector’s manor, only to discover half way through thier careful heist that their prize is in fact a modron that has been told to sit very still and look pretty. The anxious little sphere is happy to follow any of their orders and will gladly walk out with them, but will begin screaming in anxious terror the moment those orders contradict or lead to a dead end, drawing all manner of hostile attention.

Art

#Mechanus #artifice #monsters reimagined #prompt postage #footnotes on foes #modron #construct

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docholligay · 2 months

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Amazing. Huge lies all around. Mizu, your mind is not know and may never be clear, and I am so so content with saying that your soul will never in all the time we will know you, be at rest. I love you so much, you are an absolute overwound pocketwatch.

But let's take a moment to appreciate swordfather taking her shoulder! It's such a small moment of affection, and she laps it up because of course she does. He's not naturally given to this sort of thing, but he does love Mizu, in his way.

Before you comment: Spoiler policy and basic assumptions!

#Doc watches Blue Eye Samurai #Blue Eye Samurai Episode 2

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gennsoup · 6 months

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There's no use sitting wondering if I loved him. I had such a passion for him that it wrung the identity out of my ears. I lost myself, I lost everything, for three years, but passion cannot be a permanent condition, and suddenly like an overwound watch, it stopped, and I found myself left with a few springs, and the things I had learned.

Marian Engel, Sarah Bastard's Notebook

#Marian Engel #Sarah Bastard's Notebook #love #love quotes #passion #passion quotes #lust #break up #lost love #Canadian literature #quotes #quotes blog #literary quotes #literature quotes #literature #book quotes

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the-cat-at-the-theatre-door · 10 months

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Rumpleteazer was in gargantuan, absolutely no good trouble, as per usual, but - also as per usual - she had a plan to get out of it. Or half of a plan, anyway.

It was simple, really - all she had to do was catch Skimbleshanks before he had a chance to hear the business from anyone else, and she'd be able to use her incredible powers of obfuscation and persuasion to convince him that it wasn't her fault, and she'd been home the entire time, and that they actually had the wrong cat entirely, funny enough, and…and…

If she hurried, she would definitely maybe manage to at least avoid a complete, catastrophic meltdown. Word travelled so quickly on this side of town that it wasn’t uncommon for her to find her father already tapping his heel and waiting for an explanation before she even had a chance to slip through the cat door. Rumpleteazer found herself begrudgingly amazed at how often he could just tell something had gone awry before she'd even had a chance to process it. Alas, those sorts of powers of deduction were - frankly, if you asked her - wasted on such tightly wound a clock as her father.

Skimbleshanks’ little nook wasn’t too far from where Rumpleteazer was, and the streets were clearing out for the evening, so there wasn’t a lot of foot traffic and the paths were open - no suspicion or interruption of a cute little cat making her big old dangerous way in the dark. Plus, she knew at least three shortcuts thanks to Mungojerrie; all she had to do was run as fast as kittycat possible and she’d make perfect time, and perhaps avoid that snap of the overwound spring she was bound to run into if she was a second too late.

Mungojerrie himself had already bolted to his mothers before the you-know-what had even hit the fan, looking as though the blood had collectively drained from his body all at once. And, really, she couldn’t blame him for that. Skimbleshanks may have had a few too many cows for a cat his size, but he could occasionally (occasionally) be reasonable if she really pushed for it. Jennyanydots was fit to have the entire barn when she found out; maybe the coop alongside it if Jerrie didn’t get to her first to cushion the blow. Best to smooth that out as soon as possible; that in mind, she wasn't too sore that she'd been left a few extra moments in the hole of their own making, a hair shy from the flood light's accusing glow. Gave her time to think.

A couple extra seconds could really be worth the world in their line of...work.

