#never again drawing the mask in this angle

[unma]

The Sketchbook so far, as I promised.

A lot of this is really just me messing around, so I didn't mind a blatant mistake or two if it wasn't important to what I was trying to do.

I love drawing Unma. He has two modes most of the time I draw him: completely neutral or having his last thread of sanity snapped. Both are fun to think up. His mask stays smiling most of the time, and while it can morph and change to show more expression, I prefer taking it off when showing Unma's expressions.

Most of his mask's expressions are faked anyway.

Oh yeah, I should probably say that despite being my sona, Unma, does in fact have a whole story behind him and reasons for his design. Ten-year-old me started this, and I will continue to salvage it as I get better at writing.

Closeups below

[bi-writes]

ghost always gets what he wants. (18+, blood kink, dark)

right now, what he wants is sitting across the pub from him. she's smiling, swinging her legs a little as she talks to the bloke next to her. he's leaning into her space, making her laugh, buying her drinks and keeping her smiling and a little drunk. he's putting it on heavy, ghost can tell--actively listening to her, engaging in the conversation, never letting her add her drink to any tab but his own.

ghost tilts his head to the side, running his tongue over his teeth under the mask. that man wouldn't know what to do with that kind of a girl. she's all woman, soft skin, wide hips, a pair of tits he knows would feel like welcome weights between the palms of his gloved hands, pouty lips that deserved to be kissed and bitten and sliding along the length of a cock that can fill her up and choke her from the inside out.

that's what pretty girls like her deserve--to be fucked spineless, to be reduced to nothing but a teary, whimpering mess. a muppet like that would never know what to do with her, how to touch her, how to make her sing.

she's a soft thing. a pretty thing. and he wants her, so he will have her.

you exit the bathroom, a skip in your step as you shuffle outside. he said he would get a car, take you home, and you bounce on your toes as you wait by the curb, looking around the empty parking lot for your ride. but after a few minutes, you turn your head each way, and you realize no one is here, and there is no car coming.

you fully spin around when a dark figure comes out from behind the alleyway. big boots crunch the gravel underneath, and when he comes under the light of the streetlamp, you take a small step back.

the light cuts an angle over his face. you swallow, taking in the breadth of him, tilting your head to look up at him as he steps closer. his mask covers most of his face, and the eyeblack clouds his skin, but you can see the determination in his eyes. it is in the rigidness of his shoulders, the way he stands--and it is the pass of a tactical knife over his chest that you understand the danger that one person can impose.

he wipes one side of it over his dark jacket, stepping closer, until he's in your space, hovering over you. your lips part as he brings the knife down, pressing the other side of it against your throat. you tense a little as he meets your eyes, passing it over until the blood against the sharp edge wipes off, staining the skin of your neck.

he pauses when he sees the hint of a smile on your face. he narrows his eyes, expecting fear, expecting something other than the interest that sparkles in your eyes. like you are all-knowing. like you see everything he is, everything he is not, and like you know what it is he wants.

"i see you," you whisper. "all the time."

ghost sniffs, glaring, and you keep your eyes on his as he drags the knife down your chest, the tip of it moving down between your breasts.

"you're not very subtle," you finish. "quite obvious, what it is that you do...why you do it."

ghost tilts his head to the side, clicking his tongue, and you almost giggle.

"is tha' right, swee'eart?"

you nod.

"been waiting," you say softly.

"for wot?"

you smile.

"for you to make your move," you murmur. your eyes flicker down, eyeing the blood on the front of his jacket. you look up into his eyes again, pursing your lips, and ghost bites his tongue hard enough to draw blood. fuck, the same thing he sees in his dreams, it's in your fucking eyes. you're not afraid, and it angers him, repulses him, and fulfills him all the same. "hmm...you didn't approve of him?"

ghost growls, "was a right muppet. cried like a baby."

your tongue darts out, wetting your lips, and ghost follows the drag of your tongue hungrily. you are not the screaming, soft, doe-eyed little thing he thought he might like to have.

you are silent, deadly, a wolf in sheep's clothing, and he does not just want to have you. he needs you. he needs you to live under his skin. he needs to taste you, to have you flood his mouth, to chew and eat and swallow and breathe.

he would say you are his match made in heaven, but he knows this does not exist, because if it did, he wouldn't be real. and neither would you.

"ooof," you scrunch your nose. "i hate cry babies."

you almost make him laugh.

he steps closer, sliding the knife lower until it rests at the curve of your waist.

"you don't need that, you know," you whisper, and he leans in, the front of his mask brushing against your lips.

"no?"

"no," you echo, smiling wider. "if you wanna feel up my skirt, all you gotta do is ask. it'd be nice to have your name first though."

"ghost."

you giggle, "your real name, baby."

"'s ghost."

"that what you want me to say when i'm in your bed tonight?"

"who said you'll be in m'bed?"

you reach up with one hand, dragging the tip of your finger down the strong line of his jaw. he towers over you, shadows you, and the knife is sharp against your skin, but all you want is to be a little closer.

you close your eyes when you feel his hand. the tips of his gloved fingers graze the skin of your upper thighs, and you suck in a soft breath when he drags that hand up under your skirt. you put both hands on his chest as you tremble slightly, holding onto him for support as his big hand fondles one side of your ass. his fingers creep lower, and he groans audibly.

"no knickers, swee'eart?" he mutters, and you just giggle breathlessly. "how long 'av y'been waitin' for me, huh?"

you open your eyes, tilting your head back and holding back a whine when you feel his thick fingers prodding at your folds, soaking up the slick there and teasing your cunt. it's sick--you must be sick, you must be awful, you must be so dead inside, you have to be, but it's so hard to care.

you gasp when he grips your throat, forcing your eyes on his, and you hold him there.

"answer me. how long 'av y'been waitin' for me?"

you soften, smile, bare your teeth for him.

"my whole life, baby."

[peachesofteal]

Fae Simon strikes me as the kind that would lure and trap his future wife in a fairy ring. She doesn't believe in magic or superstition when she steps across the ring...until a masked figure appears out of thin air and spirits here away to his realm.

This gave me brain worms for Gaz (and I'm already working on another fae Simon piece so)

female reader / 18+ mdni - dubcon(ish)

"So sorry. You alright love?"

The stranger's hand curls around your elbow, steadying the precarious tip of your body, balance disrupted by the impact of his shoulder to your chest. "My fault. Didn't see you there."

Fuzzy synapses fire in your brain. They reach for one another, desperate to click together, to link their hands and jolt you back into the moment.

You blink. The wind turns cold.

"It's... okay." He's beautiful. Blinding. Terrifying. Something about the angles of his face, his cheekbones, his brow, forces your head to cock, sight focused and then unfocused, as if you're staring at a star.

Your mind feels empty. The sidewalk becomes a bog, fetid and thick beneath your feet.

Where have you gone? Lost somewhere?

He doesn't let go. The axis tilts, world stopping on a dime, collective breath stalled on an inhale, and you stay trapped there, a hand on your elbow, rooted to the ground.

Lovely girl. It purrs in your heart. Precious thing.

His chest brushes yours, his nose to your neck. A deep inhale, and his fingers glide up to your pulse point.

He murmurs something. You break the surface of the water, and blink. "I'm sorry?"

"Said, do you want me to take you home." The question doesn't end in the proper inflection, and you scramble to consider it, to let it sink in-

until he takes your hand.

"Fuck. Oh-" His tongue laps over your clit, fingers spread in a V through your folds, sticky dew webbed through his teeth, coating his tongue, his chin. He smirks.

"Going to come again?"

"Yeah," you breathe, spine arched, hips rolling in his grip. "Please." You tremble for him, cry for him, and he laps up the salt of your tears, savoring before swallowing, taking as many pieces as he can into himself.

The more the better.

He works you up and over the hill, pussy tight around his fingers, and as you lay prone and panting, he pulls your calf up to his shoulder, heavy cock nestled at your seam.

"Condom?" you slur, head rolling to your neck, satiated gaze peeking up through your lashes.

"Of course." He soothes, lies, smoothing a palm down your cheek, his nose touching to yours. It forces some friction, head notching against your swollen and tender bud, your gasp swallowed up in his mouth.

More pieces.

"Kyle," you whine, and it sounds so good, feathery and sweet, precious like you.

He takes no more time, and thrusts himself deep, burrowing into your body with a groan. You seize, fluttering around him, crown of his cock too deep for comfort, trembles wracking your spine. Wet heat explodes around him, and he chuckles. "Coming again, then?" He flexes his hips. "Hungry little slut, aren't you?" You nod, delirious, fingernails dug into his forearms, slicing at his skin.

"Fuck me, Kyle, p-please." He squeezes your calf, drawing away completely, before slamming back until his balls shove against the curve of your ass, your shriek music to his ears.

He needs you to cry. Needs to swallow as many as he can. Needs to collect each one, make sure they stick, but it's more than that. He's craven, fueled by a desire to possess you, claim you, drag you beneath the veil. Flint to steel shoots off sparks in his blood, the craze of the hunt, the chase, echoing through the slap of skin, your hiccups and moans, the crack of your bones.

He bites your calf muscle and croons. "Almost there."

"D-don't stop." You plead, already on the cusp again, pussy trying to milk him dry, pull his cock deeper, body knowing it all before your mind.

Your eyes are surprisingly hypnotic. Nearly magical, pooled with a connection he's never felt. More resilient than expected.

Lovely girl is special, it seems. He's not surprised. He followed your scent from blocks away. Honeysuckle and ocean spray.

Once he fucks you full of his come, collects all his pieces, it won't matter how naturally resistant you are.

Everything tightens, your cunt, his legs, his grip. You scream, coming again, and he buries himself, flooding you with thick ropes, your spasms only pulling them deeper, hungry for it, betrayed by your body.

You're still afterwards, staring at the ceiling, eyes wide.

"Did so good, sweet thing." He strokes over your skin, tongue tracing stripes on the slope of your neck, dabbing at the sweat there. You murmur something incoherent, and he pulls you tighter into his chest.

When his fingers tuck inside your weeping pussy, swirling together in the mess there and massaging it upward, you don't even stir.

The sun sets, and he lingers on the edge of your mattress before curving over your sleeping form.

His lips graze your neck. "Sleep well, lovely girl."

The forest is too tall.

What are you doing here? Where have you gone?

Everything stretches beyond your reach, long spindly fingers reaching for the sun, blotting it out, plunging the worlds beneath the canopy into darkness. It lives, it breathes, inhaling and exhaling as one, splitting open brambles and bracken before you, a path cleaving wide through overgrown deciduous trees and verdure.

It's a jewel, an emerald caught in sunlight, brilliant, unending green sparkling across the forest floor, ferns and fiddleheads shivering free from morning dew as you brush by them, roots and branches calling to you, to one another, darkening the path at your back.

You're not sure how you got here, how your legs carried you deeper and deeper into the woods, fire burning at your back, urging you forward, a pull resonating in the marrow of your bones, a song thrumming in your heart.

Something calls to you.

And in the back of your mind, something else wails in terror.

Ancient places have claws. They snag and scrape, slowly scratching away body and mind, breaking down resistance, intelligence, all human instinct designed to protect you, save you, from yourself, from a spell.

You've gone somewhere it cannot follow.

The trees wilt into arches, framing a long shadowed hallway, pointing you the direction you will not stray from, a path pulling your feet, one in front of the other.

The end holds a moment. A soft, green swath of grass, encapsulated by a ring of mushrooms, a proud hawthorne tree at its center. You have no words in you, but if you did, they'd be ones of awe.

And when the stranger from the street, the one from your bed, Kyle, appears from behind the gnarled trunk, something swells in your belly.

A blackened vine snaps and snarls at you, resists the lure of this man, this creature, sharp wails drowned out by the mere sight of him.

"Hello." Your fingers knit together at your waist. He smiles. It stuns you like you've been stabbed.

"Hello, lovely girl."

"I think... I'm think I'm lost." Not lost. You're not lost. You're not supposed to be here. The vine tries to grow into your muscle and bone, desperately wrapping itself around anything it can.

