#is he BOTCHED ??? DID THE FUCK UP MAKING HIM ????? MADE HIM TOO EMOTIONAL ?????

[willowser]

no but you guys. taps mic is this thing on. android bakugou that is having a whole life crisis because he can't stop wanting to be around you. can't stop wanting to talk to you. can't stop wanting to see if you feel as soft as you look. can't stop wanting you—when he knows it's all made up in his head, it can't be real, he's literally not a human being how could he have feelings like this WHAT is happening to him.

[meownotgood]

steel kisses supernova. / machine herald!viktor x reader

A botched mission results in fixing the Machine Herald's mechanics, brushing your hands to wires, and indulging in the traces once left by emotion.  tags: 18+, reader is gender neutral + fem bodied, reader uses they/them pronouns, wireplay, inappropriate use of hextech, bonding through near death experiences, divine machinery, reader has a prosthetic arm, repairing the machine herald, fluff + angst, praise kink, sexual tension, fingering + clit stim, size difference, protecting you with their own body trope, yearning, good lord you guys need to stop yearning, mix of arcane + league lore, vik's anatomy isn't mentioned. (terms used for reader: cunt, clit, no mentions of chest anatomy, dear, sweetheart, spark, love, adorable) word count: 49.5k note: hey!! please keep in mind, this fic is unfortunately too long for tumblr due to the word count + tumblr's post block limit... so you'll be able to read the first part of the fic here! the full fic is available in its entirety on ao3. apologies for the inconvenience, and happy (late) year of fucking robots... read on ao3

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The deepest fissures in the depths of Zaun are usually, thankfully quiet. Perfect to hide something you'd expect not to be found. 

You breathe deep puffs of simulated air through your gas mask. Your ear presses to the cold steel door, sealing off the entrance to the Chem-Baron vault. There shouldn't be anyone present, not at this time. Enforcers know little of the darkest labyrinths of Zaun. It's too risky to even have guards stationed here. Predictably, you're met with total, resounding silence — save for the echoing beep and ping of Viktor's self-made sonar device. 

Lowering onto your knees, leaving yourself eye-level with the door's intricate set of five locks, you cast one more glance towards him. Viktor — the Machine Herald — completely towers over you, especially from this position. 

It makes the back of your neck prickle on impulse. The two of you hardly resemble partners. Creator and creation, more like. One another's opposite image. A bright purpose for sets of technical, controlled executions. A fragile, too-emotional human, and a composed, powerful machine. 

As though his complex steel form, an expression of the limits of his work and technology, was made to be admired. 

Some people do. They come to him when they need him; just as you once did, ages ago. They worship him like a deity. Perhaps you're starting to see why. 

Viktor hardly resembles the man you remember. And yet, there's a certain thrum to him. Mechanical beats and impulses. Familiar gear and hardware that delightfully push the boundaries of science. Vibrant, intricate, self-built components that demand your curiosity. 

The Machine Herald captivates you, just as strongly as Viktor once did. 

Viktor's mask voids him of expression. His orange, glowing eyes are the only light to illuminate the room. Still, there's urgency to the way he moves, stepping closer. His cape billows in the chamber's low draft, his iron boots clank when they hit the ground. His thumb flicks a thick button on the side of the sonar device. 

The third arm jutting out from his shoulders tremors, before it comes to life. It scans the door with a bright red sensor, then twitches, shuts off. The sonar reader chimes approvingly in response. 

Viktor gives you a nod. His gaze runs hot and intense, enough to burn right through you. 

"The Hextech crystals are here. The device is picking up several readings," He discerns, modulated voice rumbling evenly. "If we are fortunate, we might return all of them." 

You pull your gas mask from your face. It hangs loosely from your neck. The vault's thick, partially-filtered air hits your lungs hard. One deep breath in feels like you've filled your chest with half clouds, half sawdust. 

You're trying your best to focus, examining the locks with your eyes squinted, when a gentle, yet firm hand places onto your shoulder. 

"Do not rush," Viktor instructs. "We have time. This should be handled as quietly and discreetly as possible." 

Artificial heat bleeds from his touch. Sparks of warmth, like black holes and galaxies, expand and implode beneath your skin. There's a sense of loss, when he carefully pulls his hand away. Allowing the cold to seep back in. 

Your jaw clenches. Finally, you turn towards your metal arm. 

The edges are smooth and shiny, recently welded. It's second nature to test the flexing of your fingers, even though you can't feel them; the metal creaks, but holds, gears turning, rigid platings twisting. Intricate patterns, in deep shades of silver and amber, line the frame. Fused together with a powerful ray of heat. A clear sign of his handiwork. 

Recalling Viktor's instructions, you find a small notch on the underside. Press here, then pull this panel open. A thin lockpicking tool emerges from your palm, easily held between your steel-jointed fingers. Fit with its own handy flashlight. 

It helps illuminate your work as you start on the first lock. 

"How long do you think it'll take before they notice?" You're asking. Swearing to yourself, when the lockpick meets some resistance. 

Viktor fiddles with the sonar device. "They will eventually. The crystals are nothing more than a bargaining chip. In all probability, once they attempt to sell them back to Piltover- Well, they will be in for an unpleasant surprise." 

"We're making enemies of top and bottom side, then." 

Viktor answers, "As anticipated." 

It certainly wouldn't be the first time. This is all deathly familiar — working beside the Machine Herald, stealing tech to help those in Zaun. Though, this mission has been easy, in comparison. Perhaps a bit too easy. Your first tango with Zaun's upper echelon should've posed more of a challenge. All the crystals are right here, in an unguarded vault. No strings attached. 

Viktor's boot taps against the ground to an impatient rhythm. So, you aren't the only one on edge. 

You try to make conversation. "Thought about what you're gonna say to Miss Glasc?" 

Rummaging through a Chem-Baron's property is one thing, certainly a dance with danger. Messing with Renata Glasc would be like prancing underneath a guillotine. She's influential, cunning, her connections nearly as bountiful as the coin that lines her pockets — and she's Viktor's benefactor, most pressingly. An important supplier of sheet metal, hardware, and painkillers. 

"Glasc possesses no knowledge of this place. It is beyond her territory. Nevertheless, our alliance is not so easily relinquished, considering the rate of mutual benefit." 

You put on your best faux, overly fancy voice. "We're her most beloved pawns, after all." 

Viktor expels an amused huff in agreement. 

The first lock ticks. When you move on to the second, it pops open around your lockpick in one smooth, simple movement. 

You scoff, clicking your tongue, "As rich as these people are, you'd think they'd have a better security system." 

"Our work here is not yet complete," Viktor replies, firmly and mechanically. He closes the sonar device, and he kneels down to hand it off to you. With your hands full, you're reaching around awkwardly, breathing an annoyed huff as you stuff it back into your pocket. "We still need to wipe the security cameras, and dispose of the thermal detectors." 

"We?" The third lock clicks. "Pretty sure that's just my job." 

"It is." 

You throw him a quick, indignant glance. The fourth lock clicks open harshly, as you hastily jam your lockpick past the threshold. 

"Almost done," You're mumbling, mostly to yourself. 

"Excellent work," Viktor practically purrs, praise reverberating through his voice filter. "The new lockpick functions for you naturally, I see. We will be finished here soon." 

Your spine tingles, like there's a lightning storm underneath your skin. Your heart pounds. It threatens to throw your composure off-kilter. To be praised by the feared, indecipherable Machine Herald is a wonderful, thrilling, head-rushing thing. 

But you've stopped working on the last lock. The end of your lockpick taps the door idly, to no rhythm in particular. 

Viktor notices. 

"I thought I would provide you with some motivation. But here you are. Pouting, as expected." 

A steel palm glides up from the small of your back, leading to your shoulder as he stands upright. 

"First," Viktor explains, "I will obtain the crystals. Then, you will head to the security room, and I will stand guard in the event we are ambushed. We already discussed our plan. Have you forgotten?" 

Your eyes roll. He says it like a taunt — you should try to remember, because he doesn't plan on reminding you twice. Although, in truth, there's little force behind the words. There never is, not when it comes to you. 

"Actually, I remember being promised a reward in my future." You glance up at him, gaze playful, star-like. The lockpick twirls around your metal fingers. "Y'know, for all my hard work. I'm sure you haven't forgotten about that, right?" 

Viktor hardly falters. "Once we return to the lab, we can discuss." 

"Hm." You stare blankly at the last lock. Dramatically squinting your eyes, tapping your index to your chin. "I think my lockpick is broken." 

Viktor grumbles, "You are ridiculous." 

Your shoulders shrug. "Just clarifying our terms." 

It's rhythmic — the way you instantly return to your work, turning away to hide your shit-eating grin. Your partner falls silent, for long enough to let the tension build. Metal creaks and scrapes together when his fingers clench. Either way, you're going to get what you want. You're certain. The push and pull between you always ends in your favor. It has to, because there is one exception to his rule. One weakness, amongst his perfected layers of inhuman machinery. An unacknowledged line connecting you and the Machine Herald. 

If it were anyone else, if Viktor was made of less flesh and more machine, he might've attempted to circumvent this, to remove the aspects he deemed distractions, but you — 

Viktor sighs, hard enough to push steam out from the edges of his mask. 

"When we return, anything you desire from the lab is yours. Or I will add another modification onto your arm, if you prefer." His steel hand returns to your shoulder, this time giving you an authoritative squeeze. "Now, focus. First, the Hextech crystals. Then, the security system must be dismantled. Deciding will come later." 

Anything you want. 

The smirk on your face must make you look stupid, but you're having a difficult time holding it back. Continue to play your cards right, and one of those crystals might be yours. 

"Alright, V." A single turn of your lockpick clicks open the final lock. You rise to your feet, and the lockpicking module folds back into your arm with a simple button press. "I'll get it done, yeah?" 

Viktor approaches the door. You swiftly step aside. 

"Good." 

The vault is small. The metal door opens with a loud, grating creak. A flickering overhead light turns on automatically, revealing walls decorated by various rudimentary weapons, and tables littered with blueprints. Canisters of shimmer are stacked neatly in a corner. Unfinished machinery parts collect in piles on the floor. Resting atop a table in the far-right corner, graciously reflecting the light, you spot your target — a glass case, with a set of Hex Crystals suspended inside. 

You stride in. Viktor grabs his staff, still leant up against the wall, and he follows you into the vault. 

Your hands clasp together and rest behind your head. You glance around, examining the entirety of the room. A large blueprint is pinned to the wall; stolen, most likely, as it's signed with various Piltover clan symbols. It seems to detail a process to make similar crystals artificially. There's no cameras on the ceiling, or in any of the four corners. You lightly kick one of the piled-up automatons with your foot. The springs in its center make a dull popping noise. A clear sign that they're entirely broken. 

"Wish you'd be a little nicer, though," You're humming, musing idly. You kneel down, sifting through the pile of components on the ground. A chipped gear, a loose screw, a broken lever. Why would a Chem-Baron vault be filled with useless, rusty parts? "You said it's a psychological thing, right? When humans are influenced by their emotions. Positive reinforcement, I guess." 

Beep, beep, beep. 

You rise to your feet, and Viktor answers from behind you. Voice dangerously close to your ear. Low and stern enough to make you tense. "Don't move." 

Unfortunately, you're not listening. You spin around to face him, arms crossed in front of you. Your fingertips toy with a loose wire on the panelling of your forearm. Viktor is twice as imposing when he's close; he towers over you, with your head barely coming up to his metal chest. Glowing eyes meet yours, and although it's usually impossible to determine what he's thinking, you can instantly tell something is wrong. 

He glances to either side of the room. His fingers drum against his staff quickly, almost nervously. 

Both arms fall loose at your sides. "I'm teasing, Viktor-" 

"Do not speak," Viktor snaps, his tone controlled. He grabs your shoulder, hard enough to nearly make your weak legs stumble. "And don't move." 

Beep, beep, beep. 

Oh. Prevailing over the silence is an unmistakable noise, getting louder, getting faster — 

Fuck. You're freezing up, as still as a fancy Piltovan statue. Your hands start to shake, and now you're chipping, threatening to crumble. Sweat beads at your forehead and the back of your neck, trickling down like sharp ice shards. You're both screwed. 

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep. 

Valves fall open; a loud hissing sound cuts through the air like a blade, as the room quickly fills with billows of smoke and sharp gasoline. Burning your eyes, choking your lungs. 

Viktor's staff hits the ground with a clatter. He grabs you, pulls you into his chest before the fear in your mind has caught up with your body. Your breath catches, your vision blurs, your ears ring — and all at once, the vault crumbles into destruction, blown to bits in the wake of a deafeningly loud explosion. 

— 

"Hold still. Is there one single instruction that is not immediately lost on you?" 

"I'm trying, Vik. Geez." 

Viktor presses an old cloth to a long scrape on your forehead, fabric ripped and dirty with oil stains. The disinfectant stings your skin lightly. You try your best not to flinch away. Your stool creaks when you awkwardly shuffle back and forth, digging your nails into your leg, and Viktor's scrapes the concrete ground when he shifts closer. A cold metal hand tilts up your chin, holds you firmly in place. He brushes the rag over your jaw, next. Meticulous, as he cleans the faint scrapes left by glass fragments, and so, so gentle. Your heart twists inside your chest, grinds and sings like a music box wound up too quickly. 

You force your breathing to steady. Your eyes stare into where his would be. Soft and golden, honey-drenched suns. The light of his pupils burns when you look at them too long. The artificial glow behind his mask carries amber-hued traces of what you remember, but he's utterly unreadable. Would he be looking at you with annoyance? Disdain? Guilt? 

Another corner of the rag is brought to your neck, and you roll your sore shoulders back. Trying to find a distraction, your gaze trails to the table behind him. 

Stray parts are scattered about. There's scalpels, messy rolls of bandages. Tools are sorted into piles: various wrenches, different sizes of pliers. In tonight's chaos, a few screwdrivers have rolled onto the ground already. 

And at the edge of the table rests a small glass case. The lid cracked, the surface charred. Each Hex Crystal remains suspended inside. Completely, tauntingly unharmed. 

Emberflit Alley is quiet and secluded, especially once night has fallen. Viktor's lab hums to its own familiar, comforting rhythm. It allows you to finally breathe again. 

Experiments you've been working on together litter every flat surface. Breathing devices, prosthetic outlines. A prototype hand takes up its own corner of his desk, parts separated neatly. There's a makeshift bed by the door, surrounded with discarded cans, left by the stray cat you both have been feeding. A couch rests in the room's corner, cracked leather showing its age. Stacks of your clothing pile up on the arm, neatly folded. You're sure you'd last left them in a heap on the floor. 

The adjacent end table houses an ashtray, littered with your smokes. Coffee stains burned into the wood form halos around your chrome lighter. 

(Viktor made it ages ago, to replace the ones you kept losing. It never leaves your pocket. Your thumb likes to trace over the jagged, uneven edges, welded from scrap material. You flick the sparking gear until there's a flame. Molten and warm, reminiscent of his heat — over and over again.) 

Finally, Viktor leans back, satisfied. He turns in his stool, tossing the rag onto the table. He sifts through his tools for a moment, metal clanking together, before he turns back to you, wrench in hand. 

"Your arm." Viktor instructs simply, holding out his gloved hand; and you're quick to extend it for him, allowing him to grasp and examine the broken gaps between your forearm's metal platings. 

The memory of the evening's events flicker dimly through your mind. You both were lucky, all things considered. 

You fucked up, must've tripped something. The vault shook, a bomb went off, and everything was a blur from there. A mix of hazy sensations. Ears ringing. Head throbbing. Rubble pinning you into place. Thick fumes choking you, burning in your chest, making your eyes water. Suffocating the cramped vault and mixing with the heavy air of the fissures. Pressure assigns itself a stronger definition. Its force pushes between your ribs, as though it hopes to split them open. 

Viktor's greys and oranges took on a watercolor swirl in your teary vision. He pressed your gas mask to your face until you were breathing again. He helped you to your feet, carried you when you were starting to fade in and out — 

Right. Viktor shielded you. He purposefully pressed you beneath him with seconds to spare, to ensure most of the rubble would damage him, instead. 

His chassis was mostly unscathed; the advantages of steel, you suppose. 

Your arm is busted, undoing all of Viktor's recent enhancements. Your lungs still ache. Your body hurts. The sort of hurt that crests like a fully-encompassing wave, the form of hurt you can't name. Not a this is sore here, or a this is injured there. 

It hardly matters, in the grand scheme of things. 

If the explosion damaged the canisters and blew through the shimmer, if it reached the crystals and sparked a chain reaction, the decimation would have been unrecognizable, you're sure. 

A dangerous chill laces up your spine. It taps you on the shoulder, reminds you of the risks. Viktor adjusts the crooked lockpick-panel on your palm. He holds your hand in place when your fingers start to twitch. 

You're alright, though. Alive. The realization perplexes you. It makes your chest ache, the memory a tender blade, pressing deep. 

Viktor saved you. And for the faint, blurry moments in between, it felt warm, to be held in his arms. It felt safe. 

This feels safe, familiar — Viktor skillfully glides his gloved hand down your forearm, examining where the frame has buckled in on itself. Metal components have been warped by heat. The outer armor is digging into the steel skeleton, blocking several axles and hinges. 

He reaches behind him, exchanging his wrench for pliers. You're watching him think as his fingertip taps your arm rhythmically. You can practically hear the vibrations of his memorized voice, echoing through your mind. The skeleton is unaffected, but the outer shell has been decimated. Most functions are rendered inoperable. Additional augments can be repaired in time. For now, returning function to the joints is the primary objective. 

It is a simple adjustment. You are in good hands. As you always are. 

Viktor has no problem with wordlessness. But matters between the two of you rarely get this silent. 

He holds your arm in a tight, unmoving grip. Pliers in hand, he works on bending each plating back into place. 

It reminds you of the past, pleasant and persistent. Viktor's been working to improve your prosthetic since you met. When the line between you sealed into a knot. When tension brought you together, two ships on stormy seas, and you decided to turn your sails and bond over the shared struggles you had to overcome — your arm, Viktor's leg. Piltover was less of a grave, and more of a home, then. 

Weakness, experimentation, and danger followed Viktor as a second shadow. Ultimately, it only made sense to rush after him. No matter where he returned to, no matter what he was slated to become. 

Without Viktor, you might find yourself flexing your handmade fingers, staring at the piece of him you're doomed to carry with you. A reminder of the half to your whole. Like the connection between gears. Like what the hammer is to the nail. Bright light to a systematic solar panel, crisp air to weak lungs. A hacksaw to fragile flesh. Inseparable. 

Viktor finishes adjusting the armor on that very same arm, and he begins to reach for your shoulder. His glove brushes your skin. Gentle, but you swiftly realize it's meant to be a distraction, reassurance. Crooked screws dig into the separation between your shoulder and your arm; Viktor tightens them carefully, and you wince, tensing up. 

Low and soft, Viktor's words crunch through his partially-damaged voice filter. "Tell me if I am hurting you." 

"No, no," You're answering, shaking your head. "I'm fine. Just a little sore." 

You shut your eyes. Viktor tightens the last screw. Fuzzy stars blanket your eyelids once they flutter open. 

His Hexclaw reaches behind him, handing him another tool. Ever-so careful, he examines a dainty set of wires leading through your forearm. He pushes them aside, attempting to reach a line of broken pistons set into your wrist. 

Metal clinks against metal. The lab hums quietly, jars bubbling, vents thrumming. 

"I cannot believe you waltzed right in." 

Oh. Viktor shatters the silence — and your placidity, along with it. 

"We're gonna start with this now?" You're huffing; the steel tip of your boot taps the floor anxiously. 

Viktor stops. He tips his head up, glowing eyes with rings of circular, mechanical pupils glancing at you. Expectant, intimidating. 

Your entire body weakens when you sigh, jostling your arm, making him hold you tighter to keep you still. The firm grip he has on your forearm's frame screams annoyed. 

"How the hell was I supposed to know they had the place tripped?" You argue, "And weren't you supposed to detect it? With that device, like you did with the cameras?" 

