#any incoherence is from fatigue

[just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace]

Theatrics (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which Celebrimbor tries to expose you and your husband to the people of Eregion, but you play the role of the innocent maiden to perfection

Warnings: evil!reader, murder, manipulation, mentions of wounds, smut, light choking, blood licking, fingering, p in v, slight roleplay, slight voyeurism kink

Note: part of the evil!reader collection of fics. okay I finally said fuck it and wrote smut *throws it into the wild and runs away*

Mature content below the cut—minors DNI!!!

Chaos roars around you as you step out into what were once the beautiful streets of Eregion. Walls are crumbling, arrows are flying, Elves are scurrying about every which way.

You suppress a smile. All is going according to plan. But what pleases you even more is that at long, long last, the moment which you had been most eager to savour has finally come to pass.

Celebrimbor has learned the truth.

No more tiptoeing around him, playing the unassuming Elven smith. No more taking orders from him, no more assisting him, no more pretending like you are anywhere close to kind and innocent and sweet.

Well, with him, at least. But he is the one you had most strived to fool, ever since you came to Eregion all those years ago, not knowing how long you would have to endure the life you would craft for yourself there until your husband regained his form. When the moment came that you were finally able to stand at your husband’s side in the crumbled forge as Celebrimbor realized who ‘Annatar’ was and what you were to him, when you took in the horror in his eyes as he pointed accusingly to your beloved’s pitch black blood only to watch you lick it hungrily off his hand instead of running in terror...

It nearly made up for all the times the words ‘my lord’ had tasted foul on your lips, spoken to the smith in false submission. You serve no one but your husband—and even that can hardly be called service, when he serves you in return with equal devotion.

You wonder how much of a fool Celebrimbor will have already made of himself even before you find him, wherever he has run off to in the wake of his terrible realization. You and your husband had ensured that by the time Celebrimbor manages to speak against you, all ears would be shut to his words. The Elves once loyal to him now believe him fatigued to incoherency at best, dangerous in his madness at worst. When you had last emerged from the forge, it had been crying and holding a bloody hand, claiming that Celebrimbor had brought Fëanor’s hammer down upon it in a moment of cruel impatience with your work. An illusion, of course, conjured by the part of your husband’s power which lives within you. You have bandaged that hand now, mindful to keep up the charade.

You make sure to fill your eyes with as much dread as any other Elf’s as you run through the chaos, searching for Celebrimbor. Your husband is out here as well, but not with you—it would serve you better to arrive separately for this little special occasion.

By the time you find Celebrimbor on the rampart, he is already quite the pitiful sight—he and Mirdania stand near a section of the parapet which had been wrecked by an Orc boulder, leaving it horribly easy to fall over the edge through the resulting gap. He is screaming at Mirdania that she has to believe him, over and over. She eyes him warily, drawing ever so slightly away, no doubt unsettled to find herself in the proximity of such a disturbed individual and a dangerous fall, all at once. Of all the Elves he could have run to, it had to be the one most taken with your husband’s charms. Oh, this is too perfect.

“My Lord, there you are!” you exclaim. His eyes widen in horror at the sight of you. Yours are awash with concern as you reach for his arm. “It really is not safe for you to be out here—”

Celebrimbor recoils, so violently he nearly knocks Mirdania off her feet as he stumbles into her. She yelps, rushing to your side instead.

“Don’t you dare come near me, you witch!” Celebrimbor spits out, jaw trembling as he yells at the guards, “Seize her!”

You don’t need to see your own face to know you have made it into the perfect picture of confusion and hurt. You exchange a glance with the guard closest to you, Captain Malendol. You’ve shared some laughs over the years, the occasional friendly conversation, even a dance or two at celebrations and the ever-so-subtle flirtation under the supposed influence of a wine glass or two. He likes you quite well, if you do say so yourself. Which makes the bafflement on his face, unlike yours, genuine.

Celebrimbor swallows painfully as realization dawns on him—his own guards no longer obey him. “She is no friend of yours,” he insists, “she never has been! She—”

The words die in his throat when he catches a glimpse of your husband. He has finally joined you, silently making his appearance on the steps behind Celebrimbor, and now the smith is effectively caught between the two of you, even if the trap is utterly invisible to those around you.

“Seize him,” Celebrimbor scrambles to order, “seize them both.”

Malendol stays put. All eyes around Celebrimbor regard him with nothing but sympathy.

“He is Sauron,” he claims desperately, as truthful an attempt as it is fruitless. “Seize them! They have been lying to you all along.”

“No,” Mirdania shakes her head at your side. “Lord Annatar has been protecting us.”

“While you’ve been in your tower, giving orders that might have been the end of us all,” Malendol adds reproachfully.

You allow yourself the slightest raise of a gloating eyebrow, visible only from the angle of Celebrimbor and your husband. As intended, it fuels the rageful despair in the smith’s eyes.

“No,” he all but pleads to be believed. “No, that was him. He is Sauron! And she...” he points a finger which trembles with anger at you, “His foul lover! His depraved mistress! I saw it! Before my eyes, she tasted his blood as if in some... deranged coupling ritual!”

“By the Valar,” you breathe out, swaying on your feet. Such vulgar words would weaken the knees of a faint-hearted maiden. So, accordingly, you begin to fall in Mirdania’s direction, leaving her to scramble into a hasty attempt at holding you upright. Malendol is at your other side in an instant, helping her to support you with a firm arm around your waist.

“My Lord, please,” Malendol says, appalled. “She has been a loyal friend to us for a long time, one who cares for you greatly. How can you say such degrading words about her?”

“Was it not enough,” you burst out tearfully, holding up your bandaged hand, “that you crushed my fingers with Fëanor’s hammer? I believed it to be an accident, but... To have you question my virtue as well...?”

You dissolve into sobs. Your supposedly wounded hand flies to cover your face. The other one, Malendol takes in his, endlessly sympathetic.

The briefest brush of your husband’s mind through the bond you share tells you that the captain is unlikely to survive the siege.

A chuckle bursts from Celebrimbor’s throat, the sound of one driven to insanity. It is funny. All of it. The trouble for him is that you, your husband and Celebrimbor are the only ones who get the joke. And the poor smith is the butt of it.

“Let not yourselves be fooled by her false tears,” he strives, in vain, to convince them. “She has no shame, no care for any of us! Her heart is black—black as his blood.” He turns to your husband as if in sudden realization. “His blood... Cut him open!” he orders. “Look at his hand, see for yourselves!”

He’s nearly gleeful as he says it, genuinely believing he has found the answer to ending his torment. Some of the pity in your eyes is genuine as you look at him with the same dismayed expression as the others’. Your husband knits his brow, as innocent as ever—and lifts his hand to reveal a cut smeared with what appears to the others as utterly natural, perfectly ordinary red blood.

Any trace of hope is drained from Celebrimbor’s eyes. He stares, wordless, jaw quivering as your husband speaks in that calm and composed tone of his.

“You may speak of me as you wish, Celebrimbor. But I will not have you besmirch a kind Elf maiden’s honor, even out of frailty of mind,” says with great sadness Annatar, the divine messenger who has most certainly never laid one pristine finger upon your most demure self. “Please,” he addresses the guards, “escort him back to the forge.”

But the guards exchange glances, hesitating. It was one thing taking orders from your husband when it came to defending the city, but it appears they do not yet dare lay hands on their supposed true lord. They are very close, though, merely in need of the slightest nudge over the edge. Such as a word from their captain, but Malendol wavers, just as torn. Ensuring that you are indeed steady on your feet, he releases you and lays a hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip as if to ready himself, but hesitates to give the order. You exchange a nervous glance with Mirdania, who is still at your side, hands on your arm.

A nudge... over... the edge.

You wouldn’t even need the bond between your minds to know that you and your husband are thinking the exact same brilliantly awful thing.

You release a shuddering breath, leaning on Mirdania only the slightest bit more. At once, her hold on you tightens reassuringly.

“Come,” she says, beginning to tug you away, “let us get you some water.”

You nod, visibly grateful to follow her. You halt after a couple of steps, however, just as you are passing Celebrimbor, and turn to him as if with sudden determination. At your back stand Mirdania, a gap in the wall and the field of raging Orcs below, and before you is the smith glaring daggers filled with more disdain than you even imagined he possessed. You meet that scornful gaze with nothing but a pained smile.

“I forgive you, you know,” you murmur, only just loud enough for the guards to catch your words as well. “Get better soon, my dear friend.”

Whether it’s your words, imbued with such sickly saccharine affection, or the hand you lay upon his shoulder with utmost gentleness, Celebrimbor loses his last shred of restraint.

“Get your hands off me!” he roars.

It happens quickly, much too quick for anyone to notice exactly what occurred (as was, of course, your intention). Celebrimbor shoves you away with all his strength, causing you to crash into Mirdania, and—perhaps she might have been able to catch herself, if not for the flick of your husband’s wrist which makes her trip over her feet and tumble over the edge of the rampart, screaming all the way down into the Orc-riddled mud field below.

You certainly possess the power to keep your own balance, but you still yelp and stagger through the couple of backward steps that have you nearly slipping off the edge as well. Malendol, however, manages to catch you in the nick of time, as you had seen he was already desperately rushing to do. He yanks you toward him, and you collide with his chest only for your legs to play the part of finally giving out. The heroic captain keeps his hold on you as you crumble to the ground, hyperventilating.

Celebrimbor’s “No!” rings out as he stares down at the fallen Mirdania, but she is just as lost as any sympathy the guards still held for him. You scramble on your hands and knees to look over the edge just in time to see an Orc bring a hatchet down upon her, and shriek her name as you burst yet again into sobs. You keep them coming, loud and miserable, as Malendol helps you to your feet and you fall into his arms with enough force to push him a few steps back, burying your face in his neck.

Discreetly glancing over your shoulder, you see your husband speaking with Celebrimbor. But so loud are your cries, and so intent is Malendol on offering you words of comfort over them, that the others cannot hear their trusted Lord Annatar strip Celebrimbor of the last of his fight with a final threat. Finish the Nine, and I will spare your city.

This time, when your husband turns to the guards and repeats, “Escort him to the forge, please!” they comply without question.

It’s only once Celebrimbor is out of sight that you begin to quiet your sobs, pulling away from Malendol.

“It’s all right,” he comforts you, releasing you from his embrace but still resting his hands on your arms. “He shall trouble you no longer.”

“He meant to throw me over that wall,” you whisper, voice laced with terrible guilt. “Poor Mirdania died because of me!”

Your husband is standing a few feet away, gazing sorrowfully down to where Mirdania lies dead. He had, after all, made his preference of her quite apparent to the others. It would seem odd if he did not spare a moment to mourn.

“No, not because of you,” Malendol insists. “It was but the doing of Lord Celebrimbor’s troubled mind. You must not hold yourself responsible for anything he has done or said.”

“What he said... Oh, what he said!” you whisper, mortified, and lean closer to Malendol as if to conceal your words from your husband, “How am I to face Lord Annatar now?”

“Please,” your husband speaks, and you turn as if startled to find him coming to you with a most sympathetic gaze. “You have not the slightest reason to be ashamed. I only regret that you had to endure such vile accusations, and witness such tragedy. You must not blame yourself for it.”

“Such is her nature, my Lord,” Malendol says, his hand now at the small of your back in a gesture of kind support. “Of all the Elves in Eregion, she is least deserving of such scorn, and suffers the most for it.”

Oh. Between embracing you as you cried on his shoulder and the sheer affection in his voice as he sings you praises, he might as well have gone for a little tea with the Orcs, too. Forget the whole siege—now you doubt your husband will let him survive the hour.

Lord Annatar, however, offers the captain a most gracious smile.

“Thank you, captain,” he says, “for being a most loyal friend when your friendship was most needed. I shall see to it that your honourable deeds are well rewarded.”

Malendol bows his head respectfully, blissfully unaware that his ‘reward’ will very much resemble Mirdania’s.

“Performing one’s moral duty is a reward in itself, my lord. Come,” he turns to you, “let us bring you to safety.”

“No,” your husband says—a fraction of a second too quickly. The slip is much too brief to be caught and the recovery utterly seamless. “You are needed in battle, Captain Malendol. I shall see to it that she makes it safely back inside.”

Malendol exchanges a glance with you, and upon your slight nod, he says, “Of course.” As if on a sudden impulse, he turns to face you, taking your hand in his.

“Fear not, my friend. We shall prevail,” he vows. And leaves a gallant kiss on your knuckles before he takes his leave.

It’s all you can do to school your expression as you are left alone with your husband—well, ‘alone’ in the sense that no one’s focus is trained on you at the moment, but you can hardly risk one of the soldiers catching a glimpse of your triumphant smile when you had gone through so much trouble to earn their sympathy. As such, you meet your husband’s composed gaze with a somewhat shy one, quickly lowering your eyes as though you do not dare hold it for long.

He does not speak a word as he walks you back into the tower, never once attempts to place even so much as a guiding hand at the small of your back. There is the sound of destruction around you, the screams of Elves, but loudest in your mind is the tumultuous blend of emotions within your bond. So proud, so satisfied, so hungry for each other the high of victory in your wicked plans has made you, the very air thrums with the vibrancy of it.

And as if that was not potent enough, there is also that sweet possessive ire you love to rouse within each other, even when you are well aware that no being in existence could ever truly come between you. For them, to merely glance in longing at one of you is a death sentence from you both. Mirdania had sought out your husband’s touch, Malendol had dared embrace in comfort one who belongs solely in her husband’s arms. It matters not that they were allowed, even led into it. When you and your husband play such games, collateral damage is a given.

The moment you are inside the tower, you expect some kind of climax to the tension—you are most eager to be ravaged by its force, whether he should devour your lips to celebrate your flawless performance or crowd you against the wall to thoroughly replace the captain’s innocent touches with his ruinous ones.

But he does neither. He remains as impassive as though you are still being watched. Provoking you into lighting the fuse of the impending explosion yourself. Very well, then. You shall do so gladly.

“Pity about Mirdania, though,” you remark nonchalantly as you ascend the steps to the forge. “I would have liked to see her face when she realized the object of her little infatuation was the Dark Lord himself.”

“Fear not, my love,” your husband says, eerily calm and without looking back as he walks ahead of you. “We shall soon have the pleasure of a similar realization on Captain Malendol’s face, right before I run him through with his own sword.”

Unseen by him, you smirk.

“Well, he was rather eager to save my life,” you goad. “Perhaps he has earned the privilege to die in blissful ignorance after all.”

Only your footsteps fill the following silence until you reach the top of the stairs. You’ve barely climbed the last step when he turns around and—you yelp as your husband quite literally sweeps you off your feet, whisking you bridal style towards your bedchamber, instead of the forge. A giggle escapes you as you cling to him, quite pleased with the reaction you have elicited.

“Tell me, my love,” he says, kicking the door shut behind you, “what need have you of a common Elf captain to save you from falling,” you are unceremoniously released onto the bed, with your husband climbing over you not a moment later, “when you are bound to one of the Maiar who would sooner destroy the foundations of the earth than let you slip from his grasp?”

His hand is sliding up your thigh, lifting your dress on its way. He is a Maia possessed, caught between the high of triumph and the thrill of the chase at which you two so like to play, and you can hardly think of a witty answer when his fingers are only a breath away from where your flesh aches for his touch the most.

But a wicked thought prevails, and you shove him away with all your might. Still, it’s the shock of it rather than your force which knocks him to the side, allowing you to scramble off the bed. It’s almost comical, the half-confused, half-enraged look he gives you.

“Lord Annatar!” you gasp, ostentatiously doe-eyed and quite scandalized as you smooth down your dress in haste. “Surely you do not mean to lure me into some... ‘deranged coupling ritual’?” A little smile flashes through your little act while you savour Celebrimbor’s earlier words on your tongue. “And in the midst of a siege as well!”

You back away from him with slow, tantalizing steps, watching in delight as his gaze darkens in a deliciously sensual threat.

“You loved it, didn’t you?” he says, standing from the bed to walk towards you with all the patient grace of a wolf stalking prey. “Acting the innocent little maiden. Prone to fainting at the merest... suggestion of impropriety.”

His strides are larger than yours, and before long he is close enough to surge forward, swiftly closing the distance between you and grabbing hold of your neck with his blood-coated hand. You gasp as your back suddenly hits the wall, closer than you had realized it was, leaving you pinned between the cool stone and your husband’s body. Your hands fly to his wrist and his lips hover close to yours, teasing you with the promise of a kiss. You chase it just to be cruelly deceived as he evades your mouth, a wicked smile upon his as he lightly but decidedly pushes your head back against the wall.

“Be grateful, my innocent little smith, that there is a siege,” he says in a lurid whisper, releasing your throat to bunch up the skirt of your dress with both hands, “for your fellow Elves are far too distracted to hear you fall apart beneath my touch.” Your undergarments are pushed to the side, and you are so wound up that even the maddeningly light press of his fingers between your legs draws a loud whimper from you. Your husband leans into your ear as you shut your eyes, hips helplessly chasing the slow little circles he makes around your aching bud. “I should hate for anyone to ‘question your virtue’.”