"You're exactly where you should be." He steps forward, closer, a hand extended to where you linger, just outside the ring of mushrooms.

The vine screams. It begs. You're killing it.

His eyes narrow.

"Will you join me?" His voice soothes the raw, ferocious thing clinging to you. It feels nice.

Still, your feet do not carry you forward, and he sighs, striding to the edge of the circle.

"What's happening?" The panic fogs your mind, and thick mist rolls in around the two of you. He softens, expression turning kind, sweet.

"It's alright, you're safe with me." He takes your hand, thumb massaging a pattern onto your palm.

The shrieking falls away, dying, crying on a final breath.

"You have to say it." He instructs gently. "Will you join me?"

The forest falls away. The mist climbs to an immeasurable height, the hawthorne tree twisting, bark shredding wide into a gaping hole, a star filled hollow.

The wind turns cold. A lullaby drifting on its current, a forgotten song ringing in your ears.

Where have you gone? Lost somewhere?

Lost in him.

"Yes."

[charliemwrites]

Part 11!!

Sorry this took so long (and that it’s a bit short) I have trouble with scene switching sometimes, and it makes me cut up the story into pieces.

No Content Warnings For This Chapter

Somewhere between your pride and the numbing passage of time lies the way you really feel about the 141. It's undeniable that you're still deeply hurt by what transpired; a chronic ache like a mended bone, only noticeable in the cold, or when you sleep on it wrong. For them, it was easy to reach inside your chest to extract your heart, sternum soft and malleable. It was harder with SpecGru, the bone grew back harder, thicker. You had to crack your ribs open and scraped the chambers on bone shards, but at least they stopped the bleeding.

You don’t miss the 141, not really. It wasn’t just those final, brutal days spent lying alone in a hospital bed that filled those transfer papers. The culprit had been the time that isolation had afforded, to think more deeply, to analyze your position through a less-optimistic lense. Those last conversations had just been your signature on the line.

You don’t blame the gun for firing, you blame whoever pulled the trigger.

Bitterness seeps onto your tongue sometimes. Masochistically, you let it linger. It has no purpose but to raise your hackles and press on that knitted spot until it bruises. It’s your pride, that’s all, lamenting the blood you chose to spill in sacrifice only to have it wasted.

The present is a much sweeter wash for the taste of the past, sticking to your lips and curling your tongue. Honey-balm for resentment, syrup cutting through salt. You focus on the flavor as you stride into the briefing room.

Your captain is already there, a sly smirk for the flush to your faces as Nova follows you in. He’s speaking to Laswell, arms crossed but shoulders relaxed.

Nikto is leaned up against the wall, a shadow without anyone to cast it. He comes to you and Nova as you take seats, angled to face the only exit. He knee presses to yours as you settle in, eyes flicking around.

Nostalgia is a complicated tide rising and ebbing around your ankles. Memories of your time with the 141 in this very room, planning and strategizing, learning where to support your teammates and where they would support you. Jokes made with Soap and Gaz, loaded glances between you and Ghost, a reassuring nod or shoulder squeeze from Price.

That, you think, is where the ache is. Not in missing those moments; you have them with SpecGru now, and without that lingering sense that you don’t quite belong. But in those rose-tinted relationships you’ll never get back (and know you don’t really want again.)

It was never as good as it is with your team now; they were still the team you thought you belonged with. You’ve learned better since but that doesn’t appease the naive 141 operative that put everything into those four.

Your captain has taken the seat you used to have, and he belongs there, a buffer between his team and theirs. You press your thumb to one of the bruises he left on your thigh and settle in.

“Sunshine,” Keegan greets, brushing his knuckles over Nova’s cheek. “Sweets.”

You tilt your chin welcomingly as he nuzzles his nose against your temple, fabric of his mask itching along your jaw.

“Smell good,” he rumbles, low. Just for you and Nova.

“That’s what happens when you shower,” you answer, playing dismissive.

“You should try it sometime,” Nova adds, smirking.

“Only if you join me,” Keegan coos, drawing a spare chair up close. For as tough and distant as he is towards others, he’s long opened his ribs for you and the rest of SpecGru to crawl inside. You admire it now for as much as you distrusted it then.

“Too late,” you say, sharing a look with Nova, “already helped her wash up for the day.”

She whacks you in the knee, startling a laugh out of you. Keegan scoffs, throwing an arm across the back of your chair.

“Nothin’ says we can’t take another,” he drawls, “if I get you dirty enough.”

Beside you, Nikto snorts. Keegan shoots him a teasing look, arching his eyebrows invitingly. The captain is watching, as always, pride and affection smoldering in coal-dark eyes.

And you’re right where you’re meant to be. With them, always with them.

At the front of the room, Laswell politely clears her throat. All eyes turn to her - though you only just notice that the 141 has filed in, perched on the other end of the briefing table, a collective storm cloud.

Laswell kicks off the meeting with a recap of the ongoing mission - basics that all of you read in the docket before shipping out. It’s a big operation, delicate due to hostages. The 141 needed manpower with comparable skills; enter SpecGru.

“One of our best specialists has patched in to explain the parameters in greater detail.”

The big screen at the front of the room lights up. A familiar puff of curly blond hair and green eyes blink into view.

“Gooooood mornin’! Or is it evening? Either way, I hope it’s good.”

Your captain lets out a long breath, trying (and mostly failing) to hide his amusement.

“This is Duke,” Laswell says for the 141’s benefit. “She’s one of our best technicians. I put her on this assignment when I reached out to SoecGru.”

“And you should be glad she did!” Duke chimes in. Her tongue flashes blue as she speaks, and it’s not just the light of the computers surrounding her. Her love of raspberry candies is practically a calling card. “They’re actually pretty decent at keeping communications to a minimum, but porn bots always get ‘em.”

The captain sighs, running a hand down his face. Nova pats his arm sympathetically. Poor guy.

“Anyway! I have their plans for the hostages all drawn up - check this out.”

One loud click of her mouse and the screen flicks to a map with colored circles and wiggly lines. Locations and routes, with little time stamps above each.

“They plan on taking the hostages in waves. If one transport goes down going in or out, they can cut their losses. Lucky for us, they’re super dumb, so I’ve found a 12 minute window where all their teams are out in the open.”

Another image, the transport routes now sporting little icons of angry faces with their tongues sticking out. They're all at various distances along their colored paths, but none of them have made it to whatever the destination is.

“If they’re hit all at once, no group will have time to warn the others,” Duke explains. “Hostages safe, bad guys caught, we all go home and pet our dogs.”

She babbles through the rest of the plan in that controlled chaos way she has, concise and insightful around a casual tone more fitting a high school presentation. The building where the hostages will be taken, every route, down to the vehicles and guns the terrorists will have.

Eventually, she runs out of pertinent information, there are no questions because she’s covered just about everything short of the humidity. Her face pops up on screen again, eyes always a bit glassy from staring at screens too long without blinking. “Lastly, don’t get shot, or I’m telling ma.”

Your captain huffs, that grin finally cracking across his solemn face.

“Do that ‘n I’ll tell her you drop f-bombs like it’s your job,” he replies.

Her mouth drops open in outrage. “It is my job!”

“Yeah? How about that stipend, huh? How much’a that ‘s going to your candy habit?”

Duke’s face flushes, but she’s got that wide smile beamed up to eleven. “Your girlfriend likes me better,” she sing-songs.

He snorts. “Which one?”

“Both,” you and Nova answer at the same time.

Her eyes narrow smugly before she signs off with a little finger wave and a “toodaloo!”

“Your sister, I take it?” Price drawls in the characteristic silence of Duke’s absence.

Your captain shoots him a sideways look. “What, you can’t see the resemblance?” he replies, dry as desert.

You cough into your arm to hide your giggles but Nova isn’t nearly as polite.

As you’re filing out with the rest of the team, you’re surprised that there aren’t calls from your former team. No overtures to justify themselves or half-assed apologies that still somehow make it sound like everything was your fault. You’re almost tempted to check over your shoulder, but you won’t give them the satisfaction of seeming interested. You just don’t trust the sudden silence, even if the captain alluded that there’s some sort of ceasefire in place. You’ve never known the 141 to bend knee to anyone but their own.

A glance at your captain and he’s noticed it too, satisfaction flicking across his face before he catches your eye. He jerks his head. You follow him back to his room, leaning your shoulder in the doorway as he loosens his belt.

“Talked to Price,” he begins.

You arch your brows. “And?”

He blows out a sigh, hands on his hips. “And he wants to talk to you. Him and the rest of the team.”

You groan. “About what?”

He shrugs. “Hell if I know, it wasn’t exactly circle time, doll.”

You roll your eyes. Those useless, cryptic…

“Hey.”

You blink, face going hot when you see the stern look on your captain’s face. Whoops.

“Sorry, sir,” you say. “That wasn’t meant to be at you, I’m just so fucking… ugh.”

“Look, I got ‘em off your back during working hours, but anytime after is outta my hands.”

You puff up, annoyed all over again with the whole situation. It couldn’t be enough for them to ostracize you back then, or try to distract you on-duty now, derailing drills. No, they want your free time too.

“I’m not gonna tell you how to handle this, alright? But maybe getting some of this shit off your chest will do you some good. Let ‘em blow smoke, say whatever you gotta say, and put all this to rest.”

You deflate, giving him a weary scowl that does nothing to deter him from closing the distance. (Not that you wanted it to.)

“Isn’t that telling me what to do?” you mumble, letting your forehead thunk against his broad chest.

“Nah, if I was tellin’ you what to do, you’d be doin’ it,” he chuckles. “If you don’t want nothin’ to do with ‘em, you can spend every night in here for all I care. Up to you.”

You’re only putting up resistance because you know he’s right, it’s just not what you want. It’s easier and simpler to be pissed off and short-tempered with the 141. Safer, in a way.

But there’s no getting any safer, in any sense of the word. Worst thing any of them can say is something you already know, or something that isn’t true. You’ve got your own team for support regardless.

“I hate when you’re right,” you grump.

He smooths a hand through your hair. “If that were true, you’d hate me all the time.”

You nip him in retaliation; he tugs a lock of hair for the trouble.

This is home, you think. Your captain. Nova, Nikto, Keegan. Doesn’t matter where in the world you are, they’re your present and your future. Knowing that, the pain and uncertainty of the past are just ghosts. It’s time to put them to rest like one.

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Masterlist

[elmushterri]

I don’t have time to draw my ideas out but!

Been contemplating TKH stuff and GunnTech stuff, and I was wondering.

I’ve set up TKH as a spiritual/supernatural/guardian angel thing (that bit needs no introduction to be honest) where knights have their own realm, and magic and such.

Buuut, I’m exploring some other angles too and I wanna know your thoughts.

I was exploring the idea of knights being man-made, a huge science project kinda like GunnTech (btw, I’m only basing this off GunnTech cause the science-experiment-kids angle is more of my au than PJ masks? I’d be stealing from myself + PJ masks is not my property so I could never produce/do anything with GunnTech anyway😭). So here, it would probably be something like “The Knight Project” and such. More sci fi/across the spiderverse than She Ra. The rest of it is mainly the same, same weapon power thing, same handbook stuff, just different vibe and origins. Rather than only fighting normal criminals and night time villains like in PJ Masks/GunnTech AU, the main character knights are teens who get to fight giant monsters and whatnot.

What do you moons think? I’ll probably end up showing some concept art anyways.

‼️ This is sorta for people who like the GunnTech sciency / hero/trained kids growing up in a lab aspect, cause once again it’s still just an AU of a property that isn’t mine and I can legally do nothing with. I love the GunnTech story but I can do nothing with it in the future because it belongs to Disney. If you wanna see an ‘original’ GunnTech vibes story with a slight fantasy twinge to it, then this would be for you.

Here’s some ‘mood boards’— note that there would still be cool glowy stuff and true knight forms and all.

The project would probably keep its title, but if not, in this sci fi case it would probably be more like ‘Project Knight’ but till I’ve figured that out it stays.

