#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

[v4mpvelocity]

PATHETIC

pairing: Myung-Gi (player 333) x reader

SMUT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[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

[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.

[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*

[noisyghost]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[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.

[coimbrabertone]

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

So, being a Star Wars fan is hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All of that I'm good with.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nobody knows.

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

Fun times.

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

Like the meme says...

Star Wars would be so good if it was good.

[lamemaster]

Accidental Father Acquisition

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

Pairing: Celebrimbor x Reader

Genre: Crack/ found family

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

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

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

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

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

What in the Timeless Halls was this? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[tygerbug]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that's Blernsball.

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

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

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

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

[glubsurleseuil]

Don't be scared - Chapter 1

This is the first chapter - Next

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"… yet."

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

"There you are, you bastard!"

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

"No way out now, you bitch!"

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

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

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

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

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

DON'T BE SCARED

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

[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.

[crycxbey]

𝑰𝒏 𝑯𝒆𝒓 𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑰

𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒏𝒐𝒘: ↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

January 9th, 2025

Sercia stepped through the garage door of her family home at exactly 6:30 PM, the weight of the day clinging to her like an invisible shroud. The lingering hum of customer complaints and ringing phones still echoed faintly in her mind, a reminder of the endless cycle of monotony that came with working at a call center. Her body ached with exhaustion, her limbs heavy from the hours spent confined to a chair, offering forced politeness to strangers who barely acknowledged her humanity.

"Another day, another dollar," she mumbled under her breath, her voice flat with resignation. Without sparing a glance at the rest of the house, she moved with practiced ease toward her bedroom, the one place where the world’s noise couldn't reach her.

As soon as she stepped inside, a familiar sense of relief washed over her. The soft white and light blue tones of her sanctuary wrapped around her like a comforting embrace, a stark contrast to the gray, fluorescent-lit atmosphere she had just escaped. She wasted no time kneeling down to untie her well-worn black Converse, fingers working swiftly at the laces. With a quiet sigh, she kicked them off unceremoniously, the shoes landing with a soft thud against the hardwood floor.

Straightening up, she let her purse slide off her shoulder, the strap slipping through her fingers as she draped it over the plush white chair tucked neatly in the corner of her room. The motion felt automatic, muscle memory guiding her as she exhaled another slow breath.

Her gaze flickered toward her bed, its sky-blue sheets crisp and inviting, practically calling her name. For a brief moment, she considered surrendering to its warmth, letting herself melt into the comfort of her pillows and blankets. But she shook the thought away.

No. She had a mission.

She glanced toward her desk, where her laptop and stacks of college notes sat in an unspoken challenge, almost taunting her. The neatly stacked papers and open textbooks were a reminder of the relentless cycle she lived, work, study, sleep, repeat. A quiet sigh left her lips as she rolled her shoulders, shaking off the fatigue clinging to her bones.

At twenty-one, she had mastered the art of late-night cramming, pushing past exhaustion in an effort to keep up with the never-ending stream of assignments, readings, and deadlines. She knew that if she didn’t start now, the weekend would swallow her whole, and with it, any chance of getting ahead.

With a resigned groan, she stretched her arms above her head, mentally preparing herself for another long night. She pulled out her chair, sat down, and opened her laptop, the screen’s glow casting a faint light against her tired features. The hours ahead would be grueling, but she had no choice.

𓍯𓂃𓂃𓂃

By 10 PM, her brain felt like it had been wrung dry, as if every ounce of comprehension had been squeezed out and left to evaporate. The words on the pages before her blurred, lectures and concepts tangling together into an incoherent mess. No matter how hard she tried to focus, the information refused to stick, slipping through her mind like water through cupped hands.

Alright, enough of that she thought with a sigh, pushing away from her desk. The chair creaked as she leaned back, stretching her arms above her head, her muscles aching from hours spent hunched over her notes.

She needed a break.

She reached for her phone; it offering a small comfort after the long, grueling hours of balancing both work and study. The thought of escaping into her favorite game, Love and Deepspace, felt like a well-earned reward, her own little slice of refuge from reality.

