#SAP Authorization Design

[suchi05]

SAP Role Review | SAP Authorization Review | SAP Role Redesign | ToggleNow

An authorization redesign in SAP is critical to strengthen security, streamline access governance, and enhance overall efficiency within the SAP system. Over time, businesses evolve, and with these changes come shifts in roles & responsibilities. Often, initial authorization setups in SAP may not align accurately with these changes, leading to potential security gaps or unnecessary Segregation of Duties. Therefore, a redesign becomes necessary to ensure that the right individuals have access to the appropriate resources, mitigating risks associated with unauthorized data access or system misuse.

By undertaking an authorization redesign, enterprises can expect improved compliance adherence and reduced vulnerability to internal and external risks. This redesign allows for a thorough reassessment of user privileges, enabling organizations to align permissions more closely with current job functions. Moreover, a redesigned authorization framework fosters greater transparency and accountability across the system. Overall, the necessity for an authorization redesign in SAP is pivotal in adapting to evolving business landscapes, and ensuring seamless functionality within the system.

Read more: https://togglenow.com/services/sap-authorization-review-redesign/

[hivemuthur]

Anon because I am a coward lmao, but a request nonetheless if you want/have the time! Been thinking about a classic!Viktor (because him in that uniform is just so scrumptious) x f!reader in an established relationship where they have a bet going that they can't last a week without sex. They take turns over those 7 days mercilessly teasing the other and trying to make each other lose the bet (errant touches here and there, lingering kisses/looks, etc., and one of those could maybe be a heated up-against-the-wall makeout). Up to you whether they make it to day 7 or not! 🤭 And we stan a soft!dom!Viktor of course

I saw some folks picking anon emoji so I'll pick ✨️Anon if that's okay! Thanks for your time whether this makes it or not, I sincerely love everything you write! ❤️

Guess what. They didn't make it :x

All is Fair in Love and War

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! a lot of teasing + (unsafe) desk sex, if you squint diligently there is some dom!Viktor but he's so whipped he doesn't even have it in him, and there is some maybe a little bit OOC Viktor and love confessions too. Sap, remember?

word count: 5,8K (sorry it got out of hand)

author's note: Nothing, just Happy Freakday :v

—

It is funny, the human nature and the way you leap at the chance to bend and break it whenever an opportunity to prove a point arises. Often against your better judgement, hurting yourself in the process—yet the reward, the being right, you deem worth it. Whether it is or isn’t, you still don’t know. No scientific data on the matter; you'd have to somehow double yourself and join both the control and the treatment group.

It’s also infuriating how once something is forbidden or simply out of reach, it becomes instantly more desirable—damn near essential to your survival.

And it’s not that you lack self-control or are some savage animal. No. Quite the opposite—composed, focused when it matters, dedicated when it’s required, passionate when you allow yourself to be. And most of the time, that last one comes easily, naturally, around Viktor.

You don’t even remember how it started. He said something along the lines of, “Is that so?” in that tone—the one that has your head tilting and your hand bracing your hip, the one that forecasts trouble—and you responded with something like, “Why don’t we find out?” fully aware that the challenge at hand was going to inch dangerously close to impossible.

It is now day four of your ridiculous, point-proving, let’s-see-who-folds, I-can-outlast-you-with-my-finger-in-(insert an offensive body part) bet—for lack of a better name—and you really can’t remember why you picked up that stinking glove in the first place.

Day one was relatively easy. That was back when your tactic was simply to stay docile and survive. Got you all cocky, how simple it was, just to brace through a day filled with mundane tasks—a list long enough you didn’t even see Viktor for more than a minute.

Day two got harder. Viktor, the snarky bastard, had already started playing unfairly—cravat loosened at the neck, top button undone, revealing his Adam’s apple, one of your many weak spots. Another, also shamelessly flaunted: the mole on the side of his throat. One of your favourite places to press your mouth to. It glared at you all day every time Viktor craned his neck or leaned beside you to read something over your shoulder. It became painfully clear then: without proper artillery, this battle would see you utterly, thoroughly obliterated.

As if the sight itself weren’t enough, Viktor was clearly ready to have you rendered stupid and wanting right there in the lab on that second day. Pretending to be engrossed in your notes, he traced his long finger down your handwriting, occasionally tapping, humming—soft and low in his throat. The air from his nose fanned your cheek mercilessly, steady and warm. And then, the wretched scoundrel, brushed his hand against yours. The touch was barely there, a whisper of skin, designed with surgical precision to twist the knife further. To finish the kill, he leaned down and pressed his lips to your forehead in a sign of loving approbation, murmuring, “Impressive work, lásko.”

“T-thank you,” you stammered, blinking blindly—trying desperately to blink away the feel of his hot lips on your skin, to scrub the sound of his voice from your brain. The praise had bled right into the spot you had prayed would remain numb. The urge to shake out your hand, to run it under cold water, to splash your face for good measure—you managed to resist. The burn on your cheeks, however, had no such mercy.

Viktor only smiled. The smirk he wore was unmistakable: a shit-eating, obscenely smug thing that sat crooked on his mouth, gleaming with unsaid victory. You could almost hear the remark hanging off the tip of his tongue—something close to, “That’s what I thought,” or, “As expected.” But he had the mercy, that day, to keep it to himself.

As he walked away, leaving you sighing in premature relief, he paused. Turned. Tipped his head, cane idly drawing slow circles across the stone floor.

“What would you say to raising the stakes?” he asked, like it was a casual thing, like it wasn’t a hand grenade tossed over his shoulder.

Impossible, you thought. Absolutely not. I’m barely hanging on, was the reasonable choice. Which, naturally, meant that instead of saying any of those sensible things, your stupid competitive mind stepped forward first.

“What do you have in mind?” you asked, voice already on the brink of cracking.

“Well,” Viktor began, adjusting his grip on the cane, feigning neutrality with such theatrics you wanted to hit him, “if we want this test to deliver true results…” A beat.

“Perhaps we should both refrain from seeking relief by our own hands.” He gave a gracious little tilt of his head, the kind that almost passed for innocence. “Unless, of course, that would be too much for you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you implying that I have no self-control?”

“Not at all, my darling,” he replied smoothly. “I’m merely implying that I have more self-control than you do.”

A scoff—hot, sharp, and angered—left your mouth as you stood and closed the distance between you. Against reason, despite the suffering you’d already struggled to endure, you came so close that the air he breathed out, you could breathe in. You whispered, low and sinister, “Bring. It. On.”

“Very well,” Viktor muttered, leaning in to your ear. “Hands where I can see them, sweet thing.”

“Likewise,” you hummed into the hollow of his neck, and noticed—not without a sickening sense of triumph—that goosebumps rose where your breath had licked his skin. A faint pink bloomed upward from beneath his collar as well.

Sleeping that night? Nearly impossible, of course. Another thing added to the growing realm of forbidden comforts that had suddenly become this much more attractive to you. And you would be a liar if you said your hands didn’t itch. Sleep became another casualty in this battle, but somehow, you managed to stand your ground.

Naturally, you had to brace yourself with tactics of your own. Day three began with a strategy. You'd woken up taut and fraying, sheets tangled between your legs and thighs pressed too tight together. Your fingers stayed loyal to the pact—barely. But if you couldn’t touch yourself, then you’d just have to make him want to.

So you dressed with a mind to war: the cravat from your uniform was nowhere to be found—lost to the laundry or sabotage, you weren't sure, and frankly didn’t care. Instead of a replacement, you simply didn’t wear one. With the first few buttons of your shirt left artfully undone, the slight gap revealed the delicate valley of your cleavage whenever you leaned forward, bent over something, or stretched, as one does.

Then the skirt. It sat a little too low, so you wrapped the waistband twice and pinned it beneath your belt, hiking the hem high enough that your garters whispered suggestively with every step.

You walked into the lab like a provocation made flesh and Viktor noticed immediately—of course he did. He always notices everything. But this time, he said nothing. Just paused, mid-motion with a wrench in his hand, and blinked slowly, like he’d just been struck by something quiet and lethal. His gaze dropped once, flicked back up, and then he returned to his work with all the casualness of a man pretending not to drown.

That should’ve been your victory. Except that twenty minutes later, while you stood at the central workbench, bent over a set of schematics with a pencil tapping idly between your fingers, Viktor came up behind you. Not touching, never touching. But his voice, cool and rich, curled over your shoulder like silk.

“Did your cravat fall victim to a tragic accident?” he asked, as if genuinely curious.

You glanced back at him with a sugar-sweet smile. “Laundry’s fault. Terrible service. Think I’ll lodge a formal complaint.”

