#what are the handcuffs SYMBOLICALLY

[vegaseatsass]

Just finished Beyond Evil. I can say with conviction that this drama contained the absolute most craziest intricate rituals to touch another man's skin that I've ever seen. Like normally I'm not that into AUs but I would read a million Beyond Evil AUs just to see authors try to capture whatever the fuck was going on between LDS and HJW in new settings.

"You PROMISED you would replace our coffee grinder that burns people but gets the job done with a fancy latte maker! You betrayed the customers, you betrayed me, I thought I meant something to you, I thought we HAD SOMETHING."

A year later, after defeating the evil corporate coffee conglomerate headed up by Han Ki-Hwan "You're - you're installing a fancy latte maker? Now? When I thought we could celebrate-grieve together? But WHY? WHY DO WE NEED A LATTE MAKER?? The customers are fine with the coffee grinder that burns them!! As long as you stay here in this coffee shop with it!! As long as this thing between us doesn't have to end...."

[thelastunison]

No longer yours to control

[darlingdaisyfarm]

👁️⃤ evil!Ford x reader

author note: okay im sorry for post spamming but this idea been sitting in my mind for too long and I had to write smth about it, would be glad to read your opinion on that Ford x reader dynamic!^^

so this is a bit of an au situation where evil!Ford is working with Bill now. in this version, reader is Ford’s former ex partner, someone who used to be close enough to him to know his work better than anyone else, including the equation Bill wanted from Ford in canon. Although here Ford doesn’t know the equation anymore, but you do

You’re trapped.

The chair beneath you creaks when you try to move, your wrists aching from the coldness of the handcuffs that keep your hands pinned behind your back. Your breathing is shallow from fighting, your throat feels dry from screaming, but you keep your head high. Defiance in your eyes, even as Stanford’s gaze burns holes through you.

He sits across from you with his legs spread wide and his elbows resting on his thighs, watching you. You squint, noticing a little glow of that infernal symbol on his wrist. Bill’s mark, his new goddamn religion. 

“You’re only making this harder for yourself, darling.”

You don’t answer, you won’t give him the satisfaction.

Ford leans back in his chair, tilting his head as his eyes drag slowly over you. “Still playing the martyr, i see,” he drawls, unable to hold sarcastic laugh. “you always did have a flair for the dramatic.”

“Fuck you,” you spit.

“Oh, but, sweetheart,” he says, standing now. “you don’t get it, do you? you can’t win this.”

“You think you’re protecting them,” Stanford continues. “Stanley, the twins. You think they’ll thank you for this? For your stubbornness?”

“You won’t touch them.” you answer through clenched teeth. 

Ford crosses the room in a few strides, towering over you now and it feels like his shadow is swallowing you whole. His hand comes up to grip your chin, forcing your face upward to look at him and you don’t recognise him, instead of your Ford, it’s a shadow of a man who’s sold his soul, body and mind, to something far worse than the nightmares you’re used to. Ford digs his fingers into your skin.

“Just tell me the equation, that’s all i want. you give me what i need, and this—” his eyes flick down to the cuffs, to the bruises blooming on your wrists, “—this ends.”

“Go to hell.”

His grip only tightens, and his jaw clenches. For a moment, you think he might snap, might lose that careful control he prides himself on. But to your surprise, he lets out a low, bitter laugh, releasing your chin and pacing a step away.

“Always so stubborn, it’s admirable, in a way. Stupid as fuck, but admirable. But we both know i can make you talk.”

Before you can react, his hand is in your hair, yanking your head back sharply. You gasp, your neck arching painfully as his face appears damn close you feel his breath against your lips. God, this is not how you imagined kissing Ford. Not after he joined Bill Cipher.

“What’s with that fear in your pretty eyes? I won’t bite, not unless you ask.” 

“Fuck. . . you,” you say again, but the words sound weaker this time and you hate the fact that even after Ford Pines isn’t the man you remember, you still feel attached to him.

Noticing your hesitation, Stanford’s lips curl into a smirk, and then he’s kissing you, if you can even call it that. Ford is forceful, rough, demanding, his kiss is nothing gentle, his other hand grips your jaw to keep you in place he takes what he wants, biting your lips, his tongue sweeping into your mouth and he groans when you make a pathetic muffled sound.

When he pulls back, your lips are swollen and you swear you can taste the metal, your skin burns from how hard he squeezed it.

“I can do this all night,” Ford trails his long fingers down the side of your neck, brushing the pulse that races beneath your skin. “You’ll give in eventually. . . they always do.”

“I hate you.” but you don’t believe your own words.

That truly makes Ford laugh, the way you say it so dead serious, with that cute glare when you both know it’s not like that. 

“Hate me?” he repeats in mockery, as if the very idea is absurd. His fingers tighten in your hair, pulling your head back to force your eyes to meet his. “Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night, sweetheart?”

You glare up at him, biting down on the words that threaten to spill from your mouth.

“Funny. That’s not what my muse showed me. Not in your little head, darling.” he talks, savouring every word, enjoying your reaction as you already have panic written all over your face. “let me tell you, in there, you’re begging for it, desperate for me to fuck you.”

Your heart slams against your ribs and the air seems to vanish from your lungs. 

“All those filthy little thoughts you try so hard to hide. I had no idea my ex-lab partner was such a slut?”

You feel mad and humiliated at same time, your face burns, but you clench your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.

“Oh, don’t give me that look, sweetheart, we both know exactly where it’s gonna get you.”

[thegnomelord]

Hello there! I'm a new anon, kinda scared to ask and spill all of my weird ass fantasies that I can come up with, but I somehow found the courage to do so.

After reading through the soft sex fic with Makarov (and omfg I am going CRAZY over it) I just randomly came up with an idea involving that.

So hear me out (aka let me just be delusional)...

You, a member of 141, currently stand in the interrogation room, your back facing the door as you stared down at the one and only Vladimir Makarov himself. It was honestly a miracle that you had been able to capture him, and you still had no idea how the hell the rest of your team had managed it.

You were currently their last hope at getting some sort of information out of him, and by now the others knew very well by now how talented you were at getting it out of prisoners (albeit they didn't quite know what your methods were), hence why you were here in this room.

At this point you might as well have tried everything, these including the good old torture methods (which you noticed he seemed to quote like for some reason, perhaps he was a masochist, you weren’t completely sure), intimidation, asking politely (which wouldn't you know, didn't work), and practically everything you could think of.

As you racked your brain for any sort of other ideas, you could hear some sort of taunt from the other, and that must have set you off or something along those lines as you found yourself suddenly pinning the bastard down on the desk (you must have unlocked his handcuffs at one point during it, or perhaps he had already managed to unlock them beforehand, you weren't paying attention).

You wanted to think that the other was surprised, even just a little bit, but he wasn't, having probably expected you to have a small outburst.

Maybe you would have to resort to that. That one method that none of the others had seen in action, but one that if they did, you'd definitely get in a lot of trouble from. At least it always seemed to work.

So that's how you found yourself slowly fucking the other, not at all causing any pain, and although you'd expect the cold metal table would still inflicted just a little, you had taken the precaution to place something soft under the other to ensure that he couldn't get what he wanted. This was torture, even if in the eyes of others (not that they'd ever get to see this sight) it'd be much better, but no, it wasn't. You were well aware that the other wished for it to be harsh, having picked up on it earlier (the sick bastard), so you did the complete opposite. You weren't exactly used to it, but it was a last ditch effort.

So yeah thanks for reading whatever the hell that was :)

Idk how to continue it.

- ⨂ (I swear if that symbol has already been taken)

No no dude this is so good! SOrry it took me a lil while to respond lol, but you got my brain worms going brrrrrr so I'm just continuing it :Dd.

CW: NSFW, MDNI, Vladimir Makarov x male reader, short ficlet

You are so getting discharged for this.

"Is this what you wanted?" You ask under your breath, voice husky and raw. You grip his hip gently, your other hand keeping his tied wrists pinned to the scratchy blanket covering the cold table. "All that snark, all those insults," You slowly grind your hips, cock lazily scrapping against his walls and making him groan. "Is this what you wanted?"

It's not like he can talk with his tie gagging him. It's the softest material you had on hand, and it works to ensure Makarov doesn't bite you or himself. You're smart, despite him thinking on the contrary, more than the gruff animals that had captured him. No, you're clever. Clever enough to realize bloodshed and pain are not the stones that pave Makarov's road to hell.

Makarov trembles beneath you, teeth clenching on the fabric, desperate to get his lip between his teeth so he could bite it raw. He can't. Hell he can barely stifle the groans and moans, chest heaving to swallow the sound before it can stumble past his open mouth when your head grinds down on his prostate. Drool runs down his chin, precum leaking on his belly where his cock is trapped between your belies.

He wants to curse you out, wants to get his hands around your throat and squeeze until you choke on your own blood. But he only manages a small grunt, tear blurred eyes glaring up at you. His legs tighten around your waist, heels digging into your back.

A lick of pain races up your spine, but you don't fall for it, languidly rolling your hips. You'd taken your time to stretch him out with what you had, prepping him thoroughly even when he'd trashed and tried to kick you. You're glad you did, now Makarov can't ignore the stretch of his hole, your massive cock moulding his insides to your shape. It's just raw unadulterated feeling, please assaulting his mind whenever you bottom out and your cock bulges his stomach without any pain; so sweet it's sickening to him.

He'd kick himself at how the disgustingly sweet pleasure has his cock twitching, body winding tight as he gets closer and closer to orgasm. But his mind is starting to go numb, the hate he feels shrouded by the nearing edge of bliss. He nearly seizes off the table when you wrap your calloused hand around the base of his cock, squeezing until he's just at the cusp of pain.

"Nu-uh." You growl and stop, cock twitching deep inside him. Leaning down to press gentle kisses across his throat that burn him like acid. "You're not getting off easy." You growl, kissing the corner of his lip. "Not until you give me what I need." You look at him expectantly.

He bares his teeth, swinging his head to try and headbutt you, but you pull your head just at the right time.

"Have it your way." Your grip relaxes, starting to jerk him off at the same pace of your languidly rolling hips. His head rolls back, his best attempt at a hateful sound escaping him when his head rests on the soft blanket. He hates it, tries to struggle as best he can but it's fruitless as you just hold him down, forcing him to just take it, to just suffer this gentle torture.

You may be discharged for this. But fuck, you'll make him suffer before you are.

[gh0stly-pages]

Out of Our Minds (Part Three)

Ledger! Joker x Harley Quinn-esque f!reader (18+)

CW: swearing, mentions of violence

Words: 4.1k

Chapter Summary: The third session with the Joker, and as you try and delve into the man he is, you can't help the connection you feel. Seems he might feel it too...

previous part: part 2 | next part: part 4

Notes: Hello everyone! Apologies for the wait, took a bit longer because of Halloween, was having too much fun to write. But here we are! This series is def picking up the pace now and soon we will dive into some real chaos lol. Please enjoy :) (I love inputting bits of Arkham dialogue in these because i can >:) )

_____________________________________________

On your way to work, it seems Gotham is in shambles. 

