#but it has a mere fraction of the followers here

[isaacpopularitypoll]

(a free one, obviously. not interested in the legal issues that may arise from selling it)

[jessamine-rose]

⊱⋅ Between Chapters ⋅⊰

Read my Yandere! Capitano fics first (*･ω･)ﾉ

Huhuhu I am back with more fluffy drabbles of Capitano x Damsel! Darling + an excuse to thirst over him in a different outfit. Now if you all excuse me, I will go back to crying over his recent Hoyofair appearance (⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄)⁄

Note:: Fem reader who is smaller and weaker than Capitano, this is not a dark fic but it is connected to a yandere series

♡ 0.5k words under the cut ♡

By now, the Captain and his wife are a common sight in Zapolyarny Palace.

It makes sense, given the separation they must endure throughout Capitano’s missions. Usually, Damsel just stays in his office. But on one occasion, she is allowed to enter the training area reserved for him and his subordinates.

To the Fatui, it is a glorious occasion!! To be in the presence of the Captain’s wife, to glance at her while sparring. The rumors about her frail countenance and enigmatic gaze are true, as is her hobby for reading. Even now, seated in close proximity to the First Harbinger, she devotes her attention to the book on her lap.

The nearest soldier can’t help but examine the book. A dark twist on Heart of Clear Springs, roughly two hundred pages.

At the start of their training, Damsel had opened the book to the first page. She flips through the pages at a quick pace, unbothered by the noise in the room nor the guard standing next to her. Once in a while, Capitano pauses his lessons to speak to her.

A few hours later, Damsel closes the book, keeps it in her bag, and spends the next few minutes watching her husband. Either she is analyzing his swordsmanship or she is merely lost in her thoughts of the story’s ending. She did finish a novel in one sitting so—

Then she pulls an even thicker book out of her bag.

The soldier can only stare, dumbfounded, as Damsel opens the second book—a dark fairytale from the looks of it—and begins reading. But their thoughts are quickly interrupted by the ominous shadow looming over them.

✿ ⚘ 

“Would you like to return to my office?”

“Huh?” You look up, halfway through the introduction of the story’s supposed Prince Charming.

Capitano places his hand on your shoulder. His gauntlets are off, and his ebony hair is pulled into a high ponytail. He is still wearing his simple training uniform.

“You have been reading at a slower pace. Is it difficult for you to focus on your books?”

Oh, that.

“Not at all,” you tell him. You let go of your book to intertwine your fingers with his. “Besides, I was the one who insisted on coming here. It’s nice to see you in your element.”

A short pause. Beneath his mask, your husband’s gaze must be one of concern.

“Very well,” he concedes. “But if you feel even a fraction of discomfort, inform me at once.”

“All right.”

With that, you let go of his hand and stare down at your book. But you don’t focus on the printed text; rather, you look up once your husband has resumed his demonstration.

Picking up his sword, he spars with another batch of subordinates. The black fabric of the training uniform clings to his body, making it easier for his men to follow his movements—and for you to appreciate every inch of his muscles. It has been quite enjoyable to watch him between chapters.

You cover your face with the book, hiding your smile.

Prince Charming’s introduction can wait. Especially when you have such a lovely view in front of you.

♡

Two drabbles down, an unknown number left to go. Aaahh it's always so nice to think about Capitano and Damsel! Darling ପ꒰⑅°͈꒳°͈꒱੭ु⁾⁾

Tag a Capitano enjoyer!! @diodellet @brynn-lear @leftdestiny-posts @euniveve @naraven @zhongrin @harmonysanreads @mochinon-yah @stickyspeckledlight @ainescribe @teabutmakeitazure @bye-bye-sunbird @jymwahuwu @nicebonescomrades

[muletia]

Yknow what? At this point if megatron is obbsessed with human pussy then might aswell make soundwave join the party too. Hooray! Another decepticon joins in!!! Because we all know soundwave is very loyal and trust worthy to megatron, and megatron trust more to soundwave then the rest of the decepticons. Both honestly insane for y/n

Starscream on the other hand- he thinks this is getting ridiculous and just stare in horror😭

wrote this instead of studying. i cannot stop thinking about them handsome obsessed mechs man. and as for starscream - I have way different plans for him in this au thanks to one very delicious anon ask :))

When Soundwave joins your merry band of obsessed Decepticons, there’s no way for you to escape from the Nemesis (I mean, you’ll manage somehow, because this is crack—anything goes, and the bullshit flows freely). His master had already instructed him to monitor you constantly, especially since Optimus somehow keeps breaking onto their ship. Initially, Soundwave simply carried out the order without questioning his master’s decision. There wasn’t a shred of personal desire, sympathy, or sentiment in his actions.

Well, his motives change drastically when he concludes that you’re worth his attention. Curiosity turns into attachment, attachment into need, and need into hunger. From that moment, the order ceases to be an obligation fulfilled out of loyalty. It transforms into care. Into the need to protect. Under no circumstances could you fall back into the servos of the Autobots. Your place was here, on Megatron’s lap and under his watchful gaze.

I don’t think Soundwave hides his feelings. Even though he’s mute, calculated, and above all, a cold-blooded spy, Megatron easily guesses that his second-in-command has plans for you that go beyond his primary orders. His body language gives him away—tiny deviations noticeable only because of the eons of history they share. It’s subtle but undeniable. And astonishing, because Soundwave betrayed him. The most loyal follower stepped beyond the boundaries of an order, proving that the impossible became possible—that an apathetic machine could feel.

At first, Megatron is furious. He didn’t plan to share. He had already claimed you—you belonged to him alone, and once he won the war, you were to stay in his servos forever. There was no room for another mech, for anyone else. But possessiveness doesn’t get the chance to take root, completely consume his processor, and lead to irreversible, harmful decisions. This arrangement might prove fruitful, after all. Megatron still trusted his spy—more than any of his other subordinates. And so, he allows the partnership.

Your freedom on the Nemesis may have expanded, but hopping from one crazed Decepticon to another came with a catch tied to a suspiciously practical offer. Megatron informed you that from time to time, his second-in-command would take care of you, so you could forget about ever seeing the Autobots again. However, he didn’t tell you that his second-in-command was just as unhinged as he was—and apparently had plans for you that extended beyond passive observation.

Soundwave isn’t as touchy-feely. He doesn’t hold you against his chassis for hours to prove that his badonkers are bigger than his rival’s. He doesn’t demand touch from you, either. But there are moments when he forces closeness: stroking your hair, examining your body with his thin digits, massaging your back. He isn’t invasive like Megatron, nor harsh in his affections. His movements are subtle, carrying greater respect for you. After all, you didn’t fully belong to him. He only got a fraction, a small piece to calm his raging processor chanting your name. Megatron holds the reins and always will.

It’s most evident when they’re together in the same room. It’s on Megatron’s throne you sit, on his lap, as he recites Cybertronian romantic poetry or his own verses—mostly concerning his turbulent, sick feelings toward you. Soundwave is merely an observer. He doesn’t dare ask for more. He takes the scraps, but they’re enough because you’re close, because he has consistent access to you. He’s also content with his leader’s victory (at least until you return to the Autobots), because when you’re on the Nemesis, everything falls into place. The fire in their sparks burns fiercer, more fervently.

[mayaree-darling]

who's to say what's real or fake// Genshin SAGAU

from aree: impostor au but you actually are the impostor? but ofcourse theres a twist. I think i'll call this FakeGrace!Reader. This was just going to be a headcannon post but ended up a whole fic plot

warnings: themes that all come with the sagau tag (yandere, lots of religious talk, cult, etc.)

word count: 2k~

You end up on Teyvat and immediately the characters recognize you as their Creator; of course you're their Creator - you have the same face, name, and voice. You go through the ordeal of getting to know all the characters all over again and they in turn love you as the god they’ve been waiting for all this time.

You decide that well, this is the world and characters I spent blood, sweat, and tears building (even if it was behind a screen) so might as well help out and do what needs to be done. The people come to you for their problems and you find that they're not as difficult as when you were simply a player. Maybe a minor dispute here and there between the NPCs, but now the vision holders and the Archons ask for your thoughts on how to go about political matters concerning their nations. Even Snezhnaya has signed a peace treaty with the other nations as a show of good faith to the Creator (even if you know for a fact its a temporary one).

All has never been better.

Until another Creator appears in Teyvat, and this one bleeds gold the way their stories foretold. In a way you do not.

The vision holders are torn. Yes, you are an impostor, and they want to hate you for tricking them, but at the same time haven’t you only shown them love? Haven’t you been patient with them and understanding despite being thrown into a world you’re unfamiliar with?

But with careful coercion from the other god, they have to choose to follow their true Creator. You decide to take pity on them and step down from your position yourself, choosing to live with the Aranara who have gladly taken you under their wing (fake god you may be, you are still a friend of the forest, and the forest always remembers its friends).

The Archons tell their new Creator that you are no more. They pretend to not hear when the Creator says they should have brought your head with them, maybe just a bitter reaction for finding out that they have been serving an impostor all this time (the Archons are lying when they say they do not feel sickened at the idea of hurting you, and disgusted at this new God's words)

It soon becomes clear to the people of Teyvat that this new Creator is not you - none of the patience or kindness you had showed them. This new one thinks helping their people is below them, even laughs at some of their problems. They chuck their duties as a god to the vision holders and spend their days leisurely, wining and dining on the best food, expecting to be waited on hand and foot. And at first it was fine, the characters understood. Maybe their Creator was just enjoying the fruits of their labor for once (although in the back of their mind, they can't help but compare you - you who worked tirelessly to attend to everyone even when they’d almost beg you to take a break). The characters tell themselves that they just need to get used to this new god, their true Creator. It will all right itself in time. Even as the Creator acted more like a child by the day, calling for the punishment of characters for the simplest of things. It’s fine. It’s fine.

It didn't take long for their will to break.

The God of Wisdom is called as such for a reason. Nahida may be younger compared to the rest, but she is braver than most. She simply tried to impart a fraction of her wisdom, softly suggesting to the Creator to show mercy for their people who were gravely punished for things they did not do.

This Creator was not you. They did not have a drop of patience that you had, nor any love for their creations. Their god saw this as nothing but an act of treason. How dare a mere Archon tell them what to do? She dares to question who the Creator can and cannot punish?

The silence is deafening in the throne room as the Creator calls for the death of Lesser Lord Kusanali and the destruction of Sumeru. If it is mercy she asks for then it is the last thing she and her people will receive. The other Archons agree past gritted teeth, the sin of Khaenri’ah weighing heavy over their shoulders still.

Nahida had been banished to Sumeru before the order was given, so the Archons make their way to the Nation of Wisdom to tell her of her sentencing, hoping to beg her to ask the Creator for their forgiveness.

This can't be how it ends. Are they to spend their lives in fear of the god they so revered?

They enter a forest emitting divine energy in search of their friend, hearts heavy, but they found something else.

They found you. They found the Creator they loved once upon a time.

They seemed to have caught you mid-conversation with Nahida, and to their surprise (and resentment) the Tsaritsa; they can only assume that the god of Snezhnaya has informed you first of Nahida's fate. The Wanderer catches sight of them and stands in front of you in protection. You don't even bat an eye. You swallow hard and stand, Nahida's hand enveloped in yours, and the other gods would be lying if they say they did not feel jealousy strangling their lungs.

With a steady voice, you tell them that should they take one step against Nahida, you will meet them halfway. If they decide to send Sumeru to hell, they will have to go through you first. You will do everything you can to stop them, and if Sumeru falls then you fall with them.

They don't have to look at the others to make up their mind. There's a beat of silence but first it's Morax, and Beelzebul and Barbatos and then Focalor, and they are on their knees, heads bowed low.

It is only right to show respect to their god, after all. How could they be so blind?

Validation of their actions comes soon after as you let go of Nahida's hand and tell the Wanderer to stand aside. You do something that tyrant of a Creator that sits on a glass throne would never - you kneel before them and hold out your hand.

"Why are you all kneeling? Stand up. I am no longer your god. But I hope you will have me as a friend. Will that be alright?"

There are tears in their eyes as they let out stuttering laughter. Yes, this is their god. Their god with so much love and compassion and a heart that does nothing but bleed for them. A heart that does not ask for them to bleed.

You are their god. You are their true Creator. Golden blood be damned. All that gold has done nothing but blind them.

Eventually, you all end up on the forest floor. You accept the role of a friend as promised, and catch up with them. The Archons are almost in tears as you listen to their stories earnestly, squeezing their hands in sympathy as you listen to the pain they've been through under the rule of their so called Creator (they really should find a new title for you, the god that sits on your throne has sullied your rightful name). At one point they stop telling you stories of their mistreatment, unable to see your face be any sadder than it already was. They take to retelling your stories together, reminiscing better days - because is that not what they have done all this time? Think about the lovely you for every wrongdoing the other god had done in your name?

