#it's sort of symbolic in a way! :o

[britishchick09]

teen rewrite erik- 2024 vs. 2022! ;D

bonus- him at 6, 15 and 29:

[coeurify]

ok but what do you think about making a sex tape with ellie 🧍‍♀️

an: this has been reworked over and over since this request came in in march… so enjoy! its very lovey dovey and sm plot sorry :3

warnings: 18+. filming. jackson!ellie. fingering and oral!r receiving. mostly lovey but some teasing and rough language :3 ellie is obsessed and lovesick and so is reader soooo they make a sex tape. unedited gimme time.

When Ellie first brought up the idea, you had recoiled into her old beat up couch, scoffing as she waved the old camcorder around, a shiteating grin on her face.

“I doubt that thing even works El,” you shrugged your shoulders under the blanket you had stolen off her bed. It wasn't unusual for you to hole up in her small homey garage while she was on patrol.. but what *was* odd was her little.. Souvenir from this particular trip.

“C’mon babe,” Ellie pouted, “Let me try on you..” she wiggled the little camcorder, slipping her hand into the attached grip, flipping open the small screen. Despite your complaints that there was no way it worked, Ellie just could never be wrong. Of course she knew you would fight back, and so she had made sure she fished some batteries too. Of course they came from Maria, the cost three days of stable duty.. But it was worth it for the immune woman, who ducked her nose down and watched the screen flicker to a slow start.

The quality was no better than that of what you could expect from a decades old camera, the film grainy and muffled, each corner covered by symbols Ellie didn’t really understand. But it was no roadblock in the trek of her wants. She smiled when your hands immediately came to slap over your face, voice serious behind your palms as you spoke, “put that down.”

Eventually however, you got a little used to Ellie’s newest fixation. The little hums she made were always a dead give away that she was filming you. During a video game tournament against Dina and Jesse, squished so closely to the two on the floor of the garage that you literally bruised the taller man during a particularly aggressive round of a fighting game. When you were trying your best to compete against your girlfriend’s art skills, tongue poking out the corner of your lips as you worked on a very detailed stick figure that dawned pointed down eyebrows, a large frown and red pencil hair. Even just when you were organizing Ellie’s closet for her, sorting through the tens of sweatshirts with a judging pout on your lips at the mess.

Each time you heard the distinctive sound of El’s attempt at holding back laughs, a small little choked up ‘hmm’ sound. You usually turned your head, quick to flip off your girlfriend-turned-filmmaker. But by the fifth time of catching her smiling behind the little object, you just let her. Whenever you could see her a little less tense, you took it.

Even if that meant starring in all of her little five second shitty clips. Her excuse always, “Just something to look at when I miss you.”

In some ways it made you feel weak legged, slightly lovesick by the thought of Ellie loving you so dearly she just had to steal little memories of you. Every small grin that broke onto freckled cheeks wherever she filmed coaxed you into the haze built up by her new hobby. You became so covered in adoration soon that you resorted to tiny only half mad eye roll when the click of the camera sounded.

Small clips turned into Ellie’s free hand wrapping around your bare waist as you looked in the mirror of her bathroom, the camcorder pressed near your cheek, the auburnette on the other side. You wiped the condensation from the glass, the room still slightly foggy from your shower. “You are not filming me out of the shower,” you huffed. Ellie didn’t answer, the familiar sounding hum stopped only when she pressed a kiss to the base of your neck, lips pulling up into a smile against the skin. “Won’t point too low..” she promised. “You just look so pretty..”

That time, the camera had been closed and discarded on a random bedside table as the two of you stumbled across her floor, giggling as Ellie cursed, stubbing her toe on the corner of the bed she tried to press you down into.

It continued like that, the limits of what you allowed Ellie to film seemed to blur further with every day.. Every curl of her fingers around the object that had become so central to this small haven of her home. Your own neck hot for reasons very different from embarrassment each time the filming light blinked a little too long. The line that you and Ellie had drawn in the sand of your mind was looking a lot less precise with every new memory saved into the device.

Even further along into the passing weeks, you had settled comfortably into yet another night spent at Ellie’s. Your own bedroom had remained untouched for nearly a week this time, bed spread likely just as cold as the air outside. But the garage was warm. The air inside thick as you pressed two fingers against your lips to keep a laugh from spilling out. Glasses of half empty wine, stolen from Tommy and Maria’s cupboard, balanced on the table that sat directly in front of the couch you were cuddled into.

The feeling of wine drunkenness always made you giggly, but your girlfriend parading around her small living space with her camcorder, well, that made you even more prone to bursts of laughs. She had gone from filming and rambling on about what wine you were drinking to zooming into your face, chuckling with breath that smelt like red wine. “See how pretty?” Ellie gaped to no one, stepping closer to you on the couch. The whole garage was painted a light orange from the setting sun outside, but it didn’t stop Ellie.

“El, you’re being a dork,” you chide, shaking your head as more compliments spilt from her. She shoos off the bitten remark with a sound that boarders on a coo, leaning over you as the lens of the camcorder sat close enough to pick up the smaller details of your face the grainy film usually could not.

“I’m just showin’ how perfect you are..” Ellie explains, a softer tone edging into her lungs as she presses her thumb to your cheek, drawing a new heat under the digit. “Perfect cheeks…” her finger traces over your jawline next, and then your chin. Each new landmark of your face that Ellie doted on swept closer and closer to your soft lips. You were no idiot, you saw how the green of her eyes fell to the fat, watched as you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth and then out again. You made no move to stop what came next.

That next move was your girlfriend’s finger following like a moth to a flame to the one spot that teetered on that blurry line again, thumb pressing softly around the curve of your lips.

“Perfect lips,” Ellie continued, eyes flicking back and forth from the camera screen to you. Soon the pad of her finger is right against your bottom lip, and the room seems to slow.

The both of you hold bated breaths as you mull over your options. But this mulling is no longer than a few seconds, feeling overwriting the more logical side of your brain with a gushy type of tightness in your chest.

Your lips part, eyes meeting the lense as you suck the tip of Ellie’s thumb into your mouth. Lips wrap around the soft skin, salty and cold, and Ellie has little to say other than a slow and breathy, “Fuck..”

Your tongue peaks out just for a moment, lavishing over the wet skin, but Ellie is quick to pull away, leaving your shining lips parted in confusion. The camera falls to her side as her free fingers wrap around your wrist. Just like last time, the little red light twists away from your face. Ellie’s toes step backwards from that oh so mysterious line you two made.

“You know what you do to me, hm?” Ellie questioned as she hauled you up by your arm, a sharp giggle following as she stomped to the bed. The camera is discarded on the table near her pillows as you are thrown back on it.

“No,” you tease, your next giggle cut off by a thump noise that was Ellie pushing you back against grey sheets, you make a sound that almost sounds like “oof” as you try to readjust. Ellie clambers on top of your squirming frame as another sputtered laugh escapes at the messy, and not very seductive, way you two found contact against the creaking mattress.

“Tell me,” you prompt, meeting Ellie’s narrowed green eyes. “Why should I? You’re laughin’ at me.”

Your eyes roll as Ellie’s lips fall into a pout that you want to kiss clean off. “Stop being a baby,” you mutter before letting your impulse win, your hands cupping the freckles cheeks of your girlfriend and pulling her down for a soft kiss. Her pouted lips quickly shape to your own, and you sigh in approval as the hand not holding herself up traces down to your waist.

“I’m not a baby,” your girlfriend complains when your lips part from each other, and you nearly pinch her cheeks from just how lovely you find the whiny drawl in her voice, instead you just shrug, biting back another half bubbled up laugh, “mhm, prove it.”

Ellie does just that. One tug on your hips has you flatter against the bed, one poke at your side has a squeal leaving your mouth. You see how Ellie’s lips quirk up, but before you can admire the sight, she kisses you again.

“So,” Ellie punctuates the word with a kiss, the sort that makes a loud and annoying smacking noise, before trailing her lips to your cheek. “Fuckin” Ellie’s lips find home on your jawline next, and act that has a simmering heat grow between your legs. “Perfect.” Ellie finishes the repeat of what her fingers had done earlier by nudging your head back, lips pressing softer kisses to the flesh of your neck.

Your eyes flicked to the side table, pupils finding the little camcorder as the auburn haired girl bit at your neck, your attention pulled away as your eyes flutter closed at the feeling. “El,” you breathe out, a hand finding her messy hair, nails scraping at her scalp as she bit harsher at the column of your throat. You aren’t sure why her name had been your first thought to say after seeing the camcorder, swallowing as your fingers itched to reach toward the side table.

“Hm? Tell me,” Ellie taunts, words muffled as her next target becomes your collarbone. Your own words biting at you again as your eyebrows furrowed together, watching as your girlfriend’s fingertips find the edge of your shirt, pushing it up as your hand falls from her hair to help take it off.

You pull her back for another kiss before you can even think to answer her question, one you weren’t even sure you could explain. Ellie’s needy fingers come into contact with the fat of your tits, tweaking at the perked nipples, nails pressing in just a little too hard, earning a mewl directly against the spit slick kiss. As Ellie kissed you, you tried your best to focus on the feeling, and not how you were acutely aware of the camera beside you.

Her tongue swiped at your bottom lip, warm against your parting lips as she searched to deepen the kiss, messy sounds of half breaths and kissing all sounded through the small area, your hips rolling up as her knee slotted itself between your trembling thighs.

You can’t help but wonder what this may look like on camera, and as Ellie pulls back, you notice the green of her eyes had dimmed, pupils blown as the pretty eyelashes fanned lightly. The freckles splattered over the apples of her cheeks were particularly prominent tonight, and you suspected it had something to do with the blood that rushed there, rosy and all around causing that same lovesick feeling to creep up your weakened bones.

You wonder if she would look as pretty on that grainy screen too.

Before your mind can even form another thought, Ellie is pulling away from your lips, a small whine the response she received. You can’t complain for long as she moves down, wet lips trailing sloppy kisses to your soft stomach, planting the ember of a growing fire in your groin, causing your hand to flex. Your eyes are pulled by an invisible string to the side of you again, the black material of the camcorder your gaze’s target. Ellie grumbles in response, and a small pinch on your hip has you yelping.

“What’re you looking at? Look at me.”

“Ellie,” you try again, lip quivering nervously as she ushers you to lift your hips, tugging off the bottoms you wore. “Fuckkkk,” she drawls, lost in her own little world as a large hand presses your thighs open. “You see that?” she marvels, a finger pressing against the wet spot on your panties. When she presses, you can feel the fabric stick to you, nearing translucent as she teases, your lips hugging the now soaked panties. It has your hips stirring in their spot, the flame in your stomach burning your liquid feeling stomach. “Ellie,” you sigh again.

Finally her gaze looks up, “Yea?” she asks, her voice softening. You can see the flash of confusion, her hand falling from your thigh as she searched for any apprehension. “You ok?”

“I can’t—“ your voice comes out whinier than you would like to admit, harsh against your ears with a feeling of embarrassment. “Can’t say it,” you finish, eyes moving to the camera sitting on the small wooden table beside you for the umpteenth time.

Ellie follows your eyes, and when you look back to her, there’s a flash of surprise in the shade of green you loved so much. It was replaced quickly, her eyelids drooping as her chin tilted up. “Hm. Don’t know what you mean,” she shrugs, fingers going back to teasing your panty line.

Her tone is laced with sarcasm, the teasing tilt to it is a voice you had heard many times before, many times in this exact position. Ellie liked to make you say things, liked to watch you squirm. You were convinced at this point she got off on your embarrassment, and she probably wouldn’t even deny that.

“Gonna have to spell it out for me, babe,” Ellie added, dipping down to place soft kisses at your hip-bone, pink muscle licking over a mark there.

A low and annoyed sound escapes your throat, and your girlfriend chuckles against your flesh, one finger curling around the fabric of your panties, tugging it down a little ungracefully, your shaking thighs to thank for that.

“Barely even touched you yet and you’re shakin,” Ellie teases again, whispering softly, “Such a pretty pussy..” as the sight of your weepy folds meet her eyes. “This all for me, baby? Or somethin’ else on your mind?”

Your eyes squeeze shut again, hoping to rid your mind of the film reel like thoughts of the camera pressed in Ellie’s hand as she did this. They played over and over behind the black of your eyes, and another frustrated sound fills the garage.

“Not gonna answer?” Ellie was quieter now, repositioning herself, parting your thighs even more. A finger ghosted over your dripping cunt, a hum following the action. “Can’t make you feel better if you don’t use your words, y’know?”

The warm air hit your folds as Ellie exposed you more, thighs burning from the stretch, from the tight grip of one of her hands, fingers digging into and squeezing the fatty flesh.

The blanket beneath your bare ass is no comfort as you move around, and Ellie’s nose bumps against the softness of your thigh. So close, so fucking close to giving exactly what you were searching for, so close to your aching center that your resolve cracks lightly, head tilted back and against the pillow.

“The camera,” you croak, your mouth dry as your lips part, refusing to look at the other girl.

“What about the camera? Look at me and tell me what you want.”

The crease between your eyebrows likely was gaining small droplets of sweat just from how hard you were attempting to avoid this entire fucking conversation, but Ellie kept pressing you further, and who were you to deny her?

“Wanna film this,” you eventually admit, head dipping down to meet her darkened eyes.

“Yea baby? Wanna see what a mess I can make you?” Ellie’s words start to blur together, the idea surely muddling any coherent thoughts together in her mind, licking her lips as she awaits your response.

“Fuck— mmph, yes El. Please.*”

Ellie’s lips curl into a smile that’s more wicked than loving, “Red button starts it, you can hold it.” She instructed, and you scramble to reach your arm out, grasping at the little hand strap connected to the camcorder.

“There you go babe,” she nods, “give it a go, let me see what you’ve got.”

Your fingers are shaking so badly it takes a moment for your thumb to hit the button, to see the soft little red light noting the start of the film.

The grainy screen doesn’t pick up on all the freckles adorning Ellie’s face. The ones that made you feel all gooey, that you wanted to kiss until her face was a pretty shade of red. But it did capture her parted lips, the expanse of your thighs, and your shaky grip tilted the camera down as Ellie’s head dipped between your thighs.

Her mouth latched to your achy cunt, tongue licking up the drops of arousal that covered your slit, pearling on the petal like lips that she spreads with her fingers.

Your arms almost immediately gave out.

Clearly, you were not as skilled in the art of film making as Ellie had been, the camera dropping almost completely to your tummy as Ellie sucked at your cunt. Her eyes flicked up, and she unlatched from the saccharine slick that pooled on her tongue.

“You keep that camera steady,” she muttered, thumb rubbing tiny, tight circles on your throbbing clit. “Or I stop, yea?”