"Thermal cameras give off a unique heat signature, which the device was tailored to analyze," Viktor explains evenly. The end of his multi-tool extends to reveal small tweezers, which he uses to delicately remove specs of rubble from the joints in your wrist. "The Hextech crystals, as well. The energy they radiate is relatively equivalent. Failing to detect the tripwire indicates a clear error of design. It will be adjusted for our next mission. Now, your wrist. Test how it functions." 

Viktor sits back, and you twist your wrist in either direction. The joints swivel smoothly, and the modified pistons hold firm when you clench your hand. 

"Perfect. This will suffice," He concludes, with the familiar air of pride he always regards for his creations. Grasping your forearm once more, he returns to working on its inner mechanisms. 

"We needed those crystals, Vik," You're continuing. Fiery gaze fixated on him, even though he's focused on his work. "Our current procedures aren't cutting it anymore, and you know that better than anyone. Hextech has the potential to save so many people. I'm not like you. I can't just… sit around and calculate every possible outcome before I make a move. We can never make progress without taking-" 

"Risks only serve as obstacles when they threaten permanent consequences. Progress is not linear. It comes to those who are patient enough to know when they should further it." 

Viktor compares a few different sized gears in his palm, eventually choosing the smallest one. It fits perfectly into the juncture of mechanics just below your wrist. 

He glances up at you once. Then, he calmly returns to adjusting your arm. "Impulsivity will get us nowhere." 

You groan, tossing your head back. 

"They tripped a vault. With explosives." You're gazing at the ceiling, focused on the large, Machine Herald shaped shadow Viktor casts as he works. "Why even store the crystals there if you're just going to blow them up the moment someone nabs them? It doesn't make sense." 

"This was not about the crystals. They are sending a message. The Chem-Barons will not hesitate to dispose of us, if we continue to cross them." 

The pieces click into place, in hindsight. Voices flit through your memory. Takeda's shimmer-drunk drawl as he leans back in his leather seat and counts his coin. Make sure you tell your tin-can he still owes me. Veraza's cold tone as she crushes a purple petal between her fingers, the thick air of her greenhouse planting roots inside your lungs. Careful, now. The other Chem-Barons believe you are pulling at your leash much too tightly. Do not let them break your neck. 

Ah, the crystals were bait. An expensive trade-off. And the vault simply housed the things they were trying to get rid of. Unauthorized weapons. Stolen shimmer. You, and the Machine Herald. 

Physical pieces slot where they're supposed to, as well, when Viktor finishes adjusting the chain of gears that line your steel skeleton. This was the easy part. He rolls his shoulders back in frustration, as he attempts to adjust some warped, particularly stubborn strips of framework. 

"But this discussion is about you," Viktor grits, as though the words are spoken between bared canines. "What in the world could you have possibly been thinking? Or were you failing to think at all?" 

Your eyes roll. "You know what? I don't even want to get into it." 

"We are not getting into anything. It is a simple conversation," Viktor swears under his breath. He pulls and pulls at the thin cylinder but the broken metal won't give. "And I believe you should contribute." 

"I think it's best if we don't talk about it. We're both stressed, and just-" 

"I disagree." 

"I'm fucking tired, Vik," You're huffing, free arm rubbing the sore nape of your neck in emphasis. "My whole body hurts. Sorry if I'm not thrilled to sit here and listen to you scold me, because somehow, this is all my fault." 

Viktor rebuttals, "You are missing the point." 

"Oh, I think I understand it perfectly." 

"I am merely asking you to consider your actions." Viktor pulls at the last broken strip hard. It snaps, and he tosses it onto the table behind him with an equal display of impatience. "From now on, precautions must be put into place. Especially in situations involving the Chem-Barons. And you must promise me, if we find ourselves in a comparable situation, for once, you will listen." 

"Fine." 

You're yanking your arm away the moment he finishes closing the platings. You examine it quickly, front and back, flexing your fingers. Some sections are still chipped, but it'll do. Clear, delicate care has been put into the intricate assembly of each division, each joint, to ensure movement is as comfortable and responsive as possible. Viktor's work is always articulate, but doubly so, when it comes to you. 

His adjustments have already taken considerable weight off your shoulder. Surges of warmth kindle faint flames in your chest — but you're sighing, arms crossing, brows pinching. 

"Next time, I'll stay here. Keep the place warm, since it's all I'm good at." 

"I did not-" Viktor weakens in the wake of a sigh, as if the air is shuddering through his makeshift lungs. "I apologize, I should not have made it seem as if I was blaming you-" 

"No," You interrupt. Teeth gritted. "I'm tired of feeling like all I do is get in your way." 

You know you're being unreasonable, but you hardly care. The words simply tumble out, like they've been toppled from the knots in your mind. You glance down. Your fingertips fiddle with a line of screws embedded into your forearm. 

Whatever rebuttal Viktor was planning dies as quickly as a blossom in a snowstorm. He drops forwards; his fingers lace, he rests his forehead against them. Tension buds in his body like you've never seen before. Finally, he runs a hand through his hair, and he sits up. 

His voice fizzles with heavy, husky, insuppressible static. 

"I could have lost you. That is what you do not understand." 

Your spine tingles. As though it's laced in gold. You can feel the pull of guilt and tenderness — like gravity, in your heart, in your chest, in your flesh. The words must flicker differently through a mostly mechanical system, if they mean anything to him at all. 

You stand slowly, kicking your stool away half-heartedly. 

He's grabbing your wrist before you can get far. Your real wrist. He holds you there, hesitant. (The changing of seasons rarely reaches the depths of Zaun; you're gradually beginning to forget what they're like.) But Gods, Viktor's steel touch feels the same as the heat of summer, artificial warmth resembling basking in sun rays, dipping your wrist into candle wax. And yet, at the same time, it reminds you of the frigid chill of winter. Cool metal reminiscent of the sharpness of ice. 

"Lay down," Viktor instructs, as though he plans to give you little choice in the matter. "It is late. You should rest." 

Perhaps you truly do have a problem with listening. 

Because even as Viktor is speaking, your gaze is travelling across him, eyes narrowing as they catch downwards. Your partner hates asking for assistance, but you're used to reciprocity — to completing something for him, in exchange for what he does for you. To further the cycle of fixing and repairing. Little losses and small victories, strung between the fate of you, and the Machine Herald. 

Viktor's hand slips from your wrist. He follows your line of sight, and there's a look in your gaze he's long since come to recognize. Pure persistence. 

Your palm reaches out to him, makes a grabbing motion. "Screwdriver." 

Viktor drums his steel fingers against his iron thigh, making metal rhythmically clink against metal. Your stubborn nature is a stake, driving into him intimately. Like it never really left. 

Leaning his elbow on the desk, he reaches behind him, to hand you the particular screwdriver he knows you'll need. Flat-tipped, handle weighty. A light smile paints satisfaction across your expression. He continues to keep his gaze on you as you're sliding down — your frame appears small, when compared to his, simply because you're only human; this state amplifies the difference between your mortal form, and his large, metal chassis. Eventually, you're settling on your knees in front of him. 

The column of his leg is busted. It's functional, sure, but a few of the plates were crushed under rubble, the brace-like mechanism has springs loose and cogs twisted. Everything might crack, under the strain of continued usage. 

For now, you can fix the platings. You've done it before. On his arms, a few times. On his back, once. You'll reinforce the gears and tighten the framework back into place, to keep it stable, until he has the time to make a full replacement. 

You decide to start with his ankle, and work your way up. You're lifting his heavy leg, exhaling a weary breath as you place it close to your lap. The end of your screwdriver finds the seam on the back of his calf, screws crooked and stripped. Your jaw grits. You forcibly push the steel back into place, tightening each screw as far as it'll go. 

(And you're aware this is stupidly reminiscent of a lifetime before, although Viktor is twice as metal, and half as human. Emotions and sentiment are among the many things he swore he discarded.) Yet, he's leaning back. Relaxing, almost. Giving in to you, to this. 

Unable to sit still for long, Viktor twists. He finds the two broken halves of his staff, resting them in his lap, pressing them together. The Hexclaw twitches, before its laser hums. He begins to expertly weld both halves together. 

After a while, you're breaking the silence. "Vik?" 

Viktor doesn't look up. He examines the end of his staff, fiddles with a few wires and jacks. It's still out of power, predictably. 

"Yes?" 

"Back then, when the bomb went off." Your fingers trail his knee, admiring the smooth, solid structure. "You tried to protect me. Why?" 

"I thought you did not want to talk about this." 

You breathe a slight tch. "Just answer me." 

You're glancing up at him, but Viktor is pointedly not looking at you. His Hexclaw curls behind him to set his staff on the table, and to grab another part. In tandem, he's reaching for his throat, pulling its front panel open. 

He tilts his head back. Thumbs through the wires and exposed circuitry to yank a small part free, so hastily it seems like it'd hurt. He shoves the new voice box inside, until it clicks into place. Viktor rolls his neck once the panel is shut. 

"The explosion was inclined to originate from the entrance, perhaps aiming to trap us inside," He explains, voice strikingly clear, this time. "As soon as it convened on the shimmer or the crystals, the entire room would be set ablaze. Fortunately, it did not. It was a poor plan. But, regardless of their failures, you are… not suited to withstand such conditions. The only option was to use my construction as a shield." 

Your chest splits with an arrow-shot ache, because you know he's fucking right. If Viktor wasn't there, or if the fire had spread just a little more; if you weren't standing so close to him, or if your gas mask had broken, or if anything had changed — 

You swallow hard enough to make your eardrums prickle, and you busy yourself with fixing the drilled-in brace, just above his knee. 

"I guess that makes sense." 

"And our mission was a success," Viktor reasons. "Was it not?" 

"We got the crystals. But-" Your grip tightens on the screwdriver's handle. You breathe a long sigh, heavy enough to make your lungs hurt. "I'm sorry. For snapping at you, for acting like an idiot, for everything. I should've known it was a setup. The stupid vault was filled with junk. And I was standing so close to those shimmer canisters, I could've-" 

Your head shakes; your breath does, too. "Nevermind." 

Viktor's gloved hand grasps his gauntlet, where the power source feeds energy into his palm. You swear you catch his fingers trembling just slightly, as he deftly pulls the panelwork apart. 

"My body will not take long to fix," He replies. Metal fingers clenching individually, while he prods deep into his own arm. "If that is your concern." 

Your palm glides up his thigh slowly, exploring every dip and notch in the shape. Firm steel curves under your fingers. Beckoningly smooth. "I know. I want to make this up to you, is all." 

A steel index finger drifts underneath your chin, tilting your head upwards, in his direction. 

It's momentary. Viktor takes his hand away to grasp his gauntlet again, snapping the panel on his wrist shut. The molten light on the back of his hand glows brightly, indicating a newfound charge of energy. 

"I need you to listen carefully." 

"Mmm," You hum. You're warm, pliable, electricity traveling from the base of your neck to the end of your spine, like gliding gentle touches over tender bruises — "I'm listening." 

"This was a minor setback, nothing more," Viktor continues. "Betrayal from the Chem-Barons was anticipated. Your safety is my only concern. On that subject, I believe I have made myself clear. There is no need to hold yourself responsible. You do not owe me anything." 

Right. Just your life. 

You take your time on the last screw in his upper leg. Rising to your feet, you toss the screwdriver onto the desk, causing it to roll all the way to the edge. You give him a swift once over. 

The back of your hand taps against his chest. "Something's broken in here. The platings are all misaligned." 

"Potentially." 

Viktor grasps your hand. Squeezing, first, before he pushes it away. Gods, you know it's artificial and intentionally practiced — Does a machine's best attempt at replication still count as intimacy? — but it makes your head spin, all the same. 

"I will handle it," He concludes, assured. Words thick and accented as they rumble through his filter. 

Your head shakes. "No, it's- this isn't some kind of obligation. I want to fix this for you." 

"Spark, you have done enough for me. You may rest, now." 

The next breath you draw in aches to say his name. 

So, you let it. 

"Viktor," You murmur, although a hard, determined edge is returning to your voice, one that doesn't intend to take no for an answer, "Let me help you." 

You can feel the vibrating thrum of machinery beneath your palm, with your hand pressed flat to his chest. You half-expect another argument to ensue. You're preparing for it, as you worry an impression into your bottom lip. Instead, Viktor shifts, sitting up fully. 

He reaches down. Thumbs pressing a set of latching mechanisms, one on each of his sides. The armor around his entire midsection begins to hiss approvingly, releasing small puffs of pressurized steam. 

"This," He starts, although he's already popping open the structure of his central system, "Would prove much more simple if I chose to complete it myself. But I will teach you. If you are willing." 

Your smile shows your canines. "Of course." 

The moment Viktor has his platings fully opened for you, armor swiveled to the side like doors on hinges, a thick blanket of smoke pours out, filling your lungs. You cough, batting it away. The sound of his machinery is so much louder: ticking gears, moving pistons, the hum of various pumps. Your eyes squint, and you place your hands on your knees, bending down to peer inside. 

It reminds you of the automatons you've worked on together. The blueprints he followed for his own structure must have been similar, at least. But this won't be like operating on a person, nor an automaton. The little fixings you've done for the people of Zaun, fusing organic with inorganic, pale in comparison to the complicated system before you. Viktor's system. 

Viktor's fingertips dance over the inner edges of his armor, pressing a few more latches into place. Locking functions, you're guessing. To keep the platings open. 

"At odds with your expectations?" He questions, noticing your hesitation. 

"Well, I suppose," You're answering, throat dry. "This wasn't what I was expecting, no." 

"Ah. I will take it from here, then." 

"No, just… give me a minute. Need to get my bearings." 

A lull takes over. Viktor leans back slowly, he rests his elbows on the desk behind him; hands clenching, as he resists the reflexive tick to busy them. You allow yourself to kneel, still propped up enough to put your gaze eye-level with his mechanics. 

It's… a lot. 

You couldn't even begin to describe every individual intricacy. Different mechanisms all work in tandem, pushing out steam, clicking gears into place, powering various motors; and there's hundreds of wires, leading every which way like veins. They connect through a diverse array of parts, but they all inevitably curl into one central space — like the crest of a wave, like a Fibonacci spiral, an unintentional golden ratio. Bridging into a singular unit, runes carved on its edges. A small crystal suspended within. 

You're reminded of Viktor's words from years prior, when his newfound form first perplexed you. When you steeled yourself and simply asked, because your gaze kept catching on the jarred organs surrounding his workspace, despite his declarations that he'd relinquished all of himself. Because you're watching him dig a scalpel into his forearm, skin dead and pallid like snow, obsidian-hued blood trickling into the gap between sizzling, split circuitry. 

It was practical, this way. To replace imperfect organs with a consistent, mechanical system. 

Actually, the configuration before you is anything but. 

The mechanics show signs of Viktor's own handiwork. Welded edges, carefully constructed synapses. Bundles of wires have been grouped together messily. Displaying a clear motive: to focus on making a functional system, not a pristine one. 

The central unit, housing the crystal, is surrounded by two large pipelines, interconnected by steel conduits. Their purpose is lost on you, but one is smaller, the pipe closest to the unit. Like the way one lung is smaller to give room for the heart. 

Some of the parts are recognizable, albeit a bit rudimentary; they're prototypes you remember improving upon ages ago. Viktor must have deemed them still functional. Or perhaps, he hasn't had the time to replace them. It humanizes him, in a strange, opposite way. Viktor is so busy with the rest of his endeavors — evolving his plans for the Undercity, assisting others, including you — he hasn't been able to rebuild himself. 

And there is something beautiful about it, about him. Something worth worshipping. Alluringly, divinely synthetic, self-made by his hands. Everything within him vibrates with electricity and life. Resembling a tangible, second soul. 

(You're starting to understand those who pray for their flesh to be replaced with mechanics. Those who worship their image of the Machine Herald, despite not knowing he was once a man, just like them. Because still, every time you see them, knelt in reverence before a statue or a stained-glass depiction of the Grey Lady, you can't help but think of Viktor, and yourself.) 

Your heart hammers wildly inside your chest, a perfect contrast to his steady, exposed system. Your breath echoes so sharply through the lab, you're sure with the proximity, he can hear it, too. 

Maybe it's the circumstance — this is Viktor, after all. You're giving yourself a headache, trying to figure out how you should work on your own partner, how to understand the Machine Herald's stupidly ornate insides. 

And it's exciting, interesting. You've never worked on anything so complex before. He's a puzzle you desperately want to learn to solve. 

But, more than anything, this feels personal. Intimate. It's a thrilling, entirely new way to admire him, yet you're finding it difficult to stay relaxed. You think of the Viktor you once knew. Of how it would feel to be shown the softness of his guts. To be asked to dig through his sinews and his lungs and his innards, instead of wires and mechanics and gadgetry. Palms brushing a body made of fragile bones and pallid skin, not metal. 

Fucking hell. You'd do it, either way. Without hesitation. 

"Okay," You breathe, attempting to place yourself back on course. You rub the overwhelming tension from your temple, allowing your tired eyes to close for a fleeting second. Then, you're pulling up your stool, sitting across from him to continue your examinations. 

Beneath his mask, Viktor's gaze stays magnetized to you. To the pinch in your brows, to your hands folded in your lap, moving with the bounce of your knee. 

The curious, ambitious, lost-in-thought side to you is always impossibly enthralling. 

"This is sort of familiar, actually," You reason, as though you're trying to convince yourself. "Kind of like Blitz, just… way, way more advanced." 

You focus on locating the parts you recognize, as opposed to the ones you don't. The center unit is definitely a main power source. The pumps and fans surrounding it are likely for cooling. It amazes you, honestly. Viktor must know all of this like the back of his hand. 

"I will explain the process to the best of my ability." Viktor replies. 

"I'm, uh- a little nervous, V. It's your body, and I just- I don't want to mess anything up. When's the last time someone poked around in here? Is there anything I definitely shouldn't touch?" 

Viktor clenches his hands idly. He leans back a bit further. "Comply with my instructions, for now. Once the major repairs are complete, and we have eliminated all present malfunctions, you will be free to tinker with each apparatus, as you see fit." 

"Okay. I can do that."

"As for your additional question, it has been quite a while since I have improved upon my own design. This would make you the only one I have… shown this to, for lack of a more acceptable term." 

"Oh." You shrink up, recoiling your hands before they can reach for him. Jaw set, as you bite down your own nerves. "Should I- are you sure this is okay, then?" 

"Yes." Viktor's head tilts slightly, analyzing. "Go on. I trust you." 

Your heart races at that. Running circles around itself, abiding by its own laws of chemistry to create unbridled, newfound energy in your chest. 

Without another moment of hesitation, you shift closer, and you stick your hands inside. 

Warmth radiates off of him, sparking from the countless movements of parts and mechanics. It warms your face, envelops your palms as if you've held them to a campfire. It's definitely too hot, all things considered. 

"Looks like there's a problem with temperature," You're commenting, although it's certainly obvious. You run your fingertip over a line of fan blades, set into the top of his chassis. You turn them yourself, and pick out a few tiny pieces of rubble. "Yeah, fans are all stuck." 

"The fans are an auxiliary measure," Viktor clarifies, tone smooth and systematic. "The central pump must not be pushing coolant. Check the thermoregulation cylinders. They lead into the manifold." 

"Vik." Your gaze flickers up. "Whatever you just said, it sounded like total mechanical gibberish." 

"Give me your hand." 

With his metal palm already extended, you lean forward, and you gently brush your warm fingers to his. 

Viktor guides you carefully, steel digits closed around yours; the entirety of your hand fits in his palm with ease, it's at least twice the size of your own. Your fingertips slip past wires and circuitry, to hover over an intricate array of cylindrical conduits. 

"Do they feel hot? The cylinders," Viktor clarifies. "Touch them carefully. Do not let them burn you." 

His grip on your hand loosens. You're wincing, as you hesitantly press your fingertips forwards — but the metal isn't hot. Far from it, in fact. 

"No, they're… lukewarm, maybe." 

"Hm." Viktor leans back once more, elbows propped on the desk behind him. "We will begin with the fans. This fix will be the least complex."  

"They connect to a main unit, right?" You're asking, even though you've already started moving on your own. The automatons you remember working on carry similar cooling systems. "If that goes out, they all do." 