As you laugh and smile with them and their stories and their company, the idea burrows through their mind without your knowledge, taking root, and they refuse to let it go. Wouldn't it be so much better if it was always like this? Seeing your smiling face with them, a person that deserves to be called a god even more so than all of them combined. Knowing you were safe from harm, not having to defend yourself, especially from them under orders from a tyrant. Knowing you loved them the way they loved you.

It was all better with you.

When you weren't looking, the Archons gave each other knowing looks and curt nods in understanding.

You are their beloved Creator.

As a peaceful silence falls over you, they watch as you smile sadly, their hearts breaking to see such an expression on your face. In a soft voice, you apologize for not being able to do much to help them. When you lift your head, golden resolute eyes meet yours.

"You’ve done enough, Your Grace. Let us handle the rest."

You may have laughed at the old title, but the Archons are hell bent in returning it to you. Although it hurts them to say goodbye, they know it’s only for the moment. Soon, you will be with them. Back in your rightful throne, as you have always deserved.

Nahida is the youngest, and so they decide to spare her the carnage. The rest know she is no fool, they don't need to tell her what they had planned for her to know what happens next. She does not fully agree in the others' decision, yet she stays in Sumeru, promising to make sure you do not find out. Word travels fast to the other vision holders in the form of a breeze from Barbatos. Barely anyone had disagreed with the notion of removing the rejected god from the throne, and those who were hesitant at first changed their mind after hearing how you were ready to go down with Sumeru. Morax and the Tsaritsa lead the rebellion.

A god is only as powerful as the people who worship them. By the time the Archons arrived in the throne room, the Creator had no one to hide behind.

They made it a spectacle. They spin a tale for the people that the god they so worshiped was an impostor who had switched bodies with their rightful god, which explains the gold blood that should be yours. They say you were patiently waiting for them all to come back to you, to remove this impostor from your throne. You were ready to accept them all, they just needed to get rid of this filth that dared destroy your name. The Creator - no, the Impostor - is horrified when the people accept this story so easily, but they only have themselves to blame. Who cares what they have to say to defend themselves, although it’s not like they can anyway - how can they when their tongue was cut off?

Teyvat was silent as gold painted the streets of Liyue Harbor. Teyvat no longer cares for golden blood, not after all the blood and tears it had taken from its people. After all, a golden soul stands ready to take back their rightful place.

Your followers thought it had all been worth it - the pain, the hardships, the blood - to see you smile the first time you set foot outside Sumeru after what felt like years to them. And yet, despite the joyous occasion, you hesitantly turn to them and ask a question not even Irminsul would answer you.

"What happened to the Creator?"

You would be lying if you said the soft smiles each of them gave did not unnerve you as they all said the same thing, like a joke everyone knew all except you.

"We simply removed the Impostor from Your Grace's presence."

They are thankful that you are blinded by your love for them to see the gold shine on their hands. You do not ask about the shimmering streets either. Liyue was the city of gold after all, was it not?

For now, their biggest concern is your acceptance that they are your equal, but that can easily be fixed. You are their friend now, but someday you’ll be their god again. Slowly but surely. They will sit you back in your throne. They will kneel before you again. They will give you the reverence you so deserved.

It will all be yours.

You're their wonderful Creator, after all. Maybe not to you right now. But you always have been for them.

They’ll start from calling you Your Grace. You’d be too kind to tell them off over and over.

You always had been good at adapting.

You had gotten used to it then, you’ll get used to it again.

✨ Masterlist ✨ 

Taglist: 💛@anime-allover  💛@faeriessky  💛 @prksolon 💛 @dai-tsukki-desu

Disclaimer: Characters are not mine and belong to their respective creators. Their portrayal is merely my own interpretation of them and may not be accurate to their intended characterization. I stake no claim to the original works, only to the ideas and plot of the fictitious stories I’ve written them into.

[tothosewhoyearnforit]

a million dollars

-i was rlly rlly down bad. the end was rlly rushed cuz i started to get tired but here ya go :D

-1479 words

-creampie, throatpie, switch!Karina, switch!You

A million dollars. That’s literally just a tiny fraction of what you feel whenever you’re around Karina. 

She’s practically unreal. Perfect in every aspect. Sure as an idol, her looks are ever changing to match the concept, but it doesn’t change how beautiful and perfect Karina is. 

Maybe it’s the fact that she’s an idol that you know on a personal, that changes everything. Something about having her all to yourself, when in fact, you’d know that there are people that would quite literally kill to be in your position. Or rather, your holy throne. That makes you feel like a million dollars. 

“Missed me loverboy?” 

Her voice. It’s like a sugar glazed donut, filled with lust, seduction. Much like a siren. 

She grabs your cock in one hand like a mere plaything, the other massaging your balls. And suddenly, your mind is taken back to the Stamp On It music video. But apparently so is her mind.

“Want me to put my stamp on it?”

She mirrors her exact motions from the MV. One pump up and down and precum is already leaking from your tip. The next pumps up and down and you throw your head back, cock throbbing uncontrollably within the grasp of Karina’s hands. She moves her head forward, locks eyes intensely with you when your head recoils back to admire the sex show right before you, and with those deadly lips, places a passionate, cherry-flavored kiss on the head of your dick. Then, kiss, after kiss, after kiss, until she reaches the base. 

“Fuck… Karina…” is all that manages to come out of your mouth.

Then, eyes still deadlocked onto yours, she takes your entire length into her mouth, until her moist cherry laced-lips are now in contact with your pelvis and you can feel it leaving a mark. Your hand moves to caress her face. Mentally, you’re still trying to fathom how it is that a loser like you, has his cock nesting within the warmth of the AI Visual’s mouth. 

Karina then starts bobbing her head up and down slowly, tongue swirling around the veiny body part, sending tingles throughout your body. 

She’s giving a fucking blowjob perfectly. It’s like her mouth was made just to satisfy you and not belt out lyrics.

Her gaze never wavers as she’s working her mouth magic. Clearly, she relishes watching you at the mercy of her actions, knowing that you’d go wild if she stopped whatever she was doing. She starts to speed up a bit and all you can do to embrace the incoming wave of pleasure is grip the blanket at the edge of the bed even harder than you already are. With her increased speed, she also starts to make things sloppier, incorporating slurping sounds and moving her head side to side, letting your rock hard cock press against the walls of her mouth. A residue of drool and cum starts gathering around her mouth, some dripping off her sharp chin and onto the wooden floor of which she was kneeling on. A few more bobs of her head, and you’re ready to release a week’s worth of your baby batter inside her mouth, down her throat. 

“Karina…I’m fucking-”

The wave of pleasure comes crashing in before you can finish your sentence. And instead of letting your shaft go, she pushes herself back down to the base of your cock and stays there, letting you dispense all your cum inside her mouth. Once she feels that you’re done, she finally lets you go. Then, as traditions follow, she opens her mouth to show you the mess you made and in one gulp, downs it.

“Delicious, just like usual. But I want more.”

She pounces on you, and her clothing starts to come off. Revealing her no less than perfect body features.  Every strut the pantheress makes, her massive tits jiggle, her tight midriff tightens and contracts according to how she wills and her luscious thighs sing out to you. Not forgetting her cleanly shaven pussy, the golden honeypot, the crème de la crème. 

“You’re always so fucking hard for me, aren't you, baby boy?” 

“Of course Karina, which sane guy would not get a raging boner when they're faced with your nude body.”

She runs her tongue across your abs as she glides along the length of your body, letting her silky smooth skin rub against every cell of yours. As her tits and midriff grind against your cock, you are mentally telling yourself. Don't fucking bust right now. Imagine how much of a loser she’d think you are if you were to come just like that. But your body doesn't follow your mind. Through your closed, grimacing eyes, you can hear her satisfied giggles as you squirm beneath her. 

With one hand, she lines your throbbing cock against her folds, while with her other arm, she wraps it around your neck and whispers into your ear with the sluttiest voice possible, “I’m gonna fucking drain your black mamba dry.” And once she has finished whispering her sweet nothings, she slams her firm butt down onto your cock, the whole length going in all at once. Her walls immediately clamp down on you and despite having fucked her so many times, she’s always as tight as the first time you fucked her.

“Fucking hell Karina, you’re so fucking tight!”

Your hands mystically find their way down to her ass cheeks. Squeeze the right one with all your might, and slap the other one and feel the fat ripple right beneath your palm. 

“Fuck! That’s right, slap my beautiful fucking ass. I- angh! know you fucking love it!”

Your eyes catch sight of her collarbones and you gingerly nibble on them. Her cherry scent overruns your nostrils and fills your lungs. Gosh this woman is so addictive.

“Fuck Karina! I’m so fucking horny you have no idea.”

You flip her and now the roles are reversed. 

You think about all the men you've heard. 

Look at those gigantic tits, I would love to suckle on them. 

Her fucking face is so gorgeous, I’d love to ruin it with all my cum.

Imagine plowing her ass day in and day out, I’d do that till the day I die.

Suddenly, your eyes are full of aggression. Pushing her knees up to her chest, you start buckling your hips in and out of her pussy like a freaking madman. The smacking sound of your skin crashing with her thighs bounces off the walls of the room, which may be too thin. Well, it wouldn't be the first time the neighbors asked about some “hammering at night”. The only hammering you both were doing was to each other’s genitalia.

“Oh fuck! That's right, fuck me like you fucking mean it!”

Magically, your left hand has found its way back to her plump butt cheek. Only you get to touch this beautiful butt. The air gets filled with the loud slap of your hand coming into contact with her butt. 

You look down at Karina. Her calm and controlled demeanor from before is gone, her mouth is wide agape and her eyes have rolled to the back of her head thanks to your relentless pounding of her ass, and yet she still looks absolutely out of this world. Look down a bit more, and you see her tits moving in correspondence to your thrusts. You grab onto them, knead them and pinch and play around with her erect nipples.

“Fuck- Angh- Gonna. Fucking. Cum.”

Karina’s pussy clenches around your cock tightly as her loin muscles contract. A stream of gush squirts out from her honeypot and covers her thighs and some of your body in her juice. Not to worry though, you’d lick them off her honey thighs later, or maybe bury your cock within them later when you were horny again.

“Cum inside. Please. I want to feel you all up in me.”

This time, you lean in and whisper into her ear, “Your wish is my command.”

And with the green light present, the floodgates open. 

You bury your cock all the way, desperate to let it all out.

"That's right. Fill my slutty pussy up with your baby batter. Leave your mark on me."

Spurt after spurt of cum is dumped straight into Karina’s pussy, red from your vigorous pounding. You slowly pull your cock out of her tight caverns, catching a glimpse of your cum trickling out slowly before collapsing beside her. Both of you are breathing furiously, desperately trying to make up for the oxygen lost from your vigorous fucking. Karina turns to face you and caresses your cheek, before warmly saying in the most mallow, sweet voice that thinly veils her lustful intent.

“Get some rest baby boy. I’ll wake you up in the morning to give me my morning protein.”

[genericpuff]

Webtoon Canvas is pay-to-win now, I guess.

DISCLAIMER: All of the series I show here is for the sake of comparing statistics and criticizing Webtoons' Super Likes system. I have nothing personal against these series or their creators and I do not want anyone to get the impression that I am encouraging any sort of action against these creators. The following rant is merely my own observations and opinions concerning Webtoons itself as a platform.

I found out today that Webtoon has implemented a Super Likes ranking board.

This does exactly what it sounds like - it ranks Canvas series based on how many Super Likes they have. Whether or not this ranking board is on a weekly rotation (like the Originals rankings) or just overall, I don't know, but something immediately felt off with this system and it took very little time at all to realize what was really going on here.

When you actually click on the series listed here, it'll tell you how many Super Likes they've accrued overall. The first thing that made me raise an eyebrow was the fact that the Super Likes listed in the ranking boards isn't the same as what's listed in the comics' landing pages, but I chalked that up to a simple delay on WT's end as I can assume the ranking board doesn't refresh at pace with whatever Super Likes are coming in.

But the real red flag was this:

Limitless : Untold is a series with 1,657 followers and seems to get an average of 35-45 likes per episode.

But it somehow has 1,715 Super Likes?

Anyone who's run a Patreon, Ko-Fi, Ad Revenue, or any other sort of revenue-based system with their content will probably realize how that doesn't add up. The reality is that regardless of how many readers / followers you have, only a small fraction of them will actually spend money on your work or to support you. Not every person reading an Originals series is FastPassing. Not every person reading a webcomic is supporting the creator on Patreon. This ratio is even apparent outside of income-based statistics - for example, not every person who follows will read new updates each week and hit the like button (which is why you can have a comic with 1700 followers that only gets a few hundred views and a handful of likes per update). This ratio can be influenced by all sorts of different things, but one thing that doesn't typically happen is for the ratio to flip itself in this fashion.

