#i have a fear that he's nearly too complex to the point where he's a confusing character and i personally dont think thats a good thing

[princekirijo]

Istg I actually need to sit down and write a proper bio for Riku because even I get confused af as to what his personality is sometimes.

[totheblood]

shiver | s.r.

pairing: spencer reid x reader

summary: spencer would do anything for you, but doesn't understand why you have pulled away from him.

warnings: angst, avoidant!reader

a/n: gonna be so honest i wanted this to be a series but i ended up hating it like 2k words in so that's why the end is so good... if people like it i will do a part two but oh my god its so bad and rushed towards the end... but this one is for my avoidantly attached girlies!! i see u and i love u and i am also sorry.. reblogs, asks, and replies are so appreciated and encouraged! thank u kisses.. PLEASE SEND SPENCER REQUESTSS!!!

wc: 3.1k

"So I look in your direction But you pay me no attention, do you?."

The hum of the air condition rang through the bullpen as Spencer studied you from his desk. With your hand in your hair, absentmindedly reading files with your body slumped forward, you looked unbelievably and unmistakably tired.

 It was another late night doing paperwork from last week's case, and nearly everyone was running on caffeine and pure luck. Spencer had finished his work an hour, thirty four minutes, and eight seconds ago but he still found himself glued to his chair and taking on JJ’s leftover work. All so he could silently watch over you from his desk. 

He didn't quite understand his fascination with you. It was almost embarrassing how he hung onto your every word you said, willing to do any and everything you wanted him to. But it was more embarrassing that you never paid him that same attention. Well, that wasn't completely true when he first met you, but as the months went on he could feel your attention from him drifting. 

When you first started at the BAU last year you were shy and timid, but Spencer noticed the small chuckles that escaped from your lips at his complex jokes and how your eyes watched him as he spewed some random fact that the rest of the team groaned at. You used to hang onto every word he said, asking him follow up questions with your pupils dilated. 

It was natural how you gravitated towards him. He was the only one on the team remotely close to your age, and like you, he was a bonafide genius. But you always wanted to know more and he always wanted to tell you more. It was innocent and pure, the way he thought about you, until you started to pull away. 

Spencer knew the chemical reaction that occurs in the brain when someone who used to give you attention pulls away. It creates a pattern similar to drug addiction, something he was all too familiar with, and it had started to get all too familiar for him to know how to properly deal with it. It had reached the point where he was counting each glance you gave him, the small way the corners of your mouth quirked up when you spoke to him, and even to the point where he was keeping track of how many words you uttered to him daily. 

He tracked it too. Your conversations with him had been on a steep decline since February, and now in late May he found himself wondering what he had done wrong. He had known the path he was leading himself down was one he shouldn't continue, but he couldn't care. His brain was operating for him, and he was succumbing to his worst fears. 

His brain made any attempts to rationalize your behavior, none of which calmed his anxiety. Maybe he was too clingy, always opting to sit next to you on the jet, or partner up with you in the field. Maybe he had said the wrong thing, something that made you immediately sick of him. Maybe you started seeing someone. The last one bothered Spencer the most, but he couldn't understand why. 

Spencer did everything he could to convince himself he didn't have a crush on you. As juvenile as it sounds was as juvenile as he felt every time his cheeks tinged pink when you spoke to him. He tried to convince himself that he didn't actually ‘like’ you, he just was preoccupied with you. It was your behavior that triggered his attachment style, it wasn't that he liked you. 

And as much as he wanted it to be true, he knew it wasn't. He was infatuated the moment he met you. Spencer knew he could never forget anything, but he knew for sure he would never forget your face. He traced in his mind over and over again, the way your whole face lit up when you ate something sugary, how your eyes blinked up at him when you spoke, and how you would drag your teeth in between your lips whenever you were focused. He'd find himself finding any excuse to be close to you. 

Spencer had once made a vow to himself that he would never pretend to be stupid. Not for anyone, and especially not for a girl. Which is why he almost physically smacked himself when he pretended to not have read a book by Jane Austen just so he could have something to talk to you about. He had read her entire collection when he was eight, yet he still found himself agreeing to read it and tell you how he liked it. He never forgot a word of the book “Emma,” but he still found himself rereading it for you. That was how much power you had over him. A power you seemed to be unaware of. 

6 months ago - November

“So, did you read it?” you questioned, arm pressing into the hardword of his desk, eyes wide and waiting. He didn't notice you at first, which was a first for him, making him jump as he turned to face you. 

“I did,” he answered, lips in a tight smile as he set his pen down, “I still have no idea why everyone seems to love Mr. Knightley. He strikes me as being a bully. I liked Frank Churchill far more.”

“Please,” you scoff rolling your eyes, “Churchill, seriously? All he had were his good looks. He was a total ass!” Your use of ‘ass’ earned a genuine smile from Spencer, whos eyes lit up as he spoke. 

“He wasn’t the most sincere,” he starts, shaking his head, “but he still had a far better personality than Knightley. I’d sooner date Frank Churchill over Mr Knightley. At least Frank had a sense of humor.”

“That's true, I guess,” you agreed looking down at his pristine desk. All he had on it were closed case files and a framed photograph of him and the team on it. You weren't in it but you studied it quickly, noticing how Spencer stared a brunette in the picture. Whoever it was, he was looking at her like she held the world in her hands. You would be lying if you said it didn't sting. As if he could sense you deflate he sat up straighter, following your vision to the picture on his desk. 

“We have to take a new one-” he rushed out quickly, causing your eyes to snap back to him, “You know, one with you… in it,” He pursed his lips nodding as he spoke again, almost as if he couldn’t stop himself, “You know cause now you're part of the team and this picture is old anyways. From when I first started here and as you can tell, I look completely different and it's time I updated it.”

“Who’s she?” you asked, finger pointing directly to Elle’s face. As you spoke you watched for any clues that would give you insight on how he felt about her. 

“Oh, Elle,” the way he said it made him sound defeated, like he forgot that she was in the picture, even though you knew that wasn't the case, “she used to work here, but, uh, she left.”

“You guys were close?” you questioned him, eyebrows raised as you watched him glance over at the picture before leaning back in his chair and putting all his focus on you. 

“Yeah,” he sighed, “we were, but���” his voice trailed off, as looked down at his feet, “we're not in contact anymore. She hasn't really spoken to any of us since she left,” 

“Oh,” you sighed out. You wanted to be upset that it was obvious he was enamored with her, but you just felt bad. The way his whole demeanor changed as he spoke made you feel more upset than anything, “I’m sorry,”

“It’s okay,” his eyes darted back up to you as his tight-lipped smile reappeared. He glanced back at his desk, before turning his body away from you, “I, uh, have some work I should get back to, though,”

“Yeah,” you smiled, standing up straight as you prepared yourself to turn around. You wanted to say something, anything, but you didn't. You just turned around and went back to your desk, something stinging brewing in your chest. 

Present Day

Spencer thought back to that day, wondering if his change in disposition is what made you change. It rang through his head as he tapped his foot, eyes trained on you. He was lost in thought when your eyes snapped up towards him, making him flinch. You offered him a small smile but it hadn't reached your eyes before looking back down at your work. 

The interaction made him decide that it was time to go home. That him sitting and staring was doing nothing for him or you. Standing up, he slung his messenger bag across his body, goodbyes prepared on the tip of his tongue. As he was about to speak Hotch exited his office, eyes meeting sympathetically with Spencer’s as he entered the bullpen. 

“We have a case,” Hotch announced, “I need everyone in the conference room in ten.” 

As the team flooded into the conference room, Spencer hung back, watching as you collected your things and trailed behind the rest of the team with a stack of files in your arms. 

“Need help with th-” Spencer began, arms outstretched towards you.

“No,” you replied abruptly, “I’m fine.”

It came out colder than you would have liked, causing Spencer to shiver, purse his lips and head into the conference room with his head hung low. 

“Our first victim was 35-year-old Leonardo Ruiz,” Garcia started, remote in hand clicking to display the picture of the mutilated man with his hands bound by rope and publicly displayed hanging from trees. Almost instinctively you flinch. You know it's the job but it never gets easy seeing the images. The man's face was distorted, slashed repeatedly with a knife until he became unrecognizable.

“He was reported missing after failing to report to his shift,” another click of the camera to show the abandoned patrol car, with the door open, it was obvious there had been a struggle, “His patrol car was found 2 miles from where his body was found in Arlington, where there appeared to be a struggle. Ruiz was missing for approximately two days before his body was discovered.”

“There was no dash cam footage from the patrol car?” Rossi asks from his chair, leaning forward as Garcia clicks the remote again.

“Exactly what I thought, but here's the creepy bit: There is no sign of another person on the dashcam footage. He doesn't even mention seeing another person, you can't hear the struggle, in fact there is no audio on the footage at all. Because three days before Ruiz went missing, his dashcam footage lost all audio. He reported it to the department and they were going to look into it but they were unable to fix it before Ruiz was taken,” Garcia answers, sending a chill down your spine. 

“So this was premeditated,” you speak up, causing everyone to look at you, including Spencer. You were still finding your footing in the group, trying to be useful to the group without saying the wrong thing, “The unsub is patient, willingly waiting for a perfect moment to strike. Could be revenge,”

“You're on the right track, pumpkin,” Garcia starts clicking another picture onto the screen, “That leads us to our next victim, Detective Luther Hodges from a different precinct was abducted from his home, reported missing for two days before he was found in the same way as our last victim in a public park,” Garcia herself winces as she looks at the pictures of the body strung up to a children's playground, “However this time our unsub left a witness, Hodge’s seven year old daughter, Lucy,” 

“If he left her as a witness, it could mean that he used her as a way to get him to leave willingly,” Spencer started, eyes squinting as he viewed the screen, “or he’s simply… devolving,”

“You’re absolutely right, boy genius,” Garcia starts, clicking the remote again to reveal a final body, causing the group to gasp. On the screen was Federal Agent Angela Barnett in the same position as the others. “One of our own, Angela Barnett was taken from a grocery store she frequented, and only kept one day before she was found in this state.”

“He’s devolving and rapidly,” Hotch says, closing his file and standing up, “Garcia contact MPD and let them know we're coming,” he commands, causing Garcia to nod a quick “yes, sir,” before rushing out the office, “I want to be out of here in ten,” he instructs the group, resulting in nods as everyone stands and begins collecting their things. 

“Hey,” Spencer calls from beside you gently, his voice close to being a whisper, “do you want to ride with me? I just got this new audiobook on the evolving traditions of the Amish and Mennonites on the East Coast,” he offers you a small smile that you can't help but mirror. 

“Oh, uh,” you look down, you know you’ve been pulling away but you can't help it, “Yeah, that sounds… interesting,”

Spencer can't help the grin that spreads across his face as he nods gently, cheeks tinged pink as he picks up his bag from the floor, “Great, I’ll see you then.”

The car ride was awkward to say the least, Spencer glancing over at you every five seconds as you started out the window, watching the passing trees. You drowned out the audiobook, too focused on wanting the car ride to be over that you didn't notice when Spencer had cut it off. 

“Is everything okay?” He spoke up, fingers tapping at the steering wheel as he kept his vision focused on the road. 

“Yeah,” you sat up, looking over at him and scratching the back of your neck, “I’m fine,”

“Are you sure?” he asked again, “You’ve just been… different with me. If I did anything, I’m sor-”

“You didn't do anything,” you cut him off, “I didn't realize I had been acting different,” you lied quickly, earning a scoff from him, “What?”

“The amount of conversations we have daily has been on the decline since February, decreasing by 4 percent daily in the last two weeks,” Spencer let slip casually, his own tone colder than intended, “Hard thing to not realize, especially for someone like you,”

“Someone like me?” You questioned, arms crossing defensively across your chest. 

“Someone smart,” Spencer looked over at you, “And I’m not stupid either, by the way. I would appreciate it if you just told me you didn't want to be friends outside of work instead of avoiding me like I’m the plague.”

You were silent for a beat, looking down at your hands, fingers intertwined with each other. You never understood why you got this way, why romantic feelings caused you to turn in on yourself. All you wanted to do was run, jump out of the car, scream, so you did the next best thing, “I’d prefer if we kept our relationship strictly professional,” your voice came out quieter than you would have liked. 

Spencer felt his stomach drop as his breath caught in his throat. He ignored the stinging in his eyes as he cleared his throat, swallowing harshly before replying, “Okay.”