There seems to be some type of announcement going on, by someone from the GPD. You could care less, honestly, especially since you need to get to work before you’re late, but what piques your interest is the crowds of people. There is an obvious rift amongst them. Some of them hold signs displaying the infamous bat symbol, crying out in favor for Batman, it seems, some holding children at their hip who cry for the man they’ve lost. The other half push back against the pro-Batman crowd, yelling things like ‘murderer’ and ‘fraud’. The tension is so thick you can taste it. These people might tear each other apart.

Oh, if only Joker were here to see this. He’d never shut up.

A woman bumps into you, clutching a sign with that bat symbol painted on it, with words beneath it reading ‘come back’. You sneer, and she retreats back to her other Batman groupies. How could anyone get so worked up over a man in a mask? Take the mask off and we’re all messed up inside. Batman had worn the mask of a hero, parading around as Gotham’s salvation, and yet he killed people just like his enemies had. Like Joker had. Except Joker didn’t pretend to be someone he wasn’t. 

Mr. Dale may be right about keeping all this from Joker, but you can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt. He’s going to get out eventually and see all this mess. They can’t hide it from him forever. Even if he’s on house arrest for the rest of his damn life, he’s the Joker, and they won’t be able to stop him. They’re just scared. Scared that the Joker may have won. 

You walk through the city, broken into chaos, all the way to Arkham.

———————————————

This time when you enter Joker’s little conference room, he lacks his usual straitjacket, and you’re both surprised and relieved that your bosses actually listened to you. His asylum garb has been replaced with the usual Arkham patient outfit, an orange baggy shirt with matching orange pants. Immediately, as ashamed as you are, your eyes go to his arms, which are surprisingly lean and toned, probably from numerous fights. You trace his arms down to his hands, each of which have a separate handcuff linked to a man made circle jutting from the table. You look at every crinkle, every callus, every line. Human hands. Dangerous hands.

“Uh, doll, my eyes are up here, ya know.”

Shit. You look up into his eyes as you take your seat, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m… sorry, I was just-“ You try to search for an excuse, but it’s clear from the teasing look Joker gives you that he’s not looking for one. You flush. “I’m surprised they let you out of the jacket.” I’m surprised your hands are so normal. 

“Well, it certainly wasn’t from my good behavior,” he clucks, his tongue hitting the top of his mouth. “Did you ask them to get rid of it?”

You can’t tell if he’s angry or not. “I did.”

He breaks into his signature, manic grin. Not angry. Good. “I knew I liked you, doll.”

Joker doesn’t say ‘thank you’ or ‘I appreciate it’ but somehow, this is better. It’s probably as close as you’ll get to hearing those words from him and it ignites something in you. You feel proud of yourself. Proud that he’s proud of you. Before you can return his smile, you remember ‘hey, wait a fucking second, this is my patient The Joker we’re talking about here’. You settle for a small smile. Be professional. “Mr. J, I wanna start this session off by just saying I think we’re making some good progress-“

“Doctor y/n, you seem to have quite the fascination with my hands,” Joker interrupts, a giggle rising in his throat. 

Dammit. Were you looking at his hands again? You didn’t even fucking notice. You’re not trying to. You’re probably just a little shocked. Again, it’s like pulling back the curtain, getting a glimpse at the man behind the act. And there he sits, with such human looking hands. “Excuse me, I’m just…” You search for the words. “I’m not used to seeing you without being all wrapped in a jacket.”

“Well, ah, they’re just hands. Did ya think I’d have talons?”

“Maybe. Or maybe, like, robotic hands. Rocket launchers for hands. Something cooler.” Are you teasing him? Your patient? You might be teasing him, just a little.

At your teasing, his smile shifts sideways into a smirk, eyes thinning. “Cooler? What’s cool is, ah, what these hands have done. They’ve been the cause of the end of so many lives.” He tries to lace his hands together, but the handcuffs keep his arms too far apart, so his fingers touch only slightly. “Now, ah, where were we?”

You stumble to find the words. So much for professionalism. “R-right, sorry. I think we’re making real progress here. Yesterday was a good session, and I’m hoping today will follow suit.” You bring out your clipboard. Click your pen open. “Now, why don’t we pick up where we left off? We were analyzing your crimes-“

“Spectacles.”

“Whatever you wanna call em’. Now those are only one part of the man you call the Joker-“

“That is, ah, my name, doll face.”

You hold your hand up. “Let me finish. We haven’t talked about you. About this person you present as the Joker. And yes,” you say roughly, before he can cut you off again, “I know you say that you and this character you present are one in the same, but nobody is exactly the person they put out. I mean, you did say we all hide behind a facade. So, let’s talk about Joker, the one we see on TV getting the best of Batman.” You scribble a little picture of him, smiling wide and in his signature purple suit. Jutting your chin, you gestured for him to look at it. “This will be the outside Joker…” You do another little doodle, one of Joker without his makeup and in the Arkham garb. “And this will be the you in here.”

The Joker looks down at your drawings and bites the inside of his cheek. “Not much of a difference, doll face, except that I look even crappier in here.”

You roll your eyes. “Are you proud of the person that Gotham has come to know?”

“Define proud.”

“Do you feel a sense of satisfaction over the person you allow Gotham to see? This crazy clown figure?”

Joker tilts his head back, thinking, and you can’t help but stare intensely at his neck, tracing down his throat to his Adam’s apple, which moves as he swallows. Geez, what is up with you and the staring today? Luckily, he doesn’t think for long, tilting his head back down to look at you. “I’m just fine with whatever I showed to Gotham. And I don’t regret-tah one bit of it.” Looking all smug, he smirks. “I’m not proud of who I am, I relish it. Bask in it. The Clown Prince of Crime, they call me! Nothin’ better than that, doll. Means I’ve made a difference.”

“You’ve certainly made an impact, Mr. J. For better or for worse.”

“And whaddya get out of all that, doll? That I’m some kind of egotistical maniac?”

“Let me do the analyzing, please, Mr. J.”

He grunts. “Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles, and you can’t help but smile. “You say you’re proud, but clearly it’s not enough,” you tell him, scribbling notes underneath the doodle of him. “When you get out of here, you’d like to go back to all that, wouldn’t you? Go back to testing the B-Man?”

“Batsy and I just fit so well together, dolly. We’re meant to chase one another to the end of our days!”

If you can find him. “All the stuff you pulled then, did it really amount to anything if you want more?”

“Oh, doll, it’s not that I want more. I’m not just some kinda freak gettin’ a good fix when I cause havoc. My point just keeps needing to be made!” He winks at you. “Course, I know that if I get out of here I’ll have to behave.”

You seriously doubt Joker even knows the concept of behaving. “B-Man would just get you again, would he not?”

Joker cackles. He laughs at everything but you’re always confused when he laughs at something you don’t find remotely humorous. “That’s the fun part! He and I, we’re like a cat and mouse, like in those old cartoons. We’re just chasing each other in damn circles and, ah, the fun doesn’t-tah stop until one of us falls.” With a cruel smile, he flicks his fingers, as if toppling something over. “And I don’t intend to be the first to fall.”

“And after B-Man falls?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see, I suppose. Doesn’t sound very fun. Why, you got a soft spot for the Bat?”

“For Batsy?” Technically, you’re not supposed to be very vocal in your own opinions, especially when they do nothing to help, but wouldn’t it be good for Joker to know you’re with him on some things? Not that Joker has too much disdain in Batman, he clearly loves to mess with him, but obviously the two are on very different sides. You want to show Joker you stand with him. “Absolutely not. The Bat hasn’t done anything to benefit me. If anything I feel more… useless. This man in a mask gets to go around fighting criminals and gets praised and here I am busting my butt everyday and what do I get? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” You clap a hand over your mouth. Way to go overboard. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling.”

The Joker, of course, doesn’t care that you rambled on. He looks amused. No, not just amused, he looks pleased. His whole face contorts into an evil grin. “Well well well, doll face, nowwww we’re talking. Why didn’t you tell me you loathed the Batman so much?”

“Didn’t think it important.”

“Well, ah, I find it important. Looks like we wanna both go after the Batman, don’t we?”

“Go after him?” Now it’s your turn to laugh. “Obviously I’m not going to do that.”

He scooches forward. “But you’d like to. Come on, doll, given the chance, wouldn’t you wanna, ah, take the Bat down?”

For some reason, you actually think about it. If you really did have the chance, would you want to bring down the Bat? He was already down now, obviously, but if you had had the chance before then, would you have taken B-Man down? Before you can even dive into it, you snap yourself out of it. Why would you even care to do all that in the first place? Imagine you, beating up Batman? You’re not crazy. “I’m not so sure about that.”

Joker shrugs. “That isn’t a no.”

Things are going far from where you need them to be. “Let’s take this conversation back to you, Mr. J. How about we talk about the Joker in here? Nothing left for you to do except sit and think. You’re not out causing havoc, you’ve been stripped of your weapons and your makeup, what do you feel about yourself now?”

Already, you can tell the Joker isn’t too fond of the question. He squirms uncomfortably in his chair, muttering things under his breath that all sound nonsensical to you. For some reason, you kinda like it. It’s about time you get under his skin too.  “I feel like I wanna hurt someone,” he answers, clenching his fists. “I just wanna get out there and get back to everything.”

“Okay… see, you’re angry at being in here, and you don’t know how to handle your emotions so you’re resorting to violence.” As much as that’s probably true, you’re almost sure that if you were stuck in Arkham, you’d wanna hurt a few people too but that won’t help.

“Violence solves a lot more problems than ya think.”

“Not mental ones. I think I’m seeing what’s going on here, Mr. J.”

Joker taps on the table, a random pattern of noise. “And that is?”

You point with your pen between the two Joker sketches. “Both these people have unresolved problems, problems coped with by violence. Plenty of people do this, but they don’t go around trying to make their points to the whole damn city. These huge acts of violence are outcries and you don’t even realize it. You have no one to turn to to sort your feelings out with and this is what the outcome is.” You look back up at him, and it’s clear he’s confused. “I told you at our last session, you need company. Someone you can relate to, empathize with, talk through these feelings with.”

He frowns. “And what about you, huh? You’re, ah, just as alone as me, not a soul to talk to, and yet you’re not blowing up hospitals.”

Will he ever quit trying to analyze you? “I have other means of coping, Mr. J. Whatever happened to you… it made you hurt. And this hurt, it turned you away from people, even though we need companionship. We seek attention and validation and yet I fear you’re seeking it in all the wrong ways.”

“Who says we need companionship?”

“Human nature. Our hearts. Your mental state,” you say harshly.

His tongue pushes out his scar as he licks the inside of his cheek. “Feistyyy. I like it when you’re all, ah, riled up.”

Joker was really pushing your buttons now, and it was worse that no matter how upset you got at him, he’d find some kind of enjoyment in it. You really couldn’t win some of the battles he put you up against. Yet, the purr in his voice made your cheeks heat. You could never tell when to be angered or enamored. “I really do think that whatever happened in your childhood resulted in your detachment from emotion, and a distrust in people, and this mix of the two… well, it hasn’t been the best for you.”

“So, whaddya suggest? I go mingle with some of the other Arkham patients? Spend some quality time together finger painting and singing Christmas carols?” His laugh comes out as a sharp exhale. “I don’t think friendship is gonna fix me, doll.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest any of that,” you assert. “I just think that isolating ourselves from not just people but also feelings, now that doesn’t get us anywhere good.”

“Clearly,” he giggles, lifting up his cuffed wrists. “But I’ve been doing just fine, doll, aside from this little incident of being locked up in here.”