You nod quickly, hips grinding into the slow and steady motion of her thumb, wet with your sticky . You would have agreed to anything she demanded of you right now anyway. Too needy, too desperate to feel her lips on you again.

“ ‘M counting on you to make a pretty movie for me.”

The sentence tapers off as she disappears to the space between your thighs again, and you nearly and truly sob as her nose bumps your clit, her tongue poking experimentally against your hole, feeling as it clenches against nothing.

You know your whimpers and quick little puffs of air are being picked up by the camera, but you’re too focused on keeping the lense directly focused on the auburn tendrils of hair, on where her face was covered by your thighs caging her cheeks in, keeping her in the place she most needed to be, drinking down every single single drop you gave her.

“Ellie,” you whine, toes curling when she presses away from your clit, two long fingers coming to part your folds, admiring the sticky sight.

“Shhh,” Ellie coos, eyes glancing up at the camera again, the burning sight of her fern colored gaze through the tiny screen has your stomach clenching even harsher, hands trembling lightly.

The air on your exposed center lasts no longer than a few seconds, Ellie’s head dipping down as the warm, wet feeling of a glob of her spit trails down your clit, finding your pulsing hole. Her tongue swipes it quickly after, suckling gently at the shiny bubbles. The sound that follows, the loud wet squelch of your wetness mixing with her spit is enough to make you want to cover the speaker of the camcorder, fingers gripping tightly at the little contraption. She focuses on licking at your sopping cunt, her head moving slightly, moaning against your folds.

“Oh—nnh—El!” you cry, your chin trembling in tandem with the hand you try desperately to keep still. Your hips rut up, and Ellie’s face moves up with you, an arm detaching from its place on your squishy thigh to instead wrap around your waist, pulling you closer. Impossibly closer.

You can feel yourself closer, closer to that delicious peak, Ellie’s nose bumping your clit, tongue working mind numbing ministrations on you.

Then she pulls back.

“Fuckin made for me,” Ellie groans, taking a deep breath as she unlatched from your pussy, her fingers sweeping through your puffy lips. “Was fuckin’ made to let me taste you.” Her eyes flick to the camera, her tone louder than usual— a little less breathy. She wanted the microphone to hear.

You cry pathetically at the loss of her tongue, lip quivering.

“Tell me,” she demands, voice overpowering the slick noises of her now shiny fingers rubbing between your folds, the tips pausing at your pulsing hole, dipping only a little in, teasing. “Tell me this pretty pussy was made for me.”

And then Ellie is reaching forward, letting go of her grip on your hips to grab harshly at the camera, maneuvering it to show your trembling body, her fingers pressing open your lips, giving the camera a pretty close up of your soaked cunt. She croons at the sight, her fingers pressing together to land a short and sharp slap against the swollen lips. “S’pretty.”

“Ellie,” you choke, chest heaving up and down as the embarrassment creeps up, making that coil in your tummy even tighter.

“Tell me,” she says again, smoothly.

Desperate to have her fingers opening you up, to have her filling you and breaking that tightly wrapped tension in your groin, you break.

“I’m yours el. ‘m all yours, was made for you,” your voice is restrained, quiet as you chew at your lips, stirring in your spot as she continues the teasing.

“What else? Tell me more, baby,” she insists, one long finger sinking into you, hissing at the feeling of your cunt molding to her, perfect for her as you clench.

“A—ah!” your voice is a sweet little cry. You grind down into the feeling, searching for more. “It’s yours El,” you babble— louder now, head thrown back. Ellie captured the moment with a quick tilt up of the camera. “M-my pussy s’all yours.”

“Fuck,” Ellie breathes, her own, usually steady camera hand, wavering as you speak. She grants you with another finger as she thrusts harshly into you, a shriek pulled from your open mouth.

“So—s-so fucking perfect,” she grunts, curling her fingers gently, hitting that squishy spot in your walls that has you keening, eyes rolling back. “Love this pussy so much, shit—shit, love you so much.”

“Love you too El,” you blubber, your chin tilting down to stare directly at the camera for a second. That awkwardness, the fear from the early days of when she’d film you completely gone as you moan pathetically, eyes shiny with complete and utter adoration.

She only pistons her fingers into you harder, faster, relishing in how you moan, how your toes curl and your chin wobbles. You’re the prettiest fucking thing she’s ever seen.

The camera points down to where she’s thrusting into you, watching through the screen as you meet her thrusts, your hips moving against the grey sheets, your thighs squeezing her hand in between them as you sob out.

Ellie meets your eyes, stealing your attention from the camera she keeps focused on your squirming frame, pounding her fingers into your cunt. “Cum for me, you can do it baby, go on. Give me a pretty show.”

And you do. Your sweaty back lifts off the bed with a sharp sob as the cord in your tummy snaps, gushing around Ellie’s fingers, pulsing around her as she thrusts shallowly, riding you through it.

Your vision goes black for a second as you heave, hands shaking as you reach out for Ellie, fingers looking to curl around her warm skin.

You don’t even notice the off click of the camera, of how she lets it softly drop to the side as she climbs up your shaky form, pressing a sweet kiss to your cheek.

“So pretty,” Ellie hums, “Prettiest movie star ever,” she mumbled, and you pour your lips— getting another soft kiss as she continues to plant tiny loving pecks around your face.

“Never should’ve let you keep that camera,” you whisper gently, smiling right when she does against the corner of your mouth that she pecks at.

“Yea fuckin’ right, we just made the movie of the year babe.”

[shtern-and-art]

I think there's just something in it. This blanket.

When Viktor rejects his past, his job, his social standing, his academic ambitions - all that and more. He goes to live his new life fully naked. Only with that blanket in tow. But when Viktor starts to build his new life, and his new self, closer to his actual goals (at least so he thinks at the moment), he doesn't get any new clothes.

People in the commune did. Sort of. They have redressed for the new life. And Viktor keeps wearing the only thing he brought over from the previous one. The cane doesn't count here, it also transformed into it's new self. But the blanket is still the same blanket. Just wrapped more securely around Viktor to give more coverage and protection like clothes would.

I'd say the commune followed Viktor's lead in ditching their old fashion styles and wrapping themselves in loose fabrics, like monks. For them it was abandoning their past. For Viktor it was not letting go of his. Not completely at least.

-----

There's something, s o m e t h i n g in this, you know?

He was wearing that blanket and only it. It became part of his divine (?) soul.

We don't see it on him in the arcane mindscape, where Viktor is happy and exploring with Sky (like he wanted to do with Jayce). We don't see it on him, when they talk honestly with Jayce. Viktor is actually naked there, soul bare, doing what he always wanted to do.

But each time Viktor tries to reject and diminish himself and his humanity, the blanket is there on his shoulders.

----

And I don't mean it in the soft "Jayce is always there caring about Viktor's wellbeing" way (even though it's totally true). Maybe Jayce did put that blanket on him the first time, but Viktor did it himself all the times after that. He kept the blanket and wore it in the commune. His mind created his celestial body on the arcane-plane, where the blanket wrapped around him like flesh. His divine evolved self picked the blanket up from the floor it fell on, after Viktor stepped out of the cocoon fully naked, not needing anything in life anymore but his goals.

----

This contradiction is so human.

It's like. No matter how strongly Viktor might want to destroy himself, his self who is weak and not needed. There was this one gesture of kindness towards him. At, probably, one of the most terrible moments of his life. When he was accepted and cared for as he is, even if Viktor couldn't bear it at the moment.

Idk, man. Now pull the blanket tight.

----

Even when Sky (symbolic representation of Viktor's guilt and desire for connection) was gone, he kept the blanket. On his soul now.

The braces on Viktor's god-self mean several things at once (not getting into it here, maybe in another post). But the blanket moving to that plane, too? Viktor's subconscious clutching at it, despite everything?

Like he actually never could let go of his humanity. Like it's impossible, when there's at least one little lifeline left. A glimmer of hope, of desire Viktor wouldn't even acknowledge to have.

Not even talking about the great gay love here.

----

Viktor wearing the blanket, pulling it tighter each time he essentially tried to kill himself. Means that he wants it. That connection. That kindness. Means that he wants to live. Despite everything.

If Viktor really fully lost himself in his ascension, his older self wouldn't have been able to recognise that desire.

Viktor's tragedy is not in him losing his humanity. It's in the fact that this goal, this Perfection is impossible to achieve to begin with.

(The dehumanised ableist perfection of capitalistic ideal life, and "fitting in" lies in this grave, too.)

He has to keep choosing to accept to not be human, each time at each turn. Accept it from the world, the system of power. From himself.

And yet, he never can. Not fully.

This is why the grand lie of it all is Viktor's salvation, too.

---

As soon as Viktor regained his (human) perception of himself, the blanket disappeared almost completely.

And when he faced his fears and desires and came back to himself fully - the blanket is gone.

Because Viktor doesn't need the externalised symbol of everything he's trying to let go off. All the yearning and desire to live is within him now (also Jayce is actually there with him, bet that helps).

---

I think this is the major point I disagree with in other, more pessimistic reads of the show's themes. That it's a story about oppressed people lashing out and breaking themselves in various ways to escape the pressure and threat of death from the world. That it doesn't go anywhere but conformity or death. Oh, I can write another separate essay about how Viktor and Jayce didn't die at the end and how important it is that it didn't happen (and i did!). This whole rant is part of it, too.

And I mean, bad things do happen to people in the story, they do lash out and break.

----

And yet, Viktor wears the blanket. Clings to it so strongly it becomes part of his godhood. Strong enough to eventually tell about it all (back in time) to Jayce.

And yet, even under unimaginable pressure, after breaking completely, Viktor is still holding on to that blanket. Is still human. Despite what the world told him all his life. Despite the world wanting him dead, gone, forgotten, not caring one bit, despite Viktor agreeing with all this eventually. He holds the blanket close.

Despite Viktor becoming a monster in everyone else's minds, a real threat to the proper Piltover society and his own people in Zaun. Despite all that, Jayce can still look at Viktor at his worst, most distant and cruel and say "I see you. I need you. As you are".

Despite Viktor going past any possible point of no return, destroying his body and mind, and being ready to destroy the world, too, despite giving in to everything he feared. Viktor can still hear it from Jayce and realise he was wrong.

Despite fucking it up infinite amount of times, there was still always the chance to get it right, and they found it.

----

Like. Isn't it wild. No amount of dehumanisation or cruelty you experienced can make you less human. Less worthy of care and love.

That blanket, man. I can't.

[basketonthedoorstepofthefbi]

Shaking (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: You have an anxiety attack in a public setting, but luckily, the doctor is there to help you through it.

Word Count: 2450

Warnings: Anxiety attack, mild cursing, mostly just ANGST and then comforting FLUFF

A/N: Wanted to write Spence comforting the reader during a panic attack. Fanfiction is better than therapy, right? At least, it’s cheaper! Also not my GIF

——

“You don’t want to just order it online?” Spencer asked as you walked beside him down the sidewalk. His longer legs would typically mean that he’d be several steps ahead of you, but he always slowed his pace so you wouldn’t have to strain to keep up with him. He also walked on the outside of the path because, let’s face it, he was a gentleman.

You shook your head. “No, I want the whole experience,” you said excitedly as you walked, your face lighting up in anticipation. You were on your way towards a local bookstore, where the third book in your favorite series was being released today. The bookstore was going to be packed, but you were so excited to be one of the first ones in the door, to get your hands on a physical copy. “I don’t ever do things like this, but it’ll be something I think about every time I look at the book sitting on my shelf.”

Spencer nodded, lifting his hand, his thumb and forefinger in an O-shape as he spoke. “Ah, the age-old concept of symbolic treasures. One of the main reasons why souvenirs are such a prevalent part of going on vacation. Did you know the tradition dates back to Ancient Egypt?”

You shook your head as you continued to walk with him. Your boyfriend carried on without fault. “As far back as 2200 B.C, Egyptian Prince Harkhuf traveled to what is now known as Sudan and returned with all sorts of objects to present to his father, the pharaoh,” Spencer explained. His words spat out quickly, compulsively, as though they had to exit his encyclopedic brain. “He brought back items such as incense, ivory, even the skins of leopards to show off to his father.”

“I had no idea,” you told Spencer as you neared the bookstore, smiling sideways at him. You loved it when he spouted off facts like that, like he had to get the information out or else he’d explode. He had confessed to you more than once before that most people found it weird or off-putting or even annoying, but not you. Rather, you loved learning new things. Whatever information he had to share with you was always relevant in one way or another, and it was just one of the reasons why you loved spending time with him - he made you a more knowledgeable, well-rounded person.

Before either of you could say much else, you’d reached the back of the line of the bookstore. You checked the time on your phone. The store would open in about fifteen minutes. The line stretched down at least a full block, from what you could see. Lots of people dressed like characters from the books, shuffling their feet in excited anticipation.

There were at least a hundred people in the line, and after a minute or two, a couple dozen more had filed in behind where you stood. You pursed your lips for a moment, scanning the crowd until your eyes met Spencer’s.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, inclining his head to the side.

You shook your head. “Nothing,” you said. “Just… lot of people.”

Spencer nodded understandingly, then reached down to take your hand. Your fingers twined with his and he squeezed his palm against yours. “I’m right here,” he reminded you. You didn’t love crowds. They always made you feel anxious, perhaps even a little claustrophobic. You and Spencer had gone to a fairly crowded French film festival a few months ago and there hadn’t been an organized line to enter; rather, it had been a cluster of people, all pressed together. And you had felt like you couldn’t breathe. Spencer’d had to pull you to a seat off to the side so you could catch your breath, and you’d missed getting a seat up front like you’d been hoping for.

Right now, you were okay, though. There were people in front of you and behind you, but they weren’t flush against you like they had been waiting for the film festival to open. And Spencer was holding your hand, and you were outside, with the cool, spring morning breeze hitting your face. It was fine. You were going to be fine. You inhaled deeply and exhaled, then nodded your head, feeling the anxiety dissipate. “I’m good,” you told Spencer, looking up at him.

Spencer nodded. He squeezed your hand once again before letting go, only so he could wrap his arm around your shoulders and tug you so you leaned against his chest. He kissed the top of your hair. “It’s going to be just fine,” he promised you, and you just smiled to yourself.

About ten minutes later, the store opened. You only knew that because the line started moving, and more quickly than you thought. You squealed in delight and matched the pace of the people in front of you, Spencer by your side with an amused grin on his face. He loved books just as much as you did, if not more, but this outing was definitely just for you. He’d read the other preceding books in this series (literally just because you asked him to and it took him an hour, tops), but he wasn’t a total geek for it like you were.