The rest of the ride was uneventful, Spencer turned back on the audiobook and you allowed the blood to rush to your ears, drowning out the rest of the noise. The night was much busier than anticipated, all law enforcement officers on edge with the rise of a serial killer that put targets on their back. 

You spent a majority of the case avoiding Spencer, opting to partner with Derek on interviewing witnesses while JJ and Spencer built a geographical profile. When it was time to deliver the profile, you stayed back, only offering minimal input. 

Then, you found him: Jacob Raines. Jacob Raines had been a former police officer who was let go due to his use of excessive force and brutality. His rage and anger in turn got geared towards law enforcement, blaming them for his pitfalls. 

Garcia found an abandoned warehouse registered in his name in the outskirts of the city, where he was most likely keeping his victims before murdering him. The team dispatched to the warehouse, with you, Spencer and Morgan, entering first. 

You wouldn't have entered without backup if it wasn't for the sounds of screams coming from inside, and Spencer rushing in first. As if on instinct you followed after him, gun raised as you cleared behind him towards the screams. In the middle of the warehouse was a police officer still in uniform, tied to a chair with a tear stained face. She was crying as she plead for Spencer to untie her. As he worked to undo the knots you heard footsteps, causing you and Spencer to stand up abruptly. In front of Spencer was a 6 foot man, weapon raised and aimed right at him with his finger on the trigger. Based on the profile, you knew he would shoot and you knew he wouldn't think twice. He planned this, he knew the BAU would come for him and he wanted to take out as many people as he could. 

As if on instinct you pushed Spencer out of the way, a bullet aimed for his kelvar vest had made impact with your shoulder, piercing through it as you hit the cold concrete. Spencer was stunned but got up in enough time to take three shots at the unsub who had his weapon aimed and ready to shoot again. The unsub fell with a loud thud, but Spencer turned back to lean down next to your body that was growing increasingly colder. A puddle of blood had began to form underneath you and while it was clear it didn't hit any major organs, you were still bleeding out rapidly. 

Through the ringing in your ears you could here Spencer’s pained and rush voice signal over the radio, “Officer down, need medical, gunshot wound to the shoulder.”

His voice and hands were shaking as he applied pressure to the wound with his palm, as he urged you, “keep your eyes open,” he pleaded with you, “just stay awake until they get here,” he begged. But you were so tired, and your eyes were getting heavier, so you let them close. 

And everything went black. 

[strawbeerossi]

If You Leave Me

Pairing: Fem!reader x Spencer Reid

Description: After coming home, Spencer has nightmares of his wife leaving him after the weight of prison weighs on him after his release.

Content Warnings: Depression, mentions of problems with eating, nightmares, fear of abandonment, mention of parental abandonment, spoilers for the prison arc, mentions of blood and being beaten, anxiety, there’s a panic attack, general angst, light fluff towards the end

Word Count: 1.4K

Navigation || Masterlist || Join My Taglist || Request

'The Show' is so amazing, so I might make more based on each song on the album.

“Change is the law of life. And those who look only to the past or present are certain to miss the future.” John F Kennedy.

Spencer had faced change for his whole life. Between his father leaving him with no explanation when he was a child to his mother’s schizophrenia spiralling, he was the poster child for adapting to the plethora of things that life can throw at you and making the best of things.

Child abandonment coupled with a mother whose illness was worsening, there was a lot of pressure on him at a young age. Spencer wanted to take care of his mother, make sure she was safe and sound. He enjoyed lying with her and reading, spending his time with the woman who he cared for. He struggled with making many friends.

Not a lot of high schoolers want to be friends with a twelve-year-old child prodigy. He was the target of relentless bullying, his safest place being home where he could read in the comfort of his own bedroom.

Most children who had any form of trauma as a child turned out to be psychopaths, incapable of empathy and most who exhibited those symptoms were serial killers, he was quite the opposite. Spencer would say that he turned out alright. 

Three PHDs, being a supervisory special agent for the Behavioral Analysis Unit, as well as being a literal genius. He had a team of people who loved him dearly, a good amount of godchildren who he adored, as well as a beautiful wife who did so much for him.

When Spencer was imprisoned, his experience killed a piece of him. The once sweet, innocent Dr. Spencer Reid was now a man who was more prone to showing his complex emotions, his temperament changing. He wasn’t nearly as talkative, he was having a harder time processing things that used to take him mere seconds to understand. It was why they had placed him on a weird schedule; every one hundred days spent in the field would have thirty days off following behind. He thought it was the stupidest decision they made.

Despite all of his protests, nobody would hear him out. It brought on the thoughts of him being untrustworthy. After all, he did kill Nadie Ramos. He may have been under the influence of drugs but that didn’t excuse a damn thing. He killed her with his bare hands. 

That haunted him. The fact that he could be capable of madness, capable of murder. It didn’t help that soon after, he was producing a tampered batch of drugs that he was being forced to push within those four cement walls.

Everyone told him that it wasn’t his fault, that some people were pushed to dark acts in order to ensure their survival. After all, a federal agent in the general population sector was a huge target, someone who would have a lot of enemies. Too many enemies.

After his release, there came a plethora of emotions. Y/N was a saint, patient as could be and more loving than he ever could’ve hoped for. Even when he was dissociating into his mind to shield him from all too familiar territory, she was right there. It had gotten to a point where he severely depended on her, the attachment so strong that he would follow her around the house as if he were a kitten who needed constant attention. 

Dinner was hard, the man having to be reminded that he could take his time to eat and he had no risk of someone coming and taking it whether he allowed them to or not. There were nights where he wouldn’t take a packet of cookies from his wife, stressing over having to ‘pay her back’. It took a lot to break him out of that routine.

Don’t get him started on the nightmares. They were vivid, placing him back to the night when he was beaten in prison or to the day where Luis Delgado had his throat slit in front of him because of his own choices. It was like he could still feel the warmth of the crimson blood staining his hands in the failed attempt to stop the bleeding. 

In addition to nightmares that were filled with blood and violence, there was another recurring nightmare. One that killed him more than any sort of guilt of association ever could. It started out the same way every time, he would come in the house after a long winded case. There would be a lot of stress on his shoulders, a tightening in his chest because of the fact the case didn’t end the way the team had anticipated. He would then walk into the kitchen, where Y/N would be waiting for him. There was no sweet greeting, no kiss against his lips while she hugged him and cried about missing him. 

Instead there was a tense silence, the usually warm apartment freezing. She would turn to him, her eyes filled with exhaustion, no glimmer of love shining over them as they faced one another.

“I can’t do this anymore. You aren’t who you used to be, this time by myself has made me realize that I am much happier without you here. I don’t have to coddle you, treat you like a baby. I just can’t bring myself to love you anymore.” 

Spencer was waking up in a cold sweat, his body jolting upwards on the mattress while his other hand was quickly, yet cautiously reaching beside him to feel his wife’s shoulder. The touch had Y/N stirring awake, a gentle frown on her face. “Spencer?” Her voice was filled with drowsiness, her hands slowly pushing her to sit up on her knees while her free hand was leaning over to turn on the bedside lamp. 

Any form of annoyance from drowsiness was wiped away when she noticed her husband’s state. His face was drenched in sweat, his chest was heaving from the impending anxiety attack, he was unable to talk as his body trembled. “Shh, hey.” Y/N whispered as she was shuffling closer, pulling back the duvet so she could carefully pull her husband into her arms. 

Her fingers were threading through the messy curls, a weak sigh leaving her lips as she could feel his arms tightly wrap around her torso, practically squeezing the life out of her.

“I’m here. It’s okay, baby, I promise. Luis dream again?” She asked softly, her lips pressing a kiss to the crown of his skull.

“You left.” His voice was hoarse, the tears joining in soaking his face the same way that the sweat had done over the course of the night. “Baby..” Y/N whispered while her fingers were lightly scratching over his scalp, her cheek resting against his head as she was being hugged tightly, as if she would disappear if Spencer let her go. “I’m not going anywhere. You know that.” Her words were dipped in that sweet assurance, her eyes slowly fluttering shut. 

Spencer faced enough people who abandoned him in his life with little to no explanation, she could never be added to that list. He spent three long and gruelling months in a maximum security prison for a murder that he was pushed into doing under the influence of a drug that Cat Adams and Lindsey Vaughn got their hands on. 

This wasn’t like he was a man who snapped and murdered an innocent woman because of deterioration of his sanity. He was absolutely nothing like the men and women he hunted down for his job, she tried to push that every time that she could. “You’re a good man, you know that. I would be a fool to leave you.” She said softly. 

As her body was eventually laying down against the mattress, she couldn’t help but smile once Spencer quickly followed her movements. Her legs were spreading in order to invite him between them, the male laying on top of her as his head was against her chest. “There we go..” She cooed softly, her fingers continuing to comb through the tousled curls. 

With his cheek now smashed against his wife’s chest, he listened to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. 

The drumbeat mixed his wife’s sweet words of assurance and the warmth of her love radiating against him was enough to have Spencer starting to drift off to sleep. 

How did he manage to get so lucky to have a woman who wouldn’t give up on him?

[eff4freddie]

Touch | Epilogue

Joel makes good on his promise to date you, at least once.

Words: 4k

Warnings: Just a slutty lil farewell to our resident Jackson masseuse and her grumpy-arse maybe sorta boyfriend, smut, vaginal fingering, sexy times, stockings that are far too thin for early Spring. Minors DNI

A/N: Another thank you for your support of this little story that ended up being a bit bigger and more complex than I expected. I went there because of your encouragement. Thank you, always.

Part Eight | Series Masterlist

The season was turning, but there was still a chill of a nighttime. It had been six weeks since Joel returned to Jackson, the medical supplies he and the second expedition managing to find and defend ensuring a healthy and safe Jackson for at least another two winters. The whole energy of the place, the optimism, was back in the community, and you had thrived in it, started to bloom alongside the wildflowers dotting the pathways into town.

You’d spent the time working, teaching Ellie, occasionally hanging around Joel’s place while he convalesced, first in his bed, then on the new-ish couch Tommy had found and dragged in through the back door. It wasn’t leather like his old one, and the springs stuck out in the centre so that you had to be very careful where you sat, but it was better than the rocking chair, and it was enough for him to sit still in for at least a few weeks.

He kept promising that he was going to date you, at least once if you’d let him, and each time you’d fobbed him off, telling him he had to get better first, that he was no good to you limping, that you wanted him marginally less grumpy if he could manage it. You weren’t sure why you were stalling, other than that you felt you were toes to the edge of a precipice.

When you were little your little family of four had driven out to the Grand Canyon, and you’d stood on the edge of the red dirt and been totally overwhelmed by the size of it, of all the negative space, the absence. You’d found yourself, aged eight and a half, ready to cry and even now, thirty years later, you remembered the howling wind, the echo of it.

You thought about the beauty of it, now. Now that you had seen so much worse, so much more, you reminded yourself that people used to travel entire countries to see the Grand Canyon. In your mind’s eye you entered your memories and stood beside yourself, your child self, and took her hand. You pointed to the sky, drew her eyes up and away from the ground beneath. Felt her pulse race under your touch as you showed her that the magnitude of it was the beauty in it, was the point of it all.

You accepted Joel’s invitation for the next Friday night. Then you ran to Maria’s to find something to wear.

--

You were supposed to meet at 8, a respectable time after dinner so as not to feel like you needed to have a meal; a more casual time, a more intimate time, when you could drink and chat and only stay an hour if you found it wasn’t working. It was both an in and an out.

Except that you were late, your last client having not only stored muscle tension in his fascia but emotional tension as well, and as soon as you had pushed into the glute he had unleashed years of mourning, of loss, of fears. You had stopped, wrapped him in a towel and pulled him upright, stood back and let him shake with the force of it. It wasn’t new, that people would come with muscle aches and discover trauma aches instead, but you lost track of time trying to put him back together again, trying to assure him of his safety. Tommy was right; sometimes it doesn’t come out until you feel safe enough to let it.

But it meant by the time you were pulling your door open you were about forty minutes late. Your cheeks burned with the shame of it, your timekeeping one of your strengths in the before-times, in the times when you had no other responsibilities other than the hell of being 15.

Joel was coming up your path and you stopped, nearly dropping the jacket you were still trying to pull over your shoulders. You couldn’t read his expression in the dark but his eyes were on you, and he was coming up, fast.