His tongue makes a mockery of your own words from earlier, just before you feel its warmth at the hollow of your throat. You arch your neck as he licks upwards, long and slow, towards your jaw, gathering the blackness his wounded hand had smeared onto your skin. That same hand is now splayed over your rampant heart, holding you down as you fist your hands in the fabric of his garments and writhe with the pleasure he languidly stokes between your thighs. He kisses you, and when his tongue plunges past your lips, your mouth fills with the sweetly metallic taste of his blood, more intoxicating than the strongest liquor. You moan, long and wanton, whining for the firmer, faster, deeper touch he is withholding.

Your husband chuckles. It infuriates you.

“Oh, but you loved it too, didn’t you? When he—ah!” You suck in a sharp breath as he slips two long fingers inside you. Your wetness makes it easy, your body welcoming the familiar intrusion with nigh unbearable delight. It takes great willpower not to shut your eyes, to hold his gaze as he curls his fingers expertly, right where he knows it feels the most divine. “Did you not like it when he called me yours?” you insist, breathlessly. “Did you not want to show them yourself?”

If possible, his eyes darken even further, and his fingers pump inside you with more vigour. “Had it not been utterly counterproductive to our purpose,” he says, voice low and gruff, “I would have taken you right there upon the rampart and proved him right.”

The image is so sudden and vivid before your eyes, it pulls a pitiful mewl from your throat.

“I would have let you,” you gasp, and crush your lips to his with desperate abandon. “I want them to know.”

A guttural sound escapes his throat, and all of a sudden he withdraws his fingers, leaving you achingly empty. You think your legs might give out if it weren’t for his firm hold on you as he pulls you to the nearby window, twisting you around so that your back is against him and you plant your hands on the waist-level windowsill for support.

“Look,” he rasps out in your ear. “Do you see our soon-to-be army, my love? The very first of our devoted subjects?”

In the distance, Orcs holler crude names at each other, ready battle devices, send an endless rain of arrows over the walls of Eregion. It isn’t a pretty sight, but the terror it strikes in the hearts of their enemies and their power of destruction shall be wielded by you and your husband in the near future—and that is no small thing.

You nod, letting the thought sink in and add to the onslaught of elation already driving you wild. Your husband coils one arm around your stomach as the other wraps around your throat once more and he pulls you into him. Your bare folds meet his clothed erection, and you push back against him with a wanton moan, desperate for the friction.

“They shall be followed by Men,” he continues, rutting against you with animalistic greed, “and Dwarves, and Elves, until every single soul in Middle-Earth has been brought to their knees to worship at the feet of their King and Queen. Then, we shall at long last stand together before them all.”

“A love greater than ever was or ever will be,” you say, high-pitched and breathless, as if you are repeating words you have told yourself a thousand times. “All shall aspire to be us, yet none shall succeed.”

You are released abruptly. You hear the shuffle of fabrics, and sure enough, the swollen tip of him is soon nudging at your entrance.

“And how beautiful you shall be, my love,” your husband whispers, the sheer reverence in his voice a stark contrast to his lurid words, “with a crown upon your head, and my cock buried deep within you.”

He slides in to the hilt, quick and powerful, and you cry out. You could take him a million times, in a million different ways, and yet the perfect fit would never cease to steal your breath. He withdraws only to thrust back in, then again, setting a punishing rhythm which is nearly enough to obliterate any semblance of coherent thought from your mind. It would be so easy to let him plough into you just like this until you come undone, yet you crave something else. More.

“Wait,” you plead, planting a hand onto his hip to push him away. “Let me... let me...”

He does, letting himself slip from you with a rueful grunt. You turn to face him on unsteady legs, to look upon his face as you had so longed to—the only reason which had given you the will to interrupt your pleasure as you did. Your eyes never leave his as you seat yourself upon the windowsill, lifting your skirts once more. “I want all that,” you confess as he nestles his hips between your spread legs. “But I want you more.” He groans as you stroke his length, then guide the weeping tip back to your entrance. “I want it with you, or not at all.”

Your voice is so thin, it nearly chokes out at the end, your chest constricted with emotion—with the fear of being forced to let go as you have been before, always present in the deepest corner of your hearts. Something flickers in your husband’s gaze, the same anguish which wrenches at your soul.

“My love,” he breathes out the words as though they are the last thread by which his very existence hangs. “My love,” he vows and prays and fiercely claims as he nestles himself in your tight heat once more. You don’t know which sinks deeper into you—his swollen cock or the look in his eyes, which remain devastatingly locked with yours as he joins your flesh. Perhaps there is some innocence left in you to be ruined after all, for so raw and disarmed you are left by this union, tears spring in your eyes, slipping down your cheeks. Your husband gathers them with his lips and tongue as he rocks into you anew, far from gentle but less brutal than before, with deep, long thrusts that leave you too weak to sit up if it weren’t for his arms holding you to him.

Outside, the battle rages on. Inside, you fight to prolong this, to wring every last drop of the sweet torment that is your ascent to the peak of your pleasure. You lay a hand over your husband’s heart, feeling it hammer on in tandem with yours as he drives into you with increasing urgency. You are reduced to a string of incoherent mewls as you bury your face in your husband’s neck, mindlessly licking and biting at his skin.

His sounds of pleasure are less loud, but much deeper as they reverberate beneath your lips. You want more—so you fist your hand in his hair, with no mercy for the carefully-crafted bow at the back of his head. Crafted by you, on a playful whim the very morning before the siege began—he’d teased and claimed you were sure to ruin your own work the next time he would bed you. You don’t even think of that now, consumed by pleasure as you tug and pull with abandon, feeling the fair tresses come apart beneath your fingers. It drives your husband even wilder with lust than he already was, and he grabs your face to devour your lips as he spirals closer to his release.

Your own takes over you in an abrupt instant, right as your husband reaches between you to rub your swollen bud above where you are joined. You sob into his mouth, trembling as your hips thrash in a confused attempt to both escape and chase the unbearable height of pleasure thrust upon you.

Your husband fucks you through it, pulling you close and cooing in your ear, calling you his and ‘love’ and all sorts of adoring things in Black Speech through his own heavy breaths. Your name falls from his lips in a ragged moan as he finds his pleasure, and you feel it echo through your bond with nearly as much power as your own. His seed will not take unless he wills it so, and neither of you wish for that, but you still clench around him longingly, greedy to draw every last drop of him as deep within yourself as possible, because it is him. You’d spend each second of your life with him inside of you, if not for the impracticality of it.

Once spent, your husband remains as he is, simply holding you to him. He cradles your head in his hands, pressing sweet kisses to your hair, and you are too weak to do anything but sag against him whilst you regain your breath.

“Why, Lord Annatar,” you whisper, smiling tiredly, “I’m starting to suspect you might have impure intentions towards me after all.”

He gives a soft chuckle, pulling away to look at you. “Whatever gave you that idea, my lady?”

The innocuous words are followed by your husband gently withdrawing himself from you, leaving a great, leaking mess between your legs. The only response you can give is a soft groan as his fingers gather some of his spend from your sensitive folds, and gently press it back inside of you where it belongs. With a small, satisfied hum, he steps away to tuck himself back into his garments. You press your legs together, sighing contently at the delightful ache left in the aftermath of your lovemaking.

“However will you keep up this innocent act of yours,” your husband muses, “now that I shall be dripping down your beautiful thighs with every step you take?”

“Please,” you say coyly, standing up and fixing your dress as though your undergarments are not soaked beyond hope beneath it, and your legs don’t still feel a bit unsteady. “I’ve managed before.”

He smiles knowingly. “Indeed, you have.” He pulls you close by the waist, as if you haven’t just parted from one another. “Always so eager to wear me,” he praises, and there is nothing insincere about your flustered little smile now. It’s true that you delight in wearing what he gives you, whether it be his spend nestled between your legs or a less secretive gift. Which reminds you of the gift you had given him to wear. You lay a hand on his cheek and coax him to turn his head silghtly, pouting when you glimpse the mess of tangled tresses you have made in his hair.

“You were right,” you admit, somewhat regretful, “I did ruin the bow.”

“Like the merciless creature that you are,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to your lips. When you pull back, his appearance has already been restored. It isn’t quite as meaningful, now that his power did the work instead of your hands, but you suppose you’ve been gone long enough already. Now that your hunger for each other has been sated, your husband shares that sentiment.

“Come, now,” he says, taking your hand and making for the door. “I believe Celebrimbor is in need of encouragement with his work.”

“What are we, if not encouraging?” you quip, and gladly follow his lead.

Previous fic with same reader -> Reveal

Next fic with same reader -> Old wounds

[cedarmoonzz]

between the bars •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

followed by: once more to see you and slow like honey

fandom: gravity falls

ship: ford pines x reader

warnings: brief mention of boners, making out, angst

summary:

being engaged to the world’s smartest idiot feels like navigating a storm while he’s engrossed in his portal research. you wonder if there’s anything you can do to help him.

Three months.

Ninety-one sleepless, tormented days. 

That’s how long you’ve watched Ford, once so full of life, become a shell of himself.

Each day seems to blend into the next, weighed down by the crushing demands of his portal. His bright eyes have lost their spark, replaced by a weary, distant look that suggests he is fighting a constant battle with exhaustion. He’s always buried in his research, disappearing into a maze of endless calculations and theories, only coming up to ask for coffee, food, or help with his measurements. Each interaction is a reminder of the distance that has grown between you, making you ache for the vibrant person he is beneath all the work. It allows you to realize something.

Stanford is an incredibly stubborn man.

You count your breaths, letting the full force of Ford’s distance fill you. Once a day, only in the evening, you allow yourself to feel abandoned, lost, and alone—but only here, only in the evening, before Stanford trudges upstairs for his third pot of coffee. Afterwards, you must set these feelings aside, for there is still so much work to be done, so much still at stake.

Stanford lets you handle all the paper calculations and complex math for the portal, trusting you with the intricate details crucial to his project. Yet, despite your role, he keeps you from seeing the fruits of your labor. You are barred from the basement, the place where the results of your hard work come to life. This exclusion only deepens your sense of isolation and frustration, as you toil endlessly without ever truly understanding the impact of your efforts. The distance between what you contribute and what you’re allowed to see only reinforces the feeling of being a cog in a machine, valued for your skills but denied any real connection to the end result.

Beyond the kitchen door, you can hear your lab mates arguing. The last light of day was leaking through the fissures of the window shutters, changing shape as they paced outside, their shadows stretching to where you sit, hidden, not yet prepared to face them. Though you could not make out their words, you could detect the urgency in their voices. You pressed your palms against your eyes and sighed, then rolled up the loose sleeves of Stanford’s (now your) sweater.

With a harsh, abrupt grunt, akin to the percussive crack of a twig beneath a boot, your fiancé wrenched the splintered door open, slamming it shut with a resounding thud. You were jolted from your thoughts, having been lost in your own reverie as the unexpected noise shattered your concentration. As he stood there, his face etched with a mixture of anger and exhaustion, you could see the deep lines of fatigue and frustration carved into his features. He muttered a stream of incoherent curses under his breath, his visible irritation and weariness painting a stark picture of his emotional state.

Softly, you encouraged him. “Ford, what is it?”

He didn’t answer; he only stood, looking at you as if he might scream.

“It’s Fiddleford!” Stanford growled. “He’s speaking nonsense! Trying to propose that only bad can come from the portal we spent months on! Your calculations, my handiwork and experience? All down the drain because McGucket is scared? It’s ridiculous! I should’ve never trusted him. It seems I can trust no one with my work these days!”

His words caught you between places: you stare down at the ring that graced your finger, the tea kettle whistling, trails of steam emitting behind you, leaving you in between your selves.

“No one?” you repeat, but did not elaborate further. You did not want to be cruel to him, but now that he had insulted you (now, of all times, when you were working so hard to understand him), it was difficult to resist lashing out at him.

Ford paused, words caught between his teeth as you stood in silence. “[Y/n]… my love.” Regret crept into his voice, daring to color his words with a warmth you were sure was genuine—but rather than comfort, it only wounded you. “Of course I can trust you. This portal… It wouldn’t be possible without your work.”

It broke you—or broke what feeble grip you had on yourself, the reserves of strength you used to keep your grief and despair in check all spent.

“My work,” you spat out, almost hissing the words through clenched teeth. You threw the kettle off the stove and pivoted to confront him, closing the distance between you with two broad, angry strides. Pointing a finger at him, you seethed, “Is that all the trust you have? Just your precious portal? Ford, when was the last time you actually talked to me? I can't deal with this anymore! I followed you all the way to Gravity Falls, to the middle of nowhere, and you barely let me see the full scope of my work. Always holed up in the basement.”

Your palm remains red from the heat of the kettle’s handle, but that does not burn as bad as the heat of your fiancé’s abandonment. And still, stupidly, in spite of it all, you wanted to trust Ford. To believe that there was a reason, an explanation for all the half-truths and deceptions. You want to protect him. You want your answers. You want to see him: not a passing nod of acknowledgment, or a pat on the back as you walk past him, or a fragment of him in a dream, but his skin in the flesh, and you loathe yourself for how badly you want it… but you turn that loathing outward, funneling it through the anger, and set the air around you crackling with fury.

As you glared at him, a profound sense of abandonment and worthlessness enveloped you like a shroud. It felt as though you had been reduced to nothing more than a glorified calculator in Ford’s eyes—a mere instrument, a cog in the vast machinery of his ambitions, used and discarded with no regard for your own significance. The weight of your perceived insignificance bore down on you, each moment in his shadow a reminder of how fleeting and unimportant your role had become. The very essence of your being seemed to diminish with every unacknowledged contribution, leaving you to wrestle with the crushing realization that your efforts and sacrifices had been eclipsed by his relentless pursuit, barely noted and even less appreciated.

Stanford’s eyes met yours, narrowing ever so slightly as he took in the gravity of the moment. He measured the tension between you, a flicker of regret crossing his features as he struggled to comprehend the full extent of your pain. The silence stretched on, thick with unspoken remorse, before he finally cleared his throat, his voice betraying a hint of sorrow for the hurt he had caused and the realization of how far he had let things go.

“I'm sorry, [Y/n].” Stanford reached out to hold your waist—and did you imagine it, or did you lean into that touch, pressing your body to the warmth of his open palms? You swallowed. Softly, he asked you, “Do you want me to go?”

You shook your head, more as an excuse to look away from him than anything—now that you had reprimanded him, you realized just how close he was, and your hair fell in front of your eyes, offering you a moment of reprieve. It was difficult having him so near; when your rage subsided, you were left with a profound sense of abandonment and a wounded heart. In a voice tinged with desperation and hurt, you asked, “Why can’t you just let me help you, Ford?”

As the words left your lips, you found yourself instinctively moving closer, your breath mingling with his. The proximity heightened the tension between you, the unspoken emotions crackling in the air. Your lips nearly brushed his as you whispered, the vulnerability in your voice blending with an undeniable, charged intimacy.

“[Y/n],” he begs, but he keeps his hands around your waist. “It’s dangerous…” But even as he speaks, his head is falling towards yours, his mouth ajar and questing, breath ragged.

You lift your hand from the collar of Stanford’s lab coat to hold his face, running your thumb tenderly over the stubble that graced his sharp jawline.

“I’m just as capable as Fiddleford,” you whisper, only inches between you now, so close that you can feel his breath on your neck as you speak the words. “Let me prove myself to you.”

Ford shudders. When his eyes meet yours again, they read something within them—perhaps some hidden fate or doom—and then, he remains. He holds you in his eyes like he is weighing you, or trying to carry a piece of you away with him. With a weary sigh, he lifts his hands to frame your face instead, tracing your cheek with his thumb. He leans forward—you dare not breathe—and presses his lips to your brow, just below the line of your hair. You can feel the soft warmth of his breath against the top of your head. Your eyes sting with tears; you will your body not to shake.

“I know you’re incredibly intelligent, but what Fiddleford saw in that portal… it ruined him. I don’t want the same fate for you.” He pleads, raising a hand of his own as if to pry yours from his face, but it trembles instead, then covers yours, holding the warmth of your palm to his cheek. “It is not that simple.”

“It can be,” you insist, as you lower your other hand to rest above his frantic, pounding heart. “It is.”

The space between the two of you is shrinking before you know whether you or Ford had moved first. Then your palm was carding through the tangled brown hair at the back of his head, drawing him closer as you kiss. When your mouths first met, Ford flinched, as though he might retreat… but he parted his lips for you, and your knees weaken at the taste of his tongue. You clutched his lab coat; his hands danced across your waist to the small of your back and held you against him. His heat rose against you; you could feel him through his slacks, insistent against your thigh—

“I’m sorry,” Stanford whispers, his lips brushing against yours before he pulls away. He turns abruptly and exits the room. Without another word, he heads straight for the basement, leaving you standing there, your heart aching with the weight of unsaid confessions and unfulfilled desires. The intensity of the moment lingers in the air, a palpable reminder of the emotional distance that remains between you.