Speaking of getting to something first, she had made it just around the last corner to her destination. Rumpleteazer clucked, pleased with the realization. When she'd been a much younger kitten, the distance to her father had always seemed like such an insurmountable thing (even moreso when he was gone, leaving her with whomever was available to look after her). Her first independent walks back and forth had stretched on what seemed like forever, Teazer looping her tail in a plea for the sunset to stretch on just a few minutes longer - to ward off the darkness for just one more corner - just so she could see the street until she found her way home again (she wasn't afraid of the dark, no sir). It never worked, unfortunately for her, but she kept stubbornly on - just as was in her blood. And, no matter how long it was, that stubbornness always ended with the same figure of a tom waiting for her (and how he'd always managed to be there around his schedule was no short of a wonder), outlined in golden light, ushering her inside. "That's my girl," he'd murmur, proud and warm. "Well done."

The traitorous little voice inside of her wondered when the last time he'd said that to her was.

As she'd gotten a bit older, the physical distance shrunk exponentially (because she'd grown bigger, duh), but she'd noticed that the abstract distance between the two of them seemed to be steadily growing in its place. Funny, since she'd once thought her da would likely never stop his constant hovering over her shoulder to ensure her safety, or fretting over where she'd head off to and who'd she be heading off with, or ticking through that never-ending laundry list of questions he carried around with him at all times. If he had his way, Rumpleteazer was half convinced he would be having her fill out timesheets and incident reports; or at least still carrying her around by the scruff of her neck so she wouldn't wander too far from him.

Maybe the distance was a teeny bit her fault - but when she'd snapped at him to leave her alone, that she was too big now for coddling, she hadn't really expected him to actually…leave her alone.

Though, she supposed, Skimbleshanks was nothing if not a cat of his word. Perhaps she should have seen it coming.

But now was not the time for melancholy paw wringing and "woe is me"ing - that was for later, when her tail wasn't on the chopping block.

Quickly, she adjusted her collar and tore the pearls from her neck (those'd prompt too many "My, my, where ever did you find those?"s that she did not have time for), stashing them beneath the decorative station bushes with a mournful promise to return to them later, should they not catch the eye of a sticky feathered bird. She licked her paws and smoothed her fur and whiskers as best she could without a reflection, sighing hard so her voice wouldn't sound like she'd been running several blocks. A couple of false starts later, and her shoulders were properly squared and her rehearsed excuse (and a backup) sat just on the tip of her tongue. All the more picture of a proper queen was she. Presentation was half the battle, Mungojerrie would say, and her da did appreciate propriety.

With a final deep breath, she slipped through the hidden entrance, mouth already half open with her explanation -

"Dad!" the familiar voice of Tumblebrutus suddenly whined (that one was always whining, it seemed), freezing Rumpleteazer in her tracks.

For Cat's sake; she'd neglected to consider the other half of her family's presence in her grand master plan. Whole new audience meant the previous strategy and backups was effectively useless. Some mastermind she was. Didn't even account for the possibility it'd be the other one.

It’s not like she spent most of her time around Skimbleshanks’ cubby anymore anyway; she was a big queen with her own places to go most evenings and her very own pet's house - there wasn't much need. And in her defense to the court, it was a relatively new development. The two of them being around these parts all the time, anyway.

Asparagus had been around them since before she could even remember, just on the blurry outskirts of her vision. From everything she could recollect, he'd always been nice to her, and shown her new things, even when she made the little vein at his temple pulse and "wore his nerves to the threads"; and, perhaps more important than that, he'd seemed to make her father happy, which was good enough for her to justify his presence. If she thought hard enough, Rumpleteazer very vaguely recalled sitting up on his back, waving eagerly at the trains coming in, being held very gingerly by the scruff of her neck so she wouldn't fall. That's da! she'd insist at every one, to which he would pointedly remind her about reading her numbers.

She would demand everyone who watched her to take her down to that station in the morning, come to think of it, at least until she decidedly grew out of it. But it seemed most often it would be him and her on that stoop, waiting, Asparagus glaring rather pointedly at the gaggle of humans that were always there as well should they circle too close to her vicinity and plucking her neatly from tumbling down the storm drain. It was consistently enough that she remembered it, anyway.

The gremlin, however, was new and not as welcome. He came along with the package later down the line, like a stubborn security tag on a pair of dangly earrings (and Teazer did so love her dangly earrings). She very easily could have gone the rest of her life without that one.

She scrambled quietly back against the wall.