[fanaticsnail]

i have to pick one? i have to pick one?!?!?!?!? -papers fly into the air and scatter down around me as i scramble to make a decision- asdlkjglkjgklfdsjgl oh. oh man. oh boy. oh boy howdy. oh man boy howdy. -begins pacing-

-comes back ten minutes later, a visible conspiracy-board-meme level of writing and string behind me- okay! a decision! has! probably! been made!! asldkjglkfdjg it totally didn't end up with carefully flipping a coin nine times between luffy, law, and kid. totally didn't involve. I 100% guarantee that no coins were not flipped in process >w> anyway

may i request. a luffy keese pls uwu (ALSO! CONGRATS ON THE MILESTONE!!! You well and truely deserve it; you bring such joy to the community with your presence and your writing just!!!!! Congrats!!! (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ) ) - @remisloves

The Kissing Booth: Luffy for Remisloves

Word Count: 700+

Notes: Hi @remisloves It's so hard picking one blorbo to come and kiss us. He's so fun to kiss, and I'm glad he's kissing you! Thank you so much for your beautiful compliments. I've adored getting to know you. Without further adieu, your kisses from the Straw-Hat man himself.

Back stiffening firmly and upright, you grip onto the base of the barstool for support in response to the immediacy of the events occurring in front of you. All you have are your four other senses, the shroud covering your eyes prohibiting your ability to see the situation occurring on the vacant barstool. 

Straining to hear the circumstances sealing your fate, a fistful of berry flung itself deep into the glass jar beside you as the individual laughed enthusiastically. A high pitched voice called out in front of you, behind the individual who sat themselves down at your booth.

“You’re gonna spend your allowance here?” the angry, feminine voice called, “I thought you’d spend it on meat, Luffy!” Your guest laughed a playful snickered hiss through their teeth in response before gently reaching forward and clasping their hand around your wrist. 

"Robin said she's payin' for dinner tonight," the voice called out over their shoulder, "And I wanna have a kiss! How cool is this? It's like they're here just for me!" You were taken aback by their enthusiasm, but attempted to collect yourself to remain as professional as one can be sitting on a booth made for kissing.

Your brows sprung up to the middle of your forehead as your eyes attempted to widen behind the mask to no avail. Expecting your lips to be immediately ravished and tainted by the mouth belonging to your guest, their actions seemed to halt as they gently rub a circle on your wrist with their thumb.

“Can I kiss you now?” his voice gently coaxed you in closer, “I just wanna make sure before I do. Don’t wanna do somethin’ you’re not comfy with or nothin’.” You cocked your head inquisitively to the side, a slow smile drawing up your features in response to his inquisition of your consent.

“You paid your Berry?” you asked him, prompting him to hum a huffed "mhmm" in affirmation. You grinned wider, adding a soft humming, “Then, I’m all yours.” He chuckled again in response, scooting the stool in closer towards you.

“Oh, that’s great!” you felt his hand travel up to cup your neck and draw you in closer, “Right, I’m goin’ in!”

That was all the warning you had before his lips eagerly sought out your own. He hummed in glee, his smile physically plastered against each skillful oscillation he drew against your mouth. He angled his chin in a soft circle, parting his lips and tasting your mouth with his tongue. Brushing against your own, he swirled the morsel within your mouth and retracted it to deepen his sultry and hungry kisses. 

You were shocked at the intensity of his lips, but you kept up with every inch of his passion and matched his energy with ease. Gently reaching out your hands, he caught your wrist and drew it up to place against his shoulder while slipping closer towards you. His eagerness and enthusiasm never ceased with each passing moment. 

His lips were partially chapped, his mouth tasting a combination of sweet and savory from the last assuming barbequed meat he consumed. He snickered into the kiss, slowly hooking his arms around your neck and coaxing you to leave the stool and join him on his feet. 

“Luffy!” the voice again called behind him, “You can’t take them with you. They have to stay here!” 

The individual pouted against your lips before growling in agitation, eagerly consuming your lips with a hungrier desperation than moments prior. The voice behind him again called out to you both.

“Luffy,” she sounded irritated, her sigh falling from her lips the longer yours were attached to this so called ‘Luffy’, “Zoro is still missing. Can we go get him? You can come back if they’re still here?” The person growled into your mouth, prompting you to laugh into his lips. 

Finally breaking away, his hand gently caressed your cheek before his thumb caressed your bottom lip. Your lips parted in response, and you heard his breath exhale another soft snicker. 

“I’m Monkey D Luffy,” he uttered in a soft, husky voice, “I’m gonna be king of the pirates some day.” You nod in response, your grin again growing and revealing your teeth at him. He huffed out a soft growl in response.

“Come find us at the end of the pier when your shift is done,” he ordered softly at you, gently caressing your hand and giving your fingers a gentle squeeze, “I’m the one in the straw hat, red vest, and likely eating a piece of meat.” 

“I’ll find you, Monkey D Luffy,” you nod do him in confirmation, scrunching your nose playfully, and wave him off as he goes to find whoever ‘Zoro’ must be. He snickers at you in response, waving at you before looking between his hand and your eye covering: noticing you'd likely not see him do it.

[fcthots]

Getting mad at Jason, so he can't touch you, he's gotta watch while you touch yourself and maaaaaybe if he's lucky, you'll let him have your soaked undies after you're done. (If you don't he'll prolly just wait till you leave and lick the wet spot on the bed while taking care of himself)

I HAVE CLASS IN FIFTEEN MINUTES. HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO FOCUS WHEN I’LL BE THINKING AB YOUR ASK???

Jason had a shitty day. He was pacing around the kitchen, on the phone with Oracle because Black Mask had found a way to smuggle in drugs laced with all kinds of shit under everyone’s noses. They’d been going back and forth for while before he heard your voice from the living room.

“What should I order for dinner?”

He didn’t respond, Babs was saying something about financial records and where Black mask may have gone to. He heard your voice overlapping hers again.

“If you don’t answer, I’m just gonna order BatBurger.”

He didn’t mean to snap. He didn’t. He was just stressed and too much was going on. He didn’t mean to snap, but you could hear his voice from the living room. “I don’t care!”

He didn’t hear you respond. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed as he started walking towards the living room. “Babs, I gotta go. Talk later. Bye.” He steps into the room and sees you laying on the couch. You’re staring at him, face unreadable. “I’m sorry love. I didn’t mean to snap. BatBurger is fine.”

Your face becomes gentle. “‘S okay, darlin. I didn’t know you were on the phone.”

“But it’s not okay. I yelled at you!”

“It’s fine, baby. Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s not fine-”

“You’re stressed, right?” He watches the gears turn behind your eyes.

“Yes but that’s not an excuse-”

“You wanna feel like we’re even?”

He raises an eyebrow and nods his head, unsure of where this is going. He opens his mouth but you cut him off again.

“Come with me.” You get up and grab his hand as you lead him to the bedroom. You push him so he’s leaning against the wall looking at the bed.

You walk toward the bed and climb onto it, taking your shirt off as you lay back against the pillows. “Wanna know what your punishment is?” He nods his head, eyes still looking at you skeptically. You smile. “I’m gonna touch myself and you’re gonna watch me. You can’t talk and no touching me or yourself until after I’m done. And who knows, if you’re good I might give you my underwear after, but only if you’re good.”

He looks promptly horrified. You ignore it as you slip your bra and pants off and begin to make a show of playing with your tits. Soon enough, you trail one hand down and use it to begin massaging your clit over your underwear. You lock eyes with him as you moan and a visible wet spot slacks through your panties. He’s already straining against his pants.

He lays his hands flat against the wall as if to stop himself from reaching out. You push your panties to the side and begin making a show of slowly circling your clit, whining and gasping until his eyes are boring into you. You’re beginning to get lost in your own pleasure.

You make sure he has a good angle as you spread your lower lips and sink two fingers in, trying you gather your slick. You watch him move away from the wall and approach where you are on the bed. You think about stopping him, but you’re too lost in the moment and, technically, you never said he couldn’t get closer.

He gently grabs the hand that’s fingers were buried in your pussy. He draws the fingers out and brings them to his lips. He moans as he puts your fingers in his mouth and swirls his tongue around them.

You remove your hand, despite the way it turned you on. “Ah ah ah. I said no touching. Against the wall.”

“But-”

“No talking either. Looks like someone won’t be getting these when I’m done.” You take off your underwear and continue to massage your clit, your slick dripping onto the bed.

The way his gaze is locked on your writhing form begins to throw you over the edge. Your hand speeds up and you whine his name. His breathing becomes heavier and your movements become erratic as you see his hands clench into fists before you close your eyes.

After you come, you watch him through half-lidded eyes.

He finally speaks. “Can I talk now?” You nod your head and get up. He continues. “Please. Wanna taste you. Let me put my face between your thighs, please-”

“Nope.” You pick up your underwear off the floor, making sure he can’t get it. You smile. “Now we’re even. Have fun, Jay.” You walk out the door and into the bathroom to clean yourself up.

And if you see him fucking himself after while he licks your slick off the bed, well, who doesn’t enjoy a good show?

[orangechicken2299]

How they would eat you out | Yone & Sett

Theres no good Yone and Sett smut so ig i’ll have to do it myself 😤

F x M, explicit, minors Do Not Interact

Yone

With Yone, it’s soft, intimate, full of tension and burning desire. It would start out as sweet nothings whispered, his breath ticking the shell of your ear, so close that he could touch it. Saying, rambling really, on how much he misses, wants, needs you like the very air he breathes.

“My darling, all I could think about was you. I wanted to rip through the Azakana that kept me from you.”

His kisses are short and light like a butterfly traveling along the column of your neck steadily making his way downward as he gently pushes you to lay back. Strategically he undoes all the fabric that dares to keep you from him and gives a light, soft, kiss to the place that aches for his attention.

Deftly, he goes to kiss and lick and tease the inner parts of your thighs, not once breaking eye contact with you. His eyes are a deep color that’s so full of lust that you start to almost feel intimidated by it. By how his gaze never wavers, even if he just switched to the other thigh while giving the slightest brush to your clit. You whine.

He smirks. But only for a second while he gives attention to the other thigh.

For what feels like time has slowed, he finally, finally, gives attention to your aching clit. You can feel just how slick you are and you whine again about how much you need him.

With a practiced motion, he gives a lick to the underside of your clit, making you spas a little. With a knowing smile, he happily starts drawing shapes with his tongue around your clit, licking the underside to tug it upwards to really get you whining and reaching for his hair. He then dips his tongue inside, not deep inside, not yet. Just at the entrance is where he likes to tease you, just barely dipping in and only playing with it. Even with the tugging and pushing his head further in does he remain steadfast in keeping his warm tongue in the entrance. He licks back up to your clit to start sucking.

All of a sudden your back is arching up, your hips are angled more down, and your legs have enclosed around his head. He thinks about how the face-framing sections of his mask are no doubt digging into you but you don’t seem to even notice. Especially with how his tongue is playing with you like he does his own instrument. He knows exactly what strings to pull to get the sweetest music out of you.

He brings his fingers from holding your hip to your slick entrance. His long, slender, calloused fingertips feel rough at first. In all honesty, it’s the only thing rough about him. Yone has clearly put a lot of work in his swordsmanship for years upon years as well as playing that stringed instrument of his for who knows how long. Two of the tips of his fingers are rough but only for a moment, the wetness of you quickly coats his fingers as they slowly go deep inside of you. Whines of his name are practically sung out of your throat.

“That’s it.” He whispers, his gaze not once leaving yours, no matter how much your eyes squint in pleasure. It’s almost like he has committed every part of you to memory that if he was blind that he would have no issues pleasing you like this.

His fingers slowly come in and out of you, making sure to press on that spot you like. Just one pass is enough to completely coat his fingers, so much so that it’s practically dripping off of him. His fingers come in and out of you like waves on the shore. Time seems to go by rapidly and slowly at the same time.

“Yone… please. I need more of you.” Your hands are locked on to his hair, your knuckles are almost white. He lifts his head of your aching clit, fingers still working at you. He smiles.

“Alright, my love.” He gently takes his fingers out of you and gently frees your hands from his hair. He gives them each a soft kiss across the knuckles before softly laying them down on your chest.