‘Joel, I’m so sorry,’ you started, as he strode towards you and up your porch. ‘I got caught up with a client, I couldn’t leave until they were…’ his hands were on you then, gripping you to him, your jaw resting in his warm palm.

‘You OK?’ he asked you, his eyes searching yours.

‘I’m fine, of course I am,’ you said, flustered, under the intensity of his inspection. ‘I just couldn’t…he was so sad, Joel. I had to stay.’

He nods at this, his jaw ticking. You resisted the urge to reach up and sink your fingertips into the masseter. ‘Were you worried about me, Joel?’ you asked, and he narrowed his eyes at you, then, suddenly freezing up.

‘Thought you weren’t coming, or that you were…thought maybe something had happened,’ he said, and you felt yourself soften.

‘I’m fine. And I would never stand you up,’ you said, moving to hold him around his waist, to circle him in your arms, only able to reach halfway around him, broad as he was. He avoided your eyes, the worry etched deep into his brow.

You still hadn’t kissed him. All of the things he had done to you, the way he had pulled you apart under his hands, his mouth, spread around his cock, nothing so intimate as a kiss.

‘I’m sorry,’ you said again, low and velvet in your throat. ‘I really like you, Joel,’ you went on, and he finally met your gaze, again. The naked vulnerability in it making you pause. You wondered how many people had ever seen this side of him. You suspected he could count them on one paw.

‘It’s late,’ he said, and started to pull away from you. ‘Maybe we should try again some other time.’ To your dismay he had nearly turned his back to you, and without thinking you grabbed him around the middle and tried to turn him back.

‘Wait,’ you said, and he hissed then, his muscles seizing. You let go of him, horrified.

‘M’ok,’ he muttered, raising his hand to stop you from rushing toward him. ‘Just…still gettin’ there, is all.’

‘Come in, please,’ you said, not touching him, not moving towards him, hoping your voice would be enough to get him to stay. ‘It’s cold, I have a bottle of whiskey Tommy slipped me when you were in the hospital, I can…’

‘You needed whiskey, baby?’ he said, and he had that lopsided grin on his face again, and you wanted to lick it off him. ‘Were you worried about little ole me?’

Never mind, you wanted to slap it off.

‘Oh for fucks sake,’ you said, rolling your eyes and turning back to your door. ‘Don’t get all cute just because I got scared when you nearly died,’ you said, and you heard him chuckle. You entered your house and turned to him, one hand on the door. ‘In or out?’ you asked, and you knew that you were talking to the both of you, knew that he wasn’t the only one facing the indecision, knew that you palming the responsibility off onto him, that you would accept his decision even if it meant never talking to him again. He hesitated, but only for a moment.

--

He was back in your kitchen, on the same chair from a more recent before-time, from before he’d found a place for himself somewhere under your skin. You were both sipping your whiskey, listening to the crackling fire in the other room, letting the silence seep out and blanket you. He was still enormous, still took up nearly half the space, and you ceded all of it to him.

‘Ellie speaks the world of you,’ he said, after a while, and you knew that this was important to him, that first and foremost he was her dad, her keeper and her protector.

‘She’s a lovely kid,’ you said, and then corrected yourself. ‘Not a kid. She’d fucking kill me if she knew I said that.’

He chucked into his glass. ‘Won’t tell her,’ he promised.

‘How’s that healing?’ you asked, gesturing to his wrist. It wasn’t in a splint anymore but it was still tightly bandaged.

‘S’just weak, aches in the cold,’ he said, and you nodded. You reached out and pulled it towards you, lay it on the kitchen table between you. You slipped the bandage away, watched the blood rush back in and pink up the flesh underneath it.

‘You need to stretch it, keep it strong,’ you said. ‘Bones probably healed but now the muscles’ll be lazy.’

‘Yes, doctor,’ he said, and you glanced up at him, at the crinkles in his skin and the warmth in his eyes as he teased you.

‘I mean it,’ you said, pretending to be offended, using it as an excuse to slip your hands around his wrist, his forearm. You felt the chords of the muscles there, the sinew and the veins. You rubbed your thumbs in firm circles, like you had shown him to do on your knee, all those weeks ago. You blushed at the thought of it, at the echo of the pleasure he had wrung from you not ten paces away.

He grunted a little, shifted in his seat, and you pulled his arm up at a right angle, so that his elbow was resting on the table. ‘Here, do this,’ you said, and you slipped your fingers between his, rested your forearm against his, leant in a little to ease your combined weight onto the joint.

‘I’m going to try and push your hand backwards, you push back,’ you said.

‘We arm wrestlin’?’ he asked, smiling again.

‘We will if you don’t behave yourself,’ you shot back, and he grinned.

‘Tell me when,’ he said, and you nodded your head. He grimaced at the strain through the joint, but you felt it stretch, felt it working under the force you were applying to it.

‘That’s good,’ you said, without thinking, ‘doing real well.’ He sucked a shy little breath in through his teeth. You stopped pushing, looking up into his pink cheeks. You continued to hold his hand, your eyes fixed to his.

‘Say it again,’ he said, and your mouth went dry.

‘Doing real well, Joel,’ you said, and watched as he blinked slowly, drinking it in. ‘Doing so good.’

He pulled you then, by the arm, out of your chair and into his lap, his mouth finding your neck and suckling, hard, as you struggled for purchase on his thighs. You could feel how hard he was through his jeans, the pulse of it pushing into your cunt as you settled yourself down on him, your thin little stockings under Maria’s borrowed dress doing absolutely nothing to provide a barrier against his throbbing for you.

He gasped, looked up at you as you perched above him. His pupils, blown wide with want, mirroring the ache you felt between your legs and in your heart for him. He tasted like peppermint toothpaste and you wondered idly if he’d brushed his teeth before heading to the Bison, if he’d hoped this would be the end result of the night or if it was just habit. You smelt the leather of his worn jacket. You reached up and let his salt and pepper beard scratch at the skin on your fingertips.

‘So good to us, Joel,’ you said, and you heard the gentlest whimper catch in his throat. ‘Looking after the town. Keeping us safe.’

‘Want to keep you, baby,’ he whispered, his eyes dropping to examine your lips. ‘Keep you tucked up all warm and safe, keep you under my roof where I know you’re protected.’ You shivered, at the heat of it, at the sincerity in it. ‘Be the one to shield you. All sweet and soft in your little kitchen. Wanting me, waiting f’me.’ He finished, biting his bottom lip.

‘I want you,’ you said, simply, feeling his cock jump underneath you.

‘Yeah?’ he asked, and you nodded.

‘Been waiting,’ you bit out, realising for the first time that it was true.

‘M’sorry baby,’ he said, playfully goading you. ‘Where did ya want me?’ he whispered, tucking his head under your chin and licking a stripe up your neck, chewing idly on your earlobe. You shivered again, a shuddering little thing that also came with a whimper. You took his hand from your waist and dropped it to your pussy, pushed his fingers to cup you there, gasping when he ran a fingertip along your seam.

‘Everywhere,’ you whispered, and he grunted, shifting his weight. With one warm hand splayed across your shoulder blades he leant you back, his eyes running up and down your body, devouring you. He kept his hand on your cunt, idly running a finger up and down where you ached the most for him, and you worried for a moment that he would feel how wet he’d made you just with his gaze.  

His breath was warm across your cheeks when he exhaled. He took the hand from between your legs and cupped your breast, rolled the nipple through your dress, made you whimper.

‘Joel,’ you whispered, and you watched as his eyes lit up, as the sparks caught on kindling and turned into a forest fire, as he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing from the strain. You wanted to run your tongue over his bottom lip, nip at it.

‘Sssh, baby, I know,’ he said, pulling you up off his lap to stand in front of him, your knees shaking. His arms bracketed your hips, gripping the table behind you, so you were surrounded by him. He remained seated, watching you from under heavy eyelids.

‘Take it off,’ he said, and you felt your pulse in your neck, thunderous.

‘Which?’ you asked.

‘Maria’s dress you don’t think I recognise, those silly little stockings that ain’t doing nothin’ to keep out the cold.’

He leant back on the chair again, kicked his legs out so that you were standing between his ankles now, leant his arm on the back of the chair and scratched at his beard. ‘Well, go on,’ he said, and you felt so exposed to him then, vulnerable in the heat of his stare.

‘Help me,’ you said, feigning not being able to get to the zipper, just for the excuse of turning away from him, from his eyes that were taking you apart atom by atom, from his hands resting on his thigh, from his thick fingers you wanted to slip into your mouth, let him push down on your tongue and suckle at him.

You felt his hands on your back, the zip coming down, the way he slipped the dress from you like he was unwrapping a present on Christmas morning. You leant over a little, trying to slip your stockings off and you heard him moan, felt his hands on you again, his warm paw on your lower back pushing you into a deeper bend, the other pulling on your hips to bring you closer to him, his hands gripping you, positioning you. You heard his sharp inhale when you slipped the stockings over your bottom, felt your cheeks blaze when he reached up and slipped your panties off along with them, bent over and completely exposed to him, wet and glistening in the light of the kitchen, the sound of your gasped little whimpers mixing with the ever-present whir of your forty-year-old fridge.

‘Oh, my girl,’ he said, and you wanted to launch yourself at him, seat yourself back on his lap and bury your head in his neck but he was running his hands up and down the back of your thighs, edging himself closer on the chair, pushing you forward so that your breasts rested on the kitchen table, your cheek flush to the cold wood.

He bent his head and placed a single kiss at the base of your spine and you worried your knees would buckle, worried you would collapse onto the kitchen tile. As you gasped he brought his hands up to cup your bottom, spreading your cheeks enough to slip a thumb into your cunt, probe the warmth and feel the wet collecting on his fingertip. You startled, trying to buck away, trying to buck towards him, circling your hips to capture him inside you, and you heard him chuckle, felt his lips dip lower to your tailbone as he twisted his hands, his thumb still inside as his fingers came around to cup and rub at your slit, your poor little aching clit caught between his fingertips.

‘Jesus,’ you cried, finding religion despite never having set foot in a church.

‘Want to keep you full of me,’ he muttered, sitting back down on the chair again and pulling you with him, spreading your legs over his so you were open wide, obscene and dripping in his lap, pulling your legs apart with his and whispering filth in your ear, cupping your breast with one hand and the other sliding into your heat.

‘Want to keep you here, my pretty girl all safe and warm in my arms, full of my cock and my fingers, crying out for me when I’m not there.’ You were gasping, your vision narrowing, barely able to concentrate on anything except for his words, for his fingers stretching you, his legs pulling you impossibly wide. ‘Won’t let nothin’ hurt ya, baby girl,’ he grit out, and you felt a sob rip through your throat, the pleasure he was drawing out of you mixing with the comfort, with the intoxicating allure of him protecting you, of him standing between you and so many terrors.

In your right mind you wouldn’t have believed him. Would have known there were things out there even the great Joel Miller couldn’t topple, that there were threats known and unknown, seen and unseen, things out there wanting to spill your blood, the blood of the people you cared the most for. But Joel was inside you, in your cunt and in your ear, and his words were chipping away at your resistance, sliding under the door long ago locked tight. You were far from your right mind. You surrendered to the seduction of it, of the intoxication of it, of the myth this man was peddling that you would buy again and again and again.

‘There she is,’ he said, as you came on his fingers, your cunt gripping him and your hips rolling, his face pressed hard into your neck as you twisted into the agony of it, your mouth open and gasping, your face turned to the Gods.

You felt his fingers underneath you, one hand wrapped tight around your torso to hold you steady as he released himself from his jeans, and you felt him then, pressed against the back of your thigh, the velvet heat of his length, the thundering throb of it. You had barely caught your breath, had yet to fully come back to yourself, before he was pushing himself into you, pulling you onto him, your neck caught in his teeth as he bit down on the nape, tried to stifle the groan blooming in his chest.

He felt bigger this way, the stretch even sharper despite his best attempts to prepare you, and your walls fluttered, fought to accept him. You shuddered, the sudden sting slamming you back into your body, and you gripped his hands to stop him, to pause. He stilled immediately, his breath hot and gasping.

‘Give me a minute,’ you gritted out, leaning back onto his shoulder and burying your nose in his jaw, panting, placing a placid little kiss to the salt and pepper patches there.

You felt him reach around you, his finger finding your clit and gently circling it, collecting your slick and pushing it over the nub to rid you of any friction. You groaned, arching your back against him, your hands digging into the meat of his thighs underneath you.