You finally made it inside the bookstore, a small business, a local place. You’d been inside several times before, but you hadn’t realized just how small the building actually was until you stepped in now. It was two stories, but everyone was tightly packed, with the people and the bookshelves crowding around you as you made it fully inside the store. There was even a line to go up to the second floor, like a queue at an amusement park.

There was little to no breathing room. Everyone was talking as they waited their turn to grab a copy of the new book, and the sound seemed to bounce off the walls and the ceiling and smack you right in the ear. The air felt thick despite the front door and handful of windows being opened, allowing the cool spring breeze to ruffle the pages of the paperbacks on display.

But it wasn’t refreshing. Rather, it was another stimulant that caused the neurons in your brain to fire even faster. You felt your palms get slick. You felt your heart start to pound, and your knees wobble as you shuffled forward in the line. What were you even waiting in line for? You momentarily forgot, blinking a few times before looking up at the man beside you. Spencer was engrossed in looking around the bookstore, the corners of his mouth quirking upward as he seemed to find something amusing. But when his eyes came full circle back to you, they were immediately filled with concern. “Y/N?” He asked softly, placing a hand on your shoulder.

You couldn’t even hear him. The sound of his voice just bounced off your brain, like you were trapped inside of cellophane. All you could think was trapped. I’m trapped. No way out. Stuck. Caged. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.

You felt your breathing go heavy, and your eyes fill up with tears. Your cheeks were red, bright red, judging from how hot you suddenly felt. “Leave,” you managed to choke out, your voice coming out from your throat. It felt like your throat was lined with thorns, like the words you wanted to say kept getting caught.

Spencer nodded. “Leave? Yeah. Yeah, baby, we can leave,” Spencer grabbed your hand, tugging you along behind him as he murmured “excuse me, pardon me,” to the other patrons, to get through the crowd. Moving against the crowd was so much worse than standing still. All those eyes on you, seeing your red face and the anxious tears trickling down your cheeks. It was so embarrassing, freaking out like this is such a public space. Everyone thinks I’m a freak, you thought. Your anxiety became not about the crowd, but about your anxiety, about how you were being perceived. Your breathing picked up, quickened, and by the time Spencer led you out into the morning sun, you were fully hyperventilating.

The thoughts in your head were racing at the speed of light. You hated feeling nervous like this, but moreover, you hated that Spencer had to take care of you because of it. You felt like you had ruined the day because your head wasn’t on straight, because you couldn’t stand in a crowd of people and hear the cacophony of voices and tamp down your panic.

Spencer led you down the block, about twenty feet from the store, away from the crowd, and your breath was still coming out staccato, unstable as you looked down at your shaking hands. You were crying and hyperventilating and the whole world felt like it was spinning. Spencer kept his hold on your hand and stood in front of you, squeezing his palm against yours. His eyes, those light brown irises with little flecks of green, stared into yours. “Hey, Y/N,” he said, bending his knees so his face was level with yours. “Breathe with me, okay?”

You shook your head, your eyes clamping shut. You were so mad at yourself in that moment. You didn’t want to have Spencer take care of you, to have to drag you out of a bookstore because you were having a panic attack. “Baby, you’re trembling,” you heard Spencer’s voice laced with concern. “Look at me. We’ll get through this together.”

You opened your eyes slowly, and that’s when you realized your entire body was shaking. You looked into Spencer’s eyes and he released your hand so he could cup your face. His fingers anchored under your jaw, his thumbs rested on your cheeks, and his eyes were wide, full of worry, but his voice managed to stay soothing and calm. “Follow my breath, Y/N. Do what I’m doing, okay? In for four, hold for four, out for four.”

He inhaled for 4 seconds, and you tried to follow his lead, but you just couldn’t control your lungs. “It’s okay,” he assured you as your brows furrowed, presenting frustration. “C’mon, try again.” He inhaled for 4 seconds, and you managed to match him this time. “Hold for four,” you held your breath while Spencer counted. “And out for four,” you exhaled deeply. “Good, okay, let’s do it again.”

Spencer guided your breath for a few minutes, until you finally felt like you could do it on your own. And when you finally felt yourself coming down from the rush of panic that had sent you into fight-or-flight, you wiped at your wet eyes. “I’m sorry,” you croaked, and Spencer just shook his head.

“No,” he insisted, taking your hand and placing it on his heart. You could feel it beating through his long-sleeved t-shirt. “No, you don’t have to be sorry.” You rubbed your hand against his chest, finding it comforting as you hung your head. “Baby, look at me,” he requested, and you met his eyes.

“Please don’t ever apologize for having an anxiety attack, okay? For one thing, it’s not your fault. You can’t control the chemicals and waves in your brain and how your body reacts to situations,” Spencer began, his hand on top of yours that rested on his chest. You nodded, using the heel of your free hand to wipe away your tears. The crying was over, you were fairly certain, but god, did this suck. “You also should never feel ashamed for having a panic attack, Y/N. It happened, and we’re working through it. It’s a lot like boiling a pot of water, isn’t it?”

You let out a garbled sounding laugh and your brows furrowed. “How so?” You stammered out.

“Well, you set the pot of water on the stove, right?” Spencer began, and you nodded. “And then when it starts to bubble, that’s your anxiety. Some sort of external stimulant - the stove, or, in your case, the overwhelming feeling of being in a crowd - is causing the water to bubble. And when the external stimulant increases in intensity, so too does your anxiety. And sometimes, yeah, the pot boils over.” Spencer shrugged like it was no big deal. “But then you just turn the stove off, grab a dishtowel, and clean up the mess. Problem solved.”

You cracked a half-hearted smile. “So in this metaphor, you’re a dishtowel?” You asked, curling your fingers around the fabric of his shirt.

“Technically, I think it’s a simile, but yes,” Spencer grinned as he looked in your eyes.

“But the book,” you sighed, looking back at the bookstore, which was still filtering people in and out slowly. The patrons leaving the store clutched their new copies of the book in their hands, grinning and taking pictures with their phones, laughing with their friends excitedly.

“Do you want to get back in line and try again?” Spencer asked, and you bit your cheek pensively.

“I don’t think so,” you said softly, defeatedly.

“That’s okay,” Spencer said. You loved that he wasn’t coddling you, he was just feeling it out, seeing what you were up for. “Do you want to get brunch somewhere and come back? Maybe the line will have died down by then?”

You nodded, your lips curling into a small smile. “Yeah,” you agreed. You realized your hand was still over his heart, rubbing at his chest. Your movement halted and you retracted your hand, but before your arm could fall completely at your side, Spencer scooped your hand up and kissed the back of your palm. “What if we come back and they’ve sold out of the book, though?” You asked as Spencer walked with you in the direction of one of your favorite brunch places, just a short walk from the bookstore.

“There are twenty-two independent bookstores in the D.C. metropolitan area alone,” Spencer rattled off. “If this one doesn’t have it, we’ll drive around until we find one that does.”

“What article did you read that told you how many bookstores were in D.C?” You asked. You often liked to challenge him by asking him to cite his sources.

“No article. I did a search on Google Maps last night,” Spencer explained.

“What, because you knew I’d freak out when we walked into this one?” You asked him.

Spencer shook his head. “No, just wanted to have a contingency plan in case our first stop sold out before we got there.”

“Always thinking ahead, huh, Boy Wonder?”

“Damn straight.” A smirk formed across Spencer’s lips.

You shook your head. “You’re the best dishtowel a girl could ask for.”

[am-i-interrupting]

Hi! I loved your Hazbin hotel with nails head cannons. Could you do an extension of that where you get nails to match your s/o? Please 🙏 ❤️❤️❤️

There are two ways to take this so depending on whether or not the character would let someone do their nails dictates how I’ll do it. For characters who will, you get matching sets of nails. For characters who won’t, you get nails that are inspired by their aesthetic.

(Part two— the gals)

Alastor

When you show him nails that are red in color with radio dials and deer antlers decorating them, his smile widened and he tilted his head, curious.

“What do you think?” “I think that you look lovely, darling.”

Expect some extra hand holding.

He will be bringing your hand up to his lips to kiss. Looks at the design, smiles a bit more genuinely, squeezes your hand, and let’s your hands drop.

When your in private, expect to be brought into his lap.

He lets you do whatever you like but he is holding one of your hands the entire time.

Running his fingertips down your finger.

He will run his thumb over any ridges that appear due to the design.

When you’re asleep, he memorizes the design, his color, his symbols on your hand against your skin.

Husk

He’s actually shocked when you take his suggestion. He thought you were just asking out of idle curiosity. He didn’t actually expect you to get it done.

He just kind of stares, shocked at your hand.

The nails are matte and coffin shaped.

Most have a black base and have a card type design. The spade, the clover, the diamond. The first two white and the last red.

What he didn’t expect the heart to be yellow and your free fingernail to have the white and pink stripes of his ears. (Listen, I love his pilot design)

He placed a kiss to your hand and compliments them.

He’s not as obvious as Alastor would be (in comparison to Alastor’s normal no touch behavior) but he would be holding your hand a bit more.

When he thinks no one is watching, he’ll stare at your nails with a quirked little smile.

Lucifer

You go get your nails done together.

Lucifer gets a little duck design with a white background.

He just sort of stares at them, surprised at how much he likes it.

He starts going with you more often to get his nails done. It makes him feel good. He starts wearing his gloves less.

When you get nails inspired by him, he’s absolutely speechless.

The pinstripe design of his favorite waistcoat. The apple and snake imagery.

He loves it so much.

He placed a kiss on every single finger.

When the two of you next see Charlie or anyone from the Hotel or Ozzie, Bee, or any of the other sins, he grabs your hand and shoved it in their face.

“Look at their nails! See! They’re inspired by me! They put that on their hand!”

Vox

“So, what did you get this time, my dear?”

His brow would raise when he saw the design.

The Voxtech logo, a wifi symbol, some red and black hypno circles, and the rest same blue as his claws.

“Well, well, what sight. I do believe these are my favorite set yet.”

Would bring your hand up against his and measure how they line up.

He would then curl your hands together so he was holding yours.

He would then pull you into your lap and give you a kiss.

Ideally he’d run his hands along your fingers but that’s just something he does without them.

Secretly (not really) he likes the fact that you’ve willingly put his symbols on you.

Would try not to give away his liking to them away too much so he doesn’t really do much aside saying they’re his favorite set.

[starvingnarcissistmusic]

I should really make a non music blog so that people who like my music don’t get bombarded by random unrelated stuff but this is like tangentially related sort of so whatever

God I just love Mal Du Pays. I am always a sucker for “the enemy is you / the enemy is a manifestation of some part of you” trope in any media but MDP has by far gotta be one of the best applications of it I’ve ever seen.

I mean even just the design of it is brilliant. Obviously inverting a characters colors to get the evil / darker version isn’t anything new for this trope, but ISAT is unique in that you have quite literally been STARING AT MDP THE WHOLE GAME, every single time you die and every single time you loop back. Turning the non diegetic game over screen into a diegetic encounter is incredibly clever and immediately gives MDP that sense of crushing pressure that makes it so memorable.

Also literally any game where the game over music is later established as the motif of a character automatically just wins me over by default. It’s such an effective tool in immediately conveying just what MDP is, even before any of the dialogue starts. It’s the end of this journey. It’s the pain of a home you’ve never known. It’s an entire universe collapsing in on you at once. It’s the end. It’s the end. It’s the end.

And I think, it’s a little Fucked Up, that Siffrin’s sadness looks identical to him. Every other sadness we see in the game is very distinctly not human in appearance, incredibly abstract and inhuman pretty much all around the board. But Mal Du Pays? The sadness of our main character? Pretty much the same. Literally a color swap. I think that’s incredibly telling. A being born of Siffrin’s grief and pain and agony, and the form it takes is his own silhouette.

Thematically, it’s very On The Nose that Siffrin’s worst enemy is simply himself, but at the same time, it’s exactly what you expect. I remember getting to MDP for the first time, seeing Siffrin walk through the void and just… knowing what would come next. Of course it would be another him. For Siffrin, his hell is himself. This nightmarish half-life, devoid of a past and with nothing but a quickly collapsing future, his worst impulses and fears and agonies and pains personified, and all it looks like is his shadow. Of course, what else could be here, at his lowest of lows, but a reflection? Of course there would be nothing here but you. It’s always only ever been you. Mal Du Pays is a mirror. A mirror that hates you like you do, that loathes you like you loathe yourself. In the worst, most monstrous way possible, it tells you exactly what you’ve been telling yourself your whole journey. And so you believe it, let it sink its words into your skin and bury you in the misery. Because maybe then, maybe when you finally give in, it won’t hurt anymore.

(A cold comfort is still, however little it may be, a comfort.)

And then you’re saved. The King is defeated, your friends came back for you, you manage to come up for air again. But it’s not enough. It’s never enough. Everything is still coming to an end. You’re still going to be all alone. And so, you sink again.

Notice how Bigfrin doesn’t have a face in this panel? This is Siffrin at their most self destructive, most desperate, lower than lower than low. And in a way, I think that by quite literally looking like the Sadness they nearly created, they’re symbolically drawing a parallel there. Siffrin fully embraces what Mal Du Pays represented, to the point that their new form looks just like it. Even if they didn’t manifest MDP, they are just as horrible. After all, the mirror goes both ways. Mal Du Pays looks just like Siffrin, but that also means that Siffrin looks just like Mal Du Pays. And maybe, in Siffrin’s head, they’re one and the same. Maybe they’ve always been.

Oh god it’s 1 in the morning. I did not mean to make this that long lmao w h o o p s

uhhhhhh in summary tldr mdp is very good isat is also very good play isat

(also if you want more MDP content, I sort of wrote a whole song about it. So listen to that if you’d like. Im goin to bed)

[trulyumai]

meeting the golden rays

—pairing: Godwyn the Golden / reader (before the fall)

synopsis: accidentally stumbling upon the library, the lord comes across you. since then, he’s been smitten.

—warnings: nooooone. fluff!

a/n: another request fulfilled! thank you anonymous.

enjoy!

The grand library of Leyndell was a sanctuary of knowledge, its towering shelves filled with ancient tomes that told the stories of the Lands Between. As the Keeper of Knowledge, you spent your days immersed in the whispers of history, the aroma of aged parchment filling the air. you worked tirelessly, day and night. even opted to sleeping in said room every now and again just to fulfill the needs of the order.

One.. particular afternoon, as you meticulously sorted through a stack of books on the expansion of the Erdtrees, the heavy wooden door creaked open. You glanced up, surprised to find Godwyn the Golden just standing there, a look of embarrassment on his pale face.

“Oh! Apologies for barging in!” he blurted out, his voice carrying a hint of panic. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Although he was a man of high stature the walls and corridors still confused him. not used to such a vast amount of entry ways, godwyn decided to go exploring. and now he was here.. bothering a knowledge bearer no less.