He hummed, low in his throat. “Yes, you should. It would be a shame if such... structural integrity failed in more critical areas of your attire.”

You turned, just slightly, letting him see the way your shirt shifted open with the movement. “If you’re concerned, I’m sure you could help reinforce it.”

“I could,” he said, his mouth twitching, his eyes lingering for one heartbeat too long. “But I wouldn’t want to overstep.”

And with that, he walked off. But his limp was tighter than usual, jaw clenched, and his cane struck the tile floor with a touch too much force to be casual. You counted that as a small, simmering win—and an idea, for later.

An idea which, before, you’d deemed a last resort, now begins to seem more and more essential to your survival, because Viktor is utterly fucking shameless.

It is day four, and you are inching toward your wits' end, disbelieving how a mere four days of deprivation have indeed left you nearly drooling over his body—slouched on the couch in what appears to be an innocent nap. But the sighs and groans that leave his mouth are a little too loud, a bit too breathy, and his legs are too far apart, the slope of his groin staring at you with obscene entitlement from where you are curled up on the couch next to him. Not touching, of course.

His chest rises and falls in slow, rhythmic pulls, the fabric of his shirt straining just faintly each time he inhales. You watch the subtle shift of muscle beneath it, the barely-there flutter of his lashes against his cheek, and the way his throat bobs every so often, like his body is caught somewhere between rest and need. His lips, slightly parted, glisten with the faint sheen of sleep, and it would be so easy—criminally easy—to lean in and steal the air right from his mouth.

You shouldn't be looking, you know that. But your eyes drag down the ridges of his ribs, the soft dip of his waist, the hand resting slack against his thigh—long fingers splayed in a mockery of carelessness. You can’t even pretend to read anymore. The words on the page blur while he lays there like a temptation wrought by some divine punishment, entirely unbothered, until—

He shifts. Just a little. One eye cracks open, and the barest hint of a smile twitches on his lips. Then, hoarse and low, without even bothering to fully open his eyes, he rasps, “Seeing anything you like?”

You have enough common sense not to startle. The instinctive reaction would be to deny, deny, deny. But then, a thought strikes you—why would you? The bet entails simply not fucking, not pretending as if you don’t want to. In a swift pivot, your new tactic slides into place like a dagger in silk.

“Very much so,” you say, voice smooth, a soft smile playing across your lips while your eyes narrow. You don’t even try to hide the way you’re ogling him, letting your gaze drag with intention—chest, throat, lips, hips—then slowly back up again to meet his.

“Oh?” he murmurs, finally opening both eyes. One brow lifts lazily. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“Oh, Viktor,” you sigh with feigned exasperation, tilting your head. Your tone is syrupy and sharp all at once. “Are you trying to orchestrate my downfall or yours?”

“Not at all,” he hums, pleased. “I’m simply curious about what’s happening in that pretty head of yours.”

“Very well,” you whisper, fingers ghosting over his wrist as your smile deepens. You cradle it like something precious, your thumb brushing across the knuckles—each one a peak, scarred and calloused with work, each line like a story. He watches you with curious eyes, a tension winding through his jaw, but he lets you guide him. Your lips part. You press them to the tips of his fingers in something that almost resembles devotion—until your tongue peeks out and you drag it, slow and warm, along the pad of his index.

“I’ve been thinking about this hand,” you whisper, eyes locked on his as you press a kiss into his fingertip, “in here.” You take the finger fully into your mouth then, slow and obscene, hollowing your cheeks just slightly.

A hiss leaves him, barely restrained, the muscle in his cheek twitching. He leans forward on instinct, like you’ve hooked a string behind his ribs and pulled. His gaze drops, fixated, almost pained with it.

“And then possibly…” you release his finger with a soft pop, teasing, “somewhere else.”

Viktor makes a sound low in his throat, something between a warning and a plea. He shifts closer, drawn in despite himself, and his eyes flick to your mouth again—wet and gleaming. “This,” he mutters, voice hoarse and fraying where he doesn’t intend it to, “is not fair play.”

You smile, teeth flashing, all wicked delight. “All’s fair in love and war,” you hum. “And as this is both, I’d say it’s more than fitting. Besides—” you lean in, brushing your nose along his jaw, “you know exactly what you’d have to do to end this… torture. All these layers in the way…”

His breath stutters. And then a smile curls on his lips—not soft, not sweet, but predatory. The kind of smile that promises you’ve stepped too close to the fire, and you’re about to feel the burn.

“Oh?” he says, gaze raking over you, slow and thorough, like he’s peeling you open with just a glance. “And how many layers do you think exactly part us?”

You still. Stare. He cannot possibly be serious. But then, with the ease of someone who knows precisely what they’re doing, Viktor shifts back and stretches—arms above his head, spine arching, muscles pulling taut under the fabric. The hem of his shirt untucks from his trousers in the process, rising just high enough to tease at the flat plane of his stomach.

Your mouth parts, uselessly, because the trousers dip. Just a fraction. But a fraction is enough. Low, low enough that where you expect to see the band of his underwear, there is—nothing. Just skin. A sliver of the sharp cut of his pelvis, and below that, the dangerous promise of more. Had the trousers slid even a breath lower—or not been cinched by his belt—you’d have been treated to the base of his cock.

Your heart stumbles over itself. Breath caught halfway between outrage and awe, you stare. Incredulous.

“Viktor,” you scold, voice choked with disbelief. “You slut.”

He chuckles darkly at that, low and pleased, the sound laced with unrepentant menace. “What was that?” he murmurs. “All is fair, something along those lines?”

His hand lifts, fingers trailing up to your cheek with mock-gentle reverence. “Seems you haven’t measured your opponent properly,” he says, almost fond. “A mistake. Might cost you.”

Your lips twitch upward, unwillingly impressed. “We’ll see about that,” you whisper, eyes narrowing with intent.

Because now—now you know. That little move? That wasn’t confidence. That was desperation. Calculated, yes, but desperate all the same. Viktor, flashing skin like a weapon, throwing everything short of actual cock at the problem—it’s telling. And oh, you were saving your last resort. But now you know—he’s already playing his.

And it’s only day four.

It’s unbearable to keep your part of the deal that night. To say that your hands crawl with ants is an understatement, and to say that you’ve slept is an overstatement, since all you’ve done is toss and turn. And in the morning, there is no laundry mishap, no sabotage to blame for what you’re about to do.

With your skirt’s waistband rolled up and your ass outright bare underneath, you walk through the corridors, the air licking at your thighs. You pray, sincerely and repeatedly, that you won’t run into Heimerdinger at any juncture—and as ludicrous as that prayer might seem, you suddenly understand why all the skirts of the Academy uniforms are the length you once deemed too prudish to ever stir Viktor into action.

The source of your frustration is already in his usual spot, scribbling the day’s tasks onto the blackboard. You can read the smile from the back of his head the moment you step in through the door, but instead of focusing on that, your gaze drops lower—to his thighs—trying to assess whether he’s fallen twice, whether yesterday’s stunt has repeated itself today.

Sadly, you can’t tell. So with gathered-up determination, you bid him hello and muster all your innocence as you sit at your workbench, thighs pressed close together, the chair biting cold into your skin.

It’s maddeningly civil throughout the first few hours—so much so that your head snaps up each time an audible sigh leaves his mouth, only to realise it’s not about you at all. Just something work-related, some frustration that has him hunched over and his brows all knitted.

After a while it becomes clear that Viktor is struggling. It begins subtly—grunts of frustration under his breath, the occasional mutter in a tone too low to catch, followed by the sharp squeak of chalk against slate. Again and again, he scribbles something onto the board, only to wipe it away with increasing irritation. The lines start to look like arguments more than equations. Whatever he’s writing, he hates it.

Curiosity gets the better of you. You rise and make your way over, and the moment you’re close—close enough to see the tension in his shoulders and the crease between his brows—it thickens in the space between you, the air charged and humming. He doesn't look at you, not at first.

"What’s the matter?" you ask gently, keeping your voice light.

He scoffs under his breath and waves you off. “Nothing.”

But his eyes betray him. They flick, just briefly, downward. Toward your thighs. Then snap away again, his jaw tightening. Oh, poor thing.

You almost feel sorry for him. Almost. But then you remember yesterday—the stretch, the lazy way his shirt had untucked. Desperation wrapped in smugness. No. This is fair game.

“Want to bounce ideas?” you offer, brushing your fingers lightly along his forearm. He stiffens. Your hand drifts higher, skimming over his shirt, the lean plane of his stomach beneath. Purely helpful. Entirely professional.