‘So beautiful like this,’ he whispered into your ear as you felt the pleasure overtake you, the throb in your cunt synchronised to your thundering pulse. ‘Can feel you gripping me,’ he went on. ‘Stuffed fulla me, baby.’

‘Stop,’ you gasped, the moment suddenly too intense, a fear gripping you then that if he kept talking you would give him anything; the shirt off your back, the blood in your veins. He chuckled, watching you struggle to take the pleasure he was pushing into you, through you.

It was wrong but you couldn’t figure out why, because it still felt so fucking good, and you wanted more but couldn’t figure out how it was possible, not sated by him seated fully inside you, not close enough to him as you pressed your body entirely against yours. You huffed, frustrated, standing before he could stop you and pivoting to face him, straddling him again in the chair and sinking yourself down on him in one swift motion, so that he gasped and then groaned when the heat of you enveloped him, joined you in a harsh cry when your clit met his hipbone and you settled there, shifted your hips to press into the nub.

‘S’better,’ you said, and you watched his lopsided grin emerge.

‘My girl miss seeing me?’ he asked, and you rolled your hips to shut him up, watched any semblance of cogent thought leave him when you gripped him there.

‘Say it again, Joel,’ you said, sliding your hips forward and back in a way that you knew wasn’t enough for him, but was making your clit throb when it grazed over his skin. He grunted, suddenly finding it hard to think clearly, and his brows saddled.

‘Keep you safe?’ he said, uncertain but meaning it anyway, and you shook your head.

‘Keep who safe?’ he asked.

‘You,’ he answered, still not following, and you planted your feet on the floor, raised yourself up just to bounce back down again.

‘Who am I, Joel?’ you asked, nearly breathless, and finally, finally he understood, his little huffed out laugh sending a thrill through you as he reached down between your bodies, felt where you were joined.

‘My girl,’ he said, finding your clit and edging his fingertips across it, sending fireworks up your spine. ‘My beautiful girl, so tight and wet, so needy for me, cryin’ out for me in her kitchen.’

You groaned, feeling him grip you around the middle with one arm, lifting you up and down on his cock, rocking into you and always, always, always watching your face, nibbling at your chin when you leant back to gasp for air.

You were going to come. It was too fast. You still had so many other things you wanted to say to him, wanted him with every atom of you, with every fibre, the neurons in your brain lighting up just for him. Wanting to live in the torrent of pleasure he brought out in you, wanted to twist and writhe in it. You felt, again, on the edge of tears, but not for wanting, this time. Not for the losses.

For the having. Of Jackson, of the wildflowers on the paths pushing past the cold. Of the little family you had eked out at the end of the world, of Ellie, of Tommy and Maria and Robin. Of this man under your body and on your kitchen chair, calling you his and promising to keep you safe. Of this man, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of oblivion and clinging to him, willingly readying yourself to cascade over it.

‘Want you right here, always,’ he grunted, and you keened, felt it then, that you were wanted, that you belonged.

You didn’t have the words for it, vowed in that moment that you would spend the rest of your life trying to find them. For right now you did the only thing you could think of, leaning over and gripping his jaw, angling his face to you as you landed your lips on him, kissed him as you felt a tear streak across your cheek and onto his skin, as you shuddered and felt your cunt milking him, as he spilled into you and you joined him, the ecstasy and the pleasure and the warmth of it. In your little house in Jackson, behind enormous walls, to hold you.

Taglist:

@orcasoul

@archofimagine

@hiroikegawa

@ilovejoel-andjavi

@giggly-otter

@harrysrosetatto

@Hjzghi-blog

@daddy-dins-girl

@kathaaaaaaa

@anoverwhelmingdin

@pedropascalsbbg

[juneknight]

Hand Covers Mouth

Kink: sex pollen/aphrodisiac

About this: Takes place during canon events, Steven/fem!reader, Marc/fem!reader.

*

Let’s split up, Layla had said. She tacked on a hurried, ‘You with Steven? Be careful!’ before nearly sprinting off down a tunnel, leaving you (her scowling friend) and Steven (a mesmerized puppy) alone in a sandy tomb.

Look, you understood it was complex. Steven shared a body with her (soon to be? Possibly?) ex-husband, after all; but in your mind, that gave her even more of a reason to be the one responsible for him. Absently, your hand reaches down to lay your palm on the holster where your gun rests. You have no doubt that Harrow’s minions would kill without qualm. While you would not find it so easy to digest, you would do whatever you had to, to keep yourself safe.

To keep Steven safe. No matter what—

“What are you doing?” you ask at a frantic whisper. Steven is barely visible in the darkness where he is brushing sand and dust, centuries of time away from the hieroglyphics on the wall.

He glances back over his shoulder at you, giving you his typical expression of an adorable animal who fears they are about to be on the receiving end of a harsh kick in the rump, but who is so thrilled by their own discovery that they hardly care. He points to the wall.

“Reading these hieroglyphics,” says Steven. “Think they might be important.”

You glance toward the wall. You are not like Steven or Layla, able to read the symbols. You did not have the same practical and personal education which they had so tediously earned for themselves over the years. At the base of the wall sits a gilded table, the bottom of each leg morphing into the paw of some great cat. Some of the items around it are unrecognizable, turned to rubble, after so many years. But resting on top of it, there are a set of neat little figurines inlaid with moldavite, glittering black in the darkness.

“You don’t think—the ushabti?”

“Not likely,” Steven admits with a frown. “But some of the wall has crumbled here, can’t make out the rest, can I? It does say that this is powerful. Maybe we should take these to Layla and have her look at them.”

You fight the urge to scowl again. Layla. Steven was always trailing after Layla…

Alright, perhaps you had another reason for being so sour at Steven’s mention of your closest friend. How could you help being enamored with him, with his big brown eyes, with his undying enthusiasm, with his gentle heart and scathing wit? But Steven didn’t look at you like that. He was always too busy looking at Layla.

When you look at him, the expression of hope on his face is painful. You do your best to bite back any sarcastic or caustic replies. He truly doesn’t deserve them. It isn’t his fault he doesn’t reciprocate your feelings.

“We don’t have time to hunt down Layla with every artifact we find,” you remind him gently. “And we don’t have time to search every little artifact for significance, either.”

He leans against the wall, like some suave Don Juan from a movie.

“Life’s about stopping to smell the roses, love, or stopping to find the roses if no roses immediately present—oh—oh bugger.” Steven slips, more of the wall crumbling away beneath the weight of his elbow. He stumbles into the little golden table—and off go all three of the little figurines, smashing into brittle pieces on the stone floor, the sound deafening in the silence around you.

“Oh my gods,” Steven says, both hands coming up to clutch at his curls. “Oh no, I deserve prison. Oh look what I’ve done—these were thousands of years old and I just destroyed them—”

“Steven—” Your words die in your throat. Your heart begins to race, breathing becoming fast and shallow. He looks up at you from where he has knelt on the floor in anxious guilt over the figurines, and you see something in his eyes which you can’t identify. Something sharp. Something hungry.

Then he blinks.

In the distance, you hear the sound of voices calling, none of them the familiar timber of Layla. He reaches out with the reflexes of a snake and grabs you around the waist, dragging you down to his position. One hand—warm, tasting faintly of sweat and sand—clamps over your mouth as he drags you back against his body, making both of your positions smaller as you hide behind a pillar.

Against your back, he is hard.

“Quit it,” he hisses lowly in your ear, and that’s when you realize that it isn’t Steven at all. That posh British accent has dissolved into something relaxed and loose, a Chicagoan accent that you’ve never heard before but would recognize anywhere. Marc. His words register secondarily, and you realize that you are writhing against him, literally arching your back to try to rub your aching cunt against the hard line of his cock.

A whine slips past his hand, and he lets out an angry, shaking breath against the crook of your neck. His free hand reaches around and slips right down the front of your pants. By the time he is cupping your sex with his broad palm, you are soaking wet, aching, already working towards that blissful crest even with the only stimulation being in your own mind.

“It must have been an aphrodisiac,” Marc whispers, barely audible over the raging pulse in your ears. “If I give you some fingers, can you be quiet until they’re gone?”

You nod, exaggeratedly. Truthfully, you aren’t sure. You just know that you would say anything, agree to anything to have any one of his fingers inside you.

He gives you two. You cum straight away, eyes rolling back, pussy clenching around his digits tightly. Marc gives a choked breath at the sensation of your walls squeezing and squeezing his fingers. His hips work once, twice, three times against the curve of your ass and then he stiffens himself, a breathless, nearly inaudible sound of pleasure passing through his lips.

The sweetest fucking sound you’ve ever heard.

The voices in the distance begin to fade away—the sweetest silence.

Then you have a mouthful of sand, Marc’s hand between your shoulder blades pinning you into the ground. You hear the clinking of his belt as he frantically tries to loosen it, and you wiggle your hands beneath you looking for the fasten of your own pants.

“Didn’t want it to go like this,” he says through clenched teeth. You can’t even imagine his expression: something hard and desperate. You wonder if he took over for Steven forcefully or if Steven retreated, anxious at the potent desire that the aphrodisiac evoked in him. “Didn’t want our first time to be like this—”

“Is he okay?” you whisper, working your pants and underwear down at once, arching your back for him. He still has on his boxers, but he’s grown desperate: hands gripping your hips, thighs snapping against the back of your own as he simulates sex with you. Marc makes a perplexed sound. Fuck, his cock feels good, even covered by soft cotton that you’re drenching with your own slick. You struggle for a moment to remember your question. “Steven—is he okay?”

“Steven is—fucking great,” Marc says, laughing a little derisively. “Trust me. Steven’s been wanting to fuck you since the moment he saw you. There’s a little place in my head where’s he’s beating off furiously, I’m sure—”

“You’re such a dick,” you gasp.

“I’ll show you dick, gonna give you mine,” he mutters through his teeth, finally working down his boxers. “Gonna fuck that girlish expression you give Steven all the time right off your face, gonna make it so every time you look at him, you’re thinking about how good my cock fills you.”

“His cock,” you breathe, arching your back more, fingers curling in the sand and scratching the stone beneath. “His cock too.”

“Yeah yeah,” says Marc testily, finally resting the head of his cock at your entrance. He slips in with one devastating, life-changing thrust. “We’ll test that theory when I let him out for his turn.”

[erimeows]

TFA Characters' Toxic Traits

Me with another TFA headcanon set? Who would've guessed. Got the inspiration for this one after realizing I'd done it with MysMes but not with Transformers. Enjoy!

Optimus Prime: Shoulders every single burden all by himself. Will not ask for help and open up to others when needed, even though not doing so ends up negatively impacting everyone more in the end than asking for help would've.

Bumblebee: Toxic positivity- enough said. You vent to him and he's like "oh but you have so much to be happy about!".

Bulkhead: Will not take sides in any conflict of his own accord even if he knows that one side is "right" if he fears it will upset any of his friends. Passively steps out of conflicts even when he's needed, unless it's an absolute emergency.

Ratchet: Refuses to open up about trauma that he has even though it affects the way he acts and negatively impacts the people around him, who are very confused as to why he acts the way he does.

Prowl: Has an ungodly superiority complex, tends to think he's better or smarter than others (even when he's not), though he's trying to work on that.

Sentinel Prime: I think we saw in the show, but he's very prideful and will never admit that he's wrong in any situation. Also terrible at offering genuine apologies- more of a sarcastic "I'm sorry you feel that way" than a genuine "I'm sorry I did (x)" kind of guy.

Jazz: Gets uncomfortable when things get too serious to the point that if people try to open up to him about something deep, he will change the subject or deflect them 90% of the time.

Ultra Magnus: Too by the book. Will do things that he doesn't believe in or ignore wrong doings for the sake of legality.

Megatron: Very selfish and very charming, which is a bad combo. Similar to Starscream, he will be nice to your face if needed and then screw you over in the end as long as it benefits him.

Starscream: So many, but the worst one is lying to people's face and then talking shit behind their backs or doing them wrong for his own benefit.

Blitzwing: Depends on which of the three personalities you're dealing with because they all have some pretty over the top toxic traits, but the worst and most prevalent one is that all three of them tend to belittle others to feel better about themselves- especially if their life is going bad or if they're feeling insecure about something in particular.

Lugnut: The Megatron obsession, obviously. It gets to the point that anyone and anything else in his life that should be prioritized get(s) pushed to the side for Megatron's sake when Megatron doesn't value him nearly as much.