Asparagus was lounging nearest the back corner to the right, with said little gremlin stretched between his forepaws, begrudgingly submitting to his father's ministrations. If she stayed just under the shadow of the overhang, they likely wouldn't be able to see her from this angle. She thought, anyway.

"I'm too old for a bath," she heard her brother mutter as he continued to squirm, sending his little shadow dancing against the wall.

"Last time I checked, you don't grow out of baths," Asparagus retorted. "Especially when you won't do it yourself. Now hold still."

Plans dashed, but potential confrontation delayed (and looking to completely avoid the issue), Rumpleteazer considered turning right back around and leaving. Couldn't miss what was never there; she could act like she'd been out all night (which she figured would mean less disappointment) and rush off to catch Skimbleshanks somewhere else. She had all but had her two front paws back through the door when her father chanced a look up from what he was doing (or perhaps chanced a look up to avoid being elbowed in the nose, who could say?).

"Rumpleteazer? Is that you?" Asparagus called. He sounded surprised to see her (which was a testament she really didn't feel like unpacking at the moment). Said queen, frozen in place at having been caught, slowly turned to face him, mind already clicking away on a new course of action as she plastered a fake smile from ear to ear.

"Hey, Rags," she chirped nervously, clutching her paws behind her back.

Asparagus' answering smile was somewhat bewildered. "Welcome back. We weren't expecting you to visit for a while y - oh, no you don't!" He held fast to Tumble who attempted to crawl away at the distraction. The tomkit pouted, glaring daggers up at her.

"Yeah, well…well y'know..." Teazer trailed off, struggling to keep her tail from twitching. Really selling her case - she was losing time. "Where's da?"

Asparagus tilted his head. "You just missed him, I'm afraid. He's gone for the evening."

Shit.

"I beg your pardon?"

Rumpleteazer snapped her jaw shut, wholly unaware she’d spoken out loud. Tumblebrutus snickered, mouthing the word under his whiskers, and Asparagus frowned - all in rapid, disappointing succession.

None of this was going even remotely to plan.

"Perhaps you're lucky your da isn't home," Asparagus deadpanned, tugging lightly on Tumblebrutus' ear as a warning, who yelped and grabbed it back from him. Serves him right. "I'm sure he'd have something to say about your mouths."

"Sorry," they muttered in unison. As it was, the only thing they consistently managed to agree on.

Asparagus observed the queen's face, noting her posture. "Are you alright? Did something happen?" Not what have you done, now?, mind you, did something happen? Rumpleteazer was unsure if he was giving her an out or was genuinely concerned.

As it was, her rapid fire mind had settled to a sudden, shameful lull at the scolding (and the smallest modicum of guilt), leaving her briefly and dangerously exposed. "Yes."

"'Yes' something happened?"

"No!" she chirped immediately, snapping her head back up, refusing to be caught in the familiar verbal roundabout that would get her admitting to things. Asparagus may be clever - too clever sometimes- but he was no match for the sheer force of will she was willing to exude to escape the figurative fisherman's net. She didn't have a lot of time. "Nothing happened. Yes, I'm fine."

Asparagus slowly blinked at her, looking not at all convinced, but seemingly weighing out the consequences of calling her out on her lie. A tense moment passed, before he settled on a new approach.

"You know, Teazer, you can tell me whatever it is. I'm sure we can figure it out." He pointedly left off the generous offer that it would be their secret, like he would when she was very little and he somehow managed to make things disappear under the rug with a wink and a smile, but Teazer still heard its tail ends. Asparagus had always been good that way, so long as whatever it was wasn't...well, fully illegal.

...And she'd helped clean it up, whatever it was. He wasn't a complete pushover.

Still, something about disappointing both of the toms she considered her parents in the same evening didn't exactly sound like a thrilling prospect; one at a time.

"It's nothing - honest, it's nothing," she insisted, bouncing on her heels, suddenly uncomfortable and wishing she just...hadn't come at all. It was too much all at once. "I just wanted to talk to da."

Asparagus gave her a sympathetic look, though it looked to be a second thought covering whatever first came to mind (she could guess well enough what it was). "Miss him, do you?"