“Let’s see what’s going on with the gang today,” she murmured to herself, a small grin tugging at her lips as she collapsed onto her bed. With a few swipes, she unlocked her phone and tapped the game icon, the screen glowing softly in the dimly lit room. The opening sequence played, its ethereal music washing over her like a lullaby, but what truly held her attention wasn’t just the story, though it was undeniably good. No, what really captivated her was the intricate photo mode and the way each character felt so alive in their interactions, every subtle expression and dialogue choice pulling her deeper into their world.

She was so engrossed that she didn’t notice the creeping heaviness in her limbs, the way her breaths grew slower, deeper. Her blinks became longer, lingering a second too long each time. Eventually, her grip on the phone loosened, her fingers barely holding onto the device as exhaustion took its final claim. The screen still glowed, displaying Xavier’s soft gaze, as the phone slipped from her hand onto the bed.

The game continued to run, the faint hum of its background music filling the quiet space. And as her soft, rhythmic snores filled the room, it was as if Xavier himself stood watch over her slumber, frozen mid-motion on the screen, waiting.

𓍯𓂃𓂃𓂃

January 10th 20...

The shrill blare of her phone alarm shattered the early morning silence, ripping Sercia from the depths of sleep. 6:30 AM. She groaned, her body protesting as she sluggishly reached out to silence the intrusive noise. “Time for another round of work… yay,” she mumbled, voice thick with exhaustion.

Still caught in the haze of sleep, she stretched her arms out over the comforter, expecting the familiar softness of her well-worn blankets. Instead, her fingers met a fabric that was smooth, cool, and entirely foreign.

Her brow furrowed. “Huh?” voice puzzled as the odd sensation jolted her brain into wakefulness faster than the alarm had.

Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she pushed herself upright, her pulse quickening as she took in her surroundings. The bedding beneath her was pristine, an elegant white duvet draped over sleek gray sheets, both feeling far more luxurious than anything she owned. A cluster of neatly arranged pillows in soft shades of pink and white sat beside her, contrasting sharply with the chaotic pile of mismatched pillows she was used to.

A growing sense of unease prickled at her skin.

“Wait a minute…” she whispered, her voice hoarse with drowsiness but laced with rising confusion, “this is not my bed.”

Her gaze then swept across the unfamiliar space and her confusion deepened, sinking into her bones like a slow-moving fog. This wasn’t her room. It wasn’t even close.

The walls were a soothing blend of neutral tones, soft grays and crisp whites. Lending a modern feel to the space. Directly in front of the low platform bed she was on stood a contemporary coffee table with a circular glass top and metal legs. Two matching chairs flanked the table, their smooth surfaces blending with the aesthetic. One of them, however, stood out. A single red cushion resting against its seat, which was an unexpected pop of color in the otherwise muted palette. Beneath the table stretched a large, plush area rug, its shaggy texture adding warmth to the room.

To her left, a streamlined hanging rail displayed a neatly arranged selection of clothing, and further along, an expansive floor-to-ceiling glass door dominated most of the left wall, letting in a soft, diffused light that cast subtle shadows across the room. Beside it, a wavy shelf held an assortment of carefully placed items; decorative trinkets, books, and under it were storage compartments.

Turning her head to the right, she spotted a small black couch positioned against the wall, draped in a fluffy white throw blanket and a single pillow rested against it. Beneath the couch was another rug, but unlike the larger one at the room’s center, this one was shaped like a rose, its petals outlined in bold black and white.

Above her, a silver pendant lamp hung from the ceiling, its light casting an ambient glow throughout the space. The soft hum of technology buzzed subtly in the background, making her turn around. An expansive digital display covered the entire back wall, its illuminated surface blinking with unfamiliar data and visuals.

The entire room exuded a contemporary elegance; clean lines, soft colors, and an intentional blend of textures that gave it an effortlessly curated look. It was undeniably stylish, a perfect balance of modern luxury and understated comfort.

But it wasn’t hers.

Sercia’s room was her haven, a cozy space with white walls and light blue curtains that filtered in the light, giving everything a soft glow. The familiar sight of her posters, scattered trinkets, and half-open bookshelf always grounded her. But this room… this room felt wrong.