Blackarachnia: Very vengeful and obsessive about getting revenge to the point that it's unhealthy. Obviously this is seen in her TFA episodes where she wants revenge on Optimus/Sentinel for what happened when they were in school- but those emotions are over a huge tragedy that happened in her life and are almost understandable. This toxic trait also applies to, say, someone who accidentally shoulder checked her or took her lunch from the staff fridge. If you wrong her in the slightest, she will make sure she has revenge, even if it was a genuine mistake.

Lockdown: Can't handle commitment. He's not scared of it, just not emotionally mature enough. Whether it be a job, a friendship, a romantic relationship, or whatever else, he won't commit. He doesn't care whose feelings it hurts or if he's passing up on something genuinely good for himself either.

Swindle: Also can't handle commitment, but I'd argue that his worst toxic trait is actually his concern for money. He's terrified of being broke to the point that it consumes his every waking minute. Sure, he enjoys the swindling, but if he misses out on money he panics and he will go to ridiculous lengths to get a good deal or to rip someone off.

[tjlnn22]

Does anyone else ever think about how the main villains of each HxH arc prior to CAA represent a twisted/evil version of each of the four main protagonists? (CAA also has this but in a much more complex way that I’ll save for a later post)

Gon-Hisoka: I think this is fairly obvious with Hisoka being obsessed with fighting and getting stronger/being the best with no real regard for anything else. We see many hints of Gon having obsessive tendencies that could lead in this direction, also his love of fighting that could very well have turned sinister eventually had Gon been a less moral person than he is/went down a different path. Even then though we still get glimpses of that in the early arcs.

Killua-Illumi: again, pretty obvious. Illumi represents what Killua could have been had he followed his parent’s wishes of becoming a full time assassin and leader of the family, or potentially if he had never met Gon in the first place. Illumi is everything Killua fears becoming. (Also I think it’s worth noting how Hisoka and Illumi also have a “will they, won’t they, what are they to each other” vibe going on with the romantic subtext of their relationship. Not nearly as blatant or prominent as it is with Killua and Gon, but it is there.)

Kurapika-Chrollo: This one’s a bit more subtle, but I think the connection can be made between the two of them. First of all both of their backstories involve horrible deaths befalling those they loved when they were a child, which motivated them to go down their respective paths of revenge. Both are incredibly intelligent and competent nen users as well, and take the leader role in their respective groups, a position that neither of them take lightly and feel an intense sense of responsibility for when it comes to their people. Both are willing to sacrifice everything for their cause (Kurapika’s being Justice and Chrollo’s being the PT as a group) and their personalities are also very similar as well.

Leorio-Genthru: Up until this point the parallels have very clearly come from the rival of each character, however I think this comparison also applies regardless. Genthru and Leorio both share a driving goal of doing what they do for money, although in Leorio’s case it’s so that he can help others while for Genthru it’s entirely selfish. Both of them are smarter then they let on at first, and capable of being very dangerous/powerful when they want to be. However, they also share a deep care and camaraderie with their friends despite their outward personalities. We all know that Leorio would do anything for his friends but Genthru as well is shown to deeply care for his two friends even to the point of his own detriment. There is also the fact that they do share many physical traits as well. Tall, lanky, glasses, etc. (also they’re both a bit underutilized in the story IMHO lol) but yeah, I think it’s clear where the similarities are.

Anyway, I may go more in depth into this at some point, or I may not. It’s just something I think about from time to time and was wondering if anyone else does too.

[walkawaytall]

No, but I continue to be salty about the fact that someone decided it was canon for Poe to not meet Leia until he was an adult.

I just feel like him being the kid of two people she and Han knew, him losing his mother so young…it’s like solid plot points, motivations, and drama were just laid out on a silver platter and everyone was like, “Nah, we’ll make this make less sense and also worse.”

Like, we never even got specific motivation from Ben about why he’s so bitter about Han in particular (okay, at least not that I remember. I admittedly haven’t seen any of the sequel trilogy in nearly four years, but what I recall was some one-off vague comment about Han not being around that sounded about like the reason every kid in every ‘90s movie with a Busy Business Dad would give for why their father wasn’t at a soccer game or whatever).

You know what would be more interesting? Han and Leia — both orphans themselves, and Leia twice over — doing their best to help Kes out after Shara dies, taking Poe on a weekend every-so-often, whatever, so he and Ben are basically cousins. And, like, Poe’s interested in ships, right, because his mother was a pilot and that’s what he wants to be, and Han’s more than happy to talk shop with the kid for as long as his attention span lasts. And when Ben’s, like, five he could not possibly care less about this, but as he gets older, he misinterprets common interest as abject favoritism of Poe or even a sort of rejection of himself because, while Han absolutely tries, he’s never going to fully understand the Jedi stuff and talking about flying is simple for him.

And Leia and Poe bond over old Rebellion stuff. He wants to hear about Shara and wants more stories to ask his dad about once he goes home and Ben’s kind of over it, so it’s just another area where he feels like his parents are better-bonded with someone who isn’t him. It’s not negligence or actual favoritism or rejection; it’s a complicated situation where Han and Leia are trying to do right by both boys and misunderstandings and hurt feelings ensue because kids don’t always see the big picture or whatever. And also I’m sure Han and Leia make mistakes, but they also want to be there for an old friend and this child who they have known his entire life who lost his mother — their friend and colleague — way, way too young.

And it would continue to add to the complex feelings Ben has about his mother when she starts another rebellion, which is already complicated for him, but then he finds out that Dameron kid, who’s basically family but also who he has a lot of bitterness toward, is not only involved in this rebellion; he’s kind of Leia’s go-to guy. So, Ben’s become the monster his mother always feared resided in her own blood while Poe’s a shiny, good-guy pilot just like Shara…just like Han.

Wouldn’t that have been more interesting than “My dad was never there for vague reasons, Rey, plz feel bad for me”?

Anyway, I said it when I talked about my Ewok makeover montage idea and I’ll say it again: I should be in charge of more things.

[sunray-sunray]

I'm not in the loop with the whole IWTV thing, but with the posts I've been seeing since yesterday I'm intrigued. Could you explain?

First of all, I'm glad you liked the posts @bookwormsontherun (although right now I don't know what posts you're referring to exactly), I normally try to not post too much of one topic but rather a good mixture of my interests :>

So, what is IwtV in general: Originally the movie IwtV from 1994 and the series that started in 2022 are the TV-adaptations from the book series "The Vampire Chronicles" by Anne Rice. IwtV is the title of book 1 and the plot of season 1, but they decided to stick to the title on further seasons too. Although they changed a few things in the series (the biggest fear of every reader), like the time frame, skin colour of a few characters and some locations, it turned out really good.

What is it about: Generally there isn't only one plot, because nearly every book has one of its own. The element or in this case the person who is connecting everything is the vampire Lestat (the blonde guy you probably saw in a post). In book 1 and season 1 + 2 Lestat's love Louis tells us how he experienced meeting him, getting turned into a vampire and then living with Lestat. A huge turning point is when there comes the tragically young vampire girl "Claudia" into the picture - she is in different ways very important to both of them and also a eternal memory of the author's daughter who died very young. Louis tells all of that to the reporter Daniel, who is recording it. Later on everything gets turned into a published book called (guess what) "Interview with the Vampire". 😄

Naturally the vampire community isn't very fond of people who are running around, telling the whole world about their existence. So this will be a upcoming problem to solve in the future season(s).

A person I have to mention too, is the vampire Armand, the former leader of the Parisian coven and a former lover of Lestat. I think in the series his part seems a bit changed, because now his relationship with Louis is much more visible. We see scheming, lying, gas lighting, anger and fear of loss issues, but also a sad backstory and a deep need to be loved.

In the upcoming season 3 the focus will be on book 2 "The Vampire Lestat" and maybe book 3 ("The Queen of the Damned"), where the point of view changes into Lestat's perspective. He gets his chance as a widely known rock star, publishes a book of his own (can you guess the title? 😂), meets very old and important people, and puts a few things right, which Louis said in his book.

Why would I recommend the books and the series: First of all because the writing itself is beautiful - the chosen language and the detailed descriptions of places and thoughts paint you a picture of the world the characters live in. Also don't expect a plot full of fast action, detailed sex scenes or joke after joke. It's not that. You come across questions about life, love, death, loss or your place in this world, and sometimes you need to look closely and think about things twice, before you can fully grasp the intention of a scene or chapter. But I like that - nowadays we are living in a time, where everything has to be fast and beautiful cinematic shots or descriptive things are not as important as before. Also with all the streaming platforms we are faced with a huge amount of series and movies, where everything needs to be evermore bigger, sexier or more brutal to survive. But in the case of the Vampire chronicles the fandom base is already there and pretty big, so they don't have to fight for every breath and are able to show us scenes, which are beautifully made, but with less action.

Secondly- the longer you read, the more you understand the characters and their decisions, which can be very complex or chaotic. Also it gets more and more apparent, that you can't trust just one perspective - you never know what the absolute truth is (if there is any, because everything is told from a wholly subjective view).

Thirdly: Anne Rice is an early example of writing about other sexual orientations than heterosexuality in a way that reached many people in quite a short time span (the 1st book was published 1976). This gets clearer and clearer in the later books and it's very interesting to see how the author is able to show you things without going into detail.

Fourthly: The cast and the producers are huge fans themselves, so they want to put as much of the books into the series as we do, which is great. For example they sometimes used the lines from the books word for word and if you know them it's beautiful to recognize them while watching :3

I hope this helps, thanks for your question! 🤗

[love-beyond-space-war]

hi requesting a washxreader short sorry where they're trying to keep their relationship a secret but fail miserably, could be set during freelancer or with the reds and blues. thank you!!

I felt it would be cute to write for new and young Washington for this. So have this short where you and Wash try to have a secret relationship (you're bad at it). Sorry if this wasn't what you wanted, I wasn't sure what to do, as a result I didn't really like how it came out? :(

Professionalism

Agent Washington x Reader (Project Freelancer Era)

Synopsis: It's not uncommon for those in Project Freelancer to be close friends or even see each other as siblings. However, when it comes to you and Agent Washington, you care for each other much more than that. You may both think no one knows... but in reality, nearly everyone does.

Content Warnings: Romantic Pairing, Gender-Neutral Reader/Male Character, Secret relationship, Poor attempts at secret affection, Kissing, Slight clingy behavior, You're just two cute love birds, Carolina x York mention.

Complex relationships were a common sight in Project Freelancer. Many agents had their own circle of friends, they have their own enemies, typical behavior expected of a private community.

Many saw others as friends. Many saw others as siblings. Many saw others as rivals. Although, very few saw each other romantically for the sake of professionalism or the fear of being attached.

That was the case between you and Wash.

How could you not fall for him? He may not be the best agent out there... but he's kind and compassionate. Naive, too.

You were drawn to him... he even felt the same towards you. The issue was keeping things secret. For the sake of professionalism you tried your best.

You often only showed more intimate affection in private. Even then it was just kissing or heartfelt conversation. You two even tried to sneak in affectionate gestures when no one was looking. It was your little guilty pleasure.

One you thought was quite secret... in reality, it was easy to tell.

Many close to either you or Wash could tell you had a close relationship towards each other. Constant meetings in private, hand holding, and the tendency to lean on one another was a dead give away. That and the fact the both of you looked so melancholy away from one another.

It was clear you were love birds.

Nearly everyone knew it.

It was actually nearly comedic to see you try to hide it. Wash, being the naive and innocent agent, often couldn't help going on and on about you when asked. Meanwhile you often went shy when Wash was brought up.

You were both capable of being serious soldiers in Project Freelancer. You knew when to cut things out if you had to. Just when you had down time... no one was blind to you two being gone.

Yet many knew York cared for Carolina in a similar way. It just so happens you and Wash are the other close pair in Project Freelancer. Usually it's no one's business.

Although there tends to be teasing.

York tends to tease Washington about his feelings towards you. Washington often tries to tell him to knock it off but York reassures him he's just teasing. Your friend group of agents tends to do the same thing.

At some point in your relationship you both know it's no longer secret. You still never dared to announce it or make affection more open. You still preferred to hide away and be with each other that way.

You liked it this way. Wash tended to be a more secretive person anyways. There was just something about being alone with one another in private that felt exhilarating.

Maybe it was because you were the only one able to see his face....

Being unable to see him in private at times ate at you. Even during training you found yourself drifting a hand across his back or around his thigh. That or you just find yourself drifting closer to him during training.