It was like the Joker just considered Arkham some bump in the road before he could continue his anarchy. That wasn’t good. He couldn’t have his heart set on going back to taking down Batman, no matter how good his reason. Especially considering, well, Batman was nowhere to be seen. Gosh, you wish you could just tell him. Maybe he wouldn’t see it as motivation, maybe it would shut down all his ideas. There was just far too much risk with everything. Say something, say nothing. The Joker was a lot of uncertainties. “But you shouldn’t have to be locked up in here. You don’t have to be if you just try and listen to me. I really want you to get better.”

“I don’t need to get better,” he growls. “The way other people feel, it’s just a soft spot for others to exploit. I’m already winning because nobody has anything on me. Chaos stirs something inside me, isn’t that enough?”

“No, Mr. J, you need more than that,” you plead. Why is he so stubborn? “Just a little company can do wonders. Just some faith in someone.”

“So they can do what? Push me down on my knees like some kind of sinner, making me beg for forgiveness? Making me change my ways? You really are crazy if you believe that.”

Joker is impossible, really. You don’t know how else to get your message across, how to make him listen. So instead, you think back on your deal, take a deep breath, and give him a story.

“When I was ten years old, the kids at school all decided they hated me so much that they all pretended I didn’t exist. I’d try and approach people and… and they never even acknowledged me. It followed me all throughout the rest of my school years.” You mess with your coat, fidgeting with the buttons, not quite able to meet Joker’s gaze. “I know how it feels when people hurt you.”

You wait, wondering if the Joker will give you a story back. You’re surprised when he opens his mouth to speak. “Once, ah, when I was just starting out, one of the criminals I hired managed to sneak up on me, knocked me to the floor real good. Kept babblin’ on about how I was a freak, how I’d never amount to anything, the heel of his boot digging into my back.” He stops, taking a deep breath, and you wonder for a moment if he’s going to stop all together but he continues. “Course, with all his ramblin’, he failed to notice me grabbing a blade. I stabbed him right in the foot, and oh boy, did he scream. I gave him the nastiest beating of his life, I’m sure. Blood all over the floor. And right before I was done, I made sure to give him and I matching smiles. Die with a smile, no?” Joker holds his chin up. “I don’t need people. People don’t care.”

It’s only a single story yet you realize the Joker has so much behind him. So many incidents that seemed to have fueled the thunderous rage beneath his skin. This man, finding humor in the wickedness of the world, wanting to show that everyone is essentially just as rotten as he, has been torn apart over and over again. Society had crushed the both of you yet here you sat, a doctor, and there he sat before you, a madman. In your anger towards the world, you had sought to try and help it, and in his anger, he wanted to burn it all down. You still had hope left in people, he had let that all die away.

He said people didn’t care, but you cared. This was more than just a way towards a paycheck, you really did want to help him. That’s what you’d always wanted for every Arkham patient. Yet the others did not quite distrust people as much as Joker did. Joker didn’t have anyone for him. How was it that Batman, a murderer playing superhero, still had half the city on his side and yet everyone just wanted Joker to rot away in here? You think about yourself, and how much better you would feel if you did have someone, if you had been given love and support along your miserable journey. If you could give Joker the support you’d always wanted, well, maybe that would change something in him.

“We’re both pretty messed up, huh?” you finally say, deciding not to comment on anything specifically about Joker’s anecdote. No need to keep talking about something so horrific. Joker didn’t need that. He needed comfort. 

Joker blows air from his nose, smiling softly. “We are, aren’t we? Just a buncha freaks.”

“Freaks still need to stick with other freaks.”

“And who have you got exactly, Miss l/n?”

You freeze. Nobody. Absolutely nobody. He knows it. Yet for a moment you feel… well, embarrassed. Your hand creeps to your warming face, your eyes feel suddenly watery. You don’t have your parents anymore. No old friends from school or college, not that there were many to begin with. No coworker friends, shitty bosses. All you have is yourself and you hate it. 

Joker seems to notice that his comment didn’t go down well, and he holds up his hands like he’s gesturing for you to stop, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “Uh, doll, I didn’t mean to pry…”

“No, no, it’s fine…” You quickly wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand. “Just wasn’t expecting the question, I guess.”

“Right,” he mumbles. “It wasn’t, uh, meant to be an insult.”

You let your eyes flutter close for a second and take a nice, long breath in. When your eyes open again, you straighten yourself out, contemplating your next words. “I know how it feels to be alone, Mr. J. More than anything.” Your voice comes out as a whisper, your fingers drifting towards his own, which are splayed out on the table. He sits up very still, unmoving save for a twitch in his jaw, as he watches you place your hand on top of his. You’re not sure what you’re doing, but you need your point made. “I… I know how much you think you don’t need people, but people offer support and guidance, and if I could have some of that right now, for fucks sake, I would.” You sigh. “I don’t have a lot of friends.”

Joker’s tongue slowly traces along his chapped lips. You wish you knew what he was thinking. You hated how well he read you and you could hardly get anything on him. Finally, he speaks. “Well, you got one now.”

The Joker, a friend. It sounds like the stupidest thing in the entire world. This was someone who had hurt and killed and destroyed. Someone who was close to no one, the people around him with one purpose: to serve him. He had said how loyalty didn’t come for free, that it needed to be bought. If something so simple as loyalty was seen as a transaction to him, did he even comprehend the concept of companionship? He must have, at some point, whoever the man before the Joker was. But the person you were dealing with was not that man, you were dealing with Joker. Joker did not seem a man who connected with anyone yet he tells you how alike the two of you are, and you can’t help but believe it. Alone in the world, the two of you. Maybe he can’t yet bring himself to make a real connection with anyone but, goddammit, you wanted him to try.

Why not be alone together?

It would all be in hopes of helping him, you told yourself. Whatever relationship the two of you were forming. If he could have someone to talk to, not just in a professional sense, but someone who would really be there for him, you think that would help a lot.

That’s all this is. This is to help him.

You squeeze his hand. “I like the sound of that, Mr. J.”

—————

It started off as a joke, really. 

Joker didn’t want to be analyzed. The first night he had been brought into Arkham, he had been poked and prodded, as doctors tried to decipher what kinda pills to stuff him full of. Joker had tried to fight them off, but they had injected him with something that made him sluggish. Just a few hours later was when they had sent in all the psychiatrists to try and fix him. Joker didn’t need to be fixed. He was an agent of chaos, a force to be reckoned with, something they just couldn’t comprehend. Then you’d come along, and you were so lonely, and Joker liked toying with things that were easy to break. Except you’re nothing like the others. There’s something about you, this way that you interact with him, the way you don’t see him as some freak. When you stare at him, you don’t look at him like he’s a monster. It’s strange.

Joker doesn’t do friends. The term itself means nothing to him. It’s a meaningless word. Most words are meaningless to him, empty sayings. Yet when you look at him with those eyes, like he’s your equal rather than beneath you, Joker does feel something. Some kind of connection. He’s never thought about killing you, which says something. It’s the only way he can describe this feeling towards you, something other than the pure disdain he usually feels towards others. There is something… warm about you. Joker didn’t like it. Yet he let it happen anyways.

Long after you’re gone, when he’s strapped onto the metal slab the Arkham guards call a bed, he thinks on some of your words. You thought a companion would help him. Someone he could rely on. Someone who would truly be loyal.

He smiles wickedly to himself. You might just be right.

Taglist: @lightsabergirl / @knoepfl / @jeffswh0re / @itsmrshamilton / @heath-ledger-jokers-wife / @lolwey

Lmk if you'd like to be added! Hope the @'s are working lol...

[homeybadger]

Of Gods and Lattes (Part One)

Summary: When you- local coffee barista turned Avatar of an ancient Egyptian god- get kidnapped, you're thrust into a whole new world Warning(s): Non-detailed kidnapping of reader, mild non-graphic combat Note(s): I'm torn between a few possible deities in connection to this story: Thoth, Heka, Ra and Anubis. I'm open to any suggestions!

Coffee making had always been a kind of a personal ritual for you. Humming to the rhythm of the milk frother, each step was precise, measured. You'd often imagined that brewing a latte was akin to crafting a potion, each ingredient essential to the final result- smooth, energizing, and restorative. There was something special about it, providing tired mothers and businessmen alike with the necessary energy for their days. But, your shift was cut short when you were taken. You didn't remember the exact details- it all happened too fast. One moment, you were wiping down the counter after a busy lunch rush, and the next, someone grabbed you from behind, pulling you into an alley behind the café. A van. Darkness. Rope. Now, here you were, hands bound and sitting on the cold ground in some dilapidated warehouse. Cold metal presses against your wrists, the uncomfortable bite of handcuffs incessantly reminding you of your current predicament. You shift slightly, testing the restraints, and a wave of dull pain ripples through your body. Of course kidnappers weren't gentle. In front of you was a man. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing what looks like an approximation of tactical gear, face obscured by a mask. You narrow your eyes. This is the guy, the one who took you “Ah, you’re awake,” he says, his voice deep but trying a little too hard to sound intimidating. He paces slowly in front of you, his boots echoing in the room. You lean back- feigning more discomfort than you actually feel. It's difficult to feel very threatened when a literal god is nearby. "Yeah, guess I am. If this is about money, I’m not really-" “Money?” He cuts you off with a harsh laugh. “No, no. This isn’t about money.” He stops pacing, turning to face you fully. “I know what you are. I know who you serve.” At that, you raise an eyebrow. This should be good. "Anubis' power will be mine!" your captor croons, pacing once more like a professor rehearsing a lecture. You eye the crude symbols scrawled across the floor a bit behind him, white chalk instantly declaring their presence. They're meant to be ancient, powerful runes- instead, they look more like the artistic attempt of a child high on sugar. The symbols are sloppy, some even backward, and you swear a good portion of them are just random doodles. Whatever this guy thinks he's doing, it's nowhere near invoking anything close to Anubis. You feel him, your god, closer this time. Your captor continues his rant about power, the gods, and his supposed mastery of ancient Egyptian rites. Something about raising a man named Arthur from the grave. Arthur... Sparrow? Farrow? It was hard to hear behind his mask. You sigh internally, feeling the distinct thrum of your god's power settling behind you. "Anubis will rise," your captor says, voice reaching a crescendo, "and he will grant me dominion over life and death!" You can't help it. A chuckle slips past your lips. The man stops dead in his tracks, glare attempting to shoot daggers into your soul, "What's so funny?" You shake your head, biting your lip. "What?" "Your symbols." you gesture with your chin to the floor, "They're wrong. Even if Anubis was the one you were trying to summon, which- by the way, he isn't- this wouldn't work." His eyes narrow behind the mask, clearly thrown off. "What are you talking about? These are ancient runes of power, crafted by-" "By someone who hates you apparently." you interrupt, "You think you can bring death under your control with that?"