The way he looked at you was too much; so much unspoken between the two of you, so much you wish to tell him, confess to him: how he always makes you feel safe. That this whole research project, the calculations and all, had only ever been bearable because he had let you be by his side. That his presence is more valuable to you than anything; that you had treasured every moment spent with him. That you’re worried for him.

That you felt like he was in danger, and you were running out of time.

[v4mpvelocity]

PATHETIC

pairing: Myung-Gi (player 333) x reader

SMUT

warnings: subby Myung-Gi, masturbation, edging, slight voyeurism (in the squid game bathrooms), use of 'mama'

A/N i had so many drafts for this but this one won, i hope it was good this is my second fanfic, i really think its shit but practice makes perfect. NOT PROOF READ

Myung-Gi, the man who noticed you the first day of the games, infatuated with your appearance. Fixated as if you were the epitome of life itself. He felt his heart race and palms become slick with sweat whenever you locked eyes with him or spoke to him.

Myung-Gi, the man who would do anything he could for any sort of validation from you, even if it meant him embarrassing himself in front of others. You were hungry? have his food, he doesn't want it anyways. Tired? you can take a nap on him that's no worries he doesn't mind. He was so pathetic, and he knew it, he just didn't care.

Myung-Gi, the man who would sneak off to the bathroom during lunch just to masturbate over you after you complimented him, as if he were some horny schoolboy with a crush. His mind creating fantasies he craved to become reality, the thought of you praising him whilst fisting his cock and denying him an orgasm sent jolts of pleasure through his spine.

Myung-Gi, the man who would whine and whimper like a little bitch when he came, tears streaming down his face as he spilled into his hand after edging himself for the past half hour. Cleaning up and looking in the mirror at the state of himself, flushed face and tear stains adorning his pale complexion.

Myung-Gi, the man who would dream of you at night, fisting his cock just as he had done a few hours ago. Calling him a good boy whilst denying him an orgasm, leaving him whimpering and writhing in his sleep. Waking up to his pants slick after cumming in them like a virgin after his vulgar dreams he had the previous night.

Myung-Gi, the man who was now sitting on the toilet seat in the bathroom, tears streaming down his face as you were fisting his cock as you had been for the past 30 minutes. His tip flushed and angry, cock twitching with every stroke of you hand on his delicate skin. His tip weeping with pre-cum, just for you to swipe your thumb over it and use it as lubrication while you jerked him off.

'Please...please...please need to cum so bad....fuck please' Myung-Gi whined out followed by a noise that was something between a choked moan or sob. 'I've been good....fuck I've been a good boy- please....please let me cum'

God he was such a loser, crying and begging for permission to cum after being edged for what felt like hours as if he wasn't a grown man. The line between pain and pleasure quickly becoming a blur, his cock twitching with overstimulation.

'I don't think you deserve to yet....think you can be a good boy and hold on..hm?' I said my movement speeding up as my tongue flicked against his sensitive slit, gathering his salty pre-cum on my tongue.

'G-god oh fuck...gonnaa...nggh..need to be good for you mama,' He said followed by a high pitched whine. His hands gripping at anything and everything they could, he needed something to ground himself before he passed out from the intense sensations abusing his body. He'd do anything for validation from you though, he needed it as if it was oxygen itself.

'You think you've earned it, hm?' I said mockingly, taking in his flushed expression and tear-stained cheeks as he pleaded and whined incoherent sentences, god he looked pathetic, like such a submissive little bitch when he was meant to be a man.

'You can cum, go on' At those words Myung-Gi let out a flurry of words scrambled with 'thank you' and a string of curses, letting out a high pitched moan as he spilled into my hand. Thighs shaking and cock twitching at the expense of the intense sensations he had just endured. Fatigue crashing over him like a freight train, sweat-covered strands clinging to his forehead. He was wrecked, but he liked it.

I helped him clean up and made him look somewhat presentable,

'Ready to go back out?' I said looking him up and down ensuring most of the evidence of our encounter was gone.

'y-yeah..i mean yeah I am' Myung-Gi said running a hand through his hair as we left the bathroom and went back to the main area, he was going to need a real good excuse this time.

[kaileyrose28]

A Feeling

Note.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ: A Feeling is about an established relationship between Tim and Reader. Reader is the second roommate living in Tim’s apartment—done to split costs, Tim wanted to live independent from Bruce's money. The only problem is the other roommate has no sense of boundaries. A real… nice guy. 

18+ 

Content warning: Feferences to potential rape (described as a ‘feeling’ and ‘vibe’), harassment, not taking discomfort or no as what it is.

6,071 words. Second person POV oriented.

Exhaustion draped over Tim like a weighted blanket, the kind he welcomed after a night like this.

He barely remembered climbing the stairs, barely felt the doorknob turn beneath his fingers. The apartment was dim, save for the soft glow of the kitchen light. Late. Too late to be awake, and yet, he could hear voices. Not loud, but enough.

Noah. Of course.

His voice carried that easy confidence, that persistent hum of someone who thought they were charming. He didn’t have to see to know you were there, just off to the side, probably with that polite smile you always wore when he was like this. The kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Tim wasn’t in the mood to deal with it. His body ached, the adrenaline long since burned through, replaced by a bone-deep fatigue. His jacket felt heavier than it should as he shrugged it off, his boots dragging against the floor.

Noah didn’t acknowledge him right away. He was too caught up in whatever half-assed attempt at flirtation he was trying this time. 

Too close. Always too close.

You laughed, but it wasn’t real. He knew you enough to know that.

Tim could’ve said something. Should’ve. But the words caught in his throat, tangled in exhaustion and the quiet understanding that it wouldn’t make a difference.

You didn’t need saving.

He needed sleep.

His bed was calling, but he felt your eyes on him. That familiar, unspoken thing passing between them. Concern. Worry. Maybe something else Tim didn’t have the energy to name.

He muttered something incoherent—maybe a goodnight, maybe nothing at all—and let his door shut behind him.

Collapsing onto the mattress, he barely had the strength to pull the blankets over him before sleep pulled him under.

You’ve been alone practically all day with Noah, aside from the short time he worked—remotely like you unfortunately—but every moment before that and after that was full of being harassed left and right under the guise of ‘innocent flirting’ or however he puts it. 

So, when Tim all but walked past you and Noah and mumbled something you didn’t catch before he was already in his room, you were honestly a little… unnerved. 

You couldn’t fault him for it though, he was probably exhausted. 

But you didn’t want to be alone with Noah. 

In the simplest of terms, you don’t trust the man. Don’t want to find out what he’s capable of if he reads something wrong, if he’ll take your uncomfortable stance as an invitation. 

They slowly move from the kitchen to the hall—you trying to get to your room, him following you like you aren’t.

“Come on. I promise it’ll be worth it, just one night.” He says, the nickname he came up with for you falling from his lips, his grin promising nothing but… something else. Something not worth anything. 

“I’m busy, you know that. Work, school, I just don’t have time.” You try to be light-hearted, keeping a smile on your face. 

One wrong move isn’t on the table, you don’t want to tempt fate with a mistake.

“Oh, that’s bullshit. We have the same schedule. I’m just asking for one date. C’mon.” He steps closer to you, more in your space then he’s been before. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t what you’ve navigated before. 

He’s maintained distance before, like there was a line between them he hadn’t wanted to cross yet. It was harmless, aside from being emotionally draining. 

But that line, that line didn’t feel like it was as deep as before. It didn’t feel like he had any issues with crossing it tonight. 

It makes your stomach knot up, your heart beats faster, and your skin gets all clammy. 

It took a while for Tim to fall asleep. Too many thoughts, too many... feelings, still churning in his head, mixing with the exhaustion and the lingering memories of the night. When he finally started to drift off, it was to the distant sound of voices beyond his door.    

He could make out Noah's voice easily enough—low, persistent. And your soft, hesitant responses. There was no mistaking the tension in your voice, even through the wood of the door.    

He was tempted to get up, to check on you. But he was just so damn tired.

Your hand moved behind your back as you moved one step at a time down the hall, walking backward—you aren’t comfortable with the idea of turning your back on Noah right now, if you ever have been. 

You grab the first doorknob to come into contact with your hand. 

You push the door open behind you, stepping through before quickly closing the door in Noah's face—it’s rude, it is, but you were just… honestly scared shitless right now. 

The familiar smell in the room tells you it’s in fact not your room. It’s in fact Tim’s. 

You jump when the door shakes with a loud knock against it, followed by Noah's voice. “Fuck, fuck—” you murmur, frantic, booking it towards his bed, which honestly felt like the safest place you could be right now. 

“Tim— Timmy.” You rush his name out quietly, crawling onto his bed.

Tim’s eyes snapped open at the sudden, urgent sound of his name. He was still half-asleep, disoriented for a second, before he realized the voice was... yours. 

What were you doing in here?    

Before he could even fully sit up, he saw you climbing onto the bed. You looked panicked, your breaths coming in short bursts. And then it clicked.    

Noah.    

Tim shifted onto his elbows, quickly more awake. He mumbles your name quietly, his voice rough with sleep. "What's going on?"

You don’t even know how to articulate it to him, or even to yourself. It’s a feeling, you just know Noah wasn’t planning to do anything good or back off. 

He hadn’t tried anything past trying to get you to go out with him, but tonight just felt… different. 

It was terrifying. 

You crawl up his bed the rest of the way, your hand finding his arm in the dark—just to make sure he’s still where you saw him. You sit on your knees, glancing over your shoulder at the door—the dark making it hard but the light seeping through at the bottom helped. 

“I don’t know— I don’t—” It was a little hard to string words together without your voice wavering, it was something else to feel so threatened when nothing outright definitive happened. 

It was just an energy; a vibe Noah was giving off. It was… scary. 

The fear in your voice was raw, and it sent a jolt of adrenaline through him. He shifted closer to you, sitting up fully and pulling you a little closer to him. His hand found one of yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze.    

"Hey, it's okay. You're okay." His voice was softer now, more awake. He could feel the tension in you, the way you kept looking back towards the door.    

"What happened with Noah?" He asked, the soft way he says your name after is as comforting as his thumb brushing over the back of your hand.

You didn’t mean to come in here, to disturb him when he obviously needed sleep—but you're sort of relieved you did, whether by accident or not. 

It felt better to be here with him then alone in your room with the potential of Noah getting in and you being—well, alone. 

When he pulled you closer you slid off your knees, partially on the side of your leg, your knee pressing against his hip. His hand holding yours was grounding, at least a little bit—it brought you back from reeling in your own emotions. 

Making it a little easier to breathe. 

You don’t even know how to answer his question, is it even okay to say you just felt something. That he hadn’t even really done anything physically to warrant your fear, it was just… it felt like he was going to do something. 

“He was just… I dunno. It felt like something.” Your words were hesitant, unsure. It was clear you were trying to process something that didn't quite make sense logically, but was nonetheless real. 

Tim could tell that you were scared, and he knew you well enough to know that it took a lot for you to admit that.    

He shifted on the bed, pulling you fully onto the mattress next to him. You settled against his side, your head on his shoulder. Even in the semi-darkness, he could see the fear in your eyes. He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you closer.    

"You're safe," he tries to reassure you, the words a soft murmur in the dark room. "Just take your time. I'm here."

You sniffle slightly, settling into him when he pulls you onto the mattress next to him. The ease in how he just accepts it, your answer—or lack of a substantial one—and how he just pulled you down and against him like it was so natural to him. 

It was comforting beyond words. 

Your hand moves from his arm to his shirt, grasping it in your fist as you bury your face against his shoulder. Noah was tolerable to an extent, you figured out ways to move around him—but tonight just… it was different. 

You hadn’t been able to get him to leave you be. 

His persistence was normal, but the pushiness was up a notch tonight. Like it was an all or nothing kind of thing, it didn’t feel normal tonight. 

It felt like it was either you said yes, or it’d become a yes soon enough. 

You hold tight to Tim, his reassurances comforting.

Your grip on his shirt, the way you’d buried your face into his shoulder... it was a silent cry for safety. He tightened his arm around you, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. He could feel the tension in your body, the fear that lingered in your voice.    

The clock on Tim’s bedside table read 3:00 AM. Too late, or rather, too early. The silence in the room seemed to amplify the sound of your slightly shaky breaths.    

"Do you want to talk about it?" He asks quietly, his chin resting on top of your head.

Everything about him was comforting and safe, it always has been. Since they were younger and stupider—if he ever was stupid, really. His soothing touch and the gentle way he held you close against him made everything feel better, even if nothing really happened. 

You exhale quietly at his quiet question, the weight of his chin on top of your head felt nice—like you were surrounded by him, untouchable in some way. 

Nothing could get to you here, and right now that was what you needed. That inexplicable safety. 

You shake your head after a moment, a short, small movement. Spending all day navigating Noah and trying to get your work done, alone in the apartment with the man. 

Without Tim there. 

Was exhausting, and it was late, far later than you’ve ever stayed up.

He could sense the exhaustion in your body, the way you seemed to sink further into him. You were tired, both physically and emotionally. And you didn't want to talk about what happened with Noah, not right now. 

He could respect that.     

He continued to run his hand gently up and down your back, offering a wordless form of comfort. 

The silence in the room was heavy, but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that came with being completely understood.     

After a few minutes, he said quietly, "You should sleep. It's late."

You had dozed off for a moment, to the feeling of his hand gently running up and down your back and the comfort of his presence. His voice brought you back, the quiet tone stating the obvious, and if it were any other time you would’ve called him Captain Obvious but you’re too tired.

The thought of getting up, moving away from the little bubble of safety he created for you and going to your room felt like… well, it felt terrible. 

To have to walk through the hallway, pass Noah's room—if he even went to his room—to get to yours.

You don’t want to.

You stay quiet for a little, thinking it over—if you have to, you will. You’d never invade his space without being wanted, Noah does that to you and you’d never want to impose that feeling on Tim. Or anyone. 

“Can I stay?” You ask quietly after a moment. 

Your voice was a murmur against the quiet of the room. His grip on your body tightened almost imperceptibly before he answered.   

"Of course," he says softly, your name soft on his lips. "You don't have to ask. You're not invading."     

Tim shifted slightly, moving a little further back onto the bed and pulling you with him. The last thing he wanted was for you to feel uncomfortable or intrusive. 

His bed was big enough for two, and he wanted you to feel welcome here, safe.

You settle with him, his words reassuring. It was nice to know you weren’t invading, or making him uncomfortable in some way. Especially after how you’ve been made to feel, it felt weighted to know there’s ever a possibility that you could do that to Tim. 

You never want to. 

You relax your hands grasp on his shirt, letting your arm stay loose around his torso, your head resting on his shoulder. 

As tense and scared as you’d been when you’d first stumbled into his room by accident, you felt a lot better now. 

With him, with everything he’s done. 

You let your eyes close, listening to the steady beating of his heart and feeling the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. It has its own subtle comfort to it, knowing he’s right here and that he’s not going anywhere. 

That you aren’t alone, at least for now. 

Tim could feel the tension slowly draining from your body as you settled into the mattress beside him. Your grip on his shirt loosened, arm curling around his torso in a loose hold. He could feel your exhales against his neck, slow and rhythmic.     

He pulled the blanket up further, tucking it around you, making sure you were comfortable. His hand found the back of your head, his fingers gently playing with your hair, offering silent reassurance.     

Sleep was tugging at the edges of his own consciousness, the exhaustion from the night finally catching up to him.

His gentle fingers playing with your hair is what pulls you the rest of the way, the comforting tingles it causes making you fall asleep a lot faster. Your breathing evening out with your body gradually losing its remaining tension as sleep takes you. 

It was almost easy to fall asleep like this, wrapped up in him and in his bed. Far easier than sleeping alone, it was warm and safe and comfortable. 

The faint beat of his heart like white noise even while you’re sleeping, a subconscious comfort even then. 

Everything that’s happened today for you, to you, bleeds away—leaving this mundane, warm comfort behind. 

Keeping you pacified and relaxed, your fingers twitching slightly. 

It’s probably the most comfortable and safest you’ve felt sleeping in a while.

Tim felt your body relax completely as you fell asleep, your breathing becoming slow and steady. Your fingers twitched slightly, and he could feel the warmth of your breath against his neck.    

He watched you sleep for a few minutes, taking in the serenity of your face, the way your features were soft and peaceful in slumber. It was a sharp contrast to the scared and anxious look in your eyes when you had first stumbled into his room.     

Finally, he allowed himself to close his eyes, succumbing to the exhaustion that had been tugging at him. He fell asleep, the weight of exhaustion and your presence next to him easing him into it. 

You were roused the next morning as the sunlight faintly bled through his curtains, you were a bit disoriented and it took you a second to gather your surroundings. And remember what happened last night. 

You don’t move from your spot, which has changed through the night. 

You went from being tucked into his side, his arms around you comfortingly, to being partially on top of him somehow. You aren’t awake enough to want to figure out the logistics of that. 