Caught off guard by the presence of such an esteemed figure, you felt your cheeks heat up. “N-No, it’s alright, my lord! I was just… um… working,” you stammered, scrambling to regain your composure. Your fingers gripped against your dress, meticulously working against the soft material before the man nodded his head.

What do you do… what do you say to such a figure of the order?!

In a moment of sheer impulse, you recalled a fact that had intrigued you earlier. “Did you know that the Moonlight Flower only blooms under the light of the full moon? It symbolizes the cycle of life and death in the Lands Between!”

Godwyn paused, eyes sweeping from the mirage of books to your smaller form. his expression shifted from surprise to amusement. He chuckled instantly. the sound warm and inviting. “I had no idea! I suppose even a prince can learn something new about the world.”

His laughter was infectious, and you couldn’t help but smile back, the tension in the room dissipating. “It’s a beautiful flower,” you added, feeling a little bolder. “Some say it even has the power to guide lost souls.”

“Perhaps I should seek it out,” he said, leaning against a nearby shelf, his golden armor gleaming in the light. “I could use a little guidance myself it seems.”

- - -

As the days passed, Godwyn became a regular visitor to the library, each encounter filled with laughter and light. He would share stories of his training and the weight of his responsibilities as a member of the Golden Order. In return, you offered insights and facts about the history and flora of the Lands Between, each exchange weaving a deeper connection between you.

One evening, while you both poured over an ancient text about the Golden Lineage, your fingers accidentally brushed against his while reaching for the same passage. Both of you froze, an apology already bursting out of your lips

“My lord!” you exclaimed, pulling your hand back as a blush crept across your face. What have you done, what have you— “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” Godwyn replied, interrupting your stammering. a shy smile breaking through his surprise as he brushed his hair back with a light flick.

“I didn’t mind, such a lovely lady can touch me anytime she pleases, hm?”

What? You had to have heard him wrong.

As you both tried to resume your reading, the tension lingered, and you found yourself stealing glances at him. He caught your eye, smiling back at your flustered form with newfound confidence. His arm came around your chair, finding home upon the back of the wood before he leaned in once more, asking about Erd Flowers.

- - -

One fateful day, as dusk fell over Leyndell, you climbed a rickety ladder to retrieve a particularly old tome from the top shelf. “Just a little higher,” you muttered to yourself, stretching for the book. Suddenly, the ladder snapped, it wobbled dangerously, and you felt yourself tipping backward.

Godwyn, who was just walking in with a sack of goodies (most likely flowers and plants from his outing) bolted forward with protective purpose

“Careful, my love!” Godwyn shouted, panic surging through his voice. He dashed forward, arms outstretched, and caught you just in time. You fell into his embrace, the world around you fading into a comforting blur.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his golden eyes wide with concern.

“I.. think so ,” you replied, it came off as a question, as your hair tangled itself upon his armor. breathless from both the fall and the closeness of his presence you looked up, gasping at the man looking sternly down at you.

“What have I told you? Only in my presence can you climb on that absurd thing!” And although he was mad, fuming with impatient worry, you felt giddy, happy to be the stem of the man’s attention.

Without even thinking your neck strained upwards, a light kiss graced the man’s cheek and you pulled back quickly. Like a fire had spread out across your pink lips.

His eyes widened in shock, a deep blush already blooming across his face. “I—uh… that’s—” he couldn’t even remember what he was talking about. Only seeing you, and your flustered face, messy hair.

“I’m so sorry, godw— my lord!” you stammered, insulted by your own boldness. “I just wanted to thank you and— and you were really upset so I didn’t know what to do and.. and—.”

A hand, big and warm covered your mouth. his voice rang out shakily yet with dear earnest. “It’s.. alright. I liked it.”

“You did?”

He hummed. “I did.” His gloveless fingers swept away the hair that matted the front of your face. You could see him clearly now. Him and the loving stare that graced his features.

“Did you know erd leaf flowers are remembrance’s of—“

“Light,” Godwyn laughed, deep and warm to the core.

“Yes, love, I did.”

[itsvenera]

Hi!! (: Could you maybe do some headcanons for what Gaara, Itachi, and Kakashi's type/ideal partner would be? In terms of personality, traits, looks, or anything else (: Also feel free to only do one of the above or add any other characters you'd want! Thank you!!

author's note: I love this request so much, I've been waiting for someone to ask me about Naruto characters' types, so I can rant about it. Thank you so much for sending this idea! :) <3

➤ Gaara

Occupation - Gaara's ideal partner would either be a civilian or someone who is involved in state politics (for example, a member of the Council). Knowing how dangerous the life of a shinobi is and how many enemies he has out there, I don't believe he would ever fall for a ninja.

Looks - while I don't think Gaara particularly cares for looks and appearances, his s/o has to be more or less presentable (especially if they are to be seen next to the Kazekage). I've always imagined him with a s/o, whose style resembles the style of the ancients- clothes made of white linen, gold jewellery (especially jewelled collars and bracelets), and different hair accessories, symbols of their status in the village. I also definitely see his s/o wearing makeup as both a way to protect their skin from the harsh climate and a way to compliment their look.

Personality - the ideal partner for Gaara has to be someone who is calm, gentle, and cares for the people, just as much as him. They definitely have to be patient (being in a relationship with him would definitely require a lot of patience!) and understanding person, who is able to accept him for who he is and what he has done in the past. Now, if his s/o is involved in politics of some sort, I definitely imagine them as someone who is calculating and cunning as well. While Gaara has years of experience as a Kazekage, I don't think he is a political strategist, so his partner would usually be the one influencing the other members of the Council or important figures from other villages, in order to further Suna's best interests.

➤ Itachi

Occupation - healer or a civilian, who lives a life completely dissociated with that of a ninja. Preferably someone who lives far away from the Land of Fire, in a remote village or by themselves, and also had never heard of him or his clan before.

Looks - I think Itachi would fall for someone who is very soft and innocent looking - someone who more or less remind him of his mother. As someone whose main occupation is to gather herbs or do some type of craft, I imagine his s/o preferring more simple clothing, in which they can move freely and comfortably. They would probably have tons of amulets/jewellery on them, the majority of which are heirlooms left by their family. Their style is what I would describe as "bohemian" with an emphasis on organic elements and nature.

Personality - I think Itachi's ideal partner is someone who can serve as some form of escape for him - a free-spirited and optimistic individual, who can offer a different view of the world. They have to be caring, sweet, and respectful, especially when it comes to Itachi's personal space. I think he would appreciate having someone, who won't poke their nose in his business too much and press him to open up to them before he is ready. Still, his s/o has to be someone confident, loyal and also very honest. He would benefit from someone, who would tell him openly what they think and would be his pillar of support in moments when he dwells in self-doubt and regret over the past.

➤ Kakashi

Occupation - there is a 99% for Kakashi to fall for a fellow shinobi or at least someone who had worked a shinobi at some point in their life. His work is pretty much his life, so I definitely see him with someone who can understand how demanding this job is, as well as how it can affect people's lives.

Looks - as long as their s/o does NOT resemble Rin or an Uchiha, he doesn't care. If his s/o is a ninja, they would probably wear the same shinobi attire as him most of the time. If they are not a ninja anymore, I imagine Kakashi with someone who still puts some effort in their appearance, but they don't overdo it. Not a "must", but I do imagine him with someone with either shoulder-length or long hair, so he can run his fingers through their locks as a gesture of love or while falling asleep.

Personality - his s/o has to be someone who is strong-willed, honest, and has a deep sense of community and caring about the people close to them. I imagine Kakashi being with someone who can easily take the role of a "parent" or "the wise adult" (as he has to do quite often) and who doesn't shy away from their responsibilities. His s/o has to be someone who he can share his burdens with and who would stay by his side through good and bad. I imagine Kakashi being with someone with a strong personality, who can sometimes act before they think, yet they always have others' best interests in mind. They would often have strong opinions of stuff and while this can lead with occasional clashes with Kakashi, he would appreciate their honesty and their willingness to argue for what they think it's right.

cc artwork: Sin Jong Hun

[evilminji]

You know how in Naruto, Sealing is a Finicky Art?

It's like computer coding, calligraphy, and symbolism had a super-powered/reality bending baby. You gotta think in VERY ADHD twirls and swirls too be any good at it. Which is why the Uzumaki rocked it so hard. But I digress.

Is Complexe AF.

Bends Reality and is EASY to fuck up.

Wanna bet? The BEST way to learn/use it? Is to copy already functioning examples? But Oh! How do you KNOW they are functioning? Safe? Well OBVIOUSLY, your Skilled At Seals teacher looks at it first! THEN gives it too you!

Using random seals you find in the dirt is how you get splattered across three different countryside in peices, after all. Possibly take out a nearly Town or two while your at it. No One Is THAT Dumb... RIGHT?

Enter Stage Right o/~☆ Humanity, Everybody! *polite, if strained, golf clapping*

They ABSOLUTELY Are!

Especially Ninja!

Ninja who, after fuckin MURDERING A WHOLE ASS VILLAGE OF SEALING MASTERS, decided to pick through the rubble! Because THAT is gonna work out GREAT! After all... it's not like you just KILLED the fuckers who could tell you what IS and IS NOT functional!

Was that once the "hazardous advanced class' sealing failures" bin? Or was it the "super awesome candy and rainbows" stash!? You don't know. NO ONE DOES NOW. You fuckin KILLED THE PEOPLE WHO DID.

They had their own REGIONAL Sealing Script.

You know, the one they taught to THEIR STUDENTS. Not outsiders. The students you KILLED, you absolute fuck nuggets. But hey! The threat of the Super Scary Sealing Masters is no more! Good job. You've successfully burned down the library. It can't hurt you ever again.

But NOW? You have piles upon piles of GIBBERISH.

You can only VAGUELY tell the novice seals from the master's. And even then? Do you have any idea what most of them DO? Nope. And after a certain point in training? The shaky, uncertain hand writing becomes smooth enough, that it all blends together in "Seals".

Now... what is the SMART thing to do?

Curse your hubris and the atrocities your fear allowed you to commit, obviously. But BEYOND that, Don't Touch Them. But we're Ninja. So WE are all suicidal idiots. The less smart but still Reasonably Precautionary thing to do? Study the amateur Seals. Learn Sealing from other masters.

Crack the Regional Script and slowly, painstakingly, work through each seal as we sort out what is and isn't safe. What can be salvaged. What can be used and how.

A process that will likely take years if not decades.

But of course, that's not GOOD ENOUGH for certain grabby handed, power hungry, short sighted, fuck weasels! No, no. It much EASIER to just throw human life into the blender until profit pops out! Completely IGNORING, of course, that SOME of these?

Could very well be the "Too Dangerous To Ever Use/Will Destroy Us All/Take Them All With Us" type of Seals that Kage usually LOCK UP. The kind you CAN'T destroy once you've made them, because the fall out would be WORSE. And?

Even if you are a murderous, middle management, go nowhere in your life, BASTARD of a ninja? Sometimes you can look down at the massive, intricately detailed, killer off nation's before you. Something that was WRAPPED in locks upon locks upon chains upon seals. And KNOW in your selfish, survival at all costs little heart... You DO NOT want anyone to fuck with this.

You CAN NOT let anyone fuck with this.

NO ONE can be allowed to touch it.

Not for ANYTHING.

You may fear S Class Kage and Missing Nin and what all else they may do to you. But THIS? Your eyes can't even properly FOCUS on it. It's like a tunnel that's lined with poetry, stretching all the way to the Earth's core. It's perfectly flat. It moves, a gentle rotation. But is that just your eyes, tricking you?

So much ink, it swallows the scroll, and this is when it's COMPRESSED.

How many nations?

How many NATIONS must this monstrosity span, when free?

It must have taken a Master decades, if not their entire life, to complete. Possibly a family, several generations. But... but gods it is a work of MADNESS. No wonder it was sealed. It speak, you... you THINK... of Death...

Of it's KING.

Something BEYOND the Shinigami. BEYOND Death and the Purelands.

Who the FUCK would try to summon something beyond GODS? Did they think they could control it? Chain it like the bijuu? You're so cold inside. Because you KNOW. You fucking KNOW, the ambitions and arrogance of those above you.

They'll think they can.

They won't listen.

You... you have to take this and RUN. You stand no chance. But no chance is better then oblivion. Anything is better then standing by and watching it happen.

You obviously don't make it. You never expected too. But at least... at least you won't have to watch whatever THAT is... arrive... fuck...

At least you TRIED.

And? Because leaf Ninja, specifically certain teams, have the MOST Shit luck imaginable? They arrive, having crossed paths with several other teams, on the way back home (yay! Warm food and real beds!) Just in time to see a desperate looking ninja from one of the small villages get fuckin pincushioned. Drop what is VERY clearly an Uzushio Scroll of considerable size and SEVERE SSS+ DO Not EVER Touch Grade Type Markings, and then some joining from that same village go to grab it.

Notice them.

You know... the multiple LEAF NINJA. Who TOO THIS DAY, wear the UZU swirl on their uniforms as a mourning tribute to the DEAR AND PRECIOUS ALLIES they could not save. The Uzushio Allies. Those ones. The ones that were, in fact, from Uzushio.

LIKE THE SCROLL YOU ARE HOLDING.

By the WAY! How DID you get that Scroll? Doesn't seem like something our dear friends would just HAND over, now does it? You didn't happen to LOOT THEIR FUCKIN GRAVES did you? Cause we sure would be MAD about that!

:)

Real Mad.

Dude obviously panics. Because that? That is a VERY pissed off bunch of Ninja, many in the bingo book, one of whom is Very Clearly throwing off BIJUU CHAKRA. And just said "my family's" Ha ha... Oh Shit that's an Uzumaki.

So he decides to USE THE SEAL.

What does it do?

He doesn't know! But it's probably SOMETHING big and impressive, right?

Yes. :) Yes it Does.

*Crack*

The SKY cracks. Like a pane of glass, struck by a hammer. Spiderwebbing as far as the eye can see above them, all from one central point, directly above the seal. The cracks there are concentrated. A point of impact. And through the cracks... something GREEN shines.

Brighter then the daylight around it, yet darker in color then the blue of the sky. Lazily whisping out like escaping mist. Time seems slow as their eyes all whip up wards. Even with senses beyond the normal human base, it is... inconceivable. SOMETHING winds back. They can not see it.

But they can feel it.

Like changing pressure as a storm rolls in.

*Crack!*

Green overtakes the blue. The sky a Kaleidescape of shards, held together by stubbornness alone. Reflecting a calm day that seems IMPOSSIBLE in the face of what's occurring. There should be wind. Great pressure changes in the face of so much FORCE, but the trees are eerily still.. utterly silent..

Nothing dares bring attention to itself.