He exhales, smiling with a certain defeated amusement. “Sure.”

“Good,” you chirp, turning your head just enough for your breath to graze his neck. “Because you seem distracted.”

His eyes cut to you, dark and narrowed. “If you really want to help,” he says, slow and dry, “start writing from the top.”

You follow his gaze upward, and ah—if you’re not the universe’s favourite today, you don’t know what. You grab the usual board stool, the seat worn out and scraped from shoe soles constantly grinding into it anytime either of you wants to make full use of the black surface. You climb onto it gracefully and, as if it’s nothing, await instructions.

He doesn’t say a word, just steps aside, still holding the chalk in his fingers. His expression is unreadable, but his pulse is visible at his throat.

You hold out your hand. “Chalk.”

He gives it to you wordlessly, his gaze fixed. You begin to write.

“Ready,” you say sweetly.

He opens his mouth, begins to dictate something—but the moment his eyes trace down your back, catch the bare expanse of skin beneath the hem of your skirt, his voice falters.

“Start with—” he begins, and stops. Silence.

You glance over your shoulder. “What?”

He stares at you, mouth slightly parted. His throat works around a swallow. You smile, victorious, as the realisation dawns in his eyes. And Viktor doesn’t speak—at least not right away.

Just stands there, stunned. Caught mid-breath, as though something vital has short-circuited behind his eyes. And then you see it—the unmistakable flicker of calculation. You can almost hear the gears turning in his head, trying to solve this, trying to survive it. But he won’t.

Instead, he takes a slow step forward. Then another. The soft tap of his cane echoes once, then again, before he stops just beside you.

Something shifts, and you feel the motion before you see it—cool wood slipping beneath the hem of your skirt. The cane lifts gently, teasingly, fabric peeling upward, making your breath still.

Viktor exhales like a man broken. “You are so wicked,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, brazen. “This is cruel,” comes next, as pained as his expression.

You smile over your shoulder, saccharine-sweet. “My love. You dug your own grave yesterday.”

A low sound escapes him—somewhere between a laugh and a curse—and then he’s moving with purpose. He hooks the cane over the wing of the board to keep it out of the way, and his hands find your legs. His palms are warm, strong, sliding slowly upward. A sweep over your calves, the backs of your thighs, fingers tightening with every inch until he’s cupping you fully, squeezing your ass like it’s his only hope.

His face presses in, breath hot against where your thighs meet, his nose brushing skin. He breathes in deep, his exhale shuddering out against you.

“I surrender,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, as if anything louder would undo him completely. “Please get down from that chair so I can fuck you or I’ll go mad.”

You exhale a startled laugh—part shock, part triumph, part sheer disbelief that you've actually won—and barely stop yourself from huffing out finally as you hop off the stool.

Your landing is clumsy, the soles of your shoes slipping on the floor, but you barely find your footing before Viktor is on you.

His hands are already on your face, in your hair, his mouth glueing into yours, starving and rough. The kiss is all teeth and heat, his breath ragged, his hips pressing you back into the board as if he means to pin you there permanently.

"You’re a menace," he mutters between kisses, voice low, cracked. "Bože můj, you’ll make me lose my mind one day—"

You gasp against him, laughter catching on your tongue, but he swallows it down. Then he takes your wrist, firm and careful, and brings your hand to the front of his trousers, where he is hot and hard and straining.

“Look what you’ve done to me,” he breathes, forehead resting against yours, words trembling with restraint, rage, want—all of it. "Four days," he grits, biting your bottom lip gently before pulling back just enough to meet your eyes.

"Four days of you teasing me, torturing me—strutting around with those fucking lips and thighs and now this? No underwear?" He kisses you through it—messy, hungry, relentless. His lips smother yours again and again, every breath you try to take stolen from your mouth. His hands don’t know where to settle, roaming from your hips to your waist to your face like he’s desperate to feel everything at once, make up for the time lost.

You stumble backwards, and he follows, half draped over you as he walks you toward the nearest workbench, his hips grinding against yours with every step.

Breathless, you manage to smile again—still daring, still cocky, even now. "You reap what you sow."

“Cruel creature,” he growls into your mouth, words lost in the kiss. “You’ve won. Are you happy now?”

“So happy,” you gasp, catching his lower lip between your teeth. “It was unbearable. And you’re no better,” you add, voice low and accusing, “I hope you got burns from yesterday’s stunt.”

“I did,” he rasps, and his voice is a beautiful wreck of need. “And you’re going to lick me back to health.” Then, a pause. He pulls back just far enough to look at you properly, eyes half-lidded and wild, a grin curling his lips.

“But first,” he says, voice dark and deep, “get on that desk.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You haul yourself onto the workbench with a kind of grace that borders on indecent, your skirt bunching at your hips, legs parting. Viktor slots himself between them without hesitation, hands gripping your thighs like he’ll die if he doesn’t touch you, mouth dragging over your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, buttons of your shirt snapping open.

“Fuck,” he mutters with effort, as you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer. His hands slide beneath you, guiding your hips to grind into him, keeping you right where he wants you. One arm braces against the bench beside your hips; the other curls around your back, holding you steady as his lips find yours again.

Again, a lot of teeth, even more tongue, but you don’t care—you’ve missed those teeth and that tongue like an addict. You’ve missed the feeling of his hair between your fingers, his smell, the subtle scent of him that only reveals itself when you're this close. His hands, too, shaped as if they were made to cradle your body.

And then he’s fumbling with his belt, his breath fanning your cheek. And then—oh—you don’t even know when it happens, don’t even see if he’s bare under those pants, too busy staring at his lips, but he’s free and hard and leaking against you, resting at your entrance, his mouth breathing heavily. You twitch to meet him, but he holds you still, hips fixed in place like a statue, only his chest rising and falling.

His forehead presses to yours, jaw slack, eyes fluttering shut as he begins to sink in—deeper and deeper—stretching you out inch by inch. His breath trembles out of him in ragged exhales, mouth open in a silent moan until it finally breaks into sound—helpless and guttural.

“Oh, miláčku,” he breathes. “You feel—fuck—I’ve missed you.”

You’re clinging to him, nails digging into the fabric at his back, your head falling against his shoulder. It’s almost too much—he fills you completely, and still, he’s not all the way in.

And Viktor—Viktor looks undone already. His brow pinches at first, a flicker of pain or restraint, but it vanishes in the next breath. His face goes slack, lax. A visible, physical relief settles in his body the moment he bottoms out, hips flush to yours. He moans, long and loud, like this is the only thing that’s made him feel alive in days.

Your breath is nearly non-existent, lungs almost giving out, air caught somewhere in between them. It’s not just the stretch, though that alone is close to being too much, the sharp pull giving way to a fullness that borders on unbearable. It’s the heat of him, the weight, the press of his body. The air seems thicker now, like the room is holding its breath with you.

Your hands tremble as you clutch at his shoulders, trying to ground yourself, but there’s nothing grounding about this. Your nerves are alight, every inch of you humming with sensation—burning where he fills you, tingling where his chest brushes yours, where his breath ghosts across your skin.

You feel split wide open, every part of you drawn taut around him, and he hasn’t even moved yet.

“Gods,” you whisper, almost to yourself. “I almost forgot how much…”

Viktor lifts his head, his nose nudging yours, the smile he gives you helpless, crooked, all teeth and tenderness. “How much what?” he rasps.

You try to answer but it comes out as a gasp instead, the words dissolving as your body clenches around him. You feel the tremor run through him—see it, too, in the flicker of his lashes and the flex of his jaw.

He’s holding on, yet barely. You feel it in his grip, the way his fingers press into your skin, in the quiver of restraint in his thighs. And somehow, that makes it worse. Hotter. More intimate.

“You feel like—” you choke out, panting. “You feel like you’re everywhere.”

A low sound tears from his throat, somewhere between a groan and a plea. “That’s what I want,” he murmurs. “I want to be everywhere. I want to leave no room for anything else.” His hips roll—just once, shallow—and your mouth falls open, no sound coming out.

“Tell me,” he whispers, lips brushing your cheek, your temple, the shell of your ear. “Say you missed this. Say you missed me.”

You nod before you can form a word, tears prickling at your lashes from the intensity. “I missed you,” you gasp. “I missed everything. Please, let’s not do that again.”

His mouth finds yours again, fully desperate now, and finally—finally—he begins to move. And it’s deep, grinding in slow, restrained thrusts that have your breath stuttering with each pass. It’s all pressure and heat, dragging friction and stretch, every slide of his hips drawing out a gasp you can’t swallow, it just stumbles out.