He’s comfortable too, warm and solid—his breathing rising and falling against you. 

You stay where you are for a while there, somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness. Too comfortable to fully wake up and too unwilling to move from the warm, comfy spot to try to wake up fully. 

You can hear Noah moving around the apartment though.

Tim’s own sleep is restless, plagued by fragments of dreams and the lingering exhaustion from the night before. The first light of morning seeps into his room, rousing him from sleep. 

He blinks his eyes open, disoriented for a moment. And then he felt you.    

The way your practically on top of him, head on his chest, one of your legs thrown over his. It takes him a second to gather his bearings, to remember what happened last night. The fear in your eyes, the way you sought refuge in his room.    

He can hear noise coming from elsewhere in the apartment as well, assuming it’s likely Noah rummaging about—probably purposefully trying to be loud and obnoxious. 

Why? One can assume the easy answer, you.

You only move when you feel him shifting slightly, your head lifting from off his chest to look up at him—your eyes heavy-lidded and still a little sleepy, but a grin cracks across your face at his bedhead. 

Messy around his face, more than usual anyway. 

You rest your cheek on top of his ribs, one of your hands lifting to brush through his hair. Moving the messy strands off his forehead, smoothing it out as best you can with both of them still lying down. 

You usually don't see this, just him stumbling about in the morning like a zombie. 

“Morning,” you murmur quietly, voice thick with sleep. “Coffee?” You ask, mostly because usually he gets some in the mornings and sometimes you’ll make it for him. 

You’re not a coffee person, don't like the taste. But you always brew some for him when he’s had late nights.

Tim chuckled at the way your eyes were still half-shut, your voice hoarse with sleep. "Morning," he mumbles, his own voice rough.    

He can feel the way your fingers run through his hair, smoothing out the messy strands that have fallen onto his forehead.     

"Coffee sounds amazing," he says, his fingers tracing absent-minded patterns on your back. "I'm too lazy to get up though. You're warm."

You breathe a soft laugh at his words, humming an acknowledging noise as you stay where your laid on him. It’s still relatively early, there’s no reason to rush to get up like most mornings. 

At least you don’t feel the need to rush through the morning here. With him.

You let your eyes slip closed again, enjoying the feeling of his fingers tracing patterns on your back. You’ve slept alone for so long you kind of forgot how nice it is to sleep and wake up with another person, the warmth and comfort it has. 

Maybe more so since it’s him. 

“Just a few more minutes then.” You mumble after a moment, quiet and sleepy. You don’t plan to fall back asleep though, you plan on basking in the feeling of this. 

Of him. 

Of the bubble of safety and comfort this has, unwilling to give it up quite yet and let Noah ruin it. 

Tim hummed in agreement, content to just lie there with you. The world outside their little bubble could wait a few more minutes.

He kept tracing patterns on your back, the rhythmic motion of his fingers on your skin relaxing him in a way he didn't even know he needed. Your body was warm and comfortable against his, and the rise and fall of your back with each breath was almost mesmerizing.

After a few more minutes, he gave you a small nudge. "We should probably get up soon. Noah's up."

You grumble slightly at the small nudge and words that followed, you honestly didn’t want to get up. To see Noah, to be anywhere near him after last night. 

You don’t know what it even was, but it was… lingering, and you aren't sure you're ready to face that directly.

Nonetheless you extract yourself from the warmth and comfort of lying on him, pushing his blanket from off of your lower body—where it’d ended up throughout the night, probably from them moving around. 

You sit up with a silent yawn, stretching your arms above your head. Joints popping a little, small, quiet sounds. You drop your arms after a moment, blinking to clear up your vision before looking at him. 

“So bossy.” You mumble, your voice soft and low.

Tim chuckled at her grumbles, watching as you slowly extract yourself from his arms and the warmth of his bedsheets. You looked adorable, with your sleepy face and messy hair.    

"I'm not bossy. I just know you, and I know you'll fall back asleep if we stay here for any longer." He says, sitting up as well, running a hand through his messy hair.

"Plus, there's coffee to be had." He adds, like it’s obvious.

You scrunch your nose up at that, there’s coffee to be had for him—you’ll probably drink some juice. You look him over instead of responding, eyes roaming his rumpled look. It was adorable, seeing him like this. 

You could get used to it, but you won’t think about that.

“I’m tainting it with sugar.” You mumble, teasingly as you scoot off his bed. Your feet touching the comfy carpet as you stand up, stretching again for good measure—arms up and spine straightening with a soft grunt. 

It was a process, to be honest. 

Usually you have a whole morning routine, but since you’re in his room there’s nothing to go step by step to. 

You’d have to go to your room for all your stuff, and you might. Maybe drag him along just because you’re still a little uncomfortable with the idea of Noah catching you off guard.

Tim groaned as you mentioned sugar in his coffee. "You're evil." He says, glaring at you with mock annoyance.   

He watched as you stretched, your body moving in a way that was both alluring and comfortingly domestic. The room was still half in shadows, the morning sun still growing through the window.    

He stood up from the bed, running his hands through his hair again, trying to make it look somewhat presentable. "You can use my shower, if you want. It's a lot nicer than yours."

You look over at him at his offer, a small smile crossing your face. It hadn’t crossed your mind to ask him if you could, mostly because you were thinking of your own products. 

The idea of smelling like him creeping into your head unbidden, but you push that away quite fast.

“I don’t have a change of clothes, and walking around in a towel seems like the worst idea.” You say with a small shrug. You lean against the side of his bed, mostly because you’re still a little tired and standing up feels like a chore right now. 

You’re still drained from last night, really. 

A warm, nice shower honestly sounds amazing. But the vulnerability of being alone in a bathroom, naked and in the most enclosed spot is also a bit unnerving. 

It’s like Noah’s thrown you off balance somehow, he didn’t even do anything substantial. 

It was just the feeling it gave you.

Tim chuckled slightly at your excuse. He could see the exhaustion in your eyes, and the lingering fear. You wouldn't admit it, but he knew you didn't want to be alone right now.    

"I've got some clean clothes you can borrow. They might be a little big on you, but they'll do until you can grab yours." He says with a small shrug.   

He moved towards you, standing in front of you. "And if it makes you feel better, I'll stay right outside the door."

You look up at him when he comes to stand in front of you, his sweet offers make your heart melt a little. He’s trying so hard to make you feel better, to make you feel safe even if he doesn’t know exactly what Noah did to make you feel so unsettled. 

It was just so… it was everything. 

The fact he was willing to even stay right outside the door for you, just to make you feel comfortable being in a vulnerable position, makes the tension that had been slowly growing bleed out of you. 

He was so sweet, so good to you. 

You’re not sure how it happened, when it started. But she’s grateful.

You lean forward, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into a hug—trying to convey everything you were feeling through it. It was difficult to articulate just how grateful you were for everything he was doing for you. 

“Thank you.” You murmur quietly, face hidden against his neck.

He instinctively put his arms around your waist, holding you close. He could feel the tightness in your body ease a bit, and he knew you were grateful for his offer without having to be told. 

"Of course, sweetheart." He says softly, pressing a faint kiss to the top of your head. 

"Now go on, take your shower, and get changed. I'll go find you something to wear. And if you need me, for any reason, just shout." He pulls back slightly, looking at your face.

Everything about him made her body all warm and fuzzy with fondness, and love—in a sense. The gentle kiss on your head, the sweet term of endearment, all of it. It settled somewhere in your heart, nestled deep and it made everything feel so much better. 

You meet his gaze, a small smile growing on your face again. You’re not sure what you’d do without him, where you’d be right now if he hadn’t been here—picking up pieces of you that he didn’t even realize needed to be put back together. 

It was everything, it always would be.

“Yeah, okay.” You mumble quietly, nodding a little. He’d be here, in the room still and that’s all that matters. Just a door between them, it made you feel better about it. 

You press a kiss to his cheek lightly before extracting yourself from him and moving to his bathroom. 

Tim watches you walk into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you. He hears the shower turn on, the sound of the water hitting the porcelain walls like a distant roar.

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his own racing thoughts. He knew he was getting too attached, too invested in you. But he couldn't help it, you always brought out a different part of him. 

Part of him didn't even want to stop the feeling from growing, it was a little intoxicating.    

He shakes his head at the thought.

Focus, Drake.

He quickly grabbed some clean boxers and an oversized T-shirt for you to wear. They would be a bit big on you, but they would do for now until you could grab your own clothes.

He placed the items on the bed, waiting for you to finish up in the bathroom.

It wasn’t long before the shower shut off, and not much longer after that when the door to the bathroom opened and you shuffled out—wrapped in a towel, your hair damp but not dripping, probably from your towel drying it before you stepped out. 

The shower did help, you felt better.

You looked at him standing next to his bed, waiting for you like he said he would. It’s not like you didn’t believe him, it was just relieving to know he really did stay and wait for you. 

Your eyes move off him and onto the clothes on the bed he’d picked out for you, a small smile on your face. 

You move over to him and the bed, picking up the boxers in your hand with a small snort. It was sweet of him, you probably wouldn’t have fit into any of his pants anyway. 

“Turn around so I can change.” You could go back to the bathroom but it’s just quicker to change here.

Tim rolled his eyes at your bossy command, but he turned around anyway. He could feel you moving behind him, the sound of the towel hitting the floor, you getting changed. 

He tried to ignore the mental images that ran through his head, his hands clenching slightly at his sides.

God, he had it bad.

"Are you decent yet?" He asks, still facing away from you.

It took you a minute to respond, mostly because you were honestly amazed at how comfortable brief boxers were. Honestly the most breathable you’ve felt underwear be, or maybe it’s because you don't have a dangler or something. Who knows. 

You look up at the back of his head, breathing a soft laugh. He was sweet, it felt a little juvenile—changing in his room, his back facing you because you’d asked him not to look. 

It’s like being in middle school, alone with your first boy crush or something. 

“Yeah, you can turn back around.” You say, picking up the towel you used and folding it. You’ll clean it with some of the other stuff for him, it’s the least you can do with everything he’s done for you. 

You’re definitely going to make this up to him, even though you know you don't have to.

As soon as you said the words, Tim turned around to look at you. You were standing there, wearing his oversized shirt and boxers. You looked adorable.

He could feel the familiar pull of something brewing between them. It was always there, lingering under the surface, but now it seemed stronger, more intense. 

He tried to ignore that but couldn't help but find his eyes wandering down the length of your body.

"Those look good on you." He says, trying to keep his voice nonchalant.

It didn’t escape your notice the way his eyes seemed to stray, roaming down your body. It didn’t bother you, for some reason—maybe it should have with everything happening with Noah, being blatantly checked out should make you feel weird. 

But it just… didn’t. 

If anything it felt a little nice, to be complimented and looked at by him. By Tim. It didn’t feel gross, it didn’t feel pushy, it didn’t feel like you had to go along with it to get out of it. It just felt good, it felt nice. 

It made you want to smile and twirl your hair or something. 

“Thanks. For all of this, Timmy.” You say softly, smoothing your hands down your sides. The material of his shirt is soft, probably a cotton fabric, it was nice and comfy. 

It smelled like him too, whatever cologne he uses and something just distinctly him.

He could tell you liked wearing his clothes, and that made him a little bit too happy. He loved the way they looked on you, dwarfed by the garment, looking so damn cute.

But he needed to focus, he didn't want to get too lost in his feelings for you.

"It's no problem." He says, trying to sound nonchalant. He walks over to you, reaching out to adjust the collar of the shirt on you.

Your eyes follow him as he comes over before dropping to his hand as he adjusts the shirt, his fingers skimming your skin a little. It was uncomfortable or invading, you didn’t feel like you were being cornered—it didn’t feel like how it’s always felt when Noah got too close to you. 

This was nice. 

You trusted him.

You look back up at him, the way he seemed focused on adjusting the collar of the shirt but you could see the lapse in it. It was obvious he was trying to distract himself from something, although you aren’t sure what exactly. 

It could be the situation, or you. Maybe something else. 

You tilt your head a little, briefly roaming his face as he fiddles with your shirt—catching at his lips for a moment, he was close enough to notice the small details. 

The subtle shape of them, the smoothness. You probably shouldn’t be staring at his mouth, especially because it’s rather obvious even if you tried to be subtle. 

But he was close, and he was touching you, and it was making a lot of things bubble to the surface. 

He could feel your eyes on him, and he knew you were studying him. He could practically feel the weight of your gaze.     

Tim finished adjusting the collar of the shirt on you, but he didn't pull his hands back. Instead, he let them rest on your shoulders, his thumbs brushing gently against the exposed skin on your collarbone.    

He looked down at you, meeting your eyes. "Something on your mind?"

The gentle brush along the skin of your collarbone was honestly unfair, you could call this plain ass teasing if he didn’t look so nonchalant. Like he was just touching you the same way he’d held you last night when you were scared. 

But this was different, you know it is. 

A snort leaves your nose at his question, your lips twitching into an amused grin. Your eyes flicker up to his, one brow raising. He’s got the nerve to ask you if something's on your mind when he just spent a minute fiddling with your shirt collar? 

Classic. 

“Yeah, when’re you gonna shut up and just kiss me already?” You say, feigning it as a question like you were just simply airing out something you’d been thinking. 

You’re a grown woman, he’s a grown man, neither of them need to tiptoe like they’re teenagers. 

Your boldness caught him off guard, but in the best way possible. You were right, they didn't have to tiptoe around each other, they were adults.

He smiled at you, his hands still on your shoulders. "You're something else, you know that?" He says, his voice low and laced with amusement.

Before you can snark back, he leans in and presses his lips gently against yours. The kiss was slow and sensual, but laced with a sense of pent up tension.

You met the kiss easily, smiling into it. Your hands come up to gently cradle the sides of his jaw, tilting your head slightly to get a better angle. His lips were soft, smooth against yours. 

You’d thought about this a lot, even if you shouldn’t have, but the reality is definitely much better. 

It was slow and sweet, everything they’ve always been with each other, underlined with everything they’ve kept bottled up for way too long. God knows it could be as old as they’re friendship. 

Both of them aren’t the ‘take what you want’ types until pushed. 

You pull back just a breadth away from his lips, grinning slightly. “I’ve been waiting for you to do this, you know.” You murmur quietly, lips brushing slightly. 

And you definitely have been waiting. 

You don’t stay apart long enough for him to respond, pressing your lips together again. 

Your words and the way you pressed closer to him made his heart race. This was everything he’s wanted for so long, and finally having you in his arms was intoxicating.

Tim wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him. The kiss intensified, both of you giving into the pent-up desire that had been building between you for months.

Despite the intensity of the kiss, somehow it also felt gentle, like you were rediscovering each other. Your hands still on his jaw, his hands on your waist, you both seemed content to simply explore each other's lips for a long time.

Noah didn’t matter anymore, what happened didn’t matter, all that mattered in the moment was this. Was him. 

And you were happy to indulge. 

[lemonfizzyy]

Someone did a post on sleep-deprived Tim, and I'd like to do post on sleep-deprived Damian now, thank you very much.

Damian's first instinct is often to brute force his way through any of his physical symptoms, which means his decline much more drastic and emotional than the average 10-13 year old would experience.

It happens in definable stages. Let me walk you through it.... TW for extreme sleep deprivation and the mental ramifications of that.

Stage One: Grumpiness

(He probably just missed some sleep last night.)

Just a little snappiness here and there. This stage is easily confused for Damian's usual temperament but if you're paying attention you'll notice he's getting triggered just a bit too fast. Damian himself won't even notice a change.

Suggest a nap and he'll probably go take one and come back just fine.

Stage Two: Anger

(Something kept him from sleeping as deeply as usual.)

This is past normal amounts of angry. He's seething over the fact someone stood too close, or breathed wrong. This is coupled with heightened anxiety and constantly assuming everyone is judging/disapproving of him.

Damian is highly aware of his behavioral changes and very upset that it's happening. Bringing it up or asking about it just makes him even more distressed.

Tread lightly around Damian in this stage if you want to survive, suggestions to sleep will be taken as an accusation of failure.

Stage Three: Work Mode

(Probably pulling an all-nighter or two for an important case.)

At this point Damian has realized what is going on with his emotions and physical symptoms and he's employing every mote of self-control he has to suppress it. Due to League training, this is very effective.

You will not notice a difference in his behavior unless you're looking very very close, or your name is Dick Grayson.

Stage Four: Automaton

(He's missed significant amounts of sleep for a prolonged period. This has passed the point of normalcy. We should start getting worried.)

Damian seems to be mentally absent. He keeps staring at nothing, getting lost in thought, and reacting a moment too late. He's able to hold a conversation, but not while he's doing anything else that takes brain power. His fighting and physical coordination especially is taking the largest hit during this stage.

He is particularly susceptible to orders at this stage. Tell him to do a task and he'll start doing it regardless of common sense or his own well-being. In fact he won't stop until his body gives out or someone comes and tells him to stop. To make matters worse, lack of direction will frustrate him and he'll aimlessly train until a task is provided.