“Anything for you.” He says while he sits up and starts taking off the thick red rope that keeps the masks around his hips.

Sett

With Sett, it’s fast, rough, and full of passion. It would start out the next instant he gets you alone after someone challenged him for the throne of the fighting ring and he won by a landslide. He’d come to you a little battered and bruised, maybe even a split lip, with a huge, proud grin across his face.

“Hey Doll. I need ya real bad sweetheart.”

He’s grabbing you by the waist and sitting you down on the closest surface he can get to and immediately starts tugging away all the fabric that is between him and his prize. While he’s doing that, he’s kissing you, albeit a bit sloppy but he’s so full of energy that its rubbing off on you. The feeling of his tongue in your mouth is making you feel hazy and tingly all over.

Tongues are clashing, teeth are knocking into one another. He’s biting your bottom lip to really start getting you worked up. He’s is rushing a bit but you understand. This is how it goes when someone challenges him and ultimately loses against him. Sett gets an adrenaline rush off the fight that he just has to release it with you. But you know that he just secretly wants the praise from you for defending his throne and title as ‘The Boss.’

As soon as he possibly can he is rubbing circles of your clit, helping you get wet for him. He parts from you so the both of you can breathe, and as he’s making eye contact with you he brings his fingers up to his mouth to get a taste of you. You notice his pupils get larger.

“You taste as good as you look, how ‘bout I just drink you up?”

He kneels on the floor and immediately takes your clit into his mouth sucking on it that it gets you to yelp in surprise. Your hands finds purchase in his hair behind his ears as they stand tall and towards you. The expression on Sett’s face is one of concentration, the bridge of his nose is scrunched up, his eyebrows are knitted together, and his eyes are closed. It’s like he’s putting in all of his effort into pleasing you. Like he would die on the spot if he didn’t.

All of a sudden he opens his eyes and locks them in a gaze with yours. He takes his tongue from you but gives it right back as he takes the flat of it and licks one big and long stripe from your entrance to your clit.

It is erotic to say the least.

In the next moment he’s shuffling off his jacket with the big clunky gold embellishments that decorate the fur on it so he can lift and spread your legs around his broad shoulders. The next moment he takes a finger and thrusts it inside you and you nearly fold on top of him from the sudden feeling of being full.

“Just gotta prepare you for what’s coming next Doll. Just gotta hang in there a little longer, i’ll get ya ready to take me.” He grins.

You nod along as you see him go back to sucking on your clit, his tongue poking out to lick it up and play with it. Time seems to fly by as Sett manages to fit a second finger in you. This time though, this devious man flashes his k9s at you and he gently nibbles and bites at your clit. It’s so much sensation that it nearly has you howling in pleasure.

“It’s too much Sett!! To much.” You say grasping tightly at his hair, your eyes scrunched closed.

“Hang in there sweetheart, you can take it like a good girl.” He says with your clit between his teeth. He gives another long, broad lick to you and you shiver. He speeds up his fingers and even curls them a little. You tighten up as all of a sudden you feel a knot in the pit of your stomach. You’re so close.

“Sett, I-I’m gonna-”

“Let me see you cum sweetheart.”

You tighten and spas on his fingers as you moan for him. All too quickly he takes his fingers out and shoves his tongue in, licking and drinking all that he can of you. Once he has had his fill he lets your legs down off his shoulders as he stands up before you.

“I told ya Doll, we were just gettin’ started.”

He smirks widely as he watches you look down from his face to his well built chest and abs down to the raging buldge that lies underneath his white pants.

[petermorwood]

@nimblermortal sent me this last week:

A second blade weapon became increasingly common in the later Viking Age. It does not have a formal name, being often referred to as a fighting-knife or battle-knife, and it was essentially a development of the one-handed, long seax knife of the Migration Period. A single-edged blade with a thick back that added weight to a short, stabbing blow, it seems to have been intended as a back-up weapon. By the tenth century, battle-knives had elaborate scabbards that were worn horizontally along the belt, allowing them to be drawn across the body from behind a shield if the sword was gone; a variant hung down at an angle from an elaborate harness. It seems they may also have been worn on the back - again for a swift, over-the-shoulder draw. Children of Ash and Elm by Neil Price @petermorwood (Mr Morwood! Mr Morwood!) I found an archaeologist claiming people were doing over-the-shoulder draws! Would you care to weigh in?

*****

Would I ever! That's a button well pushed. But things got odd when I tried, because as soon as I'd written even the smallest reply and saved to Draft, this happened:

Letting it stand would have seemed like I was trying to avoid comments, corrections or criticism, but despite poking around in Settings there was no way to turn things on. It was only by cut-and-pasting @nimblermortal's entire original as a Quote starting a new post that the problem was resolved.

Anyone else encountered this?

Anyway, on with the lecture response. :->

*****

As regards Back-Carry / Back-Draw of "battle-knives", I'm not convinced.

("Battle-knife" is a term I've never seen in connection with any Viking Age weapon. What's the Old Norse for it? German "Kriegsmesser" (war-knife) refers to something much bigger from 500 years later, also not back-carried or back-drawn - which from here on will be BD / BC.)

To get where he is now, a full professor, Neil Price will have defended his PhD, and should know such a statement as "It seems they may..." will need evidence to support it.

That phrase is easy to write, as is "According to legend..." and "It is said..." However these are IMO default History Channel phrases, with all the authenticity that implies. None of them actually PROVE what they're speculating.

"Experiments conducted by museum staff wearing authentic armour reveal that IT SEEMS medieval knights could use smartphones."

But does it prove medieval knights USED smartphones? See what I mean?

*****

I first asked if anyone had actual proof of BC / BD on Netsword almost 30 years ago, and to date there's been nothing. I've also posted about it quite a lot on Tumblr, so being poked with this particular stick is no surprise. :->

The quotation from "Children of Ash and Elm" is the first time I've heard of a trained archaeologist making a claim for BC / BD, and the odd part is that Prof. Price also states the weapon was intended for "...a short, stabbing blow" - which means wearing it horizontally in front makes far more sense. From that position it can be drawn far faster and with less telegraphed intent than "...on the back - again for a swift, over-the-shoulder draw."

Reaching up for any weapon carried across the back, whether long or short, is a bigger movement - and thus less "swift" - than snatching out the same weapon worn at the hip or across the front at waist level, especially if - as he suggests - that move is masked behind a shield (or for that matter a cloak, a door, or a half-turned torso...)

Try both moves in front of a mirror with a ruler or even a length of dowel, and you'll understand.

With a weapon-hilt visible behind one shoulder or just a cross-belt suggesting something slung out of sight, what's a Norse warrior going to think when his potential opponent reaches up there? At a moment of hot words and high tension, will he wait while an itchy back gets scratched or until an attack happens?

The explosive violence described in sagas suggests not.

If Prof. Price has solid proof for his BC / BD notion in the form of artefacts or art - and it'll need more than a one-off example - I'll be very pleased to finally see some "show me" evidence.

(It won't do anything for longswords of 500 years later, of course, though I bet the uncritical back-carry brigade would leap on it regardless.)

But without that evidence, I'm taking "it seems" with a wary pinch of salt.

*****

There's a weird internet fixation about BC / BD (which are NOT the same thing) and an equally weird need to show that back-draw "works", whether with hooks under the guard and a leather condom at the point...

... or by being open most of the way down one side.

Neither are real-world historical, so let's see how they work in fantasy.

IMO they're not appropriate there either, because the designers are so eager to provide working BC / BD that they ignore the main function of a scabbard, which is to carry the weapon in something which protects people from the weapon's edges, and the weapon from the elements.

Real scabbards for real swords went to some trouble over that. They protected people, including the wearer, with a completely enclosed wooden, leather and / or metal case, and protected the blades by having them fit into their case well enough that inclement weather stayed out.

This fitting could involve metal collars (Japanese habaki), or tight-gripping lanolin-rich fleece linings, or leather flaps, caps and rain-guards mounted on hilt or scabbard-throat. Real scabbards didn't have exposed metal and weren't open-sided rainfall buckets, because the priorities of actual sword users were very different to those of back-carry fans.

Given the number of posts I've seen about the technical side of fantasy world-building - history, geography, even geology and meteorology - I think this difference is worth noting.

*****

The first time I recall seeing back-carry mentioned in a historical-not-fantasy context was in "Growing Up in the Thirteenth Century", © Alfred Duggan 1962. Here's the extract in question:

Unfortunately Duggan - though according to his Wikipedia entry "His novels are known for meticulous historical research" - doesn't give any cited source for this; his introduction to the book says:

I know the feeling! :->

I'd still trust him more than some modern historical writers who seem over-willing to add a touch of fantasy speculation / interpretation if it rounds out something inconclusive, makes the history more interesting or chimes with a personal agenda.

"Accurate" is better than "interesting", and "I don't know" is better than making stuff up.

*****

To repeat: I've yet to see any museum-exhibit or manuscript-illumination examples of BC / BD ever done For Historically Real with Western European swords, especially the hand-and-a-half longswords on which modern back-draw fans seem fixated.

A seax, scramasax or just plan sax is shorter, but yet again, this is the first time I've read anything even remotely scholarly about them or their later Viking-age version (saxes were associated more with Saxons than Vikings, guess why?) being BC / BD.

By contrast, there are at least three art instances of saxes worn horizontally, on 10th century crosses at Middleton Church, Yorkshire:

The art is backed up by surviving examples with scabbard-fittings still in place, indicating how they were worn. Here's one example, from the Metropolitan Museum, New York which makes that very obvious.

The little decorative masks (originally part of the top of the scabbard, now corroded onto the blade) are clearly meant to be This Side Up, and also show that this scabbard was This Side Out for a right-handed draw, since there's no detail on the back.

There's a similar fancy-front / plain-back / right-hand-use leather sax scabbard at the Jorvik Centre in York.

There's only a single photograph of this bigger one - 54cm (21.5 in) overall - from the Cleveland Museum of Art, with no way to see if the L-shaped scabbard mount is decorated on just one or both sides. However it does indicate the weapon was meant for horizontal wear.

I've also flipped the website photo to show right-hand use, because "It seems..." (hah!) more probable. Here's why I did it:

For most of history being left-handed was unusual, a disapproved-of aberration and the origin of the word sinister.

Left-handers were useless in any formation from Ancient Greece through Ancient Rome to the Saxon and Viking period where the shields of a phalanx, testudo or shield-wall had to overlap for mutual support.

In the Middle Ages, both the specialised armour and the layout of jousting courses were almost 100% right-hand only.

Most surviving swords with asymmetrical hilts, such as swept-hilt rapiers, are made to for right hands not left.

Even nowadays many weapons - including the current British Army rifle (SA-80 / L85/A2) - are set for right-handers only.

*****

The longest saxes are called Langseax (surprise) though this may be a modern-ish term. Here's one from the British Museum, the so-called "Seax of Beagnoth"...

...which is 72 cm (28.5 in) total / 55cm (22 in) blade.

That's about the same as a Roman gladius (another sword never back-worn despite its convenient size) and is a good 25-30cm (10-12 in) shorter than the average "proper" sword of the same period, which means it could be drawn over-shoulder...

However the layout of its runic engraving shows it was almost certainly meant to be worn horizontally As Per Usual.

*****

And now we've come all the way back around to Prof. Price's claim that Vikings did BC / BD with their battle-knives.

Such a claim needs proof.

Please, show me some.

[ineffable-suffering]

I'm back with another Good Omens meta in which I'm gonna scream about This Shot now because otherwise I might go insane:

Everything. Every single thing about this shot is so telling and painful and perfect. So, let's break it down before I loose my blessed mind.

LIGHTING

Notice the very obvious, massive ray of light shining in from the top right corner? At first glance, it might seem like it's coming from the window but really, the angle is completely off, the outside is way gloomier than the inside and it seems like it's actually coming from the skylight. The literal one and, mayhaps, also the metaphorical Heavenly one? *winks at you with both eyes*

PLACEMENT

In addition to the source of the Mysterious Ray Of Light being quite the obvious reference to Heaven: it also shines directly onto the heavenly array in the bookshop. The very array Aziraphale used to try and talk to God in S1. And who is standing in the dead middle of it? That's right. The fucking Metatron. Just like all the way back before the End of the World. Appearing to Aziraphale albeit not being called upon. Parallel much?