Tumblebrutus rubbed absently at his ears, turning to gauge her reaction to that. Now both toms were staring at her with matching, window pale eyes. It would be a little creepy, if you asked her, were she not so familiar with it.

Rumpleteazer pressed her muzzle in a thin, firm smile. That wasn't...exactly the sentiment, but it hit very firmly just beneath her breast anyway. No, that wasn't it at all. She'd needed to catch up to him to plead her case, that was all. She wasn't a kitten running to her parent when trouble hit - she was a grown queen on a mission to avoid the consequences of her actions and that particularly guilt inducing look he'd always give her when she'd really done it that time.

And, funny enough, the only thing that kept passing her mind was how he hadn't even said goodbye - that she hadn't even been around to hear one.

Asparagus sighed, long and loud, bringing Rumpleteazer violently back to the present. He looked withdrawn; if she could say nothing else of him, he knew when to pick his battles. "He should be back tomorrow morning."

"Yeah...yeah, okay," she muttered, backing up a pace. Something unpleasant was bubbling under her skin and every instinct was pushing her to run off

Just like always.

"Why don't you stay?" Asparagus asked hastily, eying how she continued inching away. "Let me just finish up here, and we can eat - I'm sure you're hungry, aren't you?"

And, in reality, Rumpleteazer was hungry. She couldn't remember if she'd eaten that day - she and Jerrie had been working on their plan for the better part of three days, and sometimes trivial things like eating would completely slip her mind. Really, there was no harm at all in staying the evening and eating and waiting for her father with the rest of her family. It might even be a nice change of pace, like it was before, and not like there was much to be done. But Rumpleteazer's brain was itching inside of her skull; she had to leave so she could fix everything. That was best for everyone.

"No, no that's alright, dad." She noted the slight jump in expression, just as she thought the name would invoke. It had been a more common utterance when she was a kitten - and, for the life of her, she can't recall why she'd stopped.

"I'll be back, though, I promise!" Rumpleteazer continued in a rush, as though keeping ahead of her thoughts, drowning them out, would strangle the persistent melancholy that threatened to take hold. She darted her gaze away so she wouldn't catch any disappointment. Even Tumblebrutus looked...well about as concerned as he was wont to be towards her. "Maybe next weekend?"

"Very well," Asparagus said eventually, looking...not hurt, she didn't think, but something in the same vicinity. "I'll let your father know."

"Thanks." She wiggled her way out the door, pausing only a moment to glance back. "I'll...I'll see you later. Goodnight!"

Rumpleteazer was out the door and down the street before she'd realized there'd been no goodnight in return, and she'd left her pearls tangled sadly in the bushes.

---

Asparagus continued to stare at the doorflap, watching the last flick of Rumpleteazer's tail disappear as it swung back and forth. He heaved a sigh, feeling a sudden pressure deep in his chest that he couldn't quite place.

"She's in big trouble," the tom kitten observed from beneath his chin, staring after where his sister had bustled off. There was a certain smugness in the announcement, but Asparagus could hear the beginning shades of begrudging awe and admiration in his tone. Not exactly a thrilling prospect of influence, but at least it suggested...some sort of fondness on his behalf.

"Mm hmm," he agreed, finally letting the tomkitten free from his grasp. He wasn't finished, but the chances of him ever finishing had set sail the moment it'd been interrupted. No matter; he was mostly clean, anyway, and Asparagus felt...trouble settling heavily in his stomach. Tumblebrutus took full advantage, scrambling up and away, leaning over to peer back at his father upside down.

"Is she going to be grounded?" he asked innocently. Asparagus wished it were that simple.

“Depends,” he murmured, feeling - he thought - how it must feel to be heading very quickly towards a wall without being able to stop. There was something on the horizon, he could feel it, he just couldn't put his paw exactly on what. "We'll wait until your father comes home. See what he has to say about it."

Asparagus hoped he had something to say about it - anything at all, at this point.