His lips are on your neck, your jaw, your shoulder as his drool dampens your shirt, mouth panting hot between murmurs—fragments of words, your name, curses in Czech that sound like a praise.

“God,” he rasps, sweat slicking his forehead as he pulls out and sinks back in, slow, careful, so careful. “You’re so—tight, fuck—I can’t, I won’t—”

He cuts himself off with a grunt, hips shuddering against yours. The sound of him sliding inside you, wet and obscene, fills the small space between you. Each thrust makes it louder, harder to keep up.

“You’re not making this easy,” he growls against your ear, pressing in so deep your spine arches. “If you want me to last—touch yourself.”

You let out a shaky breath, not trusting your voice. But your hand slips between you, fingers working tight, trembling circles against your clit. And Viktor—Viktor moans when he sees it. His head drops to your shoulder, teeth scraping your skin through the fabric, sweat dripping from his brow, sinking into your clothes, as he starts to move again, even deeper this time, harder.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he hisses, watching you, wild-eyed. “Just like that—look at you.”

You shift, needing more, angling your hips, one foot propped up on the table’s edge for leverage, other leg hugging his side. It opens you wider, gives him more room, and he uses it—hips snapping forward, the slap of skin on skin filling the lab, occasionally knocking your hand off course.

The workbench creaks beneath you. His arm trembles where it braces beside your hip. His other hand is cupping your thigh, holding it high and tight, your body drawn up taut around his like a bowstring straining at the edge of release.

And still he doesn’t stop yapping—your name, praises, filth, words that blur together into a stream of breath and groans. “So wet for me,” he pants, thrusting deep enough to have you momentarily mute. You melt around him, every time he pulls out it’s like you’re begging him not to.

His eyes meet yours, glassy and undone, and you see it—that tight coil in his gut winding ever higher. His hips stammer, breath breaks, and he’s so, so close. And you are right there with him.

Shaking—hips bucking into your hand, legs trembling where the muscles can’t hold up any longer, every part of you stretched thin and burning. He’s not faring any better. His pace has lost its rhythm, faltering now, every thrust hitting deep but messy, like he’s chasing the edge and barely hanging in there.

“I’m—” you start, breath interrupting. “I’m close—almost—”

A sound breaks from him, torn from his chest. “Thank God,” he groans. “I’m so fucking close—baby, come for me.” A breath, and a pleading hand comes to cradle your neck. “Please,” he swallows, “be a good girl—”

And it’s that. That voice, those words, the begging, cracked raw and full of want—that shatters you into pieces. Your body clenches hard around him, every muscle tightening in a violent rush of release when you cum, mouth loud, nails biting into his back, forehead pressed to his as the string stretches and snaps, ripping you apart in a way only he can undo you.

And Viktor follows immediately—unable to hold back any longer. A hoarse sound like gravel, tears from his throat, and he thrusts once more, buried to the hilt as he spills inside you in hot, thick pulses of cum. His whole body shakes with it, his nose bumping into yours, mouth catching on your moan as he answers with one of his own.

Then, neither of you moves. You’re pressed together, heaving for air, clinging to each other like the world narrowed to this—slick skin, damp clothes, soft gasps, and the slow, sticky pulse of overstimulation setting in.

“Gods,” he mutters, voice barely there against your cheek. “You’re going to kill me.”

You laugh, breathless, threading your fingers through his damp hair. “Like-fucking-wise.”

A beat. Then, with a reluctant groan, Viktor draws back—slowly, carefully—pulling out of you with a hiss. The wet sound makes your stomach flip, and his eyes flutter at the loss of contact, still caught in that delicate haze of aftershock.

“You alright?” you ask, light and shaky. Your hand lifts to brush aside the hair clinging to his temple.

Viktor nods and swallows, clearly spent—tired but blissful. He leans in again, still softening, cock resting against your thigh as he presses back between your legs to kiss you. It’s a grateful kiss, deep and languid, like he doesn’t quite know what he’s thankful for—your body, your presence, or that the torment is finally over.

“You are so horrible,” he whispers fondly against your mouth. Then, quieter, more fragile, “I love you so fucking much.”

“Again, likewise,” you murmur, letting your legs slump off the table, heels swinging lazily against the backs of his calves. “You’re no warmonger though,” you hum, fingertips tracing the slope of his cheek, the swell of his bottom lip.

“No,” Viktor agrees with a tired smirk. “Death by my own sword. How ignominious.”

You grin. “I’m impressed with your tactics, though. You almost had me yesterday.”

“Shut up,” he groans, and cackles—rich and golden and still a little breathless. The sound is honey in your ears.  “You shouldn’t kick a dying man.”

“Not kicking,” you say, mock-innocent. “Just poking. And I died a little too, in case you didn’t notice.”

“Oh, I noticed,” Viktor says, smirking into the curve of your throat. “I’m tempted to make you die like that again, but I fear for my own sanity.”

“Me too.” You kiss his temple, your heart still thudding somewhere under your ribs. “I am completely and utterly mad about you.”

“Likewise,” Viktor breathes against your lips, smiling without shame, pleased beyond dignity. And you are so, so glad the war is finally over.

[lovelytsunoda]

beautiful girl (stay with me) | jake 'hangman' seresin

summary: the three lit jack-o-lanterns in their bay window shouldn't have been the lightscape to their sweetest, purest intimate moments, but hey, what happens on halloween stays on halloween.

pairing: jake 'hangman' seresin x girlfriend! reader

warnings: 18+ only, smut ahead! jake is a tender lover, fight god, not me, for he made the man and his mother raised him well!! sex on a couch. could be considered slightly exhibitonist but i dont really think so. two people in love wanting to make each other feel good.

author's note: i know this makes it two jake fics in one collection....but i saw this prompt and literally no drivers came to mind??? i feel real burned out with f1 right now and part of my rebrand is to establish myself as a writer for other fandoms that i enjoy, even though i know that f1 will always be my ride or die <3

as the last of the nights trick-or-treaters (this group mostly rambunctious high school students trying to make the most out of their last eligible free candy year, she guessed) descended down the interlock driveway, past jake's pickup truck and around her petite volkswagen, she began to bring the pumpkins inside, setting them down in her bay window. jake had already drawn the drapes, and was all to ready to lock the door.

they were barely able to go ten minutes along in their movie before the doorbells rang to interrupt, and while it irked them both greatly, y/n was more than happy to hand out little bars of twix and mars and kitkat to the neigbourhood children.

"they're gone." she said softly, fighting a yawn as her eyes found the little digital clock next to the flat screen television. "they stayed out later this year. weren't we finished by ten last year?"

jake rose from the couch, wrapping his beefy, warm arms around his girlfriend and holding her close, swaying softly from side to side. "they're getting smarter. when i was that age, i knew that the later i came, the better my chances of getting to run off with the whole bowl of chocolate were."

"so what i'm hearing is that you never stopped being a menace?" she laughed, lightly scratching the back of his neck with the tips of her press on nails. they were designed to look like blood dripping down her fingernails, but it had been a fight to keep them on all night.

"oh, babe, i've always been a menace." jake grinned, leaning in to kiss her softly.

call him insane, but fall always turned jake seresin into a sappy man. something about the way that the leaves changed color and his girlfriend looked cute in scarves and plaid.

"you look radiant this evening."

she raised her eyebrows. "i'm wearing beetlejuice pajama pants and a crop top with no bra, there's a zit on my chin and i only brushed my hair once today."

grinning, jake kissed her forehead before cupping her face in one of his large hands. "you always look radiant to me, y/n."

"you're such a sap"

"only for you, darlin'."

he kissed her again, broad smiles on their faces as he took her bottom lips in his, hands trailing over the fluffy material of her pants in order to sturdily grip her thighs and lift her into the air. she laughed into the kiss as he spun them around, his arms tucked behind her thighs to keep her in midair as he strode towards the couch, gently placing her down among the mountain of halloween pillows that were strewn across the furniture. a pumpkin shaped pillow from ikea found it's way behind her head, providing skull support while she stared lovingly into jake's blue-green eyes.

"i love you." he breathed, resting his forehead against hers. "happy halloween, beautiful girl."

"i love you too, jake." she giggled, pulling him in for a kiss. "happy halloween, my love."

with every kiss, she felt herself sinking further into the plush couch, jake's body gently rubbing against hers. her legs falling open, allowing the pilot to settle between her thighs. his touch was warm and comforting, and the living room had become quite the sensual environment: the dim lighting allowed the three pumpkins that were still lit to glow brightly from their place next to the bay window, and the orange fairy lights rimming the tv stand blinked calmly in the distance. the end credits of 'halloween ends' played soothingly in the background, 'don't fear the reaper' filling the space.

he nuzzled her neck, the cold tip of his nose sending shivers along her skin.