"Correct." 

You follow a fan's wiring with your hands. It loops several times, before it plugs into a small metal box: sides caved in, surface smashed. 

"Ah. Found the problem." You tap the surface of the power supply with your nails. "It's busted." 

"Do not touch it yet," Viktor instructs. "Its processes may still be running, in which case, it could overheat. Remove each connector and extract the unit. I will add it to my list of obligations, I suppose." 

You quickly pull every wire from the fan power unit, and you reach over his shoulder to place it on the desk. Viktor leans his head back. A few valves in his chest expel large puffs of steam, somewhat akin to a sigh. 

"The main cylinders," He continues, "Do you remember where they are located?" 

"Mhmm." You find the cylinders with your fingertips. Metal smooth, cool to the touch. 

Viktor stretches, rolling his shoulders back, armor slightly clinking together. He tips his head down to study you. 

"Shift your hand to your right. You will find a main cooling manifold. Open it. Flip both notches paneled into the intake. Up, for precisely three seconds. Then, flip them down. It will overclock the thermocore, enabling a full reactivation." 

You nod slowly. Right, you've got all that. Open, flip, down, close. 

Your fingers brush along the cylinders until you find where they lead into. The manifold's panel opens easily — slowly, with all the delicacy of opening up a ribcage. Fingertips to the notches, you push them both up; like tending to a wound, like softly tracing scar tissue. With bated breath, you keep count in your head. One. Two. Three. Then, down. 

You click the front panel back into place, and the entire assembly begins to whir. 

"Now, they will resume function. The systems are… cooling down- very good, well done." Viktor affirms, tone ripe with relief. Within him, sets of valves and pistons gently heave. 

His praise makes you shiver. Selfishly, you want to hear more. The cylinders are starting up. They're still slightly cool, as you drag your fingers across them; but Viktor's warm voice has the opposite effect. Guiding heat to coil and ignite in your gut, like you've swallowed phosphorus and matchsticks. 

You remove your hands carefully, settling them in your lap, and you give Viktor time to catch his breath. 

The manifold shudders. Briefly overloaded by the extra draw of power, perhaps. Viktor's machinery works synchronically to reign it in; his shoulders tense, he reaches into his stomach and messes with a few components, flipping switches, thumbing regulators. He leans back, and the large central cylinders strongly push out smoky air, reminiscent of lungs. 

Strong is a good way to describe the Machine Herald's construction. Complicated, durable, and intentionally intimidating. There's power behind the grind of every mechanical process. Parts are entrailed together haphazardly, vitals cased in metal, strung between wires — clearly not meant to be toyed with, to be examined by someone who is foreign to them. 

And yet, here you are. 

Old, rusted mechanics take the place of scars. Tracing your fingertips along his steel skeleton might remind you of brushing them over a defined ribcage. Individual colored wires form auroras, purposefully tethered. Able to be memorized — like you once did for constellations on soft skin, dotted in freckles and moles. 

Oh, how you long to reach out and touch. 

(It wouldn't be the same — but how would it feel? Would some wires be cool, rough, while some are smooth, warm? Fit with their own small intricacies: frayed insides, different electric charges. You could be gentle with some, and rough, with others. His pressure points would buzz underneath your fingertips. Shudder like a body arching into warmth. Would Viktor stop you, or would he give in — a betrayal of what he was made for, to finally pull you closer?) 

Hands still in your lap, you fiddle with your thumbs. Viktor's chest reverberates. Every mechanic convenes into his center, feeding into pumps and wire splitters, like arteries. Powered by a small, perplexing device with suspended panels. The metal is carved in rune-work. Protecting a gemstone, illuminated in hues of faint, blue light. It strikes you as Hextech inspired, though clearly more machine than magic. 

"Viktor, this crystal," You're asking, "What is it?" 

"That," Viktor's gaze stays trained on you. "Would be what functions as my heart." 

Your eyes sparkle. "Can I-" 

"Yes," Viktor interrupts, disgruntled. He knows that look, and he doesn't intend on fighting it. "Inspect it if you must. The gemstone is not my only power supply. Simply one of many." 

As your curious fingers approach, reaching into his chest, the device appears to open without prompting — panels shifting, sides unfurling. Coaxing you in. 

Your fingertips meet the gemstone, gently admiring; the surface is smooth like a petal, like gliding a pen over paper. It pulses with rhythmic energy, akin to a heartbeat. Viktor shifts, he breathes a cross between a gentle sigh and a mechanical hiss. When the stone drops into your palm, it is solid, warm. Energy-rich and beautiful. It reminds you of an oyster's pearl. Cosmic shades of purple and blue shift within its shape. 

"Vik- Wow." You let go of a small, tensionless laugh in amazement — you're literally holding Viktor's heart in your hand; "This is incredible. You're incredible." 

Viktor tenses. Energy thrums from the crystal, sparking hard against your skin. You choke in a sharp, pained breath, and you take your hand away quickly, leaving the gemstone to return to suspension. 

Ah. Viktor's heart just shocked you. 

You're barely able to reconvene; his Hexclaw grabs your face, tilting you gently yet forcefully, guiding you to meet an expressionless mask and glowing, motionless eyes. 

"Enough," Viktor asserts. "I require your focus. The central systems have cooled. We may proceed." 

Then, his Hexclaw releases you, reaches behind him, and hands you a wrench. 

"I will pull the sternum platings open, beneath the oxygen valves. Reach inside, and secure the pistons that sit above the energy reservoir. Is this understandable?" 

Back to work already, it seems. "Yeah," You nod. "I've got it." 

It's a relatively simple fix. Viktor reaches deep into his circuitry, pushing wires aside to pull both platings apart; surely this would have been cumbersome, if he'd opted to do it alone. Both sections of his sternum need to be held open, or they'll try to snap shut. Your hands are much smaller than his, as well, so you have no trouble reaching into his structure, and swiftly re-tightening the pistons. 

Viktor closes the panels as you're reaching behind him to set the wrench on the desk. His Hexclaw twitches. His gauntlet and the generator fixed into his shoulder flicker with light, like a dying lightbulb, before energy surges within them, bright and molten. 

You glance up. "Good?" 

Viktor's body hums quietly, amidst his usual mechanical noise. 

"Perfect. You are an expert already, yes? The Death Ray is no longer fueled by reserve power." Viktor rolls his neck to the side, until it gives a satisfying, motorized pop. "Now, as we continue, you will need to use your hands." 

"Alright. I can do that." 

"Use your flesh hand," Viktor corrects. "And promise me you will be careful. I would prefer to keep each of your remaining fingers intact. Do not get them stuck." 

You form a faint, light-filled smile. "I promise." 

"To your left, there is a diode controller. Here." Viktor finds your hand, steel digits brushing over your knuckles, and he guides you, once more. "Tell me which lights are displayed on the module." 

Your hand presses to a small steel box, nestled into his chest. "There's a red light. I think that's the power, but… it looks like that's it." 

"The explosion jostled its position, as I suspected. Inlaid into the underside, there will be a set of wires." 

Sure enough, although several curving filaments obstruct the crooked controller, you can spot a few tangled wires, plugged in loosely. 

You gently push a few of his mechanics aside, trying to get a handle on what you're dealing with. "You're planning on doing a full cold boot, right? So pull them all out, wait for the controller to restart, and then plug them back in." 

What Viktor lacks in expression, he makes up for in vibrato, because you can practically hear the smile hidden within his voice. Equally calm and weaponized; as soft as a caress, and as powerful as a knife held to your throat. 

"Yes," He hums, mechanical filter thrumming around the thickly accented syllables. "Look at you. It is impressive- how efficiently you learn." 

You aren't trying to prove him wrong, but what's truly impressive is how easily he knocks the focus right out of you. You're grasping at what remains of it, as you stretch to guide your hand to the wires. With the controller pinning them between itself and his metal skeleton, it's a relatively tight fit. 

Breath in your throat, you manage to find the first wire — and you blindly tug. As it comes free, Viktor's chest tenses, gears grinding, valves sputtering. He grabs your forearm, holding you still. Shaky mechanical fingers attempting to establish control. 

"Gentle," Viktor instructs. His body hisses, expelling warm air that fans over your skin. "The wires- they direct essential currents of power. If you are not careful, you will overload the voltage." 

He releases you gradually, then leans back fully. 

"Sorry. I'll go slow." 

You grasp the next wire at the head. Instead of pulling, you shift it back and forth, over and over, until it eventually comes free. With each discharged wire, his mechanics grow hotter, louder. Warmth radiates over your palm as the controller chugs, giving off a faint, high-pitched noise. It reminds you of the whistles of trains in Piltover. 

"Better?" You murmur, heavy gaze drifting across him, hand already blindly grasping for the fourth wire. 

"Yes," Viktor coos, content. "Keep going." 

"Does this- am I hurting you?" 

"No, you are not." His tone grits at the edges, buzzing rigidly through his throat. "The controller is applying a simulated curve. It is… an excess of pressurized fuel. A maelstrom of diverging currents. It is impossible to summarize in sympathizable terms, as your body is very different from mine." 

The Machine Herald tends to select words purposefully. He calculates discussions and formulates terms like every negotiation is a game of chess — and yet, this description is remarkably familiar. 

In the early stages of your alliance, the two of you rarely got along. Every sentence between you spun a web of new arguments. Viktor was insistent when it came to his vision, and weakness wasn't welcome, not within his new mechanized heart. You were a distraction. An unexpected miscalculation. A maelstrom, as Viktor described it. 

For our mutual benefit, you should relinquish the memories you have of the man I once was. We are no longer partners. If you can suppress this needless bickering, we can continue as allies, perhaps. 

"I'm depriving you of energy." You trail your fingertip over the ridges in the final wire. "Your systems are working overtime, to try and adjust." 

Viktor's body relaxes — warm and reverberant and trusting. He affirms, "Precisely." 

The last wire comes free smoothly. You take a languid, intentionally-long breath, giving the controller time to refresh. The wires have fallen loose, they rest a little further down in his circuitry. Leaning far forward in your stool, you bundle all of them in your palm, to make sure you won't lose them. 

"They're out." You line up the first wire's plug with the controller's first socket. "Gonna plug them back in now." 

"Firmer, you can be firmer." Viktor never begs, but this, despite bordering on a command, is the closest to pleading you've seen him come to. "The central system is acclimated to the fluctuations in energy." 

Your cracked bottom lip briefly catches between your teeth. Bringing the wire right against its socket, you shove it back in — and Viktor tremors, visible electricity sparkling from his chest like shooting stars in a lightning storm. With the second wire, his head rolls back. When you press the third in, he breathes a low, barely-audible groan, and the sound drives into you like a saw, a chisel, a stake. 

(You're lost in color, in the orange glow of his gaze and the coppery-steel of his body, as they paint stupidly vivid pictures in your mind. Viktor reaching for you, holding onto you for leverage. Static blooming at your fingertips, innocent experiments turning into purposeful coaxings. Stalling until he pleads, overwhelming him with surge after surge of energy, electromagnetic impulses and solar sparks that have him hot and only half-functional.) 

You really need to focus. 

"Okay." As you push the last wire in, the module's lights begin to flash, blinking faintly in a bright hue of amber. "I'm done." 

"Reach your hand further inside," Viktor is already explaining, words rich, perplexingly breathy. "You must guide it around the gears, to the back of the module. Beside the sets of copper filaments, you will find a red wire." 

You tilt your head down to peer behind the controller. 

"Fuck." You breathe a slight tch. "It must've come loose. It's all the way back there, Vik." 

"You may need to come closer, then." 

For a moment, you chew on the inside of your cheek. Palm buried inside him — you should be the one in control, but Viktor relaxes; his head tips, and he gazes at you as though he's got you under a microscope. Perfectly, wholly deciphered. Your weakness is predictable, not simply because you are human, but because it is you. There's no surprise within him when you rise from your stool, only an addictive array of certainty. 

Viktor leans back a bit more, spreads his legs to allocate space. And you straddle his thigh, heels rested on the spidery base of the stool. 

The hard, uneven edges of his armor dig into the pliable flesh of your legs. One large thigh is easily enough to accommodate you, but you need to shift closer, to properly reach behind the controller. 

You're reaching in, in, feeling around for your target. An unsteady steel hand braces to your side; Viktor holds you in place. You sigh in frustration, your fingertips fumbling past cold filaments, trying to find the smooth, elusive wire. 

Gears gently press into your forearm. A small, rigid generator bumps your elbow. Your body curls, you reach further inside him. And you find it, just as you're close enough to rest your forehead against his. Metal to flesh. Cool against warm. Your eyes — bright and fascinating, like stars, he thinks — become lost in the artificial glow of his. 

Your breath fans over his steel mask. "Got it." 

"Good." Viktor's voice is low, intense, and fucking sultry. "Plug it in." 

hey, sorry for interrupting the fic! unfortunately, due to the long word count of the fic and tumblr's post block limit, it's impossible to fit the entire fic into one post... :( if you're enjoying the fic so far, you can continue reading on ao3!

thank you for understanding... <3

[rubberducki20]

Paul Lahote x Male!FTM! Reader

Tw: Cursing, MDNI/Smut, Scarring on body (Top surgery scars that botched), insecure Reader (if you squint), Reader isn't fully transitioned, anal, mentions of stuff in the front

You have been wracking Paul's damn brain since he met you last week. He can't even function if you're around, he just has to watch you like a lost puppy, and you haven't even noticed! Sadly for him, the pack has and they don't ever hold back.

Yesterday, Paul had managed to score a date-not-date with you, camling on the beach. Paul could barely breathe when he saw you in a tight black tank top and swimshorts to match it. You were...beautiful. He's seen photos of you as a woman, and dammit he'd have you either way. Man. Woman. They. He didn't care. He could spend all day watching you, admiring you...fucking you. Dammit.

You were desperately oblivious to his looks, or at least if you did notice, you brushed them off. You and that damn half sided smile you'd send him occasionally. The fire was warm, the tent was at the side, a little closer to the woods, so yall weren't as bare to the wind and slashing sand.

"Well, I'm bored, Wolf boy. You said you'd keep me entertained." You teased, smiling and those pretty damn eyes batting at him. What he wouldn't do to make them roll back. "You wanna swim then?" He offered, voice gruff with emotions, the main being pure desire. He watched as you got up, stretching, bones popping in a few places "Well just don't stare too hard." You smirked as you slid your tank top off, you barely or never shown anyone your chest. By god he was in love. Your scarring was a soft pink to tan skin, obvious to see it was bumpy and ragged. Paul wanted to kiss and bite every part till you were saying you were pretty.

"No staring. Got it." He mumbled, watching as you went off to the water. Paul's heart raced as you called out to him, your voice both teasing and inviting. He hesitated for a moment, torn between his desire to be closer to you and his need to maintain control. But the sight of you in the water, your scars shimmering in the moonlight, was too much to resist. With a strangled breath, he stood up and walked towards the water, his gaze still fixed on you. The water was cold, but he barely felt it when he stood beside you.

"You're beautiful, ya know?" He asked gently, and when you didn't respond, he kept going, "Scars, transition, every damn thing about you. You're perfect to me."

He didn't miss how your face flushed as you mumbled a quick, "You think so? Their not...ugly?" He shook his head no, reaching out a hand, his fingers gently grazing the scars on your chest, tracing their outlines with a feather-light touch. "These scars don't change how I see you," he said softly, his eyes locked on yours. "They just make you even more beautiful. And even more mine."

Within moments, you two were on the sand, the tent be dammed, as yall made out hungrily. He broke the kiss, trailing to your chest to kiss the botched scars and then lower. "W-wait.." You mumbled, and he stopped he'd always stop. "I don't..I'm not fully transitioned." You admitted, but he didn't care. Not one damn bit. "So? I can do either. Front or back. You're mine, nothings changing that."

His words were full of love and reassurance so you nodded and he continued. Taking your shorts and then boxers off. He nearly fucking drooled at you. Trimmed but clean, he couldn't help but swipe his tounge at your Tcock, which had you squirming. "Tell me if I need to ever stop." You heard his words but the intense pleasure that hit knocked your response away as he sucked your tcock and slid two fingers into your cunt to please you. You were coming in minutes of it, he kissed your cunt and pulled off. "Front or back, my sweet boy. What's more comfortable?"

You were too stimulated to even answer, only managing a soft moan as you turned, arching your back to present yourself. "Fuckin hell, sweetheart." Paul groaned as he wet his own hard cock that was leaking, one hand went to the base of his cock, the other to your Tcock to stroke at it while he slid in. He knew he was a big boy, a cock at 7 inches and just as thick wasn't the best for first date anal sex, but he'd get you there.

The both of you were desperate and content to jist keep fucking on the beach, but it got way too cold to quick. So now, in the tent, flap open, he was back to rutting his cock into your ass as he jerked off yours, occasionally dipping his fingers into your cunt just so it wasn't neglected.

"Close. Fuck, Paul, I'm gonna come." You whimpered out, drooling into one of his pillows he had brought. "Me too, fuck, come for me, love." He panted as he kept going, feeling the knot in his gut getting unbearably tight. As soon as you came, tightening around him, he jerked and spilled into you. He rolled his hips a few more times to ride the highs out before he pulled out, watching with content as some of his cum leaked out of your tight ass.

The two of you, too tired to get dressed jist simply cuddled naked, not bothering to close the flap due to the wolf heat between both of you and the stench of sex. Your head tucked into his chest, listening to his heart as you fell asleep.

[onthewaytosomewhere]

Hello m'dear, can I have 💋 & firstprince please? 😊

this weeks ficlets all turned out rather angsty but somehow i think ya got the angstiest one lolz

if you'd like to catch this one and all the ones from the week in march this is from the feels-fest these became can be found here

------

Henry feels the words hit him like a thunderbolt; they’re raw, unfiltered, and spilling from Alex with the urgency of a confession that has been held in too long.

“I want to shout it from the goddamn rooftops! I want to tell everyone—our friends and family, and the entire fucking world …” Alex's voice trembles, trailing off like a train of thought derailed by emotion, and Henry sees it—the glisten in his eyes. The tears.

It’s like a knife to the chest. That look. That hurt. It’s Henry’s fault, and that kills him. He hates that he’s the one who put that pain there, the one who’s made Alex feel like he has to beg for something he should’ve had all along—certainty, love, recognition.

“I’m sorry,” Henry says, his voice is low and heavy. “I know that you’ve been waiting for me to be ready, and I’ve been dragging my feet. I didn’t mean to make it sound like I didn’t think you wanted to tell people about us …” He falters. The words start to unravel in his mouth as his thoughts scatter. Then suddenly, he’s not speaking at all—because his arms are full of Alex. Full of warmth and tension and emotion so thick it feels like something sacred. Alex clings to him like he’s trying to fold himself into Henry’s chest, like he wants to disappear inside him.

“I know things were hard for you too with all the keeping this secret,” Alex murmurs, his voice muffled against Henry’s shoulder. “I just …” He shakes his head, curls brushing against Henry’s neck. “I just fucking love you. And I don’t want to lose you because I do something stupid. I guess keeping us so secret made it seem like you could just … be done with me at any time you want, and nobody would be any wiser.”

That cracks something open in Henry—a deep ache, ancient and personal and forged in silence. “Oh, Alex,” he breathes, one hand curling protectively around the back of his head. “I’m so sorry, love.” His voice shakes with the weight of it. “I want nothing more than to be with you. And before I completely botched this conversation, I was going to tell you—I want to tell everyone about us. Just like you. I want the world to know I belong to you. That you belong to me.”

He feels the tension in Alex's body shift, the energy go soft and golden. Feels the grin beginning before he even sees it. “Especially girls who think they can flirt with you in the bar while I’m standing right there.”

Alex leans back, eyes sparking like lit matches. “So, that did get to you?”

Henry smirks, lips quirking in fond exasperation. “Of course it did. Have you forgotten how early we left that night? So I could fuck you through the mattress and stake my claim? I wanted to do it right there in the bar. Slide up next to you, pull you in for a kiss, and let her know she’d have to find someone else for the night.”