"You know nothing of these powers! Anubis will answer, and I will-" "You don't even want to summon Anubis." If it was physically possible for your captor to glare harder, you're sure he would have by this point. Your god stands in the corner, his eyes gleaming in the shadows. He doesn't speak, but his presence fills your soul with a sense of calm. Of inevitability. "What?" "Anubis is about funerary rites, guiding souls," you continue, "not... whatever it is you're aiming for here. Osiris is the one you're thinking of with this resurrection business." Your captor tenses, fist slowly curling into a ball. "You said you know what I am, you have to have assumed I researched things." He scowled, clearly thrown off by the correction, but before he could respond, the door slams open. She's quick, moving with a grace that immediately makes it clear she's not here to talk things out. You've seen her before- the woman who's been making appearances in the headlines recently, the Scarlet Scarab. Her appearance is striking, strong and purposeful, like she's not here to take nonsense from anyone. But it's what you see just behind her that really makes your breath snag in your throat. Hovering over her shoulder, watching with an intense curiosity, is the goddess Taweret. You almost wave- an instinctive gesture, like you’re greeting someone you recognize- but then you remember your hands are securely bound. Khonshu is there too, looming at the edge of the room, his towering skeletal form and crescent-shaped staff impossible to ignore. You’ve heard of Moon Knight too- another vigilante working alongside the Scarlet Scarab some days. Khonshu’s presence is cold, oppressive, but you know he’s not here for you. The Scarlet Scarab strides toward your captor, her expression hard. “It’s over,” she says flatly, no room for argument in her voice. Your captor stumbles backward, panic setting in. He gestures once more toward the chalk symbols on the floor, muttering something incoherent about power and magic. “Anubis is not coming to help you,” you say, unable to keep the exhaustion out of your voice. “And even if he was, this isn’t how you’d get his attention. You’ve got it all wrong.” Your captor spins to face you, his face contorted with anger. “You think you know more than me? I’ve spent years studying these texts!” You feel the sheer, absolute weight of your god’s presence now, a calm certainty settling over you like a familiar blanket. Your god is always with you- but in moments like these, his influence becomes palpable. It’s as if he’s standing just behind you, his ancient hands resting on your shoulders, steadying your resolve. Relax, you hear him whisper in the quiet corner of your mind, a voice like rolling thunder, yet somehow soothing. He is a fool.You shift slightly, testing your cuffs again. The metal bites into your skin, but you feel the tension begin to give, a soft pulsing energy coiling beneath your skin. There. he whispers again, Got it. The cuffs click, and with one last movement, they snap open. “I’m telling you,” you say, that same hum of power underscoring your words, “You might’ve spent years studying those texts, but you don’t understand a thing.” The captor’s rant finally falters. His eyes flick toward the Scarlet Scarab, and for the briefest moment, you see his bravado finally crack. She takes a step forward, ready to finish things, but something shifts in the air. An unnatural pulse of energy, twisted and wrong. A shadowy figure emerges from the darkness, an ethereal form that seems to manifest out of thin air. Some kind of twisted guardian or specter, summoned by the captor’s sloppy rituals. A flash of white and silver darts forward, crescent shaped weapons glinting faintly in the lighting. Your captor slams the door open, fleeing into the night- and you decidedly ignore the coward in favor of ducking.

[sunderingstars]

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✩ ‧₊˚ ⌞ OUTFIT & DESIGN MOTIFS ⌝

sampo analysis m.list

— what the stars reveal: half-character-study, half-analysis, waxing poetic, elation!sampo

— word count: 3.1k

— overview: (as of 2.2) a look at sampo’s outfit and design, as well as how it may link to an identity closely connected with the elation.

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For the sake of my own sanity, I’ll be splitting this analysis into clear-cut sections:

Snake Motifs

Binding Chains

Weapon

Hair

Color Palette

Shoes & Walking

Layers

Exposed Skin

Here’s his splash art for reference, although I’ll also be including other photos of his outfit:

✩ ‧₊˚ ⌞ SNAKE MOTIFS ⌝

One of the biggest aspects of Sampo’s outfit design are the snake bones littered across his clothing. From the scaled chain behind him to the shoulder guard that has a protrusion reminiscent of venom-dipped fangs, there is a lot of snake imagery present. Not just snake, however, but dead snake. It’s important to note that none of these pieces have skin or lively color — they’re all bones, bleached and picked clean. For me, this implies Sampo to be a skeleton character, a whisper of a dead or dying thing that still carries a last bit of venom in its fangs. Whether that “thing” is a metaphorical emotional state (centering themes of disillusionment and fatigue), a literal identity (centering themes of lessening power and lowering status), or a combination of both is up for interpretation. Either way, something inside him is decaying.

The snake — the living, hunting predator — is past its prime, stripping away over the years into something that barely resembles itself, the bones of an ancient and powerful thing. Emanator!Sampo may find himself slowly drawing away from the compulsive Elation first bestowed upon him, while Aha!Sampo may find Themself rotting into Their own mortal shell, the remains of what used to be a superficial avatar sticking to Their bones and sucking them clean; alternatively, the restrictions placed upon this mortal form of Sampo may cause Aha to be whittled down, only an echo of Their full strength. In another case, the silhouette behind the masks, the bones behind the meat, may have found himself steadily falling out of orbit with his larger mind, eventually ending up as nothing but a shadow of his former power as an Aeon — a skeleton, removed from the body when it was no longer needed. Or, perhaps, he is trying to keep the venom in.

(Note: His eyes are also snake-shaped like Baizhu’s from Genshin Impact!)

✩ ‧₊˚ ⌞ BINDING CHAINS ⌝

When looking at Sampo in a 360-degree view through the camera, something became apparent to me — the snake motifs (the spine and scales especially) seem to wrap around him tightly. In the splash art, this is a little difficult to tell (as the spine is flared out behind him), but here, they are tightly wrapped around multiple parts of his body:

Here, we see a fairly small part — a cuff wrapped around his upper forearm. This sticks out to me because it seems similar to a handcuff, or some kind of article of containment. It fits snugly, pressing in on his skin. There is also a similar wrapping around his thigh, showing that this is not a one-off design decision. There are multiple tight wrappings of containment around his body, which then implies a something in containment. Additionally, there’s the bone chains on his back:

They wrap around to the front, resting in the hollow of his neck. There are also two latches fastened to his back, giving the idea of the bones almost “hugging” him. Now, we are beginning to get a dual picture: a snake, slowly choking and constricting its prey, and a binding chain of bones, something meant to keep danger contained. We can see this even more clearly once the full picture comes together from different angles:

(These wrappings are even reminiscent of the symbol for Ouroboros, an ancient Gnostic and Alchemical symbol that represents the constant cycle of life, death, and rebirth, as well as the unity of all things material and spiritual. As I’ll discuss in its own dedicated analysis, this presence of the snake as a symbol of rebirth and unity may speak to a constant cycle of different emotions or consciousnesses within him — a loop he seemingly can’t escape. He is trying to live, but death ever looms in the background. Additionally, this points towards him trying to reconcile multiple facets of his being.)

The snake does not want to leave. It is cloying, constricting, containing at every waking moment, unwilling to relinquish the meat inside it. I believe the snake and the chains are one and the same: at the same time Sampo is being hurt and constricted, he is also being contained. The snake bones may represent Aha as a separate entity, the Elation as a addiction-filled Path, self-imposed rules from a more powerful past self, or even the “restrictions” placed on higher beings by virtue of existence.

An Emanator!Sampo may be constantly choked by the chains of his status, the realization that this Path isn’t the one he wants — disillusionment is hard to hold on to when surrounded by those who move from sorrow to joy at the drop of a hat. The gaze of an Aeon may constantly weigh on his shoulders like venom-tipped fangs waiting to strike, waiting to strip everything away from him once he becomes no longer “interesting.” Or perhaps that interest is the binding itself, the consuming, compulsive need to laugh, to operate on impulse, to push all feelings of doubt out before they can even be felt; the want to so desperately escape from Elation despite it clinging to him like a specter, regardless of his wants or needs. Emanator!Sampo may also be contained in his power, the same disillusionment that drives him to stray forcing him to hold back his true power, the truth that he could ruin everything he cares for with a single mistake. He doesn’t know what to do when the Elation grows ever tighter, ever higher, the bones of a rotting thing turning him rotten as well. He wants to escape but doesn’t know how.

(Perhaps, this desperation has rotted into hate which has rotted into vengeance, a dedication to using his life to push out the last of his venom, if only to stain an Aeon with Their own blood before falling away.)

Alternatively, an Aha!Sampo may find Themself now restricted by flesh and blood, feeling Themself to be a shadow, a dead skeleton of what They once were. For whatever reason, Their mortal form is forced to have restrictions, perhaps the same ones They face in Aeonic form. But it’s small. Too small. Ten thousand sizes too small, as it always is, and now They’re trapped for a longer time, forced by a looming threat to operate in the shadows, slowly hollowing out with the distance of consciousness and time. 

Who are They, if not the masks? Who are They, if not an Aeon? Perhaps this is not even mask-related at all, but rather a silhouette who grew tired, determined to carve his own path when the stench of decay became too much. The Original, The Progenitor, far outlasted by feelings that grew too strong for his body to handle. He is not an Aeon, not a mortal, but somewhere between a bleached skull and a mouth full of venom. How can he spit out what is rightfully inside him? How can he cut the binds that tie him to an eldritch being he was never meant to be? 

He does not want Elation, but Elation has always wanted him. How can he escape something so dedicated to swallowing him whole? How can he escape something so natural to his being? There is no clear answer besides one: if he does not find a way to escape, the only thing left of him will be bone.

✩ ‧₊˚ ⌞ WEAPON ⌝

Anyway! Haha! Isn’t he so silly? Let’s look at his weapon next:

It seems to continue the snake theme, with both sides of the blades marked with the same bright purple of the “fangs” on his shoulder guard. I don’t think it’s a mistake that these are the brightest colors of the outfit, but I’ll save that for later. For now, let’s focus on the dual nature of his weapon. Besides carrying on the snake theme, these are dual blades, able to be split apart and combined at a moment’s notice. To me, this seems like an indication of two “sides” to Sampo, two different personas that can be separated, combined, or interchanged at will. This could be an Emanator form, an Aeonic form, or simply another personality or “deeper” emotion behind the con-man persona. 

I find this choice of weapon very fitting for him, as it capitalizes on the dexterity of both his personality and fighting style. It’s something that is easily able to be tossed from a distance, allowing him to damage enemies over time without getting too close to danger. There is also an inversion to its form, and while that could just be so he doesn’t scratch himself when throwing it, I also see its connection to the “inversion” of Sampo’s E6 and Aha’s splash art silhouette. There is an implication of inversion, mirroring, and duality with this weapon. Whatever power or consciousness he may be holding, there’s a good chance there are multiple dimensions to it, the kind of dimensions that exceed mortal standards.

✩ ‧₊˚ ⌞ HAIR ⌝

Something of note is the grey in his hair, a color often attributed to older and more powerful characters (Welt has a (albeit dyed) strand of grey hair and Acheron has grey strands as well). They are, however, at the bottom of his hair, like the (perhaps also dyed?) blue is trying to override it. This could speak to an attempt to find his own identity, to cast aside the bleached white of decaying bones and find some vibrance to live for. There’s also a lot of it compared to other characters. It’s not just one or two strands, it’s entire parts of his hairtips, with the implication even more may be white behind the blue. This would line up with what he says about being an “old timer,” most likely downplaying his own status to “just an old guy” when he is vastly more powerful than others realize.

Additionally, his hair obscures one of his eyes, always casting half of his face behind blue. 

