#any incoherence is from fatigue

[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.

[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

[naoyoki]

✦ mdni , smut , afab!reader , blasphemy , cumplay , size kink , squirting , some dub!con , two dicked + four armed thukuna , corruption kink , wet dreams , imagine thukuna w/o tattoo's in his human form .

PINNED PREVIOUSLY

incubus!sukuna works for his sustinance smarter, not harder. that is why he infiltrated the church, disguising himself as a reverend. corrupting the faithful not only gave him the vital life force that he needed, it gave him that thrilling rush of lust and mischief.

he had targeted multiple people to torment and suck on their life force during mass. but none quite came as easy as you did. incubus!sukuna was filling in for the father at the confesional booth and heard some very interesting words.

"father, forgive me for i have sinned..." the wood planks creaked and shifted beneath you as you adjusted before confessing, "i've been having immoral thoughts and dreams... particularly from one of the heads of our church. oh, please, father, forgive me!"

incubus!sukuna had a grin spread across his face, one that reached to connect with his ears. you had confessed your rampant lust for him, and sukuna did not even need to lift a finger for it!

so incubus!sukuna began to watch your dreams carefully. studying what you liked and disliked. this however, diminished his vitality since these dirty dreams didn't last too long. sukuna's fatigue increased, making it for him to strive for home and recharge his flesh and blood form. his absence disturbed you, as your heart— as well as other parts you didn't wish to disclose, missed his 'upstanding' figure.

but the more you missed incubus!sukuna, the more you called on to and invited in this supernatural entity in to your dreams.

on the outside world, one could see you toss and turn in your bed, messing up and around your sheets along with the duvet. however, in the dream-scape, it was all about a sex fest!

like a moth to a flame, incubus!sukuna got inside your dream space and went haywire on you. and oh christ, you were positively sure you're going to hell for enjoying such a good fuck from a demon.

although, in the back of your mind, you knew things were odd from this dream. 7ft tall reverend with tattoos all over his naked body, a mouth in his belly, four arms, and two dicks!?

incubus!sukuna's belly mouth tongue teased with fluttering licks around your lower back. his top dick fucked your cunt senslessly while the tip of his bottom dick stimulated your clit with every raw, hammering thrust. his massive statue allowed him to smother your lips with his own, and claim any semblance of energy you harbored to keep for himself.

his large hands held you up in the air, his grip on your legs, waist, and arm never faltering to keep you in place. but sukuna wanted to play with your disgusting lust for him. now, you could see this entity in all his wretched glory once he turned you to face him. his upper dick slipping out to give opportunity to his lower one to feel a taste of you. his red eyes trailed to your pelvis and mused once they laid on the evident bump.

"look," said incubus!sukuna, sharp canines shining through his wide smile, "see how good your pussy takes me? damn, such a good fuck!"

the sex demon pressed down on the bulge and how his cock stretched your cunt out in all the good angles. you could only exhale a string of incoherent signs of gratitude by his words. your small, helpless frame made him laugh while while cumming in and out of you!

strings of thick milky cum began to fill you up and fall onto your chest and stomach. some drops falling on to your face as well. the knot on your stomach tightened but what sent you off to the edge was how incubus!sukuna began to play and cover you further with his thick cum. opening your cunt up with his thick fingers so that his jizz oozes out from you. keeping you on the floor and tapping his cocks on your sticky body. making you cum at his mercy over and over again.

least to say, you cursed when you woke up in the morning to a damp pool of your juices and the faint smell of cooked apples and sulfur.

[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*

[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.

[aixeko]

──────⏯ A WORK OF ART [ ▸ ]

MAIN MASTERLIST ➤ HSR MASTERLIST

🎨 “ I'LL FIGHT FOR CONTROL BUT THE "RIGHT WAY" TAKES A TOLL AND STILL AT THE END OF IT ALL I CAN'T ESCAPE MY FATE THE WRITING'S ON THE WALL. “ .𖥔 ݁ ˖

| Starring | Famous Violinist!Kafka x [ Child prodigy, failed adult ] Artist!Reader 

| Setting | Modern AU

| Scenario | [ SHORT FIC ] ANGST! Hurt/comfort. Mental Breakdown. Unhealthy mindset. Artist’s struggles. Low self esteem. Identity crisis. Established relationship. Kafka & reader is engaged. Rushed ending… NOT PROOFREAD.

► RADIO CHANNEL [Author note]

× My first Kafka fic on here, wow. Happy holly jolly christmas <3 ×Something about this triggered the 5 stages of grief in me so hard. I hate this fic with my entire soul, it’s so badly written I’m sorry. Especially at the end, It’s so disappointing. Sorry... × Anyway, I highly recommend listening to the duet version between Kaveh and Haitham of Writing on the Wall ! It captures the feels of this fic greatly.

[ Word count: 2721 ] Sources: Love and Deep space, Kafka cosplay, and real life images found on pinterest.

🎻 "I'll come save your soul as your "Right way" takes a toll and then at the end of it all I will rewrite your fate as writing on the wall." ✮⋆˙

With every stroke that strikes the hauntingly pale canvas, the aching prominent in your shoulder seems to grow as if roaring waves taking the form of liquid paint have crashed upon you without a moment's notice. The weight of each stroke takes its toll on you, accumulating like the darkening of the heavens and gathering of clouds before their fierce rage captures its victims in ominousness and instability.

In such a suffocating atmosphere, time felt like nothing more than a worthless nuisance, with its worth only to disturb the bothered and the unbothered. Has the star that this miserable home orbits already fallen prey to slumber, or has its opposite already shrouded the sky in its woefulness? How many times has the Earth already taken its rest while you fought your fatigue under the guise of devotion to one's art? How often have you endeavored to bring forth a masterpiece from a hand marred by mistakes and a mind colored with imperfections? How much longer can your heart allow you to continue this disgraceful creation you would dare call "art"?

Without any hindrance to your movement, another imperfect splash of color daubs the canvas.

Sweat that has amassed begins to feel like the submersion of the ocean itself, followed by the rise and fall of rapid breathing, a frantic attempt to hold a semblance of living in this polluted air brought about by your own destruction.

Your eyes bore into the incoherent carnage of colors. Trembling.