“Oh, baby,” Alex purrs, grinning wide. “I love when you’re jealous. But I can’t say I blame you—it drives me crazy seeing men watch you like they’ve got a chance. Like you’re their prey for the night.”

Henry’s heart stumbles over itself. This man—this ridiculous, wonderful man—chose him. Still chooses him, even through all the messy, scared, guarded bits. “So,” Henry asks, “how do you want to do this? Social media hard launch? Screaming it from the roof of the tallest building? Skywriter?”

Alex is already moving before Henry finishes speaking. He grabs his phone from the counter, and with that same wild, beautiful impulsiveness that made Henry fall in love with him in the first place, he turns, tugs Henry in, and kisses him. Soft, but electric. Then—click. His other arm is outstretched, taking a picture.

Alex pulls back just enough to pull up their group chat and hit send, the photo already sailing across the ether into their chaotic group chat. A chime echoes seconds later from the phone in Henry’s pocket.

Before Henry can even react, Alex is kissing him again. And this time, when he breaks the kiss, it’s with a whisper against Henry’s lips, so quiet, so sure it makes his chest ache: “I think that’ll work for now.”

Henry’s cheeks hurt from smiling. He knows that with Nora and Pez in that chat, the news will spread like wildfire. The whole campus—hell, the whole damn city—will probably know by nightfall. And he can’t wait. Can’t wait to walk through campus hand-in-hand with Alex. To smile at the stares. To say without words, yes, that rumor you heard? It’s true.

Henry and Alex are together. They belong to each other. And nothing—not fear, not expectation, not silence—will stand in their way.

Not anymore.

[toofasttoocool-reborn]

How's my favorite Ultimate Swimmer holding up as a bimbo under the Naegi-Ludenburg Household? 👀

"Fuck...it's way too hot today..."

When Makoto isn't busy ruling his blossoming country or having sex with his wife,he enjoy the simple things in life:watching his precious flowers bloom in his thousand hectares garden.

Today was a particularly hot day, the sweat was drenching all his body,nothing seems out of the ordinary.

Well except for one thing really.

"What do you think about this number 77?"

"Number 77" could only say "yes" with her head as she struggles to carry his weight on her back for so long,her tanned skin was drenched too as her big ball like breasts touched the grass,from Olympic swimmer,to slave,to chair,maybe that was the social ladder she tried to climb for so long.

Was she?It was hard to tell,her mind was foggy the same kind of sensation someone would got after scrolling endlessly all day,except that state was constant,it was almost impossible to formulate a though or an idea,all that was possible was to execute basics task over and over again,it was hard for her to even remember what she was called,as Makoto drilled her back by sitting on it in an awkward position.

"It's way too hot to work and celest is away again..."

The doll wearing the 77 number, slighty stood up her body shaking with her,one could tell that her all body has be redone by surgery...but almost in a willingly "botched" way,her breasts were unaligned, her lips too big to allow her to drink and the balance completely off, like she was made to be forever imperfect,she didn't say a word, and looked in the distance her eyes devoid of emotions.

The boss as he was known grabber her right breasts,and started to lustfully touch it with the skill of a molestor and the sardonic smile that goes with it,he licked the cheek of his "dolls" as he likes to call them.

"I feel sooooo lonellllyyyy...77 would you keep me company..."

She bowed, expressionless again with her heels and collar for only outfits she could only slightly

move when his hand caresses her whore like body.

"Aoi...Aoi...you remember when you used to swim around like a dolphin..."

For the first time in hours, she opens her mouth and pronounced words with great difficulty, almost like she was only starting to learn the language.

"No...Master..."

It wasn't just a pleasing answer,it was real, she had forgotten all about her life before being relegated to being a doll,she doesn't remember swimming,her family, nothing,and why would she remember?

Her debt was in the billions by now it would never have paid no matter what,she knows that,she knows that her parents tried their best...did they?she don't really know either.

"Come on doll..."

His tone was as disgusting as could be,Makoto would seem to the public like the most sane of the duo, and he was,but that wasn't due to being less evil or less proactive,far from this,the lucky student knew he was exactly that:Lucky.He knew that his way to compete with "them" was to play safe and wait for his opportunity.If Hajime had been a colossal elephant,and shuichi a proud eagle,Makoto was a snake of a human being,and would display his sadism fully only when he is sure to be in an absolute position of power,this garden was exactly that a sanctuary were there is no law and no power other than those of the lucky student.

Aoi executed herself, displaying her massive ass to the boss, who didn't wait to grab it as violently as possible before shoving his hard,overly grotesque road into her asshole without warning.

No matter how many times he did it,the pain still remain,he only cared about feeling good for himself,and himself only she was nothing but an expensive doll,she had screamed all her voice and cried all her tears so long ago,know she could only bear it,trying her best to not collapse or not moan knowing it would only make him more horny and sadistic.

He slapped and punched her ass without remorse meanwhile penetrating her,the leash firmly in his hand as to strangle her meanwhile he was doing that,he said meanwhile smirking from one corner of his mouth to the other.

"Well,well,your not going to scream swimmer?That's fine by me too,I will make you shut up until you die cumslut."

She knew it was the only thing she could do,Makoto was a freak and fucking for multiples hours on hand wasn't a problem,so hoping for it to end soon would be wishful thinking,and dreaming in this hell of marble would only bring sadness.

It didn't end at the first hour,or the second,or the fifth for that matter,he continued and continued,anal,vaginal,breasts,mouth, legs all were cover in sperm and he continue to use her as nothing but a toy...what she was really.

He had to turn into a spooning position as the ex athlete has broken her vows multiples times and screamed in anger, anguish and pain multiples times,it was useless to try to get used to the pain,as she passed out two times, before being waked up with a strike to her stomach,her right heel have been removed and her feet tried his best to run,to escape or something.

"Well..;that's a good workout 77,don't you think?"

Aoi knew that her awnser was no matter her form a death sentence so she just said:

"Master...Makoto...Is...the...greatest...Master Makoto...is the best of his class...Master Makoto...won'

It wasn't something she though or lie about,she was just programmed to said that no matter what,to flaunt his ego.

She broke once again as she closed her eyes. Tomorrow it will be the same thing.

[drifting-pieces-blog-blog]

Listen there is so many characters that represent intergenerational trauma in bemis run, (Ra as Khonshu's dad and a foil to Elias, Ernst as the personification of the people who killed Marc's family) but then Bemis doesn't explore that or botches the exploration

Like we already the Khonshu-Elias foil from Lemire run and then there's the grandfather Marc never knew. Who he only knows about through Yitz. and like I hate Yitz and Ernst being the same person (and a rabbi, it's not egdy it's just antisemitic) but Ernst is compelling to me (you are allowed to also be bored by him).

Here is the personification of what your father escaped and hey maybe if you kill your grandfather's murderer you'd get closure? Ha ha no.

But also clearly that's a story that Jews, not edgelord messianics get to tell.

I refuse to ever say anything nice about Bemis.

So the characters that represent intergenerational trauma do NOT come from Bemis' run.

Let's head back to "Death of Elias Spector" by Zelenetz.

This is where we get the story of the generational trauma and start to understand Moon Knight… Where we start to understand Marc Spector.

Up to this point, we have seen him be angry about Antisemitism, fight neonazi scum, and protect Jewish shop-keeps and the likes. We see him get angry about the bombing of a Synagogue and we see him become emotional over the loss of friends.

Before Zelenetz, we understood these to all be proper responses for a Jewish man. Or even just a man in this time period.

But it's when we see the generational trauma that was put so heavily on Marc's shoulders that we start to see those responses as more. We start to see his inner struggles with identity and expectations. We see him be a good man that sees himself as a bad one.

Bemis didn't see any of this.

Bemis said "What if the Rabbi is a Nazi and Marc witnessed him killing people?" He wants it to be more about personal betrayal and revenge than about the horrors of what an actual Nazi is!

There was no undertone. There was nothing deep. This was a man TRYING to tell a deep story for the sake of feeling an egotistical rush so he can pat himself on the back and let people think he's a good Jew.

You don't have to make a Nazi into a supernatural serial killer out for blood to make them into a horror figure.

The real horror lies in the fact that they were regular people that did these things because someone with a little power told them that it was okay.

But let's play with the story a moment. For argument's sake.

Ra as Khonshu's father SHOULD have been a fantastic foil to Elias. Much like in MCU when Ammit was a foil to their mother.

We should have gotten the dissapointed father. We should have gotten the failure for Khonshu to change the world for the better. We should have seen Khonshu change and grow and be able to rise up and declare that HE protects the travelors of the night. That he has chosen a perfect Avatar that can change the world. That he is the Pathfinder, the Embracer, the traveler, and the Defender.

And with that, there is more than violence and fighting. that he can be gentle and kind too.

But we didn't get that.

And Khonshu remains the same.

Moving on to the grandfather. Marc's whole family was murdered in WWII. None of them made it out except for his father and mother.

We don't need an enemy to be a murdering Nazi that specifically targeted his grandfather to make Marc angry.

We don't need a revenge story. That isn't what Moon Knight is about. Because he can't forgive a Nazi. And a Nazi should not live. And there is no way Marvel is going to show him killing a former Nazi out of pure revenge and not have that mess up the character of Marc Spector.

This isn't a revenge story of him hunting down Nazi.

He should never have touched on this. Because there ARE real Nazi that got away with it. There are real Nazi fucks that did terrible things and then wandered off to live normal happy lives.

Having him hide in plain sight AS A JEWISH RABBI is such a kick in the teeth.

And I'm going to do a review specifically on this run in a bit. Expect that soon.

I liked having Yitz as YITZ. Marc getting close to an older Rabbi because he couldn't get close to his own father is a good story. It shows his disconnect with people his own age and his father. It also shows him studying the Torah and working hard to be a good perfect Jewish boy, which leads into Steven's side of things and then further into Jake's take on the spiritual protector.

Heck, an interesting story would be if Yitz had done something that he felt betrayed his trust because then we have a good solid role model that somehow abandoned him or hurt him in some way. And it wouldn't have had to be something terrible. Maybe he left to another state to be with a different Synagogue without warning. Maybe he died suddenly? Any of those things could have hurt him and made him feel alone, since he already didn't connect to children in his school or his own father. We know that Marc feels alone and worthless. It's not a far stretch to show that maybe it started from losing someone he looked up to as a good Jewish person and then not having a role model anymore.

I did not like Ernst. Was he interesting? Probably. I get where he can be compelling as a villain. We all want to hate a good Nazi villain. It's one thing Hollywood has shown time and time again.

But there is no closure in this. There will never be closure in this. Marc still lost his family. His grandfather was a drop in an ocean and if they REALLY wanted to put Nazi fucks in the story, they should have just had young Marc accidentally walk into a KKK rally or something. Because we don't need the threat of the old Nazi. The Nazi just changed their hats. They're still out here today.

This is a story Bemis should never have touched.

I apologize it if sounds like I'm angry. I'm not angry at you by any means!

I'm just so pissed off at Bemis. I respect your wanting to see a better story from the stones Bemis laid before us. It's nice to dream that he could have been a better writer.

Marvel has a lot to answer for and this is just one more thing they managed to really screw up.

[battlecat-maya]

Warrior Cat Character Tier List Breakdown: Part Five

The Erins did you dirty:

Bumble: I’ll never understand why the Erins mistreated Bumble in the way that they did. Her abuse is not treated seriously, she dies horribly, and becomes just another footnote in Clear Sky’s story. Her mistreatment hardly matters narratively. I don’t like Moonkitti but her video on Bumble is great. I recommend watching it if you want to know more about Bumble.

Rainswept Flower: I am Rainswept Flower’s biggest fan. She got shafted so hard for no reason! She is shown to be an empathic cat who is able to read others’ emotions and comfort them accordingly. She is Jagged Peak’s closest friend after his injury. She lifts him up when he beats himself down. She encourages him to speak up. She reprimands Gray Wing when he doubts Jagged Peak. She is a great character who is then killed by Clear Sky and completely forgotten about for the rest of DOTC. DOTC’s mistreatment of female characters is atrocious.

Longtail: He should’ve been deputy.

Spotfur: Started great but then she had kittens and was quickly thrown into the nursery, never to be heard from again.

Yellowfang: Her SE sucks so hard and I’m tired of seeing her all the time in StarClan.

Juniperclaw: If Quick Water is allowed in StarClan, Juniperclaw should be too.

Quick Water: StarClan is hypocritical. Also I fucking hate that they changed Quick Water, Clear Sky’s biggest critic, into his biggest simp in Shadowstar’s Life. Yeah, just remove whatever personality she had for Clear Sky of all cats.

Nightstar: StarClan is hypocritical.

Pebbleshine: Started interesting but after fucking her first cousin, she was reduced down to “tragic mom.”

Thistleclaw: Spottedleaf’s Heart is not canon. I refuse.

I like the idea of you:

These are characters who have cool concepts but botched execution.

Hawkfrost: Winds of Change show Hawkfrost being a cool, intelligent, and manipulative guy who is attempting to build a shadow leader in Mudclaw. This is so cool and made me weep over what he actually is in TNP. He could’ve been a more suave, subtle villain like Sol but they made him into a shittier Tigerclawstar. Lame.

Sol: POT sucks and Sol could’ve made it better if his appearance actually affected the plot and the main three. I like what he is— a smooth, mysterious, harbinger of doom who showed up just to fuck shit up for his own amusement. Unfortunately, he didn’t really amount to anything.

Darktail: He was everything I wanted Hawkfrost to be in Hawkwing’s Journey, but then AVOS happened and he became yet another Scourge-like rouge leader. He could’ve been a manipulative cult leader-type villain but nah.

Darkstripe: I find Darkstripe mostly dull but I like him being Tigerclawstar’s biggest simp. I want more lackey type characters who are actual characters who do stuff on their own like Darkstripe.

Scourge: Scourge is a joke to me. I cannot take him seriously. He’s too year 2000 level edgy. He’s hilarious. But in seriousness, I hate how he shows up out of nowhere and kills the main bad. Lame. Bad writing. I do like the idea of him thematically though. Tigerclawstar hired him and thought he could control him because he was high off his own hubris. He thought he was untouchable until this small black cat struck him down in one shot. As a tool for Tigerclawstar’s character exploration, Scourge is great. As a character, Scourge is nothing. His graphic novel is good but it is a little too late at that point.

Neutral

Okay so I am not going to list each cat here. Neutral just means they’re fine. I’m just gonna discuss the popular ones.

Firestar: The golden child. He’s alright! Not my favorite protagonist, but he works. He’s a bit of a dumb himbo in his arc which makes me like him more. And he was a genuinely good leader.

Leafpool: I like the drama she causes and I like her relationship with Squilf and Jayfeather. I feel bad for her most of the time. Other than that, she’s fine.

Tigerclawstar: Simple YR villain. Not too deep but not too shallow. He’s fine.

Shadowsight: I really wanted to like him but found myself not caring much. His speech toward Ashfur was powerful though so at least he has that.

Feathertail: Her graphic novel saved her.

Lionblaze: He fought a fox while high on angst. Funniest scene in the entire series. I can’t hate him because of that. Plus I think he’s overhated. Lionblaze is fine, guys.

Mapleshade: Overrated. Her novella is fucking insane and I can’t take it seriously.

Ivypool and Dovewing: Meh. I like Dove a bit more but neither sister is interesting to me.

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Prompt idea: Geralt gets a contract for a monster that has been sighted nearby. When he tracks it down, he is surprised to find mothman!Jaskier who (much like actual mothman) has an ass that won’t quit.

?

I just want you to know that Mothskier now lives in my head rent free 24/7. I love him. I would die for him. This is my new favorite emotional support au.

2k-ish words - please feel free to shove comments through the bars of my enclosure, I would really like that

art by the ever-wonderful @mawbwehownets, whose drawing of Mothskier made me legit cry.

tw: mild injury, brief blood mention, strangers to lovers

---

“So what you’re saying,” Geralt raises an eyebrow slowly, curious, “Is that you need me to catch a monster that’s half man and half moth?”

“Yup.”

“Alright,” Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and pointer finger. The frustrated Witcher takes a slow breath to calm and center himself, before he ends up botching the entire contract-writing process. Humans tend to grow attached to the strangest monsters sometimes, and apparently this mysterious local being was no different. “Let me get this totally straight, so there are no mistakes or misunderstandings. You want me to capture this man-moth and get it out of your woods, but you don’t want me to kill it?”

“He’s called the Mothman, and he’s pretty damn stubborn about sticking around,” the aging farmer corrects Geralt with a little frown. Then his expression shifts and he smiles in a way that seems almost apologetic. “We were hoping you could find a way to relocate him without hurting or killing him, Master Witcher.”

“That’s completely possible, if he isn’t attached to this specific patch trees by any magical or biological means. You said his natural habitat is just… the forest?”

“As long as there's an abundance of pine around he seems pretty happy. Before he came to live with us, Mothman lived in a heavily forested area up the coast; or at least that’s what the historical records and local mythology seem to indicate.”

“That’s actually pretty helpful information to have on hand, I’m impressed,” Geralt nods. “Alright, Mr. Stevens. I promise to relocate the poor thing without killing or maiming him, and I’ll be sure to take him somewhere far enough away that your crops won’t be in danger. Thanks for calling me first instead of just going straight to an extermination service.”

“Honestly, Master Witcher,” the farmer sighs and readjusts his dirty baseball hat, “If it weren’t for the mischief he’s been getting into lately, we would have let him stick around until spring. I hate to admit it to a man as strong and stern-faced as yourself, but the poor creature is almost… adorable at times.”

“Well that’s a first,” Geralt chuckles, honestly amused by the situation he’s found himself in. “A monster being referred to as ‘adorable’ rather than ‘terrifying’. I’ve never heard such a thing in my many years of life.”

“Then you’d better prepare yourself, Sir Geralt. He’s got a pair of big blue puppy-dog eyes that’ll knock you on your ass if you aren’t careful. And that’s coming from a man who raised three daughters with dimples.”

“Hmm. Fuck.”

---

Geralt knows enough about moths to come up with a plan he thinks will work.

Before he heads into the woods to find and capture the poor wandering creature, the Witcher takes a detour through the lighting section of the nearest Lowe’s.

---

Unfortunately for Geralt, the farmer was right about the power of Mothman’s puppy dog eyes, which are big and blue and begin to water as soon as the Witcher’s net knocks him to the ground. The creature lies in a whimpering tangle of limbs beneath the heavy, magically enhanced restraints. Geralt takes an opportunity to look at what the locals called "a cryptid".

Mothman has a long, lithe body that's covered in a light layer of grey-brown fur, but his hair resembles that of a human’s, falling over those enormous blue eyes in a lovely chestnut fringe. When Mothman sees the swords on Geralt’s back he cries out in panicked recognition and tries to pull his arms up far enough to shield his face. The lamp Geralt used to lure him into the clearing is still bathing him in a pool of yellow light; it’s almost pretty for a monster, Geralt notes.

As the Witcher takes a step forward, the cryptid squeaks and buries his face against his own shoulder. His entire frame is trembling.

“Hey there, shhhhh,” the Witcher murmurs quietly. He drops into a squat and holds both hands up to show Mothman that they’re weapon free. Tears are now falling freely down the creature’s surprisingly human face; whoever or whatever this is, they are likely some kind of Fae. “I’m not here to hurt you, I just want to get you back through the veil.”

“Liar,” Mothman huffs. His voice has a surprisingly musical quality to it and Geralt is now sure of his Fae parentage (or grand-parentage).

“I promise I’m not lying,” Geralt reassures him, slowly crawling forward. When he reaches for the nearest corner of the net, he feels all of Mothman’s muscles go tense. “I’m going to lift this up and I am going to restrain you, but I swear that I’m not going to kill you. I wish to cause as little distress as possible. Is that alright, Mothman?”

The creature hisses and yanks his foot back away from where Geralt’s hand had nearly touched it. “Jaskier.”

“Hmm?” Geralt glances up, raising an eyebrow.

“My name is Jaskier,” the Fae repeats, glaring up from between the sections of woven rope that make up the heavy net. “Not Mothman.”