Some distant part of their minds try to gather the thought that... that it could be an illusion. They... they should check. But they can FEEL it. Like a weight draped gently but without mercy upon their shoulders. It did not slam. But... but they can not move. Can barely breathe. It is beyond killing intent.

It is simply...

DEATH.

*CRASH!*

At last, the sky gives way. A fist, the size of towers punching through. It... it is almost elegant. A ring, almost in the shinigami's visage, wraps itself in a howling and snarled menace, around a great shining finger. A glove protects almost delicate looking, claw tipped fingers. The fist pulls back. Shard of sky falling, Floating, suspended in their moment of destruction, a glittering frame for the gapping wound that has overtaken everything.

Death...

Death has Green Eyes.

A crown of ice and starlight, pulled straight from the coldest north, hair that drifts like the drowned. His skin is that of a corpse. His breath a coldness that seems to suck all warmth from the world. There is no rage, no great irritation, his face merely twisted in slight annoyance. Mild displeasure.

And yet it feels like their greatest sin.

It BURNS.

They are ants. Less then ants. He... He LOOMS so TALL. The Green BURNS into their eyes, into their veins, chokes their lungs. The silence stretches. Those great eyes, the eyes of a GOD, move from them. To the man with the Seal.

He dies instantly.

Shit.

They... they need to... to...

Naruto wanders over and picks up the scroll, completely ignore the Giant Sky God Of Death and how all his friends are frozen in primordial fear. He roughly shakes the dirt off the delicate old relic, then squint at it. Figures he's holding it upside-down. Flipping it, he squints harder. Tilts his head and hums.

"Oh!"

He holds his hand up, turning to look at the terrifying Deity From Beyond Comprehension.

"It's me! I'm the Uzumaki! But, uh, I didn't actually summon you? Our stuff got stolen. Which really sucks!" He looks down again, brings the paper nearly to his nose trying to make out some thing. "Uuuuuh, huh. Got it! Can you get smaller? I don't got any BBQ or anything ON me right now, but Choji's Family makes REALLY good food! We can go out to eat? Ooh ooh! Maybe RAMEN! You like Ramen, right?!"

"Yep, Definitely one of Shouta's."

Rumbles The Actual Fucking King Of Death, shaking the trees and ground under your feet. As you probably stare at your fellow Leaf Nin like WTF.

"Sure, man. Give me a second."

And suddenly? He's leaning forward. Shrinking and twisting in ways that are painful to look at. The sky is... is not healing, so much as UNcracking. Rewinding itself to a pristine state. Until only a large, floating, armored God in black and white floats above you. Glowing.

One that... that is apparently FRIENDS with the Uzumaki Clan.

Because of course he is.

Naruto's introducing his Toads. And teammates. You almost feel bad for Hatake. But like? Better you then me, buddy. THEN? Death? Decides? For some inconceivable reason. "You know what? Im'ma just turn into a human WITH NO CHAKRA NETWORK. Reeeeeally freak out the locals."

And now Leaf is INCHARGE of entertaining A GOD until he decides to leave.

Or (presumably) Else.

And!! Because life loves to kick ninjas IN THE BALLS (for their stupid, STUPID life choices, YOU FUCKERS) it just HAD to be the One God? That can SEE DEAD PEOPLE. Because it's not like ninjas have Death Related Traumas or anything!

*internal ninja screaming*

Feed the guy some BBQ! Stat! Please Akimichi! Save us!

@hdgnj @hypewinter @the-witchhunter @ailithnight @nerdpoe @mutable-manifestation

[not-wholly-unheroic]

I recently found a copy of the graphic novel version of Straight on Til Morning at my local used bookstore and got a great deal so I wanted to share a few of my likes, dislikes, and general observations. I’d been meaning to write up a proper review of the book for awhile now but have been SUPER behind. Anyway, the graphic novel follows the book pretty closely and I’ll be sharing some images from it, so this WILL CONTAIN SPOILERS for those of you who haven’t read it.

First off, the artwork for the graphic novel is beautiful and some scenes are illustrated in a really creative way. For example, I love the depiction of this particular scene where Wendy is writing her stories and Hook sort of…comes to life off the page.

I also really love that while (most of) the characters are still recognizably Disney’s version…they also look a tad more realistic and have some of the illustrator’s own personal interpretation mixed in.

George Darling is a great example. In the graphic novel he is slimmer than in the film and looks remarkably like J.M. Barrie…which I have to consider was probably intentional.

And then there’s the Lost Boys in their animal costumes…Tootles, Skipper (excuse me, this is Nibs erasure—you can add Skipper but don’t just eliminate Nibs!), Slightly, Cubby, and the Twins.

The pirates, however, are a totally different story. Who the heck are these guys???

Anyway… at least they get Hook’s personality right. I love this bit, in particular, where one of the pirates gets a little rough with Wendy and Hook is having none of it. Also, the idea of Hook capturing Wendy to be a mother to the crew is a nice nod to the book.

One big complaint I do have is that the characters are, on occasion, a little TOO self-aware. Like in this scene where one of the pirates makes a sort of on-the-nose observation about Hook’s feud with Pan.

But I will admit, I did cackle at Hook’s reaction.

He said would you please stop trying to psychoanalyze me and look for symbolism and just let the story be about a boy and a pirate? (Hook, how do you even know who Freud is??)

You may have noticed by now that I haven’t said anything about Peter… That’s because Peter barely features in the story at all and honestly when he does show up, he’s…kinda useless and clueless. Now, admittedly, Wendy is meant to be older in this (around 16) so of course, it’s reasonable to think she might not quite view him the same way she did at 12…but in having her team up with Tink to do all the heavy-lifting of the plot (because, ya know, girlpower and all that), Peter sort of ends up not really doing anything. I’d almost rather have an evil Pan, as annoying as that trope is because at least then he actually does something. In this story, it truly feels like Wendy has just…outgrown Peter altogether. And that hurts.

Speaking of which…ya know what hurts even more for me as a Hook fan? THIS.

This poor man is curled up on the deck in the fetal position, terrified of a crocodile who has been long-dead, crying out for a best friend who never even existed except inside his own mind because he was so alone that he made him up.

O W !! Why would you do this to me, Disney?!

It ends for Hook with the crew deciding to drop him off somewhere with enough gold to pay for his keep and hire a caretaker because he’s so mentally unstable they don’t trust him to live by himself.

I hate to say it, but honestly, watching him die would be less painful. At least that would be over with fairly quickly. This just hurts.

But everyone else lives happily ever after, so it’s okay, right? Right??? 😫😭 (Don’t mind me, I’ll just be over here in the corner, crying over my pirate boy.)

[angel-of-the-moons]

The Arm of a God (And Other Things)

Khonshu x Fem!Reader

Summary:

You take a week-long hiking trip alone, despite the warnings at the lodge from experienced hikers.

But were you truly alone?

No. Never.

The bears and mountain lions were the least of your concerns. In fact...

They never were to begin with.

TW/CW: NSFW, Smut, PiV sex, unprotected sex, size difference, reader is a size queen, needy(?)Khonshu, creampie, ngl it's a lot like the dude's a god and like 9 feet tall I refuse to believe every part of his anatomy isn't proportionate to the rest of him, like he has a breeding kink?? God of fertility hellooooooo

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

Taglist: @drinkingwithkhonshu @gingersforeverbox @manque-damour @nikkivenomized

🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙

"Look, kid, no offense but..." The older man replied to you, his thick, bushy eyebrows pinched with concern for your well-being, "It's dangerous out there if you're alone. And compared to a bear, you're a small snack."

You smile at the old man, briefly taking in his far more rugged appearance. He looked every part of a human grizzly bear; large, imposing, muscular. He could probably take an actual grizzly bear in a bare-knuckle fight and come out even. He was an experienced hiker, a man born for the wilderness.

His concern for you was sweet. Compared to him, you were a tiny porcelain teacup; clean, and fragile. Sure you looked that way, but you trusted yourself and your abilities.

You looked small... but you weren't helpless. And you never had to worry in any of your travels.

"Thank you for your concern, but I'm covered." You chuckle sweetly, tapping the pendant around your neck. It was a small stone, scribbled with some sort of symbols, a crescent moon featured most prominently.

He squinted his green eyes at the necklace. He obviously couldn't understand what they said, but he understood it was some sort of religious object.

"Look kid, god can only do so much if a brown bear raids your camp in the middle o' the night." He says, clicking his teeth.

"Trust me. I got my bear spray, a good taser, a machete..." You begin listing off your protective items, some of which were bullshit. Most of your items in your pack were food and other important supplies.

He seemed impressed once you were done, stroking his thick beard approvingly. "All right, I s'pose. But since you've checked in here, there's a policy you tune into the lodge's frequency so if anything happens, we can come get ya."

To show how serious you took his advice--even if it wasn't needed--you pulled out your radio. It had about a 30 kilometer radius. An expensive purchase, to be sure, but a nice one. You tune it to the frequency he tells you and look at him as you clip it back to your pack securely.

"Anything else?" You chirp.

"Nope... Just... Be careful. The weather can get kinda crazy further up the mountain." He grunts.

You turn, giving a playful salute as you do, dragging deep into your lungs the air of the mountains after a fresh morning rain.

You weren't afraid for what the night brought. Not at all. But you knew that you've never had to be afraid when the moon rose.

Not when you had faith.

🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙

You'd made good progress, only having to stop and rest a few times throughout the day, free-climbing a few boulders here and there, and to check your map. Your destination was an old burnt-down mansion that was destroyed in a bad storm sometime in the 1920s. So, over a hundred years ago.

Nobody really knew about them or bothered to find them because they were so far off the beaten path, but you marked your trail to find your way back. If you even got lost in the first place.

The first time you found out about this place was a small article written by a backpacker who explored forgotten ruins on YouTube. Yeah, they aren't as exciting as climbing a pyramid down in South America, but to you they were. You adored finding them and exploring them, touching pieces of recent history that were forgotten far quicker than ruins from thousands of years ago.

And when you found them, you tossed your pack down and did a happy little dance; they were amazing! The walls were made of river stone, joined by concrete and held up merely by their own sturdy construction. Some of the walls had fallen due to time, but you could easily make out a few old windows and doorways. Every inch of the ruins was covered in moss, shrubbery, and old and young trees embracing what was left.

You'd even climbed an old stairway you found in the back for fun; it may have led to the worker's lodgings, or.... hell maybe just another entrance to the second floor.

But now, the sun was gone, and you'd set up camp in the middle of the ruins, where a small pond had formed thanks to a depression in the ground. Perhaps the remains of a basement or cellar that had caved in due to the fire and passage of time.

Your fire crackled as you let your water purifier do it's job, your clean water dripping into your canteen with a steady "drip, drip, drip".

You finished off your pre-packaged meal--a nice packet of spaghetti and meatballs with some extra protein powder thrown in--and was now letting it settle, laying on your plush sleeping bag as you stared at the night sky, the moon fat as it hung from the stars; your fingers brushing and caressing the small pendant around your neck.

"I am not surprised to find you in a place like this." A heavy voice echoed off the stone walls.

You sat up on your elbows and lifted your gaze, smiling as you spot him--a large, lithe figure perched casually on the ruins, the light of the moon illuminating the eerie bird skull in place of his head.

"You know how much I love doing this." You remind him.

"Yes, I know." His voice said softly, his body moving in a blur. In a moment, he was standing above you.

You crossed your arms behind your head and grinned up at him. "It's been a month... Having fun with your Moon Guy?"

"My Moon Knight." He corrects, moving to sit next to you, laying his staff down on the remnants of the stone floor, little bits of grass and foliage peeking through the crags.

"Yeah, yeah." You snort, turning to roll on your side to grin at him again, resting your head in the palm of your hand.

"So... Read on the internet about some crazy shit going down in Egypt. And... It felt like you were gone. What happened with that?"

"Ammit and her cult. My Moon Knight and Taweret's Avatar stopped her. My Fist killed her Avatar." He said slowly. "And for meddling with the heavens... The Ennead imprisoned me, briefly."

You sat up fully, shocked by this news. "What? H-how... Why did--"

His fingers brush your lips to silence you, the touch feather light but enough to cease your speaking.

"It is settled, now. Don't worry." He says to you gently, his hand moving to cup your cheek, his warm palm heating your skin while his thumb brushes your cheek.

You close your eyes and sigh, frowning at him. "Damn you, old man... Don't worry me like that again, or I'll kill you."

"Of course. I wouldn't dare incur your wrath." He chuckled.

"Damn straight you won't." You sigh; his hand moved down your throat to encircle you, flattening on your upper back to pull you against him so you were astride in his lap.

You slowly slide your hands up his bandaged chest, feeling his heat bleed through your skin and warm you to your core. Your fingers toy with the large crescent moon fixed to his chest, brushing his flowing robes off to the sides.

"You are a force of nature," He hums, his other hand sliding down to completely encapsulate your ass and pull you tighter against him.

"One I have come to appreciate far more after my imprisonment."

You chuckle and watch as the strips of linen as soft as a moth's wing fall away into wisps of mist, leaving his almost searing hot skin bare to your touch.

His skin was a lifeless monochrome, ashen color, but it wasn't lacking in life at all, far from it. You could feel his godly heart thump in his chest, feel his muscles twitch as you touched him.

And already, you could feel the hard length of him pressing against you, swelling and twitching as it came to life as well.

It felt like his arousal flooded into you, spreading through your core and riling you up. You could already feel yourself soaking through your underwear, a dark stain soaking through your pants.

Sometimes you wished he could come to you at home; or in a motel room at least, so you can wear something nice for him, some lingerie or...

His fingers brushed your lips once again and he tapped them twice, signaling for you to open.

You obey silently, letting the soft pads of his index and middle finger part your jaws, caressing the muscle of your tongue, your eyes locking with his own eyeless gaze.

A rumble comes from him, and he groans as you roll your hips against his erection, the want and heat almost burning you inside and out.

One of your hands shoves down to undo your belt and unbutton your pants, and Khonshu withdraws his fingers from your mouth and almost dizzingly fast, his hand was shoved into your underwear, toying with your swollen clit.

You moan softly, your own small hands gripping at the gold collar on him for stability as one of his large fingers dips into your tight hole.

He grinds his palm into your clit as his finger curled and pressed against that overly sensitive spot on the walls of your cunt.

"Tight..." Khonshu growled, his other hand rolling your hips in time with his other hand. "You need to relax for me, love."

"T-Trying..." You pant, feeling the cool texture of his smooth dry beak caress against the blazing heat of your cheek.

"Hmmmh." He sighed and retracted his hands from you. "Get undressed. I need you to lie back."

You scramble off of his lap, watching his throbbing length bob eagerly as you peel your clothes off of you, lying back on your sleeping bag, spreading your legs for him to see every inch of you that was ready and waiting for him.