A genius is what you were; a fallen genius is what you are. A desperate soul scouring every inch of one's own being in search of that familiar sensation of flowing fluency, of inspiration, and of motivation. Only to find nothing more than broken pieces.

Without your consciousness's consent, the fuming flame that begs to be unleashed took over, and the hairs of your brush crashed onto the canvas. It takes a while before your lidded eyes glisten, before snapping open at the realization of your misstep. You shake your head nonstop, lips quivering at the distasteful spectacle before your eyes, a sight that nearly has you falling from your high stool.

Calm down, calm down, calm down, calm down, calm down! CALM DOWN!

You repeatedly try to tell yourself, your vision blurring again at the wetness of anguish that weighs on unfulfilled dreams stemming from swollen, red eyes. The strength of your grip tightens around the same tool meant to aid you, a tool that was never meant to destroy you, a tool you now feel immense shame to even have the rightfulness of holding. 

NO.

Your mind is fooling you with lies of deception; yes, that's what it is; that's what it is called: lies, lies, lies. You're still the same prodigy you always were and have been.

This brush is still yours to bear; this brush is still your territory, your invincible sovereignty where no others can take it away from you. For the first time in months, your eyes wander to something beyond the impending doom of your ambition.

You mustn't give up now, no, not yet, not now, not ever, not until your heart ceases to beat and your body turns to ashes of the past. Fame or attention, it doesn't matter; you must, you HAVE to see this through to the end, the day of its completion, the day when it will bask in its infinite glory. No matter the cost, you will... or else—what was the point of all those praises?

They can't be mere meaningless praises of pity toward an innocent, simple-minded child, right? You're still the little prodigy your mother and father had proudly proclaimed all those years ago, right?

Right...?

The shuddering grip on the brush and the unbalanced posture reveal a narrative diverging from reality, a tale where truth has been distorted into a mere blemish on a meticulously crafted illusion. A revelation that you may be able to lie to yourself and others, but one that you cannot lie to your body and soul.

You knew; you always have. You may have had the passion and talent, but you long ago lost one, holding tightly to another, and believing you still have both under your control.

You weren't the same talented child that so many adored anymore, but you were still the same child who continued to be a pathological people-pleaser who only wanted the acknowledgment of others.

In the end, fame and attention do matter because they define the very reasons for your identity and the continuation of your undesirable life.

You are fully aware of this fact, yet you cannot seem to stop yourself. A true artist would weave their personal tragedy and fabricate it into a timeless masterpiece. Yet, you have never pondered one important detail.

What becomes of an artist when their brush is meek, their mind lost in the abyss, with no visions to seek? When their passion has already lost its spark to ignite, and sorrow lingers on, untouched and cold?

It was already nighttime; the moon was at its fullest, yet you don’t have the will to care anymore, lost in the darkness of your thoughts. You don’t indulge in the tiredness, the empty pit in your stomach, or the concentrated primal desire to finally let loose of your entire being. A tempting, melodious voice murmurs in the back of your mind, consuming the entirety of your senses, an offer to travel to the lowest part of the earth, where even the greatest of scientists have yet to discover the fullest extent of it. The watery depth that is known as the abyss, the ocean in which silence can devour you whole. Devoid of a singular worry, devoid of the guilt of being pathetically idiotic in the field where you should have been unsurpassable, devoid of having to live with the fact that you will never be enough no matter the effort you have invested in. Because in the end, puppeteered by fate's hands, those who are blessed by beings of greater power will always succeed over the untalented.

You tilt your head upward, and immediately that nauseating feeling runs its course all over your body. The moonlight emitting through the clear paneglass window mocks you for your misery, taunting you with the art piece that you have embarrassingly spent months on, only to end up with nothing more than a disfigured, incoherent shot of colors. You bite your lip for what seems to be the hundredth time, your swollen eyes streaming enough tears to cover an entire river.

What would everyone think of me? My audience? My mother? My father? You stare up blankly at the ceiling, unable to bear looking at your own creation, a reflection of your inner chaos. What would they all think of me? You wish to never see it again. A heaviness settles in your chest, and you wish to rid yourself of it all, to vanish into nothingness. Your body slumps, silence wrapping around you, thick and suffocating, leaving only shadows of questions echoing in the stillness where time has lost its meaning. What would you think of me—Kafka?

Your grip around your brush loosens, and eventually, your hands relax. You hear the brush drop to the floor alongside the mess of equipment, but its sound registers as nothing more than muffled background noise.

Your eyes surrender to the painful longing to rest, whether involuntarily or voluntarily; you do not know. Slowly, your body begins to yield. You lean back slightly, feeling the world tilting along with you in slow motion like a steady dance with gravity. You're falling, you realize. To say you care would be another lie because you don't. Rather, the eventual fall feels surreal and oddly comforting, like you're drifting into a gentle dream, and the cold floor is like that of a comforting bed that you slump into after a long-awaited day of hard work.

Time stretches, and the world dims, leaving only the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ears and the arrival of the wooden floor, a final act of surrender as you wait for impact.

If I fall, art will perish with me.

If I don't...

You wait and wait and wait, but the feeling of the harsh wooden floor never comes into contact with your head. Instead, all you could feel were those calloused, ever-so-cautious, indistinguishable hands. You need no vision to identify whose hands those belong to; their touch alone speaks volumes. Those were the hands of a person who has spent a lifetime honing their ability to the utmost, practicing every day with precision and care. The hands of a talented, hardworking genius, someone that you believe you were.

"You're home early." You let out a voice barely above a whisper and drained of a will to live.

"I'm afraid I'm late."

Her usual sultry and dragged-out voice has significantly softened to quiet murmurs only meant for the comfort of your ears. There's an intimacy in her tone as if every whisper is a precious secret she's reluctant to reveal to the world.

You let out an 'Mn' sound, acknowledging her words before you open your teary eyes. Kafka remains silent, her expression unreadable as she observes your evident misery and the wrecked, enormous portrait that she perceives as a reflection of herself, waiting patiently for you to break the silence. Her eyes, filled with equal concern and curiosity.

A deep, shaky exhale escapes you. You sit up before bending forward with your clasped hands pressed tightly against your head and your arms on your thighs. "Kafka," another heavy exhale releases. "Why... tell me, why do we choose to create?"