"how did i get so lucky?" he murmured, softly kissing her pulse point, one arm curling under her back and around her waist. "you are my everything."

she keened into his touch, back arching as she let out a heady moan.

"keep it coming, pretty girl. you know i love to hear it when i make you feel good."

his hands slipped underneath the waistband of her pants, strong hands tracing the outline of her festive panties.

black with orange jack-o-lanterns, if you must know.

"jake." she giggled, squirming under his touch. "baby, your hands are so cold."

jake winked at her. "i think i can fix that." he slid off the couch, striding over to the armchair by the flat screen, grabbing the tv remote from the coffee table on his way, switching the channel from the movie they had just finished to a stingray station playing soft rock. he grabbed the plush blanket from the back of the chair, stripping out of his t-shirt and moving back to the couch, footsteps heavy with purpose.

kicking off his slippers, he returned to his rightful place between his lovers legs, now bare as she dropped her velveteen pants to the hardwood floor. he unfolded the blanket pulling it around their bodies and over their shoulders.

his bare chest was warm against her clothed one, her nipples popping up underneath the ribbed fabric and standing to attention.

"better?"

"much."

"good." he spoke softly, brushing her hair out of her face before bending to kiss her again. one hand skirted over and up her thigh before deftly pushing aside the seat of her panties.

his ministrations were gentle, toying with her entrance. she giggled, squirming at the sensation when he slipped his pointer finger inside.

"atta girl. don't get shy on me, baby. i wanna see you."

there was a faint blush on her cheeks, her arms coming up to loop around his neck. her breathing was heavy as his finger darted up towards her g-spot, eliciting a small moan from the woman underneath him.

"feelin' good, sugar?"

"very." she beamed, leaning up to kiss him, hips canting towards his knuckles.

he kissed her forehead, eyes scanning her face and committing every detail to memory: the faint blush, the sweat beginning to form on her hairline. that sexy part of her lips, the steady rise and fall of her chest.

jake seresin was in love, truly madly and deeply.

"are you ready for me, princess?"

"always" she hummed, fingers brushing through his hair. "make me feel good, lieutenant."

jake smirked. "i will never ever get tired of hearing you call me that. just so you know."

"good." she beamed, leaning up to kiss him. "because i'm never going to get tired of saying it."

still kissing her softly, jake reached under the blanket, under his plaid flannel pants, pushing them down messily until they were gathered around his ankles and driving him absolutely mad with the thought that he would have to stop showering his girlfriend with love and attention in order to properly take them off (so obviously, he just decided to let them keep annoying him), so he could withdraw his aching member.

her thighs were coated in her slick juices, spilt everywhere from how messily jake had been fingering her and covering the seat of her panties. they were sticky and slick at the same time as jake pulled them down her legs, offhandedly casting them over his shoulder, where they landed on the arm of the couch with a wet thump.

he only teased her a little bit, rubbing the head of his cock over her entrance a few times before sliding in gently. her body welcomed him, fitting around him like a glove. she gasped in pleasure, arms tightening to pull him closer as her legs slid up his body and over his torso, her slightly dry toes caressing his spine as she settled in against him.

he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, mentally counting to ten. "my god, darling. you feel fucking incredible around me. this right here, this is my happy place. just you and me, skin to skin."

she laughed softly, thumb caressing his cheek. he keened under her touch, nuzzling deeper into her hand.

god, he could be such a softie sometimes.

"need a minute, tough guy?"

"i always need a minute, babe. you just feel so good that if i don't collect myself, this won't last very long."

his thrusts were slow and gentle, but deep as he filled every part of her, taking his time to make sure she felt as good as possible. he pushed her legs higher up his body, adjusting the angle in a way that rewarded him with a moan of his name.

"jake, oh god." she moaned, tugging gently on his hair. "you feel so good, baby. making me feel incredible."

"that's my sweet girl." jake smiled, kissing her neck as his hands massaged her thighs, hips still moving slowly, but with force and purpose. he could feel sweat dripping down his blonde locks of hair, falling, falling, falling to his lover's shirt, soaking into the fabric.

the plush blanket would soon feel too warm, body temperatures rising as he rocked into her. her fingernails scratched at the skin on his neck, moans exchanged into heated kisses as her hips canted upwards, trying to meet his thrusts.

"atta girl. take what you need from me, darling. that's what i'm fucking here for. to make you feel so so good." jake growled, nipping at her bottom lip. "i fucking live for it."

neither of them were quite sure how much time they spent on the couch that halloween night, baptizing it in their love. somewhere along the line, they lost the blanket, and jake was finally able to kick his pants off all the way.

and once they were certain nobody was outside and could peer in, they shifted positions, jake's back against the couch with yn perched on top of his lap like some kind of angel, her head pulled back as she whined, little ah, ah, ah's that made him feel weak in the knees while she rode him slowly, his hands placed gently on her hips to guide her.

"fuck, jake." she moaned, fingers trailing down to play with her clit. "i think i'm gonna come."

jake sat up straighter, pulling her body closer to his, pressing his naked form against hers, holding her tightly as he started to grind against her, his movements meeting hers.

"atta girl. almost there, come on baby. i've got you. jake's got you." he coaxed and cooed, doing his best to get her there.

she gasped, burying her face in his neck as she felt the feeling start to overwhelm her, the band in her stomach snapping. she moaned his name, almost falling limp in his arms as his fingers took over her movements, easing her through it to the best of his ability, feeling her release wash over his thighs. he came with a small groan and a curse, gently thrusting his hips up and allowing himself to spill inside of her.

god, he could get high off this feeling. (and it had taken them a while to get there, conversations riddled with little anxieties before she had agreed to let jake hit it raw, something he vowed never to take for granted. because her trust and her comfort meant everything to him.)

they kissed softly, a silhouette in the moonlight and the soft pumpkin glow, his thumbs gently drawing shapes on her skin. "hey pretty girl, why don't we go have a quick soak in the tub, i'll spot clean the couch, and then we curl up in bed and cuddle for a bit?"

she beamed, curling up against him. he was still technically inside her, which was slightly awkward now that his dick had softened, but he still wouldn't trade this soft moment of intimacy and love for anything.

"sounds magical."

yeah, this was definitely jake's best halloween ever.

[theoceansluvr]

Multi-Character x Nerd! Reader

warning; none except my endless yapping !! author's notes; *comically loud gulp* it's finals season so i decided to drop this before grinding my grades and whatnot😿 gave all the characters different random interests of mine sooo yay !

PERCY JACKSON- Flowers

i like to think percy is pretty neutral about flowers; not his favorite, but doesn't hate them

but when you stepped into the picture ? ALLLLL of that changed !

probably has a flower language book sitting on his bedside table just because of you to be totally fair

because of you, he buys really specific colors (or asks the Demeter cabin to grow him some) of flowers for you because of their meanings

for example, he ABSOLUTELY got you yellow tulips when he asked you out :3c

as much as he's a blue guy, he knows what they stand for (hopeless love) and thought it'd be sweet

sometimes you name a flower he knows NOTHING about like what on earth is an azalea ??

listens to you carefully regardless since he finds it cute how often you ramble about why orchids are associated with royalty

received flowers for the first time from you and he's kept them ever since, claims it's because he keeps forgetting to get rid of them but he's just a sap like that

very supportive of your interests and WILL stay up for hours to hear you talk !

ANNABETH CHASE- Astronomy

at first she thought you were talking about astrology and wasn't all that interested, but then she saw the massive amount of books you had on the stars and understood

dare i say she takes you on stargazing dates where you just point out all the constellations and all the stars we'll never see

has watched about 8 space documentaries in one week, and still isn't tired of it

also ! when ever she's drafting up home designs, she ALWAYS puts a room with a glass ceiling or balcony so you can put your telescope there

she swears it's just for the visuals but she not very good at hiding it(i love you sappy annabeth chase <9)

bought you one of those little star projectors when you guys moved into New Rome !

you guys also made paper lanterns of all the planets + pluto and hung them up on the ceiling since you rarely get to go out much one you go to college

speaking of pluto.. you guys didn't speak for three days over an argument over the basis of it being a planet or not. annabeth refuses to say it is because scientifically it's not, but you say it is because "emotionally it's a planet to me !" (real conversation i've had btw)

takes you to the planetarium whenever you guys have the spare time mainly just to see to get all animated over all the facts you've probably already told her

she absolutely adores you no matter how many times she's heard about all the dwarf planets..