He had been gone for a month, and you knew on some nights, even when he wasn't there with you physically, you knew he would watch as you'd touch yourself to thoughts of him. No mortal man could ever compare to the love and carnal touch of a god, and he always felt a pang of guilt when he had to leave you for whatever duties he had.

But your reunions always ended this way, heat, lust and sheer want for companionship. You had started praying to him when you felt other religions didn't do it for you, finding that you being the wanderer that you were, would find more solace in prayer to a god who protected those like you.

And you certainly didn't expect to catch his eye, let alone capture his heart the way that you had.

His hand rests on your knee, thumb caressing the bones beneath the skin as he leans over you. He couldn't kiss you, but you always made sure that was never a problem, even now, as you tipped your head to place a soft kiss to the smooth side of his beak.

"Fuck--" You groaned, dropping your head back onto your travel pillow when his other hand rediscovered its place against your weeping sex, his thumb rolling small circles over your engorged clit while his other two fingers glide over your entrance; the muscles fluttering in anticipation of what was to come.

You squirm with impatience as each swipe of his fingers only serves to ignite a hotter flame burning low in your loins.

"Khonshu." You breathed.

When you said his name like that, it was always sweeter than any offering or prayer he has received. More uplifting than knowing his works uproots evil to protect the innocent, more delicious than watching Ammit and Harrow die at the end of Jake's gun.

"Just a bit more." He tightly reprimands, his other hand squeezing your knee to remind you to relax.

"You're such a damn tease." You whine, wiping one of your hands down your face, biting your lip and gripping your hair as his fingers inch slowly into your tight, hot hole.

Another deep, rumbling groan comes from him as he feels your body grip him like he was your reason for breathing; dragging, squeezing, pleading for him to just take you already....

But he wouldn't--couldn't--until your body had adjusted enough for this to be pleasurable for you as much as him. He was larger than a human man, and he knew your body was fragile compared to his.

Of course, he always felt smug and prideful when he acknowledged the fact he probably ruined you for any mortal man you may decide to bed one day. Because, honestly, now.

What mortal man can compare to a god in both love and in the bedroom?

You arched your hips up off the ground with a moan, whimpering out his name when his fingers curled upwards. But by bit he could feel your muscles ease up around him, your sweet body becoming slick and welcoming.

Sometimes he would get so mesmerized in how your body reacted just to his fingers that he neglected his cock entirely in focus on you.

He could feel your gummy walls press down on his fingers, fluttering around him as he pumped and curled them inside of you, fingering you open so you could take him fully.

He said your name so softly that it crackled like dry leaves on the wind, and you had to lazily drag your eyes open to look at him, the moon and stars shining above and behind him.

He was beautiful, in his own macabre sort of way...

Oh, if the Ennead knew he was fucking you, you both would probably be in heaps of trouble. But you always figured "bring it on" because you had some choice words for those bastards if you ever had the chance to meet them.

But those were thoughts for later, right now you were focused on your impending orgasm as his fingers scissored inside of you, pushing you closer and closer to that peak so when he pushed inside of you with his cock you wouldn't hurt (or bleed, as that has happened before when the two of you got overzealous).

And of course, right as you were about to cum, your whole body electrified to the point you actually thought you saw sparks in your peripheral vision... Khonshu pulled his fingers free of your wanting body.

You practically sobbed in frustration as your climax was taken from you so abruptly. It was a favorite thing of his to do to you; edging you like he does. But you knew it was for more selfish reasons than anything else.

He leaned over you, bracing his body on his forearms as he gently brushed your head with his beak--his closest approximation of a kiss--and you felt something warm and wet drip onto your belly.

Sparing a glance down, you pant softly as you watch the faintly glowing fluid drip from the tip of his cock; the very tip of it flushed the tiniest shade of pink on his otherwise colorless body. Maybe once upon a time his skin was a different color, but in his exile, it has become so dull.

"Are you ready." He grits out. More a statement than a question, really, as he knew your answer beforehand. But it was important to him that you never had any reservations.

He would not take without first receiving consent from you, without giving.

He was not Set, after all.

"Please." You breathe, reaching out to touch his cock, fingers brushing along the silky soft skin, smearing the precum over the tip with your thumb; earning a delicious groan from him.

He grunts softly, nodding as he lets you guide his weeping cock through your slick folds and to your hole.

It was always breath-stealing, the moment he pushed into you, his thick girth spearing you open and filling you so full you swore he was buried in your guts.

You kept your hand low, feeling him as he slowly slid further inside of you, a hiss coming from him. You were relaxed now, yes... but still so tight because of your comparative sizes that it knocked him off kilter; your heat enveloping him so welcomingly as though he was coming home again.

"K-Khonshu!" You hiccuped, your eyes rolling back into your head as you felt him fill you.

Khonshu's leg moves, pushing your thigh and nudging your legs open for him further; the both of you making low breathy sounds as your body squeezed him instinctively at the action.

"I'm... going to move, now." He snarls, reaching down to caress your thigh as he pulls back, your body desperately clinging to him, begging him to stay inside.

Your nails claw at his arms as you grit your teeth, sweat beading your brow as you feel him slide out inch by torturous inch before rolling his hips back into yours, filling you up almost as quickly as he pulled away.

"Oh--oh--" You whine, barely able to speak or form coherent thoughts as Khonshu starts arching his back and rolling his hips at the right angle to make your brain turn to mush.

The first time he had you, you thought you actually died. He had you ride his fingers until you couldn't move, and then he had you pinned, still thrusting his hand inside of you, coaxing and caressing your muscles to allow him entrance.

You did bleed, of course, because of his size. You'd had human bed partners, yes, but none compared to him in any way. You'd probably never be able to look at a human cock again and get as excited as you did when Khonshu teased you.

Oh, how strange it was... Gods often looked down at mortals because of their fallacies, not unlike their own in some ways... But lifetimes ago, the Old Gods of Egypt kept close relationships with their mortal followers. Of course... None had gone so far as to lay with them like Khonshu had done with you.

You'd tried to tease him, the first time you got intimate, that you were his first.

That's when he proved to you that just because you were his first human, didn't mean you were his first bedroom partner.

The way he made love to you was ethereal, almost entirely unreal. It was so good that sometimes you thought you'd dreamt it.

"Khonshu, I'm..." You moan, lifting your hips off of the ground to meet his thrusts as they picked up speed.

Khonshu watched you, his eyeless gaze boring holes into you as he studied your face, as beautiful as the most detailed works of art in human history as you came undone around him, soaking his skin as your body pushes every wave of your climax out.

His pace faltered, and he collapsed back onto his forearms as your legs locked around him, digging into the taut muscles of his glutes as your orgasm nearly knocked him senseless for a moment.

He gripped your sleeping bag tight in one hand as his pace quickened, desperate to taste his own release that threatened to swell up inside of him.

"Almost." He says, his voice wavering.

"Do it." You moan loudly, dragging your nails down his back desperately.

"Hrr--you--" He moaned back, his other hand moving back to grip your thigh so tightly you'd be feeling the bruises for days onward, even in his absence.

"Please."

"You... are... always... so... greedy." He snaps out with each thrust of his hips, the sinful sound of skin slapping skin and your cries filling the ruins.

"Is--Is it really being greedy if you--you want to--want--" Your voice breaks apart as he angles his hips up, his cock throbbing and twitching inside of you as he pumps you full, the sensation of being so utterly stuffed enough to push you into your second orgasm, forcing out globs of his glowing seed around his cock as he fucks you through both your orgasms, riding our your highs together in a blissful, mind-numbing spiral.

You were vaguely aware when he pulled his cock free of your body, barely grasping at the threads of consciousness as he looked down at you, his thumb pressing into your lower belly as he watched his divine seed drip from you.

He half wondered, if maybe you would get pregnant. Wondered what kind of child you would bear. A demi-god, surely, but what kind? In his pantheon, the children of their parents rarely shared the same aspects. Save for some overlapping connectivities, that is...

He could almost see your belly swell, nice and round... And felt something tug deep within his chest, a drive to see if this little thought bubble could burst--to see if his imagination would be a reality and bear fruit.

But, of course... His mind was dragged to the forefront of reality when your shaky little hand caressed the skull that was his head, your eyes drowsy and satiated as you smiled up at him, your god, your protector.

Your lover.

As he laid next to you, he curled your body with his and watched as the last embers of your fire burned away, leaving you only haloed in the soft, silver rays of his moon.

He couldn't believe he ever found you

[crustaceousfaggot]

So I've been thinking a lot about the setting of Disco Elysium. Specifically it being set in late winter/early spring. It's not something I've really seen anyone else bring up.

I mean, the symbolism seems pretty obvious right? Spring is the time of new beginnings, winter is ending and we're entering a time of potential and rebirth. Definitely nothing new. But I think it goes beyond that.

I live in one of the coldest major cities in the world. Not *the* coldest, but you'll be hard-pressed to find a city with over 1,000,000 inhabitants that gets colder than it gets here. Winters are long and brutal and difficult, and when the soil itself is frozen and covered in a foot of packed snow it's really hard to believe that the world could look any other way.

And don't get me wrong, winter is beautiful. The world is quiet and picturesque. There's none of the usual dirt and debris in the streets because it's all buried under the snow. The way that fresh snow sparkles under street lights at night is one of the most breathtakingly gorgeous things I've ever seen.

It's early April right now, and the snow is melting. It's not all gone, but it's getting there. When the air starts to warm up there's this feeling of excitement and anticipation in the air. Spring is here, and any second now the world will be bursting with new life and beautiful greenery.

But it's not. Not yet.

For about a month and a half after the snow starts to melt, the world is grey. No glittering snow, no budding flowers, no swirling red leaves, just puddles of brown water and lawns of brown grass. It's like winter had ended, but the world has yet to realize that it's supposed to be spring. Until it remembers, we're all trapped in a world where there is no season at all.

Sometimes it snows, but the snow never sticks around. Sometimes it rains, but the rain never brings flowers in its wake.

That last month of winter, that first month of spring, whatever you want to call it, is my least favourite time of year. I heard it described once as "the long-preserved corpse of autumn, finally allowed to rot", and that phrase stuck with me. There are eight month old leaves on the ground, skeletal and bleached grey by a winter trapped under the ice. Without the snow to cover it, you can't ignore just how much we've let our city go to shit. The trees are bare and skeletal, and even the evergreens look washed out and grey when they're not contrasted against the snow. Most of the birds aren't back yet, so the only sound outside my window is the ever-present hum of traffic.

It's impossible to ignore the movement and the sounds of humanity, but at the same time the world has never felt so stagnant.

I think there are all sorts of comparisons you could draw here, some of which hold up better than others. The one that first comes to mind for me is sobriety- the line "Full recovery will take years, though. It’ll be depressing. And it’ll be boring. Don’t expect any further rewards or handclaps." from the "Waste Land Of Reality"o thought is one which really stuck with me on my first playthrough, and one which feels especially appropriate here. But that's just one angle.

How much of this was intentional? I don't know. Probably not most of it. Part of me just wanted to go on a little tangent about the seasonal purgatory I'm trapped in once again. But I genuinely don't think there could be a better time of year to set a game like Disco Elysium. That bleak dusty shoulder season, where all the ugliest and most honest parts of nature and civilization are on display. The time of year where I've gone through the ringer and come out the other side, but everything still looks and feels like shit. It's just a different kind of shit.

Spring isn't here. Not yet. And when it does come, it won't fix anything. There will still be garbage on the ground and pollution in the air, there will still be class inequality and senseless violence and I will still be mentally ill.

But still.

For the first time in months, I can feel the wind against my skin without it hurting.

Whatever that's worth.

[fatcatlittlebox]

I had an ask about why there is a difference in the scene where Halbrand returns Valandil’s sword vs the scene in the forge that I just analyzed and I think it’s an important answer. Firstly, shots of hands always signify something in cinema. Where they are placed, who they belong to, what is being exchanged and even the movements. I could write a whole thesis on Spielberg’s use of it in his films. And it’s no different in TROP. Hands convey intention, intimacy, ownership, emotion. Alot. Charlotte Brandstrom was even asked about the closeup shot of Adar's hand in an interview. The reporter asked her specifically about the scene where Adar is planting seeds in season 1 and this is what she said:

CB: I always start, I mean, first of all, visually, I always like to start with a character moment and not with a geographic moment. I don’t like to find out where I am, but I want to know what it is about. So by starting on a very tight insert of the seeds, I make it mysterious, and I think it’s more gripping because you want to find out more, and it says something right away about the character. And then I cut to wide, and it’s a tendency that I’ve developed more and more, always starting small and going wide, because I feel you sort of grab the audience’s attention and you also, I mean, as I said, you create small character moments, and those are the moments that most important I think in the story. (x)

So there you have it. The director is straight telling you that if you seek insight into these characters, it’s in these small, close details. And they purposefully edit it to keep it ambiguous. Not because they want to keep it vague. It's because there is the suggestion that there's probably more than meets the eye. There are multiple clues and multiple layers at play. These visual clues are supposed to be revisited and reinterpreted.

I bring this up because those close up details are a key difference in the scenes. So, let’s contrast the two: one in which Halbrand returns Valandil's sword to him. It may seem the two scenarios are very similar but there's more to it. As I said --it comes down to the details. In this case, their hands. Notably, you never see their hands in the same frame of this scene. Not in a close-up. Not when the sword is exchanged. There isn't anything sinister about it. It's just not emotional or personal. There is no subtextual communication here between the Valandil and Halbrand. Because this gesture isn’t meant for him. It’s meant for the elf standing behind him. And Galadriel in the background isn’t coincidental. You see the camera subtly shift from right to left to catch Galadriel witnessing Sauron offer the sword. Again, this act is meant for her.

Later, with Galadriel in the forge, the context changes the whole subtext of the knife exchange. First, Sauron can’t help but draw her closer. So he feigns dropping the sheath of the knife so she rushes to his side. The proximity is intimate, charged. Then, there is the act itself of placing the knife in front of her. In the context of Galadriel pleading with him to join her cause, this gesture can be interpreted as symbolic of his acquiescence. A sign of his allegiance, his loyalty and ultimately a pledge of his life. But an added layer to this (after it is revealed that Halbrand had been Sauron), is the deeper, more earth-shattering meaning: he is offering to pay his penance. Sauron, repentant, apologizes in this scene. And this act is subconsciously meant as proof of his contrition. He was this close to facing judgement. Hers. He was this close to telling her and putting himself at her mercy, as if to say, “Here it is. The peace you seek. Seize this dagger and end it all. Take your revenge.”