You hear a slight hesitation in her step; then you feel her hand gently resting on top of your head, the warmth of her touch seeping through, and another hand on your shoulder, grounding you in her presence.

"Because it is the only thing that fate cannot define."

That fate cannot define? You jumped out of your seat, knocking the stool to the ground and catching Kafka off guard, even more so when you hauled her by the collar.

"That's bold coming from you," you pull her closer, "A genius like you wouldn't know how hard it is to struggle to create, especially considering the human desire is to CREATE. You will never KNOW the struggle to have passion but never the talent to make something that isn't nauseating to look at." Kafka's lips part to speak, but in the midst of the storm that has clouded your sight, the world is all but utter darkness to you, and she is the one exception on whom you can vent your frustration.

"People are CHOSEN by FATE; they are CHOSEN, not MADE, not LEARNED. THEY ARE CHOSEN. KAFKA."

"Music is to the soul what words are to the mind, and art is no different; it is a language without words."

Kafka's left fingers traced your collarbone to your jawline, tilting your head slightly until she rested her hand on your cheek, gently wiping away the streaming tears.

"Would you call a genius who spent countless hours and years cultivating their skills until their hands are imprinted with their experience an act of fate, a chosen one?"

"I—"

"You wouldn't." Kafka leans towards you to kiss away the tears of the untouched side. "What a silly question, isn't it? Why do we create? There is no definite answer, and that's what makes art, art."

"Art is a reflection of an artist's truest form of emotion, a way of communication away from the eyes of the world; is it not?"

It is. You admit it mentally, but that reason does not define you; no, the opposite is really, but ashamed to admit it to your fiancée, you turn away from her gaze to save what little dignity you have left.

If I fall... I will give up on art.

Kafka sighed; she let go of her hold and walked past you. Your fists clenched, and you bit your bottom lip until the flesh of it was pierced through until blood was the only thing you could taste, and loud, discordant noise was all you could hear. Your heart was pounding, and it was dropping. Did you just lose the one soul that you have found comfort in? Did you really just lose the one fucking thing that remained a constant in your life? Are you this much of an imbecile?

If I don't... I will continue.

"You look like a lost puppy," Kafka trailed a small streak of red paint on your cheek. "That said, I prefer to see my puppy smiling."

You blink, and for the first time since her arrival, clarity cuts through the haze of your own downpour, revealing your fiancée, your wife, your lover—the woman who has not just stolen but nurtured your heart.

"Was it not you who told me all those years ago that I should stop obsessing over every little detail when I was a naïve teenager?" Kafka sighed dreamily, her smile reaching her eyes and that tender gaze boring mesmerizingly into yours. In this moment, this woman, this woman who presents herself in such a devilish presence, now looks like God's most beautiful creation, an angel who has descended from heaven.

Your lips part, wanting to say something, but those words get lost in your throat as you drag yourself across the floor, hands reaching out to embrace her tightly.

This time for myself.

"...Why couldn't I be a genius? Why couldn't I be born with natural talents?"

"Shh, my love, let your mind rest and focus on the sound of my heartbeat."

As you stand there, the world outside fades into background noises, and her heartbeat is the only melody in which you allow yourself to indulge. Her thumb rubs the painted streak on your cheek, and you lean into her touch, feeling the frustration of before melt away.

"I should have been here for you; a month away from you is a grave regret." Kafka pressed her lips against your head. "You are enough just as you are, and I am here now to prove it to you."

Your eyes grew heavier and heavier until, in the peace of her presence and the warmth of her love, you felt a sense of tranquility wash over you, guiding you into a much-needed, peaceful slumber.

"Ludwig van Beethoven once stated that the true artist is not proud; he unfortunately sees that art has no limits. He feels darkly how far he is from the goal, and though he may be admired by others, he is sad not to have reached that point to which his better genius appears only as a distant guiding sun."

"Then I guess... I'll just have to work until you can't tell the difference between me and a genius."

"Kafka, art is a reflection of an artist's truest form of emotion; it is a way of communicating away from the eyes of the world, a language of the soul. If you practice too much, you will eventually lose your passion. What is art without emotions? What is art without a reason?"

"Are you saying I will never be able to reach their level?"

"There's no such thing as a ranking when it comes to the human desire to create; art is subjective, and so is the beauty of it. Being able to produce any form of art is still art, and no matter the nonsensical opinions of others, it is only you who deserves to make a judgment."

Kafka runs her hand through your hair, feeling the soft strands slip through her fingers as she observes your peacefully resting form.

"A struggle of artistic ideals, an impossibly fast pace of flowing ideas that disappear just as fast as their appearance, and a perfectionistic reality in which the succession of manifestations is humanly impossible."

She chuckled softly, shaking her head. "It's a shame you have fallen prey to it as well," Smoothly, she picked you up, cradling you protectively in her arms, where no harm can be done to you anymore.

"No matter," she continued, her voice a soothing lullaby to your ears. "Just as you once did for me in the past, I will come save your soul."

[bloodychazorite]

It was clear to Phil from the first hour his team was going to lose it.

Whether “it” was the challenge or their minds was up for discussion.

Jaiden sat under his right wing, muttering to Baghera who’s head lay in the blue-bird's lap. Foolish used his left wing as a blanket, legs sprawled messily in front of him. Charlie found his place splayed across the totem’s legs, Cellbit draped over him like a blanket.

The weak, wooden floor creaked beneath them. It was clear that if Foolish had any more energy, he wouldn’t have had to see the floor before ripping it to shreds.

Exhaustion, aches and cramps tore at Phil’s every nerve, but he couldn’t find it in himself to sleep no matter how hard he tried.

He assumed it had something to do with the timer on each of their wrists. If he was right--and he prayed he was--he only had a little over ten minutes left.

“Do you think they are laughing at us?” Baghera asked quietly, feathers rustling beside her.

Phil mulled over their first day, and how promises of hope and optimism shifted to wails of agony and begging for retribution. Burn scars tainted the bodies of his team from their pleas for providence.

“They’ve got to be,” Cell snapped, “What else do they do?” He shifted slightly, burrowing his chin into Charlie’s neck.