To put it bluntly: how can a comic with a high of 45 likes in the past 3 months possibly accrue 1,715 Super Likes since it was launched just last week? You've probably already come to the conclusion on your own, but for those who haven't: there's very strong evidence to suggest that creators are buying their own Super Likes to get on this ranking board.

That's assuming the worst of this, though - after all, maybe some of these creators just have super supportive friends who are tossing them a ton of Super Likes? It costs $1 for 5 of them, in this example the amount of Super Likes comes out to approximately $343 (assuming my math is right lmao) which isn't massive amounts of money but it's, again, still really impressive for a comic with only 40 likes on average.

Bu Limitless : Untold isn't the only one in the rankings board that's like this. In fact, the top three spots are occupied by webtoons with the same tilted ratio.

But then, suddenly, after those top three positions, the following webtoons Super Likes totals that make a LOT more sense and reflect the usual ratio more accurately:

The Little Trashmaid, one of the most popular Canvas webtoons of all time and the first one to hit the 1 million subscriber mark in the Canvas section has only accrued 355 Super Likes so far... and you seriously want me to believe a comic like Limitless : Untold with only 0.08% of its readership is somehow genuinely earning five times the amount of Super Likes?

I want to make it clear yet again that I have nothing against the series that have managed to break the system in their own favor. None of this is meant to "slam" them or judge their work or anything of the sort, I'm simply comparing the numbers here and coming to a very reasonable conclusion as someone who's well aware of how ratios like this tend to work in webcomics and content creation. It's just not feasible for the top three comics in the Super Likes ranking boards to organically earn that many Super Likes relative to the sizes of their audiences, especially when compared to the bigger comics that are only pulling in a fraction of that amount. The ratios of Super Likes : actual likes for those bigger comics actually looks reasonable and expected, the ratios for the smaller comics that are sitting at the top are not.

If anything, Webtoons has created a broken system and these creators are simply using that system to their advantage. And I'm not necessarily going to fault them for that because I can get wanting to do whatever it takes to get eyes on your work.

But it does raise the question of what kind of system Webtoons has cultivated here - a system where creators are resorting to Super Liking their own episodes to bump themselves up in the leaderboards.

And before anyone asks me how I can be so sure that these creators are Super Liking their own works - I literally opted into the Super Likes system myself and proceeded to Super Like one of my own episodes.

(this is like the one helpful thing with my work still being on WT even though I'm not updating there anymore, it lets me test shit like this LOL)

So yes, this is a thing that creators can do and it would certainly explain the massive discrepancy in the ratio of Super Likes : regular likes for these smaller series.

This is literally pay-to-win. And who do we have to blame for this? Webtoons, full stop. Not only for implementing a ranking board for an optional monetization service while still allowing creators to use that monetization system to support themselves as a way to climb up that ranking board, but for creating this gross psychological dependency on the platform as the "only way" to build an audience, to the point that people are now paying Webtoons out of their own pocket just to have their thumbnail visible in a ranking board and maybe get some extra views (and 49% of their money back if they hit that $100 threshold). And on top of all that, further putting on the pressure of competition and 'exclusivity' among many budding creators who are doing what they do for free and for fun. Why are creators now being forced to compete in a metric that's solely determined by how much expendable income their own audience has?

Sure, at least this means creators can get themselves into a ranking board by their own power unlike the other categories that are hand-picked by Webtoons and / or determined by daily stats, but at what cost? The literal financial hit of paying for advertising with extra steps, and the ethical dilemma of essentially paying for potential views with microtransactions. This is no better than paying bots on Instagram to follow your profile and inflate your worth to those who aren't following you. None of it is real, it will not legitimize your work to throw money at Webtoons just to have your thumbnail visible in a ranking board. These are microtransactions meant to benefit Webtoons, not you, the creator.

[fayes-fics]

A Change in Circumstance [Drabble]

2k Celebration Masterpost

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Benedict has some surprising news...

Warnings: none really... just Benedict being a lil bit of a Regency Benace…

Word Count: 642 (250 words max is such a lie...)

Authors Note: the second of my 2k follower celebration drabble request fills for @bridgertontess (ask here). Unbetaed. Enjoy! <3

Your heart skips as Benedict enters the room, dressed up in the Bridgerton family blues and looking so handsome your stays feel too tight to breathe. You haven't seen him in a few weeks, and you have to look away. It’s not proper to stare, especially not at a man betrothed, such as he is. You cast your eyes downwards, fiddling with the chair back you stand in front of, waiting for everyone to file in before you all take your seat for this dinner.

So you startle when a familiar scent fills your nose, and Benedict is taking the seat next to yours.

“May I presume to sit here, Miss y/l/n?” he asks with a friendly and casual air.

“It is your family home Mr Bridgerton,” you point out, “I do not believe you need a guest's permission when selecting your seat.” 

Hopefully, your attempt at polite, formal conversation will not give away just how flustered you feel merely being next to him, a blush most assuredly creeping up your neck.

“I was thinking more of if you can tolerate my company,” he responds drolly, a smile tugging at his handsome face.

You have to look away; it's too much to bear. “Of course, you are a most wonderful person,” you fluster, smoothing your dress as you sit. “How… how is Miss Reynolds? Are wedding plans progressing well?”

Even out of the corner of your eye, you see a sudden look of surprise flit across his features. “Hmm, perhaps the grapevine that is the Ton is not as powerful as I had imagined….” he opines, his brow knitting.

“What makes you say that?” you are intrigued that is how he chose to answer your query.,

“Miss Reynolds broke off our engagement,” he sniffs, grabbing his napkin and shaking it loose before smoothing it onto his lap. “It happened more than a week ago; I thought that old news by now.”

Your heart leaps into your throat. “Oh… I,” you stutter, “I had not heard; I am so very sorry. You are a good man; you do not deserve to be treated as such.”

He smiles warmly. “I do not mind. We were, perhaps in hindsight, not best suited after all,” he gets a faraway look in his eye. “She once said art is pointless.”

You can’t school your loud, shocked gasp. “That is positively untrue!” you decry as the waiter leans in to pour you a red wine. “Especially art as wonderful as yours! She is a fool!” you add fervently.

He says nothing but twists slightly towards you, his hazy gaze so intense you momentarily forget to breathe. Everyone else around the table just melting away in your conscience.

“I am sorry, that was very rude of me,” you apologise, shaking your head slightly and placing a hand over your chest. You don’t miss how his eyes drop to where it hovers over your thrumming heart.

“Do not be. I am not upset about this change in circumstance,” Benedict says slowly as you pick up your wine, his cadence slowing, his timber dropping to a level only you can hear as he leans in fractionally. "Perhaps it wasn't right because she isn't you," he adds barely audibly.

And you are almost overcome, dropping your glass back to the table with a heavy thump, blood pounding in your ears. You must have misheard.

“You heard me,” he murmurs, as if reading your thoughts, a lopsided smile spreading across his face.

“Mr Bridgerton!” you exclaim quietly, unable to stop your chest from heaving.

His eyes sparkle with a mischief that you know will be your ruin. 

“Drink up, Miss y/l/n,” he smirks, nodding to your wine, leaning in even more so you feel his warm breath over your cheek. “There is so very much we need to discuss….”

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms

[cursedtransby]

Don and her Identities

So there's a lot of theories and whatnot rolling around about what the reveal means, what it means for Don's character, and what it can mean for the future. But I'd like to take a lens back and see how it changes something fundamental to Don, because every sinner has identities, but none of them are as...drastically affected by what their Canto reveals as Don.

Spoilers under Cut

From here on out I'm referring to "Don Quixote?" as Bloodon for short. Also read @thelordofhats post about Murder on the W Express as I think they have a lot of good thoughts about Bloodon and the event in general.

Bloodon is present in the mirror worlds. We know that from Don having Rocinante in every one of them, including more armored groups like Hammer Und Nagel and T Corp. Wouldn't make sense for her to keep them otherwise. However Bloodon doesn't seem to change a lot about how we view the identities, but I'd like to posit that she makes a world of a difference in understanding Don's position in the world and why she is where she is in mirror worlds. Because there's something VERY specific that seems to clash ALL OTHER MIRROR WORLD DONS from LIMBUS DON. Rule following. In almost every other identity, Don is seen following the rules of some wing or finger or even the head itself as a general fixer. The most notable thing to point to is she isn't a part of the group most against rules, the TLA, unlike fellow problem children Ishy and Heath. We never see a "Kurokumo Hong Lu" situation where she's called out for bending or breaking the rules of those she works under. This is all despite her constantly doing it under Limbus Company (at least until Vergilius tells her to back off) Why is this? I believe it has to do with Bloodon's priorities when it comes to the Don we know and love.

First and foremost, keep her alive.

We've yet to see a sinner's backstory specifically call out Dante like this. Almost as if Dante was part of the contract for Don Quixote. It wouldn't make sense for her to say they were promised. Why Dante was part of the contract is important is up to interpretation. It's possible there's something more, that Bloodon is more aware of the stars like Demian, she wants Don to completely override her, or she is simply scared of death. Either way, she needs to live for long enough to see some change for herself and Don. Thus, she needs both of them alive, hence her primary goal being that.

Secondly, she wants happiness. Lust isn't her base ego's affinity for now reason. It's likely a core part of both Don and Bloodon. If Bloodon is miserable, then it's likely she wants to help herself out of that pit somehow. Likely by making her other self happy in ANY way.

We can see this manifest throughout the mirror worlds and how Bloodon is trying across them. In each world, Don has something she can say she is happy about. Let's go over a few key ones and the way the two rules interact.

W Don! Everyone's favorite depressed and OP don. Bloodon likely setup Don's role in W Corp because of her love of the Warp Trains and the company itself. It seems like a slam dunk. Secure meal everyday, safety being a employee of a wing, and Don is happy! But when Don learns the truth, she becomes far less happy about her position. However, leaving her job is extraordinarily dangerous, if not lethal outright. To leave her Wing means death for a mere fraction of a chance of finding more happiness. Aside from her second uptie chat, she is also quite happy in all of her voicelines, and we don't really get to see how she evolves and adapts to the reality of her otherwise comfy job. It's a bit rough, but Bloodon has to keep her alive, and being a W employee is a pretty safe gig (up until something goes wrong :)

The above mentality also applies well with T Corp and Shi. While Shi is a bit less safe, she's still a director of a numbered Fixer association. She's still fairly comfy, and most of her angst comes from her subordinates suffering and having to take the lives of random individuals (something she also suffers with in T Corp).

As for ones where everything aligns, we have plenty of examples of that. Middle, Lantern, and N Corp Don all are examples of Don being perfectly happy regardless of the morality or duties her job entails, as long as it's presented to her fantasies well. However, all of them still have her following some kind of rules, whether it be the Middle's or the Corps. It's very possible a Don without a leash in the form of Bloodon informing things could very easily fuck it up, and even if Don gets her dream job as a Cing director, she still can't save everyone she wants.

All of these identities illustrate the point that Don can't have it all. Risking her life for civilians means putting her neck on the line, and it's something Bloodon in the mirror worlds isn't setting up for her.

However, it's something Limbus Company can help her with. She can achieve her dreams of being a genuine hero in Limbus Company, because Limbus Company has solved many a problem for many a person. They've saved countless lives from the Time Ripper, helped resolve the distortion that is Papa Bongy, and slain the Pallid Whale. She can be the hero she dreams of...as long as she has enough power.

Consistently, Don has been shown that she can't make it in time or have enough power to save those she wants. We see it most prominently in her desire to save Pilot's crew, where the very laws of the ocean dictate that she did not make it in time. We also see it far more clearly the 'lacking' power in the Warp express.

She so badly WANTS to fix things. She's willing to sacrifice a thousand times over to make sure villains die and the innocent survive. But in this instance, and many others, she can't.

But someone else did. Bloodon was able to salvage the situation Don couldn't. And that's what I think Canto VII will be about.

The fact that, in order for Don to be consistently happy, she needs help to fight the fights she doesn't have a hope of winning. The fact that, in order for Don to build her future, Bloodon has to face the fears that her powers are a part of them both. Afterall, who ate that Warp employee hiding in the secret compartment?

[slippinmickeys]

The Unseelie Court (16/16)

Scully immediately turned to Mulder who rose woozily to his feet, his hand looking small in Aeon’s massive paw.

“Are you okay?” she asked. 

He turned his body experimentally, wincing, and brought a hand to his side. 

“I think I may have a bruised rib,” he said on a truncated breath.

“Oh, Mulder,” Scully said, rubbing a hand up and down his arm, the fleecy material of his pullover soft in her fingers. 

Her heart was coming down from her swivet, her head still swirling with surprise and fear, but she found Mulder’s gaze centered her and stilled the bits of her that were still shaky. 

Aeon grunted and made his way for the door. 

Mulder called out. “Wait!”

Scully could hear her own preoccupations echoing in his voice. Rolled and manipulated and used in the machinations of higher beings, they felt owed some kind of denouement. 

Aeon turned back to him.