The air carried a faint, unfamiliar scent, something clean, like fresh linen, yet tinged with a subtle trace of something richer. The neatness of the space set her on edge. Her heart pounded as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, the sudden chill of the hardwood floor beneath her bare feet sending a sharp contrast to the warmth of the duvet she’d been wrapped in. A shiver crawled up her spine, but whether from the cold or unease, she wasn’t sure.

Slowly, she stood, her gaze flickering across the room in search of answers and her eyes eventually landed on the coffee table a few steps away. Something about it pulled her forward, her movements tense, as if drawn by an unseen force.

On the table, a red candle sat unlit, its wax pristine. Beside it, a small bunny light, its soft glow off. And then, her breath caught in her throat, a brooch.

Not just any brooch. A black crow, crafted from dark metal with intricate feather details, each line carved with precision. Embedded in its center, a deep red ruby gleamed under the soft lighting, catching the light at just the right angle.

Her fingers hovered over it, hesitant, as an icy prickle of recognition traced down her spine. She knew this brooch. The shape, the color, the weight of its presence in the room, it was unmistakable.

“This is… Sylus’s brooch,” she whispered, her voice trembling as reality began to warp around her. “The one he gave to the MC… Aspen.”

Her heart pounded in her chest; each beat a deafening echo in her ears. Her brain scrambled for an explanation, grasping at logic, but all it found was a wall of disbelief.

“No way. No freaking way.”

She stumbled back a step, her breaths growing uneven, chest rising and falling in rapid succession. A familiar prickle of panic crept up her spine.

“Okay, Sercia, deep breaths,” she muttered to herself, squeezing her eyes shut for a brief moment. “This is just… a dream, right? You passed out playing the game, and now your brain’s just… yeah, just being weird. That’s all.”

Her words did little to calm the storm brewing inside her.

Opening her eyes again, she forced herself to scan the room once more, hoping, praying, for something, anything that would ground her in reality. But instead, she found more details that made her stomach churn.

A photograph.

Sitting atop a short gray shelf positioned beside the left side of the bed, a simple picture frame stood as if waiting for her attention. A strange sense of dread coiled in her gut as she approached, her fingers cold against the smooth surface as she picked it up.

The moment her eyes landed on the image; her blood ran ice cold.

Aspen.

Caleb.

Standing together in Azure Square.

The bustling plaza, the futuristic architecture; she had seen it countless times on her screen, but this wasn’t some scene. This was real. Her hands trembled as she placed the photo back down with far more care than she intended. A sharp inhale caught in her throat.

No. No, no, no. This wasn’t possible.

The walls around her suddenly felt suffocating, too pristine, too real. Her mind screamed at her to move, to see for herself.

Without another thought, she spun on her heel and rushed toward the massive glass doors at the far end of the room. Her pulse roared in her ears as she grasped the handle, yanked it open, and sprinted onto the balcony.

Then she froze. Her mouth parted. Lungs forgetting to function.

Linkon City sprawled before her, stretching toward the horizon in a dazzling display of glass and steel. It was exactly as she remembered it from the game; the sleek skyscrapers towering like sentinels, the steady stream of traffic weaving through the streets below, the distant hum of life carrying on as if none of this was out of the ordinary. The morning sunbathed the cityscape in a golden glow, catching on the reflective surfaces of buildings and casting long, shifting shadows.

But this time, it wasn’t pixels on a screen. This time, she could feel it. The warmth of the sun on her skin, the cool bite of the railing beneath her fingertips, the faint scent of something crisp in the air.

It was real. Too real.

Her breath hitched. “What the actual hell…” she whispered, the words barely escaping as her throat tightened.

Her fingers curled tighter around the railing, her knuckles turning white as her mind struggled to make sense of the impossible. No, no, this isn’t happening. This isn’t real. It can’t be.

“This isn’t funny. This has to be a dream… right?” The last word wavered, cracking under the weight of her doubt. Her grip loosened, and she stumbled back into the room, a dizzy wave of panic crashing over her. She clutched her head, pressing her palms against her temples as if she could physically hold her thoughts together.