“My apologies, Jaskier,” Geralt bows his head. He words his introduction carefully, in case this thing can manipulate his name like others of his kind: “You may refer to me as Geralt.”

“That’s your real name,” Jaskier states. The Witcher’s head snaps up.

“How did you know?”

“Hmm,” Jaskier sticks his tongue out as he mimics the sound Geralt made earlier. “Not telli-AH! Stop! Oh go- gods, stop! Please!”

Geralt drops the short section of rope he’s trying untangle from around Jaskier’s ankle and snaps his eyes upwards, already searching for damage. “What’s wrong!?”

“My wing!” Jaskier bawls. His scent spikes out through the clearing, sharp with panic and pain. The creature’s chest begins to shake more violently than before, his shoulders shuddering with the rising force of his sobs, “It’s t-t-torn! Oh gods, my wing! Sir Witcher, p-please!”

Geralt freezes, his gaze settling on the torn section of Jaskier’s large, furry wing. It’s a nasty wound near one of the joints, a faint trickle of barely-luminescent blood has already dried around the edges. Jaskier tries to flutter it a little and screams in agony when the muscles shift too suddenly, shrilly enough that Geralt needs to cover his hypersensitive ears. The Witcher's heart crashes down into his boots; based on the way the shivering Fae has gone pale and silent, the pain is too much for him to process. He’s gone into shock.

A torn wing is exactly the kind of thing Geralt had promised the farmer (and the collective of townspeople he represented) wouldn’t happen to the peaceful moth creature if they hired a Witcher instead of an exterminator. He sighs and gives the strange being another once-over. “Everything's alright, Jaskier. You’re going to be alright. I’m so, so sorry that you've been wounded. We’ll get you out of this net and get you something for the pain, but it’s going to hurt a little to untangle you. Stay still, don’t struggle, and it’ll be over soon.”

“J-Just kill me,” Jaskier pants. He’s continuing to hyperventilate and Geralt needs him to calm down before he passes out. The Fae reaches a hand for the dagger at Geralt's waist and the Witcher twists out of reach with a frown. Jaskier sobs again, fingers still seeking, “I might n-n-never fly a-again so just k-kill me!”

“Breathe with me, Jaskier,” the Witcher instructs, forgoing patience and cutting through the net with that same dagger. He scoops Jaskier up into his arms, ignoring the keening sound at the back of Jaskier’s throat when his wing is jostled, and rushes the Fae to his truck, tucking him into the passenger’s seat and wrapping him in a large, fluffy blanket. “I’m taking you to my friend. She’s an expert at healing magical creatures and I'm certain that she'll get your wing fixed in no time.”

Jaskier doesn’t give an answer. When Geralt looks up into the creature’s face again, the injured Fae has already passed out.

---

Jaskier moves with all the grace of a newborn foal as he explores the room Geralt has provided for him. His wing has been inspected, treated, and bandaged by a rather scary sorceress named Yennefer, who glared at the Witcher the entire time she was caring for him. She had also taken one of Geralt’s old t-shirts and cut an enormous hole in the back for Jaskier’s wings to fit through. The shirt’s bottom hem falls to the middle of his thighs and the thick black material is softer than anything he’d ever felt before.

He hears a knock on the door and calls out, “It’s open!”

Geralt enters slowly, bearing a pair of pajama bottoms and a mug of tea. “I brought you some last minute supplies and - uh… I brought you some tea. Yen always likes some before she goes to sleep and I figured since this was a new place and new places can be scary that I should-”

“Thank you,” Jaskier interrupts, smiling shyly. His antennae twitch happily as he takes the offerings from Geralt's hands and the Witcher watches them with wide eyes. Jaskier carefully sets the pajamas and the tea on the nightstand before turning back to look at Geralt. “I will… see you tomorrow?”

Geralt gives one sharp nod. “Hmm.”

“Goodnight,” Jaskier sing-songs, taking a seat on the edge of the bed as Geralt exits.

From the other side of the closed door, Jaskier’s superior hearing picks up the Witcher’s final whisper: “Goodnight, Jaskier. I will always be sorry for causing you pain.”

The next morning he meets Geralt at the breakfast table, refreshed and ready to learn about the human world. He’s summoned a glamour in order to hide his more Moth-like traits, the only things that remain of his true nature are his wings and antennae; his fur is gone and he’s dressed in a pair of sweatpants and that same old shirt. The Witcher offers him a bowl of fruit and mug of something sweet-smelling. Jaskier glares into the mug with a slight pout to his lips before finally asking, “What is this?”

“Hot chocolate.”

Jaskier takes a sip and his antennae flutter, twitching happily as he swallows the best drink he’s ever had in his long life. He eats a strawberry from the bowl and slowly works his way through the hot chocolate, eyeing Geralt warily as the Witcher moves through the familiar kitchen to make his own breakfast.

“Where is Yennefer?”

“She went home,” Geralt shrugs.

“She isn’t your mate?”

“N-No,” Geralt sputters, turning to stare at the nervous young Fae. “Why would you think that?”

“You smell like each other.”

“We spend a lot of time together,” Geralt shrugs again. “Good friends, that’s all.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier mimics his host for a second time. Rather effectively by the annoyed twitch at the corner of Geralt’s mouth. “Just wondering.”

“Anything else you’re curious about?”

“Why don’t you have more lights?”

“Huh?”

“Lights,” Jaskier gestures around the minimalistic layout of Geralt’s open-concept kitchen/living room and its distinctive lack of lamps. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans forward against the dark marble countertop. The pout has gone from 'slight' to 'full-bore' and Geralt is clinging desperately to his braincell with how cute it looks. “It’s no fun.”

“You really like lamps, don’t you?” the Witcher replies, mouth dry. Jaskier huffs and takes another sip of his hot chocolate, antennae flickering back and forth in irritation. Geralt bites his lip to hide a smile; it’s too fucking cute, which is an odd thought for a Witcher to have.

“So what if I do enjoy a nice lamp or five in my living space?” Jaskier argues. "I'm a Moth of taste."

“No matter,” Geralt laughs quietly. “Finish your drink before it gets cold.”

---

Jaskier stays with Geralt for a few weeks while his wing heals, and for a creature whose sole interest seems to be fancy light fixtures, the Fae becomes a source of light in Geralt's own world. They go to a nonhuman friendly second-hand store to find Jaskier some more clothes and Geralt discovers the cryptid's love for oddly patterned shirts in bright colors. Jaskier chooses several to fill out his closet, as well as a sweater two-sizes too large in deep black (Geralt tries his best not to attach any meaning to this choice), a few pairs of pants, and a jean jacket that he declares, "Can be altered."

They watch movies together and make food together - Jaskier is always incredibly impressed by the way the automatic coffee maker works, and how easily Geralt can control the flames of the stove. Jaskier also follows the Witcher along on less dangerous hunts and helps bandage him up after worse ones, always there with a smile and a little kiss over the cleaned-up wound.

“It really is magic,” Jaskier always insists, lips pink and shining from licking them as he concentrates. "It makes you heal faster."

Geralt realizes one night - two weeks into Jaskier’s stay, as he leans against the doorframe and watches the strange creature’s even breathing - that he has gone and done the stupidest thing a Witcher can do: fall in love with a pretty, temperamental young Fae. Head over fuckin’ heels, actually.

So he makes a decision.

---

The next evening, after the dinner dishes have been cleaned and put away, Geralt herds Jaskier down the hall to the guest room. Those entrancing blue eyes blink up at him in obvious confusion. “Bedtime already?”

“No, not quite. I just- I made you… uh…”

“Do you have a surprise for me?” Jaskier asks, used to the Witcher's issues with verbalizing.

Geralt nods, relieved and thankful for the Fae’s steadfast understanding. “Do you want to cover your eyes or should I just open the door and show you?”

“I’ll close my eyes,” Jaskier smiles, covering his eyes with both hands. Geralt finds it adorable, as Jaskier always is, and allows himself a matching grin as he swings the door open. The ceiling light is off but Geralt has built a blanket fort at the center of the room and surrounded it with fairy lights of all colors and sizes. Inside the blanket fort is a mass of blankets and pillows; Jaskier has the odd habit of building nests - Geralt jokingly calls them cocoons - and sleeping in those on the floor instead of on the very comfortable mattress the Witcher has provided.

“Open them,” Geralt urges.

Jaskier pulls his hands away and Geralt watches as his pupils go huge and wide. Jaskier's face breaks out in the sunniest, most blindingly happy smile Geralt has ever seen. He turns and throws his arms around the Witcher, his wings fluttering behind him and his antennae twitching and flicking above his head. He tries desperately to speak but only manages a half-snuffled little “I’m-” before bursting into tears of joy.

Geralt just holds him, letting his arms fold carefully around Jaskier’s waist, just beneath his wings.

"I just wanted you to know that, if you wanted to stay, there would be room for you. Your room, if you want it."

"I do," Jaskier smiles, burying his face in the Witcher's neck. "I'd love to stay. I'd love nothing more than to spend my days going on adventures with you."

"Well then," Geralt gathers all of his courage and presses a soft kiss to the crown of Jaskier's head. He's met with happy spasms from the antennae so he does it again. And again. Moving from the top of the Fae's head to his cheeks and then his mouth - pretty and pink and pouting and so worth the trouble. "I suppose we can get started on our next adventure tomorrow."

[motheatenscarf]

Okay, we're 6 episodes in now and I wanted to wait and make sure the first 3 eps weren't a fluke, but they weren't.

I am really enjoying S2 of TLoVM so far!

It's still good!

S1 had a rough start, but like, pilots are hard. I get it. Selling people on this world and these characters is a lot, setting the right tone is hard. I don't even think they botched it, I think it was just awkward for those first few episodes, but by the end of the Briarwood arc they really proved they can make a worthwhile story out of this with fucking gorgeous animation and solid character work.

S2 continues to impress me in terms of animation, I complained that the one dragon of S1 along with a few undead warg looking things were janky as fuck and looked terrible. Not the case anymore! The Chroma Conclave are CG and they are GORGEOUS, both in design and the way they move, I'm so glad they gave them the attention they need! The Sphynxes looked a little wonky, but in a way that implied maybe they were made of stone, and they're not here for that long anyway, so it's nothing that doesn't work well enough to get you through until they don't matter anymore.

My one nitpicky ultra critical complaint remains what it's always been; character talk too fucking much when they could just shut up and trust their audience to put two and two together.

I know that's like... a petty thing to complain about, but god it annoys me. It shouldn't! It's not like this is trying to be high art or anything! It's a fun dumb adventure story with focuses on action, horror, and comedy, and 2/3 of those it nails every time! It just bugs me that they make crude jokes, they curse, they have gore out the fucking whazoo, they are clearly branding themselves as a Grownup Show For Adults, so the way some of the unnecessary dialogue holds people's hands through scenes like they are small children who don't have any kind of understanding of visual language just... annoys me.

Spoilers below the cut for the most egregious example of this specific gripe;

Okay, so Scanlan being the one to "wound" the Sphynx was something I saw coming a mile away. That's not a bad thing, I've said before if a narrative has done its job, you know what's coming because you've been paying attention to the themes and foreshadowing. I don't remember this being in C1, but I barely remember this part of C1, so that's not saying much, everything between the Briarwood arc and Westruun kinda blurs together for me. But! I knew that it was gonna be Scanlan and that he'd do his bard cutting words shit and wound the Sphynx by reminding him of Osysa. And he did! And it was a sweet moment, I liked that we see the effect it has on the Sphynx as he looks sad and cries. I am a human adult who understands simple emotional cues, I can see he is wounded. The fucking Sphynx does not then with his words need to tell me "You have done what no other has before, you have wounded me; you have wounded my heart." I know that! Scanlan knows that! We saw him crying!

The dialogue that follows is, y'know, clumsy, but I get why they have Scanlan say with his words that he is lonely even though everything in the narrative is beating us over the head about it. But god the whole "Oh, you have wounded me!" thing was just. It irritated me. Just have the Sphynx cry and THEN say, "You must know great love in your life to understand such pain as this." That's it! That's all we need!

It just bugs me!

And it shouldn't!

And I know it!

I'm fully aware how petty I'm being but my god, if you are making a grown up show for adults, trust your audience to be able to discern that a SAPIENT BEING THAT IS CRYING. IS EMOTIONALLY WOUNDED. For FUCK'S SAKE.

Anyway, A- so far, the animation really is amazing and the characters and world are a lot of fun. It's fun! It's fun and worthwhile and good and doesn't try to be anything more than what it needs to be, which is good, I'm just insane and impossible to please.

[letamthoughts]

TÁR (2022)

i really like it (mid/high tier) 10/10

i could've been a pianist :| oh fucking well i guess great shit like, damn like watching an unraveling or unwinding dat end credits track tho shit go hard was an interesting trip to see pre-credits, but it makes since in hindsight wonder what her forgetting where she came from meant, and what he put on the stand before walking away interesting that things can get chopped up like that, but yeah really interesting things going on beyond and around Tár

The Get Off Your Couch List (just for the sound, really) The Blind List (1/5) The Depression List (sex & gender)

(Minor Spoilers)

so Tár's a transman or are they just Petra's father in the household? 🤔 interesting to see it either way and rewatch methinks the consequences of a transactional lifestyle what was her wife's missed phone call about?

(Moderate Spoilers)

she undid herself in the end bad habits and all did she get her interview response from that recording? 🤔 why the tears? Tár not recognizing the date as International Women's Day was a clear sign of her masculinity and maleness she's definitely Petra's father in terms of identity, behavior, and lifestyle doing all the things stereotypical of a male in power; like, damn conversation with the old guy made more sense now; she was asking for advice (basically) on how to proceed and cover herself dude's "I'm out of the game" was quite poignant in that regard, especially with him making sure his hangers were all facing the same direction very effective way of handling the dude calling her out in private; should've stayed on that shit, but she was too aggressive and imposing in the moment need to rewatch soon

just realized, this movie would make for interesting discussions from a... certain perspective? 🤔 nevermind the whole trans matter 😐

(Major Spoilers)

the bullying of the student was quite a foreshadow in regards to her end fucked up that she took it so far as to coerce him into taking part in and playing Botch Bach's music (he was right) to lose it all so easily how she handled her assistant's emotional turmoil is what did it methinks; o'girl saw her way of things way too quickly, so i assumed it was a script/performance/direction matter noice was the assistant wrong, tho? nah~ fuck Tár her not recognizing a call for help led to two deaths lady had bed soars for how long? and why's the sister sent to "a facility"? was she just being used as the only person helping mom, or did she lose it after? the new one/meat played the game on her ass; called it possibly (but doubtibly) shifted away after the case came out i take it she was the one live recording her and saying shit Tár didn't know about being replaced because she didn't have an assistant interesting that Krista Tyler's ghost followed her; maybe she died before the movie even began? makes the most sense methinks

[restapesta]

It was Mickey's idea. He'd said he used to do it back in the day; that it was his weird way of marking his territory of sorts. That it made him feel good, putting his art on the Southside walls for everybody to see.

So when his husband suggested it with a sheepish look on his face, Ian had said yes without hesitation. He was excited even, finding the prospect of heading back to the place they grew up and putting graffiti on the walls just like Mickey used to do enticing.

Now they were here, standing in front of a wall near the bleachers, a multitude of secrets hidden beneath them at their spot where they would undoubtedly head to after they were finished. The two were next to one another, only a few feet separating them as they observed the blank canvas before them.

"So, you used to this?" Ian asked his husband as they stood stoically in the dark, their date night just as fucked up as they were.

Mickey shot him a grin. "You don't remember the, 'Ian Gallagher is a dead man'?"

That was enough for Ian to simply nod in understanding, an awkward—and slightly nostalgic—ahhh moving past his lips. "Got it."

"Relax, Gallagher, you know I crossed that shit out after the first hook up."

Ian grinned at the memory, moving around to catch a glimpse of his surroundings.

Nobody was really around at one in the morning to catch them—this being a spur-of-the-moment idea, paying off at least in some way.

It was Mickey who moved first.

Ian eyed him as he grabbed the duffel he brought along. He had packed it with some weird shit he'd grabbed from some sketchy bags back at their place. With obvious apprehension, he pulled out two spray bottles, one red, one black.

So that was what he kept in them, Ian thought as he stared at his husband, wondering what other types of shit they had in their home.

He handed the red one to Ian, smirking silently.

Ian smiled to himself, catching on. Appropriate.

At first, Ian just watched Mickey approach the building silently.

He watched fucking mesmerized as his husband finally pressed onto the bottle, drawing across the wall, the concrete chipped and somewhat dirty, that Southside etched into it.

Mickey drew random lines and shapes, all methodical and calculated, creating something out of nothing, making Ian gape at the wonderful image appearing in front of him.

Some would say they were just scribbles, but to Ian—and Mickey too—they were more. They were a showcase of Mickey's talent; his love for art that translated into wonderful creation of something akin to what they were staring at now. Something abstract.

Something meaningful.

"It's fucking amazing, Mickey." Ian breathed as the love of his life scoffed and rolled his eyes, blushing nonetheless.

"Shut up," Mickey muttered finally as he finished his art with his signature, Mickey M, that he spray-painted widely over the wall. So widely that it was art in and of itself, all cursive and beautiful.

Once he was done, he turned to Ian who was still shockingly appreciating the view. He pressed a light kiss to Ian's cheek, his eyes lighting up in happiness at what they were doing. Ian guessed it had to do with the reminiscing of Mickey's past and them being together, an odd yet good match.

Mickey gestured to the wall and said softly, "Come on, your turn."

Under Mickey's expectant gaze, Ian found himself blushing furiously.

He wasn't as fucking talented as Mickey was—Mickey was fucking special when it came to a lot of things, and as much as Ian would like to say the same, he really couldn't.

He sucked at art, and he knew, without a doubt, that if he started drawing now, he'd ruin what had already been beautifully created by his husband.

So with a slight glance at Mickey and a gulp, Ian made his decision.

He raised the red spray paint, positioning it against the wall, following Mickey's short instructions on how to do it properly—do this, do that—and then he wrote + IAN G. 🖤 right next to the large Mickey M.

He stepped away as soon as he was done, his eyebrows creasing in disdain at the red paint slightly smeared at the end, not too shabby at best.

Mickey M + IAN G. 🖤

He smiled at his handiwork, despite it being flawed in contrast to his man's, his name besides Mickey's signature, right underneath the wonderful image Mickey had conjured up.

Ian turned to gaze at Mickey in the dark, his facial expression only illuminated by the moon.

He seemed like he was holding back tears, gnawing on his lower lip as he avoided Ian's gaze and stared straight at the simple, somewhat botched letters Ian wrote.

"Mick?"

Ian took a step back from the wall and towards Mickey. As soon as he came close enough, Mickey drew his arms across his waist from the side, leaning against the crook of his shoulder, eyes still not moving.

Ian reveled in the warmth of his partner pressed up against him.

"I fucking love it." He sniffed, and Ian, for a moment, knew that the emotions were appropriate. Ian himself was close to tears.

As they continued staring at it together, Ian wondered if he should move away, pick up the spray paint, and also add forever, just because he fucking could.

Mickey did it for him.

Mickey M. + IAN G. 🖤 forever

They were.

[the-fanaddict]

an in depth analysis of why every character was written horribly, even without the dumb reset

Steve

I mean this one’s obvious. We had someone with such great character development in Trollhunters, 3Below, and Wizards. Personally think that Steve was fine in Wizards (I like his knight subplot) and I thought they were setting up Steve recreating knights of the roundtable, but guess not lol. 

He didn’t even get to fight. He had a strong start in the movie and his concern for Jim really shows his growth from being his bully, but then he got immediately turned into a punchline.

Eli

All of Eli’s involvement with the plot happened offscreen. It’s great that he created the gun robot, but that’s it. Then he got turned into a midwife for Steve. 

Krel

Also a lot of the involvement happened offscreen. He remade the amulet which was cool, but it should’ve held more weight. The amulet should’ve been introduced way later into the movie. 

And okay as much as I love Stuart why did he need to fix the Amulet KREL WAS RIGHT THERE WHY WAS STUART RELEVANT

I know Stuart is good with electronics and he even made Seklos’ canon back in 3below but this is such an annihilation of Krel’s genius.