Wondering if Damian knows how weird he's acting is just silly as he is currently having exactly zero thoughts about anything.

If you want him to sleep at this point, you will have to take measures to ensure he actually goes to bed and stays there. Direct orders from someone in authority is the most surefire method.

Stage Five: Exhaustion

(Okay, we need to seriously start investigating into what exactly is keeping Damian awake. This isn't normal for him at all, something is wrong.)

Damian is visibly tired, every movement is dragging, his eyes are drooping. Sometimes restlessly moving, sometimes completely motionless. He is caught in a state of suspended fatigue that just never seems to progress into actual slumber. It's depressing to watch.

He's aware of his state and surroundings, but has become completely nonverbal. His brain can't handle loud noises or any other sensory-heavy experiences; he'll opt to sit in a dim room and read most likely.

Common sense about his condition is back in full working order though, so he'll refuse any tasks as it's way past his capabilities.

Stage Six: Breaking Point

(Hey, has anyone seen Damian? ... Well, I thought I sent him to bed, but he wasn't in his- ... Wait, what was that?... ... DAMIAN!)

Damian has reached his absolute limit. More specifically, his mind and body have.

He's completely incoherent, terrorized by things that aren't there. He seems to realize it's in his head; he's covering his ears and squeezing his eyes shut as he rocks back and forth. He desperately wants to sleep, to rest, but for whatever reason... he can't.

In short, this stage is pretty much one long panic attack.

Sedate him, please.

...What do you mean you already did?

Stage Seven: Unraveled

(-Dick, you need to come home right now. There's something seriously wrong with Damian... We think he got hit with some bio-weapon or something that's keeping him from sleeping, like at all. It's been a week now.

It's- It's not pretty. Please call me as soon as you get this. He's been asking for you.)

Everything has worn down to it's last reserve. Mind and body.

He spends his time alternating between hysterical crying, trembling silently, and mumbling to himself incoherently. His awareness of his situation starts and ends at the fact that he desperately needs to be asleep.

In this state, Damian can't tolerate being left alone. He can't eat, use the bathroom or change clothes on his own. He needs constant comfort as well, if there is no one around he'll cry for them.

He's just... helpless.

Stage Eight: Absence

(He's in there, I know it.)

It's like he's in a coma, but his eyes are open.

No reaction. No movement. No nothing.

It's... just a waiting game to see if the antidote will take.

Look, I'll keep monitoring him and let you know the second something changes, okay? You need to get some sleep, staying up won't help Damian.

...No, no don't give me that. I'll be perfectly fine, if I need someone to take over Bruce is available. Now go sleep already, Timbit.

Stage Nine: Naptime

(Tim! Tim, get in here! He's SLEEPING! He just- He just knocked out in arms just like that! He's finally- Oh, thank god.)

Haha, he's snoring so loud.

I never thought I'd miss that sound.

Stage Ten: Rested

(Y- You're awake!)

Hey, kiddo.... Have a good sleep?

Oh, my eyes?

Yeah, I was crying a little. Things were a little touch and go for a minute there.

WOW, okay. Barely even a minute awake and already hitting me with the zingers.

What do you care how much I cried anyway?

You're a real piece of work, you know that? Now lay back down, you need your sleep.

Non-negotiable, bud. You were awake for what? Almost ten days? A couple more hours won't hurt.

Of course, I'll stay. Scoot over.

I don't have many stories, unless you want to hear the harrowing tale of how I became Nightwing again.

Oh, alright!

It started... Well, I tell everyone it was my idea because I was fed up with Bruce, but honestly where it started was in Titans Tower, during a conversation with Gar got me thinking about who I was as Robin and...

[bunnyywritings]

i wrote this up while taking a break from writing for my birthday event...so uh yeah, here's a yuta x reader x maki smut drabble, i might make this a full one-shot or smth later on

warnings: basically porn with no plot, threesome with maki and yuta inspired by this one vid, fem!reader

SMUT UNDERNEATH THE CUT - LINK CONTAINS AN 18+ VID - MDNI !!

nsfw twitter link

When Maki had suggested that you come over after a night out…this wasn’t what you had expected. 

“Hah…oh my god! Fuck…I c-can’t, I can’t take anymore-” 

You were cut off when she brought her lips to yours, swallowing all your moans. 

“You can take it, be a good girl for us.” Yuta huffed, eyes dazed as he watched his cock disappear into your sloppy cunt, strings of his previous release making you extra slick. The way you were laying on your side with your leg over her hips gave him the perfect view. 

They had made you cum so many times that you lost count. Your whole body was throbbing with overstimulation. 

Yuta’s pace was steady, the rhythmic in and out allowed you to feel the ridge of the thick vein that ran on the underside of his shaft and the way his bulbous tip abused your sweet spot. That, paired with Maki’s lips hungrily scouring your neck, you didn’t stand a chance. 

“M’gonna cum, m’gonna cum…I’m-” You squeaked out a sob as he pulled out completely. “Y-Yuta!” 

“Sorry, sweet girl.” He smiled with deceptive innocence. Gripping the leg draped over Maki and spreading you open, putting your puffy and weeping pussy on display. The cold of the room was a small reprieve from his molten body heat. 

Maki reached in between your legs and spread your lips open. “Isn’t she so pretty, Yu? Look at her.” They both watched as you clenched around nothing, hips rutting the slightest bit, attempting to get any friction to relieve the ache of your ruined orgasm. “Said she couldn’t take anymore but I think she was lying to us…she’s desperate for you to keep fucking her.” She hummed in amusement, removing her hands before bringing one down to land a firm smack against your clit. 

“M-Maki!” 

She smirked. “Yeah, baby?” Gently kissing the shell of your ear. “What d’you want? Hmm? Use your big girl words.” Her condescending tone and another smack had your head reeling. 

“More, please! Want more!” 

“Well, you heard her Yuta. She wants more.” 

He smirked softly, tapping his cock against your slit. “Since she asked so nicely.” His heavy length rested against you as he canted his hips forward a few times, enjoying the feeling of your soft pussy against his length, relishing in the small mewls that left your bitten lips before finally lining himself up and pushing past your entrance. 

“S-shit…” He muttered, stopping halfway to catch his breath. 

Maki settled beside you, leaning down to wrap her lips around your raised nipple and groping the other with her hand. As she suckled your supple skin, Yuta pushed all the way in. “Oh my-” Your eyes shut and your head fell back in pure ecstasy. 

“Fuck Maki…baby, she’s squeezing me so tight.” He pulled out until just his tip was wrapped in your warmth, “She feels amazing. Sucha sweet…cunt.” He pushed himself back into you, your pussy squelching obscenely as he started a new pace. 

Maki pulled off of you with a wet pop! watching Yuta lose himself in your heated core. “Yeah? She feel good?” 

“So good!” He groaned, eyes becoming darker as Maki licked her fingers and reached down between you once more. Her lithe fingers swiftly rubbing your slick bud, the overwhelming sensation making your clench around Yuta. Arousal gushing from you as he whimpered at the feeling of you milking him for all he’s worth. 

Your mind felt like it was melting, incoherent babbles leaving your lips as Yuta’s pace quickened. “Does that feel good, honey?” Maki continued her assault on your clit, your legs trembling with fatigue and pleasure. 

“Feels good, so good…” You turned to look at her, a delicious, heavenly sight with your teary eyes. It made her own pussy throb, arousal rushing to her core. 

“C’mere.” She muttered, pride surging as you basically threw yourself forward to meet her lips hungrily. It was sloppy and uncoordinated but she couldn’t blame you. She had spent many a night, right where you are. Bouncing herself silly on Yuta’s dick until she was a drooling, babbling mess. 

“Ah…shit-” Yuta’s hips stilled against yours, grinding into you as he released sticky ropes of his cum deep into you. 

You were close but- 

Before you could even finish your thought, Yuta pulled out and dropped to his knees, burying his face into your oozing cunt. “Ah! Yu-!” Your legs trembled violently, thighs closing around his head as you grinded up into his face. 

Tears trailed down your cheeks as you whined and whimpered, your mind completely gone. 

Once you rode out your mind numbing release, Maki spread your legs gently. Allowing Yuta to pull away, watching as both your releases trickled down your skin. 

You laid back against the couch with the entirety of your weight with a scoffed laugh, disbelief filling your body. “Oh man…I can’t believe-” You stopped when Maki kneeled on the couch, lifting her leg and slotting her slick core against yours. “W-Wait, wait, Maki- fuck!” 

Yuta sat on the other sofa, slowly stroking his still erect cock as he watched his girlfriend grind against you, the wet noises of both of your slick pussies sending exhilaration through his veins.

Your incoherent cries mixed with sobbed moans. 

“God, Yu…you weren’t lying. She feels fucking amazing.” 

[haakaan00502]

Ghost moved on instinct.

Running as fast as he could, just to reach the nearest camp, extraction point, medic, any source of help. His breathing erratic, his mask soaked with sweat, it clung to his face.

His chest leaning forward, his hands tucked behind Soap’s thighs, he continued to sprint. The scot had a pleasing amount of muscle and weight, but nowhere near what Ghost would struggle to carry. However, Ghost never knew that he would one day be carrying the deadweight of his most favorite person.

At that moment, where each step bore the burden of two lives, where each second is as crucial as the one before it, Ghost begged. Begged to whatever God that seemed to exist just at that moment.

He reached the nearest camp, soldiers quickly moved to assist them. They pulled Soap to a stretcher, the remaining warmth he offered mercilessly peeled from Ghost. He watched as they all withdraw to a tent, words yelled becoming incoherent to Ghost

Ghost fell, barely even being able to lift his arms up. His legs spread across the floor, the wall being his only support. He heaved, sweat and tears becoming hard to discern. His heart seemed to follow with the defibrillator.

“Clear!”

His mind, a warzone, a chamber of self hatred as he jots down every single mistake he had made. How he was so powerless against what he wanted and the duty and responsibility he had to uphold.

“Clear!”

Himself, a mess, every muscle strained, open wounds still bleeding, his heart irregular. His consciousness in a constant brink of passing out, his senses numbed he couldn’t even notice the rest of the team standing by him

“Clear!”

He, only a person, as fatigue finally catched up, as adrenaline ran out. Ghost slowly fades to unwanted rest, he cursed his own anatomy, only clinging to the thinnest of threads.

“We got a heartbeat!” The last Ghost heard collapsing with a sigh of relief.

Masterlist

[enbycrip]

I know I’m not doing well rn because a fucking advert from Scope I read yesterday has been going round my head and going sour in my stomach for about 18 hours rn.

It said some variant on “disability doesn’t stop people doing things”.

Before we even get into the difference between societal barriers and personal impairments etc etc - I’m just so *sick* of the level of toxic positivity the whole disability sector seems to be *increasingly* full of.

Particularly while more and more people who depend on social care for things other than intimate care seem to be getting their care packages just cut suddenly without any explanation or warning. This is for things like “keeping your house at basic levels of cleanliness and hygiene”, “washing clothing” and “cooking”. I’ve seen this from friends and strangers on groups I’m in, all across the UK. As if the entire sector has just decided that if you can toilet and get clothing on without needing physical aid to do those things nothing else in your life matters, including being able to eat, wear clean clothing or get rid of rubbish.

We have already seen care packages for leaving your home get whittled away, despite these being still legally guaranteed under the Care Act. The idea that it’s fine to be completely socially isolated as long as someone came to help you with the basics of home care has been largely accepted in so many councils for some years now; that exercising, maintaining relationships with friends and family and getting fresh air was some sort of ridiculous luxury. *Despite* the legal guarantees remaining; the sector just made a pact to mostly ignore them.

And now that seems to have been redefined once again to “if you’re not physically lying in your own filth, the idea that your home should meet basic hygiene standards and you should be able to eat hot food is a ridiculous luxury”.

And I’m lying in my bed feeling like a total failure because getting Cynthie out for a rollator walk and going downstairs to eat dinner 3-4 days a week turns me into being incoherent through fatigue by about 6pm atm. I managed to play Pendragon on Discord last night for the first time in a fortnight and that felt a huge achievement.

And Scope are chirping away about disability not preventing anyone from achieving anything.

*screams*

[bumbumblebeetuna]

guh.

Imagining pre-serum Bucky (in the 1940s) being so desperately in love with the scrawny blond boy who had a reputation for getting into unnecessary fights.

Bucky would come home from work, maybe it was a particularly long shift at the docks or he had to do twice as much work because a crew member called in sick. Whatever it was, Bucky was absolutely exhausted. The kind of fatigue that bore into his bones and settled into his very core...

...dragging… 

..him…

..down.

But then. 

Bucky sees Steve asleep on the couch with his sketchbook fallen to the ground. The familiar raspiness of his breathing whispering softly through the air.

Bucky peers over to catch a glimpse of whatever Steve had drawn.

Maybe it was another study of the Brooklyn skyline or a particularly weird-looking pigeon he had seen earlier today.

But as Bucky pieced together the messy lines inch by inch, leaning over Steve’s sleeping form as far as he could without waking him,

He sees sketches..

..of himself.

The mischievous glint of his own eyes as he smirked at an imaginary audience through the page. 

The sharp edges of his own jawline that he didn’t know he had. 

The warmth of his own smile, the one that he specifically reserved for Steve (and Steve only). The one that showed just a shimmer of his true emotions when the lights were dim and the world was quiet enough for Bucky to forget that it existed.

Bucky’s heart races but he immediately shakes his head to stop himself from thinking any further.

Because there was no way Steve could love him…

Steve couldn’t love him.

They would get locked up or worse, killed if they tried to love each other. 

So Bucky huffs out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and walks into the kitchen.

Setting a reminder for himself to keep all of his yearning to late-night whispers when he was sure Steve was asleep and incoherent mumbles under his breath when he sees Steve in the rightest way, which he always somehow did no matter how wrong it was supposed to be.

Because god dammit.  Bucky would proudly go to hell if his only sin was loving the one who was the reason he ever loved at all.

[seva-over]

A COZY NIGHT

Husband!Miraak x wife!reader, feat. Sofie and Lucia (found family)

Warnings: reader is tired, some mentions of reader’s usual battles, and that’s about it. Pure comfort for reader and her little family. Also this fanfic’s kinda short.

You came home well past midnight. You’d made the mistake of wearing lighter armor earlier today, not expecting anyone to try and attack you. Turned out the local bandits weren’t smart enough to realize that you were, in fact, the Dragonborn, and that a single shout from you could send them all flying to Elsweyr. Still, a few arrows had managed to catch your unprepared body off guard. With a few potions and some magic, you were able to heal yourself; that didn’t mean you were any less angry, though.

As you set your bag filled with ingredients and food for your daughters, you let out a groan of exhaustion. Oh, how you’d missed the comfort of your home. You were a tired soul, not even wanting to eat before plopping right into bed. Sitting down, you took off your shoes, then your dirty armor. You’d clean that tomorrow. You looked around the living room and sighed heavily. The lights were still on. Great. So your husband didn't care enough to put your kids to bed. You stood up straight again and strode into Sofie’s and Lucia’s room. The door was open, and the girls were nowhere to be seen. You growled to yourself. You hated when your girls stayed up too late. It wasn’t healthy for the youngsters!

"They'll start appreciating a good night's sleep once they're older," you mumbled to yourself, closing the door again.

You turned around to go upstairs, but stopped in your tracks when you saw your husband standing at the stairs. He was dressed in a thin nightgown, his hair slicked back, his mask off to reveal his unnatural yet handsome features. He stared at you silently, his thin lips forming a small smile. But you wouldn’t be swayed by his beauty. Not this time. You crossed your arms.

“Not even gonna say hello?” you asked bitterly. The pain and exhaustion of the night’s ordeal weren’t making you feel any less bitter about your husband’s carefree attitude. You took a step towards Miraak, opening your mouth to say another sharp remark, but he silenced you with a chaste kiss. Even though you’d promised to yourself to stay mad at him, you couldn’t help but melt a little. You closed your eyes with a soft exhale, your tense shoulders finally relaxing.

“Hush, my dear” Miraak whispered as he pulled away, gently taking your hand and leading you upstairs. You followed him obediently, your footsteps quiet on the wooden floor. As you walked, you could feel your legs aching with fatigue. You wished for nothing more than your warm bed…

Soon, you reached your bedroom, and your brows furrowed in confusion.

“Where are the kids?” you asked quietly, but your husband paid your question no mind. You sighed. They were probably playing near the lake again. You just wanted to sleep, so you guessed you could leave the kids to Miraak… He gently pushed the door open, and the sight that greeted you warmed your heart.

Your dear girls were sound asleep on your bed. There was a book in Sofie’s hand and a doll in Lucia’s. You stepped inside the room quietly, your hand reaching to stroke your daughters’ hair. The action made them mumble something incoherently, but they remained asleep. You gently took the book from Lucia and put it on the nightstand. You stared at the sight for a few moments, exhaustion giving way to motherly love. Then you sighed and got into bed as well. You hugged your daughters close, feeling Miraak climb into the bed as well. He pulled the three of you closer, his chin resting on the top of your head. Your eyes closed slowly. You could get used to it.