“Is that it?” Mulder asked. “Is it…is it done?”

“It’s done.”

“But, what…” Mulder shot Scully a baffled, helpless look.

The fuck just happened, which Scully also wanted to know. 

“Will everyone remember now?” she asked, thinking she didn’t want any dings on her record that she hadn’t earned. 

Aeon shook his head. “No one will.”

The partners exchanged another glance. 

“Then how?” Mulder asked. “Why do we?”

Scully, recalling the leaf in her pocket, reached in and pulled out the evidence bag. The leaf was gone. 

“You were supposed to submit that for evidence,” Aeon said, looking disappointed. “You two have managed to subvert both my expectations and my magic. I’ll be glad to see the backs of you.”

Scully debated whether or not to take some pride in that. The feeling was mutual. Though he’d helped them in the end, the dream ‘warnings’ he’d sent were cryptic at best, befuddling at worst. The fae seemed to operate on an entirely different plane of social communication and mores.

“So you’re Seelie Court, and Avery was…” Mulder trailed off, looking a little gray. “I’m starting to understand.”

“You understand nothing,” Aeon said, haughty and dismissive. 

Scully turned to him. That wasn’t fair. 

“We understand more than most,” she said. 

“We’ve seen things—” Mulder started.

Aeon shook his head and took a step back toward them. 

“You’ve seen things,” he scoffed, looking at them both with extreme derision, one, then the other.

“Deep in the earth, under the mantle and into the core,” he said, his cloak shimmering with the conviction of his words, “there is a vine that grows, invasive and malignant.” Mulder audibly swallowed. “It has been growing since time began, and every now and then in our history and in yours, it breaks the surface, and lives for a time, absorbing energy and whispering a hateful tune to anyone whose ear has turned toward it.” Aeon made a gesture with his hand and the tenor of the room felt suddenly quite bleak. “And it grows and it sings and its message is spread until someone like me finds it and hacks it down and poisons its roots. It retreats back from whence it came until it’s able to creep sunward once more.” He raised himself to his full, if diminutive height. “You have not found the malevolent verdure, Mr. Mulder, you’ve merely looked into the crevice from which it came. And then, seen only a fraction of its depth.”

Mulder mulled over what Aeon had said, trying to process. 

“So you’re a hunter? And Avery was your prey?” he asked, as ever, wanting to understand.

“You think it’s that simple?” Aeon said. “Avery is a mischief-maker, nothing more. And every time he crosses into this realm to collect his little human playthings, he leaves a hole and Hate follows him.”

“So you’re trying to save the human realm from this…this hate that’s coming into it.”

“I don’t give a damn about the human realm. You have it all backwards. He’s not bringing the pestilence here into this realm. It originated here. It’s following him home.”

Mulder reached out and put his hand on Scully’s shoulder.

“So why did you bring Daly back?” 

“Daly had found a way back on his own. He paid for his passage. With sacrifice and coin. As I told your lover, I came to make sure no one took his place.”

Mulder began to put the pieces together. 

“But why did he die?” Scully asked. The only question that still remained. “What killed him?”

“You heard what Ælfred said. Daly’s Luck had run out,” Aeon said levelly. 

Was it another riddle? Scully thought no. Daly had danced with the devil. Beside her, Mulder scraped his shoe over the tile floor, shifting on his feet. 

“Aeon,” she said, a little apprehensive. “You said Avery didn’t know our true names. But he said our names in the hollow. If those weren’t…what are they?”

Aeon, for the first time crooking his face into something like a smile, blinked slowly at her.

“You really don’t know?”

At the door when she left that morning, her mother had hugged her tightly and pressed a cookie tin full of cupcakes into her hands. She tucked a lock of Scully’s hair behind her ear with a watery smile. “Does he call you Dana now?” she’d asked softly. Scully had smiled and shook her head, rueful. 

Aeon’s face now mirrored that look. 

Scully reached out and took Mulder’s hand once more, turning to see if he understood, too. With a shy smile, he squeezed. 

When they turned back to Aeon, he was gone. 

***

They walked to the parking lot in silence, arms brushing against each other. Beside her, Mulder gave a small shudder. His teeth chattered. 

“Jesus,” he said. “It’s not even that cold.”

Scully stopped mid-stride and grabbed his elbow, pulling him up short. 

“You’re shocky,” she said, her brow knitted in concern.

“Yes,” he agreed, the word said through his overbite. 

Scully stepped up to him, thunked the weight of her forehead against the tight beat of his heart. To her relief, it thumped a steady, slow rhythm. She wrapped her arms around him loosely, mindful of his ribs, letting her heat leech through her layers of clothes and into his. The scent of magnolia was petering out and she breathed in deeply through her nose, the scent of him pleasantly pricking her sinuses.

They swayed together for more than a minute and the breeze picked up, a chill knocking between the setting sun and the moon which hung low and full above the treeline. The anticipation of separation hung there too, too close for comfort; they had driven separate cars. 

“How are your ribs?” she finally asked, pulling back to look up at him. 

“Tender,” he said. “But I don’t want to let go.”

A car drove down the street parallel to the building, flipping on its headlights in the burgeoning dusk. 

“Mulder, what just happened?” Scully asked. 

He could still feel the kinking, tight pressure of vines around his throat. 

“Scully, if you Antarctica this, I swear to God…”

Scully huffed a small laugh. “What do you have in your pocket? When Avery tried to grab you—”

Mulder let go of her long enough to snake his hand between several layers of clothes. From his pocket he produced a light yellow plastic likeness of Homer Simpson, head tilted back in sybaritic longing. In Matt Groening script under his face, it read simply “Donuts.” A kitchen magnet. Like hers.

Scully’s face registered a surprised, if distasteful moue. “All that was standing between you and everlasting supernatural purgatory was…Homer Simpson drooling over donuts?”

“I was worried. In a rush,” he said, and the side of his face lifted in a half-grin. “We can’t all carry ‘Invasion of Rarities,’” he quipped. 

“Does it glow in the dark?”

“I think it does, yeah,” his voice cracked, his color starting to return to normal. “I’m not sure where I got it. I think it was a White Elephant gift from the Gunmen. I grabbed the first thing to hand.”

The space in between them was filling up with cool air and the night insects were finding their voices. Scully’s face fell a little, her grip around his middle less sure. 

“Mulder,” she started. “About what Avery said…I don’t put our search for the truth above our—above what you and I—I’m not worried that…” She pressed her lips together, looked up at the moon and inhaled deeply. “He thought he knew me, but he didn’t.”

Mulder let her sweat for a moment, tilted his head back to look at her with sleepy eyes. 

“There are a lot of places I want to…”—he tried to think of less crass phraseology than Ælfred’s ‘fuck’—“…be with you. But in the streets, in the open, isn’t necessarily one of them,” he finished. “Though I’m not one to shame most sexual predilections and I promise to keep an open mind.”

The solidarity that connected them—that saw them through midnight stakeouts and uncomfortable interviews and sweeping flashlights into dark rooms with sidearms at temple index—tightened, knitting them closer together.

Mulder leaned down to kiss her, in front of God and everybody, in the otherwise empty parking lot of the Adrian County morgue. 

“Come on,” he said, straightening, licking the taste of her from his lips. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

Scully, feeling the itch of having stepped through a wrinkle in time, humored him and let him take her elbow. They sauntered the rest of the way to her car, each thinking of what they’d do when they got back to DC—sharing an order of lo mein at his coffee table, his hot skin against hers on cool, rumpled sheets, passing sheaves of the Post back and forth in the light of the late morning sun. They would spend the remainder of the weekend in each other’s arms, and rise Monday morning to face auditors, coworkers, knowledge of other realms only the two of them perceived.

“See you at home?” he asked, reaching for her door handle. 

“See you at home.” In the open doorway of her car, Scully lifted herself up onto the tips of her toes and kissed him one more time. 

[shalomniscient]

listening to hold on tight by aespa and wow this is so kafka coded…. i’m having VISIONS like imagine being kafka’s stellaron hunter partner. before silver wolf, before sam and before blade it was just you and her, flitting from galaxy to galaxy to carry out elio’s enigmatic will. and you, frankly, can’t fucking stand her.

cocky, smug, arrogant, and worst of all—she had the damned skills to back all of it up. it also absolutely did not help that she was also one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever laid your eyes on. you really would kill elio for pairing both of you up, were it not for the fact that the schemer of a man had something you need. and, it seems, something that kafka needs too. not that you particularly care, of course.

nsft utc—

just like how you totally don’t care as kafka cozies up to your target of the day, the strobe lights of the club casting tempting shadows across her elegant face, those cherry-red lips upturned in a coy, dangerous smile. you watch from across the bar over the rim of your glass—the strongest shit this fucking bar had to offer—and when she flashes you a look from beneath long, fluttering lashes you nearly crack the damn glass in your grip. kafka’s eyes glitter like rubies in the low light, and you grit your teeth so hard you distantly fear they may crack.

seconds, minutes or hours later she finally stands, leading the target away from the bar by the hand. her web has been spun—all that was left for to tangle this foolish, stupid, unwitting fly in her threads. you follow from a distance, hands shoved in your pockets, curling around knives you’re just itching to use at this point. in the background, you faintly register a new song being played; almost folklike in its melody were it not for the electro groove overlaid above it and the dark, fantastic vocals.

baby you and me are a twisted fantasy—

you find kafka and the target in a private room in the back. she’s sat across from him now, grinning from ear to ear. the hunt was over; now, it was time for the kill. he barely gets the chance to squeal before your knife teases the exposed flesh of his throat, and kafka laughs. at your impatience or the man’s crippling, immobilising fear of her, you don’t know. that relaxed, insufferable smirk remains on her lips even as you drag your knife through muscle and sinew and spill the target’s blood all over the lush cushions. it’s red, just like her lips. over the speakers, the music continues.

bodies running on a dream, up all night—

“you’re tense, partner,” she drawls, crossing her legs as she watches you wipe your knife clean. “the job was successful. relax.”

you grind your teeth together as you sheathe your knives back into their holsters. “you wasted my time with that pointless… game of yours.“

“it’s called having fun,” she hums in response, rising from her seat, and taking slow steps towards you, “you should try it.”

“we are not here to have fun,” you growl. “the script is clear—“

kafka cuts you off with a sigh and a roll of her eyes. “bo-ring.” distantly, you hear the music swell.

wired differently, a chaotic energy—

oh, you’ve had enough.

quick as a flash, you pin kafka to the wall, your arm against her throat while the other hand wraps tight around her wrists. her eyes widen by a mere fraction, before her cherry lips part wide in a grin that’s more a flash of teeth than anything else.

“one more fucking word out of you and i swear—“

“you’ll what?” kafka challenges. “punish me?”

“shut. up.”

she sneers. “make me.”

and you do, by crashing your lips against hers in a fervent, chaotic kiss. kafka twitches beneath you ever so slightly, but then she’s returning your fervor, her teeth worrying your lower lip. you growl and probe your tongue against the seam of her lips, forcing your way into her mouth and tasting the residuals of whatever drink she had with that man, his blood now trickling down onto the floor.

kafka groans as you slot your leg between hers, her muscled thighs immediately bearing down on your leg. you move the arm against her throat lower, your hand squeezing at the ample flesh of her breast through her shirt, and the pleased hum that reverberates out of her theoat sounds far, far better to you than her smug chirping. when you pull away, your shoulders tremble from the heavy breaths you draw in.

kafka, meanwhile, retains that damned smirk on her face, her eyes half-lidded and knowing. as if she planned all this right from the start.

“perhaps we should take this somewhere more private, hm?” she suggests, trailing a hand down your front as she rolls her hips against your leg. you stifle the full-body shudder that threatens to course through you, and step away from her.

“fine.”

the grip you have on her wrist is tight, but kafka doesn’t pull away. she only giggles airily, and you know without looking that her expression is definitely one of a cat that got the cream. as you leave the club, the song finally concludes.

buckle up and take a seat, hold on tight…

[defectivevillain]

this broken design, ch12

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

summary: “Dr. Lecter?” You blink a few times, convinced that you’re dreaming. The man’s gleaming eyes and concerned expression seem a bit too realistic to be conjured by your sleeping mind, though. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him look worried. You quickly decide that you don’t like it.

“Hannibal, please,” the doctor responds nonchalantly. You stare at him in utter confusion. Just what is happening right now? You thought you were dreaming, but this feels a bit too vivid. “What are you doing out here?”

read from the beginning here.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

warnings: canon-typical cannibalism, violence, blood & gore

Hannibal eyes the clock on the wall. It’s nearly 8:00 p.m.—approximately the time that you should be showing up for your appointment. In the time Hannibal has known you, you’ve never been late to an appointment. 