“Okay, okay… think,” forcing herself to focus. “If I’m here, then…”

Her hands slowly lowered, her breath catching as realization slammed into her like a bolt of lightning.

Where the hell is Aspen?

The question sent a fresh wave of dread rolling through her, sharp and suffocating. If she was in this world, in Aspen’s place, then what had happened to her? Was she out there somewhere?

Her pulse pounded so loudly in her ears that it drowned out the city’s distant hum. A million questions crashed through her mind, colliding in a chaotic storm of fear and uncertainty. But one thing was clear she needed answers. Fast.

Her first instinct was to grab her phone. She swiftly leaned over the bed and snatched the device, its familiar weight providing a fleeting peace. The screen flickered to life as she tapped it, the lock screen displaying the time: 6:55 AM. Her eyes then darted to the top corner of the screen, and she felt her stomach drop. No bars. No Wi-Fi. Nothing but an empty signal icon mocking her.

She stared at the screen in dismay, her thumb swiping down to toggle airplane mode off and on in a desperate attempt to force a connection. No luck. Again. And again.

“Great,” she threw her head back with an exasperated sigh. “No service. Of course not.”

Her fingers clenched around the phone before she exhaled and shoved it into her pocket. Standing here freaking out wouldn’t help. She needed to figure out where she was and, more importantly, where Aspen was.

Bracing herself, she turned to scan the unfamiliar room, determination pushing aside the unease she felt. As she moved through the bedroom again, she took in every detail with newfound awareness. The bed was slightly disheveled, the fabric still creased from her presence. Absentmindedly, she brushed her fingers over the duvet, the soft material grounding her. This was real. She was really here.

Her gaze swept over the neatly arranged furniture before settling on the nightstand once more. This time, she noticed something she had overlooked, a tablet next to the photo. Curious, she picked up the device, its smooth surface cool against her fingers. Tapping the screen, she was immediately met with a passcode lock. “Figures,” setting it back down with a sigh.

Turning away, she left the room and moved through a small hallway that led into an open-floor common area. The area was seamless, the bedroom’s style flowing into the space beyond. The same modern, minimalistic walls. The contemporary furniture. But despite its polished design, there was a warmth to it, subtle details that made it feel lived-in. It was quintessentially Aspen.

She stepped into the kitchen next, her fingers trailing along the countertop before she began to open the cabinets and drawers. Plates, cups, and utensils were all neatly arranged, perfectly in place. She then moved to the refrigerator and pulled it open. The cool air brushed against her skin as she peered inside, finding an array of food items neatly stored and organized.

At least there was some comfort in knowing she wouldn’t starve. But that wasn’t her main concern. She closed the fridge door with a quiet click and took a deep breath.

As she left the kitchen and continued exploring the space, every detail confirmed what she already suspected, that this was definitely Aspen’s apartment.

But where was the hunter? The thought hit Sercia again, harder this time, sending a fresh wave of worry through her chest. Her fingers twitched at her sides as she continued her search through the apartment and by the time she circled back to the common area, her nerves were raw, frayed from the growing silence that swallowed the space.

With a weary sigh, she dropped onto the couch, sinking into its plush cushions. Her hands fidgeted in her lap for a moment before she pulled out her phone once more, flipping it over, tapping the screen, willing something to change.

The lock screen flickered on. Still no signal. No sudden miracle.

She bit the inside of her cheek, staring at the screen as if she could somehow force bars to appear through sheer willpower. But deep down, she already knew, it was useless. Her jaw tightened as she exhaled through her nose. Slowly, she pocketed the device and ran a hand down her face.

“Alright, let’s think,” her palms pressed against her thighs. “I’m stuck in a game. I have no idea how I got here. I don’t know where Aspen is. I don’t have my car, my wallet, or any money—uh, gold, whatever it’s called here. And on top of all that, I don’t have cell service.”

She let her head fall back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.

“I am so screwed.”  

“This isn’t even funny,” she muttered as frustration bubbled in her chest. “How does this even happen? One minute, I’m snapping photos with Rafayel; the next, I wake up here?” She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “God, this isn’t even making any sense.”

Her gaze flickered toward the large windows spanning the living room wall. Drawn by the soft glow spilling through, she turned her head, her breath hitching slightly at the sight beyond the glass.