“I love you,” you heard your husband whisper, but you had no strength to reply. You hummed in response, your arms securely wrapped around Lucia and Sofie. Miraak chuckled lowly and closed his eyes as well. He didn’t need to hear you say it to know it was true: you loved him and your daughters more than anything in this life. And they loved you just as much.

[sproutlandishh]

Yandere Fae Hunter X Fairy Reader

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Obsessive behavior, possessive behavior, kidnapping.

(This was not thoroughly proofread, so comment if there are any grammar mistakes!)

Word Count: 3,726

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You wake from your slumber where you’d preferably remain, you consume the fruits of your labor, you go out to labor over more of that—metaphorical and literal—fruit to eat, you go home to dream once more, only to be ripped away the next morning that came. A vicious cycle that never stops moving, never stops eating at you. It’s fatiguing, especially having lived with it ever since the day that you were born in this place.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The only thing that really made it bearable was your closest companion. A boy named Gideon, who’s been your closest friend for as long as you could remember.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He made things more interesting, less dull. He could make the most grueling of chores into fun challenges, and the most nerve-wracking situations could become adventures. He’s charming, adventurous, and kind, a quality that isn’t the most common in this town.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 “Please…” Gideon would plead, his voice weak, hoarse with desperation. He groveled before you, grasping the hem of your clothes while on his knees.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 “Please, don’t do this… Please!” He begged, tears threatening to spill from his eyes like a dam on the brink of bursting.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 After you had saved one of the fae from certain death, and nursed them back to health, you were encountered by a few of the elders belonging to the particular fairy tribe that fairy belonged to. They thanked you for your mercy, for your effort and generosity towards them. As a reward for your good deed, they offered you a wish.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Ever since that day, you had been toying with the idea of what that wish would be. It was difficult to choose, to eliminate suggestions, but then you realized. Fairies are miniature, nimble and agile creatures, with scaly wings and quick steps. They had many of the things that you didn’t, you having a taller, slower human body compared to theirs.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 One of those things that they had was freedom, the ability to go wherever they pleased, however they pleased, whenever they pleased. They were able to escape places you couldn’t, they could go beyond your village. This was your chance to break free, if you chose to take it.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 That was your wish, to become one of them, a fairy, just like them. To do so would require you to leave behind your village to live in the forest, which you had gladly chose to do. However, Gideon wasn’t pleased. When he heard of what you were planning, he had become a distraught mess, which led you to this very moment.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Gideon didn’t take his eyes off of you, off your face. He didn’t care if he was making a scene, he didn’t care about anything, he couldn’t if he was unable to have you. “I’ll give you everything you could ever want! I- I- I’ll build us a home! We can have a family! I’ll give you the world and more if you stay!” He spoke, his face growing red as he became more sorrowful, his words becoming less sensible as this went on.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 “Just please! Don’t give up on me! If you were to leave, I would.. I’d..” Gideon trailed off, his voice breaking at last, like a glass table that had finally given out under too much weight. He was incoherent for the most part, like a distraught child. Gods, the way he spoke to you, how he groveled at your feet… you felt like a monster.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Despite this, you know that if you don’t make this wish, you’ll likely never leave. You’ll be stuck here, doing the same activities in the same place, day after day. You crave an escape from this, you always have. This is your chance to escape.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Gideon would understand, you knew. He always did, he’d come to terms with your decision, despite it being hard for him to swallow. Despite the feeling of betrayal he may have currently, he’ll turn around eventually, and support your decision.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You hadn’t realized just how wrong you were.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Once you had made your wish, you were accepted into the world of the fae. You were reborn, experiencing a major metamorphosis, a transformation. You had become a butterfly, bursting from your cocoon. You had never felt more free, more light. The world had become so much bigger, so much more spacious, and it welcomed you.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You had developed wings, the beautiful, scaly wings that would belong to a fairy.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Your movements had become lighter, more graceful somehow, despite your rebirth rendering you comatose for a series of days, developing like a caterpillar inside a protective shell.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You were small, much smaller than your previous size as a human. Now you were the size of a fairy, able to be cupped in a human’s hand if given the opportunity.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The world was much larger than it was previously. It was perfect. So much more to explore, to see, to discover. You felt.. free.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Gideon wasn’t celebrating your metamorphosis. He hadn’t gone to the woods to find you, not since the day you left to make that wish. Gods, he couldn’t bare the thought of seeing you in your new shape... The idea made him feel viscerally, disgustingly ill.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 How could you give everything up? You’ve had a connection since before you could walk, you were a natural pair! Gideon was so convinced that the rest of your lives would be spent together, even if you hadn’t realized the deep, overwhelming feelings he had regarding you.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You always made your desire for freedom known, your wish to see beyond the limits of your hometown. He shouldn’t have brushed it off all those times, he shouldn’t have assumed you would eventually grow out of it and remain here by his side.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Gods, he was such a fool. Had he done something more, had he realized the extent of your desires earlier, things would’ve been different.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He’d be by your side as always, strolling by the treeline, wasting time as you’d soak in the warmth of the sun. Instead, he was trying to cope, sitting by his lonesome in the village tavern, like a woesome inebriate.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Had Gideon intervened, had he done something more, would you have stayed? If he went to find you, would you return? No, surely you wouldn’t. Not willingly. Not like this. You must be having the time of your life, dancing, singing, laughing with the fae. The idea of you mingling with others, individuals that weren’t him, it made his blood boil.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He wanted to dance with you, to hear you sing, to make you laugh until your ribs ached, but now he can’t. You ran off with the fae, and you won’t ever return. You won’t ever come back. He’ll never see you aga- No.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 No. He mustn’t feel sorry for himself. He needs to stop, he won’t get anything from it. He won’t accept it. You can’t just… leave forever. No, he’d certainly see you again. Gideon would make sure of it. These woods aren’t too big, and he’ll surely be able to track you down, it can’t be too hard. There are people who track the fae all the time, who hunt them down. He could learn from them. And when he finds you…

ᯓᡣ𐭩 What will he do when he finds you? He could grovel on his knees again, beg for forgiveness due to not noticing your desires sooner? He could plead with you, try to get you to return home? But what then? If you say no…?

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You won’t say no, he won’t let you refuse. You can’t refuse, you two have a special bond, he’d do anything for you, and you for him. If you do, he’ll have to drag you back. Of course, you’re a fairy now. Such a thing shouldn’t be too hard, why didn’t it occur to him sooner? If you resist? He’ll… have to figure something out.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 This wasn’t the end. He’ll get you back, and by the end of it? He’ll never let you go ever again.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 It hadn’t felt very long since you joined the fae now. It felt as though it were yesterday that you sprouted your wings, time truly flew. You speculated that it may have been a few weeks, one or two perhaps, not too long, but not too short of a time either.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The breeze was light and refreshing, but not freezing. The sun was bright, but not burning. It was a beautiful summer day, perfect for a gathering. A multitude of diverse fae had collectively come together for a celebration, not for anything in particular, simply as something to do. It seemed to be a common occurrence, you didn’t mind it, you were delighted to attend.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You were surprised by just how quickly you were accepted by the others, not just your own tribe. You expected to be met with some wariness, having not been born a fairy, but instead they welcomed you quite nicely. It was a pleasant feeling, different than the atmosphere back at the village.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Speaking of, you hadn’t seen Gideon in quite some time. Not around the time of your metamorphosis, in the week following, or anytime recently. The fairies you had become acquainted with didn’t recall ever seeing him around.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Was he still upset? Was he giving you the cold shoulder? You hadn’t left the village—left him—on the best note, was he that hurt? You recall the day he was begging you to not make the wish, to stay in Talcoun.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You were still friends, at least, you hope, you should be. Did he not think so? Did he think that you had ended your friendship with him, and that’s why he hadn’t come to see you?

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You’d visit him. Soon, you’d visit him and hope to clear up any confusion, to come to an understanding. He always was an understanding person, with an open mind, as well as open ears to listen with, and you would be there to reciprocate that understanding.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The sound of pan pipes began to ring out in a playful melody, a song brought about by one of the satyrs attending the gathering. “Come now! The party’s getting started!” One of your fairy friends tugged on your arm, trying to coax you into joining them in the air.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You were still getting the hang of flying, since you only got your wings less than a month ago. In a way, it was sort of like learning to walk all over again. Your friends told you that you were a natural though, so that was reassuring.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Your wings fluttered, and you quickly joined your friend in midair. They were still holding your arm, a gentle, yet protective hold. The other fairies that were around also took to the air, hovering a few feet off the ground as the music began to flow through the trees like the wind.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 None of you seemed to realize just how loud you all were, as the sounds could be heard for quite the distance.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Your friend began to playfully twirl you around, the both of you spinning in the air as if trying to dance without the existence of gravity. The other winged fey seemed to join in, those on the ground danced along, though some seemed to be content with cheering everyone on.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 It was as if everything else faded away, you could get lost in the dance, the music, the magic. You can’t recall ever feeling such glee, such euphoria.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Your friend took notice of the expression you wore. They smiled, you smiled back at them.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Gods, everything about this felt so right, like this was where you were meant to be. It made you question if you were ever supposed to be human after all…

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The music cut off, and everyone stopped to look towards the musician. His ear was perked up, he heard something. You watched as everyone else seemed to tune into whatever the satyr was hearing, you couldn’t detect anything, possibly due to you not having acquired that ability yet.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 A few seconds of silence passed, and you were unable to detect anything, but the way the atmosphere shifted made you nervous. The worry ate at you.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Your friend turned to glance at you, noticing the anxious look on your face. “I don’t hear anything now, I think we’re-” Their words were cut short as a loud “CRACK” broke the silence, followed by something quickly whizzing past, nearly knocking you to the ground.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The object that shot past hit the tree that stood tall behind the satyr, who now looked immensely alarmed. Piercing the rough bark of the tree was a sharp, skinny arrow.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Panic immediately sparked amongst the fey, and screams began to ring out. Chaos ensued, and everyone began to flee the scene. Confusion and fear flooded your body, you can’t remember having ever experienced such terror.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You turn suddenly, looking towards the direction that arrow came from. Your eyes locked upon a tall, human figure, with tousled hair and a familiar face. It took you a few moments to realize just who this was.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You’d yelp his name in surprise, your filter completely flying out the window.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The sound of your voice caught his attention. He whipped his head around, turning to look at you. His eyes widened as they locked onto you, looking your new form up and down.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Right, he hadn’t seen what you looked like now, though you still looked similar to your previous appearance. You still looked like you, just much smaller, and with wings.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 When his eyes locked onto your face, he smiled, taking a step forward, which almost seemed like a thunderous march due to how much larger he was now in comparison to you.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The sight and sound was jarring. Gideon was like a giant now, lumbering towards you with the large bag slung around his shoulder swinging against his thigh.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You hadn’t noticed the archer’s bow he held against his side, nor the look in his eyes. The predatory, bloodthirsty look in his eyes. The smile he wore, despite making him appear friendly, radiated a menacing, obsessive aura.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The fairy that you had befriended seemed to see right through him. They quickly tightened their hold on your arm, flying away and dragging you with them in an attempt to reach safety.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Gideon’s demeanor quickly shifted, his smile falling. He lunged, swiping at the air as he tried to keep you from fleeing. “Wait! Hey, wait!” He exclaimed, his hand narrowly missing you both as you flew away.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You were confused, not having noticed the red flags that Gideon displayed. You looked behind you, watching as he chased after you, desperate to keep up.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 “Wait! Come back!” He cried, still keeping pace with you, refusing to give in and slow down.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Your friend, still keeping a firm grip on your arm, quickly swerved in another direction, trying their best to lose the human. You didn’t have the strength to fight them on it, your wings couldn’t fly in the opposite direction to combat their movement, since you were still practicing.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You did, however, have the strength to rip your arm from their hold. You pried your hand beneath theirs, ripping it off of your arm. The sudden shift in speed, and the alleviation of your weight as your friend hauled you away caused you both to fly out of control.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Your friend was flung far and out of sight, still going extremely, almost painfully fast. You, on the other hand, lost balance from the sudden force. Losing your stability, you crash-landed, thrown off the path to your destination, being tossed forcefully into the foliage next to you.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 With your new size, you luckily achieved a somewhat soft landing. You collided with the upper limb of a bush, sliding down to the dirt on the large leaves, tossing you from one leaf to the other until you hit the ground.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You fell flat on your face, but as quickly as you hit the ground, you recovered. Your wings fell limp against your back, like a scaly cloak.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You sat up on your knees, hands on the dirt as you turned your head up, looking forward. You tried not to move, as it felt that the wind had been knocked out of you.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Gideon had finally caught up to you. He walked slowly, approaching you inch by inch, as if trying to prevent startling an animal.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He looked relieved, at least, you assumed. It was hard to discern the expression on his face as you looked up, the light from above blinding you. You squinted, trying to make out what you could. A struggle, it was, as you could only make out shapes as shadows.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 “I’ve finally found you…” You heard him speak, his voice as soft as a whisper, full of shock and relief. He knelt before you, though you were far from meeting eye to eye.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 “It’s actually you. My gods, you’re…” Gideon shakily trailed off, as if trying to figure out what to say. His words didn’t have any malice or disgust behind them, instead they were full of pure awe and astonishment. It sounded as if he was trying his best to hide his glee.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You, unsure of what else to say, spoke his name. You had difficulty concocting a proper sentence, having the wind knocked out of you earlier.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Gideon’s eyes seemed to light up even more, if that was even possible. “How I’ve missed you so, you have no idea just how much I’ve longed to see you.”

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You felt a hint of fear as Gideon towered over you like a looming titan, and your breath hitched. It finally dawned on you just how intimidating humans were in the eyes of smaller creatures, such as the fairies.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Was this how the fae used to see you before you joined them? You suddenly felt the urge to apologize to them.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You fought the instinct to scramble, to scurry around like a rat running for its life. There was no need, this was Gideon after all, he’d never harm you.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 So why did you feel so anxious as you looked up at his face…?

ᯓᡣ𐭩 “I’ve been looking for you for weeks now, you didn’t return home, so I had to come and find you myself.” He smiled warmly, the alterior motives hidden beneath his familiar, wholesome demeanor. He knelt before you, wanting to get as close as humanly possible.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 “But that doesn’t matter anymore, we can go back home now!” He added, his words cheerful.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You ask him what he means, confused by the statement. You don’t live in Talcoun anymore.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 His smile faltered. “To- To Talcoun. We can go back, and things will return to normal again.” Gideon tried to maintain a vibrant, hopeful visage. “Of course, we’ll need to make some… accommodations for you, but that will be no problem! I-I’d be happy to!” He continued.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You look him up and down, wondering if he was actually serious. You’d then remind him that you gave all that up, that you’ve found a new home, and that you wouldn’t be going back.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Gideon frowned. “You’re- You’re actually staying? You’re serious about this?” He spoke, his voice like a whisper of disbelief. “No, no, you can’t.” He shook his head in response, refusing to believe your words.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He trembled, as if he had just recieved the worst news of his life, which in his eyes, he did. You were actually serious about staying? Here? In the woods? And away from him?

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You double down, insisting that you are staying. You feel bad, really you do, but… you feel this is what you need, what you’ve always needed, and it was something that he couldn’t provide you with.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 If it was possible, it seemed that his heart had been shattered further, the pieces of his heart obliterated into even smaller pieces. “But… but…” He trailed off, unable to formulate a coherent sentence. He sounded like a pitiful child, his voice cracking.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Your eyes were locked on Gideon’s face. He was clearly in distress, his lip twitching, and his eyes… was he crying? His eyes were glassy and pink, just how badly had he reacted to you leaving?

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He began to move, his arm slowly reaching into the large bag that was still slung around his shoulder. Gideon rummaged around in it, his eyes still locked on you, not tearing his gaze away.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The predatory look in his eyes, along with the way he eyed you as he reached into his bag for something, it made something within you stir, a feeling of fear. You trusted Gideon, he’d never do anything to hurt you… right?

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He’d pull out an object from the bag, a large, sleek lantern, with a door-like opening on one of the sides. Your mind began to race, hoping that this wouldn’t go where you feared it would.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You began to back away, still sitting on the ground. You’d ask what he was doing, having the faintest sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t going to go where you imagined it might.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He opened his mouth, his breathing shaky. “I’m not letting you go, not again.” He stated, reaching out towards you. Your heart sank, and you scrambled to your feet, stumbling away, but it was no use, Gideon was faster.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Gideon’s hand curled around your body, keeping a vice grip on you. He eyed you down in his fist, his gaze predatory and possessive. “If I can’t have you, then I’ll just take you! I’ll make you a trophy if I must!” He cried, grasping you tightly.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You tried to reason with him, tried to escape, but your arms were pinned to your sides, and your words didn’t seem to sway Gideon.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 “Come now, we’re going home.” He growled, opening the lantern with one of his free fingers, and forcing you inside, shutting the door and latching it quickly despite your protests.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Gideon raised the lantern up to his face, now being able to look you directly in the eye with that intense, unwavering stare…

ᯓᡣ𐭩 “And this time, I’m never letting you go again.”