Between this knife, Valandil's sword and all the way back to when Sauron returns her brother's dagger, he has been telegraphing his loyalty and allegiance to Galadriel every step of the way. That was no ruse. It was not a ploy. Whether this was subconscious on his part or not, his intention had been consistent and genuine. He was offering himself.

Instead, she counters his offer with one of her own. Not knowing she was increasing the stakes. “Bind yourself to me.” No peace shall be found except at her side. And Sauron foolishly convinces himself into believing that this will balance their scales. It is his arrogance (somewhat delusional) the idea that he could be the architect of her pain, and the author of her deliverance. And yet that is very in keeping with his hubris.

[transient-winds]

The conclusion of the Noroshi arc has finally arrived! Way to go Bofurin and allies 🥹🙌!!

Spoilers for Wind Breaker Chapters 157 and Chapter 158 ahead! (with additional doodles as an apology for not posting last time, exams was kicking my ass i fear)

Crazy how this whole arc happened in around or in less than 12 hours and I was so ready for it to end on 157 but I should’ve know Takiishi was too stubborn to be knocked out so easily.

GAHHH I have so much to say about the symbolisms in these two chapters.

So first of all, the “Umemiya’s will to change Furin is akin to forging metal” analogy from Endo (Chapter 153) comes back in 157, but now it’s being used in the context of Takiishi. The metal (Takiishi) is finally hot enough to be malleable for potential change and its evident with his new found interest in the rain. Throughout most of Takiishi’s life, he has remained static. He gets what he wants, when he wants and how he wants it. If he doesn’t like it, he gets rid of it. There had been little else that has ever made a significant impact or changes in his life, then he meets Endo and Umemiya—

—both becoming the faces of his perception on the types of people that exist in his life. Then, Umemiya takes it a step further and becomes the catalyst to a (much needed) change in perspective for Takiishi. In my opinion, Takiishi liking the rain can be symbolic of two things:

(1) the rain or more specifically water in Buddhism symbolizes purity, clarity and calmness. Think back to how hellish and messy Takiishi’s mindscape was like in Chapter 153, it had been full of all his interests (notice the fireworks in the bkgd? he said he likes fireworks in 158) and how he perceives things from the outside world. Takiishi starting to like rain means he’s introducing rain to his mindscape, and I can only assume it helps clean up that horder’s wet dream of a place. That is to say, he’s allowing himself to be cleaned from the impurities and bring serenity into his life.

and (2) it represents Takiishi reaching Nirvana (or something similar to it). Now, to most people this probably came out my ass but hear me out: nirvana literally means “to blow out (a light/fire)” or in other words “to extinguish” and as a concept in Buddhism, its a state in which one extinguishes the three posions (i.e. greed, hatred and ignorance) from their life and reaches enlightenment. AND THE TITLE OF CHAPTER 158 IS “The Great Fires of Extinction*”. *smacks my scrub-down board* DO YOU SEE THE CONNECTION RN? TELL ME IM NOT CRAZY FOR THINKING THIS. What I’m getting at is Umemiya was able to help in quelling the poisonous flames of Takiishi’s heart and guided him to self-betterment JUST LIKE THE DUTIES OF FUDO MYO-O AND EXACTLY LIKE HOW BUDDHA CONVERTED THE EIGHT LEGIONS TO BUDDHISM. (Sorry for the capslock im just *gestures wildly* excited)

*note: my delulu brain made the connection between extinction and extinguish because they both refer to the removal of something. (update: etymologically, they both orginated from the same latin word extinguere / lit. destroy or put out)

By the end of this arc, Takiishi has changed significantly and, as much as I hate to say this, but I agree with Endo on this being a beautiful fight. It had been a long time coming for both parties but it had been a necessary conversation to kickstart a new beginning for Takiishi like a rebirth of sorts (+ it allowed Endo and Sakura to gain perspective on people, their complexities and for the latter the responsibilities of being top dog). Wish it didn’t have to end in the rooftop and the town becoming a mess, but oh well, we can’t have everything.

I love love LOVE how Nii-sensei writes Umemiya. His role as a guide and protector to both his people and his enemies is so fucking beautiful and poetic, my words won’t do it justice. In my heart, I see it as him stepping up to be the big brother figure he was always meant to be—had the accident not happened, he would’ve been the best one in the world.

“There’s nothing more fascinating than people.” AGREED KING, SPEAK YOUR TRUTH. I

NOW FOR MY SILLY YAPPING!

UmeEndo conversation really shines in 158 and I’m living for it. I get you UmeEndo shippers, I get you. Endo’s so fucking weirded out by Ume’s optimism and genuineness, I genuinely love how uncomfortable he gets. I’m framing the faces he made in this chapter. Oh how the turns have tabled, you absolute goof.

I already said this once to a friend but I’ll only say it one more time, but I’m genuinely happy for Endo. He has stuck onto Takiishi like a leech without any expectation for the latter’s reciprocation and it was kind of pitiful watching him dance around Takiishi like an annoying chihuahua. Now that Takiishi has officially and verbally acknowledged him, it was heart warming…I guess. I'll let him ride this high with a follow up sketch I'll share here later.

–

Despite no sunrise panel, I think it was appropriate for this arc to end in a downpour. It’s fitting like a forest fire dying down from the rain to replenish the earth and grow anew with all the nutrients from the ash remains of the forest (shoutout to Ales for her EndoChikaUme being Fuel, Fire and Ash post, im kissing your brain rn). Overall, very happy with the conclusion of the Noroshi arc and I’m happily dancing to Happy Xmas (War is Over) by the Plastic Ono. All the love to Nii-sensei and everyone in the official English translation staff for literally the best arc so far in the manga. And thanks for reading ‘til the end of this post. ^^

[sugar-crash]

🏎️Turbo (Wreck-It Ralph) x (gn) Reader🏁

(His Last and Only Love Edition)

(Picture’s not mine!)

(Request here! Howdy hey! Sorry for being a little lump in the log lol)

- With how inherently loyal and caring this kind of reader is, I don’t think it’d be much of a stretch to say he’d take them for granted.

- Like having a sort of carelessness about your relationship that’s a constant all throughout it, sees it in a “They’re going to love regardless of what I do” sort of way.

- Spawns an unhealthy dynamic between you two if that isn’t obvious already, denies that he depends on your affection but to the people who really pay attention see that he’s lying through his teeth, you both metaphorically cling to each other like an unhealthy symbiotic relationship.

- Turbo is really a parasite even before he worms his way into Sugar Rush. And you probably are as well, considering you follow him from Turbo Time to Sugar Rush after he systematically ruined two worlds in one day. Unwilling to let go of an idealized fantasy.

- Entitled to a frightening degree, for not only his fame but also your affections, keeping you close but also pushing you away— His actions are confusing and dangerous but you simply can’t find yourself in the haze of being his lover. It was what you were made to do.

- It feels like an act at times, especially when you’re both in Sugar Rush, the overdramatized version of himself that tries to play your relationship off as whatever you both decide it to be.

- I kinda like the idea of you being a jester of some sort over a ruler alongside him as KC, I mean, the original use for a jester was not only for amusement— But also stress relief among other things.

- That and the symbolism of being a lovesick fool, blinded by their own desire to keep Turbo happy, wearing the makeup and the clothing of one feels fitting.

- But there’s also potential in the reader being another ruler, being the quiet one in comparison to the talkative and enthusiastic persona Turbo portrays as KC, a metaphorical doormat of a ruler that lets their husband command Sugar Rush in a unfair society that’s thinly veiled under all that positive image and wanting what’s “best”.

- And all you can do is nod, you’ve never gone against him, even at his worst, why would that change now?

- There’s so many reasons why you’d do something like this, probably too many to count, maybe it’s simply the way you are, or you were influenced by the people you care about to be like this, who knows?

- But what we do know is that you both are each other’s folly all the while being quite literally being made for one another, people expected you to be there alongside Turbo. The doting S/O. The hopelessly devoted.

- I see it in a way that I see Simon and Betty from Adventure Time, albeit far more unhinged, your very being has been based upon him, is there anything beyond that? That’s for you to decide and come to terms with if you don’t want to be delegated to simply being his.

- Would you have the opportunity to? Or would you be loyal till the very nasty end? Stuck in a body that was mutated with the compulsion to be lured to a thing that would kill you indefinitely?

- You have always sacrificed so much for him, whether it be various friendships, opportunities, or options. So much. Are you willing to sacrifice yourself as well?

- A love like that is just draining, an aching for a man that undermines your heart for the sake of being “better” in all things he deems worthy.

- He does so little yet so much to keep you from falling out of love with him, honey coated promises and the way he just knows what to say when he feels as if you’re pulling away, even if it’s rare.

- By the end of it, you probably can’t even recognize him anymore, who is this person? And why does it hurt to love him? Why do you need a person you know can be so volatile?

- Are you partly afraid of him? Do the things he does concern you? Those kinds of thoughts are a common occurrence between the two of you, even as the years go by and you both find yourself tangled up in a lie of your own making.

- Death is more than likely the only way you guys separate, but would the damage be too great after tearing the tumor from the host?

(.-- .... --- / .. ... / - .... . / - ..- -- --- .-. / .- -. -.. / .-- .... --- / .. ... / - .... . / .... --- ... - ..--..)

[thetomorrowshow]

febuwhump 12 - used as practice

title: burying my whole life

fandom: traffic smp

part of my bad boys gang au!!

cw: blood, violence

~

Scott swallows, shifts his weight.

He lets himself, for a moment, wonder about Martyn. Is he in the same situation? Blindfolded, tied to an uncomfortable chair? A dirty gag pulled taut between his teeth?

Or is it worse?

Then he shakes himself. He’s not thinking about that. He’s not going to sit here and run himself ragged, panicking about what they might be doing to his friend. He’s fine, so he has to assume that Martyn’s the same way.

This was supposed to be an easy job. They only take easy jobs, after all—one of the perks of being independent contractors is that they get to pick and choose whatever jobs they want to work. But hiding bodies hasn’t been enough to cover rent as of late, and they really can’t afford to lose the junkyard.

They’ve worked for every respectable gang in the city, so Scott would have thought that there would be a bit more respect on the Mean Gills Hunk o’ Junk services. His and Martyn’s matching t-shirt uniforms are practically a Red Cross symbol around here. They aren’t to be touched.

The job had sounded pretty easy. Implicate this new gang, the Neighbors, in a murder that belonged to the Clockers. Scott didn’t feel too bad about it, seeing as the Neighbors hadn’t been so kind as to utilize their services yet. They seemed like a pretty small start-up, and the Clockers were probably trying to squash them out of the game before they really got their feet under themselves.

Well, they have their feet under them, that’s for sure.

The Neighbors aren’t actually a gang, that much is clear. They’re some sort of—private elite force, Scott thinks, with training that he’s never seen from the usual thugs. He and Martyn can hold their own in hand-to-hand combat, but a single man in a button-up shirt had taken them both down with a couple of lightning-fast sweeps of his legs. It had been almost like an art form, a fluid dance that only he knew the steps to.

Scott had woken up . . . wherever this is. Alone. Unable to move his arms more than to flex his wrists, his legs bound in three different places, the only movement allowed him the ability to twist his head around. Nothing to look at, not with his eyes covered.

How long was he out? How long has he been here, in this unknowable prison, waiting for whatever judgment is sure to come?

In all likelihood, Scott’s dead. There are very few scenarios here where he ends up alive. They’ll probably interrogate him about his past work, the many bodies that he’s thrown into the incinerator or buried beneath all the junk. Then they’ll kill him, his knowledge of whatever they’re doing too threatening to their work.

Why did he ever have to get involved in this business in the first place? He’d always dreamed of living an average-length life.

What had seemed like an easy way to get a lot of cash has backfired in an unfortunately foreseeable manner.

Scott sits in silence for far too long. Hours, if he had to guess—which is unpleasant, frankly, waiting for his own death for so long with restricted blood circulation. If they were polite about it, his captors would have come in right after he’d woken, done their quick little interrogation, and shot him in the head.

When someone finally joins him, they don’t ask the demanded questions he expects. They don’t take off the blindfold or the gag, but they release him from his other binds (which he can now tell aren’t ropes, but something like mini bungee cords, easier to loosen quickly) and pull him to his feet and into a brisk walk, all without a word.

Scott stumbles along with them, a person on either side, his wrists clicked into handcuffs before he can so much as lift his hands. That’s frustrating, and not because it restricts his chances of escape, but because he’s already struggling with walking as pins and needles fill his legs and he’d like to be capable of catching himself if he falls, thank you very much.

Somehow he keeps his feet, though he hasn’t got any sort of presence of mind to pay attention to where they’re going, especially when he can’t see. Probably to some other room to be interrogated.

But they stop suddenly after what he assumes is a bit of a hallway, and they don’t have him sit down or remove the blindfold or anything. They just stand there, fingernails digging into Scott’s arms, and wait.

Scott lets out a slow huff of breath through his nose, flexes his fingers. Is this some sort of intimidation thing? What are they waiting for?

This is going to be it. He’ll be standing here for ages, then some big scary man will come in and tear off his blindfold and gag. He’ll demand to know his purpose and press him for every bit of information he knows, then he’ll nod to one of his goons and they’ll shoot him in the head and his body will be dragged away (probably to be buried in his own junkyard).

He knows so many things, though—what if he keeps giving information that the big scary man doesn’t even want? He’s so overflowing with things that he knows he doesn’t even know what he knows! Great, now he’s going to get a bad grade in hostage, something that is normal to—

Shuffling footsteps.

Scott swallows as best he can behind the gag. It sounds like multiple people, kind of far away. Maybe two more men with Martyn in between them?

“Here,” a lilting, woman’s voice says. She sounds far away—like she’s at the other end of a long room. “There’s your target.”

What?

A beat passes.

“What?” a man (from that same distance) says incredulously, echoing Scott’s thought.

“You’re a marksman, aren’t you? Show us your skills.”

Is Scott in a shooting range? Why would they bring him here?

“What did he do?” the man asks.

“Doesn’t matter, does it? He’s an enemy to us.”

“But—but he’s helpless.”

“What does that matter?”

Oh.

Oh, no.

Scott can see it, in his mind’s eye. Him, bound and gagged, a faceless perpetrator, stood at the end of the shooting range. This anonymous man, perhaps facing a test of loyalty, placed at the other end with a gun in hand.

There’s still men on either side of him. A test of accuracy, too.

They aren’t even going to interrogate him?

Scott feels kind of offended, honestly, that they’re using him as nothing more than a prop in someone else’s test. He has knowledge of worth! He has dirt on every gang in the city, and despite what he always claims, it can absolutely be tortured out of him.

Maybe Martyn already gave up everything useful. Maybe Martyn traded his life for Scott’s. Sounds like something he would do—there’s never really been love lost between the two of them; circumstance brought them together and convenience kept them together and now convenience dictates their separation.