I feel this speaks to the idea of “multiple” sides, since one part of him is literally hidden from view. There’s the laughing, joking con-man we see, sure, but we don’t see the “hate” festering beneath, the potential despising of one’s own power and being. We don’t see the silhouette behind the masks. It wants to be free, most likely, of the chains that bind it, wants to step into the open with the clarity of rage, but it is not allowed. And so it stays, hidden behind blue. It stays, allowing the turquoise eye of a red-tinted mask to operate beyond, leaving itself to fester and rot into itself. Would we see an eye, if we pulled back that hair? Would we see something besides a wink here, a crease there? Would we find a matching color, or would we find blood red, a space infested with angry maggots? Would we perhaps find a hole? The blank, staring Nothing of Nihility? Only time will tell.

✩ ‧₊˚ ⌞ COLOR PALETTE ⌝

An interesting thing I noted while staring at pictures of this man’s splash art for way too long is the clash between colors. When dealing with the visible light spectrum, red and blue are on opposite ends. Red and blue are also popularized opponents, despite them not being true opposites on the color wheel. They can clash very jarringly, although the muted reds and blues (bordering on purples) used in Sampo’s outfit compliment each other better than in other combinations. Still, they stick out against each other, chafe against the backdrop of muted grays and blacks of dying bone. The red, often associated with blood, is also associated with Aha’s masks in this case, since most masks have a combination of white and red or red and orange to them (especially in Aha’s splash art). Additionally, blue is often associated with water and calm, which ties back to Sampo’s name “Koski” which means water rapids in Finnish. There is a clear conflict between these colors in Sampo’s outfit, the starkness of drying blood mingling with the attempted free-flowing blue of a new identity. The blue that is so strong in his hair, his mind, is slowly beginning to peek from beyond the red of the rest of his body —  a solitary flower, perhaps, watered by the rain and allowed to cautiously, timidly, lean into the doorway of his being. Still, it is a battle. The red will not give up. The pain, the addictive nature of being consumed by the snake, has been there for so long it naturally attempts to obscure whatever new healing the blue brings. But the blue is persistent. And so, it stays.

All the while, the grey hangs in the background, shadow-like. The monochrome, the static, has been there longer than both the red and the blue, so ingrained into him that it’s easily overlooked for the war between blood and water. But it’s there. The bones of that ancient beast will never fade, stagnant as they are. That’s the thing about bones — they last. Even when the blood runs out and the water stops flowing, bones take the longest to decay. They symbolize longevity, perhaps too much of it. An immortality, perhaps, granted by Emanator or Aeon status, that refuses to disperse even as the mind begins to wither. Thus, the red and the blue arrive. They attempt to revitalize the dying bones, the winding snake, putting just enough contrast between them to create a spark, a single flicker of life — a turquoise of bright running water in the eyes, enough to see the world in better clarity.

(And then there is the glowing purple of the fangs, the looming threat, the contained power. Beyond everything else, the venom is still there. It has always been there, waiting to strike.)

✩ ‧₊˚ ⌞ SHOES & WALKING ⌝

The only thing I want to talk about here is the lack of footprints Sampo leaves behind (I just wanted a dedicated section for it). We can see clearly in the splash art that Sampo has regular soles that should make indents in the snow, yet his character never leaves footprints when walking through Belobog. To me, this indicates an otherworldly nature of being, or a lack of being there in the first place. This can fracture into several different theories, some of which being that it’s intentional on his part and he can manipulate his body and surroundings in a structural way; that it’s simply a byproduct of a higher being taking mortal form (and thus not fully “conforming” to all minutae of human bodies); and that it’s because he is a projection or puppet of some sort that was never really there to begin with. Whatever the case, this seems to be a strong indicator of higher status, whether that be Emanator, Aeonic, or something different. After all, no regular, unassuming guy would be able to so casually and effortlessly defy gravity to not leave footprints.

✩ ‧₊˚ ⌞ LAYERS ⌝

Man, this guy’s outfit is confusing. Sorry, I just had to get that off my chest. I’m just still not entirely sure what’s going on in his chest region, there seems to be a lot of straps and buckles and zigzags and windows. I’d like to say this still speaks to the idea of “containment,” as many layers like that would certainly feel constricting, but I also feel like it’s meant to be a “look” as a whole. The bottom layers being black and gray, then blossoming out into blue and red almost makes me think of a decaying animal, with the blood being exposed as well as some of the bone beneath. I also feel like it ties back into his “layered” personality, in which he has different feelings and personas he chooses to either show or hide at any given moment. His neck and hands are also covered (with the red gloves dipping below the black), perhaps further speaking to concealment. The snake motifs are also present on multiple layers, giving the feeling that this is a constriction that runs deep.

✩ ‧₊˚ ⌞ EXPOSED SKIN ⌝

I will say it: this man’s outfit is sluttyyy (affectionate). Despite the heavy themes of constriction and concealment, the encroachment of the colors and layers do not affect his forearms and hips. He very much has his “V” out to show the world, and I for one am not complaining. To me, this exposed skin feels like a breath of fresh air, something beyond the rotting, constricted animal for once. This seems to really be Sampo — the flesh and blood Sampo, the mortal, the guy who likes striking poses and probably gives great hugs. Yes, it is still strategic (probably trying to ramp up flirt appeal for when he tries to scam people) but it also seems genuine. Sincere. If the rest of his outfit is a constraining, dying bloodbath, then these pockets of skin are the eye of the storm, the places that seem to be untouched by the onslaught. Here, we see a human being. Not an Emanator or an Aeon or a byproduct of compulsive Elation, but a man. Just a man. Breathing, like everyone else. It’s nice.

My main takeaways from this outfit are:

The bones of an Aeon, with mortal and “Primum Mobile” restrictions combining to constrain.

The bones of an Emanator, slowly whittled away with time and the weathering of longevity bestowed by Elation.

The general themes of rot, decay, snakes, venom, constraint, and being suffocated.

Ouroboros, constant cycles, prey caught in a trap of potentially its own making.

Any combination of these!

(I also wrote this piece before really getting into the Doll!Sampo theory, but there is definitely an interpretation to be had regarding Sampo as a creation of Aha! The decaying animal and contradictory colors could represent the fight between Sampo’s “purpose” and who he really wants to be, as well as the chains of Elation choking his freedom of self-expression and want to be his own person. The consistency of constricting and containing bones could also speak to him being a “shadow” of Aha, the echo of a greater being while still powerful himself. If he was created in Aha’s own likeness, he would probably feel the pressure of always being in the shadow of his creator.

Additionally, many other parts of this analysis can still apply to Doll!Sampo, as I see him as at least Emanator status. Longevity would take even more of a toll on him here, since he would have lived so long being disregarded by others as a ���toy.” I’ll probably elaborate more on this when I do a dedicated breakdown of my Doll!Sampo theory!)

A note I couldn’t find a good place for earlier: snake bones also imply shed skin, some siphoning off of a greater part of oneself to be reborn anew. Perhaps he is the dead and dying snake, preparing to molt into something even greater. That’s all!

The End! Overall, I feel like I realized a lot of potential things about Sampo going through the parts of his outfit one-by-one. I’m definitely more on board with the idea of being simultaneously constricted and constrained now! Ties that bind, and all that. I also didn’t realize just how much of a battle his outfit feels like until I really looked at it, and now I feel bad for the poor guy. Whatever his endgame identity is, he is not having a good time. I want to give him a hug :((

Also, I want to include this bonus concept art since it shows the snake motifs were a big aspect from the beginning:

Anyways, that’s all!

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.𖥔 ݁ ˖ જ⁀➴ thanks for reading to the end!

(volume warning)

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© analysis by sunderingstars. do not copy, repost, translate, modify, or claim my work as your own.

[izzymissi]

Blood And Shadows. Alcina x Femreader (Occult Noir/Detective Fanfic)

Chapter 1: The Lady In The Shadows

(notes: the reader is refered to as "agent winters" winters being your last name not your actual name, that can be y/n)

The rain pounded relentlessly on the slick streets, each droplet ricocheting off the pavement like a reminder of the night's weight. The city was shrouded in darkness, save for the occasional flicker of a neon sign or the dim glow of a streetlight struggling against the downpour. You pulled your coat tighter around your frame, the cold seeping through your skin as your eyes traced the lines of the alleyways, searching for the café. It was one of those nights where everything felt heavy—thick with secrets, drenched in tension.

You glanced through the cracked window, and there she was—impossible to miss, even in the gloom. Alcina Dimitrescu. The name alone stirred rumors and half-forgotten whispers in every dark corner of the city. She belonged to the occult agency, which made her an anomaly among people like you. The FBI dealt in facts, in blood and fingerprints, in the cold steel of handcuffs. Dimitrescu? She dealt in something darker, something that swam beneath the surface of reason. And now, she was your partner, whether you liked it or not.

The bell above the door gave a tired ring as you entered, the warmth of the café doing nothing to shake the cold from your bones. The place was a dive—greasy tables, flickering lights, and a handful of patrons who looked like they’d given up on life long before they’d ever set foot inside. But in the corner, Alcina sat, commanding the shadows like they were drawn to her, a queen in exile.

She was tall—no, towering. Her trench coat was black, tailored perfectly to her long frame, cinched at the waist with a belt that accentuated her already impossibly sharp silhouette. The collar was turned up, and nestled against her chest, you could see a single black rose, tucked just beneath the lapel. Her skin was pale, unnaturally so, made all the more striking by the crimson lipstick that curled around her smirk. Her eyes glinted in the low light, predatory and knowing, as though she could see everything about you—the secrets you carried, the ones you wished you could forget.

As you approached, you noticed something else—a necklace around her neck, the chain delicate but sturdy, holding a pendant with a strange, arcane emblem. It shimmered faintly in the dim light, its symbols indecipherable, but there was something about it that felt wrong. Ancient. Dangerous.

“Agent Winters,” she purred, her voice sliding over you like velvet. Her lips curved into a smile, the kind that made you feel like you were already caught in her web. “I was starting to think you’d gotten lost in this dreadful weather.”

You slid into the booth across from her, trying not to make it obvious that your hands were still trembling from the cold—or maybe something else. You fumbled for a cigarette, striking a match, only for it to flicker out before you could bring it to your lips. Dammit.

Before you could try again, Alcina reached across the table, her long fingers brushing against your hand, plucking the cigarette from your grip with casual grace. Her lighter clicked open—a sleek, silver relic—and the flame danced between you, casting brief shadows over her face. As she leaned forward to light it, her smile widened, and you caught the faintest glimpse of what could have been fangs.

“There,” she said, the flame snuffing out with a sharp click. “No need to struggle.”

You took a drag, letting the smoke fill your lungs, grounding you in the moment. Her presence was unnerving, to say the least, but there was something magnetic about her, something that made it impossible to look away. You knew who she was—what she was, some said—but there was no denying the power she exuded. It hung in the air between you, thick and tangible.

“We’ve got a very gruesome case on our hands, Agent Winters,” Alcina said, leaning back into the shadows, her eyes still fixed on you. “Even by this city’s standards.”

You exhaled, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling. “Gruesome’s a given in this town,” you replied, the weariness seeping into your voice. “You wouldn’t be here otherwise, right?”