Aziraphale on the other hand, is not even close to being in the middle of it. Neither the array nor the ray of light. He's standing at the very edge of it, still distraught down to his angelic bones, completely cast into the shade. Despite being the one closer to the camera (= us, the audience), he still draws our eyes in less than the Metatron. It gives us a very clear image of which one of the two of them is currently dominating the shot and also the conversation.

The bookshop is Aziraphale's space, the most Aziraphale space there is. And yet, he's not the one currently owning it. The Metatron's presence is almost making this feel claustrophobic. If we were to draw a line right down the middle of the shot, both him and Aziraphale are crammed into the left side of the picture. Just like in so many shots with Aziraphale and the other (arch)angels, it feels like his space is being invaded, he's beeing crowded against a metaphorical wall, squeezed out of his own comfort zone.

Because that's exactly what the Metatron is doing here, isn't it? It's what Heaven has always done to Aziraphale. Get up all in his business when he leasts wants them to, with nothing but bad intentions and arrogant distain, masked under the hood of feigned corporate politeness. ("You.. you– bad angels!")

BONUS: CROWLEY'S ABSENCE PRESENCE

As we all know, Crowley has already left the bookshop after The K*ss. And he's clearly the missing half to this shot. The Metatron is crowding Aziraphale away from him, away from the door and the window that lead and look outside of the bookshop. Where Crowley is. Where freedom is. Just this once, the bookshop is actually not at all where Aziraphale wants to be. But he's being kept in there by the Metatron, because the choice was never his.

So, we have our clear image: The Metatron backing Aziraphale away from his freedom and what he wants – the metaphorical and literal "right" side (of the shot). And what do we see in the background, on that very right side? The horse statue Crowley always puts his sunglasses on. Look at her, there she is:

In S2E1, right when Crowley and Aziraphale get back from Nina's café to the bookshop (with the damn Eccles cakes), he puts his sunglasses very obviously atop the horse statue ...

... and then takes them again when leaving the bookshop.

It literally gets its own close up shot. It tells us: Crowley feels safe in the bookshop. Crowley feels safe with Aziraphale. This is his home just as much as it is the angel's. And I don't have to tell you about the metaphore of him putting the glasses back on once he realizes he has lost Aziraphale to Heaven. (In addition, I categorically refuse to talk about the way Aziraphale looks at him when he does it.)

So, the horse statue being on this side of the shot –– the side that Aziraphale actually so desperately wants to be on right now (their own side) but is being kept from –– is just beyond symbolical.

Because just like the statue representing him, Crowley is still there. He's waiting. Right outside the shop, by the Bentley. He's there. He'll always be there. He just can't come with this time. Not to Heaven. Not after how he just laid himself bare after 6000 years of wearing his bloody metaphorical sunglasses like a battle armour, and was left hanging just like his shades on the god damn horse statue.

Literally me right now:

[greyspirehollow]

Prepare for trouble - Make it double

Pairing : Quaestor Valdemar x (demon) Reader Fandom : The Arcana visual novel Warnings : science (I'm not good with warnings) ; discussion of experiments ; probably inaccurate depiction of said science (like it's probably not how it works, I ain't no scientist, I'm an artist)

Summary : To make sure you live as long as your beloved, you went our of your way to make a deal with the Devil. The downsides? You have the same morbid curiosities and fascinations as your dearest, though you specialize in another field...

It had been a few months since you made your deal. Things had changed, of course, but you felt as if the sacrifices you made were little in comparison to spending eternity by Valdemar's side. And you couldn't have possibly done that without giving up your humanity... But you knew you had done the right thing. Everything had become more tender with the Quaestor, it seemed they'd finally allowed themselves to feel for you, to love you ; They were spending more time by your side, they held you more often, at times you could swear you could see a spark of love and adoration in their eyes when they looked at you... And honestly? It's all you could've asked for. Everything else was a bonus.

Spending more time together undeniably meant you picked up on some quirks from each other's behavior. Even though you had a much more theatrical side to you (which seemed to be easier to indulge into, since you weren't so afraid anymore since your deal ; although you do know how to control it. People often perceive you as rather calm and composed, actually), you had caught yourself standing like them a few times. Once, you two had tilted your heads at the same time during a conversation, drawing a few laughs out of both of you. It seemed like Valdemar had picked up on some of your behaviors as well, which... You hadn't expected. You remember loosing your shit at one of the few jokes they cracked around you from time to time. Sure, they were still very much themselves, but you feel like their time with you warmed them up somewhat. A few days after you came back from your deal, they'd offered to wrap your horns in bandages, just like they did with their own, and you couldn't refuse (it was just so cute). Your horn shape was more vertical, with a slight angle to them, but in the end, you had matching bandaged horns, and it just made you giddy every time you thought about it. You would tease each other at times, even though when other people were around, the Quaestor was much more reserved, a bit contrary to you. But you caught a smile behind their mask once or twice.

And of course, all those soft moments were worth everything you'd given up. Your humanity, and your moral compass. Regarding science, anyway...

You hadn't told them anything. When those strange thoughts came to you, it made you curious. Not only because you'd never thought of this before, but also because it was... Interesting, actually. You knew you probably shouldn't indulge in them. After all, you weren't human anymore, your thoughts weren't the same... And yet, you gave in. You had noticed how when Valdemar was really invested in an experiment, it seemed you could go anywhere you wanted and they wouldn't notice... Or they perhaps didn't mind. Of course you loved watching them work, and they didn't seem to mind your presence... But seeing them so fascinated by the corpses they were fiddling with inevitably awakened those thoughts in you again. So you'd taken advantage of those moments to wander the streets of Vesuvia, looking for a perfect hideout. You had found what looked like an abandoned tavern at the end of a narrow, dark alleyway. It took you a while to manage to pick the lock of the thick wooden door, but once you did, you couldn't help a wicked grin from spreading onto your face. This. Was. Perfect.

You entered what looked like an old cave, finding stacks of dusty wine bottles, a table or two and cobwebs. You couldn't help your heart from picking up in pace as you mentally drew a picture of your soon-to-be laboratory. This was exciting. You dedicated the following weeks to cleaning up the place. You'd deconstructed the wine stacks, gotten rid of the bottles (which you were sure weren't good for consumption anyway, and the idea of risking Valerius' life to make sure of that simply hadn't come to you) and moved the wooden tables. If you wanted this place to be as spotless as you could make it to be, you'd have to do a deep clean... And that's what you did. Back when you were human, you could've never thought of doing that, ever. But now? The excitement at the prospect of upcoming experiments gave you the energy to basically do anything.

Eventually, after two week and a half of deep cleaning (mainly because you couldn't give it a 24/7 attention), the cave looked empty enough for you to start furnishing it. This only took you three days. You would sneak out the Palace at night into various physicians' offices and alchemist's shops to borrow equipment. Vials, petri dishes, syringes, candles, the strongest magnifying glasses you could find, more petri dishes, sample tubes, test tubes, goggles (though you doubted you would need them), gloves, tweezers, spatula, scoopula, glass bottles, erlenmeyer flasks, flasks, tongs, corks, beakers, pipets, petri dishes again YOU NAME IT- ahem.

This was thrilling. The more you brought equipment to your makeshift laboratory, the more excited you become. This would be fantastic. Phenomenal. Breakthrough after breakthrough, things scientists could only dream of achieving...

Then began your experiments. In the following months, your laboratory filled with them, test subjects and wet specimens, files thick as an encyclopedia as you wrote down report after report and protocol after protocol....

However, eventually, you knew you wouldn't be able to keep this to yourself. And you probably shouldn't. It didn't feel right to hide it all from your beloved... And so, after nearly ten months of your secret escapades to your lab, you decided to expose your discoveries and experiments to Valdemar. It was late, somewhere at the end of winter. As if time meant anything anyway. You found the surgeon in their dungeons, as usual. You stood afar for a moment, your heart thumping violently in your ribs out of both nervousness and excitement. You took a deep breath, and walked towards them, gently wrapping your arms around their waist from behind and resting your head on their shoulder. "Good evening" they said sweetly, briefly glancing at you. They could feel your tough heartbeat against their back, and wondered what could be the source of supposed distress. "Is something wrong?" they asked, their hands swiftly stitching up the corpse they had been working on. "...Can I show you something?" you inquired, though with a slight uncertainty. It seemed they sensed it. "Of course." Valdemar replied "I'm always happy to see what you've been up to." they said, putting their instruments aside and wiping their gloves hands on their apron. You couldn't help your grin and a spark of mischievous excitement from lighting up your eyes. The Quaestor knew that spark : they shared the same when they talked about their experiments. This only made them more intrigued. You took their hand and excitedly walked out of the dungeons into the streets of Vesuvia, guiding them to your hideout.

You found the key to the heavy wooden door and opened it, eagerly inviting them inside (even if you tried your best to keep your excitement level-headed). Their eyes widened as they slowly made their way inside : it really looked like a laboratory... only less professional. More made from scratch, though the equipment was there. Shelves lined the walls, on which laid all sorts of things : mainly jars, mostly wet rat and mice specimens, floating ominously in the liquid. but there were also tinier flasks, sealed shut, with a biohazard* symbol onto some. no, onto all of them. You didn't speak just yet, letting them take a look around while fidgeting with your hands. They approached one of the tables you worked on, seemingly analyzing the equipment. "So that's where all my petri dishes went" they teased, making you chuckle. Their gaze went back to the table "...Is this all your doing?" They asked, their eyes landing on the specimens again. You nodded, unable to stop a little proud and (morbidly) excited smile as you mentally prepared to ramble about your experiments. Valdemar's eyes scanned the equipment again, and finally asked "What did you do with all this?"

You grinned from ear to ear as you went to fetch the boxes where you kept all your reports, bringing them to the table while pushing aside some instruments (which thankfully you weren't currently using for an experiment - imagine the catastrophe if anything fell on the floor) "Alright, so-" you started, pulling out a file "I'll start with my simplest experiment : BH-012. It was my first successful one, actually uhm- are you familiar with pathology ?" your words seemed to tumble out of your mouth with uncontrollable enthusiasm, and Valdemar found themselves highly intrigued. "The science and study of diseases, yes, I've heard about it. Though as you know, it isn't my field of practice" you nodded frantically "Yes ! yes. Well... I got interested in that, suddenly, I don't exactly know why -maybe has to do with my deal- and well... I thought it would be a good idea to uhm... to try things out !" You had the Quaestor's absolute and undivided attention. Which was hard to do, let's be honest. You couldn't be more excited "I've played with dangerous things.." you admitted, flipping through the files. "So ! BH-012...."

And so your rambling started. You began with this first bacteria, which you had managed to successfully mutate, altering its initial effects. This is what you had done with all your experiments. You mutated and fiddled with everything : Bacteria. Viruses. Prions. Parasites... These held nearly no secrets to you anymore. You've nearly experimented on all. You had pushed the limits of the ethical and created biohazardous biological weapons, all contained in these tiny sealed-shut flasks and vials lined up on your shelves, which you had frozen* for safety. You explained to them in details some protocols of certain highly successful experiments, like the prion PA-003, or the virus VY-045... You explained how you studied how your diseases spread, contaminated, and destroyed their hosts on populations of rat and mice ; you showed them the second room, in which there was a tank similar to a terrarium full of plants, and another one full of fungi and mushrooms. You explained how you had managed to make a mutation of the BH-012 bacteria, BH-014, thanks to these fungi, allowing the bacteria to develop spores to spread, whereas before it was only transmitted by being consumed. You went on to explain how you used the tank of plants to develop cures for each of your diseases, making copies of the formula and protocols to follow in case one slippery little virus or fungi managed to make its way out of your laboratory.