Truth is as much as you preferred to be secretive... it ate at you sometimes.

Washington did the same at times. Often drifting a hand to your waist or pulling you aside. In the beginning, no one really knew.

Then attempts to hide your feelings got sloppy. Many could assume if the observed the gentle touches and words you gave each other that you weren't friends. A fact that often got you reprimanded by your superiors and other agents.

In a way this was your form of young love, right?

In the end, maybe you didn't care. Secret or not you still adored each other. Even if it meant hiding away to show that. As long as The Director either doesn't know or tolerates it... you can keep things going.

"Love you, Wash...." You say softly, pressing your lips to his. You two decided a corner in the dorms was good enough privacy. Wash strokes your cheek before pulling away.

"This isn't very professional, is it?" Wash comments playfully. "We shouldn't be doing this."

"But I hate staying away from you and pretending I don't want to cling to you." You pout. "Sometimes I wish we didn't have to be so secretive... doesn't everyone know now?"

"Not their business." Washington sighs, kissing your cheek. "York teases me about it but he has his own feelings to tend to."

"Is it even a secret anymore?"

"We have to be professional." Washington warns, playfully pecking your neck to tease you. "Alright?"

"Fine. Only because I love you so much." You smile, kissing your boyfriends nose before allowing him to put his helmet back on along with yours. You then take time to just stand against each other before you had to meet the rest of the agents.

"Thought I'd find you here." A voice calls, making both of you freeze. North comes into view before crossing his arms at the scene. "York told me he suspected you'd both be here."

"North...." your voice appears mortified.

"Come on, guys. Nearly everyone suspects something. You're lucky it was I who found you like this." North teases. "You're needed for training. I won't say anything."

North then looks at Washington as you pull away from one another. You've already regained your composure and go to leave the room. Washington is about to follow you but North stops him.

"Wash." North calls.

"What?"

"I'm definitely telling York what I saw." North chuckles before quickly leaving the room.

"Don't you dare!" Washington yells after his friend before leaving the room to join the rest of you.

Secret or not... it's clear you mean a lot to one another.

[rawliverandgoronspice]

I absolutely love your analysis of the gerudo and Ganondorf because they put into words what bothers me about how TOTK portrays Ganondorf. That being they remove his agency as a character in favor of having some great evil against the good guys.

[Major story spoilers ahead for the end of the game]

At the end of the game, when you’ve defeated Ganondorf, he swallows the secret stone and becomes a dragon, like Zelda, fully knowing the consequences of what happens when that happens. And it’s just kinda left me with a bitter taste in my mouth? In the context of the story it makes sense, he’s portrayed as a egomaniac who just wants to destroy Hyrule. But compared to other versions of him, this one just feels more openly biased against him and the gerudo, with no reason or justification other than “he’s evil, hate him.” As far as I can tell… They never really show us that he’s done anything horrible or deserving of being feared before the show of fealty cutscene, other than not submit to Hyrule, attack them once, and generally have bad vibes. It feels forced how much they want us to hate him and the people who follow him. I’m not saying character in video games always have to be nuanced or complex but comparing like, Wind Waker Ganondorf next to TOTK Ganondorf…. 🙃 Waste of an excellent design imo.

Heyyy sorry for being a billion years late with this ask!! I was busy finishing the game!!! among other things!!! Thank you so much for your kind words, I'm super happy it resonated with you in that way!

I mean, the whole draconification plot beat doesn't really work for me. Like yeah, sure it's sad that Zelda is now a giant dragon and it's cool to have her soaring above your head while you have no idea where she actually is (a situation that isn't nearly tapped into enough in the narrative imo, like it gets obvious way too fast if you happen upon the wrong memory, etc), and I actually think the whole sequence of you removing the Master Sword from her head was the best scene in the entire game in terms of mood and emotions --even THOUGH it would have been so much better with a stronger story and stronger stakes-- BUT. How does that build up thematically?

I think what doesn't work for the Zelda side of this plot point (I'll get to Ganon next) is that... she doesn't make that choice. It's not like she's being tempted by an easy way out and decides to sacrifice herself for the sake of Hyrule or Link or whoever: she has no choice in the matter. Her powers activate (?? somehow? once and never again also, talk about dropped plot threads), she finds herself in the past, is the passive witness to a bunch of shit that only tangientially relates to her --it's like she's visiting estranged family in a foreign country and watch their drama awkwardly before being dragged into it against her will even though she was just trying to renew her passport and get back home (if there had been any callback to her relationship with her father it would have landed better, but it's just completely ignored so vOv). Then her relatives all die or corrupt or something, and she still can't get back home. What is she meant to do besides draconify? Grow old and die in the past? What would that accomplish?? Her adventures in the past are just basically about solving a shrine puzzle with a particularly weird solution --but the game treats it like a huge sacrifice when it's basically her only way out, and she lost absolutely nothing making that sacrifice (and then she... cries about the weird family drama? sure. Honestly I think it would have worked better if the tears were Rauru's, it's his bullshit everyone is dealing with right? He's the one who feels broken and aggrieved by the whole thing.)

So, if we ignore the draconification precedent builds up to zero thing thematically beyond cheap drama that reveals nothing about neither the characters nor the world, I think Ganondorf's case is a little more compelling because he does make a choice here: dying as he tries to achieve his weird lofty goals (and fail), or postpone his victory eternally by sacrificing his objectives but reject death and defeat --while also barring himself from victory. In a better crafted story, this could be utterly excellent and it feels very Ganondorf to me. BUT, my beef with that plot beat isn't that he chooses the second option, making him kinda active for the first time in the entire game (and makes an appropriate hideous smile: *loved* this second one, the first one didn't land for me but this one really captures the ecstatic insanity and transcendance and desperate madness of the act --I have nothing against Ganondorf offputting smiles and cackles when they feel earned, and the Sonia one just... doesn't to me, it just feels like weird rigging and mesh deformation choices getting out of control).

My problem is that his existence as a dragon contradicts everything we knew about dragons before --both for him and for Zelda. I thought the big issue with draconification was that you'd lose yourself to the act entirely, and would become this sort of organic landmark of infinite power and eternal life but without will to act on your precedent goals and understanding of yourself. But the second the big man becomes an evil dragon, suddenly Zelda zips in to the rescue (apparently remembering who you are? understanding she's meant to fight Ganondorf? I mean, this kind of works emotionally as a climactic ending and the power of love or whatever, again it would have worked better in a better story), and Ganondorf is still very much into destroying the world as well as you and Zelda.

Also, he's very definitively mortal (and he has the stone on his head again? And so if you destroy it you destroy his immortality? why???)

So... What I dislike here is the suggestion that he was somehow so evil and rotten and bad that all of these rare moments of interesting worldbuilding and ambivalence gets completely swallowed in the bossfight logic, making his choice (and Zelda's) completely meaningless in retrospect.

also: let Zelda remain a dragon you cowards, that way Hyrule gets any sort of chance to escape and reimagine its horrying eternal monarchy instead of re-establishing it even harder than before!!!

[luverofralts]

Arkhelios Adventures

Weeks had passed since Adam had last seen his boyfriend or visited the room where they'd been separated. So many times, Adam had walked down the hallway, intent on revisiting the room, only to chicken out at the last second. It was still too fresh to confront. No matter how much Adam wanted to be okay with what had happened, his brain just refused to move on.

But today was the day. Adam was going to go touch the crystal that he'd been working on when the incident happened. He wouldn't try to activate it or anything complex. Just touching it would be enough. Touching it would make the memories in his head go away permanently. It had to.

"Okay. You can do this. It's just a rock. It's just a room. Nothing bad will happen. Nothing bad will happen."

Adam took a hesitant step, but faltered. Entering the room would make it all real. It would mean that his life had changed, that Theo had been ripped away from him, that all the warnings adults had been throwing at him were real and could happen at any time. He could die at any time.

The doctors had told him repeatedly that he was lucky to be alive. Most people in his situation did die. The survival rate for what he'd been through was incredibly low. He was likely only alive because as Remy liked to point out, Theo had desperately tried to protect him from the demonic magic tearing through him. Adam never thought he'd hear his sister defend Theo and advocate for them to stay together. What she had seen that day must have been powerfully seared into her mind for her to be so adamant that Theo had done whatever he could to save him.

Adam wished that he could remember Theo helping him or anything else that might help him move on, but he couldn't recall much. Just the blinding pain and the feel of wings pass over his skin as he burned from the inside out.

Adam dropped to his knees, too overcome with fear to carry out his mission. He couldn't do it. It was too soon and he was too weak and the fear was too strong. What would happen now that Theo was gone? Could the crystal still be attuned to the nearly lethal energy it had absorbed weeks prior? What if he was injured again now that Theo wasn't around to help?

"Adam? Honey, are you alright? Have the headaches come back?"

Ewan Maricourt rushed to his son's side, only to be waved away by the teen. Truthfully, he'd been watching Adam from afar, waiting to see if his son was ready to confront what had happened. Seeing Adam try to enter the room had filled his father with hope that Adam was starting to heal emotionally from the accident. This set back didn't mean anything; the fact that Adam was willing to try was good enough for Ewan.

Adam sobbed, finally allowing his father to approach him. His pride didn't matter now that his brain was rebelling against doing the one thing Adam wanted it to. Who cared if anyone saw him crying with his dad? He couldn't even enter a stupid room.

"It's okay, you're safe," Ewan promised, pulling his son as close to him as he could. "You're doing so well and I couldn't be prouder of you. Things will change in time. You've got to give yourself both time and space to process your feelings. No one heals after just a couple of weeks. It takes time."

"Do...do you think I made a mistake dating Theo?" Adam asked, sobbing into his father's shirt. "I love him Dad, but-but"

"But you ignored the guidance of your elders," Ewan finished. "Us parents tell you things that you may not like, but they're usually from a place of experience. You'll understand it one day when you have children of your own. Do I like watching you disregard my advice and getting hurt in the process? Of course not, but I was once your age and I know, at least a little bit, how it feels to have young love. I'm not thrilled to hear how far your physical relationship with Theo has progressed or that you disregarded all warnings about blood magic and sex, but I understand. Your sister likes to tease me about my apparent inability to settle down with someone, but I was young once. I had boyfriends and girlfriends and one night stands. I dated people I thought I'd marry someday and lost them all. If you love this boy and you're meant to be together, then it will work out. I promised Evren that I would completely wipe this incident from my mind if Theo came back to us in control of himself and I intend to keep that promise. Granted, you won't be sharing a bedroom again in the future, but I will try my hardest to give Theo a second chance."

Adam's tears were slowing and Ewan slowly steered his son away from the crystal room.

"Of course, you don't have to keep dating him if you can't move past this. I support whatever decision you make. Take your time and rest, Adam. No one expects you to sort through all of this in an afternoon. Why don't you go to your room and take the afternoon off from class? You look tired."

Resting in the room he'd once shared with Theo seemed impossible. Theo's stuff was still there, as if he could come back at any minute. Evren had refused to pick up any of Theo's belongings despite Abe and Roman's wish to have them close to them while he was gone. Evren knew that the second Theo's things vanished, Edana would try to interfere and make it harder for Theo to return. Leaving his things in the room was a statement, one that declared that Theo would not be erased from the school. Theo was coming back to be reunited with his possessions, whether Edana liked it or not.

It was hard for Adam to concentrate in their shared room. Half of him wanted nothing more than for Theo to walk through that door right then, while the other half was afraid. The dull ache in his chest that had started the day Theo left was strongest in this room, surrounded by memories. It hurt to breathe with that ache weighing down his chest.

Adam closed his eyes, only to be startled when he opened them. Impossibly, another rip exposing the Void had opened, flashing maliciously in front of him.

"This isn't real. This isn't happening," Adam chanted to himself. "It's just a hallucination. If it was real, you could feel it. It's not real. It's not real."

Hallucinations were an unfortunate side effect of some of the medicinal potions he'd been prescribed to help him heal. It was yet another reason that Adam kept himself away from other people outside of class. There was always a chance that a hallucination could pop up at any time, exposing just how broken Adam had become.

"Hey, Adam. I've missed you."

To Adam's horror, an image of Theo appeared before him. Not Theo, but the Theo he last remembered seeing. A monster with golden eyes that were as piercing as they were haunting.

"No. No, you're not real. You're not Theo. Leave me alone."

The illusion shimmered slightly before it dissolved into a thousand pieces that disintegrated before Adam's eyes.