Linkon City stretched before her, bathed in the golden light of the morning sun. Towering skyscrapers pierced the sky, their glass facades shimmering like liquid gold. It was a breathtaking view, the kind she’d only ever experienced through a screen. And for a second, awe flickered in her chest.

Until reality crashed down like a lead weight.

The beauty of it all meant nothing when she was trapped here. She had no way of knowing if, or how, she could get back. No clues, no answers, and worst of all, no one to turn to. She had nothing but the clothes on her back and a phone that was nothing more than a useless brick.

Her fingers then curled into fists as she tried to focus, tried to think.

Okay… What are my options?

Her mind immediately turned to the love interests.

She knew from the game that Xavier lived just one floor above. The idea of seeking him out flickered through her mind for a split second before she immediately shut it down.

“Absolutely not,” shaking her head. “I may have created Aspen, but we are not the same. He’d take one look at me and call the authorities. Or worse, knowing how he can get.”

Xavier wasn’t exactly the warm and welcoming type to strangers. He was sharp and had zero tolerance for anything suspicious, especially when it came to Aspen. What could possibly be more suspicious than some random stranger showing up at his door, claiming to know his missing partner?

She glanced down at herself, taking in her own appearance.

Sure, she and Aspen had some similarities; brown skin, black hair, both 5’5 in height. But that was where the resemblance ended. Aspen’s hair was longer, falling in soft, effortless curls, while hers was short and coily. Then there were the eyes; Aspen’s were a striking purple, and Sercia’s? Dark brown.

And their styles? Completely different. The young hunters outfits were always cute yet elegant, perfectly fitting the story and vibe of the city. Sercia, on the other hand, was still wearing a simple sweater and flared jeans. She looked like she had just walked out of a 70’s sitcom from her world.

Yeah. No.

She could already picture it: Xavier answering the door, looking her up and down with his unreadable stare.

“Who are you?”

“Uh… so, funny story… I woke up in your partners apartment, and I have no idea how I got here.”

Instant arrest.

Sercia snorted at the ridiculous thought, but the humor faded almost as quickly as it came.

Even if she did go to Xavier, there was no guarantee he’d even be home right now. He could be at the Hunters Association handling business, or already out hunting Wanderers somewhere.

And as for the other love interests?

Sure, she had some idea of where they might be based on the game, but it wasn’t like Love and Deepspace had a map function for her to rely on. Locations in the game shifted between scenes, and there was no telling how far apart they were in this world. She couldn’t pinpoint the exact location of them right now. Heck, she didn’t even know where Aspen’s apartment was located in this city.

“This sucks,” she groaned, pressing her fingers against her temples as if she could physically rub away the overwhelming frustration.

Her mind flitted through a dozen half-formed plans, each one unraveling as quickly as it came. She could try venturing outside, but without gold or any clue where to go, she’d just be wandering aimlessly. She could stay here and wait for someone to come knocking at the door, but what if no one ever did?

Her stomach twisted as the weight of her predicament fully sank in.

She wasn’t just lost. She was completely and utterly stranded in a world she didn’t belong to. And the one person who might have been able to help her was nowhere to be found.

As Sercia teetered on the edge of losing her mind, a faint sound pricked at the edges of her awareness.

Soft. Subtle. Almost imperceptible. At first, she dismissed it as a trick of her overstressed brain, a figment of her imagination conjured up by sheer panic. Maybe the weight of confusion was pressing down on her so hard that she was starting to hallucinate. But then it came again, clearer this time.

Scritch-scritch. A faint shuffle.

Her breath hitched and for a split second, her heart stopped, as if her entire body had short-circuited. Then, every nerve in her being snapped to attention, her skin prickling with unease.

“Okay… I know I didn’t just hear that,” she muttered, barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would make whatever was lurking in the silence more real.

Her eyes flicked around the dimly lit room, scanning the unfamiliar space with a mixture of apprehension and dread. She strained to listen, ears sharpening to pick up any more anomalies.

Then it came again, unmistakable this time. And it came from the kitchen.

Her stomach twisted, and adrenaline surged through her veins.