Plus the whole “It needs to have Merlin’s magic” thing was bs HELLO DOUXIE WAS RIGHT THERE THE ORIGINAL AMULET WAS ALSO MADE WITH HIS MAGIC

Aja

I’m glad she’s come into the role of queen, but by god she was so cold to Jim for no reason. She knows what it’s like to be powerless. She lost her parents to a coup and couldn’t do anything!!!! SHE AND JIM HAD THE MOST UNDERSTANDING IN 3BELOW. 

Also evacuating the earth goes so much against who she was in 3below. She ADORED the Earth. Loved everything about it, not just the people. 

And by god the kissing Akiridion lore is so dumb and so obviously thrown in there with no thought on how it would’ve affected 3Below. The kissing tree is ruined and her relationship with Steve is ruined.

Claire

bruh what do you mean her magic is spent this was not a problem in Wizards. She barely does any shadow magic and then it is spent. How many times are you gonna nerf her like that

I’ve always said Jlaire is what Hiccstrid should’ve been and in the end they become what I dislike about Hiccstrid. Claire was a prize for Jim and was reduced to Girlfriend who Fights. She didn’t have any meaningful or fun interactions with any other character. Really nobody did

Douxie

@douxie-casperan​ goes in much more in depth here https://douxie-casperan.tumblr.com/post/657457589076000768/rise-of-the-titans-and-the-assassination-hisirdoux but i’ll add my thoughts as well

the narrative just gives him one big trauma conga line without addressing any of it. Douxie was tortured by the order and absolutely no one wants to check he’s alright????? Just immediately start questioning him?? 

Archie was his companion for CENTURIES and all he says is “I hope he’s happy?????” honestly this was just httyd3 for them but without any of the emotion

Nari died and Douxie should’ve fucking snapped by that point. He should’ve gone avatar mode again when Nari got stabbed and help Nari kill Skrael on the spot. And then Nari would die. He should’ve been on his knees sobbing hearing Nari say “no more running” one last time. It would’ve been a great parallel to Wizards. 

And then he also was nerfed with his powers but with no explanation. The body swap spell was great. Power move. Everything else was no. Not to mention his magic was so inconsistent like hello that’s not what tenebris excellium does

He took on the order alone in wizards with a tenebris excellium but then bellroc overpowers him and flicks him away like w h  at. 

Toby

If Toby was going to die and have his friendship with Jim be prioritized at all, then for the love of god stop reducing him to a punchline. I mean the series has this issue as well, but he’s supposed to be important here. There are barely any meaningful moments with Jim outside of his death scene and moments from the series. 

Charlemagne 

Literally used as a plot device. Guy who knows a guy. I mean, that’s kind of what he was used for in Wizards as well, but his character moments with Douxie was why he was important. Honestly no reason for him to be in this movie. 

Archie

Archie CHOSE TO BE A FAMILIAR AND DEFY CHARLIE’S WISHES TO BE WITH DOUXIE AND THEN HE SAYS NO THANKS I’LL JUST BE WITH MY DAD FOREVER????????

Strickler + Nomura

Literally brought into this movie just to be a casualty. I will admit I like the small interaction between Douxie and Nomura but he barely knows her so there’s no reaction to it. Their deaths were so goddamn stupid how would a bomb defeat a magical being and why would you send a changeling to brazil. 

Jim

Jim. Oh buddy Jim. For a character with pretty much the only tangible arc in this movie, they sure botched that up. I was ready for the arc to be about him being weak, but I figured it would be due to turning human, not losing the amulet. We’ve been through the fact that without the amulet he’s still the trollhunter. But now he’s back to being powerless. That’s what his arc should’ve been about being powerless, not the amulet. 

I’m not a fan of making him the center of the movie when he’s had way more screentime than anyone else. and to learn a lesson HE ALREADY LEARNED. I wouldn’t have minded as much if his arc was handled any good. 

I hate to say this about one of my favorite emotional characters, but Jim kept angsting way too much throwing pity party after pity party for himself. Like we get it dude. Outside of that he was so emotionless as a leader. There was no charm to him at all. He honestly could’ve given less of a crap about anyone else besides the og gang.  He honestly reminds me a little of rtte!hiccup and how hiccup treated his friends terribly from time to time rip

Douxie getting tortured?? After he fought tooth and nail for him when Jim was hurt in wizards??? Immediately starts pestering him for answers. Where is his kindness? His selflessness? The trademark Jim sacrifice??? BECAUSE GOING BACK SURELY WASN’T A SACRIFICE

[klbwriting]

Pirate’s Heart - Chapter 1

Perfect Color, or Not

Fandom: Six of Crows

Pairing: Kaz/female!Reader

Warning: so this chapter is pretty dark, Kaz’s backstory is dark and there is suggestion of sexual assault but it is not described

Song: Perfect Color - Safety Suit

Taglist: @sixofshadowandbone @thedelusionreaderbitch @itsemy01 @angelicdanvers @marinettepotterandplagg @screen-to-stage @aysegust @sagewrites111 @lilyoflower @hey-peeps @starjane312 @spawn0fsatan @myalupinblack​

Yellow nice to meet you

Do you know that you just blue my mind?

It was the perfect conversation, I think that I red about one time

And I told a white lie when I told you, I've never been green with envy you

You are the perfect color

 The song would not get out of Y/N's head and she hated it.  Pekka sang it to her about her tail all the time.  And she hated Pekka Rollins.  Well hated him as much as she could without a heart.  Why was she thinking so much anyway?  Wasn't she sleeping?  Why was she moving and why did she hear voices?  She groaned, eyes slowly opening to see two teenage girls standing above her.  They were gazing at her with curious eyes and she tried to wipe her own eyes, only to find her wrists were tied to the table she was laying on.  

"She's awake Nina," she said a girl with bronze skin and dark hair.  

"I can see that Inej," the other girl, creamy white skin with brown hair and freckles.  Nina was light eyed while Inej had dark eyes, and both girls were fourteen, maybe fifteen years old.  How long had she been asleep?  It couldn't have been that long, she didn't feel any older.  She turned her head, finding a mirror on a table nearby and seeing that she didn't look older, only dirty.  

"Where am I?" she asked.  She knew she was on a boat, she could feel the sea moving them, but how did she get there?  She was in the jungle before, bleeding, stabbed where her heart should have been.

“You’re on the Menagerie,” the one called Nina said. Inej tried to shush her and Y/N could hear footsteps nearby.  

“What have you girls brought me?” a beautiful blond woman asked, entering the room.  She was dressed in fine silks with an intricate peacock feather tattoo on her face, making her look almost like an animal herself.   Y/N felt a very strange pang of fear, dulled by her lack of heart, but she felt it enough to worry about this woman.

“Tante Heleen, we found her in the jungle when we were hunting,” Inej explained, her eyes downcast.   Y/N was fast learning that this woman was not to be trifled with, but she didn’t care.  She wanted out of these bindings and she would do what she needed to survive.  

“My, my, she is filthy, we will have to clean her up, get me the sponge and some water,” she demanded.  Nina did as asked, and Heleen started to clean her face.  “Not particularly special in the face, homely and plain.  Face too round for most men…eyes are dark but not special, lips are too pale will need color,” the woman continued, cleaning down her body and commenting on everything.  Breasts were too small, stomach too round, hips too wide, legs… She stopped at her legs, staring in shock as the bright scales that still dotted her thighs. They were remnants of her tail in case she ever got it back.  Heleen demanded Inej get a message out at the port for the commander, they had something special for him.

“What is it Tante?” Inej asked.  The look Heleen sent her made Inej run.   Y/N was becoming very aware of how this ship worked.  Heleen was a captain of some kind of pleasure vessel and all these poor young girls were stuck here attending to the men who paid for them.   Y/N was disgusted, and she could see from the look on the woman’s face that she was going to be the centerpiece of some kind of show for this commander. Like hell she would have another man touch her without her permission.   Y/N looked around the room and realized she would need to wait for her time to arrive.  She started to pretend to be scared, her acting not very good, it had been a long time since she’d been around anyone and Heleen saw right through it.

“O now, I see, you’re fearless are you?” she asked, a snake like smile on her face.  “Well, let’s get you dressed and shackled.  The commander will want us to report back to Argoes immediately.” Y/N’s eyes narrowed.  Like hell she was going anywhere near Argoes, not when Pekka was going to probably be there.  She would bide her time, wait for a moment to strike.   Y/N may have been a lovestruck mermaid but she was also a rare tail, trained to defend herself.  She knew things were different with legs but her upper body defensive maneuvers should be the same.  

Heleen had her hands shackled and took her to a room full of clothes, dresses in bright colors, silk, and lace.  Nina had followed, listening as the captain listed items for her to retrieve.  While they were distracted by clothes Y/N slid a hat pin into her hand, starting to work the cuffs.  Humans learned many things about mermaids and nearly none of them were true.  The idea that they were stupid, unable to function at the same level mentally as humans, they were underestimating Y/N right now and she was pleased.  

The child, Nina approached her, getting her dressed. Y/N saw the girl look at the hat pin, saw the shackles were no longer together and instead of outing her the girl said nothing.   Y/N smiled, she would let the girl live whenever she killed Heleen.  She wasn’t a monster, at least, she didn’t think she was. Heartless or not she wasn’t going to kill a child who was clearly being used by adults for terrible things.  

“Let me cut this string…” Nina said, moving to a dressing table and taking a pair of scissors and moving back to Y/N.  She cut a pretend string and slid the scissors into the sleeve of the dress she wore.  Their eyes met and an understanding crossed between them.   Y/N would kill Heleen, take this ship, and then she would take care of these children.  No more powerful men were going to use these babies for their own pleasure again.  

Heleen took her above, walked her to the side of the ship.   Y/N looked around, all the crew, everyone, was a child except for one man who seemed to be the muscle on this craft. All young girls of various ages, some as young as 7.   Y/N felt bile rising in her throat as she looked in the eyes of some of them, their eyes were much older than they should have been.  She looked at Nina and motioned for her to fall back a little bit. Nina took two steps back and sat down on the deck.  Heleen turned to face the mermaid as she stood, pointing to the island in the distance.

“Now, when we arrive at Argoes…” she didn’t finish her statement. Y/N sunk the scissors into Heleen’s eye, digging in as deep as she could.  She pulled them back out, feeling the blood on her face but not letting the warmth distract her.  As soon she killed Heleen the man came storming over, lumbering a large. Good.   Y/N ducked down, sliding under him and kicking out her leg.  He ran into it, nearly snapping it in half as he faltered, trying to balance.  For a moment she thought he would regain his footing and come for her but then Inej and Nina came out of nowhere and pushed him, sending him toppling over the side of the ship and into the sea.   Y/N stood up, rubbing her knee as she leaned to the rail of the ship.  

“Well, I’m sorry you had to see that…” she started.  Nina and Inej just shrugged and the rest of the girls on the ship looked at her.  She felt her soul ache for these children and realized maybe her soul could harness strong emotions, but it still didn’t feel completely real, still dulled by her lack of heart.  O well, she would protect these children, make them into a force a nature, show the world that they were more than just a body to warm a bed.  

“Come on, let’s push her over,” Inej said so some of the older girls, moving to Heleen’s body.   Y/N held out an arm.  

“No, you are children, you shouldn’t be disposing of dead bodies, you shouldn’t even be touching them,” she said.  “Get the ship ready, we are sailing for any port except Argoes.” She struggled but finally tossed Heleen’s body to the sea.  Turning she sought out Inej.

“Inej love, did you send that message like Heleen asked?” Y/N asked, gently touching the girl’s face.  Inej shook her head.  “Good. Now, you and Nina are my first mates alright?  So, where have you always wanted to go?”

  Kaz Rietveld didn’t know how long he had been on that boat in the middle of the ocean.  He didn’t know what day it was, what time, all he knew was that he was starving and so very thirsty.  Sitting in all this water was making it worse.  He had tried seawater, even knowing that it would do nothing but make him sick, but he had been desperate.  God, is this how he died?  15 years old and in the middle of the cursed ocean.  Fucking hell.  He should have just let his uncle know he was alive when he had the chance, but instead he had hid, never wanting to go back to that horrid fortress.  But instead, he was just going to die here.  O well, what really was his life worth anyway, crippled leg from a botched escape with his brother when he was 11 and now, well now he was broken entirely.  He knew that the moment they got on that boat, but he had gone anyway.  

He was laying down, ready to die, when the water moved, waves hitting the boat harder than before.  He sat up and looked seeing a pirate vessel flying the black colors approaching.  He knew this was his only chance.  Kaz could die in this boat or he could try his best at getting on that boat.  He waved his arms, screaming at the top of his voice.  He thought they were just going to pass but then a rope ladder was dropped down the side as they pulled up next to him.  He scrambled up the ladder and dropped on the deck, panting.  

“Water…please…” he begged.  The men around him smiled, looking like they had found a present. One of the men handed him a cup and he drank before spitting out the burning drink.  Whiskey, not water.  The pirates laughed at him and he saw a few cabin boys standing by, looking fearful of him. No, not of him, for him.  Kaz realized that he may have escaped one prison and wound up in another.  The spirit of the sea witches clearly wanted revenge on his entire family.  Taking his parents before he could remember them wasn’t enough, claiming his brother wasn’t enough, now he was stuck here. Fine.  If the sea wanted a war, he would give it one.  

For the first six months of his time aboard the Crow he was a cabin boy, but just in name.  Truly he was whatever the other men wanted him to be.  He was relieved when they brought aboard women for a week or two when he could just be a normal cabin boy.  Unless the women liked him too.  He noticed the two other cabin boys clung to each other, Jesper and Wylan, keeping each other as safe as they could.  One of the crew, an honorable ex-navy captain named Matthias also tried his best to protect them.  He often would give sleeping drafts to the crew to give the boys a night to themselves, but even he could only do so much.  

Kaz waited, biding his time until the captain himself wanted a visit. Then he put the plan he had with Jesper, Wylan, and Matthias into action.  

         Matthias put the poison in the crews dinner, which they ate at 6PM before moving to do night work on the vessel.  They were all dead before 6:30.  The captain ate his dinner at 7PM so Wylan stayed in his cabin, distracting him by being a bumbling fool and getting a severe punishment for it.  Kaz would have felt bad but he didn’t know if he was capable of feeless anymore.  Jesper brought dinner to the captain and helped a bloody Wylan out of the cabin. Kaz slid in as they left and stood, watching the captain as he ate his meal.  

         “Come here boy, I want a better look at you, want to see what all the fuss among the crew is about,” he said.  Kaz swallowed the sick in his throat and approached, letting the captain touch him, roughly feeling his hands on him.  Then the coughing started and Kaz let out a breath of relief.  The captain clutched his throat as his airways closed and soon he was dead at Kaz’s feet.  

         With the help of the others Kaz had the crew overboard and they headed towards a port far from Argoes to gather a new crew using the money the captain had stashed in a vault in his office.  The four of them argued over who would be captain but Kaz won out, being the only one truly willing to kill for the title.  He decided that as soon as he got to port it was time to reinvent himself. Kaz Rietveld was no more.  It was time to take a new name and become something else.

[thenakedgingerwrites]

Gullible Mike

AN: I’ve had a few prompts on my notepad for years that I haven’t fleshed out and finally got into a creative and horny mood today. Prompt below. I welcome any other authors to take it and run with it to make their own variation on the simple idea. I ended up having the POV be the controller but I think my original prompt idea was that the POV would be controlled. If you use the prompt shoot me a message so I can enjoy your mischievous minds :)

Prompt: “Photo or video gets found of a friend and he has to convince his friend it’s not him by getting naked.”

--------------------------------------------------

The hypnosis show me and some buddies went to a few weeks ago was pretty fun. A few of us had been called up on stage and while it didn’t appear to work on a few invited volunteers, it had certainly worked on Mike.

His instruction was pretty simple: to be incredibly gullible. The hypnotist lady had then gotten him into a number of funny situations by proving just how gullible he was. He had offered a bunch of money to random members of the audience since it was obviously illegal to have more than $2 in your wallet at any time. He talked like a baby to anyone who claimed they were a parent because that was the polite thing to do. And lastly, he had taken off his jeans because the hypnotist thought they were on fire!

The show wasn’t x-rated or anything, so it stopped there, but it was pretty funny to see Mike hopping around on stage in his boxer briefs and polo. The audience’s wolf whistles agreed. Before a heckler’s shout of “I think your underwear’s on fire too!” she had put him back under.

It wasn’t until a few days later that it became apparent to me that Mike was still under this ‘gullible’ command. We had been hanging out just the two of us and watching the Packers v. Steelers game and he was going on and on about how Roethlisberger was going to wipe the field with my team. I jokingly said something like “since you’re clearly in love with him, a good luck kiss might go a long way.”

He somewhat seriously asked me, “you think so?” I figured we were still just razzing each other and so I responded, “Oh for sure. If you plant a big one on the TV when he’s on screen I’m positive that’ll make sure the Steelers win.”

Mike just sat there with a curious face as we continued to watch the game. I thought it was just a weird interaction until the camera zoomed in on Roethlisberger between downs. Mike nearly sprinted to the TV and kissed the image of Ben. “Good luck Ben!” he said, somewhat seductively.

I burst out laughing thinking he was still just trying to be funny. He looked back at me and said, “we’ll see who’s laughing at the end of the game.”

I rolled my eyes and got us another round of beers, but these bizarre actions continued. All through the game anytime Ben was shown on screen, Mike would run up and kiss the TV. Luckily we were at his place so I didn’t care about the lip marks and saliva streaks on the screen but I was flabbergasted. What the fuck was wrong with him?

And then I remembered the hypnotist.

It clicked that Mike was clearly still under the command she had given him. I wasn’t sure what to do about it though. I remembered the bar she had performed at so maybe I could call them to get in contact with her and have her reverse this thing.

Then the Steelers scored and he gloated to me that my team was gonna lose because I didn’t have as much team spirit and loyalty like he did.

“You haven’t kissed Rodgers once and you call yourself a fan? You should be ashamed.”

Really, Mike? That’s how you’re gonna act?

“Well at least I’m not kissing him wrong unlike you. What you’re doing is far more disrespectful. I bet they lose the game since you’re doing it so wrong.”

Mike looked worried, “what do you mean?”

“Everyone knows you don’t fucking kiss the quarterback like it’s your grandma or something. I haven’t seen tongue once this whole game. And your silent ass kiss is probably gonna make him miss every throw from this point on.”

Mike was wide eyed. I wagered that in his warped mind now he thought HE would be responsible if they lost. He looked to the TV in terror. Serendipitously, he actually did botch the pass in the next play. Honestly it was more good defense from the Packers end and less-so a poor throw from Roethlisberger but to Mike, that was the confirmation he needed.

The camera zoomed in on Ben cursing inaudibly and Mike went to work. He was fucking making out with the screen, tongue and all, and moaning a ton. He even ran one of his hands up the screen like he was caressing the dude.

I was filled with mixed emotions. I felt bad that I was taking advantage of the situation, I felt ecstatic because this shit was hilarious and I couldn’t wait to tell the guys, and, scarily, I felt turned on watching him make out with 2D Ben Roethlisberger and moaning louder and louder.

The tent in my gym shorts told me I was feeling the third emotion more than anything else.

We were close to the end of the game and I wasn’t pleased that the Packers had lost but for the first time in my life I didn’t care. The day had made a turn and seeing Mike in this way was a treat I didn’t know I wanted.

He continued to berate me for not caring about the Packers as much as he cared about the Steelers which was an argument I let him win. I was still a bit in a state of shock.

I finished my beer and needed to get home. As I was getting ready to leave, I decided to try something. It was dumb, but at that point I was still thinking with the hard dick in my shorts.

“Alright, Mike, I need to head out.”

“Sounds good Matt. Sorry, I made your team lose. Not!”

I rolled my eyes again, “yeah, well maybe next time I’ll try my own good luck charm.”

He raised his eyes, “What’s that!?”

“Well I’m not going to give you any secrets to let your team keep winning against mine.”

“Ah, fuck you Matt. We’ll win no matter what.”