“Mmh… oww...”

“Eh, sorry Slime. Time, anyone?”

Hysteria spread like infection, starting with the Slime and ending with Phil himself because—Void, despite living in the wild for months on end, Charlie was not built for this.

None of them were.

“Seven minutes..!” Baghera whispered.

“Around nine, I think.” Phil muttered.

“Damn, thirteen minutes.” Foolish’s head lolled backward.

Cell had twenty.

Jaiden had thirty-two.

Charlie had forty-eight.

Phil felt bad for them, condemned to linger awake, stewing in their suffering and fatigue.

It must’ve been comical, to some extent, to watch them suffer.

To clip an Avian’s wings and toss them off a cliff, just to watch them flail.

To hold a Feline’s head underwater, just to watch them thrash and choke.

To throw a Slime into the desert, just to watch them burn dehydrate and weaken, only to burn.

Someone had to find it funny.

Phil groaned as his eyes attempted to slip shut, old ghosts of burns and stabs and respawns gnawing at his bones.

His team was warm and cracking incoherent jokes, somehow, despite everything. A wobbly smile crept onto his face with no right to be there.

These were the cards they were dealt.

This was their chance at genesis.

Consciousness oozed from his ears, rendering him entirely immobile for the night.

Phil was sure tomorrow wouldn’t be any better.

[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.

[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.

[baby-beelzeburger]

The brothers finding you asleep in their bed [Part Two]

➳ Summary: The brothers come home late to find MC sleeping in their bed. When asked, MC admits that they missed them while they were gone.

➳ Content info: MC is gender neutral.

➳ Characters: Leviathan and Satan

➳ Word Count:  Leviathan- 2,047 // Satan- 1,444

Part one

Being an otaku was exhausting work. This, Leviathan knew well. But his hard work was worth it all as he walked through the empty halls of the House of Lamentation with a limited edition Ruri-chan figurine within his grasp. He had spent hours of the early morning, lined up with other super fans in order to get a chance to score such a precious item. There had only been a small amount of this special figurine. Not wanting to take any chances, Levi had set out the night before, eager to be as early as possible to the event. He had spent much too much time in the outside world, social battery drained just from having to spend so long packed in a line full of others. But at the end, it was worth it.

Despite his fatigue, excitement coarsed through his veins as he thought over all the places he could put this precious new addition to his collection. He knew she had to be front and center! She deserved no less. He wanted absolutely everyone to see this masterpiece! Not like... anyone really went into his room. But you did, and he just knew you were going to love her! So he had to make sure she was in a nice spot.

Just as he pictured the cute smile you’d give him when he was finally able to show off his new prize, he opened the door. His entire body felt like it was melting in relaxation at the sight of his room. He could already feel his energy meter beginning to fill again as he took a step inside, calming blue lights welcoming him in.

And then, he froze as movement from the corner of his eye drew his attention. Movement specifically coming from his bed. Upon closer look, he saw a lump underneath his covers where a lump should not be.

Frightened out of his mind, convinced some terrible creature had snuck it��s way into his room (after all, he had just played a new horror game the night before,) he hugged Ruri-chan tight to his chest. He took one more careful step into his room, craning his neck as far as it could go to see over the edge of the bathtub.

The lump moved again, and Levi jumped back in surprise. He yelped at the movement, only to hear a quiet voice mumble in response.

Wait. That sounded a little bit like.... MC?

Hah, no, that was silly. As if someone like you would ever want to sleep in the bed of someone like him. It was absolutely more likely that the scary monster from his game was under there, not you. He was completely imagining things.

Except, as his strained eyes continued to stare in fear, a head popped out from under the blankets. A head with a pretty face attached to it, a face that looked just like yours. and it looked incredibly adorable snuggled tightly in his bed. Your eyelids fluttered just a bit, showing him those gorgeous eyes he could get lost in forever. And then, he knew for sure.

You mumbled something incoherent, then your eyes slid back shut.

It was unmistakably you. He could never, ever forget your face! Or your voice, even when he couldn’t really understand what you were saying. And the monster from his game wasn’t a shapeshifter... so it really was you? But, why?

A lightbulb went off in Levi’s mind. This all must be a dream. The best dream of his life, for sure. It was the only way to explain how he managed to score such an incredibly rare item, and the only reason that the person of his dreams would be laying right there in his bed.

Levi stood there for a moment, taking it all in. If this was really a dream, then he wanted to soak it all in for as long as he could. He held Ruri-chan close to his chest. But even then, even as he wanted to revel in both parts of this increible dream, he couldn’t really take his eyes off of you.

That’s okay, he thought. This was enough to make him happy. He’d treasure the memory of your dream self snuggled up like this forever.

With a sigh and a firm nod to himself, he decided that he should wake up now. Enough relishing. Although, now that he thought about it, he never really checked if it was a dream. They say you can’t feel pain in your dreams, right? You’re supposed to pinch yourself to check. That’s what he’s heard, at least.

Leviathan tucked Ruri-chan underneath his arm- even if it was all a dream, he could never just drop her, or put her on the dirty ground!- and dug his nails into his flesh.

He yelped once again, this time in pain. He put his all into that pinch, convinced that it wouldn’t hurt. Now he had deep crescent shapes marked into his arm, irritated and beading with blood.

Wait... so was this honestly real? All of this? That meant that he really did get this awesome Ruri-chan figurine! Yes!

And, that meant that you were really sleeping in his bed...

WAIT, THAT MEANT THAT YOU WERE REALLY SLEEPING IN HIS BED!

Levi’s head shot up to look back at you, panic now erupting through him at the confirmation that this wasn’t all in his head.

Oh no, his head felt light. Was he about to faint?

Okay, okay, think Levi, He thought as he braced himself against the wall, This must be some trick of the mind. Lack of food, and water, and sleep. Yeah that’s it! Gotta be it. Don’t freak out.

But that wasn’t it. That became increasingly clear as you started to stir, the bright light shining in through the crack in the door becoming irriting to your sleeping mind.

He barely noticed at first that you started to return to reality. Not when your eyes started fluttering back open, fully awake this time. Not when you pushed the covers away from yourself and stretched out your arms with a little yawn. Only when you fully sat up to look at him from over the lip of the tub did he notice, and he jumped yet again.