Her laugh was low, dark, and it sent a shiver down your spine. “Quite right,” she said. “Though I must admit, I’m curious how someone like you ended up assigned to someone like me.” Her eyes gleamed, playful yet dangerous. “You must’ve made someone very unhappy.” “or maybe, it was destiny”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you took another drag, thinking about how this city seemed to have it out for you from the moment you set foot in it. The cases were always bloody, always brutal, but this… teaming up with an agent from the occult? That was a new low, even for the Bureau.

“Yeah, well,” you muttered, flicking the ash into the tray between you, “this city isn’t exactly known for its kindness.”

Alcina’s smirk deepened, her red lips a slash of color against her pale skin. “No, it isn’t. And neither am I.”

Her words hung in the air like a threat, but there was something else beneath them, something… inviting. You’d heard the stories—everyone had. Alcina Dimitrescu wasn’t just dangerous because of the cases she handled. She had a reputation for being more than human, for being something ancient, something that thrived on the darkness that seeped into every crack of this godforsaken place.

But right now, sitting across from her, watching the way the dim light caught the edges of her features—the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the faint glint of her necklace—you didn’t care. You didn’t care what she was or what she could do. All that mattered was getting through this case.

“We need to get to work, Agent” she said, her voice soft but commanding, as though there was no room for argument.

You nodded, taking one last drag before stubbing out the cigarette. “Lead the way,” you said, trying to ignore the tightening knot in your stomach.

As you stood, she rose with you, impossibly tall, her presence looming over you like the shadows that followed her. She gave you one last look, a smile that was equal parts alluring and dangerous, before heading for the door. You watched her go, wondering just how deep into the darkness you were about to wade.

The rain greeted you as you stepped outside, colder than before, as if the city itself knew what you were about to uncover.

And in the back of your mind, one question gnawed at you: Were the monsters you were hunting out there in the streets, or was the real one walking beside you, smiling like she knew a secret you could never hope to understand?

-any feedback is welcome-

[vindicated-truth]

The symbolism of using handcuffs as the red string of fate that binds Lee Dongsik and Han Joowon to each other holds so many layers.

Part of it is that they’re inextricably bound together because of crime—one that took the two of them finally joining forces together to solve after 21 years—but the handcuffs as the thing that binds them holds more connotations than the obvious.

One is that: all handcuffs have a key. Meaning—if they choose to, they can let each other go.

What’s also interesting: being in handcuffs also ultimately means that you allowed someone else to cuff you.

In the show, nearly all of the moments they were handcuffed by each other had been voluntary. Even this moment when Joowon had to suddenly cuff Dongsik to stop him from going after Jaeyi, he cuffed Dongsik to himself, and voluntarily let him go after Dongsik agreed to cooperate.

In every other moment: they surrendered to each other voluntarily. Knowingly.

I think that’s what’s fascinating about using handcuffs in place of the red string to bind them.

They voluntarily surrendered. And they have a key.

They way they chained themselves to each other had always been their choice.

They won't allow each other to be alone ever again.

[lisenberry]

The sweat on your skin is better than regret on your heart

Part three! (One and Two) I know I promised smut, but I just got really deep into his tattoos. Part four will finish this up, I swear.

Tattoo Artist!Price x F!Reader

He led you towards the back of the shop, past the reception desk and the waiting area, and behind the black velvet privacy curtain.  You were surprised at how clean it was in his workspace.  Welcoming in its warmth.  You expected neon lights and goth décor.  Crystal skulls and gleaming stainless steel.

Instead, it was a palette of rich, earthy tones.  A supple looking camel-colored leather sofa, maps of the ocean and model ships of every shape and size.  A compass rose painted with elaborate detail on the ceiling.  A stained-glass light fixture at its center. 

“It’s beautiful in here,” you mused, as you spun around slowly in a mix of awe and anticipation.  If you were to get a tattoo, it would be the place. 

“If you give me a second, I can draw you up a few ideas.  The ones you showed me on your little phone are uninspired shit.”  He slipped another cig from his pack and tucked it behind his ear.  Always at the ready.

“I’m actually more worried about the placement.”  You bit your lip for courage.  You couldn’t believe you were doing this.  “Could you show me yours?  Maybe that’ll help me decide.”

You sat atop a padded seat that he could recline forward and backward, raise up and down to suit the best position.  It was comfortable and smooth against the back of your knees. 

“I think we can stop pretending why you’re still here.  You want me to help you forget your boyfriend, don’t you?  Work you up so hard—so good and proper—that you don’t remember his name.”

But even as he spoke, he obliged you.  Tugged his shirt off efficiently, pulling it up from behind his neck and shrugging it over the front of his shoulders, letting it come to rest between his wrists.  It briefly looked like handcuffs before he tossed it on the floor beside him.

His hair stuck up in roguish angles before he could smooth it down with a stiff swipe of his palm.   

“No, I want to remember.  Remember this feeling for the rest of my life.”  You couldn’t look away as he stood so close to you, so proudly as if for an inspection. 

At the swath of hair that curled around the thick muscles of his chest and trailed down to disappear beneath the waist of the pants that hung low where his hands rested on his hips.

“What feeling is that?”

“Empty?”  You reached a hand out tentatively to touch the skin along his side.  To move him closer for a better look.  “But free.”

He was inked in a scattering of places, like memories collected over time.  No rhyme or symmetry to their arrangement.  A snake coiled around his shoulder and sunk its teeth into his collarbone.  A black bird with a long neck and hooked beak sat vigilantly on one bicep while a simple, unadorned dagger with wings claimed the other.

Some more weathered than others, it was hard to tell which was the oldest. 

“What’s the bird for?”  you asked, nodding to his left arm.  Below it was written “You’ll never walk alone” in stylized script. 

“That’s a liver bird.  The symbol of the LFC.”  A football club?  You cracked a smile at the boyishness of it.  You wondered if that was his first one, as a lad staking his claim on his body.  And the world.

“And the snake?”  You took your time tracing his right shoulder with your fingertips. 

“I hate snakes.  Scare me to death.”  Brave then, to carry one around with him always, forever creeping up to bite him. 

“And the bees?  You scared of them, too?”  You noted the collection of realistically drawn bumble bees at his side, fresher and with bright yellow colors. 

“Those are for my nieces.  Beatrice, Brenna and Bailey.”  He pointed to each, with a glimmer of softness in his voice as he recalled their names.

As you slid your hands to his hips, you turned him around to view the larger canvas at his back.  Just as disjointed as his front, your gaze fell to a ghostly face. 

More skeleton than specter, it sat on his right shoulder.  It’s teeth were made of bullets, and it stared blankly back at you.  The pitch black in the depths of its eyes unnerving. 

Beside it was a bear, warlike in its posture.  Its face open and fearsome, ready to consume its foe.  A claymore style longsword, with a thistle design at its hilt held in its massive paws.

One last piece balanced out the trinity.  A Knight Templar, crouched in armor.  On one bent knee, in service to a force unseen. 

They felt significant, inked in a similar style and with a fluidity that bound them together. 

“They’re important to you?”

“To be at my back?  Yeah.  They’re the best.”

From there, your fingers moved lower, to a set of four lions sat on their flanks.  You recognized them from history.  They were the Landseed lions of Admiral Nelson’s monument in Trafalgar Square.  They’d once held names too, like his nieces. 

Peace. War. Vigilance. Determination.

But these had arrows in their backs.  You imagined that each one in the count held a significance.  Not a life taken.  Or a victory.  Not something so crass and boastful.  Instead, something lost.

Below each, he’d had a set of coral red poppies added.  Bright and vibrant and new.

“It’s lovely,” you felt a tear drift down your cheek.  You didn’t know why.  It happened sometimes when you were at a museum or a gallery.  Moved beyond words at something beyond yourself.  The unbridled expression of another.

The last was a lone set of crosshairs, in a style so different than the rest.  Thin and unsure, as if doodled in a dream.  Just below his neck.  Dead-center at the crest of his spine.

“What’s this one?” You grazed it gently with your fingers.  Not entirely sure you wanted the answer.

“That’s the one that finally gets me, love,” he growled as he twisted around and held your probing hand in his.  “You’ve looked your fill.  Now it’s my turn.”

[not-that-dillinger]

"We're married"

《 from Raye Penber @first-frost-fallen-snow because that would be the funniest route to me also sorry for like disappearing I was focusing on moving out and now my fatigue is killing me 》

Ed awoke for once not slumped over his keyboard, yet also not in the empty apartment he'd moved into when he first moved to Japan. Though he supposed technically, the apartment he was in belonged to him, as did the bed he lay in, though both truly belonged to the man laying next to him. He squinted at the clock on his nightstand, at red LED numbers so blurry, only years of practice allowed him to decipher the time without having to put his glasses on. He still had time before he had to get up, a couple of hours before he had to get to work.

A flash of gold on the nightstand drew his eyes from the clock to the ring next to his glasses. It was the only piece of jewelry he owned, and far more expensive than anything he would ever purchase for himself. There was a similar ring on the other nightstand on the opposite side of the bed that belonged to the other occupant--Raye Penber.

Ed... still didn't know what to make of his new situation, let alone the man he was now legally bound to. He didn't hate him, certainly, though whether he trusted him was yet to be decided. Their marriage hadn't been Ed's idea, nor had it been Raye's. A necessity to facilitate the Kira investigation, it had been called, and Ed had only begrudgingly agreed to it for fear of opposition somehow being used against him as evidence and landing him in prison.

Thought of their marriage left an uneasy feeling in his stomach. He'd sworn when he got his job at Encom, and finally escaped his father's control that he would never put himself in any sort relationship where there was a power imbalance and they were not equals. He wouldn't put himself in a situation where he could be abused again. And yet here he was, a foreigner, far from anyone he could call a friendly face, barely understanding the language and culture, and though their partnership was supposed to be one of equals, it didn't feel that way.

Not that he had anyone on the other side of the Pacific he could call for help if he was able, anyway. His therapist, maybe. Though he didn't trust that the call wouldn't be monitored. Or an old rival, if he was desperate.

He felt trapped. He was relying on a man he barely knew to keep him from being falsely accused of mass murder. He was at risk, not just from his partner, but from the people in charge of the investigation as well, People he felt like were treating the investigation as nothing more than a game, where both his and his partner's lives were nothing more than disposable pawns.

How strange it was, that such a tiny band of metal could hold so much meaning. To others, it would have been a symbol of joy as bright as it's polished surface, but to Ed it had just replaced the physical handcuffs that had bound him to his legal partner to with a symbolic one.

[hayleythecannibal]

Twisted Minds incorrect Quotes (this will be out of pocket)

Hannibal: Are you a painting? Y/N: What-? Hannibal: Because I want to pin you to a wall. Will: OH GOD I THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO SAY YOU WANTED TO HANG THEM OR SOMETHING-

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Y/N: Will, I’m afraid. Will: Just stay close to Hannibal. Y/N: That's why I’m afraid.

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Y/N: Hi, sorry I’m late. I was doing a couple of things and got distracted. Hannibal: I’m “a couple of things”. Will: I’m “got distracted”.

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Y/N: I like your top, Will! Hannibal: I have a name, you know. Will: sighs Why. Why are you like this.

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Hannibal: So, what is Y/N to you? Alana: The reason I wake up every morning. Hannibal: …That’s adorable. Y/N earlier that morning, barging into Alana′s room, smacking pans together: WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP!!!