[noisyghost]

I found your art randomly and I have fallen into Ark obsession (and just your style in general, it’s so good 👏)

I was curious how Ark’s first transformation went? Was he prepared? I think you said in one of your posts that most people don’t survive the first transformation so was recovery from it like super brutal or did the werewolf healing kick in 🤔

Thank you for putting your work out into the world!!

thank you for the ask! he is very special 2 me so i am glad you enjoy him :)

the funny thing is that i am actually in the process of writing/illustrating a thing detailing this very incident! it's gotten way longer than it has any right to be so ive still got some work to do, but i'll answer your question and then put a little preview under the read more lol

Ark's first full moon transformation lasted about 12 hours and he thought he was dying for like 90% of it! Werewolf healing certainly helped him recover faster than human, but it still took over a month to get better, and then ofc the next full moon undid a good chunk of that healing again, so all in all it was likeeee 6-ish months before he really got to heal all the way.

And he was prepared. He knew what was going to happen and had a super powered babysitter (aka Mira, who was with him for the whole thing) and it was still one of the most traumatic nights of his life; he was not "normal" for a loooooong time after it.

To his (unfortunate) credit, his first full moon was somewhat more brutal than normal bc his werewolf form is so fuck off huge. Like. It would have sucked regardless, but turning into something that big definitely did not help!

So, yeah -- the transformation itself sucked and then the recovery sucked just as bad. And when i say "it sucked" i mean he broke bones, cracked ribs, tore muscle, etc etc, so he didn't really leave his house for months. He already had a general aversion to people touching him, but for years after this he still flinches at even the smallest thing :)

(CW for general gore/injury under the cut! this is like. somehow the least-gross section i could pull some paragraphs from lol)

She could not tell you when she passed out. With her last bit of consciousness she remembers picking up his limp body and carrying it back into the other room, completely ignoring the blood and grime covering the entirety of him as she put him back in bed.  Her sheets don’t matter. Hell, the whole damn bed doesn’t matter at this point. His skin was blanketed in a layer of cold sweat and his body lay in her arms like rubber, but the second she’d put him down, he shook beneath her like he was freezing, numbly pawing at the sheets for salvation.  He’d shrunk in size considerably and the sweltering coat of fur that’d been keeping him uncomfortably warm had all but receded back into his flesh, exposing the litany of cuts and scrapes and tears that’d cratered his skin over the course of the night. Beside each wound is a complimentary bruise, an impressionist landscape of purple and yellow and red painted across his naked body.  She’d been attentively listening to his heartbeat and breathing the entire night. At least, she’d tried to. But when the chatter of his teeth and the depths of his breathing became rhythmic over the course of an hour, she quietly lost the battle against exhaustion, passing out on the bed beside him.  There’s nothing more she could have done for him anyway. It’s a fight he knows he would have lost if the roles were reversed, so even if he was composed enough to know where he was, he wouldn’t have faulted her anyway.  The pain had become passive, a passenger to the general fatigue and malaise of illness. His head is full of cotton, sopping up every loose incoherent thought his brain tries to put together and turning it to mush. He can’t see or hear or think, and—at this point—he can barely feel, an almost gentle haze falling over him like the fog of anesthesia. So severe was the agony that it’s wrapped all the way back around to numbness; he couldn’t move a single limb if his life depended on it, his chest barely rising and falling to allow air into his tired, barely intact lungs.  If he could think in anything more than colors and shapes, he’d be reciting the mantra ‘it’s almost over, it’s almost over’. But right now, the world is little more than a soft, orange glow emanating from the dim lights scattered around her room.  For nearly twelve hours, his brain had been too wired to shut off, too manic to do anything other than gawk at the monstrosity of contorted limbs his body had become. If life was fair, he would have simply passed out and awoke when it was over. But it isn’t fair. So he had to experience the whole thing, fully conscious. Though, perhaps, not fully cognizant. And that would be for the best. 

[coimbrabertone]

Offtopic Offseason #2 - The Incoherent Musings of a Star Wars Fan in Big 2024.

So, being a Star Wars fan is hard.

I don't mean that for some stupid "STAR WERZ IS WOKE NOW! CHILDHOOD RUINED!" bullshit, I mean being an actual fan of Star Wars.

I want to watch Star Wars shows, I want to play Star Wars games, and I deeply disagree with the idea that Disney is making too much Star Wars stuff. No, in fact, my stance here is quite similar to my stance on superhero fatigue from the last Offtopic Offseason - and that's that people aren't sick of Star Wars, they're sick of bad Star Wars content.

Let me put it this way - the only buzz I've heard about Skeleton Crew is that they referenced something from the Holiday Special and that there's a kid from that Max Rebo species - the Ortolans, the blue elephant guys. That doesn't fill me with an urge to watch it.

Just like I haven't had the urge to finish The Bad Batch.

Just like how I haven't picked up Star Wars: Outlaws yet.

There is, however, one Star Wars project that I did engage with in 2024: the Acolyte. Yup, the show that the internet was shitting on before it even came out and the one that they managed to get cancelled despite the first season ending on a blatant cliffhanger. I want to talk about that show.

Why? Because the thing is...I don't think the show is that bad.

I certainly don't think it's any worse than Book of Boba Fett or some of the later episode of the Mandalorian.

In fact, I'd say the concept of the Acolyte is more interesting than either Mando or Boba Fett, and here's why: the idea of a woman, who had the only home she ever knew taken away from her by the Jedi, training under a Sith to get revenge is an interesting premise.

That same Sith disguising himself as her bumbling accomplice to monitor and influence her had potential as well.

The Jedi Order being this corrupt, detached organization trying to maneuver the political intrigues of Coruscant is interesting, as is the fact that the plot is ultimately set into motion by Master Sol making a series of impulsive and violent decisions - thinking they he knew better - that ended in him killing the girls' mother, Aniseya.

All of that I'm good with.

There are a few things I'm not so good with. The vergence stuff and how that relates to the twins (and them being two sides of the same person) didn't quite work with me. I also felt that some of the stuff they did with Aniseya in the final two episodes undercuts the Sol storyline, because one: she really does demonstrate she's dangerous, and two: if you're still planning on letting Osha go with them, why are you using a Dark Side ritual to turn yourself into an dark smoke monster and absorbing your other daughter while doing so?

Like if the point you're going for is that Sol broke the Jedi teachings because of his selfish attachment to Osha - later leading to Osha killing him as her fall to the Dark Side - then why are you giving him a justifiable reason for stopping Aniseya?

And I guess on some level, I question how much purpose there was to having both Osha and Mae as characters. I know this is probably approaching a sort of Ship of Theseus point where I change so much about the Acolyte that it's not the Acolyte anymore, but I feel like there was a way to tell this story with just one character rather than this split person/twin thing.

You know what, I'll commit to it - here's how I would've done the Acolyte show.

Indara, Sol, Kelnacca, and Torbin go to investigate Brendok, just like they do in the show, however, when they find the convent of Dark Side witches, they decide they need to stop them. So rather than a series of potentially sympathetic misunderstandings, it's that the Jedi saw a Dark Side threat, they got spooked, and they decided to crush it.

This is to mirror some of the other darker Jedi moments in Star Wars, such as Mace Windu saying that the "oppression of the Sith will never return" before attempting to finish off Palpatine, or the Legends lore of the Jedi bombardment of Korriban after the Great Hyperspace War, aiming to destroy it.

Neither of these things worked, sure, but it demonstrates a rare Jedi ruthlessness that could suit this story nicely.

Anyway, having lost the only family she had, Osha (who, remember, we're treating as a single person at this point) wanders the galaxy and eventually winds up at the ruined Sith Academy on Korriban - and here she finds Qimir.

Qimir plays it cool and doesn't quite reveal who he is but starts telling Osha about the Sith and feeling her out, trying to figure out if she'd make a worthy pupil or not. Qimir sends Osha through the tombs like in KOTOR or like the Sith Warrior/Inquisitor storylines in SWTOR and starts revealing more about the Sith to her as she goes on. By the end, she believes in it, is willing to become a Sith, and makes a red lightsaber.

Then Qimir sends her out to hunt down the Brendok Jedi. At this point you could probably split the show into a season one and two, where the first season, "The Acolyte" is the story of Osha being an acolyte on Korriban, and the season two would be like "The Apprentice" or something a bit less trademarked, probably, and be about Osha actually hunting down the Jedi.

And hey, maybe it's a shitty idea, but I think it would place the show better in the lore and give us an interesting perspective where we follow a Sith character who fully believes she's in the right, and because of how this version of the Brendok events played out, we can't really say she's wrong either.

Maybe all of that is a product of the kind of Star Wars fan I grew up as though. I was born in the prequel era, meaning that for me, Phantom menace, Attack of the Clones, and Revenge of the Sith were always part of Star Wars. I grew up playing KOTOR on my dad's computer and then later watching Clone Wars and then after that getting really into SWTOR for awhile in the early-to-mid 2010s.

Star Wars to me is lightsabers and deep lore and the Jedi versus the Sith.

I guess that's why Acolyte, for all its flaws and mistakes and strange writing choices, got my attention in a way that a lot of Star Wars stories haven't.

I mean, I watched Acolyte all the way through while I still haven't felt motivated enough to watch Andor - I'm sure that for a lot of nerds, that's downright sacrilege - but that's where I'm at with this franchise.

Do you have any idea how long it's gonna take for someone to be willing to make a female-led Sith show after how the Acolyte bombed? I'll be waiting decades at this rate. I'll be waiting even longer when I ask for those characters to one: be aliens because goddamn all these species in the galaxy but the only ones that ever seem to do anything are humans, and two: be lesbian because...I dunno man, representation makes me feel good.

I guess Mother Koril checks a lot of those boxes but...she's got like fifteen minutes of screentime max and then kinda turns into a cloud of smoke and we don't see her anymore. Is she dead? Is she alive? Is she some other third thing?

Nobody knows.

And we're probably never gonna know because the show's been cancelled.

Fun times.

So yeah, these are some incoherent musings from a long-suffering Star Wars fan in 2024.

Like the meme says...

Star Wars would be so good if it was good.

[lamemaster]

Accidental Father Acquisition

Requst: Ritual gone wrong with celebrimbor! I've been playing shadow of mordor and I just love him. What's more spooky than being bonded to a ghost? I'm not saying it has to follow the plot lines of the games at all, I'm just inspired/going for the vibes of that.

Pairing: Celebrimbor x Reader

Genre: Crack/ found family

Summary: From death by banner to an expecting mother, Celebrimbor's plot was insane.

AN: This is bonkers. Proceed with caution. Also, Shadow of Mordor Celebrimbor is the definition of how I imagine elves to look like so I feel ya anon.

Celebrimbor blinked once. Close his eyes and shook himself awake once again. Wait, why was he closing his eyes like a mortal? 

The huge bump still lay in front of his vision. His bump to be exact. A feeling of faint disbelief makes him swoon only for a tiny kick to stop his dissent. 

That is when he hears a small fleeting thought of incoherent hunger. The child was hungry. He noted distantly. The child inside him. Inside the body that now belonged to him.

What in the Timeless Halls was this? 

“That’s my body dipshit,” The baby- no, another voice intercepts his thoughts. Another annoyed raspy voice. “Yes, it is I, your summoner. If only I had known that the spirit I get would be an equal mess.” The voice grumbled and an image of a human woman materialized in his mind, no in the woman’s mind that was now his? Or was it his mind in the woman’s body? 

“You are human.” He whispers out loud to which the voice scoffs. “Yes, Einstein. I am a woman.” It You answer and Celebrimbor cannot bring himself to ask more about Einstein. He got the gist of it. “Didn’t you know who you were answering to when you walked your grand self into my circle?”

He had no idea how he was here in the first place. One second he was a banner on Sauron’s battlefield and another, he woke up with a child. And not even in his body. Was this another of Sauron’s baffling visions? 

“Holy hell dude, that’s some graphic shit. Did no one tell you to not traumatize expecting mothers?” You cringe covering your eyes. Only then does Celebrimbor realize that his thoughts were now projected to you and the child. With a wince, he turns his thoughts to pressing matters.

“Where am I?” He asks the mortal woman lounging in the shared mental palace. 

“In my summoning circle. That I made for a bargain. Not the body swap legenderia.” You shift trying to sit comfortably, failing to do that like a practiced dance that led to a string of curses every time. “Pregnant women can’t be comfortable even in their thoughts.” You sigh looking at the lost elf. 

Celebrimbor, as if spurred into action, adjusts the cushion that materializes into the thin air just as he thinks about it. Helping you lean comfortably, he relishes in the sleepy murmurs of the child now content as its mother. 

“Why did you summon me?” He sits next to you, feeling the fatigue from the human body. It’s heaviness he found himself unused to given that his jump had been from his elven form to a heavily pregnant woman. 

You look at him scrutinizing him. Much to your disappointment, your summoned one ended up in your body instead of coming in a much-desired combat-enabled form. But for some absurd reason, you do not feel anything. Not the despair of a failed ritual or the shock of having a chat with the elf who now seemed to be in charge of your body. Only the everlasting urge to pee persists.

“I did it for revenge. The original plan was to find something sinister enough to mess up the man who left me in this state.” You point to your belly. “Left us hungry, begging for food. I wanted to make him suffer. Make him hate his life. But the kid got scared. It held on to your soul instead of whatever monstrosity I had asked for from Gothmog.” Celebrimbor blinks, his mouth agape. 

On any other day, he would’ve been enraged, mad at the careless Eru-forsaken woman who did not once care for her child, the idiot human. He perhaps would have, had her child taken away the second it was born. Yet, now he could not help but look at you, at himself in the mirror, and see the scrawny human stare back. Calouse hands, slouched shoulders, and fragments of a nightmare he did not pry into. Of the rights and wrongs of this world, how would he judge someone who had let go of everything? Who had been robbed of everything and was still expected to love. 

His despair was hers, and hers was his. Pain of betrayal, of pain, of scorn, shame, and guilt. All he knew too well. “You could have killed the child,” he whispers looking at you failing to sound every bit admonishing that he tries to be. “I am aware.” You reply with a stony gaze. “And the child will die of hunger either way. So why not sate its blood thirst as a last favor?”

Behind all the bitter words, all he feels is gut-wrenching sorrow. Despite the righteous urge to scream at your foolishness, he only gathers a tug of unfair empathy. Of the wrongness of love that bloomed out of sorrow- for a child you desired to hate.

It was wrong. All of this. And those were your thoughts that he knew to be. Anger, love, disgust all lingered in the body Celebrimbor’s soul fell into. 

And then he does what none in the living eternity of Arda would have expected. “Is there a spell for procuring another body? I reckon a male vessel would be better.” He looks around trying to spot the spell book in your surroundings. “A vessel matching the child’s father.” He watches your eyes widen in surprise.

“Yes, page 345 goes over it.” You speak in a daze. The Child inside you waking up to kick in order to express its approval of the elf’s crazy fucking plan. 

That is how Celebrimbor the ancient elven lord, King of Eregion found himself in the body of a 25-year-old man named Thomas Duffy. A miraculous plane crash survivor. 

That is how the line of Feanor continues in your world. With your firstborn daughter, who was born with glimmering eyes for unexplainable reasons, and your twins, who possessed uncanny pointed ears. 

Celebrimbor, the name, felt ancient in the tales that he told to his daughter. Your daughter, who had pulled him into her world, away from the pain and death of his world. Away from oaths, dark lords, and dooming jewelry. And Celebrimbor had clung to her mercy. 

In this world, his fate was not of extravagant creations or becoming the doom of the entire world. In this world, most crises were limited to the principal's office visits for his twins. Or your pregnancy mood swings.

Never in the history of the world had been struck a bargain so pleasant. A bargain where nothing was lost. 

[tygerbug]

Captain America: Brave New World- The former Falcon flies high but the MCU is on autopilot. Edited with a lawnmower and both dramatically and politically incoherent, the movie occasionally comes alive enough to be a 30-minute TV episode, but is deathly afraid to be ABOUT anything. It's watchable enough but anyone experiencing "Marvel fatigue" or "superhero fatigue" will not find the cure for it here.

The film appears to be 50% reshoots and ADR by volume. It's the kind of movie where every line of dialogue is followed by an over-the-shoulder shot which has clearly been redubbed in post, with a voice-over by the actor, sounding a bit different, explaining exactly what's going on in the plot right now. Then we cut back to the actor in a visibly different position and mood, as if a minute of edited footage has just been cut out. It goes on like this for 118 minutes. Film producers tend to assume that audiences are too stupid to notice when this is happening in a film, but even if audiences can't name the exact problem, they certainly notice that something is wrong to this degree. The film is edited like a reality TV show, and I personally don't like being treated as if the producers think I'm a moron.