You smiled a cute, lazy smile as you rubbed your tired eyes. Goodness, you even looked perfect straight out of bed, sleepy and a bit disheveled.

He started stuttering your name. It was all his brain could really muster in the moment. He couldn’t really think of anything other then you right then, and his panic was making him do a bad job of speaking.

You giggled. He felt mortified by the possibility that maybe you were laughing at him.

“Levi, you’re here. Welcome back.”

How could you be so casual about this!? You were sleeping in his bed! What are you even doing there!?

Wait, shit. Did he say that out loud? Why were you smirking like that?

“Mm... I just missed you is all.”

...WHAT!?

His heart was about to burst right out of his chest. You were literally about to kill him, did you even realize that!? You- you were trying to kill him, you must’ve been! This was an attempt on his life!

But completely oblivious to the hammering beats against his ribcage, you pointed towards Ruri-chan, still tucked underneath his arm.

“You got it!” You said, excitement in your voice.

That eased him up, just a bit. He knew you’d be excited...

All he could do was nod though, holding the box up in his hands for you to see.

“She’s so cute,” You said with another giggle, pulling yourself up and out of his bed. You stepped onto his cold floor, stretching out your legs this time, “I told you that you’d get her. Where are you going to put her?”

He felt happiness bloom across his chest, even in his anxiety-ridden state. This is why you were his best friend. You always engaged in his intrests and passions. You always cheered him on, even when no one else did.

Except... why did it feel so weird to call you just his friend? Especially after what he’d seen? That panging in his heart over seeing you in his bed... was that a normal thing to feel towards a friend?

Best friends sleep in each other’s beds when they miss each other, right?

Sure. This was normal.

Levi tried to take deep breaths to calm himself down, just like you’d taught him. This panic was over nothing. This was normal!

“I’m not sure yet. Do you maybe want to- um... do you wanna help me choose a spot?”

You nodded, even despite the fact that you looked so tired. Even through your fatigued eyes, you looked more then happy to help him.

The two of you spent the next few moments discussing which shelf she would look best on. You helped him rearrange some things to fit her in, treating each piece of his collection like a precious artifact. And that’s why you were the only person he’d let help him do this. Because he knew you were the only one he could trust to treat them- and by extention, him- with respect.

Once that task was completed, you both looked upon your work in triumph. She looked perfect there, the spot you chose was the best one in the room. He knew he could rely on your opinion.

After just a moment of observing, a yawn escaped your lips, drawing Levi’s attention back to you. You smiled sheepishly.

“I should probably head back to my room for the rest of the night. I’m still sleepy.”

“Right, uh... Sorry I woke you up.”

You laughed, shaking your head.

“No worries. Goodnight, Levi.”

“Night...”

His eyes never left you as you made your way to the door, trailing after you the entire time. He was thankful for it when you turned to look behind your shoulder as you reached the door. You sent him a wave. In a daze, he waved back. Then the door was shut, and you disappeared behind it.

Leviathan took a deep breath of relief, feeling the tension start to dissipate. With nothing left to do, now exhausted from both his excursion, and his panic of the evening, he begun his nightly routine to get ready for sleep.

Though, once it was time to get in bed, he hesitated. He wasn’t sure what he was so anxious of. Somehow, sleeping in the same spot that you once had felt strange. Wrong. Even when it was his own bed. Like you had blessed it with your pure pressence, and he would taint it the moment he touched it.

Eventually, the call of his soft blankets and pillows drew him in. And he was so glad it did.

It wasn’t until he rested his head onto the pillow that he realized his bedding smelled of you. The pillows he lined the tub with, the blankets, and sheets, all of it. The smell of you invaded his senses in the best way, and he felt his entire body ease.

You were so strange. You made him so nervous. You made him feel so tense, in an odd way that he didn’t understand. And yet, even the very thought of you, the very scent of you relaxed him. You were an enigma. A paradox. How could both things be true at once? It made no sense.

Despite this, he snuggled into his bed, into your scent, as much as possible. He felt so relaxed surrounded by you... so comforted. Almost like you were still there, laying next to him. Holding him in a gentle hug...

He shook his head, as if he could shake the thought right out of his brain. Maybe that was another thought for another day, as his swirling thoughts of you were starting to trouble him. He could think on it another time. Or he could avoid it, and loose himself in video games instead. It was a choice for future Leviathan to worry about.

One thing was true for certain, however. Levi got the most comforting sleep that night. More comforting then he’d had in a long time.

On days like this, Satan was rather greatful for the exsistence of libraries. Not only for the wealth of knowledge right as his fingertips, but for the silence they offered him in times of distress. A library was like a sancuary to him, where the chaos of the day could melt away, and the wrath that boiled just below his skin could be temporarily forgotten.

Just that morning, Satan had once again lost his temper towards Lucifer. Over what, he could hardly remember. But he remembered exploding, his words flying from his mouth a mile a minute. And what made it worse was that Lucifer had barely even reacted. He just kept this annoying, stoic expression on his face, and that only served to piss Satan off more.

That bastard really thought he was perfect, acting like nothing had any effect on him. But Satan yelling at him must’ve upset him! It must’ve!

Satan had ended up storming out of the house in his distress, warning everybody to not follow after. The library was where he retreated to, as usual. But even as nice as the stillness of it was, he couldn’t help but wonder why, for the first time, it felt so lonely.

It wasn’t until late at night that he dared return home, but even then he still felt tense. Asmo greeted him at the door, expressing worry but clearly treading carefully in case he was still in a bad mood. Satan made an attempt at assuring him otherwise, but he knew his dialogue still came off as stiff. Asmo left him alone rather quickly, at least reassured that Satan was back home, but not wanting to set him off again.

Satan took a deep breath, then sighed it out slowly. It was a long day, and he was looking forward to falling asleep in the comfort of his bed.

He made the trek up the stairs, thankful he had yet to come face to face with Lucifer again. Though he was calmed down considerably, he wasn’t sure if seeing the demon’s face would set him off once more. Better safe then sorry.