It’s not like this is the first time a client has missed an appointment. It happens a lot, especially within the practice of psychiatry and psychology. Events occur, people contact sudden ailments or forget commitments… It happens. Yet, this has never happened with you before. If the client were anyone else, Hannibal would resign to sitting at his desk and sketching until the patient showed up or twenty minutes passed—whichever came first. An absence has never bothered him before, yet when he glances over at the chair across from him, he can find no better word for the sentiment. Absence. 

The clock’s hand shows no mercy. It spins mockingly from its brass confines, creating a subtle ticking sound that embeds itself into Hannibal’s very skin. He doesn’t understand this strange prickling feeling, this restlessness that eats at him from the inside. 

For a fraction of a moment, he hears the telltale movement of someone’s hand turning the doorknob to his office. Hannibal walks over to the door and opens it, only to find nothing on the other side. There is no one sitting in the lobby—nothing waiting for him save for the foreign feeling of dread he seems to be accruing. 

Hannibal spends the rest of the night resolutely refusing to read into your absence. It is a human’s nature to forget—you likely forgot to attend. He will follow up with a phone call tomorrow. You could have gotten called onto an assignment, too. Indeed, there are a multitude of rational explanations for your absence. Hannibal spends the rest of the night rifling through them in his mind, before firmly compartmentalizing any thoughts about you. 

The next day, he calls you again. You do not respond. Foreboding threatens to trickle into his psyche, but Hannibal pushes it away insistently. You are fine. You are likely busy with work, busy sleeping, merely… busy. Hannibal immerses himself into the sessions with his clients that day, pretending that he isn’t avoiding the unshakeable facts staring him straight in the face. You’ve never missed a session. You always answer your phone. 

He begins to grow accustomed to your voicemail message, to hearing the tranquility in your voice as you kindly tell him to leave his name and phone number after the tone. Days slip through Hannibal’s fingers and there is absolutely no sign of you.  

Something must be wrong, because Hannibal is soon summoned to the Bureau. Once he arrives, he realizes that he very well could have been the last person to see you. Hannibal cooperates with Jack Crawford’s insistent questioning and pretends not to notice the man’s evident annoyance at the utter lack of information about your whereabouts. Hannibal isn’t your keeper, and he tells Jack as much. Jack doesn’t take too kindly to the remark, however, and he elects to murmur under his breath in the corner of the room. Hannibal folds his hands in his lap and pretends not to be amused by all the fanfare. Amusement is far preferable to any other foreign, forbidden feeling clawing at the unmarred carcass under his skin. 

At some point, Jack steps away to take a phone call. Hannibal waits, with nothing but the insistent rhythm of the clock on the wall to accompany him. Before long, Crawford returns with a grim expression on his face. 

“I have some news you may want to hear,” Jack tells him. His lips are pinched and there’s an unreadable emotion lingering in his eyes. 

“Yes?” Hannibal asks. He already knows what he will hear. Indeed, he hears your name fall from Jack’s lips, with that tortured expression on his face—and he knows. Hannibal gets bits and pieces of the rest—Abel Gideon, abandoned residence outside Baltimore, a kidnapping. 

Somehow, there is little discussion about what will be done next. Jack regards him for a moment, before evidently deciding that his presence will be useful. Jack simply nods and turns on his heel, ever the leader. Hannibal follows, mildly surprised by the show of trust. He isn’t very close with Jack—has only invited him to his residence a few times for dinner. He sees value in having Jack as an acquaintance—another chess piece—and therefore quells his pride and follows after him. 

“Right under our noses, this whole damn time,” Jack sighs once they’re comfortably situated in the helicopter. The man’s jaw is clenched tightly. Hannibal recognizes that he doesn’t want to talk about it. He asks for details anyway. Crawford then recounts the phone conversation he had with you all those days ago. A maelstrom of irritation, amusement, and something far darker rages inside Hannibal’s mind palace. The ivory walls are crumbling and peeling. Dust falls from the ceiling every few seconds, coating neglected surfaces with more memories. He clenches his fist at his side, annoyed with the onslaught of feelings he had thought long buried. Hannibal can’t remember the last time he’s felt so…bored. Unfulfilled.  

They arrive soon enough and far too late all the same. The helicopter lands in a grassy field, across from a nondescript house that almost appears to be molding and decaying at the seams. Jack is quick to run to the front door, which has already been thrown ajar by the agents that must have arrived before them. Hannibal follows the man, turning the corner to find a dilapidated dining room. Wallpaper crumbles and falls from the walls, coating the floor in a truly unsightly amount of dust and debris. The room reeks of decay and death. Truly, the only indication that the room is meant for meals is the delicate, purposeful organization of plates and silverware near each seat. All the chairs are empty. As Hannibal blinks, he realizes he can see what the killer saw: a full table, listening with rapt attention and hanging off his every word. The head of the table is the puppetmaster, content to watch as everyone trips over themselves to earn his favor. Hannibal understands the vision, but the execution is rather lacking. His eyes travel from the table to the chair at the other head of the table with frayed ropes attached to the arms. 

Jack suddenly bursts into movement at his side, moving towards a figure collapsed against the far wall. It seems Jack Crawford only has eyes for his agent. Hannibal, on the other hand, finds his gaze searching for the one presence that is currently unaccounted for. Gideon was here; he’s dead now—at least, according to Jack. Hannibal warily walks through the hall before he stops in his tracks. Abel Gideon lies dead in the hallway, a bullet wound carving a neat path through the center of his temple. Blood colors the wooden flooring near him. The weapon is nowhere in sight. It doesn’t take long for Hannibal to comprehend what happened here. 

You escaped from your bindings. Chilton and Lounds were present, too. In an effort to keep them out of the crossfire, you stumbled back into the hallway. It’s a rather long passageway with several doors on each side—apt for concealment. Perhaps you stumbled into the closet on the right wall, or the tiny bathroom on the left wall, and hid as Gideon trailed you. Perhaps you stood there silently—a hand over your mouth as you tried to stifle your breathing. You only had a dagger; you knew that stealth and speed were your only advantages. As Gideon passed, you jumped out and stabbed the back of his neck. There’s a smattering of blood on the floor a few feet from Gideon’s corpse. You two brawled. Gideon, overcome with fury at your insolence, clasped his burly hands around your neck and squeezed. You managed to break free of his grip by stabbing him in the eye. You picked up the gun as he dropped it and fired it at his temple. A clean shot. 

Your dagger lies in the crimson puddle of Gideon’s blood. Hannibal feels himself reaching out to grab it before he can rationalize the urge to do so. He’s taken by way droplets of blood slowly slip down the weapon, catching the light briefly before falling down to stain the floor. He manages to suppress the unexplained urge. 

Jack’s voice draws him out of his thoughts. Hannibal remembers himself and turns his back on Gideon’s corpse, before walking to the dining room. He finds himself thrown into sheer chaos. Freddie Lounds is being questioned by a few agents. More agents are huddled around a dining chair on the ground. Hannibal takes another step forward and realizes that they’re surrounding Chilton, who is unconscious and mutilated. He is in a rather dire state, yet the sight of his mangled face only incites indifference within Hannibal. It’s laughably easy to conceive what happened there: Gideon’s grudge against Chilton prompted him to kidnap the man and mutilate him. The man had no intention of killing Chilton. Why would Gideon kill him, if he could instead ensure that Chilton lived as a mangled mess of limbs and skin in constant pain? 

Hannibal then looks over to the wall, where he finds Jack kneeling and speaking to someone. It’s you, he realizes. You’re on the ground, holding a hand to your side. You’re shaking and shivering, a glassy glaze over your eyes as you stare at Jack. Your hands are drenched in blood and your clothes are bloodstained. There are several markings developing near your neck—evidently from your scuffle with Gideon. You look frail—vulnerable in a manner Hannibal has never quite associated with you. Hannibal feels himself walking toward you before he can take another breath. He mimics Jack’s posture and glances at him. The department head looks uncharacteristically troubled. Hannibal wonders if the rumors of his favoritism for you are somewhat founded. 

There’s a scar ripping down the left side of your face, spilling bloodied tears down your cheek. It’s a gruesome sight—clearly performed to anger him—yet all Hannibal can fear is a strange sense of reverence. You look like a painting, a textured canvas brought to life in vivid colors. There are lacerations on your wrists from the ropes that kept you bound to your seat at the dining table. Horribly rude, Hannibal thinks. It is much more gratifying to entertain willing dinner guests. Evidently, Gideon didn’t fully grasp that notion. 

Within moments, the paramedics enter the scene. Hannibal follows the medic who is currently carrying you. Jack nods at him—a symbol of approval and reassurance. Hannibal nods in response, knowing what the man is trying to convey with the slightest gesture. Crawford is the head of the BAU—he’s needed elsewhere. Hannibal meets the paramedics in the driveway and they move you onto a stretcher. You’re wheeled into the ambulance. Hannibal finds himself faced with the paramedics’ questions: who you are, if you have allergies, what wounds you’ve acquired. He answers to the best of his ability and, with a subtle mention of his past as a surgeon, he’s allowed to accompany you in the back of the ambulance. 

As the ambulance speeds down the road, Hannibal reflects. Something about you eludes him, and he can’t quite figure out what it is. He wants to wind you up and see what makes you tick. Through your sessions, he’s built a rudimentary understanding of you. But… he wants more.Hannibal wants to know everything about you. You’re special. He’s met with dozens of clients throughout his years as a psychiatrist, but none of them have stimulated his mind as much as you have. 

You’re sharp. You’re never lost in his extended metaphors or hyper-specific references to the arts or academia; rather, you easily understand them and see directly past them to the root of his psyche. The thought provokes an equal amount of exhilaration and wariness within him. You look at him and you see him. You don’t see Hannibal Lecter, the well-read surgeon or Hannibal Lecter, the Chesapeake Ripper—although he feels you’re clever enough to have had a fleeting suspicion of him before. Your organic, effortless insight into his perspective is something Hannibal has been entirely unable to find anywhere else. 

Perhaps that is why Hannibal finds himself lingering in your hospital room, waiting for you to wake. The chair at your bedside has become his seat; even when you have other visitors, that chair is always left alone. He stays long enough to learn which nurses care for you during different shifts. He stays long enough to fall asleep with his hand resting on the mattress next to you. 

You’re still unconscious after a few days. Hannibal knows you must be in significant distress; he wonders if you unintentionally exacerbated your injuries during the fight. Your adrenaline must have been pumping—otherwise, he can’t quite conceptualize how you escaped with your life. Hannibal knows you’re a force to be reckoned with, but to his knowledge, Abel Gideon was, too. He supposes he is pleased with how things turned out—Gideon would have grown rather annoying. Judging from the scar on your face, Gideon wanted to confront Hannibal himself. It would have been a waste of time. Abel Gideon is far from the ideal prey; in fact, the ideal prey is now unconscious in a hospital bed next to him: you. 

Hannibal finds himself unable to dismiss such an opportunity. You aren’t getting too many visitors these days, since you still haven’t woken up. Hannibal reckons he has a few days before you’ll wake. That’s more than enough time to kill a nurse, take their scrubs, and enter your room unencumbered. Frighteningly easy, really. 

Perhaps that opportunity is why Hannibal finds himself looming over you in someone else’s skin, reaching for the scalpel to cut you open. Security around the hospital is laughably lackluster—Hannibal reckons he didn’t have to go to such lengths to conceal himself. Even so, he doesn’t intend to go to prison any time soon. Captivity would be a horrible bore. 

Your wound’s location is far too convenient, Hannibal thinks to himself as he removes your sutures. Surely, it would be foolish not to capitalize on it. With that recognition lingering in his mind, he pushes the scalpel to your skin and allows his vision to be flooded with the sight of skin, tissue, blood. His gloved hands move with practiced precision. He’s first greeted with the mesentery, which briefly impedes his access to the meat. The small intestine also serves as a momentary obstacle. Finally, after some manipulation, Hannibal finds the tube he’s looking for—the ureter—and removes a portion of it to free the kidney. His right hand almost moves on its own, reaching down and yanking at the organ. Hannibal puts your kidney in cold storage and then moves to stitch your skin back together. By the time he’s finished, your wound looks exactly the same as before. 

He stares down at you, before taking a slow breath in. That process was laughably easy. When you wake, you will feel pain—but that pain will be easily attributed to the gunshot wound. The nurses already performed blood tests in the days prior. With your normal functioning, it is very unlikely that the medics will order more tests. You likely won’t even wake within the next day or two. By then, Hannibal will have returned to his residence and feasted on the meal you provided him. Meanwhile, you will be reclined in your hospital bed, feeling none the wiser.  The thought sends a thrill down his spine and shivers down his skin. Hannibal can already envision the dish he’ll make: deviled kidney on toast. The dish is traditionally associated with breakfast, but Hannibal will likely eat it for supper. He has a loaf of fresh-baked panettone bread, which will pair beautifully with the flavors of the meat. He feels the insides of his cheeks stinging with salivation as he walks out of the hospital and leaves the receptionist with an amiable departing remark. 