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Jack: Who do we know that has handcuffs? Y/N: Well Will, Hannibal and I- Will: elbows Y/N Y/N: …wouldn't know. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Y/N: Everytime I hear someone talking about updog, I’m torn between not wanting to fall for it and wanting to help them complete their joke.

Will: Okay, but what is updog? Hannibal: Updog is a long sausage in a bun, often served with ketchup, mustard, onions, and/or relish. Jack: Not, that’s a hot dog. An updog is when a new version or patch of an application is released. Alana: No, that's an update. You’re thinking of the fourth largest city in Sweden. Abigail: Surely, that’s Uppsala, where’s updog is the giant spider in Harry Potter. Y/N: That’s Aragog. Updog is a symbol conventionally used for an arbitrarily small number in analysis proofs. Jack: You’re thinking of epsilon. Updog is an upward-moving air current. Hannibal: No, that’s an updraft. An updog is the modern version of a henway. Will: What’s a henway?? Y/N: Oh, about five pounds.

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Y/N: Dumbest scar stories, go! Will: I burned my tongue once drinking tea. Hannibal: I dropped a hair dryer on my leg once and burned it. Jack: I have a piece of graphite in my leg for accidentally stabbing myself with a pencil in the first grade. Alana: I was taking a cup of noodles out of the microwave and spilled it on my hand and I got a really bad burn. Abigail: Abigail: I have emotional scars. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Y/N: Who the fuck added me to a fucking group chat? Will: >:O language Hannibal: Yeah watch your fucking language Jack: OKAY WHO TAUGHT HANNIBAL THE FUCK WORD? Alana: 'The fuck word'. Abigail: Are you stupid? You guys use the f word all the time Hannibal: Oh my god they censored it Alana: Say fuck, Abigail. Hannibal: Do it, Abigail. Say fuck. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Y/N: We need to distract these guys Will: Leave it to me Will: Centaurs have six limbs and are therefore insects. Discuss. Hannibal, Jack, and Alana: Immediately begin arguing Abigail, watching in horror: Oh this. I don’t like this. I don't like this at all ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Y/N: WHY. why did you give Hannibal a KNIFE?! Will: I’m sorry. They said they felt unsafe. Y/N: Now I feel unsafe! Will: I’m sorry. Will: ... would you like a knife? ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Y/N, holding a python: Guys I impulsively bought a snake, what do I name him Will: You did WHAT– Hannibal: William Snakepeare ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Y/N: I love you guys, you're the best thing that's happened to me. Will: We're the best thing that's ever happened to you? Y/N: Yes! Hannibal: I'm starting to feel a little sorry for you. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

AND THAT CONCLUDES ME DYING AS I MAKE THIS......NOW I HAVE TO GO WRITE CHAPTER 12.

[lemotmo]

Thoughts and ruminations on 911 8x07

I just finished the episode.

So… before writing my thoughts down I took a quick look at my ask box to see what people said about the episode and I have to admit I was quite surprised to see so many people disliked it.

Because I have to admit… I really kinda liked this episode.🫣 Was it a filler episode? Yes. But I still liked it.🤷‍♀️ Sorry not sorry.

Athena’s storyline is interesting, because she is getting older and it might be a very interesting story for her to move on to the next phase in her career. I love how she finally realised that being a lone wolf might not be a good thing for her anymore.

I love how she used all of her instincts and clocked that rookie right from the start. I also really liked the actor playing the rookie. He did a great job there. I started out the episode liking him and as the story progressed, I slowly started realising (together with Athena) that this kid might just be bad news. It’s the way the story was set up and the way he reacted that made me suspicious about him. It was a great storyline for Athena in my opinion.

That Athena & Hen scene? *chef’s kiss*

And let’s be real here… Angela is such a wonderful actress. She pulled me right into that story. For once it wasn’t Athena going all lone wolf and breaking the rules, but she actually followed the rules this time. Which was very refreshing.

Then we have the hotshots storyline. Again… I liked it a lot. I laughed out loud a couple of times during the episode. It was fun. The whole Gerrard thing was funny. I mean… no, I don’t like the way they are absolving Gerrard of all his past wrongs, but it’s obviously the road they’ve chosen, so we have no choice but to go with it.🙄

As for Brad? He is one strange very volatile character, but Callum plays him so well. I’m looking forward to him riding along with the 118. Bobby will go nuts! I do wonder where they are going with the whole Brad thing. Why is he still there? There has to be a reason. 🤔

That scene with Bobby standing up to Brad. I mean, seriously… that was kinda hot. Bobby’s still got it. When Athena sees that video, she’ll break out the handcuffs, no doubt.😌

That brings us to Buck. His heart has been broken. He is allowed to suffer a little over that. We might not have liked Tommy and we all know that Tommy wasn't right for him, but that doesn't change the fact that Buck cared for him, so he will be sad about it. It's normal.

But the man obviously doesn’t have a clue who he really is. I hope they’ll explore his bisexuality a bit better during the next episodes. They need to do something with this.

The stress-baking was hilarious. So much food!😆 The whole Madney/Buck convo about the universe bringing that special person made me go all 👀👀👀👀👀���. Maddie knows what’s up with Buck. She has known since season 7 and the whole Eddie & Tommy mix up. She knows! 😋

Buck got to experience some happiness as well, which was fun. The pregnancy announcement and his little moment with Jee were so cute. Loved that.

I also loved the whole Eddie taking Buck's phone, actively preventing him from texting Tommy.😏 This is the guy who told Buck to call Tommy last season and now he’s taking away his phone. I love it! It’s so symbolic. It also shows us a more playful Eddie who is trying to find his joy. That scene was so good.

We knew that Eddie was going to react differently to the break up, because Ryan mentioned it in an interview. This might be part of that. He knows what Buck needs as well. The man doesn't need pampering, he needs someone to take action, so Eddie took action. I love seeing Eddie so happy! Happy Eddie makes me happy!

That last Buck/Hen/Eddie scene was so good. I shows us a more happy Buck, a clear sign of him moving on, so I don't think we'll get any more 'calling Tommy' mentions next week. That scene also shows us a happy carefree Eddie, which was lovely to see!

I didn’t expect much progress in the whole Buck and Eddie story this episode, so I’m glad with what we got. I’m expecting some more Eddie next episode though. I think they want to really set up the narrative of him finding ‘joy’ again. It started in 7 and I think he’ll get more focus in 8.🤞🤞🤞

I know I talk about Eddie, Buck and Buddie a lot, because they are so important to me. But I don’t exclusively watch this show for them. I watch it for every character and I love all of these characters so much. 911 is my comfort show. I love it so much.

That being said though, let's focus on the Buddie front for a minute.😆 They recycled two more of the greatest Buddie NDE’s in this episode: the lightning strike (Buck) and the shooting (Eddie). Next week seems to have a drowning scene, which is something both Buck and Eddie went through. Buck with the tsunami and Eddie when he was buried alive. This has me sitting up for real! They are cooking up something big for Buddie. I can smell it in the air.

Okay, so overall conclusion?

Was it a filler episode? Yes, it was. But you know what? It was a good one. I thoroughly enjoyed it. 🤷‍♀️😁

Now off to answer some asks! 😋

[neo-techculture]

IMMORTAL GODS - SAM & COLBY X READER

Summary:- While it may sound exciting, being immortal quickly gets dull. So you thought it would be fun to play a prank on Colby, your best friend and lover. That was centuries ago. And today, he decided to get payback.

Warnings:- Mentions of cult, reader getting kidnapped and tied down by said cult, mentions of wine, Sam and Colby whipped for reader.

You had no idea how you ended up here. You watched as people wearing black cloaks fastened you to the slightly raised alter, in the middle of nowhere. They moved around the alter, lighting candles, and there were maybe fifteen or twenty of them.

“Can anybody tell me where we are? And why y’all are dressed up like you belong to some cult?” You snort. “I mean of course you do, silly me.”

You wait for a response, but they all seems to be ignoring you. “This ain’t Halloween, my dudes.”

The man nearest to you suddenly takes a firm hold of your chin. “Shut up, you have been chosen by the Dark Lord and we are sacrificing you to him.”

“Geez, no need to be so aggressive,” you mutter.

Due to the man’s closeness, you notice a symbol – something similar to an ‘X’ - that you had previously missed. And suddenly, you had an inkling of what this might be all about. You remain silent as the people in black cloaks form a circle around the alter and began chanting. Their voices kept getting louder and louder by the minute.

Abruptly, there was a dazzling burst of white light, and a tall figure wearing a black cloak and a hood appeared.

“Silence!” The deep male voice boomed, confirming your suspicions on who it might be.

In an instant, the people surrounding you fell quiet, kneeling down. “All of you, leave!” The tall figure commanded. The group of about twenty people gave one brief bow before hastily leaving.

You look over to the figure. “Some help getting out of these ropes would be nice,” you suggest.

“What makes you think I'm gonna help you?” He answered.

You release a sigh. “Really, Colby? All this because I filled your wine bottles with oil as a prank? That too centuries ago.”

Colby pushed back his hood, revealing his blue eyes and black hair, the strands now dyed a dark purple; noticeable when light shines on them. “Those were my favourite,” he hissed.

You shrug, “I bought new ones for you, didn’t I?”

Colby’s eye twitched. “Whatever,” he sniffed indignantly. “Now that I got payback, we’re equals.”

Another abrupt burst of white light reveals yours and Colby’s best friend Sam. He runs a hand through his blond hair, his striking blue eyes taking in the scene.

“Kinky,” he finally snickered. “I knew Colby had handcuffs in his room, but this is...” he trails off, slightly laughing.

"Stop laughing and help me out," you whine. Sam, still snickering, walks towards you and starts to untie the ropes.

Colby's eyes stray towards you. Such a pretty thing you are, all tied up like a present, ready for him to unwrap. His notices your outifit, a little black number showing off your slim figure and black heels making your legs go on for miles. Your black hair down in soft waves.

"I was getting ready to go to a party before your little minions kidnapped me," you replied noticing Colby's gaze.

"Un-huh," he makes a noncommittal noise, too preoccupied with your appearance.

By that time, Sam was nearly done with all the ropes.

"C'mere, pretty girl," he cooed as his hands gripped your hips to help you down the alter. Moving to the edge of the alter, you swing your legs downwards, hands holding on to Sam's shoulders. This new position gets you closer to him, your eyes locking with his.

You are a pretty thing, indeed. Sam's eyes swing down to your lips, red and shiny from the lip gloss you had used. He leaned in, a soft gasp of breath escaping him before his lips met your soft ones. His lips brushed against yours, once, twice, before it deepened.

Colby watched his bestfriend kiss you for a short while before moving towards you. He trailed his ring clad fingers along the soft skin of your thigh, making you shiver and break away from the kiss you and Sam shared. Colby gripped your chin gently to angle your face towards his. Your pupils slightly dilated, cheeks flushed and lips swollen and red, you looked like a vision.

"You were so pretty all tied up," he murmurs. He leans down to nuzzle your nose gently with his before pulling back. "Ready to go home?"

You nod eagerly. Sam laughs softly at your eagerness. "You're so needy, baby."

You shrug, unabashed. "But this dosen't mean that I won't pull another prank, just so you know."

[ninjagirlstar5]

*drags Tsurugi by the handcuffs* So I spun a wheel, and it landed on our favorite boy, the Ultimate Police Officer himself, Tsurugi Kinjoooo.