Satan’s jaw was still clenched, and his eyebrows still furrowed, but even with the tension still lingering in his body, it felt like it all melted away the moment he opened the door to his bedroom. There, laying in the bed right in front of him, was you. It was hard to miss, the way the stacks of books littering his room framed you perfectly. Not to mention the moonlight that filtered in through the window behind you, acting as a spotlight to you and your peaceful rest.

How precious, he thought as he stepped inside, closing the door as silently as possible. He skillfully stepped around the mess of books to get to you, and with each step the frustrations of the day became further and further away from his thoughts.

In your hands, he noticed a book hanging from limp fingertips. A book from his own collection, he believed. Seems as though you’d helped yourself as you waited for him. A luxury granted to you and you alone, so long as you were mindful of the cursed and forbidden tomes hidden amongst the piles.

He couldn’t help but smile as he slid the book from your grip and set it aside, sure to save your place with the bookmark on his bedside table so you could pick up where you left off later.

He shed his jacket, kicked off his shoes, then crawled in bed with you. He dare not touch you, not wanting to cross any unknown boundaries. But he laid there beside you, and that was enough. He felt so at ease just being next to you. He fell asleep in no time, thanking you for being his most effective stress relief.

In that moment, just before he was whisked away into a dreamless sleep, he felt so silly. Just that morning, he had been so caught up in his rage he had forgotten that you, too, were his sanctuary. Even more precious then any word on a page. Had he remembered that this is how wonderfully being in your pressence would go, he would have sought you out, not gone to some stupid library.

The last words to drift in his mind before his eyes slid closed for the remainder of the night were accompanied by a soft smile.

I’d be wise not to forget it again...

When he awoke the next morning it was to the sight of you, rather frazzled. It seemed as though you had become a lot closer in the night, you with your head on his chest and him, with his arms holding you with no soon intent to let go.

He released you the moment he had become aware of it however, not wanting to make you uncomfortable. You let out a relieved breath and scooted away just the smallest bit, but he still noticed your slight hesitation the moment before you parted from him.

He apologized, feeling bad that he had indeed crossed a boundary, despite his own wishes the night before. He supposed even in his sleeping moments, he wanted to be near you as much as possible.

You took it in stride, not worried or upset. Simply a little flustered to have woken up in such an unexpected way.

“I hope I didn’t have you caged in for too long,” He said, a grin forming on his lips. Now knowing that you weren’t upset, it meant that the situation was open for teasing. Of course, he was also keenly aware of the fact that he were the one to hold you in the first place. He was just as open for teasing as you.

“No, don’t worry. I woke up just before you did...”

He nodded, and a silence began to settle over you. Normally, Satan would enjoy the fact, not because he grew tired of you speaking, but because it was the state he found most peace in. Your times together were often like this. Silent, simply enjoying one another’s pressence.

He was rather aware of how... cat-like that was. Especially when you teased him so much for it.

However, in that moment, Satan had one more question on his mind. He would have to set aside that moment of silence for just a minute longer.

He called your name, softly. Your head rose to face him again, still flustered. Adorable.

“Not that I’m complaining at all, but why exactly are you here?” He wondered.

“Well, you weren’t answering my calls yesterday and I was really worried. And I... I...” Your voice trailed off, the rest of your sentence turning into mumbled words he could no longer understand.

He leaned in forward and asked, “Sorry, what was that?”

“I said I... I really missed you.”

Satan felt like his heart was suddenly soaring through the bright, starry Devildom sky.

Yet even with all these soft feelings swirling around his chest, he couldn’t help but show something else on the outside. A teasing, smug smile formed on his lips.

“Is that right?”

“I- I did! You left in such a hurry and I didn’t know when you were going to come back...”

He sighed, the smug smile falling from his lips. He found his hand raise to cup your chin, guiding your gaze upwards to meet his own. He hoped you could feel the sincerity within his eyes.

“I’m sorry I worried you, MC. I feared that if I responded to your calls then I would end up taking my anger out on you."

He really hadn’t meant to upset you. He hadn’t even been thinking that clearly. All he knew was that he needed to be alone, away from everything. To know he worried you in the process made him feel terrible. Never did he want to be the cause of your bad feelings.

Seemingly gaining some sort of courage, you gave him the meanest face you could muster. It wasn’t all that mean, nor that threatening. It was actually rather cute. Like a kitten, trying to prove that it was scary. He didn’t say that though, keeping in the adoring smile that threatened to grace his face.

“Well next time, you be sure to at least let me know where you’ve gone, got it?”

With a nod, Satan let his hand trail up from you chin to hold your cheek instead. Hid thumb brushed against your cheekbone, and your “mean” expression melted.

“Got it,” He agreed, his voice light. Warm, “Now, would you mind coming back over here? I’d like to spend a bit more time with you before I have to face Lucifer again.”

[frxxxncx]

Hello, the other day I started thinking about Jeonghan reaction, how would the boy react to seeing you masturbating with a teddy bear?

teddy bear

notita: Enjoy you request, I made it with lots of love 🫶 if there’s any typo or incoherence, it was completely intentional, it’s for the sake of learning about my mistakes.

Warnings: reader’s masturbating with a teddy bear, f. masturbation, stablished relationships, istg my man is jealous of the bear.

Jeonghan was so tired from his schedule, having pre-recordings and rehearsals so early in the morning needed to be illegal.

But when he got home and you didn’t welcome him with a hug, it made him feel even more exhausted. He called out your name various times while taking his shoes off, but your lack of response made him feel a little worried.

He hurried to your shared bedroom, and found you in the middle of such a promiscuous act. You were only using your favorite pair of lacy and white underwear, while grinding against the cute and fluffy stuffed animal that Jeonghan got you for your anniversary.

Your hips moved messily, only wanting to increase the pleasure of the plastic and hard nose of the teddy bear rubbing your clit.

Your boyfriend was simply amused, his cock twitched in his pants excitedly, all the fatigue in his body fading away to the thought of folding you and shoving his hard on inside your warm and tight embrace.

He walked towards the bed, loud enough for you to hear his heavy steps getting closer, with now open eyes you looked at him, while riding the plushie toy, hips moving sloppily and a lewd smile painting your pretty face, Jeonghan could have cum to that image of you, mouth agape and hands fondling your own body.