#CATS Musical #Rumpleteazer #Skimbleshanks #Asparagus #Tumblebrutus #with of course the overtly implied #skimblegus #in there #my fanfic #fanfiction #hey what about...ya'll want some teazer and skimbleshanks semi angst #with my dears thrown into the mixture?#i think teazer and skimble love one another more than anything else but i also think sometimes #when sensibilities clash and you are both very similar people things happen #there's a lot implied here that you can fill in in regards to teazer feeling more distant from her family due to being involved in things #also implied that skimble is...kinda at this point giving up if that makes sense or at least he feels all he really can do is give up #because any usual approach makes it worse #asparagus is trying really hard - tumble just lives there #don't know where this came from tbh i've just been writing nonsense the past few weeks

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mentalisttraceur · 5 months

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Craving (Righteous) Violence

a post on Weaponized Cognition

Got really triggered this morning. Haven't stopped getting re-triggered in the hours since. Once one strong-enough triggering happens, I compulsively run through related scenarios in my head. The first fight-or-flight response wears off while I'm in the middle of imagining something that warrants another.

An old adaptive habit of trying to pre-plan responses that has long ago turned cancerous, unproductively chewing through mental resources as I consider yet more unrealistic extremes which will never happen, all the while real-world stuff gets neglected and I remain just as unprepared and sometimes in my head instead of in the moment when the moment actually comes.

Full of violent rage with nowhere to go, an emotional capability forced to grow and grow and grow until it was strong enough to blast past all my excess empathy, kindness, and compassion, so that I would stop altruistically extending those gifts to abusers and bullies; until it was lingering enough and hairtrigger enough to reliably be there the next time they did something shitty enough, so that I could seize the opportunity to over-retaliate badly enough to emotionally scar into them that it will never be safe to do that again.

I wish I could put all this into the "weaponized" part of the "weaponized cognition" term, when it applies to so much of you that you can be said to be a weaponized human. This. This, thiiiis is what it means to be weaponized as a whole.

To spend entire days tensely bouncing like a wound spring - getting overwound and popping to relieve that, over and over. All because at the start of your day you got exposed to the wrong situation or anecdote from a life somewhere in this world, and your best-trained coping skill is to keep predicting and being ready to pounce onto every possible upcoming offramp to saying "unacceptable / never again" in the language of hurt and violence. To eventually realize that your brain and body have deeply learned that the only path to relief, and one of the most emotionally fulfilling things you could do with your life in general, is to hurt and harm the people who do the bad thing you're triggered about, in ways that reliably make them either choose to stop or unable to continue. To have all the self-care of a particularly intelligent missile or land-mine, because that is the most salient part of "weapon" here. To have to learn to value and actually act and think in ways that care for your own wellbeing and outcomes more than the trauma-etched prime directive to do maximum materially effective damage to the people you've very rightly deemed intolerably dangerous or harmful.

I crave violently breaking doers of acts I find vile almost like some rape victims crave getting raped again. That is the right and necessary analogy, I can use no analogy gentler on your feelings or on your discomfort with ugly truths, no analogy safer to put out there, because neurologically it is by far the most relevantly similar thing. Life-changing emotional experience, locked in by some deep brain mechanism as a thing to go back to, at the peak of adrenaline and trauma... just I was game-changingly hurting the bad person in my situation rather than being hurt by one.

This will be my last and only post that's so viscerally uncouth and negative on this topic, particularly that last analogy. But the world needs this said more.

#cognition #ethics #trauma triggers #constantly triggered #craving violence #weaponized cognition #mentalisttraceur meta #overretaliation

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nemesis-is-my-middle-name · 1 year

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Honestly, I thought about having chandelure use psychic to move them, but talked myself out of it by wondering if the still-frenzied Lady Sneasler side of things might have their danger sense pinged by the 4 times super effective move, even if it was being used non-combatively. But you're right, you're so right, there's no way that Ingo's complete trust of chandelure wouldn't be the overwhelmingly dominant feeling they got from it, especially with all the other factors and sensations involved. It'd be a little strange looking to any bypassers, but either Emmet wouldn't care or could probably find a way to make it look more natural if he needed to.

Okay okay okay, but what if we mix the two and go, Clamberclaw tries to get up and make a nest, because that's like, imperative for ultimate comfort right now, but they're so exhausted and groggy and in pain that they're really uncoordinated so it's mostly just them ineffectually pawing at the bedding and shredding it. So when they try to get off the bed to get more stuff the other pokemon are like "!!! No!! You want nest, we will give you nest, stay and don't hurt yourself!"