He may have been injured, but Adam still had his instincts. He knew how Theo felt in his arms, and no illusion could ever match that. The hallucinations were getting less frequent now that he had reduced the amount of potions he had to take. They weren't as strong as they had been when he'd first woken up after the incident. In those early days, Adam couldn't distinguish his mother from a nurse in the hospital and would frequently be found talking to someone only he could see. Edana had been livid at this and was sure to mention her feelings at every opportunity to staff. Remy told her twin that it was only through some smooth talking on their father's part that Edana had been allowed to stay.

Several people had asked about his connection to Theo, and Adam had lied to every one of them. It wasn't any of their business, even if they were treating him for a Theo related problem. If he closed his eyes and looked deep within himself, he could feel the familiar, but weak warmth of Theo's presence out there somewhere. It was too weak to glean anything about how Theo felt or where he was, but feeling the real Theo was helpful for identifying the hallucinations.

Eventually though, Theo would come back, and Adam needed to know how he felt about that before Theo walked in the front door.

Adam sighed heavily and climbed into his bed, trying to ignore the world around him. That was a problem for the future. For now, Adam was going to try to sleep, hoping that when he woke up, he'd be a step closer to figuring out what he was going to do about his boyfriend.

[knightofmordred]

i don't think ill ever understand why people call kara stubborn or say she refused to accept arthur's second chance because of her pride.

gonna sound like a broken record here because ive talked about this before but i just really don't understand how people struggle to see her side.

you think she wanted to die just because of her pride? or because she was too stubborn to accept forgiveness, which would have left her alive?

said it before, and ill say it again. to kara, arthur was a king who didn't change uther's ways. he didn't do much to help and protect magic users/druids. especially as they were still being hunted and persecuted.

kara accepting arthur's pardon wouldn't have changed anything other than she got to leave camelot with her life. yet she would leave with her life only to go back into a world who hunted her down. she, her loved ones, and all the other druids were left hiding in fear.

so was it pride/stubbornness or just her wanting to make a point that she was willing to die for her people's freedom?

and people say 'oh if only she wasn't stubborn she would have lived' but its like !!! that's the point !!! she didn't want to live in a world where she wasn't free. she didn't want to live in fear and have to hide who she was !!! she probably would have been killed eventually anyway so it's like why not make a point by defying the king.

and fans also saw 'she should have seen that arthur giving her a second chance shows he's different and is a good man' which yes it's true, after all he did nearly die, but at the same times being a good person isn't good enough when you're being persecuted. it isn't enough when there's no promise that you will remain safe alongside the rest of the druids.

i also see people say 'she should have used a different method' but i mean what else was she supposed to do? she wasn't about to sit down and talk to a king who to her couldn't give a toss about what her people went through. ive said this before as well but we as the viewers know arthur's feelings about magic and how complex it is. his inner circle/court know especially merlin etc. but people outside have NO clue how he feels, and how he wanted to change and be different to his father.

i don't think the writers thought too deeply about kara's storyline tbh but when you do look at it and think about it, i think the whole point is seeing another point of view. it's seeing how other people, especially druids, see arthur and how they feel about him as a king. its naturally an uncomfortable feeling because he's so beloved and of course we see his struggles and how in his heart he does want to be a good person but i think kara's perspective is also important in order to understand the impact he has on druids.

[pangtasias-atelier]

hope its alright if i make more than one suggestion after i suggested the sothe wg one, it'd be a fun one too if nailah meets volug later after hes been hanging with the dawn brigade and she sees that he has gotten fat as hell off daein cuisine.

I absolutely love Volug and I fucking adore how ridiculous he is when you translate his text absjnsjbdns. Also, Volug definitely is someone who'd get fat as and not give a about how big he is which hot

I hope you enjoy it cause I went a little crazy writing about his size since I felt was kind of lacking it recently lol

Warning: This is a fetish story!

“I know the rest of the way there,” Her words leave little room for argument. Not when dealing with the queen of Hatari, the wolf’s words and actions far more blunt than the honeyed words of beorc leaders. She neither bothers to stop or to look back at her former beorc guide as she walks deeper into what should be the complex building that is Daein Keep. 

As she walks further into the massive building, the scent that Nailah follows only grows stronger. Her target not bothering to run away, or come towards her as she’d expect from her loyal subordinate, she pays little attention to her trail. The other strange change besides his seeming eagerness to avoid her is the difference in scent. A simple trail that she could follow even with her eye closed, the scent is far more fragrant; the smell carries with it an abundance of other flavors and tastes. The aromatic trail also changes often. However, the main scent of her target is always at the very center of it all. But with the base unceasingly constant, actually following it is a triviality. So she instead focuses her one good eye on her surroundings. 

All manner of beorc walk throughout the keep. Each and every one of them with their own task, the individual laguz that passes by them is nothing more than a look of surprise or poorly hidden gasp by a few beorc. Yet, none even bother to stop or harass her. A hurried pace is the most action said few beorc take. “Their queen taught them better manners. Good for Micaiah,” Whispering to herself, her stoic face breaks into a small smile, the queen unable to help but feel proud of Micaiah becoming a capable leader despite her fears. 

It doesn’t take long for Nailah to reach her destination, the stop a surprise to herself with her target always on the move.

“Unfortunately it seems you lost your manners, Volug,” The only thing between Nailah and her subordinate now is the door to his room. Any other possible reason for him avoiding her is completely irrelevant when she can simply fight them. Before opening the door, she cracks her knuckles. And her neck. And every other limb she can, her face hardening as she shoves open the unlocked door and nearly tears it off its hinges. 

The round, portly face that stares at her with driblets of meat juice drizzling down his mouth quickly changes Nailah’s whole demeanor. 

Her subject right in front of her, Nailah gets an eyeful of just how fat Volug has become.

All of Volug’s lean musculature is completely gone. His once well cared for body is blanketed by a soft, pliable mound of lard that would make any stranger unable to accept that the pile of fat eating away could ever be so fit. Volug’s abs are no more; the shown off six pack is replaced by a distended gut, so big and flabby to the point where the mass of flab sags past Volug’s knees when standing. His gut is easily the largest aspect of Volug’s obese self. The tanned mound of flab is too big for him to even reach all around with his wide, flabby arms. Always going shirtless, showing off his gut is nothing new to Volug, the laguz used to stares at glances back when he weighed 500 pounds less than he currently does. Despite having already eaten his second serving of lunch, and currently snacking away on an entree sized platter of food, his stomach still rumbles. His gut is divided into sections now, so much fat framing his stomach that his love handle juts out far enough to be noticeably wider than his upper roll of stomach fat. Volug gut has little definition to it, the mass of flab only wishing to sag and take up the room it needs. His stomach presses against his thighs and sags dangerously close to the floor—Volug only around a hundred extra pounds away from accomplishing the feat—even as Volug sits in his cushiony couch made of velvet; the couch is unfortunately broken with the sturdy furniture not made with such a fat laguz in mind, or anyone with such an obscene weight at all. The legs of the couch still manage to withstand, but the very center of the couch is cracked, the wood split into two right where Volug’s hefty poundage sits and gorges. Volug’s thighs are forced to the side by his gut that spills forward; well, they’re forced as far as they can, his legs lacking much in the way of flexibility and mobility like the rest of his large self. Even Volug’s calves are much larger from his extra weight; the girthy limbs even make his feet seem smaller, the fat squishing down and practically encasing his ankles when Volug waddles around in search of more food. His thighs ooze out on both sides of him. 

Volug’s original attire already minimal in terms of fabric, he now needs far more to cover up his girth. The beige gray fabric of his fifth set of pants —all others torn apart as Volug simply grew as his gorging did—is incredibly thin. Daein well known for its more insulated materials, Volug’s clothes are made of thinner bolts of fabric to allow his massive thighs that are too wide for regular doorways some ability to breathe with Volug now being so fat that the country’s chillier climate still oftentimes leaves him warm from having to lug and carry around so much soft, warm lard. His chair crushing thighs are usually ovular from the amount of fat encasing each thick limb, but the two large thighs are pressed down like dough with him sitting. Volug’s ass suffers a similar issue as his legs. Unfortunately, his large rear is cramped against the backrest of the couch. Volug’s ass is now large enough to completely obscure an entire chair, not that any chair meant for a single person can handle his weight. His jutting backside presses against the couch. Every bit of Volug’s hefty ass is covered up by his pants. The red tarp of fabric shredded fabric that he has around his waist only barely comes past his ass with how much space it takes up now. His tail is much less fortunate, Volug’s long wolf tail is wedged in between each curvaceous cheek, the very base of it practically squished by so much lard. With how wide and how much room he occupies, the extra feature on Volug seems miniscule to the rest of him, especially with it barely being visible unless standing behind him. His ass is squished up against almost the entire width of the backrest with his ass and thighs taking up most of the room on the couch. A three seater can only comfortably fit one fat ass laguz on it. There is still a sliver of empty space on both sides of Volug, but the amount of space available is only enough for one person on each side to get stuck between the armrest and Volug’s thighs and then get smothered by the splaying flab of Volug’s gut and breasts. Volug endowed in his chest, it still holds true even as a superchub. His chest manages to hold a surprising amount of shape to them despite the amount of lard crammed into them. Both of his tits are larger than his head, the bottom curve of his two breasts grazing his sagging gut. His breasts still struggle from limited space with the rest of his body. Especially with how absolutely massive Volug’s arms are with so much fat surprisingly piling onto them. His biceps alone are larger than a beorc’s waist; the flabby barrels for arms are even comparable to the thick, sturdy frames of the larger beast laguz. The tattoos that line Volug’s arms are distended from the extra surface area that didn’t used to be there, each curve and straight line slightly bent with having to work with a larger canvas. Much like his legs’ knees, the flab of Volug’s arms sag onto his elbows, the limb far from flexible enough to do anything requiring precision. Even Volug’s forearm is large enough to be wider than even the strongest of laguz’s biceps, his arms well endowed when it comes to his girth. His wrists sink into the plush fat of his forearms. And attached to that are fat, lard filled hands that only focus on satisfying his cravings and hunger. At the very top of Volug’s corpulence is his fat, round face. Volug’s necklace easy to upsize, only extra string needed to widen it enough to fit around his circular tube for a neck. The jewelry makes it down far enough to where it rests in between his chest, the claws making up his necklace nestled in between his tits. Volug’s face is framed by his thick locks of black hair, the deeply colored, silky strands making his jowls for cheeks seem even larger as the tips of his hair brushes against the squirrel-like cheeks. And Volug’s ears rest atop his head; though the sign of his full blooded laguz self seems insignificant compared to how massively fat he’s become. 

“Do you need something, Your Majesty? I’m kind of busy,” Speaking in the ancient tongue, Volug only allows himself to momentarily interrupt his gorging to speak. Though a grin smears his face along with the bit of sauces from his binging. 

Nailah only continues to stare at the mound of fat in front of her. The scent clearly Volug’s, despite the addition of what she now understands is buffet amounts of food, the figure clearly Volug’s, even if his corpulence is now a far different look, and the voice clearly Volug’s, regardless of the even deeper voice that comes from such a large, hefty laguz, Nailah still digests the new information at the sight in front of her. 

It takes a massive belch from Volug to break her train of thoughts; her retainer is rather content with himself—his porcine face still adorned with a grin—as he does his best to look at her despite his own massive breasts in the way along with his table crushing stomach.

“You’re lucky I keep you for your abilities and not your manners,” Nailah smiles at him, her demeanor much less scary than when she expected insubordination. “Still, what’s your excuse for avoiding me for so long?” She stretches her hands, the sharp nails briefly transition between transformed claws as she awaits her answer.

For his part, Volug’s face betrays no fear or worry at Nailah’s tone. His fat face puts on the biggest frown that he can muster—and failing at that with so much flab in the way with his puffed out jowls—and responds. “I haven’t been. Do you think I could escape you if I were trying to run away?” He pats the lowest part of his gut that he can reach, the upper bit of flab that is his throw pillow sized love handle, as if to make his point.

And it does. Nailah stares at the way Volug’s corpulence wobbles from his own actions while still seated, the thought of him even moving with some amount of haste seems ridiculous. But it does give her some ideas that she saves for further thought later on. “Every time I get close to your scent, you move around because you smell my scent. And with how fat you are now, it feels deliberate,” Nailah stands a couple feet away from Volug’s face, which is right in front of his gut, and places her foot on the very bottom folds of flab of his gut. 