When he got close enough, his hand tucked one of your loose strands of hair behind you ear carefully, and touched your cheek, caressing the skin softly, you closed your eyes, enjoying the touch, but never stopped moving your hips.

His thumb stroked your lower lip, and the kiss that followed almost melted you, it felt like he wanted to devour you whole, his tongue brushed your palate making you moan.

The poor teddy bear was soak in your arousal and Jeonghan didn’t hesitated to throw the toy into the corner of the room, feeling a little jealous.

“Jeonghan, the bear” you said between moans, still into the kiss, while your lover hovered over you, starting to grind his knee into your pulsating cunt.

“I’ll buy you a new one” he said grabbing one of you hands to place it over his cock, it felt hot and heavy, under your touch, making you clench around nothing “But next time, don’t try to ride the bear, you can ride me instead, it’ll feel better, I’ll make you cry” his fingers replaced his knee, giving your clit all the attention it wanted once he tugged your underwear, placing it beside the bed.

His lips stroked your neck making you shiver, whines slipping from your mouth loudly, you yearned for him since you woke up, alone and needy.

His fingers were working you up so good, now pistoning in and out, curling and hitting just the right places inside of you, delighted by the feeling of your slick and your velvety walls clenching on his fingers.

The sound of the zipper caught your attention, making you look down, Jeonghan cock, rose proud over his clothed abdomen, red, angry and shiny, ready to be shoved on your tight hole.

“I’ll fuck you, so good, you’ll see, I’m way better than a teddy bear”

[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. 

[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.

[amethystina]

A health update (and a general explanation of my long Covid)

So while I've been pretty open about living with long Covid, I realise I've never taken the time to explain what that actually means for me and my quality of living. It's a phrase I toss around but I can imagine it doesn't feel all that substantial to a lot of you.

So I figured that now that I'm feeling a bit better (more on that later) I should do so. Partly because I figure it will make it easier to understand why I sometimes have to disappear for weeks on end.

So, if you're interested, feel free to keep reading under the cut :)

But be warned: It's long and kind of whiny. But also ends on a high note! So there's that.

The first time I caught Covid was around Easter 2020, long before there were any vaccines, which meant that I was hit hard. But no matter how bad I felt during the illness itself, the aftermath has been ten times worse. I've been living with my long Covid symptoms ever since, so for four years now. They worsened for a couple of months when I caught Covid a second time in February 2021, but have otherwise held pretty steady during those four years.

A lot of people experience different symptoms with their long Covid and, sometimes, they'll change as the weeks and months go by. I actually had a very interesting couple of months during 2022 when my sense of smell just went completely whack and everything suddenly smelled differently than it should. Like, I could be smelling an apple but it did not smell like an apple. It was a weird time in my life.

Anyway. My most common symptoms are fatigue, fevers, joint pain, brain fog, memory issues, incoherent speech, and lowered blood circulation.

(The latter actually kickstarted the Raynaud's syndrome I have on my mother's side so now I struggle with fingers and feet that will occasionally go white, bloodless, and completely numb at random intervals. Fun times)

The fatigue and fevers are the worst by far. For the past four years, I have had exhaustion fevers between two to five times a week. Or every single day if I'm unlucky. It's very much tied to how much sleep I'm getting, how well I'm eating, and how many taxing things I do each day. I need eight hours of sleep to be functional and anything less than that will most likely mean I'll end up having a fever before the day is over.

Unfortunately, I've always had issues with my sleep so, on most nights, I don't get eight hours even if I try my absolute best. Sometimes it's because I wake up too early and can't fall back asleep and, sometimes — because my life sucks — it's because my fever is so high that I can't fall asleep. Cue the endless cycle of too little sleep and fevers.

Because one of the main issues with these exhaustion fevers — and what makes them so difficult to manage — is that there's no way to lower them. Medicine has no effect whatsoever. Once I have it, I just have to suffer through however many hours are left until I can sleep and hope that it'll be gone in the morning. Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn't.

And every day my energy level gets just a little bit lower and the fever a little bit higher. Some days, all I can do when I get home from work is to lie on the couch and stare at the wall because I'm too tired and in too much pain to even watch something. And, again, no amount of medicine helps.

It continues on like this for a while and, every third or fourth month or so, the strain eventually becomes too much and I fall ill. My body simply shuts down from the continued stress and exhaustion, to the point where I can barely get out of bed. And, usually, I can feel it coming. On top of the fevers, I start coughing, then get a headache, and then my nose gets stuffy. And, by that time, I know I have about two to four days before I get sick. It's so accurate that my coworkers have learned that when I give the sign, they have to tell me whatever tasks they need to be finished within the near future since I'll probably be out of commission for one to two weeks.

But I eventually recover, go back to work, and so the cycle starts again. And again. And again. And again.

For four years.

All of this has, unsurprisingly, affected my quality of life to a pretty significant degree. I can barely work, let alone spend time doing any of my hobbies. I can't really travel anymore and, if I do, I'll get sick from the exhaustion. Even the 50-minute commute to the office (which I have to do three times a week) usually results in a fever before the day is over.

This inability to travel was how I ended up missing my maternal granddad's funeral. My shitty relatives didn't tell us the date for when he would be buried until there were only two days left and even if I could have put myself on an overnight train to get there, I knew I would be in no shape to actually be at the funeral if I did. So I couldn't go.

I did go to sit with my paternal grandmother as she was dying but, as expected, I got sick and couldn't return to work for a couple of days afterwards.

I also have to skip most birthday celebrations and any events happening on weekdays since I'm usually too feverish or won't manage the required trip to get there. My life has shrunk so much I barely recognise it anymore. I don't recognise myself. I used to be one of those people who could do a million things at the same time and somehow complete all of them. I was firm, organised, and efficient.

And now I'm not.

(... or, well, technically I am — at least compared to many others — but not compared to how I used to be xD)

Point being, a lot of things have changed and I don't like it. But, with that said, I'm also well aware that I'm lucky to be alive and I'm fortunate enough to have a stable job and a roof over my head. So, all things considered, I'm still doing pretty well.