And then yes, Emmet goes and finds his bed completely stripped bare, and when he goes to investigate he gets too close to Ingo's bed and gets dragged in. Clamberclaw doesn't care if he's finished what he's doing yet, he's going to stay there where they can very sleepily take care of him when he eventually gives in to the feelings they can finally tell he has now that they're closer to the surface. He did a good job at pretending to be calm while they needed him to be, but now that he's let his guard down some they're able to get a better read on him, which is okay because now they're in a Very Safe Place and won't panic if they see him panicking.

in the span of a couple hours they've gone from overwound and jittery to 99% asleep purring like an engine and ok, yeah, maybe ingo's bed is kind of a mess now, but that's whatever the important thing is they're relaxed and comfortable and emmet's really glad he can stop worrying about them for a minute and go do—

and then they grab him and flip him over and proceed to crush all the air out of his lungs by lying on top of him. found safe comfy nest now it is time to Rest and they are Not taking no for an answer

#the nemesis answers #the nemesis speaks #anonymous #warden fusion au

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magicmonstersandmischief · 7 months

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☹ ☹ to have both wounded? (With Diamond, Clemcy, or Mirian, perhaps?)

61 Severe burn on arm

31 Severe burns all over body

((OH FUN OH FUN OH FUN!!!))

Whatever her internal workings were made of, Clemcy had learned to navigate them with precision and finesse. If it was a sea, he naviagted it like a captain of 50 years. Be it an ice covered lake, he skated its suface, just out of reach of the thin spots that would threaten to have him fall in.

An experienced puppet master and his hand crafted marionette. Clemcy knows not to get tangled in her strings. Knows how to ensure that that power she weilds is never turned in any if his forms.

The experienced captain knows when a tempest is about to roll in, but can they always outrun it?

A spark of revolution behind a dulled iris. Her teeth cletched as cracks spread through the ice, the skys rumbling with an incoming darkness.

She struck as if her arm has become a fanged serpent, jagged fingernails biting into flesh as the thunder finally boomed.

"Have it all."

She seethed, her molars threatening to crack under the tension. A watch overwound, the mechanism finally snaps.

There was no need for flickering lights and dead electronics. The lightning poured from her core and crashed through her arm, pumping pure electricity into Clemcy's body.

At some point, she started screaming.

Not long after, she stopped.

Eventually, she became exhausted. Unable to pull from that endless well on her own for long, she falls to the ground, much of her left arm now burnt down to the deep tissue.

She looked at Clemcy, smiling as she saw that he had the same burns, but all over his body.

The bliss quickly ends as she loses consciousness.

#steph #clemcy #verse: spire #burns #electrocution #electricity

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britesparc · 7 months

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Weekend Top Ten #604

Top Ten Ghosts from Ghosts

This week sees the final series of the superlative Ghosts, and that’s a sentence with more alliteration than I’d expected when it began. It kind of got away from me a little bit there, but I shall attempt to wrangle the wrest of my writing into order.

Or something.

Where was I? Oh yeah, Ghosts. It’s pretty great. It’s a typical British comedy about people trapped in a situation they can’t escape and forced to share their lives with other people they would ordinarily avoid, and end up developing into a loving surrogate family over time, but without any of the wishy-washy stuff an American version of the sitcom would probably force onto the plot. Where Ghosts excels is in both its writing and its performances; it’s genuinely hilarious, which is nice, but the cast are also gifted actors capable of bringing out the warmth and humanity even in the dodgiest or flimsiest of characters. Plus it makes the most of its setting, giving us classic horror tropes and – emerging by degrees – its own brand of supernatural lore, with the ghosts all longing to be “sucked off”.

And now the end is near, and I can’t help but feel there’s going to be something really heartbreaking about it. I think it will feel like one last goodbye to old friends. Although I kinda thought that about Guardians 3 and James Gunn basically decided “everybody lives” and gave all the Guardians their own happy ending (which isn’t the same as being sucked off).