CONNOR STOLL- Comics

deep in my heart he's a flash or spiderman nerd, so it's perfect !

safe to say, if you like anyone else, you guys might dispute who the best superhero is every other day- lovingly of course !

dates probably consist of walking around comic books shops and talking about your favs or reading them in your cabin

swapping off comics whenever you finish one so you can talk about them

has absolutely stolen merch for you on numerous occasions because he can he let the love of his life go without that batman mug ?

definitely makes up insane theories about what happens whenever his favorite character dies..

"no, no, no, he's gonna come back in the next one, trust me !" "con.. he literally blew up." "SO DID JASON TODD BUT HERE WE ARE"

dare i say y'all have matching spider man and gwen or batman and catwoman keychains ?

you probably got him really into young justice on accident because you mentioned him reminding you of wally west(PLS TELL ME SOMEONE SEES THE VISION-)

honestly, you guys are just nerd for nerd but he won't admit to it as easily

LEO VALDEZ- Sharks

scratch what i said about connor being nerd for nerd, you and leo are THE nerd for nerd couple !!

made you a wind up shark toy as a gift because he was bored, and it was basically a marriage proposal to you

has definitely fallen asleep to you talking about sharks before ! not out of boredom, just because he likes your voice

moving on ! y'all know those cardboard sharks people were making ? well, he made you a metal version of your favorite shark !

takes you to aquariums whenever he can, which is rare, but he thrives off of hearing you get excited.. like a kid in a candy store

he also has a crazy supply of gummy sharks in the bunker now for whenever you come over

he has also made you shark shaped string lights because why would he ever let you buy anything ?!

let's you cover his well, everything with shark stickers ! workbench ? sure ! festus ? might protests, but if festus like it, alright !

you told him he'd be a hammerhead shark, and he now has a keychain of one on his belt loop at all times

he rambles to you about mechanics, so in turn you talk about sharks; it's a win-win situation :3c

YAYYYYY PSOTING AGAIN AND IT'S ABOUT MY INTERESTS !!!! this was actually in the drafts for a minute and WAS supposed to drop saturday but i got impatient- love y'all and uhh see you after finals !

[op1umeyes]

Food for thought: secret relationship with Aaron. Not that you're trying to keep it a secret but neither of you were ready to tell the team and now it's almost a game waiting to see who figures it out. Either way even if your relationship was in the open I don't think hotch would engage in any romantic conversation or pda of any kind in the office or in the field BUT I raise you this the man is a not so secret nerd, he's well read, and certainly a romantic at heart...passing notes. Love notes scribbled on scrap paper tucked away at your desk to find. Little notes left in the books he lends you "this part reminded me of you" or even texts through the day just to say "I love you" plain and simple I could go on about this forever 🤭

HEGEHEHEGEHEHEHEH YES. TRUST AND BELIEVE THAT AARON IS A NERD AND A SAP.

Aaron took note of your favorite authors, songs, poets, and artists. Just a a casual pick-me-up (or rather Aaron hoped it helped lighten your mood), Aaron would use a designated hot pink sticky note to scribble out a little phrase from a poem you had been mentioning consistently. Then when you were off to lunch or just out, Aaron would tuck it neatly onto the bookmarked page of a book or file you were working on.

And you better believe he’d circle phrases (lightly) in pencil and write little notes in the margins of your shared books. If Aaron’s feeling particularly joking during the day, he’ll send you the link to Shakespeare’s sonnet 130 and say ‘Reminds me of you lol’. It makes you laugh every time.

And his texts during the day are so tooth achingly cute im in pain thinking about it/j. 😣😣 Aaron tends to stay away from his phone or most technology on a case, but you were involved- possibly too involved- on a case. Aaron watched your face light up as you read the message: ‘I love you, sweetheart.’

Can’t forget when you’re asleep at night and Aaron’s away for some fucking reason. He doesn’t get too detailed (he doesn’t need too!) but he’ll send you those: ‘You’re sleeping right now, so I wantes to let you know how much I’m in love with you’ texts, sleepily going on about everything about you.

And imagine making a shares playlist between you and Aaron :,). Or not even a shared playlist- you could just send Aaron a song during a boring day of paperwork. He’ll listen to it and think of you, looking at the lyrics and writing the song down for future reference just in case.

Another thing Aaron does is doodle. I know how ridiculous and absurd it sounds, but just little stick figures and a heart or a tiny recreation of a scene from a book you’d recently read. He doesn’t have time most days to actually give them to you, so he just tears them off and tuck the hot pink sticky notes and paper scraps of doodles into your desk and around your home to find for later :)

[theunconciousmind]

about me

୨୧ Make up your own name for me, I don’t care.

୨୧ I like reading, writing, watching films and shows, drawing, self care, fashion, norman reedus, makeup, video games, listening to music and my vinyls, and shit posting on here

୨୧ topics/things I enjoy: history, philosophy, occultism, mysticism, esotericism, fashion design and modeling, cults and religions, bdsm, literature, writing, movies and cinematography, zaza, photography, exploring, WW2, non current politics and political history, tattoo art, being a weird creepy fag, norman reedus, ancient history, 2000’s pop culture and anything y2k, weapons and guns, anything paranormal, poetry, and cars and motorcycles

୨୧ I freely block literally anyone

୨୧ my visionaries: lana del rey, norman reedus, lady gaga, vincent gallos, amy winehouse, paris hilton, jim morrison, snooki, marilyn monroe, tom hardy, shalom harlow, clara bow, gabriette, megan fox, jeremy scott, mads mikkelsen, aeysha erotica, and father john misty

୨୧ my favorite movies include: marie aintonette, the bling ring, buffalo 66’, lolita, priscilla, six ways to sunday, donnie darko, jennifers body, black swan, johnny 316, psycho, sixteen candles, fight club, boondock saints, lolita ( 1997 ), leon the professional, perks of being a wallflower, texas chainsaw massacre, american psycho, uptown girls, the phantom of the opera, the shining, saw, legends of the fall, the notebook, 500 days of summer, etc, etc… ( I have tons of other movies I really like but these are the ones I can’t live without )

୨୧ my favorite musicians: lana del rey ( and her unreleased obviously), die antwoord, air, alex g, lil wayne, chief keef, amy winehouse, crystal castles, father john misty, aeysha erotica, kendrick lamar, kmfdm, life lover, chet baker, johnny cash, deftones, j. cole, fiona apple, 50 cent, imogen heap, korn, lou reed, marina, a$sap rocky, modest mouse, 2pac, nancy sinatra, eminem, katy perry, ke$ha, ic3peak, hoffmanita, system of a down, nicole dollanganger, princess chelsea, weyes blood, elliot smith, big thief, adrienne lenker, black box recorder, norman reedus, sufjan stevens, boygenius, pheobe bridgers, ethel cain, faye webster, video club, machine girl, radiohead, the weeknd, led zeppelin, sade, cocteau twins, kanye west, the doors and jim morrison, childish gambino, the velvet underground, lady gaga, nicki minaj, sublime, the kinks, the smiths, korn, tool, type 0 negative, etc, etc… ( I listen to a LOT more artists but these are the ones I can’t live without )

୨୧ my favorite authors: ottessa moshfegh, earnest hemingway, donna tartt, vladimir nabakov, leo tolstoy, fyodor dostoevsky, j.d. sallinger, norman reedus, f. scott fitzgerald, anne rice, franz kafka, oscar wilde 

୨୧ my favorite fashion houses/designers: chanel, dsquared2, yves saint laurent, cartier, jean paul gaultier, jeremy scott, agent provocateur, chloé paddington, moschino, miu miu, paco rabanne, 

୨୧ my favorite artists and drawing inspiration: simone legno, akira uno, nell brinkley, fukai kuni, norman reedus, akami watabe, toko ohmori, vampberry ( on insta ), and gustave klimt

୨୧ my favorite/current shows: gossip girl, gilmore girls, breaking bad, the walking dead, supernatural, american horror story, south park, house md, buffy, devilman crybaby, castlevania, new girl, and real housewives ( I have plenty of other shows on my to watch list… trust )

୨୧ my discord is rosiedollie, I promise I’m somewhat nice and love talking to people so reach out if you want

୨୧ I have another blog for my writing and a03 works but it’s under heavy renovation so I’m waiting to tag that account in this post

୨୧ I also have other accounts such as a Spotify and Pinterest but again both are under renovation but I will also be putting those @‘s in this post when ready they’re ready

୨୧ I love my friends… top of my list, the sweetest girl in town: @fawnesque-vanillyee

@legoghini

[imagineitdearies]

~ A Flawed Eternity ~

(AKA drabbles set in the Perfect Slaughter universe.) Thanks to my new author discord community for voting on this one! 🩵

In which Tyrus walks in on Astarion's 'alone time.'