Something was there.

"Alright, Sercia," she whispered to herself, inhaling deeply as she rose to her feet. "You’ve watched enough horror movies to know how this could end, but you’re not going down without a fight."

Her fingers curled into fists for as she scanned the room. She looked for something, anything, that could serve as a weapon. Her eyes darted across the space until they locked onto a small but solid-looking object on the coffee table. An abstract decorative statue. It wasn’t a knife or a bat, but if she swung it with enough force, it could do some serious damage. Without hesitation, she snatched it up, gripping it tightly in both hands. The weight felt reassuring against the fear slithering up her spine.

She took a cautious step forward. Then another. Her bare feet glided noiselessly against the floor as she edged toward the kitchen, her body tense with anticipation. The closer she got, the more acutely aware she became of her own heartbeat, a relentless thud-thud-thud drumming in her ears.

Then she heard it again, scritch-scritch.

She froze, barely breathing. The noise was coming from inside one of the lower cabinets near the dishwasher. She had checked the kitchen earlier and nothing had been out of place. No sign of anything unusual. But now, something was in there. Her grip on the statue tightened, her pulse a rapid staccato in her chest. She swallowed hard, pushing past the rising dread. Whatever was hiding in that cabinet, she was about to find out.

"Alright," Sercia whispered under her breath, gripping the statue so tightly her knuckles turned white. She could feel the hammering of her pulse in her fingertips, but she forced herself to steady her breathing. You got this. Whoever, or whatever you are, you messed with the wrong one today.

Positioning herself just to the right of the cabinet door, she took one last deep breath. Her muscles coiled with tension, bracing for whatever nightmare she was about to face. Then, with a sudden burst of movement, she let out a fierce scream, part intimidation and part battle cry, as she yanked the cabinet door open and raised the statue high, ready to strike.

But the swing never came.

The moment her eyes landed on the source of the noise, the scream caught in her throat and died. Her arms, mid-motion, locked up as her brain struggled to process what was in front of her. Nestled among a couple of toppled cleaning bottles, sitting in the cramped space of the cabinet, was… A fox?

A baby red fox, to be exact. Its tiny body was curled up, its fur a striking orange-red hue that almost shimmered. Its fluffy tail was tucked close to its body, its delicate paws barely visible beneath the soft tufts of fur. Everything about it looked small, fragile, and adorable. But that wasn’t what made her breath hitch. That wasn’t what had her frozen in place, staring in utter disbelief.

It was its eyes.

Large, round, and glowing a stark, unnatural white. Like twin moons set into its tiny face, eerily luminescent, pulsing faintly with an otherworldly light.

Sercia swallowed hard, her grip on the statue loosening slightly as she took an involuntary step back.

"What the…" she whispered, her voice unsteady as her heart thudded painfully in her chest.

The fox blinked up at her, silent and its eyes unreadable. It didn’t move, didn’t twitch, just watched. Almost as if it were waiting. Waiting to see what she would do next.  

They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, neither moving, locked in a silent standoff. Sercia's mind raced, a chaotic whirlwind of thoughts and disbelief. Is this real? Am I hallucinating? Did I hit my head and not notice? Her pulse pounded against her ribs, the room around her blurring as her focus tunneled onto the tiny creature before her.

Because this wasn’t just any fox. Everything about it; the glowing eyes, the way it sat so unnaturally still, the almost too-perfect sheen of its fur. It felt like something ripped straight out of a fantasy RPG. Then, to make matters even weirder, it tilted its head. Not in a skittish, animalistic way. No nervous flick of its ears, no sudden jerk of movement. Just a slow, deliberate tilt, its gaze never once wavering from hers. It was studying her. Sercia’s grip on the statue tightened before she forced herself to relax. Slowly, cautiously, she knelt down, lowering herself to the fox’s level.

“…Okay,” she murmured, her voice careful, almost reverent. “You’re adorable. Like, unfairly adorable.”

The fox remained unmoving, watching.

“But…” she hesitated, searching its face for any sign that this was just an ordinary animal and failing miserably. “What are you doing here? And what’s up with your eyes?”