So to celebrate this momentous occasion – and because it’s a great way to kick off the spooky season – I’m now going to rank my favourite spooks in a sitcom; my favourite poltergeists in a programme; my favourite ghosts in Ghosts. Good, eh?

Julian (Simon Farnaby): it’d be very easy for Julian to be a one-note joke; a lecherous and corrupt Tory MP who died in a sex scandal and has to spend the afterlife with no trousers. But Julian is allowed all kinds of subtleties and nuances; despite his multiple vices, his care for his fellow ghosts (and living humans) frequently bubbles up, as does an occasional bubble of regret over his life choices. It’s a really slow-burn, empathetic development of character, as Julian is really still rather reprehensible; but we love him and want him to succeed. And that one-note joke is just persistently funny.

Robin (Laurence Rickard): a caveman whose guttural pidgin utterances can be the source of great amusement; as can the contrast between his prehistoric values (he appears to have married his sister) and the present day. But again it’s a character full of nuance; he’s much smarter and more sensitive than he first appears. And he’s really funny, with a terrific makeup job.

Pat (Jim Howlick): an over-earnest Scouts leader with an arrow through his neck, my love for Pat isn’t really based on nuanced empathy or slowly unpeeling layers of development; he’s pretty much all there day one. But he’s so damn funny, a tour-de-force from Howlick as this organisational nerd, a nice guy determined to keep everyone happy. Probably has the funniest death scene. “You don’t want to see this in your dreams.”

The Captain (Ben Willbond): an uptight, overwound British officer, all stiff upper lift and starched sheets, with an almost Melchett-level Tasche. There’s a lot of fun and nuance right there, but it’s the Captain’s closeted nature that elevates him even higher; the tragedy of his repressed life and the double tragedy that now, about eighty years after he died, he still can’t be honest about himself. Yes, it’s sad, but it’s an informed and beautiful sadness that has something to say. And sometimes it’s really funny too.

Kitty (Lolly Adefope): I could talk again about how Kitty has shades and subtleties that are slowly teased by the writing and performance as the show has developed, but really Kitty’s here because Adefope is damn funny. An almost stupidly naïve character, fantastically childlike, an innocent soul in search of a sister. She’s just great.

Fanny (Martha Howe-Douglas): from comically naïve to comically repressed, Fanny is a puritanical matriarch for whom nothing is good enough and everything is filthy. Of course, this is all mask and projection, and like most of the ghosts here she had a rather tragic life that shaped her death. It’s this juxtaposition between the passions that enflame her (she fancies Kiell Smith-Bynoe’s Mike) and her snotty demeanour that brings the funny. Plus it’s a simply transformative performance.

Mary (Katy Wix): Mary is far more down-to-earth, from her broken malapropism-riddled Black Country dialogue to her matter-of-fact allusions to the more red-blooded facts of medieval life. His sets her apart from a lot of the more repressed characters, and her misunderstandings and failures to grasp modern concepts are also really funny. She also has the terrific hook of having been burnt at the stake.

Thomas (Mathew Baynton): surprisingly low down really, for such a great character and performance. Vainglorious lovesick poet Thomas wanted to be Byron but was shot down (literally) in his prime. His flowery dialogue, his inappropriate pining for Charlotte Ritchie’s Alison, and the frequent gulfs between his ideals and aspirations and the harsh reality of his life and death are all sources of great humour.

Sir Humphrey (Laurence Rickard): a more minor character than others, but a great one. Again it’s basically one gag writ large, as Humphrey had his head cut off and so his ghost is likewise decapitated; his body frequently losing his noggin (or vice versa, I suppose). Humphrey’s head’s grumpy but resigned demeanour when faced with always getting misplaced or lost or put down in the wrong place is priceless. Also: props to Rickard for two great roles here.

The Plague Victims: pretty much all the cast return as the ghosts of an entire village laid low by the plague, destined to spend eternity stuck in a cellar together. That’s all nice and hilarious of course, but the way they’ve become experts on their tiny world (teaching Alison and Mike how to repair the boiler) and their various interactions with the ghosts on the floors above are doubly, triply terrific.

#top ten #ghosts #bbc #tv #sitcom #bbc ghosts

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