A voiceover is explaining the plot at basically all times, and it's not hard to guess what the test screening notes were that led to these voiceovers. For example, at one point Sam Wilson has to make a tough choice and abandon his soldier sidekick, Joaquin Torres, who has nearly died. About a hundred awkward voiceovers and reshoots follow, seemingly edited in at random, assuring us that this was the right choice and everything is being taken care of and the medics are on their way. Boy, it stinks. Not to a "Madame Web" degree, but very little actual acting has survived the surgery.

This mess was originally announced as "The Serpent Society" with Seth Rollins and Rosa Salazar as baddies. (The previous film Civil War was also announced under this title.) You won't see them here. Instead Giancarlo Esposito shows up as Sidewinder, leading something just called Serpent, which is not elaborated on. Esposito memorably played Gustavo Fring in Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul, and has clearly been hired here so that he can do the exact same thing without anyone asking further questions about who this guy is. That must have simplified things a bit. The film was then announced as "New World Order," which made it sound like an anti-semitic conspiracy theory. Production began in 2023 under the title "Rochelle Rochelle." Mark Ruffalo's Hulk was cast then uncast.

Anthony Mackie has a few decent scenes as Sam Wilson, now Captain America, with the subtext being that a black man without superpowers has a lot to prove. Mackie is charming enough, and so is the conceit that he is often getting injured and working through it. But anything that might be interesting about his performance is usually lost in an incoherent barrage of ADR and reshoots. Carl Lumbly is also often affecting as Isaiah Bradley, an aged super soldier jailed by the US government for decades, whose backstory is politically charged enough that the film has to make the story incoherent rather than get "political" with it, playing up the danger that Bradley might pose (even if the actor is 73).

Politics, or the lack thereof, is very clearly the problem here, as it was in the 2021 TV series The Falcon and the Winter Soldier. I've made a lot of jokes about how that series was clearly intended to be political, but was so watered down by notes and reshoots taking it in a more right-wing direction that it ends up being politically incoherent. A subplot about an unleashed virus hit too close to home and was reshot out of existence. This film is even worse, as it makes no coherent political statements at all, to the degree that there's no point in it even existing. Having a black Captain America onscreen must have resulted in a flurry of notes and complaints from any right-wing person working anywhere at Disney and Marvel. With any hint of politics removed, we're apparently supposed to think that "both sides sure are crazy, and need to work together," without any understanding of what these "sides" are, what their motivations and goals are, and what they might represent. The film has no point of view, which makes it eminently skippable.

I'm also sorry to report that most of this film's good ideas were used up in that mediocre television series, including a larger role for Sebastian Stan's Bucky Barnes, who merely has an awkward cameo here. Daniel Bruhl's Zemo is also absent, along with anyone else I might care about. Instead, Sam Wilson is running around following up on plot threads from a 2008 Hulk movie everyone else forgot about two Hulks ago. The result has about enough plot for half a trailer.

And, to be clear, this is a movie where a black Captain America has to fight the President of the United States, who is a half-dead senior citizen and a big red rage monster, who wanted to lock Sam up and gets locked up himself. The jokes about how this transfers to our current politics write themselves. In real life, American democracy has been dismantled by fascists. But this film is afraid to come up with a political take more complex than "What if there were a red guy?"

To be fair, it is an impressive red guy. An ancient Harrison Ford seems awake enough, replacing the late William Hurt as Thaddeus "Thunderbolt" Ross (Hurt died in 2022 during the movie's development). And the effects artists seem to almost be having fun recreating Harrison Ford as the Hulk. It's kind of a dumb idea but at least it's an idea. Meanwhile Tim Blake Nelson has some fun playing a villain, reprising a role from the 2008 Hulk movie with Edward Norton that we should have forgotten about by now. His role was clearly rewritten and reshot quite a bit, like everything else in this movie, as he has a handful of eccentric or clever character lines that seem completely out of place, when all the other dialogue is just flatly restating what is happening in the plot right now, as if the target audience are not watching the film. It's also unclear whether Nelson and Mackie were actually onset together during key scenes.

The film also spends a lot of time teasing the idea that Liv Tyler might also show up, because of a Hulk movie 17 years ago that hasn't been canonical since 2012. I just watched the movie and I'm still not 100% sure she actually did show up and talk to Mackie or Ford, although we hear and see something that might as well be her.

Our heroes include a bunch of interchangeable military men, which is uncomfortable and/or uninteresting. There's also Danny Ramirez as the soldier Joaquin Torres, who was in the TV series and wants to be the next Falcon. He's irritating, mainly because he's the sidekick to a sidekick to a sidekick to a sidekick, and you feel that with every line. Anthony Mackie has enough screen presence that you don't think about that. Mackie can play the lead, but Torres is just some guy.

There's also the matter of Shira Haas, playing tiny Israeli agent Ruth, based on the controversial comics character of Sabra. She's five feet tall and twentysomething, and looks about half that height and age due to childhood kidney cancer. It's not entirely clear why she's even there, although I can take a guess.

By comparison, the previous film titled "Captain America," 2016's "Civil War," introduced Black Panther and Spider-Man, two of the most popular Marvel heroes, as well as Ant-Man's Giant-Man persona, and a fight between all of the Avengers. What we get here doesn't compare. It's as if you'd booked Beyoncé Knowles for the Super Bowl, but she cancelled, and your niece who plays in the high school band was drafted as replacement.

Racism and sexism can manifest in a lot of ways. One of them is the feeling that when someone who isn't a white man is the lead on the poster, everyone else down the line is no longer bringing their A-game. Maybe the previous Captain America movie introduced Black Panther, Spider-Man and Giant-Man and had all the Avengers, but that was Steve Rogers and this is Sam Wilson. So we've got Joaquin and little Ruth and that's it. As far as I noticed, the film never calls itself "Captain America" either, onscreen. Maybe in small print somewhere at the end.

And to be very clear, this is also what the movie is about, to the extent that it's about anything. Anthony Mackie, Danny Ramirez and Carl Lumbly are very clearly acting their hearts out in a movie that's about how people of color have to work ten times harder to get any respect at all. And they're being set up to fail miserably by Marvel and Disney, as a movie studio, for that exact same reason. The movie is terrified about being about anything, but when the leads are allowed to act, it's about them risking their lives for a country that sees them as disposable, and a poor replacement for the real thing. You genuinely feel how this will probably kill them, and these scenes are genuinely good and affecting. The movie ends with one of those scenes. But the movie can't reckon with that for long, because it's doing the exact same thing. It can't care about a black Captain America too much because that's "political." We know that Steve Rogers fought Nazis, but Sam Wilson can't express anything like that because it's "political." There's no mid-credit scene because they're out of ideas, and the end credit scene has the villain kind of hinting about multiverses, something that every other Marvel project has already done while this one was delayed.

We do have Marvel fatigue right now, because after the big "finale" of Avengers: Endgame, the franchise took a more experimental approach, introducing new heroes and turning to television. Covid then delayed and confused things, and the result has been that Marvel has introduced at least seventy-five new heroes in the past few years, very few of which seem destined to do anything more at the moment. Every Marvel movie used to feel like a big event, back when they all starred blond white guys named Chris. Eventually, the most racist and sexist of the Marvel executives left, and I'm mainly talking about Ike Perlmutter here. And we started to get movies and TV series starring women and people of color. Lots of them. Almost too many of them to keep track of.

Like The Marvels, which is edited down to be one of the shortest Marvel movies, as if they're afraid audiences might turn on them at any moment. And there started to be a narrative that Marvel had lost its way, at the exact same time it started making movies and TV shows that didn't just star white blond guys called Chris. Mostly that's a narrative from idiots yelling on Youtube who don't watch the movies anyway. But sometimes you get the sense that people at Marvel agree, that they lost their way somehow and need to course correct. Not by making the movies feel special again, but by hiring Robert Downey Jr. again, and Chris Evans.

And that's Blernsball.

"A Leela of Her Own" is the 48th episode of Futurama. Leela becomes the first female Blernsball player, a confusing future replacement for baseball. She is hired as a novelty, because she's actually a terrible pitcher who "beans" the batters with a ball to the head. Rather than actually be a symbol of female progress in the male-dominated sport, she is being used as a joke to further show why it should remain segregated.

When the 82-year-old Democrat Joe Biden was considered (in the press) unfit to serve another term as President, he was hastily replaced in the campaign by his 60-year-old Vice President Kamala Harris, a woman of color. Voters were hugely excited about this possibly historic election for awhile, but as Joe Biden's staff took control of the messaging, Kamala ran to the right and largely promised not to change course from what the unpopular incumbent had done. The Democrats raised a huge amount of money for all of this, and seemed to conflate raising money with winning. That's not the same thing, and Harris did not take office as President. What I'll say next is a matter of opinion, but it seemed to become clear after the election that, behind the scenes, the Democratic staff lost interest once Biden was deemed unfit. They ran Harris to have someone to run, but many felt that they'd already lost by losing Biden, and were now going through the motions. They seemed to share none of the voter interest, in running someone new, a possibly somewhat left-leaning Dem rather than the old-fashioned and fading Biden.

Captain America: Civil War is about a fight between all the Avengers which digs up old buried secrets and divides the team in two. Black Panther and Spider-Man show up. The previous Captain America movies are considered among the best in the franchise. The Winter Soldier in particular has vivid, realistic fight scenes and balances superheroics with some of the tone of a grounded political thriller.

Brave New World, as it's titled onscreen, has the guy who used to be The Falcon doing Falcon stuff, and is about what if there was a red guy. It's watchable. It's also skippable. It's Blernsball. And I'd be curious about what kind of stuff they shot for this, but decided was too political or interesting to screen right now, as the USA falls apart during a second Trump Presidency, never to be the same again.

[glubsurleseuil]

Don't be scared - Chapter 1

This is the first chapter - Next

A Pennywise X F!Reader fanfic 'cause I need to get these ideas out of my head before they eat me up. I'll post this thing on AO3 when I'm not so lazy to create an account. If I go ahead with it, it'll be NSFW, sexually disturbing, gory, violent, reader is an autistic drepressed suicidal girl… In short, skip it if you're a sensitive soul. For the rest of you, enjoy (I hope).

(Note: It was translated by Deepl, English is not my mother tongue, so I apologise for any mistakes. If you want to correct me, don't hesitate!)

(Note 2: The image is by @fandomscreenshots but you should already know that because what she does is amazing)

You've always lived in Derry, Maine. Well, actually you were born in Derry, went to school in Derry and, like any good citizen, you now work in Derry. You don't like it, you never have, and you know that no matter what you do, you'll never like it.

Firstly, because no matter how hard you try since childhood, you just can't seem to make any friends. Worse, people seem to have agreed to shut you out and hate you. At best, they ignore you, at worst… well, let's just say there are certain people you've learned to avoid at all costs, so you don't have to spend the evening licking your wounds…

Secondly, because there's something unhealthy about the general atmosphere of this town, as if it were being devoured by a cancer that affected not only the surrounding greenery, but also the buildings and even the people. A cancer that could be called suffering, melancholy or despair. And although no one knows where these feelings come from, everyone seems to accept them as an inevitable burden.

Tonight, like most evenings, you're working at the Canal Rouge, a rather quiet bar where people can drink and listen to local artists perform on a small stage. You're a waitress, and it's not the most pleasant of jobs, especially when you're a woman. Fortunately, your boss is a woman too, and she's very strict about the respect customers show her staff, so things could be a lot worse.

But tonight, you're in a particularly bad mood. Fatigue has always been a difficult thing for you to deal with, and lately your nights have been… tormented. You've been having a dream, always the same with little difference, on and off for over a week. It's a hazy, dark, incoherent dream that's hard to remember. What you remember most is anguish, fear… and an unbearable feeling of being watched by something dangerous, making you feel like prey waiting to be devoured. When your therapist asked you to describe this dream, even with random words, you said 'fear', 'red' and… 'clown'. You laughed after saying that last word, a nervous, uncontrolled laugh, like a continuation of the one you always hear in this dream before waking up.

But tonight, the worst is yet to come, because you have to serve Jenny's gang as consumers, young people your own age who, like you, are stuck in Derry and like to pass the time by annoying other people. Especially you, since you met them in kindergarten. You know you won't be able to get home safely tonight…

And your fears are confirmed as you finish your shift. As you emerge into the alley to which the service door leads, you see them laughing at the end of it, looking in your direction. This is the way home. You quickly think of another option, but you know that even if you take a longer route, they'll be able to corner you sooner or later, and that's what they'll do. Unless… you go through the forest…

You don't hesitate, knowing that your pursuers won't follow. Their parents have given them the same instructions as you: never go into the forest at night. Ever. Your father had made it clear that he meant business by emphasizing his order with the back of his hand. But tonight, you're a grown-up, and between your dead father's old superstitions and Jenny and her gang's guaranteed beating, the choice was quickly made.

You head into the forest, at first more worried about your pursuers who, as expected, quickly abandon their target. Then you decide to turn on the torch on your phone, as it quickly becomes very dark between the tightly packed trees in the middle of the night. You recognize the path you're on and follow it to the ancient oak tree where you used to climb as a child to escape the bullies. But even this place, reassuring by day, gives off a menacing aura by night…

All is quiet, too quiet for a forest where animals should be going about their nocturnal lives. You get the impression that a kind of fog is floating around, light but unnatural, and as you look at the thick branches of the oak tree, you get a strange feeling… Like a memory from another life… Like a dream…

Suddenly, there's a sound. A sound you know well, having heard it every night for over a week. A laugh. A clown's laugh… You turn in all directions, shining your phone in every nook and cranny around the oak. And just as you realize that there's nothing there, that maybe it's your imagination playing tricks on you, the laughter starts up again. You jump back against the tree, light pointed ahead, anticipating the appearance of someone, something… The laughter becomes more distinct, closer… But it's not coming from in front of you, nor from the sides… It comes… from above?

With a quick gesture, you point the light towards the branches of the oak tree and there, hidden in the shadows of the leaves, you see it: a clown. No, THE clown. The one who has haunted your dreams, distressed your nights, devoured your sanity. This present moment has repeated itself endlessly in your nightmare and now it's all happening for real, clear as day and just as terrifying.

With a muffled scream, you drop your phone, the lamp face down and your legs buckling beneath you. The little light that escapes from beneath your phone only faintly illuminates the bottom of the tree, but you know IT's there.

And it's not long before he leaps down from the tree. You can only make out a silhouette in the darkness, and as you hear him coming closer, you try to remember the end of the dream. It's all a blur, and all that comes back is a vague memory of a hunt in which you are the prey… Back on the grassy ground, you pull yourself back as best you can with your hands, never taking your eyes off the presence. Is this how you're going to die?

He moves slowly closer, slipping into the shadows. You can make out that he's leaning forward, then addressing you in a childlike voice.

"Hiya Y/N! I'm Pennywise, the dancing clown!"

He suddenly picks up your phone from the floor, pulling it up slowly, light downwards, gradually revealing his appearance as he continues.

"I've been looking forward to meeting you, you know? Don't be scared, I'm not going to kill you…"

As he utters these words, light finally shines on his face, reflected in his abnormally large and sharp teeth, piercing yellow eyes focused on you, and horror fills you.

"… yet."

The instinct to survive gives you new energy. You leap to your feet and flee the way you came, briefly illuminated by your phone in the clown's hands. You run at full speed, ignoring the noises behind you that make you think he's chasing you. If you've got a chance of getting away, you're going to take it. In fact, the forest exit isn't far off. One last push! You close your eyes and accelerate again… when hands often clutch your collar, brutally stopping your momentum.

"There you are, you bastard!"

"I told you she'd come back! She's such a pussy!"

"No way out now, you bitch!"

Jenny and her gang… It was Tim, the big muscular guy who caught you. They were waiting for you just outside the forest…

"Why are you running so fast? Are you afraid of the big bad wolf?"

They burst out laughing, but the sound reaches you distorted. The adrenalin from your run is wearing off too slowly and you can still hear your heart pounding in your eardrums. You struggle on, your brain unable to make sense of what has just happened. Suddenly, you hear a foul noise. A kind of hoarse, inhuman growl, coming out of the depths of the woods like an echo to their pitiful mocking laughter. You feel Tim's hands trembling with uncontrollable fear on your collar and watch their faces disintegrate before your eyes. Tim lets go and they all flee in a single scream of terror, leaving you behind.

You turn around, your body still tired from your frantic run, and you quickly understand what made them flee: golden eyes, shining menacingly in the darkness, perched on a huge, muscular, fur-covered figure, its multiple sharp teeth accentuating the evil growl rolling down its throat. A werewolf.

You barely have time to realize that it's the clown from earlier before he disappears between the trees with a hoot that sends shivers down your spine. Just as you regain your strength to flee, something falls near you. You examine it carefully: it's your phone, and as you turn the screen towards you, you see a message written in a torn red font:

DON'T BE SCARED

You don't wait any longer and run towards town without looking back.