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then, as if acknowledging her words, the fox sat up straighter. There was something unnerving about the way it held itself; poised, controlled. Almost regal.

And then… it spoke.

“Finally,” it said, its voice smooth, melodic, and unmistakably human. “You’ve found me.”

Sercia’s jaw dropped, her breath catching in her throat as the statue slipped from her fingers and hit the floor with a heavy thunk.

“What—what the heck,” she stammered, scrambling back on instinct, her hands fumbling for support. “No, no, no, no, no. I did not just hear that. Foxes don’t talk. Animals don’t talk!” Yet here she was, staring at a glowing-eyed fox that had just spoken to her.

The creature, unfazed by her panicked outburst, blinked at her with an almost bored expression. “Are you done screaming?” it asked, voice smooth and eerily calm. “Because we need to talk. You’re in danger.”

Sercia let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, her hands shaking as she pointed at the fox. “Oh, I’m in danger?” she echoed, her voice cracking slightly. “You’re a talking fox with freaky glowing eyes, and I’m the one in danger? What even is this?” She ran a frantic hand over her face, heart hammering in her chest. “Did someone spike my food yesterday? Am I in a coma? This has to be a fever dream, right?”

The fox sighed. Not a small, animal-like huff, an actual exasperated sigh, like a tired teacher dealing with a particularly slow student. “I don’t have time to watch you freak out right now,” it said, a firm edge to its voice. “What you need to know is that you’re not supposed to be here. And if you don’t act quickly, you won’t be able to leave.”

Sercia stared at the creature, her mind scrambling to piece together some kind of logical explanation, but nothing made sense. Her pulse roared in her ears, and for the first time since waking up, she was acutely aware of how wrong everything felt, like she was standing on unstable ground in a place she wasn’t meant to be.

“Not supposed to be here?” she repeated, her voice quieter, the words heavy on her tongue. “What does that even mean?” Her chest tightened. “Where’s Aspen? And why the hell are you in her cabinet?”

The animal’s eyes narrowed slightly, its body perfectly still. “I’ll explain everything,” it said, its voice softer now, almost coaxing. “But first, you need to trust me.”

Sercia then let out a hysterical laugh, the sound high-pitched and borderline unhinged. “Oh, sure,” she said, throwing up her hands in exaggerated surrender. “Because trusting random, glowing-eyed, talking foxes is totally a thing normal people do. Yep. Absolutely. Makes perfect sense.”

The fox merely tilted its head again, looking thoroughly unimpressed by her sarcasm. “You and Aspen are more alike than you think,” it said smoothly.

The words hit her like a slap. Her laughter died instantly, and her expression hardened as she leaned forward slightly, suspicion tightening in her chest. “What do you mean by that?” she demanded, her voice low and wary.

The fox didn’t respond right away. Instead, it stepped out of the cabinet, its small, delicate paws silent against the floor. Its movements were graceful and measured. Too controlled for an ordinary animal. It stood before her now, glowing eyes steady as they met hers.

“If you want to get out of here,” it said, “you’ll need my help. But first,” the foxes tone even but firm, “you need to decide, are you ready to accept that this is your reality now?”

A cold weight then settled in her stomach. Her mind screamed at her to reject everything to insist that this was a hallucination, a dream, a prank, anything other than what it appeared to be. But deep down, in the part of her that knew things without understanding why…

She already had her answer.

The air in the room felt heavier. Her pulse thrummed against her ribs, and she clenched her hands into fists to keep them from shaking. This was too much. Too insane. Too impossible. And yet, it was happening. She swallowed hard, her throat dry.

She could refuse. She could keep fighting against reality, keep pretending this wasn’t real. But something told her that wouldn’t change a damn thing.

Because this is real.

And whatever this fox was and whatever all of this meant, she was in it now.

Drawing in a deep, shaky breath, she slowly nodded. “Alright,” she murmured, barely above a whisper. Then, a little stronger, “Let’s hear it.”

ꫂ ၴႅၴ Taglist: @llamabois

𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒐 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈! 𝑳𝒆𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒆𝒏𝒋𝒐𝒚𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆, 𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘. 𝑨𝒍𝒔𝒐 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒇𝒖𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔!

[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”