Hours later, he sits at the head of his dining table with a beautifully constructed meal in front of him. Hannibal almost doesn’t want to consume it. It is truly a vision to behold. Hannibal gives himself a few moments to breathe it all in, before finally picking up his fork and letting it pierce the meat. The sauce coating the kidney dribbles from the piece on his utensil. Hannibal brings you to his tongue, his lips twisting in a morbid, macabre mockery of a smile.

next chapter

Thank you to my bestest friend and #1 Pinocchio simp, @pinocchiospissrock, for helping me with the medical stuff. I’m not the least bit knowledgeable about medical stuff, so if there are any remaining inconsistencies, they are absolutely my fault and I urge you to blink at them for a moment before moving on. Lol.

Some small lil details: Apparently, panettone bread is rather difficult to make, since the dough is very sensitive and the entire baking process is time-consuming. It made perfect sense to me, therefore, that Hannibal would both have a loaf on-hand and also display absolutely no struggles with the baking process, in true mysterious Hannibal fashion.

I used a lot of alliteration in this chapter, yes. You can rip it from my cold, dead hands.

“Looming over you in someone else’s skin” is more of a reference to Hannibal wearing someone else’s clothes. However, in Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal does actually wear someone’s skin, so… take that as you will.

“Hannibal brings you to his tongue” okay, buddy, take me on a date first. sheesh.

and we finally we got to some more cannibalism. *maniacal laughter escalates*

taglist (comment if you'd like to be added/removed): @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kingkoku @kahuunknown @atlas-king1 @pendragon-writes @slipknotcentury @cryinersaved @the-ultimate-librarian

[rex-meshla]

An Unusual Assignment

Commander Fox x F!Reader

When Chancellor Palpatine summoned me personally, I braced myself for new security protocols or another high-risk briefing. Instead, his voice came smooth and calm, laced with something I couldn't quite place.

"An old friend of mine, a distinguished senator" he said, "has requested our finest to escort his daughter to a gala this evening. Naturally, I thought of you, Commander"

I nodded, masking my surprise. Escort duty was... not my usual field. But if the Chancellor had a personal stake in this, questioning it was not an option.

A short time later, I arrived at her residence, following a servant through the lavish hallways. When he stopped outside her quarters, he gestured politely. "She's just finishing up. You'll find her in here, sir"

Inside, I gave a soft knock before stepping in and found myself briefly taken aback. She stood with her back to me, hair pinned up, silhouetted in a dress that's open down the back, delicate fabric pooling at her waist. She looked over her shoulder and met my gaze in the mirror, a sly, knowing smile lifting her lips.

"Good, you're here. Can you help me zip up my dress, please?"

I swallowed, stepping forward, every nerve on high alert. "Of course, ma'am"

"Oh, please" she purred, that smile deepening. "Drop the formalities"

Her charisma was effortless, leaving me just a fraction out of step as I brought my hands to the zipper. I kept my movements measured, lifting it carefully until the fabric settled against her skin. "You're secure" I said, the words crisp, though my pulse hadn't fully steadied. She looked up at me, letting her gaze linger just long enough to blur the professional line between us.

At the gala, her confidence drew the eyes of nearly everyone we passed. I kept to her side, surveying the bustling room—elegant and loud, not my usual element, but I kept my posture strict and professional.

Sensing my restraint, she arched a brow. "Relax, Commander"

With an easy reach, she grabbed two glasses of champagne from a nearby tray, holding one out to me with a glint of mischief in her eyes. "Ever been to a fundraiser gala before?"

"Uh, no. Can't say that I have" I admitted, clearing my throat, uncomfortable with the attention we were attracting.

"Well," she said, her voice dropping to a playful lilt as she clinked her glass to mine, "let's make your first one memorable, then"

The look she gave me was teasing, flirtatious, and wholly disarming. My instincts told me to stay alert, to hold my guard steady, but the challenge in her gaze was impossible to ignore. 

She led me deeper into the room, taking my arm as if we were longtime companions rather than mere acquaintances. The energy between us had shifted subtly, but unmistakably.

The gala room was filled with soft, glowing lights and a lilting melody that seemed to drift through the crowd. She led me further onto the dance floor, her hand slipping lightly through mine until we found a small, open space in the center. Then she turned to me, her eyes sparkling with playful mischief.

"Dance with me" she said, the words an invitation and a command. Her gaze was so intent, so certain, that it was impossible to ignore.

I hesitated, glancing around the room, feeling oddly out of place in the tuxedo I'd been instructed to wear. The tactical decisions I was used to making on duty didn't exactly apply here. "I'm not sure that's—"

"Oh, come on, Commander" she teased, her smile widening as she took a step closer, her voice dipping to a soft murmur. "You're not going to tell me that a big, brave soldier of the Grand Army of the Republic can't muster up the courage to dance with a lovely young lady, are you?"

Her words brought a rush of heat to my face, and something in her gaze left me feeling almost disarmed. I exhaled, giving her a slow nod, the hint of a smile creeping in despite myself.

Triumphant, she slid her hand into mine, gently guiding me into the rhythm of the music. My hand settled against her waist, feeling the soft warmth of her through the thin fabric of her dress. She seemed so at ease, and I found myself mimicking her calm, letting her draw me deeper into the dance. Her hand fit perfectly in mine, her fingers tracing a light, mesmerizing pattern against my skin.

"You're not half-bad" she murmured with a playful grin. "For a soldier, anyway"

A chuckle slipped out, unbidden. "I could say the same for you. Not what I'd expect from a senator's daughter"

She tilted her head, laughing softly, and with each step, she drifted a bit closer. Her other hand shifted to rest on my shoulder, her fingertips grazing the edge of my collar, leaving a faint warmth in their wake. Her perfume, subtle and sweet, seemed to wrap around me, making it hard to focus on anything beyond her presence, the gentle sway of her body against mine.

"Tell me, Commander..." Her voice was a low murmur, her lips just beside my ear. "Do you always follow orders this well?"

I swallowed, holding her just a fraction closer. The room, the crowd, everything outside the space between us faded into the background. "Only when the orders make sense"

She smiled at that, her fingers tightening just slightly around my shoulder, sending a thrill up my spine. The music wrapped around us, soft and inviting, and I could feel the pull of something deeper, something dangerously tempting in her gaze.

She leaned in, her lips brushing against my ear, her breath warm as it ghosted over my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. Her fragrance, light and enticing, seemed to linger in the air between us, and I found myself leaning closer, feeling the warmth radiate from her in waves.

"And does this make sense?" she whispered, her voice soft and daring, before pressing her lips against mine.

My breath caught, her touch stirring something deep and unexpected. Her kiss was gentle but firm, a blend of confidence and challenge that I couldn't resist. I tightened my hand on her waist, feeling her respond as we leaned into each other, the world around us fading away.

As we broke apart, her eyes sparkled, the faintest hint of a smirk on her lips as she held my gaze.

I took a breath, steadying myself, my mind already racing. Boy, was I in trouble.

_____________________________________________________________

You can find more here x

[h4venpha]

↳ 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐗𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐓𝐘 — chigiri hyoma

THE FAN FAV MR CHIGIRI HYOMAA!! hes a lil angry but its ok (i just want him to press me against a wall)

“i told you to wait outside,” chigiri scolds you as he picks up his practice shorts from the tiled ground, still a little wet from the shower he took.

“you were taking too long,” you state plainly and lean against the dry wall, opposite of the showers. “plus it’s not like its my first time being in the boys’ lockers.” obviously against chigiri’s word, you would sometimes come in during his shower or when he’s changing out of his sweaty practice clothes, simply bored of waiting outside for him.

“that doesn’t mean you can just come in here whenever you want.” he shoots back with a glare, a hint of attitude in his words. he shoves his shorts into his backpack, urgent to leave before someone sees you with him.

“you take so long to shower anyway, no one’s here this late but me and you.” you shrug and ignore his glare, knowing there’s no heat behind it.

“okay but this is not going to become a thing, got it?” chigiri mumbles as he drapes the towel over his shoulder, he would much rather blow dry it but he has to wait til he gets home. he scoffs and accepts the water droplets dripping down, soaking onto his shirt.

you push yourself off the wall to grab his bag and zip it up for him. holding it out for him, you let him take one strap and sling it over his shoulder.

“fine, whatever…” you roll your eyes and shrug it off. you walk towards the exit, a silent motion for him to follow. and he does, righting his bag on his back.

just as chigiri begins to fall into step by your side, the door to the locker room swings open. before you even realize what’s happening, you’re being pulled into the closest shower stall, the rapid sound of the curtain hoops scraping open and closed. the dry wall behind you as you’re being roughly pressed into it. a firm hand on your hip holding you still while the other covers your mouth from making a single noise.

slowly peeling your eyes open, your breath gets caught in your throat because god wow—he’s so close. you can see the smooth skin on his cheeks and the small water droplets clinging onto the ends of his eyelashes. his brows furrowed as he listens to the others walking past the showers, his breathing shallow and still, like if he inhaled too loudly they would catch you.

after a moment of intent listening, chigiri turns and glares at you once more. eyes deadpanning: ‘this is exactly why i told you to stay outside’. but you can’t even bring yourself to feel sorry when hes so, so close. of course it’s not the first time he’s been this close, but the risk of being caught heightened all sensations. having his mouth hovering just mere inches away from yours, his breath warm against your face, the way his eyes flicker down to your parted lips for a split second.

chigiri rolls his eyes and turns his head to hear them better, too ticked off to look at you. but its not even registering in your head because oh— his jawline from this angle. his silky wet hair sticking to his face as it drips down onto your own shirt, the fiery, intense look in his eyes, his hand gripping you tightly.

after what feels like forever, they leave and the door clicks shut behind them. only then does chigiri back off, removing his hands off your figure and your mouth. but he doesn’t move away.

“see what you did?” he states plainly, his voice smooth and low in your ears. you nod silently, still a little under his spell, feeling the urge to pull him back in and press your lips against his. and you’re staring again with your mouth parted. and he notices. he chuckles, his tone softening.

“and next time you’ll stay outside when i tell you, yea?” you nod eagerly again, just barely registering the words coming out of his mouth. and he knows, he knows you’re looking. moving in for a fraction of a second, he plants a soft kiss on your cheek, the tips of his wet hair brushing against your shoulder, before he takes your hand in his.

when he pulls you out of the bathroom, there’s a small smile on his face. sure he’s still a little angry you, but theres always something in the way you look at him that makes him crumble. feeling your eyes linger on every feature on his face, it does something to him. so he’ll forgive you just this once.

[lightlycareless]

Because everyone asked (I mean, kind of, I for sure wanted to hehe) here is the continuation to this small piece :>!!

Warnings: none. your family is overprotective of you. overall fluff.

Happy reading!!

You knew it was coming, the moment you saw Satoru and Suguru frantically rush out the classroom door and disappear into the hallways with your secret, you knew it was only a matter of time before either your siblings, or your father, called you to discuss the elephant in the room.

And yet, you still hoped they’d let this slide. Prayed that somehow this would be forgotten, just like everything else that usually pertained to you—in true Satoru fashion— and let you return to the safe haven you’ve found in Naoya…

Whatever you desired was instantly thrown out the window the moment you received the following message from your father.

“Please come home this weekend, there is much to discuss.”

Oh, how you wanted the earth to simply swallow you whole. Lighting to strike you, or… just about anything really, to avoid this situation.

But alas, Friday was fast approaching, and when you were just mere minutes away from joining your siblings for the ride back home, you began to anxiously prepare to face the consequences of your actions—all unthinkable scenarios soon crossing your mind.

“Let me go with you.” Naoya would insist once more, virtually glued to his phone in case you needed anything. “I can talk to your father if need be.”

“As much as I want to… I feel like this is something I need to do on my own.”

“Y/N…”

“In case anything happens, I… I want you to know I love you.” You confessed. “You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I will always cherish our short moments together.”

Naoya swallows, hating the lump forming in his throat, the way his heart sank to his stomach at the very likely situation of never seeing you again after today.

But just like you, he doesn’t lose hope. Not yet—for he still counts on fate to keep the two together; after all, his feelings for you were too pure, genuine, ones he never thought himself capable of harboring.

That must be something… right?

For Naoya at least, it does. And he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he loses you.

“Hey… dad.” It was the fateful moment, uttered the moment you walked into his studio, quietly sliding the door close behind you and making way to the seat in front of his desk, where you’d find both your father and siblings seemingly scrutinizing your presence: the obvious disapproval of your relationship with Naoya.

“Hello, Y/N.” he responds, tone void of the usual enthusiasm that followed. Today you weren’t to talk with the chirpy, goofy father you knew.

This time you’d face the strict side of him, the leader of the clan.

And that made you feel even tinier.

“I guess we’re going straight to it… right?” you ask.

Eiichi presses his lips together—yes.