At the mention of her scent, Volug blushes. Surprisingly bashful, he considers his words for a few moments. “I couldn’t smell your scent. So much food around,”

Nailah whiffs the air and all she gets are the savory scentful of all the eaten meat and still remaining bits of food left. So close to everything now, the earthen, sandy scent that is Volug’s is completely unrecognizable, the distinct trail of her vassal muddled by an array of gourmet food assaulting her senses. The notion of her loyal subject intentionally avoiding her at such an obscene size becomes apparently ridiculous to Nailah. “Fine then. I’ll allow it. Besides, I only came to check up on you before I went to Serenes for Rafiel. Now tell me, how did you get so obese?” She asks the question without any sort of tact. Nailah glances at the littered plates of food, searching for any possible vegetarian dish in Volug’s immense diet.

“Good food,”

Nailah scoffs. “You’ve always been a glutton but you at least balanced how much you ate,”

The answer to Nailah’s question comes right through the door without a single knock or pause. “I brou-” Zihark shuts up as he sees himself interrupting the two. The lithe swordsman carries a tray filled with nothing but large entrees centered around meat for the obese, beef loving laguz. 

Volug still greedily devours the last chunks of turkey leg despite the sudden silence. "Hu-hungry… I want…," Volug still struggles to articulate himself in the Tellius language despite spending so long in Daein now. Though the laguz puts the bare minimum of effort into practicing the language when he devotes so much of his time eating whatever he pleases. And the bit that he does learn all centers around food like the rest of his life now, Volug able to name almost all the ingredients and dishes he eats. 

Zihark looks at Nailah before doing anything, able to still follow some decorum. "Forgive me, Queen Nailah, I didn't mean for Volug to get so…,"

"Fat," Nailah Finishes for Zihark. She smirks at the beorc's suddenly embarrassed demeanor, so many of the physically frailer species on such eggshells when confronted with more personal desires compared to Nailah and her laguz brethren. "Go feed him already. It's not like he has much ability to do so himself now. And your entire demeanor shows how much you want to,"

"With your permission then,"

"I'll see how much fatter you are next time I visit Daein," Nilah grabs Volug's right breast and inspects it; the meaty tit is larger than her own head as it envelops her hand.

"Goodbye, Your Majesty," Volug watches his queen leave. "Bring Rafiel with you next time," He allows himself a small chuckle before digging back into the pork ribs they Zihark gives him. The poor swordsman is unable to follow the conversation between the two laguz.

Nailah walks out with a simple wave of the back of her hand. Walking out the door, she gives a brief greeting to Nolan and Aran who also carry their own trays of food. "That explains Kisca and all the traveling," Nailah's curiosity sated, she heads over to her next destination, Serenes, to start practicing some ideas that her wonderfully obese subject has given her. 

"I'll make sure you and Rafiel are surprised when you see each other next," She muses to herself as she transforms into her wolf form and rushes to go see her far too thin husband.

[imposterogers]

hello, I don't know how serious you were when you said "someone needs to psychoanalyse Harry Osbourn" but ask and ye shall recieve? I am running on 4h of sleep, and just write my penultimate final so, like, this isn't the most consise or detailed but it does answer every rhetorical(?) question you posed. I'm explaining all the psych stuff assuming you don't have any orientation to the bullshit I'm about to spew, and I'm adding in links wherever explaining this will take too long so.... this is going to be a little pretty long.

Now, ideally psychoanalysis would be done via multiple hour long session (like nearly 20+) where the client just talks about their past memories, childhood, how they feel right now and what they think. Occasionally we throw in a dream or two, to see what their unconscious desires are. Essentially it’s very talk based, and in person is obviously the best. Since Harry is (a) fictional, and (b) not giving me enough screen time in the movie to just use the words he says, I'm not treating Harry like a client. Instead I'm just taking what we know about him and applying psychodynamic theories to him and treat him like a case study.

Now, I'm not actually sure how serious you were about the Psychoanalysing

We’re beginning with two main theories, 1. Freud’s Psychosexual Stages of Development: where the exploration of sexuality, formation of gender, it’s influences on self and the desires of a person are formed. 2. Erickson’s Psychosocial Stages of Development: which tells us what social needs were met, what weren’t, and how that influences personality/behaviour.

Note: Because it’s Freud and the late 1890s, sex and gender are the same and only the binary exists. Thus, this theory doesn’t look at gender, sexuality and is VERY outdated. These explanations are only used for heteronormativity, and homosexuality is considered a perversion from norm (which I’ll go into)

#1: Infancy to Toddler-hood:

My guess, due to Norman being abusive, cold, distant and uses money/luxury gifts to show his affection (if any), shit hits the fan from Stage 1 of the Psychosocial Stages: Trust vs Mistrust (0-Toddler age). At this stage it’s super important for a child to be around their primary care givers. Not having a primary care giver (parent, grand parent, nanny — someone who’s there with the child forming a deeply intimate bond) leave children with a sense of mistrust in the world. It make’s them prone to insecurity, and give the child unhealthy patterns of attachment, generally making them very “hope-less” (as in they are more likely to feel hopeless, isolated and alone and not just like... pathetic).

Assuming Emily Osborn died like a year after Harry was born, it's been somewhat implied she died due to post-pregnancy complications, Harry didn't have his mom around during the v imp phase. Norman is said to have really loved her and there’s a chance that after her death, Norman blamed Harry and treated him terribly. Either way, this means Harry grew up without the necessary bond post age 1, which has fundamentally fucked him and his perception of the world. Pair with this the entitelement that comes with wealth, and it's just truly too much.

#2: Toddler-hood to Childhood:

Now I’m going to the phallic stage (ages 3-5, toddler to child). This is from the psychosexual development, Freud’s theory. (Note: not the same theory as mentioned in the previous point). The middle stages in both theories are somewhat irrelevant to explain why Harry’s so.. that, but I can elaborate if you need it??

During the phallic stage, the idea is that the (cis)male child struggles with the Oedipus complex. He develops an attraction for the parent of the opposite sex, but is threatened by the parent of the same sex and thus begins to imitate the same sex parent to win the opposite sex parents affection.

So the son is attracted to the mother, but is threatened by the father (this specific fear in men is called castration anxiety for boys). Thus they imitate their father and his behaviour, hoping to receive affection from women who are like his mom. This obviously can influence the way he treats women.

Freud says neither heterosexuality nor homosexuality are innate, they are instead how we resolve our phallic stage — heterosexual is normal way to resolve it, and homosexual is to deviate from the norm. Now homosexuality could be a fixation of this stage — not resolving the conflict with his father and being heterosexual, will make him gay.

But I think he’s bi, so Harry associates with his father the way Freud expects children to, thus making him attracted to women as per normal (and also, this is why he identitfes as male, and doesn't have gender confusion). But he has unresolved his issues with Norman and wants his fathers affection and love. Both his parents are equally unattainable to him, one is dead the other is distant. Thus, Harry has to deviate from the norm on an unconscious level, and wants his fathers approval which he will get via the same resolution. This just means he loves and seeks approval from both men and women, which just like... makes him bi???? (keep in mind, sexuality and gender spectrum is the biggest limitation to Freud's theory

#3: Childhood

I’m skipping to the inferiority vs industry stage (ages 6-11) in the psychosocial stages where the child learns to either be industrious — confident, social, ambitious; or feels inferior.

I think Harry became industrious, he was taught to be strong and be the ruthlessly aggressive bully, and was also doing that because it was what got him his dad’s approval. He unlearns it, but it is also his nature, in a more innate way.

This stage in the psychosocial theory, starts right where the phallic stage in psychosexual ends. So, I’m guessing that Harry resolves his sexuality crisis via Freud, but his social needs of love, belonging and care are still up in the air, which he resolves via Erickson’s. This appeases his base consciousness, he has two problems, they are solved. It doesn’t matter if it’s healthy or not, he is literally 10. He does what worked for him, and associates with his fathers way again making him the confident bully that we see him as.

So now we come to Peter... what’s up with that?

Peter is smart like his father. His need for his fathers love is thus projected here. There’s a sort of transference, his need for approval from dad is not only found in Peter, but like Peter actually genuinely loves him too. Emily, his mother, no idea what she’s like but let’s she loved him unconditionally, and he probably felt safe around her — Peter evokes those same feelings in Harry. Thus, his means of resolving his gender and sexuality crisis during the phallic stage is coming back to bite him in the ass, via Peter. He’s like the mix between what he needed socially, love and acceptance; with what he desires, approval from his father who is a smart man

Why does he treat MJ like that? Because that’s how Norman shows love and affection to a person. Norman just spoilt this boy with his riches, and didn’t show an ounce of love or affection, and thus Harry assumes spoiling MJ is how he can show that he loves her.

Why is he dating MJ, the girl his best friend loves. Remember that bit about attraction to the opposite sex parent, so you associating with the same sex to win affection? Well. He’s doing that… but wrong. He is associate himself with what the object of his affection (Peter) is attracted to (MJ), in hopes that he will become like said object of attraction (like MJ), thus winning over (because Peter will now want him). I am not claiming that Harry is normal, or ok. I’m just saying, this is how you can explain it.

Why take Peter out on these not-dates? Same logic as point 2, it’s how he shows affection.

Why does Harry ask Peter to go hit on MJ? Denial. The defence mechanism of denial specifically

I can go on, but I will stop. PS. Also, you’re right. Not only is Harry in love, he subconsciously desires Peter? Like on a carnal level.

harry osborn has been psychoanalyzed

[presidentdisastraofgallifrey]

Rating Every Nu Who Episode: Season 6

A Christmas Carol: 9/10 this episode is so sad and sweet and hopeful and about how you have to live now because if you save life for later you'll never get to it.

The Impossible Astronaut: 6/10 and thus begins one of my least favorite arcs that could have been so interesting but isn't. Does get some points because seeing him die and then running into him immediately is funny.

Day of the Moon: 7/10 loses some points for the arc but as an episode is actually pretty fun. I like the Silence.

The Curse of the Black Spot: 8/10 this episode is fun and a nice break.

The Doctor's Wife: 5/10 I really wanted to like this episode, and it has some fun moments, but as a whole feels a little random and outside everything else.

The Rebel Flesh/The Almost People: 4/10 no. Just no. It might stand ok on it's own but as a lead up to anything is very not good.

A Good Man Goes to War: 0/10 one of my least favorite episodes ever. Suddenly Amy has been kidnapped for months, and now she has a baby, but it's not really here and also is River who was taken in by these people that will never be mentioned again but then also taken away by the Silence and raised specifically to kill the Doctor? Nope. River deserves a better backstory and more of her own life, as implied by being a professor and archaeologist. Even Amy deserves better than being reduced to being kidnapped for her baby.

Let's Kill Hitler: 2/10 this one gets a couple points for a lead up that might be interesting, but it is WAY too unlikely that River had all of the following happen in her childhood: (1) raised by a group of people who changed her name to match their language conventions (don't remember their name, sorry), (2) was raised by the silence to kill the Doctor, (3) was abandoned by the silence despite them still wanting the Doctor dead and nearly died on the streets, (4) spent the rest of her childhood somewhere near enough to Amy to be best friends and apparently living a normal enough life to have a best friend, and (5) by college back to being controlled by the Silence. Also absolutely every plot point except the tiny people in the assassin ship is awful.

Night Terrors: 6/10 I mostly like this one actually but there's a paradox that really bugs me: apparently George's anxiety is only triggered by overhearing his parents debate sending him away, but they were only discussing that in the first place because of issues that were apparently caused by said anxiety. Still a sweet story, but it bugs me.

The Girl Who Waited: 8/10 I like future!Amy SO much better than current Amy, but also feel like this is one of the only episodes where Amy really gets to be her own character at all.

The God Complex: 9/10 the worst fears thing is fun, I don't care how little sense it makes.

Closing Time: 8/10 this was a fun break. I like that he speaks baby.

The Wedding of River Song: 2/10 the points only being for the interesting all-history-at-once alternate universe. The plot is awful and I hate it and if their wedding isn't really a wedding but him giving her instructions (or something like that, it's been a while), then when did he tell her his name as previously established? It's the worst and I hate it.

Bonus Character Rating:

Eleven: 7/10 he's kinda fun.

Amy: 1/10 she's worse than last season.

Rory: 1/10 he's kind of just furniture.

River: 6/10 she's still fun but I feel like she lost a lot of agency and personality in this arc.