~

Even though they’d cleared the tunnel under the river, secured the fishing hut and passage to sneak into the House of Healing, and had a half-reliable map of the Gauntlet of Shar, the war council had delayed an infiltration for almost a tenday merely arguing over who would go.

With the colder weather creeping in and battles stagnating into standoffs, Tyrus supposed they foolishly thought they had time.

Morfred wanted a larger group to ensure they had enough support. Jaheira said no more than three highly-skilled individuals, to give them better chances at stealth. Ganyl simply wanted to go, even though his entire enclave was against risking their leader, and it took two meetings just to talk him down. Halfred didn’t think the quiet assassination plan of Ketheric Thorm was a good idea in the first place. They all worried that Ketheric’s brother, Malus Thorm, could be too tight-lipped or ignorant of the Gauntlet’s secret entrance to be worth the risk of fighting first.

Astarion had given up on attendance for the last two meetings. But as designated ‘Leader of the Vampires,’ however underqualified Tyrus felt he was for such a role, he felt obligated to attend. Just so he’d have updates to give Astarion and the spawn army below, really. He and Astarion had come up with the idea of a quiet assassination to avoid further bloodshed, so they were already guaranteed a spot in the party if and when it was approved. Halsin was a tentative third in Ganyl’s place, though Jaheira wanted it to be herself who struck Ketheric’s killing blow.

Now Tyrus felt close to giving up himself. He left the meeting before its scheduled end when Jaheira and Halfred started a shouting match about the risks of trying Ketheric's son at the Waning Moon Tavern instead, and Messaged Ganyl to send word if a decision had finally been made. Then he crossed the road past the armory, over the short bridge and around the small, cheery fountain in front of their temporary abode of late, the Last Light Inn.

Tyrus let out a plaintive sigh of relief the moment he was through the doors and could shrug off the sapping weight of the Cloak of Dragomir, avoiding the occasional beam of sunlight until he reached the stairs and could head down to the basement floor. Most of the rooms were used for storage—but at the end, built around the low docks the inn now used to receive war supplies from the east, were a couple of suites that looked directly out over the Chionthar.

He hadn’t expected to find Astarion in their suite, really. His partner liked to socialize a lot more than Tyrus ever did. In their short time here, he’d already been chatting with some soldiers at the inn’s bar, meeting more often with Halsin, and playing enough lanceboard he now could beat Tyrus if he focused hard enough. Astarion was used to crowds, to strangers, while Tyrus still found himself seeking the safety of four walls and a single locked door.

As he reached the door, however, Tyrus thought that safety must have been an illusion as his ears picked up Astarion’s voice, loud and seemingly in distress.

“Ah!—ah, gods—Tyrus!”

Tyrus wrenched the door open in a panic, hurrying inside—

—and was confronted with the sight of Astarion in a bath, pale face flushed, eyes squeezed shut, steamy water sloshing around the fast pace of his wrist under the water as he tugged at his pink, erect cock.

Tyrus stared. Even as Astarion’s eyes wrenched open bleary and wide, his hand freezing in the water, Tyrus couldn’t stop looking. He’d seen Astarion’s cock before so many times—but in his defense, it’d been months. Only feeling the shape of it in Astarion’s trousers when their kissing progressed further, only seeing Astarion’s bare body offhandedly as they dressed. Now Tyrus could also admire how much more lively Astarion’s skin looked despite still being pale, how his half-submerged, muscled middle had softened into looking less malnourished and dehydrated thanks to a healthy diet.

After another second, Astarion relaxed a bit. He waved toward Tyrus with the hand that had a moment before held a death-grip on the wooden tub’s edge, smirking as he huffed, “Could you close that, love?”

Tyrus’s momentary shock at the man’s beauty faded, then, in time for his rational brain to kick in. “I can come back later—?” he started to offer.

“No—no, I . . .” Astarion interjected, only to hesitate. His eyes trailed away for a moment, uncertainty lining his face. 

Tyrus retreated back to the door. “I don’t want to interrupt,” he spoke in earnest, and smiled at Astarion when the other vampire tentatively met his gaze again. “Truly—I’d much rather you enjoy yourself, like you’ve been wanting to.”

“Not quite like how I’ve wanted to,” Astarion scoffed, though a moment later the lines on his face faded. “No, stay here, darling. If you’d like to. I’m only imagining you here anyhow.”

“That’s quite different,” Tyrus pointed out, though he went ahead and shut the door, locking it for good measure before turning back to Astarion.

“Is it? I was just thinking of you interrupting me like this,” Astarion smirked, gesturing at himself. The hand in the water wandered back between his legs and began to lightly stroke as he sighed, “Though in my head I skipped the part where a whole conversation would be necessary for you to join. Bring a stool?” he nodded at the floor just next to the tub.

Tyrus didn’t hesitate to obey. He grabbed a small cushioned one in front of the sheet-covered mirror and placed it so he could sit just next to the tub’s head. His stomach swooped at being this close to Astarion—at watching him stroke himself again, bare and exposed save for the flimsy distortion of the sudsy water.

He wanted to touch him. He wanted to help, or at least kiss Astarion. But he wouldn’t dare do a thing without checking, given how impossible it’d been for Astarion to be sexually intimate since Cazador’s death.

And Astarion was such a pretty sight just to watch, with his eyes shutting again and dark lashes on display, pink lips slightly parted. Meanwhile, his small breaths and huffs of pleasure as he built back into a rhythm sounded sweeter to Tyrus’s ears than any melody. Even the smell of him was delightful. That smoky, musky perfume he always had a slight hint of at the palace was now much more refined and strong thanks to their shopping in the city. It was already a feast for the senses, if not all of them.

But when Astarion’s other hand extended just a bit past the tub, palm up, Tyrus was quick to take it and enjoy a sense of touch as well. Astarion hummed and pulled their clasped hands down into the water, flattening Tyrus’s palm to rub against his inner thigh. Tyrus gratefully mimicked the movement, and next let Astarion’s hand overtop his guide him to gently handle Astarion’s ball sack, eventually taking over to stroke his erection in tight, quick motions Tyrus still remembered the rhythm of well. 

Astarion’s hand stayed cupped around his throughout it all, continually guiding and keeping control even as he sighed, “Tyrus . . . uh, I’ve missed these hands . . .”

“Would you like it if I did anything else?” Tyrus murmured, after another minute of nothing but stroking and listening to Astarion’s heavy breathing.

Astarion’s eyes shot open, head lifting to regard Tyrus with a furrowed brow. His hand slowed Tyrus’s to a stop. “Such as?”

Tyrus bit back the assertion of Anything, anything at all. Giving actual ideas would probably be more helpful, if Astarion didn’t have his own. “Kiss you. Your lips, your neck,” Tyrus started with. “Or . . . here,” smiling as his thumb idly swiped over the head of Astarion’s cock and his partner visibly shuddered in response. Letting his voice go a bit lower, as he pointed out, “I don’t need to breathe, after all.”

“Fuck,” Astarion swore, then gave a short, barking laugh. “This is what four months of celibacy has done to my sweet, virtuous partner? I didn’t think you even liked that sort of activity, darling.”

“I haven’t ever tried it, technically. At least not of my own accord, so,” Tyrus shrugged. 

The air went somber ever-so-slightly at his words. 

"Shall I?" Tyrus asked in hopes of dispelling it.

“Not this time, my love,” Astarion sighed, starting to move Tyrus’s hand again around him. “But . . . yes—kiss me, please. I think I just need a little bit more of something—”

Tyrus wasted no further time. They’d kissed goodbye only hours ago when he left for the council meeting, but it’d been more than a tenday since Astarion had kissed him like this. One of their first nights in this inn, in fact, before he’d grabbed one of Tyrus’s wandering hands by the wrist and ended things rather abruptly. But whatever else Tyrus did or did not feel in the mood for otherwise, he never got tired of kisses—Astarion’s free hand cupping his jaw close, lips so passionately pressing and sliding against Tyrus’s, tongue darting out to taste and in return welcoming him in.

His instinct was to bury his free hand in Astarion’s curls, but Tyrus gripped the tub’s edge instead. He didn’t want to risk the wrong touch ending this lovely, easy moment. Not when Astarion was so clearly enjoying his other hand’s touch at the moment, hips bucking up and splashing the water a bit more.