“Sure, sure. Anyway, should we do the kiss now?”

He looked at me confused and took a step back. “The what now?”

“You know, the goodbye kiss.”

He still looked at me like I was crazy. I started to get nervous but doubled down, hoping it would work.

“When two friends watch a game together, they have to kiss after it’s over to show there’s no hard feelings. Have you honestly never heard of that rule?”

He shook his head, “No I… I guess I haven’t. I’m sorry, Matt.”

“Shit, I hope you haven’t pissed off any of your other friends.”

I could see panic in his eyes as he thought through how many times he had botched this gentleman’s rule before.

“It’s probably fine, Mike,” I assured him. “You didn’t know. I’m sure no harm done.”

“Fuck. I hope so.” He looked up at me, “Well I won’t fuck up from now on, that’s for sure!”

He walked up to me and kissed me.

It was so quick and I was on cloud nine with the realization that it had worked that I just stood there for a second.

He looked at me curiously and asked, “We good?” I blinked away my shock to continue the game, “Is that how you kissed Roethlisberger? I thought we were actually friends, dude.”

“Oh, shit sorry!”

I didn’t even need to coach him on what I wanted. He leaned back in and planted his lips on mine but this time, began to invade my mouth with his tongue. As he did he rubbed my back and began to moan. This time, I kissed back.

My arms also stroked up and down the small of his back and I even risked a single rub down onto his butt. Man, was it hot. If he felt my boner pressing up against his thigh, Mike didn’t say anything.

We kissed hot and heavy like this for a good 30 seconds before he broke away.

“Sorry, Matt. I’ll be sure to give a proper kiss moving forward.”

“Yeah… Yeah.”

I was at a loss for words.

I should leave.

I should.

I didn’t.

I’m not sure why it came to mind but I was running on autopilot at this stage controlled entirely by the dick in my shorts. I wouldn’t identify as gay or really even bi, but I had been curious for a bit what it would be like to be with another guy. Mostly like a morbid curiosity or something, but now that there was a real opportunity on the table, with someone I trusted and who was pretty freaking hot, I couldn’t resist the temptation to get it out of my system.

“Oh fuck, dude.”

I looked down at my phone as I exclaimed that.

Mike looked at me, “What’s up? Everything okay?”

“I think your ex leaked dick pics of you.”

“What?!” Mike shouted and ran over to my phone to try and get a look.

I hid my phone from him quickly and covered myself by saying “wait, Mike. You don’t want to look at these in case it’s not actually your dick. That would make you gay if you did.”

He quickly backed off, “I’m not gay!”

“Right, right. Me either. But I didn’t have a choice, I had to look at them but you don’t have to.”

“Okay, yeah. How the fuck would she have done that though? I don’t remember her even taking them!”

“I’m not sure, Mike,” I said. “Maybe she took them when you weren’t paying attention.”

“Fuck, are you sure it’s me?” he asked nervously.

Gotcha.

“Well, I’m not sure. The only way I could know for sure would be to see your dick to compare.”

Mike looked confused, “Well that would be pretty gay dude. I don’t want you looking at my junk and I’m sure you don’t either.”

“Well of course not, but chances are I’m already looking at it right now. But I’m willing to do this as a friend, and that wouldn’t be gay. And if it’s not actually your dick then you don’t have to worry. If it is, we should report them and try and get them taken down.”

“Fuck. Fuck! I don’t want dick pics of me out there on the internet!”

“I know! Think about if your work found them, or your family! That would be so embarrassing!”

“Shit shit shit.” Mike was freaking out. “Okay… Okay, are you sure you don’t mind helping me out?”

“As a friend, I have to do everything in my power to confirm whether these pics are of you or not.”

“You’re such a good friend, Matt. I’m sorry you’re in this position though.”

Oh, no worries.

Mike hesitantly started to undo the button on his cargo shorts. He didn’t strip in any sort of sexy way but a second later his cargo shorts hit the ground. I was staring at a similar image as last week: Mike standing there with nothing but a shirt and underwear. This time though, his hands were reaching for the waistband.

“I’m sorry,” he said to me one more time.

I went to say ‘no problem’ but got caught off by the shucking of his boxer briefs. As he stood back up I finally got to see it. The whole package.

Mike clearly didn’t manscape much and honestly neither did I, but that didn’t hide what he was packing. His soft cock was cut like my own and pretty thick. I knew not to judge a guy based on his softie but wagered he was large. And as a double bonus the balls below, while tight to his body, looked pretty big too.

I stared.

“Well?” Mike asked me cautiously with his palms extended, miming ‘what do you think?’

“I… I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean?” he asked me.

“Well, Mike, this is awkward… but the photos here are of a hard dick. It’s difficult to know for sure if this is you or not comparing the two.”

“Fuck man! What are we gonna do?”

“I’m not sure,” I replied.

I wanted him to come up with the solution. Somehow that made me feel less like a terrible person and friend.

“I hate to ask…” he started. “But, would you be willing to look at my stuff if I went and got a boner?”

“Man, Mike… I mean. Like I said, as a friend I basically have to. It’s my duty, as everyone knows. So yeah, I’ll compare your boner to the pictures.”

He sighed in relief. “You’re the best, Matt.”

He looked around, “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get it up though given the situation…”

Time to test this hypnosis. I planted a seed. “Well, I heard that in this situation I’m supposed to be the one to get you hard.”

“What? Where did you hear that?”

“Greg, my buddy from work, told me a year or so ago. This same thing had happened to a friend of his.”

“Fuck, really?”

“Yeah,” I said. “And I asked him if that was gay or anything.”

“That’s what I was wondering too.”

Mike was falling perfectly into my made up scenario. “Yeah, but Greg assured me that it isn’t. Literally anything I have to do to make sure you’re good isn’t gay. It’s just being a good friend. But he told me that his friend couldn’t get himself hard because boners look different when you get it up versus when someone else does.”

“Really, I’ve never noticed before.”

“Me either, but I guess that’s because I don’t really notice dicks, you know?”

He nodded his head eagerly. “Right, right.”

“So, I guess, I’ll have to get you hard. That’s like the only way I’ll be able to tell for sure.”

“Damn. I’m so sorry, Matt.”

“Honestly, don’t worry about apologizing. I’m just happy I can hopeful help to confirm you have nothing to worry about with these photos.”

“Thanks man!”

He looked around the room a bit awkwardly. “Should we uh.. Sit down or something?”

I pointed to the couch. “Yeah, why don’t you sit there.”

He did as instructed and spread his legs out. He hadn’t bothered to cover up at all this whole time and as he sat down and reclined a bit, his soft dick fell to one side of his thighs.

I timidly knelt down in front of him. He watched me. Now just inches from me was the first dick I had really ever seen up close besides my own. Gym showers don’t really count. This was entirely different.

I reached my hand out. I was no longer nervous that I would get caught or something because it was clear I could do anything with Gullible Mike at this point. I was just nervous about how much I was going to like this.

My fingers touched flesh. The soft skin of Mike’s cock was warm and spongey. I sort of just played with it in my finger tips for a few moments before palming it. As I started my slow strokes to bring Mike Jr. to life, I looked up at Mike Sr.

He was watching but was clearly embarrassed. He was blushing profusely. I probably could have spared him with some command, but I decided against it. It was fun to watch him squirm a bit.

He slowly began to inflate and as he did I took note of his balls with my other hand. They were indeed large. Larger than mine at least. Mike clearly didn’t shave them but there wasn’t much hair. Mostly up near where they met his body. I lightly massaged them, earning me the first moan from Mike.

He had leaned his head back, no longer watching the action. Perhaps he was imagining some girl doing this to him. Perhaps he was just enjoying the experience as much as I was.

My hand was now grasping onto firm meat. His cock was at full mast. Finally I had him beat somewhere. His dick was probably only about 6 inches hard, maybe a little smaller actually. However, he still had me beat in girth. I continued to stroke him for a bit when Mike finally spoke up.

“I think I’m fully hard now. Can you tell if the pics are of my dick or not?”

I pulled out my phone, letting his dick fall back onto his belly with an audible ‘smack.’ I pretended to compare the imaginary pics up against his dick.

“Hm, mind if I take some photos of the same angle so I can compare them side by side?”

“Umm…” he bit his lip.

“I’ll delete them obviously.”

“Oh yeah, sorry, that’s fine.”

I took a myriad of photos for my own personal entertainment. Some close up, some showing all of Mike including his face which was still flushed. I even took a secret video of me holding his dick upright and stroking it a bit.

“So, I’m feeling more confident that it may not be your dick.”

“Oh thank god!”

“But, there’s a few things that are still off.”

Mike was worried again, “like what?”

“Well… the photos of the dick are kind of… wet.”

“Wet?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Like, your ex had just given you a blowjob or something.”

“Fuck. Is there that much of a difference with a bit of saliva on it?”

“Surprisingly yeah. It’s hard for me to know for sure. Unless…”

“Unless you…?” He asked.

I feigned hesitation. “I think I have to blow you.”

“Matt, no, that’s too much. I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“Mike, you don’t have to. You’re one of my best friends.”

“Seriously, Matt. I’d rather just have my dick pics leaked. I would feel so bad asking you to do that for me.”

“No, I’ve made up my mind. This is for you, Mike!”

Without letting him try and talk me out of it, I brought his dick to my mouth.

“Oh fuck! Mmmm” Mike no longer protested.

Being the first blowjob I’d ever given, I didn’t get much in at first. Maybe two inches of his thick cock. But as I continued to bob on it, I got past the halfway point.

Mike’s dick tasted great. There was a fleshy, salty taste that I’d expect from skin like when I’ve licked my fingers in the past after getting food on them or something. But there was also an extra flavor that I realized must be his pre.

In under a minute, Mike was moaning loudly. He even placed a hand on the back of my head. Not forcing me down his dick or anything, but he kindly rubbed and played with my hair as I sucked him.

I hate to admit it, but I loved it. I don’t think I could say I wasn’t bi anymore.

I continued to nearly gag on his thick tool when he interrupted me to say, “Matt, I think you should stop. If you go any further I might fucking cum.”

I stopped to look up at him and deliver my last line, “I didn’t want to mention this, but the pics also had a video of the dick cumming. I think that’s the only way I’ll know for sure.”

“Matt…”

Mike was fully flushed both from the seemingly great blowjob I had been giving but also the idea that he was asking his friend to make him cum. He was so embarrassed.

“You don’t have to ask me, Mike. I want to. You’d make me into a bad friend if you didn’t let me.”

“Well, you are a great friend.”

“So it’s settled.”

I went back to work.

“Fuck, Matt…”

It honestly didn’t take long. I hadn’t gotten to the point where I could take his whole dick in my throat; I’m not sure how gay guys do it. But I got probably 4 or 5 inches down when I felt his ball sac start to tighten up.

“Matt, I’m gonna cum.”

I wanted to taste it but I also got a little gun shy and scared. This was maybe too much for my first gay experience. I released his dick from my mouth and began to stroke him instead. Eight strokes later, his thighs flexed and he grunted.

Mike wasn’t a shooter like myself but fuck did he cum a lot. The first spurt actually shot out a couple inches onto his abs. The next four were just gushes that flowed out and down his dick onto my hand but it was a ton. Then he dribbled more and more for a minute or so as I continued to stroke his slowly deflating cock.

“Wow, Mike. That’s a lot of cum.”

“Haha, thanks. I feel terrible for putting you through this though. I’m a fucking asshole.”

“No you’re not! And, now that I’ve seen you cum, I’m positive these dick pics aren’t of you.”

“Really?!”

He shot up in excitement which caused his semi-hard dick, covered in cum, hit me the face. I fell back in shock and he quickly knelt down to make sure I was okay.

“Shit, sorry Matt! Oh fuck, I got my cum on your face.”

I could feel the warm liquid on my cheek and bit on my mouth.

“Well you know what they say,” I said with a laugh.

“What?”

“You know, ‘if you get cum on a guy’s face, you have to clean it off with your tongue.’”

“Shit, I had no idea. Matt you seem to know so much.”

“Oh I do. I’ll be sure to keep teaching you.”

We shared a laugh before he leaned in.

[akashifae]

The little scene and dialogue lines from this one picture I saw by the incredible Hntrgurl13 on twitter had me wanting to write a short little story idea involving Stolas being wounded to an extreme degree. Probably more melodramatic than angst, but I like the idea of getting more dark so we'll see if that happens!

This is probably just going to put more detail into that scene, but the lead up to it would be the I.M.P. gang being tasked with protecting Stolas after a close encounter with an executioner squad. The gang go from hotel to hideout to try and evade them, but eventually they're left with no choice but to fight them head on. The trio do a good job holding off the executioners after they catch the group making their escape through the streets. Stolas was hard at work making a portal open not too far off. They had to show off why they were so good at their job after all.

Stolas got to quick work making the portal, it wasn't too much trouble at all finding a decent spot to hide away in. The living world seemed like a decent fit for them. Though as he did, he saw the imps being rather dangerously outnumbered.

He knew not to draw the attention to him, but he couldn't stop himself from worrying about his Blitzy. The bravest imp he knew, the light of his life, fighting tooth and nail to keep him safe. His affections getting the better of his judgment, he moves forward to assist.

He spawns forth a powerful roaring fire from his claws, dispatching a few executioners with a few well placed tosses.

"Your majesty?! You're not supposed to be this close to the fight! Is the portal ready?" Moxxie yelled out over the gunfire.

"Yes! Quickly, let's get out of here!" He said, tossing one last ball of fire at an executioner near his Blitzy.

They made their way down the alley, getting ready to leave when Blitzo opened his mouth.

"Hey! You were supposed to stay back here and make the portal, you could've gotten your ass shot or stabbed or worse out there! Did you fucking think before you just threw yourself into harms way like that?!" He shouted at the tall bird.

The other two were almost shocked to hear such language being thrown to the prince, but he apologized and even leaned down to bow his head.

"Yes... I just didn't want anyone to hurt y--" he cut off his sentence as he caught the sight of one last executioner creeping up behind Blitzo.

He didn't think this time.

His body reacted on its own, pushing Blitzo behind him within a moment as his arm reached out to summon more flames. The executioner was already thrusting his spear; however, and it pierces through the bird's tender torso within that moment.

The sharp point went through him so effortlessly, and he pulls it out expecting Stolas to fall over. He's instead greeted to the Owl's claw grabbing his skull and casting flames upon it, burning him to cinders within seconds.

The tall prince tried to keep his body standing, but that wound was much more serious than he thought. He could feel himself struggling to breathe a bit. He'd never been wounded in such a manner before...

He fell onto his rear, clothes growing dark as Blitzo got up to see what had just transpired. The owl propped himself up onto a wall of the alley to steady himself. One hand holding against his torso, and the other resting on the ground.

They were all speechless, except for Blitzo... he could only see the injured owl, his heart sinking as he watched him cough up a bit of blood. The wound looked like it could've pierced a lung. On a body so slender, a stab wound from something like that could have punctured several things. The imps mind was racing faster than he could possibly think, knowing they needed to get him help, fast.

"Stolas..."

The large owl looked to them at near eye level. He wanted to say something to him... anything, but his body was aching...

He was starting to feel tired.

His vision was getting more blurry by the second, but he could still make out which one was him. His claw left the ground beneath them to caress the cheek of that precious imp in the middle. As if he'd already come to accept his fate, he manages to mutter something out.

"I'm sorry... Blitzy. I should have listened..." Was all he said before his eyes started to close.

A nap sounded so nice right now. He'd be up in just a few minutes, he was still breathing after all...

Blitzo; on the other hand, nearly broke down at the sight of Stolas bleeding out in front of him, hearing strained breathing coming through the owl's lungs. Overcome with emotion, the small imp grips at the owl's body and starts yelling at him. Unrelenting in his vulgar assault of words, the only way he can think of to express the feelings that are twisting his heart up. He wants Stolas to hold on for dear life, even if it's to the sound of him cursing him out until hell freezes over.

"Oh you fucking think so?! You think you should've fucking listened to me?! The one who's fucking job is to protect you!" He screamed out in pain. "I'm not the one who's supposed to be here telling you to hold on, Stolas...!" He said through a tightening throat.

"This isn't some stupid fucking game... you can't do things like that!" He said, his emotions threatening to explode within him.

"You need to hold on Stolas... you need to... please..."

He didn't think of the potential consequences of saying all those vulgar lines to Stolas. His words flying out of his mouth from the suffocating pain his heart was feeling.

When the breathing began to grow lighter than the feathers on Stolas' body, those big yellow and red shoot open with heart-sinking horror. His hands grip at his shirt, shaking him and pleading to him now. Legs growing weak as his will to stand begins to falter. He can feel those emotions growing more and more aggressive by the second. He can feel his vision growing blurry.

"Oh no you fucking don't. You are not doing this to me... M-Moxxie!" He stuttered briefly. Shit. This is bad.

"Sir?" He said, the first thing he said to break his silence.

"Do you have the extreme emergency first aid kit?" He asked him

"Yes, sir." He replied, pulling it out of his bag. It had all kinds of emergency medical stuff within it.

"Thanks, Mox. Go to Hideout B for a bit until things cool down. I'll tend to this dumbass for now." He said before hopping through the portal.

"But sir, shouldn't we come with--" before he could even finish the sentence the energy powering the portal flickered and fizzled out, leaving them separated. Thankfully, they still had communication via phone, but it was going to make things very tense for a few days.

They landed in what looked like one of the many rooms in Stolas' home. It wasn't their personal bedroom, it looked more like a guest room from cursory glance. Though what mattered more was that Stolas didn't die.

Blitzo still had a few choice words for him. Though now that they were alone, he could finally let his guard down a bit. He was starting to get overwhelmed by his emotions, his vision getting blurry...

First time in a long time that it wasn't from a fist-fight or a botched assassination job...

The owl could be heard panting still, and Blitzo got to work. He'd fixed himself up from bullet wounds before, so it wasn't too much of a surprise that he was skilled enough to fix a bird who got stabbed.

Disinfecting, cleaning, and a lot of careful stitching, the imp was desperately racing to fix up his prince.

Wait... his prince?

Not the time to think about that Blitz! You have to keep on fixing him so he could open those damn eyes and you can give him a mouthful already!

The owl would wince and occasionally groan in pain as he felt the pinch of his insides being carefully reconnected. His body feeling far too heavy to move, he feels himself pass out during the treatment. Blitzo nearly has a heart attack at that moment, but being able to hear the somewhat steady breathing had him back on track.

Several hours passed, but it was done. More of the bird's blood on his hands than he ever wanted to see ever again. Looking at the exhausted prince laying in bed, he sniffled and leaned himself forward a tad.

"You fucking dumbass. Throwing me out of harms way only to fucking get yourself nearly killed." He said with a snide, almost condescending voice.

"It pisses me off how much you care." He said, his eyes welling up. "How... easily you can show it..." he followed up in a whisper. He felt so embarrassed that the only time he could express his feelings to him was when he was when he was near death in his own bed.

Grabbing the gauss bandages, he wraps up Stolas' chest; mindful of the chest plumage. "I don't know why you fucking care about me so much... how, you care about me so much..." he said as he continues wrapping him up. "But..." he finishes up with a rip of the gauss.

"...Thanks, Stolas." He said as he wiped some of the tears off his face. "I dunno if you can hear me but... I... I care about you too." He said, swallowing his pride mid-sentence. "I r-really care about you. Sorry it... took you nearly dying to say it." He muttered out before giving the resting owl a kiss on his beak.

The owl seemed stable enough, resting for the time being as Blitzo takes a large hand into his own. His fingers lace between Stolas' own, his eyes staring at them longingly.

Though when Stolas' hand closes a bit to hold Blitzo's own, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

At least he was feeling better, he figured... but, it couldn't hurt to rest like this after a long day like that.

Lying on his back, he tightened his grip around Stolas' claw, and before he knew it...

He was out like a light.

[square-blunt]

Even though you're never there I didn't feel you disappear.