So, the first thing I wanted to mention was Tsurugi's skin tone. Obviously, when you compare his DRA sprite with his SDRA2 sprite, he is FAR paler than his younger self which can be an...odd choice to make. You can probably handwave it as Kinjo simply looking like that cause he's sickly, but with LINUJ's 2022 winter illustration, it's pretty much canon that he was always suppose to be pale. Honestly, the DRA sprites have their saturation turned all the way up to eleven, and in Tsurugi's case it makes his skin tone look darker than what seems to be intended. I used to turn up the saturation up a lot back in middle school while drawing, too, so I won't harp too much about it. Anyway, since this is Tsurugi from DRA before he, uh, got sick, so to say, I decided to try and strike a balance with his skin tone: pale but clearly very healthy (for now). Aside from that, Tsurugi's design was pretty much fine? When you're told that he's the Ultimate Police Officer, you can understand where LINUJ was going with his design, a simple police uniform but it doesn't exactly scream...authority, you know? So I decided to the push the Police Officer theme a bit more by giving him a vest, a radio, and even some gloves! It's also a nice callback to his friend, Kouhei Sasaki, who also wore gloves before he...well, died. Moving on from his Lore(TM), I rolled up his sleeves, rolled up his pants but still have it so long that it covers his ankles, and changed his loafers to sneakers. I don't know, there's something appealing about a serious, no-nonsense Tsurugi taking his job very seriously...while still wearing jeans and sneakers on the job. It kinda shows that he's still a teenager despite being a police officer even though he's so damn young. Kinda fucked up when you stop and think about that. I also gave him a few scars, not many, but mostly cause they're probably hidden underneath his clothes. Tsurugi has mentioned being in some pretty hostile situations (especially the one that involved Kouhei's death) and I doubt he always got out unscathed, so I decided to put one on each arm: a thin scar from a knife, and a star-shaped scar from a bullet. From there, I toned down the saturation of his color palette, and added more black and gold. Fun fact: the color gold can symbolize reputation, which is hilarious considering how much Tsurugi's reputation sinks during DRA, and how controversial he gets in-universe in SDRA2.

Anyways, Tsurugi is going to start a lot of shit, time to run.

[hedgehogsaretheultimatelifeform]

Kinktober 2024 Day Thirty One

Handcuffs

Simon "Ghost" Riley/John "Soap" MacTavish

“Hey Ghost.” Soap was waiting for him in the hallway as he opened the door.

“Hey, Soap.” Ghost felt the stress of work dropping from his shoulders as he closed the door behind him, matching Soap’s smile as he dropped his bag and kicked his boots off, before spreading his arms wide. Soap leapt into them, nuzzling his face into Ghost’s chest, using that as a distraction as he reached up to pull his tie off. He’d successfully tossed it to the ground, when Ghost closed his arms around him, holding him tight and lifting him an inch off the ground. Soap gasped, grabbing onto Ghost’s shirt collar and holding tight as he stretched his feet out, balancing on his tiptoes until Ghost let him down.

Soap wriggled out of Ghost’s arms, taking his hand and tugging him through the house, his gut twisting with nerves as he hoped that Ghost would like his surprise. “So, I got you a little something…”

“Do tell.” Ghost let himself be led to their living room, guided to sit on their sofa, and sat still as Soap removed his jacket, then his shirt. He was quickly piecing together a vague idea of where this was going, especially when Soap took his shirt off, too.

“So, you know how you said you wanted to try an escape room?” Soap said, his tone sounding like he was trying to casually change the subject as he walked around behind the sofa.

“Yeah.” Ghost rolled his head back, trying to follow Soap with his eyes. He’d mentioned it offhandedly, when they’d been out in town at the weekend, and the fake biohazard symbol on the poster had piqued Ghost’s interest.

“Good.” Soap nudged his head back up, leaning over the back of the sofa, putting a folded card into Ghost’s right hand, and holding the left between his own hands. “Thought I’d give you a taste of it, here at home.”

Ghost chuckled, flipping the folded card over in his hand as Soap gently massaged his knuckles. “So, what do I win?”

“Your freedom, duh. You escape the trap.” Soap laughed, eyes crinkling in the corners. “Go on, open it.”

Ghost rolled his eyes and opened the card, scanning through the short lines of text he found inside. It was a riddle, a pretty clever one, Ghost had to admit, even if the answer of, ‘go fuck your boyfriend to escape’, was a little obvious because of the context clues.

He chuckled as he set it down, about to turn and face Soap, when he heard a distinctively familiar metallic click, and he looked up to see one cuff from the pair fastened around his left wrist, and the other one closing around Soap’s right.

The other cuff clicked, and Johnny smiled at him.

Simon burst out laughing. “Smooth, Johnny. Real smooth.”

“Yeah, well. You’re in it now, and you know what you have to do.”

“Yeah, I do.” Ghost twisted his hand, hooking his fingers around the short chain, pulling on the cuffs, twisting it so the metal dug into Soap’s wrist. He yelped, darting back as Ghost leaned up, pulling his arm back, close to his body, dragging Soap’s hand, and by extension Soap, back towards Ghost. “I also know that you can’t get away from me.”

“Fuck. I didn’t think of that.” Soap sighed, hanging his head before grinning and scrambling up to climb over the back of the sofa. “Is there any chance that you’re feeling nice?”

“Sure, Johnny.” Ghost tugged Soap close and kissed him, running his free hand down over his bare torso. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Soap grinned again, quickly following Ghost as he stood and led the way to the bedroom, hand in hand with his boyfriend, the short chain clinking between them. Soap cuddled up to Ghost’s side as they walked, feet shuffling along the carpet as Ghost pushed open their bedroom door to find the room clean and tidied, with the blind drawn down and fresh sheets on the bed. Ghost smiled, leaning over to kiss Soap on the forehead. Soap always did have an eye for the important details.

When Ghost lingered in the door, Soap took over, hurrying to the bed, tugging Ghost along behind him. He dropped onto it first, laughing as Ghost immediately dropped down on top of him, because they were attached at the wrist, so where he went, Ghost went; not that they needed to be physically attached for that to happen.

Ghost cupped Soap’s chin, using his cuffed hand to hold him up as he kissed Soap, melding their mouths together in the way that their mouths did when they kissed; the way that was so utterly perfect that it made Soap’s heart swell, and question if his sister had been right, and that soulmates were in fact real…

Ghost moved his hand to Soap’s shoulder and rolled them over to Soap’s right, turning the pair of them on their sides, and then over again, putting Soap on top of him as Ghost cupped the back of his head and shifted his hips, making sure that Soap could feel that Ghost was hard through his slacks.

Soap grunted into Ghost’s mouth, gasping as he pulled back from the kiss. He didn’t get very far, what with Ghost’s hand on the back of his head, and him sucking Soap’s lip into his mouth. Soap whined, and Ghost let him go, letting him shuffle up and reach for the waistband of his joggers.

“Uh, uh. Let me handle it. I’m the… escapee, here.” Ghost tutted, twisting his hand again to grab hold of Soap’s, making him let go before he rolled them over again, leaning to one side as he tugged Soap’s joggers down himself.

Ghost quickly became aware that Soap was so eager, he’d forgone underwear today, when his hard dick was immediately exposed to him. Ghost elected to ignore it; instead brushing his hand over Soap’s thighs, his knees, his shins, as his other hand rested on Soap’s hip. Soap tugged on the cuff, trying to move it, but Ghost held firm, working slowly as he massaged Soap’s thighs, pushing them open, dipping a hand between them, before realising that he didn’t have enough space to work with.

He leant up and tugged a pillow down from the top of the bed, boosting Soap up and pushing it under his ass, propping Soap’s hips up to the proper height. Soap settled on the pillow, sighing comfortably, but even that couldn’t disguise the slight frown on his face, because Ghost hadn’t even touched his cock yet. Instead, Ghost was rising onto his knees, using both of his hands to undo his slacks, twisting the cuff again, making Soap’s hand brush up against his dick, hard inside his briefs. Soap whined, straining his arms as he reached down for Ghost’s cock, only ending up with his hands pinned to the bed for his efforts, leaving Ghost with no option to kick his briefs and slacks off, dropping them to the floor as he tutted at Soap.

“Trying to stop me, are you?” Ghost murmured. “You thought about that? You jerk me off, I won’t be able to fuck you, and get out of these? You want for me to have to stay handcuffed to you forever?”

“Ah…” Soap’s head fell back, surprised at Ghost’s commitment to the bit, and trying to match it. “You saw through my ruse.”

Ghost met his serious expression, and they both burst out laughing, Ghost half collapsing on top of Soap again as they kissed, easing their bodies against each other as Ghost’s heart fluttered. Soap was fucking perfect. His perfect guy. His guy.

Ghost took a deep breath as he leant back from the kiss and lifted Soap’s legs up, resting them over his thighs. He dipped his left hand under them to guide his dick towards Soap’s asshole, swallowing when he felt the cuff twist around his wrist, and Soap’s hand land on top of his.

“Need a hand?” He murmured, making Ghost laugh again.

“Love you.”

“You too.” Soap kissed him, then inhaled sharply, eyes wide as they both guided Ghost’s dick into his ass.

Ghost linked their fingers together, pulling them out from under their thighs as he rolled his hips forward. He leant down over Soap as he filled him up, tucking his free arm behind his head, using it to drag Soap up from the bed as he found the best angle to fuck him in, rolling his hips into him slowly and steadily. Soap kissed him, and they swallowed each other’s groans, leaving the only other noise in the room beside Ghost’s thighs hitting Soap’s, to be the little clink of the chain between the cuffs, as Soap pressed their joined hands back against Ghost’s shoulder, wrapping the pair up together as Ghost fucked him, slowly, sweetly, tenderly.

Ghost gasped when Soap clenched around him, cumming hard and begging for Ghost to come too, to come with him, and Ghost obliged. Or his dick did. It wasn’t like that was something he had a direct, conscious control over.

Ghost filled Soap up, all the while still kissing him. He got lost in Soap, laying on top of him, Soap’s tongue dancing in and out of his mouth until Ghost was soft in Soap’s ass, and neither of them knew how much time had passed.

When Ghost did eventually look up, the room was dark, lit only by the faint light of the streetlight outside, filtering through the thick blind in the window.  He looked back down at Soap. His mouth was open, lips swollen, looking blissfully peaceful, reaching up for Ghost’s face again, his movement making the chain clink, and prompting Ghost to touch the cuffs.

“Do I escape now?” Ghost murmured, his need to cuddle Soap screaming for the activity to be unimpeded by the restriction of movement the handcuffs caused.

Soap’s eyes widened. “Fuck. I think Gaz still has the keys. He didn’t get them back to me yet…”

Ghost burst out laughing again, collapsing at Soap’s side, gently running his hands down Soap’s face. “I love you.”

“Really?” Soap looked at him, pouting.

“Yeah.” Ghost ran his thumb over Soap’s lip. “I can bear to be handcuffed to you a little longer.”

Soap snorted, the embarrassed warmth disappearing from his face. “I think I have a spare set. Should be in a bag, just…”

“Not sure where the bag is?”

Soap nodded.

“It’s alright.” Ghost poked his cheek. “We can look together.”