But I also can't lie and say that this hasn't affected me in a deep and fundamental way. My life has changed and, right now, I don't know if it'll ever return to what I used to consider normal. And dealing with that knowledge — and the grief and fear that comes with it — hasn't been easy. I have cried ugly, self-pitying tears over this many, many times. It's frustrating to have no control over what my body does and to constantly have to be careful of what I do so I don't exhaust myself. I am furious that this happened to me.

But, after four years, there's also a certain amount of acceptance. And while I'm annoyed by my new limitations, I try my best not to feel too sorry for myself. Instead, I try to adapt as best I can, even if I might not always do it gracefully.

That does mean that I sometimes push myself more than I should, though. Because, if I didn't, I wouldn't never produce anything. As depressing as it is to admit, everything I've given you in the past four years has been while I was sick. I don't think a single chapter I've written or drawing I've made has been untouched by this. I've become an expert at writing, editing, and drawing even with a fever.

That doesn't mean I regret it, though — quite the opposite. I think that if I hadn't had a reason to write and draw, I would have felt even worse. A lof of the time, the excitement I feel when I'm able to post a chapter or show off a drawing I've made has been the highlight of my week. It's an accomplishment.

But, that said, it's still hard. Writing in particular. It requires a level of brainpower I can't reach when the fevers are too bad. And so, sometimes, I just can't. I literally just can't.

And, back in January, as I was trying to edit chapter 39 of Who Holds the Devil, I honestly pushed myself too hard. I was so determined to finish it that I didn't let myself see just how bad I was feeling — not at all helped by how emotionally draining the content of the chapter was.

It was only once I finished the chapter and posted it that I realised how absolutely wretched I felt. Not because of the chapter itself, but my lack of compassion for myself, I guess? Because the fevers were bad, I was barely sleeping, and I was both mentally and physically exhausted. And, what was worse, I realised that I was displaying depression symptoms I hadn't seen in over ten years.

All of a sudden, I got annoyed as soon as a minor inconvenience appeared. Everything people said to me was dissected into its tiniest component. I feared that people were secretly hating me. I couldn't meet people's eyes anymore when I was talking to them. I didn't realise I was just sitting there, staring at a wall, until several minutes had already passed.

And, as the final nail in the coffin, I stopped talking about how I was feeling.

And that, right there, is my last warning that I need to do something — always has been, ever since I was a teenager. When I clam up completely, refusing to admit to the people around me that I'm feeling bad, that's when I'm about to spiral.

So, the very next day, I went to my boss and told her that I'm getting burnt out and I need to do something NOW or this was going to turn ugly real soon. Thankfully, my boss is amazing and, after a doctor's visit, I was put on partial sick leave. Right now, I'm working six hours a day instead of eight and, let me tell you, I'm thriving.

Or, well, as much as I can while still having long Covid.

I'm almost angry at how much better I feel because, if I had known, I would have done this a lot sooner. I actually have energy now! I've only had a fever about four times in a little over a month! That's insane! It used to be four a week!

So yeah. I'm feeling better than I have in a long time. The downside is that the partial sick leave is still only temporary and there are no guarantees that I'll be able to keep it. Though, if need be, I'll just have to ask my boss to rewrite my contract and change the amount of hours I work because, man, I don't ever want to go back considering how much better and happier I feel. I'm not exaggerating when I say that I feel like I've gotten my life back. It's not quite the same as before, but close enough to it that I kind of want to cry again — but happy tears this time.

And so I've spent the past couple of weeks just... living? When, before that, it felt like I was merely existing. I've been drawing a lot since that helps with the depression symptoms (which are almost completely gone, thank god) but writing has been harder. Possibly because I forced myself to do it during a time when I felt really, really bad and now I'm instinctively trying to shy away from it. But, since I know that's just my mind playing tricks on me, I'm going to give it another try this weekend. I want to write and I miss the stories I'm working on. And, hopefully, since I'm feeling a bit better, I can maybe get back to a more structured uploading schedule. But we'll see. As always, I can't make any promises.

But that's about it, I guess? I'm feeling better and, since I am, I've been doing a lot of things that I wasn't able to before (like taking walks — I take a lot of walks). And I'm still trying to figure out my new routine now that I work less. And while I still get sick sometimes (I am right now, in fact, due to lack of sleep on Tuesday night) I always find my way back eventually.

So yeah. If you've read this far, thank you so much for your patience 💜 I admit that I don't really enjoy writing things like these since it feels like I'm whining — I was very much raised not to take up space or complain when things are difficult (an unfortunate side effect to being the middle child with two disabled, high-maintenance siblings) — but I also prefer honesty and transparency. And I feel a little guilty since there are times when I've given pretty harsh responses when people question why I'm sick all the time or why I don't upload chapters as often as I used to, but without actually explaining why. So I guess it's time to be honest?

And the truth is that I've been constantly sick for the past four years. Not only due to my long Covid, but also the emotional and psychological toll of all the loss, grief, and pain I've been through. These past four years have been rough.

But I'm not saying that to gain pity or make excuses. I actually think I've done pretty well considering just how hindered I've been. I've improved my drawings so much and have written... god knows how many words. I'm honestly kind of scared to check xD But it has to be over 600k by now, maybe closer to 700k.

I think my only regret is that I haven't been able to engage with you all to the extent I would want. I wish I could be a more active and enthusiastic participant in fandom — to seek you out, hold conversations, and give you all even a fraction of the attention you've given me. I feel like I don't offer you nearly enough.

But I also know that I have to accept my own limitations. So, for now, we'll have to settle for whatever I can give, even if it's less than I would want. But I will keep on creating, trust me on that, because I'm stubborn as fuck and even if my pace is slower, I'm still determined to finish what I start.

And that's the note I want to end this on. I have suffered, yes — more so than I may have expressed to you all — but I've still managed to create some beautiful things. And while I mourn who I used to be and the fact that some of you have never known me at my best, I don't think the me I am right now is all that terrible. Do I want things to change? Yes, definitely. But do I want to change the choices I've made and the things I've accomplished in the past four years? No, I can't say that I do. I'm proud of what I've done, especially considering my limitations.

And, if you're reading this, thank you so, so much for your kindness, compassion, and support. Some of you are old friends while others of you are new, but I am grateful to every single one of you. You have made these past four years more bearable. You have made it easier to keep fighting. You have made it worth it.

Thank you 💜