The Quaestor was smitten. They loved your humanity, they always did (even if they'd denied it for a while), this part of you that had allowed them to be a little more themselves each day... And now this ? This was the cherry on top. This non-human side of you, devoted to science, willing to experiment, going beyond the biologically reasonable and push past what would be ethical until there were no cell to modify left in the world... And the last specimen you presented to them, with that wickedly excited grin and mad glint in your eyes just was the death of them. You proudly held up the wet specimen of an orange worm, with two long thin tendrils that spewed out of its mouth. "Just a lil' guy, huh? This is a type of brain tapeworm" you started "it's called a neuro-parasite. Some already exist in nature, but I've uhm... made it worse" you chuckled "It acts very progressively : they lodge themselves atop of the brain, slowly but surely planting their tendrils further and further until they reach the motor controls, basically... turning the host into a puppet. It's not actually hard to remove, a basic acidic solution does the job and dissolves it, but uhm... the delicate part is not damaging the brain while dissolving the worm." you were about to go on, but something suddenly popped in your mind, and you excitedly went back to your shelf. Valdemar's jaw hung slightly slack at everything. But they'd share their thoughts once you would be done. "Something funny happened to one of my worms, actually-" You retrieved another wet specimen of an orange worm, though this time, it had some sort of exoskeleton, and two little fangs "It mutated" you said, feeling all giddy. The Quaestor couldn't help but share your excitement, even if pathology wasn't their field of specialty "It mutated? This particular worm mutated, creating this unique structure and its small little fangs?" you nodded eagerly. You continued : "Not that it can resist the cure, no no- it's become practically cousins with a millipede. It still had the tendrils to lodge in the brain though. I have to admit, I ran out of inspiration and called it Fortis Vermis… but I secretly call it skitters" Valdemar chuckled "skitters?" you laughed as well and nodded. "yes, skitters... I like him a lot... It's my most beautiful specimen." You said, looking dreamily at your wet specimen before putting it back on the shelf with the others

After this very eventful night, you couldn't help but be a little apprehensive of Valdemar's reaction. What would they think...? They had not uttered a word since you both had left your makeshift laboratory. You suddenly felt very nervous. You looked at them and was about to say something, but you blinked in surprise. There was a new spark in their eyes : amazement and wonder... a certain lightness. You were... Confused. They seemed to notice your stare and looked at you, their red eyes meeting your golden own. They smiled. "Thank you for showing me all this" their tone was... surprisingly affectionate, and you couldn't help your cheeks from reddening slightly "ah- w-well... that's only natural, no?" you chuckled "You have no problem showing me your experiments, and it felt very... It just felt wrong not to show you." The smile didn't leave their face as they continued to walk with you. It seemed your earlier excitement had rubbed off on them, they looked to be in a particularly good mood. They looked ahead again and inhaled before speaking : "You and I will make a fine duo in scientific history" Your eyes widened slightly, your anxiousness suddenly evaporated. You felt warm. "really?" they nodded "absolutely. Say, do you want me to give you... Human specimens from time to time?" you gasped "you- you wouldn't !!" they chuckled at your excited reply "oh yes I would. I'd be delighted to see just what your diseases could do on a human corpse" You had to stifle a screech of excitement. It would help you make significant progress, even if you had one body every few months. You gripped their arm and brought them in an embrace, pampering their face with affectionate kisses. They chuckled and protested that it was nothing, but you thanked them nonetheless. That night, you spent your time discussing all sorts of experiments you could be conducting in the future...

*This may be inaccurate considering the time period The Arcana visual novel seems to take place in

Small Bonus !

It was two days later. You had just come back from dining with the countess and the other courtiers, closing the door of your quarters with a sigh, appreciating the calm. You spotted something on your bed, and raising an eyebrow, you went over it. It looked like a folded piece of clothing. You unwrapped it curiously, and your eyes widened as a lab-coat and apron unfolded before you. It was flawless, though you could tell it was sewn by hand. It matched your size perfectly. A note fluttered to the ground, which you picked up. It read :

"A mad scientist and an unhinged surgeon ; we're going to make quite the pair. I thought you might need this in the future - Val"

This time, you were unable to contain your screech of excitement.

[thescarletnargacuga]

Could you do a ribbun oneshot?

A/N: I can certainly try. Without details, I don't know what the ribbun community wants-