To be fair, Scott would have sold him out, too.

Ah, well. He lived a decent life—for the first sixteen years, or so. He was kind of a terrible person after that. To be frank, he probably deserves to die.

As someone else’s loyalty test, though? Really?

His ideal death is absolutely to sacrifice himself to save someone else for reasons that he’s not going to personally examine, but this is just embarrassing.

“I won’t.”

If Scott didn’t have a gag in his mouth, he would have groaned. Is he seriously going to drag this out? He’s seen movies, he knows what’s going to happen.

Sure enough, there’s a long pause, then a meaty thud followed by a pained grunt. After a moment, the woman speaks again.

“Shoot him.”

When the man speaks, his voice is notably strained. “No.”

Another thud. Then another, and a bit of a crack, and the man makes another sound of pain. After a moment of relative silence, he hears a sliding sound, as if something heavy is being dragged along the floor.

A door opens, then shuts.

Scott still has a gag in his mouth, but he makes his best attempt at a groan anyways.

-

That pattern repeats itself four times.

Scott is pulled from his chair and into what he has to assume is a target range. The anonymous man being tested is brought in, he refuses to shoot Scott, he gets beaten into submission, and then both of them are dragged away again.

The sixth time, as Scott stands in the target range with guards on either side, he wishes they would loosen the gag. Then he could at least try to make this interesting. It sounds fun to beg for help. Or maybe he could try to anger the man. Or he could stay silent by choice. That would be enigmatic.

The man sounds exhausted today, and Scott briefly wonders what he’s been going through when they’re not in the room together. Do they hurt him? Interrogate him? Train him? At least with Scott they give him food and water at fairly regular intervals. The man seems to get weaker and weaker by the day.

“Really?” the man says, his voice carrying thinly across the room. “Again? Same guy? Don’t you get tired of this?”

“Don’t you?”

There’s a long silence that follows that.

Scott waits with bated breath.

Is this going to be it, at last?

Even though he’s been prepared five times now, his unpreparedness strikes him like a staff to his knees. Did he ever thank his neighbors for the housewarming cookies they brought him? How long has his cat been alone at home? Why didn’t he ever reach out to his mom? Just a call would have sufficed. He could have even visited her.

The silence continues.

Then—a cry of pain—and relief drops through Scott’s chest.

It’s immediately chased by exhaustion, and a little bit of shame (it’s not like this putting-off of his death sentence will change anything that he has or hasn’t done, and all it’s doing is causing pain to this other man), but he only swallows and allows himself to be led away.

-

“Give me the gun.”

There it is again—that jump in his stomach, the weakness in his legs, because this is it, this time. No more trials. 

Seven is a meaningful number, Scott heard once. He doesn’t know what it means. He has to assume it means the end.

“Good. Shoot—”

BANG.

Scott can’t help it—he flinches (he curses himself in the moment for flinching)—

He . . . isn’t hit.

There’s sounds—sounds of a struggle, shouts and deafening gunshots and the men on either side of him split apart, leaving him standing alone—and Scott hasn’t properly walked or stood on his own in what feels like days, so he sways in place, but he can’t balance himself with bound hands—

Running footsteps come toward him, and someone (who smells like sweat and blood, gross) wraps an arm around him before he can fall.

“Run, run, run!” the man’s voice says, too loud in his ear.

And what’s Scott supposed to do but run?

He lets the man guide him, stays as close as he can without tripping over his legs. He runs blindly, desperately trying not to fall—which is harder than it looks, blindfolded and handcuffed and weak. He manages to follow the twists and turns fairly well until the man drags him on a sharp turn and he stumbles over his own feet, falling flat on his face.

“Oh, geez—sorry, one second—”

A door squeaks; hands grab at his face, and the gag is pulled and pulled (and with it, painfully, the corners of his lips) and then torn loose. Scott gratefully lets his mouth fall shut, then winces as the blindfold is forcefully ripped from his eyes.

He opens his eyes (which hurts, the light hurts, how long has he been here?) and looks up.

In the dim lighting, Scott blinks past watery eyes and sees the man who has held his death in his hands seven separate times.

He’s—

He’s actually kind of hot.

Like, yeah, there’s blood trickling down the stubbly side of his face, and he has a massive black eye, and his blond hair is clumpy and tangled and gross-looking, but . . . he’s got potential. He definitely isn’t the worst last thing to see.

Scott swallows, his mouth bone-dry and tongue swollen, and manages, “Hey, hot stuff. What’s a guy like—like you doing in a place like this?”

Adorably, the man blushes. “I—um—can you shoot?” he blusters.

Scott hopes he manages a devilish smirk with his numb lips. “Only if you buy me dinner first.”

“Holy moly.” The man actually gets up and walks away, though he returns after only a few seconds. “Look, I can get us out of here if I can get a phone. You wouldn’t happen to have one, would you?”

“I haven’t checked,” Scott grouses. “I think it was confiscated in the onboarding training.”

“Yeah, same,” the man says absently.

Scott would check his pockets, but his hands happened to be bound with actual handcuffs, rather than the bungee cords that had bound him to the chair. He hasn’t noticed anything in his pockets as of yet—and who would leave a prisoner with their cell phone? It’s likely long been destroyed.

“Okay, well—I have these guns,” the man says, holding out two handguns. “Genuinely, can you shoot?”

“Not like this,” Scott says drily, jangling his handcuffs. The man hasn’t even offered to help him up. He’s just lying on the dusty carpet of this—it looks like a small meeting room, with a table in the center and a handful of chairs scattered about.

Come to think of it, it probably wouldn’t be too hard to hold a gun while handcuffed, but Scott isn’t exactly a marksman. He can hold his own in a fistfight, and he’s actually pretty decent with knives, but guns aren’t his specialty. Sure, they keep a handgun in the office in case of emergency, but he’s never really needed to use it.

“And I can only shoot one right now. . . .”

Scott scoffs, which quickly turns into a real coughing fit. When he can breathe, he chokes out, “You can only shoot one, period. Dual-wielding pistols doesn’t actually work, genius.”

The man shrugs. “I’ve been practicing, I can get decent cover fire. But they broke a few fingers, so. . . .” He holds up his left hand, which Scott can just barely tell in this lighting is shockingly swollen.

Despite his doubts on the gun matter, Scott grimaces. Broken fingers hurt, and he’s only ever broken one before (perks of accidentally slamming your hand in a door). He can’t imagine breaking multiple, then having to shoot with that hand.

“Okay. Here’s the plan,” the man says, checking out the open door. “First person to walk by, I shoot ‘em and take their phone. Then I call my friends and we get out of here.”

“That’ll be way too loud,” Scott points out. “They’d kill us before any of your supposed friends even showed up.”

“Well, it’s not like you’re throwing around any clever ideas,” the man says hotly.

Which is entirely unfair, seeing as Scott is literally lying on the floor, and until mere minutes ago was not only handcuffed, but blindfolded and gagged. Honestly, it’s shocking he can even function right now. It’s shocking he’s even alive right now.

They’re not actually going to escape, right? There’s no way, not when they’re in the depths of the Neighbors’ organization, when there are surely plenty of skilled fighters searching for them right now. They’ll probably kill Scott on the spot, then take the other guy back to continue whatever they’re doing with him.

“Search the room, would you?” the man says. “I’ll keep a look-out.”

Scott rolls his eyes, then shifts to his knees and pushes himself up, starts going through the room.

It’s just as small as he’d assumed, a table barely larger than a desk in the center with four chairs, two on either long side. There’s not any sort of tech in here, not even a projector, and the whiteboard on the wall only has a singular dried-out marker with it. 

He turns around to tell the guy that there’s really nothing here, but he already has a preemptive hand held out toward Scott, clearly signalling to be quiet.

Scott freezes. Listens.

He doesn’t hear anything until the footsteps are almost upon them, just outside the door of the meeting room, and quick as a flash his accomplice darts out the door, then back in, dragging a struggling man in a suit with him, hand with the broken fingers covering his mouth.

There’s a moment’s struggle in which Scott’s accomplice tries to drag the suit to the ground, and the suit tries to get his gun aimed behind himself to shoot him. Scott’s fairly certain he hasn’t been noticed yet—he hurries forward, ramming his head into the suit’s stomach—

The force of it bowls all three of them to the floor with a loud thud. Scott rolls over someone’s lumpy body—his new friend cries out—the Neighbor grunts—

It’s too dark, for goodness’ sakes, Scott can’t see and he’s all turned around, his hands held together by the stubborn cuffs, there’s no way he’s going to survive this—

BANG!

Blinding pain overcomes Scott’s entire system and he thinks he only doesn’t scream because he’s left without any air in his lungs. He doesn’t know where he’s been hit, but it hurts more than anything that’s ever happened and he can’t see, can’t feel his body, can’t do anything but gasp in agony.

Is he dying? He’s probably dying. He’s definitely dying, it—it hurts so—

What’s happening? Why is he dying? He’s dying—

Scott isn’t sure how long he spends hanging in the limbo of all-encompassing torture. At some point, though, the pain begins to centralize in his right arm, and he sucks in a deep breath, some of the red on the back of his eyelids fading. The ringing in his ears starts to recede, little by little, until he can hear someone muttering in his ear.

“—you’re all right, help is coming, just need you to stand up—”

An arm worms its way under his back and pulls him up slowly, Scott helpless to prevent it. His knees buckle when his bare feet find the floor, but whoever has him doesn’t let him fall. His right hand pulses angrily, far too hot for him to focus on much else.

“Come on, it’s not that bad. We need to get out of here so my buddies can get us away, right? Can you open your eyes?”

Scott tries. He really, really, does, but he can’t quite wrench them open, his eyelids soldered shut. He does manage, however, to stand, though his legs tremble weakly under the weight of his body.

“Let’s go, let’s go. Are you gonna pass out? You look white as a ghost. Stay awake, yeah? What’s your name?”

His name. Scott lets the person supporting him guide him forward. “Scott,” he rasps.

“Cool, nice to meet you. What do you do for work, Scott?”

“Junkyard. I—” Scott finally forces his eyes open, the world before him grey and tear-blurred. “I—”

“Junkyard, that’s cool. Got any family?”

They’re escaping. They’re getting out of here, Scott and this random man. What happened with the other guy, the one in the suit? Did they take him out?

“Scott? You good?”

“Yeah,” Scott breathes, and his hand pulses—

He looks down.

He can’t really tell what’s up through his tears, but there’s a dirty piece of fabric tied around his hand, soaked through with blood. Blood’s all up his arm, all over his leg, dripping lazily from his fingers. He blinks, blinks again.

“Can you walk yet?” the man asks, and Scott now notices how exhausted he sounds, almost entirely out of breath. “‘Cuz—dude, I can’t go on like this.”

Surely he can walk, right?

Scott decides to at least try.

He pushes off of the man—not completely, but enough that he’s mostly supporting his own weight. He’s still pretty much blindly following, but they really ought to move faster if they’re actually going to get out. Scott pushes past the jelly that his legs have become and increases the pace, swallowing back the instinct to vomit.

“What’s y’r name?” he forces out, more to keep himself conscious than out of actual curiosity. Which is probably why the man was asking him personal questions in the first place, come to think of it.

“Jimmy,” the man replies, after only a moment’s hesitation. “I think—I think that’s the door out. It looks like—here—”

They push together on metal, heavy heavy metal—

Scott breathes in fresh air—

Then his legs give out entirely.

He sinks to the ground in some sort of weird slow motion, and Jimmy manages to drag them both over the threshold before he’s falling too, and Scott feels all fuzzy in the back of his mouth and really, really sick. . . .

Then black.

-

“I can’t believe you passed out on the doorway.”

“Uh-huh, and who was it who basically dropped me?” Scott retorts, no heat in his words. Jimmy snorts.

“I’ll have you know, I had three broken fingers, four cracked ribs, and a broken collarbone,” Jimmy counts off. “Not to mention all the bruises. You just had a tiny gunshot wound.”

“A gunshot wound that blew off half my hand,” Scott says wryly, gesturing to his heavily-wrapped right hand, now bereft of a pinky finger and a decent chunk of his palm. “Those tend to bleed a lot.”

Jimmy winces. “Sorry—”

“No, you’d better not be apologizing again,” Scott interrupts. “Losing a finger is better than losing my life.”

“I should’ve been able to get the gun away from him, though,” Jimmy says awkwardly. “I know this stuff, I’ve been doing it for years.”

“Right, I totally expect you to be perfect after being tortured for a week.”

“Oh, come on, it wasn’t—”

“You’re both injured and you aren’t supposed to be out here,” a voice comes from behind them. Scott’s heart jolts, but only Grian comes up in front of them, arms folded over his zipped-up leather jacket. “Come on. In you get.”

Being out on the back porch had been fun while it lasted, Scott supposes. Back to the weird library-turned-hospital.

But Grian grabs Scott’s left arm, shoos Jimmy on when he pauses. “Go on, get your bandages changed. Scott and I need to talk.”

Jimmy hesitates a moment longer, eyes darting between Scott and Grian. Scott, despite his nerves, nods confidently.

“I won’t be long,” he says. “I’d never miss a chance to see you shirtless.”

The tips of Jimmy’s ears turn pink and he grumbles something, but heads on inside. Once the door to the patio closes, Grian lets go of Scott, leans back on the railing.

“You have to stay, now,” he says bluntly. “You’re too much of a risk.”

Scott grimaces. He doesn’t remember how they got here—he fainted as they left the building, then woke up in a bed in the heart of the Bad Boys’ base. Eight years he’s avoided swearing fealty to any gang, and somehow, he’s ended up with the Bad Boys. “I have a business,” he tries half-heartedly.

Grian snorts. “You think the Neighbors don’t know where it is? They’ll kill you before the day’s over.”

Okay, he really didn’t think that would work, anyways. New tactic. Become a Bad Boy?

He really doesn’t want to be a Bad Boy, but until he can find a way to flee the country, he’s probably stuck here. Good thing he’s hurt his hand so, he won’t be expected to be any sort of gunman.

He’s pretty good at making the most of situations, though.

“I think I have some talents that the Bad Boys would find useful,” he says. “As long as I’m compensated.”

“You’ll have to talk to someone a bit higher up the food chain to work that out.”

Scott nods. “The Baddest of Boys.”

“Please never say that again.”

“The Worst Boy, even.”

“Go back to bed.”

Scott chuckles and moves to head back inside, but once again, Grian catches his arm.

“Tim’s got a lot of people protecting him,” he says in a low voice. “If you’re just messing around, you’d better leave him alone.”

Which doesn’t make any sense, Scott thinks as he heads back to his library-hospital bed. He doesn’t even know a Tim.