“Fa—father, I didn’t mean to—”

“I’m not going to deny the disappointment I felt upon hearing you had a boyfriend, especially after you promised to only focus on your studies.” Your father interrupts, his words chipping at your poor heart. “And of all people, the heir of the Zen’in just had to be the one you were dating.”

Feeling as the worst daughter ever, your gaze lowered to the floor, hoping that by evading his eyes his reprimands would be a fraction more tolerable—but it would be for naught, since the damage was already done: you’ve lost his trust, and thus, Naoya.

There was nothing else to say, you might as well voice your regrets.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, tears soon dampen your cheeks. “I’m sorry dad for disappointing you—”

“…But what hurt me more… was the fact that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me.” Eiichi reveals with a sniffle that shows he too had begun to cry.

“D—Dad—”

“…Does he make you happy? Beyond the rumors that plague him and his family, have you truly found happiness by his side?”

“I… I have.” You finally confess, fidgeting with the edges of your sleeve. “He makes me really happy, like I’ve never felt before.”

“Then that’s all I need to know.”

“Wait, what?! That’s all you’re going to say, father?!” Hinata, your sister, is the first to cut the tension between the two with a loud shriek; clearly expecting a type of fight, some resistance for a relationship she considered unjustifiable in so many levels—you were far too good for someone like him! Surely her dad could see that?! “It’s—It’s Naoya for god’s sake! From that wretched Zen’in clan!”

“I know; but at the same time, this is Y/N’s decision to take. And if she’s happy, who am I to stop her?” He answers, much to your sister’s growing frustration. “I know all about being in love and fighting the odds to be with the one you cherish!”

Hinata scowls, somewhat disgusted by the comparison. Naoya could never…

“Though I am a bit upset that you didn’t tell me anything, pumpkin! Why didn’t you?”

“I… I guess I was… afraid.” You swallow, doing your best to wipe the tears from your face and compose your voice. “I’m aware of what people think of Naoya, so I… thought it would be better to keep it… a… secret…”

“But from me?!” Eiichi cries. “We swore to always tell each other everything, remember?!”

A promise made when you were very, very young; so much so, you probably didn’t even think much of it, just wanting to follow your father’s lead and continue doing whatever it is that you did back then…

But to him, it was a pact signed with blood (dramatic much?) and such, your secrecy hurt him deeply.

“I still don’t trust Naoya.” Hinata quietly adds.

“You ought to trust Y/N.” Ren, your brother, adds. “She wouldn’t have lasted as long if she wasn’t happy with him.”

“Wait—how do you know how long—?” you blink.

“You knew?!” Eiichi gasps once more, betrayed yet again by another one of his children. Has he done something to earn their mistrust?! “Did everyone here know of this and decided not to tell me??”

“I didn’t know!” Hinata cried. “How did you find out, Ren?!”

“It was written all over Y/N’s face—”

You, your sister, and father looked at him as if he’d grown a second head, making him roll his eyes and sigh.

“Really? Did none of you notice how chirpy she became? Or how flustered she’d return after getting lunch?” Ren raises an eyebrow, Hinata shakes her head, you simply… blush, embarrassed that your careful attempts to keep your relationship a secret were not discreet at all. “I sometimes even wonder where your head is, Hinata… It was written all over her face!”

“I mean, she’s always like that, right, father???”

Eiichi remains silent, the subtle admission that he agreed with Ren’s observations. The signs of an infatuated girl were there: from how he’d hear you talk “to yourself” late at night, to always keeping close to the phone at home just in case one of your friends from school called…

The signs were always there, he was just too blind to see them, perhaps out of his disposition to see the little girl he always considered you to be—you were his youngest, after all.

And yet, he couldn’t blame you; for he had been in your shoes too, acting the same way when meeting your mother, if not worse, for his relationship became the talk of the town as soon as everyone caught wind of it. You had managed to keep it a secret at least!

Eiichi also knew that a part of you, beneath the playful, carefree child you always were, desired to find the love of your life, a hopeless romantic naturally inspired by the devoted relationship he had with Tomoko, and the all-around loving relationship they all had as a family.

Thus, it was highly unrealistic of him to expect you to only focus on your career when he knew of this side of you, or when he also hoped that by enrolling in jujutsu high you’d find someone responsible, hardworking, and of course dedicated; someone that would provide you with a good life and everything else you desired, as a future partner.

Perhaps most of his shock (if not all) came from the fact that he never imagined those shoes to be filled by Naoya himself! The snobbish heir of the Zen’in, a clan most would want to steer away from when money wasn’t involved.

A kid he always knew as keen to torment others, not cherish them!

And yet, here you were, seemingly enamored with him; and by the looks of it, the feeling was mutual…

Still, he worries. He has to, it’s his job as your father. To think of the worst things that could happen to you and do everything in his power to prevent them.

But Ren’s words held some truth behind them: if Naoya wasn’t of your liking, if he hadn’t been what you imagined… then this train of thought wouldn’t be happening at all. Your father likes to believe—no, he knows that you’re sensible enough to do the right thing.

And if that is to be by his side… then he’ll support till the end of the road.

With a few requirements, of course.

“Does that mean… I’m not in trouble anymore?” you murmur, your soft voice making Eiichi’s heart squeeze.

“Oh, you were never in trouble, Y/N!” He gasps, quick to stand from his seat and take you into his arms, easing your anxieties into embarrassment given the way you soon became overwhelmed by his gestures.

“Dad—that’s—you’re choking me!”

“I’m so sorry for frightening you, pumpkin. I was just worried that you weren’t happy with him. But you don’t know how glad I am that you’ve found someone to share your life with.” Eiichi adds. “…And I’m so sorry that I made you think you were disappointment—you are not; you could never be!”

“Dad…” your voice trembles, hugging him tightly in return.

“But I still have to meet him, Y/N. You have to bring him home if you want this relationship to continue.” Eiichi soon warns. “And no doing anything of that nature until you’re much older! Or at least safely, I wouldn’t want you to pause your stud—”

“Oh my god, dad! Can you not say that in front of my siblings?!” You shriek, whatever embarrassment you felt before was nothing compared to this. “We barely do anything…”

“As it should be, you’re far too young to be thinking about anything else!”

“I’m sure you were a saint, father.” Ren snickers, his jest going completely over Eiichi’s head.

“I was! I did everything to win your mother’s heart, but always careful enough to never offend her or her family!”

“Woosh…” Ren laughs, finding his father’s naivety hilarious.

“Well, whatever! That doesn’t mean I’m all too happy about it…” Hinata crosses her arms, pouting. “Not when he hasn’t even formally introduced himself to us! I can’t believe I got to hear about it from Satoru and Suguru first!”

“Can he come over today? No—he must come over today! I have to talk to him before anything else—"

“Wait, dad he—I can’t invite him over today! He’s going to freak out! I need to prepare him, you know…?”

“Prepare him? Don’t tell me that jerk gets nervous.” Hinata says.

“Hinata, we need to respect Y/N’s boyfriend.” Eiichi defends Naoya, making Hinata squirm out of disgust. “But fine, I’ll give him a week to prepare his speech as to why I should let him date my adorable daughter!”

“Dad, you’re going to scare him!” you fret.

“Then he better come prepared.”

Well, it’s good to know that at the end of the day, you never really had anything to worry about—your father was just concerned about you, as he always was, but still approved of your relationship with Naoya. Somewhat, he has yet to be fully convinced that Naoya is indeed the best match for you, and considering his overprotective nature, seems like your boyfriend will need to do so for the rest of his life…

But Naoya would much rather take on this than the notion of losing you.

Didn’t stop his blood from running cold when you eventually told him, probably the most nerve-wracking thing he’s had to prepare for in his life, but he still pushed forward—because for you he’ll go to the end of the world, just to keep you by his side.

Naoya meeting your father is happening too :)))))) keep him in your prayers.

[dr-futbol-blog]

Trinity, Pt. 6

Everyone bar Ronon and Teyla (who are still off-world) have gathered into the meeting room to discuss the failed experiment. Some time has obviously passed but it is unclear just how much time. It is enough time for Beckett to have performed an autopsy, at the very least. Sheppard and McKay are seated across the room from each other. It seems like Sheppard had only just taken a seat whereas McKay had been there for a while already. McKay is lost in his own thoughts, looking miserable and staring into nothing. But an interesting thing happens as the camera pans around the room, seemingly following Beckett. This both highlights and obscures at the same time the fact that Sheppard mirrors McKay.

Sheppard leans forward toward Mckay and lifts his left hand up to his cheek which is precisely the way McKay is sitting opposite to him. We see McKay for only the fraction of a second and yet this is a thing that they did on purpose. The way Sheppard settles into this position highlights the fact that he is mirroring McKay. The fact that the scene starts with the audience looking over Sheppard's shoulder also invites us to look at things from his perspective.

As Beckett gives his report, we see McKay look away again, as he had back in the Ancient facility watching the body of Collins. He could probably still see it in his mind's eye, and it does not seem as though it is something he is likely to soon forget. But it is interesting that as soon as Beckett says the words "to be honest," McKay looks up at Sheppard. He longs to be naked and honest with Sheppard but does not feel like Sheppard welcomes that from him, not now. Has not welcomed it for a long time. He knows that it would hurt less if they were able to be closer to each other. He is tired of hurting. But now Sheppard won't even look at him.

Beckett: Officially my report will indicate Doctor Collins died due to radiation exposure, causing severe burns to well over ninety percent of his body. Weir: But it was more than that? Beckett: Aye. Much more. To be honest, I have no idea what sort of radiation it was. I've never seen or heard of cellular decay this massive, not when exposure only lasted mere seconds.

The fact that this had happened to Collins in mere seconds and that Sheppard would have been wholly unable to do anything about it even if he had known in advance, even in the case that it had been McKay instead of Collins in the access tube, is not irrelevant as to why Sheppard is behaving the way he does here. To start with, we see him sitting with the side of his fist pressed against his mouth in what can only be a self-soothing gesture that kind of makes him look like a nervous school boy. He is clearly having a lot of thoughts about this and is not sure what to make of all of it, but he does know that it is all making him uncomfortable. It also looks like Sheppard has bags under his eyes, testament to the fact that he has been sleeping poorly lately. He is soul-tired.

Because it seems like McKay is unable to speak, is unable to say anything, Sheppard steps in and fills Weir in on the fact that they had already contacted who ever was the closest person to Collins on Earth:

Sheppard: Collins' next of kin have been notified. Weir: Good.

Although it is Sheppard who tells her this, we have no reason to assume that it had not been McKay that had actually done it the notification. Collins worked under him, and even though McKay seems absolutely numb and it clearly dissociating maybe worse than we have seen him dissociate so far, Collins was his responsibility. But the fact that it is Sheppard who says this may indicate that it is something they had done together, or that he had been there when McKay had done it. The fact that Sheppard thinks to say it here also lets us in on what he is thinking about here, what his greatest concern is and what he cares about. While he would undoubtedly be notified of McKay's untimely demise, he is not his next of kin. And although being informed of McKay's untimely demise as his next of kin is something that Sheppard never wishes to experience, the fact that it is a role from which he is completely shut off is upsetting to him. This situation, Caldwell sitting right next to him, just reminds him all over again of something that he can never quite bring himself to forget. They are not that. And even if they wanted to, they could never be that.

Weir: What went wrong? Zelenka: We're still analysing data from the test. All we know for certain was there was a massive power surge which, in turn, caused the containment field to expand asymmetrically in the direction of the Command Access Tube. As to why...

While Zelenka probably knows more than a little about McKay's moods, it is still unclear how well he actually knows the man. But just as Sheppard had, Zelenka picks up the explanation that probably should have been McKay's responsibility to give and where, again, it is likely they had prepared this presentation together. But McKay is unable to talk. He is afraid of what might come out of his mouth if he did talk, so he stays quiet. He is deeply upset, his breathing seems heavy and he would not be in this meeting if he could be anywhere else. It is Caldwell that finally snaps him out of his stupor.

Caldwell: How about human error? McKay: Excuse me? Caldwell: Well, according to your reports, during the test, Doctor Collins made an adjustment to the containment field. Isn't it possible that he triggered the surge himself?

First of all, Caldwell mentions "your reports" which means that not only had they had time to write up their reports, McKay seems to have filed one of his own. McKay seems personally offended that Caldwell would suggest something like this and it is not only because Collins had worked under him and he felt the need to defend the honour of a fallen comrade. Perhaps even a bigger part of it is that Caldwell was offering him an excuse to get out of this scot-free but McKay was so deep in a spiral of guilt and self-recrimination that he could not even bear listening to anyone trying to claim it hadn't been his fault. He was castigating himself and he needed everyone else to be castigating him too.

Weir: Are you looking for a scapegoat, Colonel? Caldwell: Not at all, Doctor. I'm admittedly looking for a rationale that would allow Doctor McKay to continue his very important work. Is there something wrong with that?