STRENGTH IN TRAGEDY

WARNING: angst

~~~

"Hey, ribbons, whatcha got there?"

Gangle didn't have time to react. Jax reached over her, snatched her drawing, and held it out of reach. "Hey! Wait! No!"

Jax examined the partially finished work with exaggerated interest. "Oh, so I see you're taking the abstract approach. Hehehe, no pun intended. It doesn't really look like anything."

"It's not done! Give it baaack!" Gangle whined and tried grabbing the paper.

Jax pushed her away from him and she stumbled back. Her comedy mask slipped from its precarious perch and the porcelain shattered on the ground. She stared at her fallen mask. Cumbersome tears hung from her dark eyes. Jax's cackling laughter rang in her head like an echoing curse.

Her sobbing eyes angled downward. Her ribbons curled tightly together. "Every time..."

"What was that?" Jax wiped an amused tear from his eye. "I couldn't hear you over the sound of me-"

"EVERY. TIME." Gangle said with barely contained rage. She turned to face him and glared at him. "Every time I'm happy! Every time I even THINK I have a moment of peace, YOU have to ruin it! Why!? I was minding my own business and you went out of your way to be MEAN to me! You broke my mask! AGAIN!! EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. IT'S ALWAYS YOU!!" Her voice pitched until she was practically screeching at him.

Jax was taken aback but kept the cool appearance of being unimpressed. He crossed his arms, folding the art in the process. "So, you're finally standing up to me. Took you long enough."

His words disarmed Gangle immediately. Her face contorted with confusion. "Wait- what?"

"Yeah, I was beginning to wonder if you were going to be this easy forever." He grinned mischievously and leaned down to her level. "But I've never been more happy to be wrong. Way to keep things interesting, Ribbons. I like it when people keep me guessing."

Gangle was even more confused. "You want me to fight you?"

He laughed and stood upright. "You're still slow, but a step in the right direction is still a step. Come on, Ribbons. You got more to say?" He arched an eyebrow.

Gangle stammered but found her voice. "You-! You always try to take my art! You make fun of it when it's not even finished and- uh, you never apologize!"

Jax looked bored. "Now you're just stating the obvious."

"AAAARGH!" Gangle threw her hands in frustration. "WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME!? I JUST WANT TO DRAW! AND NOW I CAN'T BECAUSE YOU BROKE MY MASK! YOU'RE THE BIGGEST [%$!#]HOLE IN THIS CIRCUS FOR NO REASON! LITERALLY NO ONE LIKES YOU! WHY DON'T YOU DO US ALL A FAVOR AND JUST ABSTRACT ALREADY!!" Gangle gasped and covered her mouth.

Jax tensed a little. "...better." He dropped the paper and walked away.

"Wait, I- I didn't mean that..." Gangle said quietly.

Jax didn't stop or look back.

Gangle collected her paper and art supplies and retreated to her room, leaving her comedy mask in pieces on the floor. She dropped everything on the floor and cried to herself on her bed. "Even Jax doesn't deserve to abstract...no one does. Why did I say that? Why did he have to push me?" She sniffed. "Jerk..."

A knock on her door made her jump. "Who is it?"

No answer.

Carefully, she opened the door. No one was there. She leaned out and her foot pushed something in the floor. It was her comedy mask, painstakingly glued together. It was cracked, and there were glue dribbles all over it, but it was in one piece. A small note stuck to the inside.

She picked it up and read it. Stay strong and fight. It's the only way we're getting through this. She smiled a little. "Thanks..." She said to no one.

[argentsunshine]

have you posted about your characterization of Joker? i really like your takes about him and would love if it were explained, but understand if not

i don't think i've posted about it explicitly beyond writing fics and comics, but i do think about it a lot

i acknowledge that everyone picks different options for their akira(/ren, i'll be calling him akira here in case i have to differentiate between his real world and metaverse personas), but imo there are way more basic facts about akira that are the same regardless of what dialogue options you pick than people act like there are

he's quiet

he's not really a silent protagonist unless you're incredibly broad with the term, but he still isn't exactly the most talkative guy. you may be saying mr argent sunshine, this is obvious, why are you bothering to state this. well you see i often joke that i have a test where i back out of a fanfic if anyone describes akira as "loud", "talkative", or anything else to that effect. i have seen this so often and it drives me insane. especially when people portray him as like, a quirky hyperactive ditz constantly saying stupid shit...? people can be funny while saying very few words, guys. (sometimes it's even funnier to say less. wild concept.)

also, while the doylist purpose of his quietness is obvious - making the player pick a line every other sentence would get annoying and would force them to write and record way more dialogue to account for all the responses - i think it's interesting to examine from a watsonian perspective. was he always quiet, or is it a mask in the same way as the glasses are? i personally imagine him always being on the quiet side, but it's a space you could play in.

2. caring so deeply about everyone and everything all the time

this to me is the real core of akira's character. the defining moment of his whole deal to me is the one-two punch of him saving a woman he didn't know and losing everything for it, and, when arsene asks, him saying doing that was not a mistake, i'd do it again if i had to, even though the woman he was trying to save turned around and lied to the police, resulting in his arrest. he comforts ann when they barely know each other, he awakens to arsene in the first place while trying to protect ryuji, who he's known for all of ten minutes. yes, he loves his friends and found family dearly (and i'm sure when i started talking about things that are true no matter what option you pick someone went "oh like how akechi will still be akira's wish in maruki's reality no matter what you do", yeah, that too) but he's also ready to throw himself into harm's way for the sake of people he's never met.

(if someone wants my full rant on this point ask me about sojiro akira parallels but a side point to this is that he's deeply unselfish, to a level that may not be healthy in the long run. he just so happens to have gotten the exact magic powers to make his heroics feasible. i'm just saying, without getting persona powers he still would have managed to draw kamoshida's anger, and he would have been expelled and probably gone to juvie! but he still would have done it because he can't just look away.)

3. oh god i don't want this to turn into a whole full rant so now i have to pick one last point then shut up. oh god oh fuck. i could talk about akira forever but nobody wants to sit through that. let's talk about masks.

i don't think of joker as The Real Akira as much as his metaverse appearance is another facet of him. looking at him from another angle. i think his flair for the dramatic is fun and i love him, but i also think the concept of theatrics and illusion and trickery (ha) being built so deep into him is very important. even though it's always for the greater good, he does tell people what they want to hear a lot (off the top of my head, maybe 1/3 to 1/2 of his non-PT confidants are at least somewhat based on false pretenses right from the start, even if they make him come clean in the end, and a lot of the rest involve akira being exactly who the person needs him to be.) you could argue that akira's always pretending to literally everyone fully all the time (I don't think this is true; i think he obscures parts of himself to make himself more useful or palatable to others, but i think arguing his connections are inauthentic is a) edgelord bullshit or, more commonly, shipper brain if they're arguing only one connection is authentic b) just not consistent with the way people work. i'm personally of the opinion that we're all always presenting tailored versions of ourselves to everyone around us - i'm ruder around my friends but kinder around my parents; openly ramble about my interests to my online friends but tend to keep a lid on them irl - these don't make some of my connections fake, it's just a difference in the facets people see. i don't think akira's tendecy to present different masks around different people is neccasarily the best way to go about life (in that i think it Will lead to an identity crisis inevitably) but it's definitely A Thing!

i lost track of what i was saying at the end there so i'll stop talking

[elfqueen006]

Running Red

A drabble for @themeatpit37's Slasher!Jack AU ft. my OC May-Rose and "Selene," my name for human Moonpie. Basically, it's a chase scene and I hope I captured the maliciousness of the villainous Jack in this.

Wanted to draw something but summer classes and shit cutting in on my fun. Figured I could scribble this up while it was in my head between free time.

Tw: injury, implied/referenced cannibalism and gore, blood and violence, implied death of character offscreen.

---

He fought like an animal. His head dips low and to the right, surveying her from all angles before taking a running start to pounce at her. May barely makes it out the way when she jumps to the side and scrambles back up, ignoring the throbbing in her left arm. It was still scratched up from his "claws" -- some kind of filed metallic material stuck to otherwise friendly, fluffy fur gloves.

Selene was hiding like she told her. Where, she didn't know, but somehow, she felt that was the best case scenario. 'As long as Jack can't find her.' She thought.

Her thoughts were already mixed up out of focusing on survival and worry for her godchild. She didn't know how long this fight would last. She couldn't find a second of opportunity to look inside any of her ex's compartments for a gun. She recalled in college, Ian said something along the lines of hoping he'd never have to own a gun, and she mentally cursed him to his grave. If he owned a damn gun he wouldn't be dead now.

Then again, could a gun work on this... thing? Not even the chair could keep him down. What could a bullet do against supernatural evil?

Jack's big eyes looked back at her from behind his plastic lion mask. She thought they were a bright brown, but everytime his focus was her alone they were a blood red. He didn't have a problem getting on his feet, languidly rising from the floor to stalk towards her again.

"Oh, lioness," Jack purred, "You can't protect your cub forever."

Her voice impulsively lashed out, "What the hell do you want from her?"

He shrugged, "Lion's gotta eat. It's what we do . Especially when the prides getting a li-i-i-tle too big." he hopped forward a few steps in tune with his words. Mays lips rose in a snarl as she backed up. The masked man snickered, and her anger rose over fear at how easily he made their continued survival into a sick little game. Her protectiveness of Selene and hostility towards him didn't add caution but fueled his "lioness" image of her.

Something else then clicked for May -- Jack ...Joseph... whoever he was. Is not a man, nor some freak in a mask, but a caricature of his former self. Someone who's abandoned humanity and empathy for carnal desire. A mascot for terror and evil, one he assumed with glee.

May wasn't sure how she could win against something like this... but she had to try.

She turned and fucking ran. There was no direction she was going with other than away from the predator. The click of nails followed close behind. He was probably running after her on all fours - the freak.

Ian didn't have much in his living area, but whatever May could find, she threw. She threw a small alarm clock and missed. She threw a lamp that he took like a fucking pro. And in her growing frustration she took the wooden stand by the couch and swung it down with surprising force. He cried out as it hit him over his shoulder, making him stumble backward. May didn't wait for him to regain balance.

Reaching over for a glass trinket on Ian's TV shelf, she flung it toward him. It crashed into his chest and she grinned, truly vindicated when he made a pained "Augh! "

As she turned to run, Jack winced, running his hand over his broad chest. Some glass had been lodged in the skin. He clenched his teeth as he pulled it one out with his claws, then two, and three. There were some tinier shards that just couldn't be grasped, making his skin quiver in discomfort. Then his attention was drawn to the familiar and yet jarring red liquid blooming from the cuts on his skin. They came as little droplets before trickling down over the fabric of his shirt.

Experimentally, he swiped a thumb over the blood and tasted it fresh off the fabric... the same. And yet, different. How could he pin that? It was almost the same as touching yourself. You didn't know why it felt different with other people, it just did. And just like an orgasm, you know it's coming, but with others you don't know how. That was part of the fun for him. Finding out different ways to make them bleed. Every wound, every cut, every bruise would open and send him up a fountain of gushing red gold. His reward for playing a different strategy with each kill.

He knew he bled, but it was rare someone showed him how. It was exhilarating.

[insult-2-injury]

The First Unkindness - Chapter 1

Time Travel Fem Reader x Zandik (set in Akademiya days)

With a strike intended to kill, Il Dottore sends you flying back through time, where you find yourself face to face with the first, but no less sinister version of himself.

AO3 Link, 3k wc, eventual smut, eventual romance, slow burn, enemies to lovers

Chapter 1

You suppose you should’ve known something was off when the chatty shopkeep stopped talking for even a split second. When the unstoppered commotion of the Sumeru marketplace plummeted before suddenly picking up again, like a radio dial spun quickly back and forth; tuning in.

But it was just a glitch in time, you’d thought, hopeful. One of those funny little moments when reality and memory collide. Deja vu, they called it, so strong it rocked you sideways. Yes, just that; you thought until seconds later, the shopkeep dropped to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, and complete silence suffused the din.

You froze, one arm still outstretched, an apple clutched in your palm so shiny you thought perhaps if you squinted hard enough, you could see the approach of your own reckoning from behind.

Fear was a strange thing; had you numbly taking the time to bag the rest of your purchases before turning stiffly. The warm glow of lanterns bathing cobblestone that had seemed so friendly in the bustle seemed now to cast an eerie spotlight on the figures. Dozens of prone forms littered the ground, some of them bent at odd angles, their full weight having crashed down suddenly and without warning.

An unnaturally cold gust of air bit into your cheeks.

Well, you thought, you suppose you should’ve known better; staying in Sumeru any longer than you ought. You recalled when you’d moved here from your tiny little village just outside Gandharva Ville; when the hope of a bright future at Akademiya had eclipsed the sight of the rot beneath it all. This place was a utopia once. Not anymore.

You were headed somewhere where there were no monsters beneath the floorboards, where the worst creature that could lunge from the shadows was a Rishboland tiger.

But the current foe did not lunge, he crept toward you with an undue ease.

The Fatui harbinger tucked a device neatly into his jacket pocket, walking with the slimy confidence of someone who had laid his groundwork precisely and was here to reap his reward. 

Il Dottore. The Doctor. You never had seen him in person. And Archons, nothing could have prepared you for the sight of him, every inch of his countenance built to scream of power. An intricately patterned gray overcoat over a cobalt shirt crowned with a gold-lined cravat. Black pants slimming down into opulent, intimidating boots of the same colors. Everything about him was jagged and deadly; from the knife-edged slant of his jaw drawing into a pointed chin to the sharp, hawk-like beak of his mask – something that did little to hide the ghost of smirking lips beneath. An unruly head of steel blue hair sprouted and fell in almost lazy curls to frame his face.

Following him were two Fatui soldiers.

“So you managed to retain consciousness. Bravo.” 

Your blood ran cold at the timbre of his voice, smooth and rumbling as a far-off storm. “Although I do find myself wondering how that is…”

He continued. “The pitch produced by this device is wholly indiscernible to the human ear. Oh, let’s call it something tantamount to an amplified dog whistle. ” Dottore spoke derisively, like he was trying to explain the concept of sound to a simpleminded commoner. Your heart started up a terrible rhythm as his voice lowered in mock seriousness. “It would require a great deal of mental endeavor for even one with the gaze of the gods to withstand such a blow to their Akasha, but, unless I’m mistaken, you’ve been gifted with no such vision.”

“You’re not mistaken,” you confirmed. “Will they die?” 

“Who?” 

Your eye twitched.

“Ah. All these delightful people, you mean.” You swore you saw a flash of razor sharp teeth. “Why, they are merely asleep.”

Archons, he was a villain in the truest sense of the word. You gnawed the inside of your cheek, a profound hatred melding with anxiety to create a nauseating brew in the pit of your stomach.

“Well, what do you want?” 

He hummed almost appreciatively. “So forward, I’d almost admire your brashness if it weren’t coupled with a shocking lack of observance. A little forethought and you could have been miles away by now. Imagine.” The corner of his lips creased wickedly.

“Imagine,” you retorted with a boldness you didn’t feel, fingers ticking on the apple in your palm.

“Tell me, driyosh, what did inspire you to rewire your terminal?” His voice was too light, too inviting. “Moreso, what could have possibly motivated you to flee the city at such a time?”

Dottore was toying with you like a cat would a mouse. You were nothing but a ball of yarn between his sharp claws as he batted you around for information he most certainly already had. And by the smirk on his face, he knew you knew that there was nothing to do but buy time.

You spoke carefully.

“To be honest, I don’t find my values… aligning with the Akademiya anymore.”

“Your values? Hm.” His dark, rolling chuckle accused you of more than any words could. You felt a tingling heat creep to your cheeks and you swallowed down a wave of humiliation. “We’re fast approaching a new era of enlightenment; I do think most would call your judgment into question.”

“Yeah, well…” You bit out, tilting your head toward the sea of unconscious forms. “Seems not everybody’s in their right minds these days.”