WOOOOOOOOO I HAVE NOT SLEPT IN THREE DAYS LET'S FUCKING GO WITH A MUMZA & MR. TOMMY DANGER CAREFUL KRAKEN INNIT FIC WITH A THEMES OF REGRET AND CLOSURE WIHT A SPECIAL APPEARANCE FROM HAPPY GHOSTBUR AND FRIEND BC WILBUR SOOT CAN SUCK MY FUCKING DICK LETS FUCKING GO

Tw- a slight bit of a panic attack, but it doesn't last long at all, only a line or two, uh, death mention, Tommy's normal 'I love women' humor, I've taken the liberty to add some of my own hc about how this whole thing works and it's better than what ever Soot (derogatory) could come up with bc i say so. Wc: 4200 (lmfao 420 lol haha) AO3: here

-

Tommy regrets a lot of things. He doesn’t realize how much until he’s walking back from the hotel one cold, windy night. Nothing he would admit, oh no, he would never do that. It was only a way for people to target him more.

‘Talk less, smile more,’ Wilbur would say, ‘everything you say can be used by our enemies.’ And Tommy took that to heart… later than he should have. After Exile to be exact.

‘There’s a reason you never told Techno about what happened,’ Puffy had said, ‘you were scared he would use your trauma against you.’ And she was right… to a point. All this 'would say', 'had said', it didn’t matter to Tommy, it couldn't matter less because what’s done is done, what’s said is said, and who’s gone… is gone. Forever. There’s no point in fighting the unfightable. Battle, person, there was no point. The last time he reached to try and change anything he got killed- he was abandoned, again, and left to die. He knows his situation isn’t fair- Puffy’s told him so, Eret’s told him so, Ranboo’s told him so- but that doesn’t change the fact that it is. It is unfair that he can’t… have things, people. As soon as he makes something for himself, people try and take it away from him, as soon as he finds something that makes him happy they get snatched out of his hands, as soon as he finds people who are willing to help him, unapologetically, no strings attached, they are murdered in front of him. It isn’t fair, and no one else seems to see it. That’s something he regrets. Letting it get this bad. Because if all of this is happening to him, is being blamed on him, there must be something wrong, right? Ranboo doesn’t remember things, so maybe he did something awful and just… doesn’t remember. He burnt George’s house down, and if that warrants Dream’s abuse for months then he could have done anything to deserve everything else. To have almost everything and everyone he loves to be taken away from him time and time again. He couldn’t show emotion about it either, because he would be punished then, too. His best friend got blown up and he- he fucking- says something about how that’s not fair and then- he gets beat to death in a fucking box- for the crime of- fucking, what would that even count as, questioning the great Technoblade?

‘Oops- sorry- you enjoyed your music a little too much I’m going to kill your best friend and throw you in the prison for it, shouldn’t have done that, Tommy, c’mon now you now better-’ It was fucking ridiculous. He can’t understand why his consequences are so extreme compared to everyone else- Schlatt still got a grave for fuck’s sake! He has no fucking idea if anyone ever made him one- he knows Tubbo did, but Tommy and Tubbbo- Tubbo is the only one who actually gives to fucks about him at this point. Ranboo might be another, but with his memory shit, it’ll only be a matter of time before all he knows of Tommy is what other people tell him. Puffy’s only doing therapy for him because she feels guilty about losing Foolish, Eret, as much as he cares about her, is really only by his side because she feels she has a debt to pay, he’s the one following Wilbur around, fuck what Sam used to be to Tommy, Quackity was only going to get worse, Jack and Niki tried to fucking blow him up- anyone else who has unapologetically been by his side has been killed right in front of him. Everyone who has ever stood up for him has been killed in front of him or almost been killed in front of him- maybe that’s why. Maybe that’s why no one wants to be on his side because they’re afraid of the trouble he brings.

He’s a liability. They don’t want to die- so they’d rather let him die than risk anything.

He’s not a kid.

He’s something to avoid like the plague, and anyone who even remotely cared about him caught it. He feels tears sting his eyes. He hears a big gust of wind shake the trees before it whips around him- carrying a voice. A familiar voice. It whispers in his ear and settles in his mind, soft, like a blanket, he can hear it clear as day, asking if he needs anything, asking what his favorite thing in the world is, crying- crying out that he’s scared- asking with tears burning his face if it’ll be alright, ‘You promised I’d be ok!’

He regrets failing Ghostbur the most out of everything. He regrets not spending enough time with him, he regrets not telling him how much he meant to him- he sprints the rest of the way home. The digs through all his chests, his ender chest, not stopping until he finds-

“Blue, blue, blue, where is it- fuckin- please tell me I have some left, no- fuck where is it? What happened to it- please tell me- oh thank fuck- thank fuck-” After combing through the same two chests multiple times, he finally finds a few handfuls of blue left. Choking back a sob, he sees what's left of the clear turn blue and grow heavy in his hands. Ghostbur remarked that any blue he gave Tommy turned blue on contact, that it was odd, because it only happened with a few other people- Phil and Eret. People with towering regret. Phil must have regretted killing Wilbur… Eret, well, Tommy knows all too well their regret. Tommy was never able to place exactly what his regrets were.

He knows now that his regrets have only grown to encompass everything he knows.

Fuck, he feels so guilty about Ghostbur- it was Tommy's fault, wasn't it? He blamed Sam in the moment, but it really was… he was the one who told Ghostbur what to do- he was the one to use him to get into the prison in the first place. And he had to try and- calm him down- his fear still haunts Tommy's nightmares. Because he did promise. He did promise everything would be ok. But it wasn't, Tommy botched it, and Dream- Tommy had to watch- shit, it was his fault. Ghostbur is gone and there's nothing he can do to bring him back. He doesn't know anything about resurrection, and he- maybe- what if he agreed to let dream out if he got ghostbur back- no, no- no, no that's exactly what Dream wants. He wants Tommy to feel as though he's his only option. So Dream still has control. He… the last thing he wants for Ghostbur is to become a trading point. On the verge of tears, the blue changes in his hands. That never happened before- the blue changing. He looks down, and sees that the blue has turned into wool.

He hears a sheep bleat happily outside his door.

He scrambles up, moving faster than he has in a while, throwing his door open- he's not at his house. He's… not in the server even- what the hell-

It's still nighttime, but the stars are thousands of times brighter than he remembers. Instead of the prime path ahead of him, there's a quartz walkway spanning under tall birch and spruce trees; it seems that the stars are in the leaves, too. He looks behind him, hoping to hide back in his house- but it's not there. Instead, a quartz and mossy cobble archway, with more quartz pathing spilling out behind it. Tommy… might be stuck here. But he doesn't start to panic. He feels a strange kind of calm. Like this realm will let him out when his business is done. But he doesn't know what his business is.

He feels the weight leave his hands. He looks down- and the blue wool has turned clear. It's turned into delicate spindles of… something. Back to its original state. That has… never happened to Tommy before.

He looks past his hands, and the path lights up where his feet are. He jumps around a little, the light disappearing when his feet leave the path, and reappearing as they make contact again.

He laughs.

He dances around, his smile growing bigger.

The stars and the leaves seem to laugh with him.

"Hello, Tommy." a soft voice says behind him. A woman's voice.

Tommy stops, turning around, his grip tightening around the… well, it's not blue anymore, is it?

The woman is standing under the archway, tall, wearing black robes that flow around wings that are tucked neatly behind her, her long black hair almost seems a dark purple when it catches the light. To top it all off, she has a large black hat, similar to a witch’s hat, but Tommy understands that she doesn't want to hurt him. But he can never be too careful.

"Who- who the fuck are you?" Tommy says, defensively.

"Please, don't tell me that's how you greet every woman you come across?" She says, lightness in her voice and laughter in her eyes.

"Only the ones who trap me in weird- what is this place?" Tommy mutters, then asks.

"This is my home," she says clasping her hands together in front of her. "I figured you might need some closure."

"It's very pretty," Tommy murmurs again, looking down at his feet.

"Thank you, Tommy, I-"

"Wait, how do you know my name? I've never seen you before, and trust me, I would remember if I had met you." Tommy says, trying to lighten the small ball of worry in his chest. The woman laughs.

"Oh, you are exactly like my husband-"

"Oh no- You're married? Why?? A woman like you can't be tied down to just one man-"

"Tommy!" The woman laughs more.

"Augh- you're tall- you're so fucking tall and dark and mysterious- fucking hell you're tall- like I'm comfortable enough in my masculinity but still-" Tommy laughs, "and you're wearing all black- who's funeral are you going to?" he adds sarcastically. His face falls as her mood noticeably changes more somber.

"Everyone's- and no one's." she takes a few steps forward, and sighs. "My name is Kristin, Goddess of death."

"...what- i- how can- Wait a minute- oh fuck am I dead again- Wait a fucking minute where the hell were you the first three times I died- or for Tubbo- or for- Wilbur- Ghost- Ghostbur? Mexican Dream? Are they here? What do you fucking mean goddess of death? Is this the afterlife? Why the fuck didn't we go here-"

"Tommy, Tommy, I understand that you are.. allowed to ask questions, I called you here against your will- I will let you go back, I promise, and I'm going to try and answer all of your questions. Shall we walk?" She steps up, offering an arm.

Tommy is hesitant. If she… is actually the goddess of fucking death itself does he even have a choice? He nods and takes her arm. He immediately is filled with a cozy warmth- like drinking hot chocolate on a snowy day, finally getting in bed after working all night, a warmth that feels like home, like rest. Tommy muses if that's what a true, honest to prime death would feel like. When your joints finally stop aching, your breath stops rattling around your lungs.

His didn't feel like rest.

He wonders if he'll have a true death- he wonders if his joints will ever stop aching, because they do already. His breath rattles around in his lungs. Will he ever feel rested? With everything he's been through, with all the guilt he's got, probably not.

"Tommy-" Kristin begins to say,

"Are you an American? You sound-" Tommy tries to postpone the conversation he knows she's about to start

"Tommy-" she sighs, but he knows she's not mad.

"I know, I know, I use humor to cope with my trauma and to avoid talking about it, Puffy's told me this." Tommy quickly says. He feels something light brush his other arm- a feather, Kristin's put her wing around him.

"Puffy's smart, you should listen to her." Kristin nods. "But even Einstein didn't have all the answers-"

"Who?"

"-so you still should ask questions." She waves away his confusion with a motherly smile. "And you've asked plenty. And I have plenty of answers. So, one, no. You aren't dead. I simply realm hopped you to me. Any doorway can become a gateway, and it is quite easy to make one for someone like me. Something that I can't do, however, is help with pre-set death rules. Each timeline we make- just plain old 'live your life and die' got boring, so we shook it up. You all got canon lives, which… are completely not up to me. I do not get to decide which death is canon or not, and I don't get to even interact with your spirits until the third."

"Ok, then I wanna talk with the motherfucker who is in charge of those because I have a few words for them-"

"Tommy, trust me, you don't. While you are of great interest to them, and they do like you a lot, they are not going to budge on things. They are stubborn as hell- but they're a storyteller."

"Well, they're fucking stupid whoever they are."

"Although, something they- any of us really- didn't plan for was Dream having the revive book- or the revive book getting stolen from my husband in the first place. I can't tell you how many meetings I had to sit in to try and convince the others not to smite him off his earth- but that's a story for another time. Because of Dream knowing… the contents of that book, he was able to hold souls from coming to me, and he was able to place them wherever he liked. He didn't do Wilbur's soul correctly, however. His soul slipped through the cracks and got placed in… he called it limbo? That caused some issues for Dream that I'll tell you about later, but he messed up again, placing Mexican Dream in a limbo of his own, but those circumstances allowed me to save his soul from Dream-"

"Wait if you could save MD then why not-"

"Wilbur, like I said, slipped away from Dream and fell into his limbo. But, because Dream had no hand in actually directly placing Wilbur there, I wasn't able to save him. Not to mention, the manner of his death…. Nevertheless, I was able to save Mexican Dream from his limbo. In hindsight, I maybe shouldn't have, because Dream learned from that and you… you were placed somewhere I can't even access-"

"The void," Tommy whispers. He doesn't want to think about it, he shifts closer to Kristin, holding tighter to the fluff in his hand and onto Kristin's arm. She, in turn, holds him closer with her wing.

"There's an in-between life and death, and an in-between here and the limbos. Pockets of emptiness, waiting to be filled. More people find themselves there than you think, but even fewer who find their way out- you, and one of our own. There have been others, but your entire life has been different. Do you remember your life before the SMP?" she asks, softly. "You don't have to answer, but it's something to think about."

"I just want- Wilbur said that his limbo was awful. That he was there for thirteen years and that it was awful, and now because of me Ghostbur is there, too…" The black hole in his past is the last thing he wants to think about, so he changes the subject- guilt radiating off him.

"Remember the reason why I couldn't save Wilbur?" she asks, a twinkle in her voice.

"Because Dream didn't put him there- you can only save people who got put somewhere they weren't supposed to be?" Tommy looks up at her, hope tingling in his chest.

"Because Wilbur's soul fell… as naturally as it could have, Dream had to find a soul to replace Wilbur's with- with you, there was no need to find a soul to replace, because he had your soul in his hand, but for Wilbur, it was a… natural resurrection. With a missing soul, the entire continuum would collapse. So, he swapped Wilbur with Ghostbur. He placed Ghostbur somewhere he wasn't supposed to be. I was able to save him. Would you like to see him?" she smiles down at him.

"Wait he-" Tommy stops, his head spinning. Kristin stops too.

"He's safe. He's safe, and it's actually because of you. Because of that book- you can only place a soul in the void once. That was you. He had to put Ghostbur somewhere I could get him, or else his plan falls apart. Now… I can show you where Ghostbur is. But, I can't let him see you, or let you talk to each other. It's a precaution we have to take-"

"No, no, that's fine I just want to make sure he's- that he's- that I'm not-" Tommy shakes his head, trying to clear his mind, he feels like a vice has been released- one of many, but it's one. He takes a long shaky breath and nods his head. "I want to make sure that he's happy."

"Alright, come with me." She leads Tommy off the path and into the trees. Tommy hadn't lied when he said it was pretty. He has lighter steps now, and his smile is bigger than it was when he got here. They walk a little ways, Tommy sprinting when he hears the sound of familiar laughter, bright and carefree. He peeks out from behind a tree to see a clearing with a small house, mossy stone bricks, wood, and- and cobblestone. And, one semi-translucent ghost sitting behind a wall, in a garden of blue and yellow flowers, giggling. He's got a new sweater, still yellow, but there aren't any stains on it- blue or red. It's just… yellow. Pure yellow.

"I also pulled a few strings after that Skeppy incident," Kristin says, coming up behind Tommy, and Tommy perks up as he hears Ghostbur laugh again, this time a blue sheep running around the wall and up to Ghostbur.

"You found me! Good job, Friend!" Tommy hears Ghostbur say. Tommy feels a sting in his eyes, and then a hand on his back.

"You promise he's happy?" Tommy whispers.

"I swear," Kristan answers. Ghostbur stands and says something to the sheep, who bounds away. Ghostbur begins to count- backward from 10. Tommy doubles over, clutching his stomach.

"Tommy?" Kristin crouches down next to him, rubbing circles into his back.

"Counting down from 10 is not a good thing, I've decided," Tommy says, looking ahead, as Ghostbur laughs his wonderful laugh and disappears around the wall. His throat becomes dry, he doesn't want to cry in front of a goddess.

"It wasn't your fault." Kristin stands next to him, Tommy straightening up to meet her.

"Wasn't it?" he feels a tear run down his face, as he stares at the spot in that gates where Ghostbur was just moments ago.

"It was Dream's, as are so many others. Just because he punished you, doesn't mean it wasn't his fault, to begin with. Chances are, it was his fault more than anyone else's," Kristin says, her hand still running Tommy's back. He sniffles. "Are you ready to go?"

"No."

"I know, I'm sorry." Kristin's hand leaves his back, and it takes all his willpower to turn away from the small cottage and follow her. They make it back to the path, and she stops, "Oh, he gave this to me, but I don't really need it, so here. Have some blue."

That's when Tommy cries.

She's holding out a handful of light blue wool, he opens his left hand to show his one wool, now a dark blue. He reaches out, quickly, snatching it out of her hands, and he sobs out a sorry. The blue, once again, turns dark blue on contact. Then it turns clear- and then immediately turns dark blue again. It fluctuates between clear, and every shade of blue, as more and more tears fall from his face. He blocks out Kristin's words on habit- Wilbur would be telling him to suck it up by now. He tries to stop the tears, to stop sobbing, to regain composure, but he can't.

"I- I- I've- I'm a murd- I murdered pe- people- I'm not- a good p- person- why- did he tr- eat me like- I was- he treat- they tre- treated me like- like- like- like a human- when no- no one else- did- and- look at- look at where that got h- him-" Tommy turns his face into Kristin's side, and she hugs him close, closing her wings around him too. He holds the blue up to his face, letting the tears catch in it.

"Tommy, there's a reason they chose you. It's because they saw what you could be- who you could be. They wanted to help you. They knew, under all that doubt and hurt and regret was a boy who loved his friends. And they love you, too. I swear on it." She keeps rubbing circles into his back, letting Tommy cry. "I know all about sorrow, Tommy," she says, kind, "I understand that you will hurt. There's no bringing back who you lost, and it will hurt for as long as you live- but that hurt is proof that you care. It's proof that you are a good person. You are a good person."

Tommy breathes in a long shuddering breath, and lets it out, moving his arms to hug her back.

"Thank you, mom- oh wait I'm sorry-" Tommy pulls back, absolutely mortified at his slip-up, Kristin just laughs- not at Tommy, no, no, it's happy… motherly.

"No, Tommy, I can be your mother if you'd like!" She smiles.

"Yeah, because Puffy is kinda my dad because Phil didn't really do a good job." Tommy looks down at his feet.

"Oh, of course, I think my husband would be fine with adopting another kid. Although, considering what happened to the first one- I'm kidding, I'm kidding, he could have turned out worse," Kristin laughs, holding Tommy’s face and wiping away the tear marks.

"Wait- wasn't I flirting with you a few minutes ago-" Tommy smiles, laughing too.

"Oh my-"

"Welp, you're still my mother now- that makes you a milf, you're welcome!" Tommy doesn't mean anything by it, of course, he's just pointing it out.

"Tommy!!" Kristin laughs harder, and Tommy's smile grows bigger. "We should get you back anyways, you need some sleep."

"But moooooooom-" Tommy complains, joking, of course.

"Now, now, Tommy, I am your mother, I know what's best," Kristin says, picking up the bit.

"My stomach hurts, do I have to go to school tomorrow?" Tommy jokes, walking back towards the archway.

"Oh dear," Kristin tsks, walking next to him, putting the back of her hand up to his forehead, "You don't seem to have a fever at the moment, we'll see how you feel in the morning."

They laugh and joke around until they reach the portal, and she reaches up to pluck a feather from her hat and hand it to Tommy.

"A token for my son. Something you can flaunt around. Also- can you do me a favor?" Kristen smiles.

"Oh, of course!" Tommy gingerly takes the feather and spins it around in his fingers.

"When you get back, can you just tell my husband I said hi? He'll see it." She looks through the empty portal longingly, and Tommy wonders who this husband is.

"If he ever hurts you I'll kill him, " He says, completely serious.

Kristin laughs, "I know you will, Tommy, I know you will. Thank you." She snaps her fingers and the archway leads into his house. She ruffles his hair, and Tommy playfully swats her hand away. "I'll see you again, be safe, ok?"

"I will. Tell Ghostbur, if you can, that…. Tell him that I'm sorry, and that I miss him?" He says, one foot through the gateway, before stopping and looking back.

"I will. Good luck, Tommy.” She smiles, and Tommy can’t help but smile back. He steps through the portal, and looks back one last time- and it’s gone. He sees those oak doors, the prime path outside, he hears Shroud above him. His smile stays.

/msg all: Hey, Kristin’s husband? She says hi.

He laughs.

/msg all: She also adopted me so I’m your son now, good luck L kekw

With that, he closes his communicator and lets the chaos ensue. He spins the feather in one hand and holds the blue- back in its original... substance? He opens his ender chest, placing the blue somewhere he knows he’ll find it, and lays the feather next to his discs.

“Thank you. I’ll do you proud.”