Zelenka takes a seat as it seems like they have moved on from science into politics. Caldwell is the representative of the military-industrial complex and freely admits that their interest in the weapon is driving them to support McKay in his work. McKay is a military contractor but he seems to be uncomfortable in the role, and getting support from the brass when he very much wants to continue the work is forcing him to re-evaluate his position. As stated before, the military applications of the technology were never McKay's motivation for pursuing the research. Even though they are at war, he is not building a bomb here. Look how immobile McKay is, as he listens to Caldwell. He has his chin up and he is as though frozen in place, once more a major sign of dissociation.

McKay: No, Collins knew the system just as well as any of us. He wouldn't have made that kind of mistake. Everything was going well; everyone did their job. Weir: Then what? McKay: I don't know!

It is only his indignation, his need to defend the person whose death he was responsible for because he was not here to defend himself that gives McKay the wherewithal to talk at all. He is not speaking for himself, he is speaking for Collins. Even though McKay is not on trial here, he definitely feels like he is and not even due to anything the other people are saying. He is putting himself on trial. And admitting to Weir that he does not know, admitting to anyone that he does not know something under any circumstances, is extremely difficult for McKay because his entire identity is built on him knowing things, on him being able to know things and do things for other people to earn their acceptance. If he does not know something it is as though he has no reason for being. He is useless, he is worthless, and he is, as ever, unloved. To admit it here is testament to just how lost he feels.

McKay: In terms of physics, it shouldn't have happened. Zelenka: We're still analysing the data from the accident. It's going to take time. McKay: What I do know is the device did what it was supposed to do. Sheppard: No, Rodney, it didn't.

This is the first that Sheppard contributes to the discussion since mentioning the contacting of Collins' kin. He has been listening in and he knows better than the others just what Caldwell is on about and why he feels the need to pursue this. Now, some people might interpret Sheppard as being angry at McKay or something, as though he has any reason to feel like that and as though McKay really needed someone else to beat him up while he is beating himself up. But Sheppard's point here is not to disagree with McKay, or contradict him. This has everything to do with Caldwell and the fact that Sheppard felt like he had lost all control of the situation on the planet during the experiment, how he had come close to losing McKay without being able to do anything about it. And it is in this moment, as McKay seemed to make a statement that the military would undoubtedly interpret as a reason to continue the research, as a reason to try again, as a reason to send McKay back there and do it all over again, it was then that Sheppard felt the need to speak up.

The device was supposed to be a weapon. It had not done what it was supposed to do, which was to be a weapon of mass destruction that the military want to get their hands on. And as long as it had not done what it was supposed to, the military would have no cause to use McKay to get at it. While Weir later tells Sheppard that sometimes McKay needs to be protected from himself, this is something that Sheppard already knows well. He has been doing it for a long time. He was doing it here.

McKay: Well, apart from the obvious containment issues. Sheppard: It overloaded and you couldn't stop it. McKay: Well, we won't know for sure until we go back down there and try again. Sheppard: Try again? Are you serious? McKay: Yes.

And again, it takes only one comment from Sheppard to draw them into a world of their own, where the others are not invited. Weir is literally watching their exchange with her mouth agape, not sure it she should or even could get a word in edgewise. Their attention is on each other, and Sheppard only briefly glances at Caldwell because it is Caldwell's influence that he is most concerned about when it comes to McKay. It seems like this may not even be the first time that they are having this discussion, although it may be the first time they are having it using words.

Sheppard has no intention of allowing McKay to go back there and try again, and his line about McKay being serious is not even intended for him, it is intended for Caldwell, to try to impress to him that repeating the experiment would be nuts. The thing is, Sheppard is afraid here. What happened frightened him, and fear is something that he does not know how to deal with. His fear of losing McKay is overriding his senses. This is why he says what he says next. This is why he is not pulling any punches here.

Sheppard: A member of your team is in the morgue. McKay: And I am responsible for his death, yes. I am painfully aware of that. I sent him in there and I will have to live with that for the rest of my life.

Sheppard looks to the side before he says it because he knows that it will hurt. He needs McKay to drop this and not pursue it, not to go back on the planet and try again, he needs it so badly that he looks for the most hurtful thing he can think to say in this situation, and he actually says it. But his intention is not to hurt McKay. His intention is to keep him safe. His intention is to protect McKay. His intention is to keep him from trying it again, because Sheppard knows that he won't be able to shield McKay from something that can go unpredictably and horribly wrong in mere seconds. He has no intention of letting McKay try again. And he is well-aware that his words hurt. He has buried more than a fair share of soldiers under his command, that is how he knows that it will hurt. He thinks he is doing the right thing here.

But then Sheppard sees his face. Sheppard hears his voice. It isn't even the words McKay says but the way he says them. McKay's mask cracks for only a moment, the pain that has has been trying to contain ever since seeing the body in the command access tube spills out, and while probably everyone can hear that McKay is not alright, Sheppard can see the full extent of his anguish. This is not what he intended. This is a pain that is familiar to him. Yes, he has every intention of keeping McKay away from that planet if he has to tie him up in the basement and sit on him, but McKay is in so much pain that it was wrong to add to it, and he clearly wishes he could take it back.

But make note of the fact that Sheppard is not arguing from a superior moral position here. He isn't arguing ethics at all. He isn't arguing. He is doing what he so frequently does which is to use manipulation to get things to go his way. He is trying every trick in the book to get McKay to give up and not pursue this further. And it is not because he is so staunchly anti-space gun or pro-science or being the voice of reason. What is driving Sheppard here is his own inability to deal with his fear of losing the person he most cares about. But he feels bad about what he said and so, while McKay holds his gaze firmly, Sheppard has to cast his eyes down.

McKay: But we have a responsibility to understand what happened and learn from it. Zelenka: Rodney, we don't even know what went wrong. McKay: Which is why we have to go back there!

Sheppard can see how much this is affecting McKay and has no arguments left. He is not going to feel sorry for wanting to keep McKay safe and he isn't going to let him do anything foolish either, but there has to be some other way he can convince McKay to let it go. And it seems like their aims are opposing. Sheppard feels like in order to keep McKay safe and his own fear at bay, he has to keep McKay from going back. But McKay's guilt over what happened and his need to make it right is causing McKay to insist on going back. For McKay, going back there and making it right feels like the only thing that might make him stop hurting and Sheppard realizes he had pulled the wrong lever because the man in the morgue was McKay's motivation for returning, for doing it all over again. Like we have seen before, both of their motivations are selfish and selfless at the same time. When they are on the same page, they can work wonders. But when they are on opposite pages, as they are here, even unintentionally, even not wishing to be, there is a disaster brewing.

Weir: I know how important this is to you, Rodney, but we knew when we came to Atlantis that we might encounter certain technologies which, for the moment, are out of our reach. McKay: It's not in this case. Weir: You have the data from your first attempt. You can run all the simulations you want. McKay: C'mon, Elizabeth, you really think the military's gonna let this go, huh? I mean, at the very least we should be the first ones in there to spearhead the research. Weir: That's what this is about?! You wanna beat them to it? I'm sorry. The answer's no.

Weir says that she knows how important this is to McKay, but she does not seem to understand why it is important to him. She thinks that he is doing this in the pursuit of science, that he is chasing some scientific discovery. That it is because McKay thinks that the technology is important that he is pursuing this. We see all of them watching him because he is the lynch-pin here but it does not appear as though Weir can see McKay's pain the way Sheppard can. She cannot see the role that drowning in his own guilt and needing to fix what he believes was his mistake plays in McKay's need to pursue this. For McKay, it stopped being about the science when he saw Collins. And it wasn't just about Collins, either. It was Gaul and Abrams, it was Wagner, Johnson, Dumais, Hays and Peterson, it was Monroe and Lindström. And it was Peter Grodin. Most of all, it was Peter Grodin.

While Collins was the most recent, the death of Peter Grodin due to his failure to fix the Ancient satellite was still weighing on him, and it perhaps affected him the most. Maybe they had been involved in the past, maybe they had merely been colleagues, but he had known Grodin for a long time, Grodin had trusted him to be able to fix it because he thought that McKay could "fix anything," because he had told Grodin that he could fix anything many times. And then, he had killed him. It was as though he had killed Peter Grodin himself. And this is what Weir cannot see because McKay has been holding it inside the whole time. People frequently fail to see McKay's pain because they simply refuse to see him as someone who hurts.

Testament to the fact that McKay has been around Sheppard far too long, he too attempts to use manipulation to get Weir to go his way. McKay does not give one whit about what the military thinks and wants in this moment, but he brings them up as an argument that he thinks might convince Weir. He knows that Weir is uncomfortable with the role of the military on the expedition, she is not in favour of giving weapons of unfathomable power into the hands of the US military, and knowing Weir as he does, he thinks that getting her to take a stance against the military might convince her to go his way. But it fails to do this because Weir is still under the impression that McKay is doing this for science. That McKay is doing this because he is pursuing a scientific breakthrough and wants to be the first one to make the discovery. Weir thinks that it is McKay's ego that is driving him here and that could not be further from the truth. He is not thinking about himself at all. He is not even thinking about the science. He just wants to fix it. More than anything he wishes is that he could undo it all.

People start filing out of the meeting room where both Sheppard and McKay remain seated. They do not say anything to each other and it is unlikely they talked here even after the scene cuts while they are still there, as both of their emotions are far too raw. Sheppard is nodding almost imperceptibly to himself but it is unlikely this is because he is in agreement with Weir. He is nodding to his own thoughts, telling himself that this is the right thing to do. He hates this. He hates sitting at this table representing an institution that wants to pry that weapon out of McKay's hands even if it killed him. While he was glad for Weir's call, he wasn't happy about how it clearly affected McKay and how obviously she had misjudged his character.

McKay, on the other hand, watches people file out of the room. He looks at them leave one by one. Even on his best day McKay thinks that people only want him around because he can do things for them. And this, watching them all leave without saying a word when it seems like he won't be able to do anything for any of them just re-enforces his belief that it is the only thing he is good for, it is the only thing people want from him and it is only this that they keep him around for. And right now, he feels like he deserves it. And he does not realize that Sheppard stayed back for him. Sheppard was not going anywhere. Sheppard wished that there was something he could do for McKay.

Continued in Pt. 7

[universe-prime]

At long last it's finally DONE😩

For anyone who's been following my old Fugitoid doodles, you'd probably notice that the design has been quite inconsistent between each drawing, so I finally made myself solidify just HOW I wanted my Rise iteration to look. It's kinda funny tbh because I originally started this entire journey thinking "man I like Fugitoid, it's a shame that it's only used as a plot device or exposition machine" to essentially building up an entire new backstory and lore as if this were my own child LOL

Anyway, here are some of my doodle notes and concepts for this lad, as well as other notes to expand even more!!

○ this version of Fugitoid doesn't possess any weapons, except for the tazer-like attachment that their hand can turn into. This is mostly for self-defense and as a last ditch effort because(for obvious reasons) they aren't physically very strong

○ speaking of self-defense, although they don't/can't fight, the Fugitoid is INCREDIBLY bendy and agile to the point that you gotta question if there's even any solid mechanisms in there at all. They can extend and shorten their limbs to an unknown length, all in an effort to be as hard to grab or hit as possible

○ along with these mechanisms, there are so many other attachments and configurations that the Professor is capable of!! What I've drawn is merely a fraction of what they can do, and the stuff I've thought of is about 80% practical and 20% just comedic effect. For instance, the built in skates and extending eye-microscope is totally a daily use thing, but I imagine if it was on the show, there would be gags where a button would be pressed and it'd have a toaster oven in its chest or a full knitting set stored away. My reasoning is mostly that A) the Fugitoid has had a lot of time with this body and wants to be prepared for any situation and B) I just think it's funny°☆

○ on the topic of being in this body, this Fugitoid is WAY older than they might seem. I can't accurately say if they're older than other iterations, simply because I'm not sure if an exact age or time was ever given for those bots, but I can say that the Professor has been dealing with this for many, many, many years. Too many to even count on one hand. It can't stay in one place for long or else it'd risk being found out, but its travels span across many different plants across many different galaxies, all with their own sense of time and distance. Not to mention the time dilation that goes on in travel like that, but needless to say...this bot is incredibly old LOL

○ for those that are curious, "my" Professor goes by any pronouns! They/he/she/it, it doesn't really care at this point. Maybe in its early life it did, but by now, there's bigger things to worry about

○ for any of those also wondering about how this Fugitoid looked before this whole...robot body situation well..👀 I plan on making a separate post for that, but for now just know that they won't look humanoid in the slightest. It always irked me a little seeing the Professor "alive" and he's just...a human or some pointy-eared guy because!! Come on!!! This is an alien! Let it look freaky!!! Where is the spice!! The flavor!?

○ Lastly(and this is mostly just notes on the design) but I added more teal/green to the look cause I liked the color and thought it was such a shame that the only use of it on the Fugitoid was in the face. I just thought it'd be nice to use it more to kinda break up the monotonous white and grey of their usual body