Dottore smirked. Your hand itched to grab the gun hidden at your side, but doing so would be a certified death sentence. A shot of electro, devastating to most, wouldn’t hold water to whatever sort of power he must hold to have been crowned a Fatui harbinger. 

You knew when it came down to it, the power imbalance was all too inequitable. He didn’t seem the type to expend time and energy going after the insignificant himself, though; which meant to some degree, however miniscule, you posed a threat. But how to appease a Fatui harbinger on a mission? Perhaps you just had to keep him talking. Easy enough, you thought, he seemed to very much enjoy the sound of his own voice.

“Besides, propaganda is a powerful tool,” you stalled, toying with the apple within your sweating palms. “And is it so bad to want to dream, anyway? I’m not the first to mess with my terminal and I likely won’t be the last. Does all this really warrant arrest now?” 

Do the matra have nothing better to do than to send a Fatui harbinger to do their grunt work? No, you knew better than to think this had anything to do with your tampering with your terminal. This was only the first rap of his knuckles against your proverbial egg shell.

“Oh? Are you so important to warrant an arrest?” he responded simply, head cocking.

A shock of fear, cold and electric crept your spine at the implication. You blinked. You hadn’t considered the possibility of your life ending right here where you stood. He’d brought a hydro and a cryogunner, which you thought had spoken of intent to capture, but the two of them stood almost completely useless behind him, and who were you to guess the motive of a madman? 

You couldn’t help the stomach-sinking feeling that he’d only brought them to confuse; to tease. Your gaze turned back to the sharp void of his mask. Steeling yourself, you took a breath.

“Why don’t you wear your Akasha, then, Doctor?” you asked and his chin lowered slightly at the use of his epithet. You relaxed your shoulders as much as you could. “Don’t you want access to the arcane wisdom of our new god? Don’t you dream, then? And is dreaming not the personification of irrational thought, of unintelligence? ” His lips were all you could see, but the small grin at your sardonic tone was almost playful as you mimicked the words of the Akademiya’s most recent decree. You swallowed down a ball of nerves, a flicker of hope alight in your chest at his seemingly genuine amusement, however feline. “People become so dredged up in it all, they don’t stop to think where their dreams are going – or just who is listening to them.”

“Oh, they do think,” he responded simply, “but like you said, propaganda is a powerful tool.”

Dottore raised a gloved hand to signal his soldiers to stay put and stepped toward you alone, hands falling behind his back, terrifyingly casual. Your lower back met the rickety wooden cart behind you with a thud as you jarred away from his slow approach. His lips curled slightly but he surprisingly did not push further, halting at a conversational distance.

“You do pose a fair question, I suppose. But alas, what is the worth of a dream to the sleepless? Perhaps there is a tormented segment of myself who does still dream,” he said indifferently, “I just don’t care enough to ask. In any case, I am not one of them.”

You frowned. Segments? 

“And I will go ahead and infer from the spirit of this conversation that you don’t approve of my scientific methods here in Sumeru. I’ll be the first to call into question the Akademiya’s more… rigid history.” His voice dropped, the words formed around a sharp smile, like he was letting you in on a private joke. “But when the old ways have been set in stone, when the rot of a bygone era travels deep, the creation that rises from the floorboards must serve as a symbol of power. Of wisdom.”  

The word sounded so ridiculously insincere you could have laughed. 

“You don’t really mean that,” you dared.

Dottore studied you but did not respond to your doubt, one corner of his lips curling slowly into a sinister grin, filling you with a sudden, heart-pounding anticipation.

“And what of your involvement, driyosh?” he said lowly.

You licked your lips, a fresh wave of panic slithering through your veins. “I felt just a tad… just a tad deceived, I guess.” 

“Do elaborate.”

You observed him.

The work had started out light; unassuming. Everyday tasks handed down to you from the Grand Sage: tedious things like hunting down borderline ancient research papers or transferring messages across Akademiya grounds – frustrating, admittedly, for a gunslinging driyosh with a thesis paper to write. But further requests had you descending into madness; Azar’s requests for you to sketch out blueprints for a bigger and better weapon. One that could harvest latent elements from the world around it, transfer it into a clean source of elemental energy. 

But for what? And why? For who? The questions were endless and the potential for misuse even more so, but… you were interested in the work. Couldn’t help yourself. And to be seemingly taken both under the wing and into the good graces of the Grand Sage was no common feat. So you continued.

That is…  until the rumor came of the awakening god beneath the floorboards. Of the sighting of a Fatui harbinger. Oh, it must’ve felt such vacuous gossip to those who’d followed Akademiya’s orders and left their terminals on permanently. But to those like yourself, who had caught on a hair too late to the Akademiya’s betrayal, the knowledge latched on with a terrible sense of trepidation. Something was coming. Something bad.

And you’d been able to do nothing but slow its progression.

You cleared your throat and continued. “Me thinking I was anything but a puppet to the Akademiya. Thinking the Grand Sage chose me for my talent over simple convenience.” You shrugged through the rush of anger that stung your cheeks, pulling your lips into a small frown. “I should never have gotten involved.”

“Oh, don’t pity yourself so,” he said, disapproval coloring his tone. “After all, you’ve made quite a name for yourself, haven’t you. Star pupil of Spantamad; remarkable aptitude in biomechanical weaponry.” You narrowed your eyes, his praise unexpected and holding a wormy, underhanded cut of ridicule. “The gods deprived you of your own vessel of release, so you created your own.” 

He nodded subtly to the hidden guns holstered at your side and you tensed. “An elemental destabilizer. Not the first of its kind, no, but mildly impressive for one so young as you. You did grab my attention for a short while, I will say– so impulsive to throw yourself into a project with so few questions; so little understanding of the desired outcome. No, you just wanted to be of use. And you were, weren’t you? Yes, for every blind inch Azar granted you, you took a mile. To that end, I do applaud you.”

Your cheeks blazed at his disparagement, feeling like a tiny ant amidst the cobblestones under his derisive gaze. You suppose you shouldn’t have been surprised it was the Doctor that had chosen you by hand, considering what you’d recently come to learn of his proclivities.

“It is a shame you never saw the potential in scaling up your craft,” he said, “but you did have your uses.”

“Thank you,” you bit out.

Dottore hummed. “...Anyhow.” His gloved fingers tapped against his biceps in thought. “I do grow tired of inconsequential chatter. It’s about time we get to the point.” He took a step forward and with a lazy flourish of his wrist, two massive needles materialized out of thin air, floating idly on either side of his head. You choked on a gasp and pressed backward.

You stared in wide-eyed horror.

“You started asking questions, driyosh,” he said simply.

"N-no." There was no getting out. There was no capture. His intent was abundantly clear. "P lease.”  Your voice was small and crackling and even in all your terror, you found yourself despising how weak you sounded begging.

Your hand flexed toward your thigh. Your heart plunged in your chest before shooting to your throat like a fist punching upward. Dottore matched every panicked step of yours backward with an easy one of his own and you blanched as the needles caught the  light of a nearby streetlamp. 

Someone wake up. Someone wake up and stop him. Stop him.

“Stop! Stop. Let me explain–”

“As a scholar, first and foremost, I did admire your tenacity, your determination to uncover the truth… but thwarting plans, dredging up information that didn’t belong to you. And now leaving. ” He tsked in mock offense. “Such potential wasted.”

The world tilted. Breath became scarce.

Funny, a little. How the brain slowed to such mire when faced with its own reckoning. You’d always assumed it would work the opposite; blood thrumming with that kind of hopeless adrenaline that had mothers lifting carts off their children. And it certainly did, for a moment in time.

But then…no. It slowed. Like a fuse that had burned too hot and too quick; a half-crazed fear easing between the breadth of a single step into a strange, cold rationality. Two pairs of boots clicked on cobblestone as he backed you across cobblestone. Your eyes caught on the eerie red gleam reflecting off the front of his mask from something behind you.

“Dottore–”

“I really am sorry things had to end like this,” he continued, “but everyone must pay the price for what they learn. Although, it is a poor turn of luck for you that he sent me, I must say. I rather think another segment would’ve found you charming enough to keep around for a day or two.” 

You were never going to make it out and if you did, the things he had in store for you were far more unpleasant than death. Fuck him. Fuck this project. And fuck this city.

Your hand reached to wrap the handle of your gun and you watched as his lips twitched down in disapproval, as if he were disappointed you’d fallen back on such base methods.

"To a new era-" 

You managed to get a single shot off before  a needle slammed through your shoulder, blood a soft spatter on the ground behind as your arm ripped. And for a moment, as you stumbled backward, all you could do was stare at him, eyes wide in shock before an impossible pain had your knees collapsing beneath you.

“You said earlier you weren’t content being a puppet," he snarled between his teeth, "I wanted to properly test that theory.” With a cold twitch of his head, the second needle crashed into your other shoulder, launching your limp body backward. Your back hit hard stone and you couldn’t tell which of them cracked upon impact. Ah, an ancient waypoint, that's what you'd hit, your mind peculiarly filled in the blanks as a strange cerulean flash of light enveloped you upon the devastating collision.

So this was dying; bright colors and sounds all amalgamating into a blur of unfiltered agony. Thoughts flashing before you of not what you could’ve done with your life, but what you could’ve done with his if you’d just pulled your gun out fast enough. You would've killed him. You wanted to kill him.

Blood rushed in your ears, your pulse pounded in your neck and you could feel it all, your world filtering and narrowing into its simplest form. Vines like arms stretched from the ground to wrap you in their viselike grip, pulling you down, down, down.

To a new era of enlightenment, you thought, before it all went dark.

<3

Hey pals, thanks for reading! I hope you like what I have in store - lots of spice but hold the nice. I'd love to hear what you thought of the first chapter. Stay weird. ~ Sulty

[wicked--loving--lies]

To a man of many colors (a snippet…)

From that time I decided I was going to write smut. Haha, yeah, no.

The likelihood of this ever going anywhere is pretty much zero, but maybe there’s some emotional hurt/comfort I could tease out of it? Idk.

September brings a brief reprieve from the weather, the sweet spot between the summer’s relentless heat and the winter’s bitter cold. It won’t last long, no more than a few weeks if they’re lucky, but for now the apartment’s comfortable.

Tess flops onto the threadbare sofa with an exhausted sigh. After a successful drop, she’s feeling pretty good, relaxed even. Carelessly kicking her boots off onto the floor, she sinks into the musty cushions and closes her eyes.

She’s just beginning to drift off when the door opens roughly, bouncing against the doorstop. Joel’s brow is furrowed, his forehead streaked with dirt like he’d wiped a hand across it while he was in the middle of a hard day’s labor. Head bowed, he closes the door a bit too hard, the frame rattling, and ambles over to the counter to pour himself a drink.

Irritated, Tess sits up, stretching her back until it gives a satisfying pop.

“How much did they short us.” Really, she’s not concerned. She knows the guys Joel dealt with today well, she’ll take care of it in good time if she needs to.

He takes several large gulps from his glass and pours another. “Deal went smooth.”

Fishing around in his pocket, he turns up a stack of ration cards and drops them on the counter.

“Good,” she says, leaning back again and kicking her feet up on the arm of the couch. “Couple more and we’ll have enough to get us through winter.”

He grunts in acknowledgment, then leans against the counter, his expression drawn.

Tess raises an eyebrow. “Somethin’ else bothering you then?”

Ordinarily she wouldn’t pry. They all have their demons, and Joel never asks her about hers, but she finds her interest in him growing by the day. This little arrangement is one of convenience, it’s easier to protect one apartment than two, easier to keep tabs on her partner this way too. But she finds she wants to know him, wants him to let her in. And just like she knows he will, he shuts her out.

“Long day.”

“I hear you.” She peels herself off the couch and joins him at the counter, leaning her hip against it and reaching for a glass.

He waits with the bottle in hand, the amber liquid sloshing as he gives her a generous pour. She nods in appreciation and sips slowly while he polishes off his second.

“Slow down, Texas,” she chides with a smirk.

Annoyance flashes across his face, but is quickly replaced with his usual mask of stoicism. She raises her eyebrows but doesn’t say anything more. One of his hands, nails rimmed with dirt, clings to the counter, holding him up. The other grips his glass like a lifeline. At the rate he’s going, she’s surprised he even bothered to use one.

The light streaming through the window fades from yellow to red, then recedes until the only light comes from a bare bulb on a table next to the couch. Another sip. It slides down easier, the burning dulled by a light buzz.

Joel’s empty glass thuds on the countertop, startling her out of her daze. A sigh escapes through his nose, long and slow, and both of his hands now grip the edge of the counter behind him. His head is inclined, eyes hidden in shadow, but his lips are visible and quivering slightly.

By now, Tess knows better than to ask, but as he draws another shaky breath, her hand reaches out to cover one of his. He flinches under her touch but doesn’t move away. The bottle sits empty behind him.

Her eyes leave their overlapping fingers and drift to his lips, now pressed into a firm line. Fingers tingling with the buzz from her glass long to reach out, to graze his bottom lip and trace the line of his jaw and travel up to tangle in his tousled dark hair. For now, they don’t leave his hand.

Slowly, she sets her glass down next to his, angling her body so she’s facing him. Her heart hammers in her chest, limbs weak from the small burst of adrenaline as she wonders if she’s really about to attempt this.

He still hasn’t moved, still as a statue, his chin tilted down. For a moment, she wonders if she’s being too bold, if she’s had too much to think this through, but her head remains clear, her glass half full. For a moment, she bides her time.

But he’s not going to move, clearly bothered by something she’ll probably never be privy to, and she can’t let it get to her. She’s spent enough time with Joel to know that he’s not a fun drunk, often sinking into quiet contemplation at best and simmering anger at worst, though that tends to be more rare.

The hand not covering his hangs at her side, and she carefully raises it to cup his cheek, his beard thick and wiry under her fingers. She angles his face toward hers, meeting no resistance, and finds herself looking up into darkened eyes.

“Tess,” he slurs gruffly, a warning.

But he shifts, the space between them shrinking as he pushes away from the counter and turns toward her.

She’s not going to be sorry for this, not going to heed his warning. With his hands gripping the counter on either side of her, he stares her down as though daring her to do something about it. And she does.

Her hands reach up, fingers tangling in his thick hair, gritty and slightly greasy in the wake of the drop he’d made earlier today. Heart hammering in her chest, she closes the remaining space between them. His lips are dry and chapped, rough against hers, bitter with the ghost of the amber liquid.

At first, she’s hesitant, tense as she waits for him to push her away, to remind her that this is just business the way she does when a deal goes south and she has to pump someone full of lead. Just business.

But Joel’s arms lock around her, thick and ropy with muscle, his hands warm on her back. He sighs against her lips, his own parting to draw her in. His body crushes hers, solid and warm beneath her fingers.

Strong hands travel to her hips, lifting her to sit on the counter, wedging himself between her thighs. His beard scrapes roughly against her skin as his lips graze her throat. Head spinning, dizzy with excitement and warm with longing for him, she lets out a breathy laugh.

Rough fingers, their dexterity lost several glasses ago, fumble at the button on her jeans. Tess reaches down to stop him.

“Slow down, Tex,” she says again, smirking up at his frustration. “I wanna enjoy this.”

His eyes darken. “Trust me, you will,” he growls, then crushes his lips against hers again.

He’s had his hands on her plenty of times, often to pull her out of harm’s way when a deal goes south, or to give her a boost out of the tunnel on the more rare occasion they leave the zone to trade with Bill. But they’ve never lingered quite like they do now, sliding over her torso warm and slow. She melts under those hands.

“Need this off,” he slurs against her lips, tugging at the buttons on the front of her shirt. When he can’t undo them fast enough, he rips them open, sending the small pieces of plastic skittering across the dusty floor.

She huffs out a laugh, exasperated. “This is my only shirt-”

Warm, rough fingers slide under her bra, grazing her pebbled nipples and drawing forth a gasp.

“Don’t matter,” he rumbles, one hand snaking around her back to fiddle with her bra clasp.

She reaches back and undoes it for him, sliding the straps off her shoulders and flicking the undergarment aside with a smirk.