Sometime later, a small moan escaped Tyrus when Astarion slid his hand back to tightly cup the nape of his neck, angling Tyrus’s head for an even deeper, all-consuming kiss. Astarion’s hand tightened a bit further around Tyrus’s in the water, so he sped up his movements even more—and groaned with Astarion as the other elf wrenched free of their kiss and threw his head back, shouting “Tyrus!” shakily, his cock pulsing in Tyrus's grip, his spend streaking in the water as the press of his bent legs made the wooden tub slightly creak in protest.

Tyrus kissed down Astarion’s neck and bobbing adam’s apple, slowing his strokes with the guidance of Astarion’s hand as Astarion breathed harshly through the aftershocks. When at last Astarion released his grip on Tyrus in the water, head resting against the tub again, Tyrus went back to gently stroking his smooth inner thigh. He rested his forehead against the other man’s clavicle, listening to them both breathe for a moment before whispering, “Alright?”

Astarion huffed—and then he began laughing. A soft, lighthearted, warm sound Tyrus couldn’t help but smile at, and hoped never to forget as Astarion’s chest lightly shook underneath him. Then Astarion’s wet arm emerged from the water and wrapped around Tyrus, pulling him in just a bit closer despite the awkwardness of the tub between them.

“Oh, besides a sore wrist of late,” he chortled, laying his cheek against Tyrus’s head when his giggling finally stopped. “I did start to find some enjoyment, even managed an orgasm the last two times, though. And this? Hmm . . . this is nice.”

Tyrus smiled wider against his chest. Of course, after another minute his back twinged and he regretfully had to pull from Astarion’s embrace—but was grateful his partner quickly dried off and joined him on the bed, despite the fact only Tyrus still needed a trance.

Once they'd both changed and his lover was spooning him snugly from behind, Tyrus thought to ask, “Have there been other things you like to imagine? Any specifics that I should take into account?”

The entire line of Astarion’s body froze up behind him. “I . . . I wouldn’t say there’s much I’m sure about acting on, darling,” he said in a slow, careful voice. “It’s been hard enough just to imagine sex without the thought of a customer, or him, intruding. Once that’s less an issue, I—I should be back to normal.”

“Normal,” Tyrus huffed, shaking his head and hugging Astarion’s arm a little closer to his chest. Being around relatively ‘normal’ people of late had taught Tyrus just how far off he and anyone else from the spawn colony were likely ever to be from such an ideal. “But hand jobs with you guiding me, would you say that goes on the safe list?” he stipulated.

Astarion was quiet for a moment. Then he kissed the tip of Tyrus’s ear, repeating, “The safe list, what a sad state of affairs—but yes, I’d call that a success. We’ll have to see about your mouth. And perhaps, if you’re up for it, I think I'd enjoy some unconventional stimulation, just skin-to-skin.” A beat of silence, then Astarion’s voice came out so soft and uncertain, almost afraid, as he admitted, “I . . . I’d still like a break from anything so performative as full intercourse, if that’s alright . . . and, if you can forgive it, I may still just need time, before I can offer attentive service to you, love . . .”

Tyrus twisted under Astarion’s arm so he could face him—but only to wrap his arms tightly around him, tucking his chin into the crook of Astarion’s neck. Declaring, gently but firmly, “There’s nothing to forgive, and no service to worry about. You have always been so giving, love." Even more softly, he coaxed, "Now, let’s take care of you for a while?”

Tyrus felt his partner’s body shudder in his arms. Then, increment by increment, Astarion melted into the embrace.

“Gods, I do love you,” he whispered in answer.

[shoegazingmonad]

Just been going through all of the artist + author commentary again and whilst I was musing on what the coloured dream bubbles represented (kindly noted to be Violet, Maroon and Sea foam by Haven)

They go ahead and say this:

And they make a joke about it again on the commentary for their first appearance.

There's been foreshadowing for the Deltritus kids so far back as March 2024, and I somehow skimmed over it without noticing...

6 Flowers for 6 kids. There's proof for this in the window design of the sbahj joke from November's writer commentary too as @nolonger100daysoftavvyfanart pointed out.

So - it looks like we've got 3 of Rose's species, as indicated by the colours names, Violet, Sea foam and Maroon (which as a verb means to be put ashore on a desolate island or coast) and the dream bubbles which we know to be created by Horrorterrors. This heavily suggests that GC isn't a satyr.

To the side there are 3 more flowers; blue / grey, purple, and green / yellow. These are likely to be Dirk's species.

There's also some bubbles here, though I'm not sure whether these are linked to the flowers or not, since they don't match up all that well. They look a lot like Rose and Terezi's colours if anything.

As for the flowers themselves, it's pretty hard to tell due to how simplistic they are, and all of the below are well-researched guesses. The flowers I was more sure of fell into the category of birth flowers, too, which a lot of flower symbolism sites claim is a tradition carried on from Ancient Rome, which Deltritus is looking to take inspiration from. I'm assuming that they might fit into that somehow, since there's not that many flowers with mythology that perfectly resemble them but I'm not gonna strictly adhere to it.

but anyway, from left to right here's what I've got.

1st (GC's):

Violet (perhaps coastal or arrowhead?) - (sapphic) love, honesty, protection and dreams. Cognate with 'iodine', a contact explosive that releases a purple cloud of vapor when detonated, as they share origin from the Greek word iōeidēs "violet-colored".

Mentioned a few times in Sappho's poems, one about a lost love "Close by my side you put around yourself [many wreaths] of violets and roses.", in another one she describes her as wearing "violet tiaras, braided rosebuds, dill and crocus twined around". A poem between her and Alcaeus (another poet from Lesbos) has him describe Sappho as "violet-weaving". It's also one of the February birth flowers.

or

Purple Lilac - first love, new beginnings / rebirth (regardless of colour), genus name 'Syringa' comes from the greek word 'Syrinx' meaning pipe or tube, calling back to the 'gavage' (force-feeding) in their chumhandle. Syrinx was also the name of a nymph in greek mythology, who 'had many times attracted the attention of satyrs' and was known for chastity.

2nd:

Poppy - eternal sleep, peace, sacrifice, honour and remembrance. The sleep association usually comes from it's link to opium, a sedative. They can also rebloom after long periods of staying dormant, linking them with rebirth. They're also mentioned in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz in reference to this fact, as there's a poppy field that can make the characters sleep forever. The name might be imitative of the latin word "pap-" "to swell", or even "pappa" - "milk", as their sap resembles it. It is one of the August birth flowers.

It's associated with Morpheus, God of sleep, Demeter, God of harvest, agriculture, fertility, and sacred law, Venus Goddess of love, sex and fertility - just a handful of them. Demeter created the flower to bring her sleep so she could forget her grief after Hades abducted Persephone, and ancient Greeks offered poppy seeds in their rites to Ceres to ensure a bountiful corn harvest. There was a tradition of putting a poppy petal in the left palm and striking the petal with their right hand to determine faithfulness. If I pasted all of the relations it has to gods this would be way longer than necessary so besides that briefing you can find out all about that here.

or

Anemone - forsaken sickness, brevity, withered hopes, anticipation. From Greek anemonē "wind flower," literally "daughter of the wind," as anemos "wind" + one feminine patronymic suffix.

Before talking about the details I just want to mention that on the panel there isn't the white ring around the center that anemones usually have - which you'd think would be necessary as it's a very defining part of the flower even though there are some without it. I believe this was to avoid muddling it with the grey on the fourth blue flower, which based on the colours of the other flowers, represents Calliope. Despite including the poppy here too I'm more sure it's an anemone, as the mythology is a little more specific, the drawing just throws me off a little. Okay back to the interesting part.

As Wikipedia so kindly puts it:

The Metamorphoses of Ovid says that the plant was created by the goddess Aphrodite when she sprinkled nectar on the blood of her dead lover Adonis, suggesting the frailty of the petals that can be easily blown away by the wind. "Anemone" may also refer to Nea'man, the Phoenician name for Adonis, from an earlier Syrian myth of the god of vegetation, who was killed by the tusks of a wild boar. The common name windflower is used for the entire genus.

3rd:

Peony (probably Wild Peony, as it's native in Greece and looks similar) - bashfullness, compassion, good luck, prosperity, a happy marriage. From Greek paionia (fem. of paionios), may be from Paiōn, name of the physician of the gods (likely Apollo in this case). Probably named from paean "hymn of praise, song of triumph;" due to the plant's healing qualities. Prefers cool climates and can last up to a hundred years (depending on the conditions). The roots of wild peonies were ground to a powder and used to treat colds and sore throats. It is one of the November birth flowers, and is often a flower given during a twelth wedding anniversary.

Mischievous nymphs were said to hide in the petals of the peony, giving it the meaning of shame or bashfulness.

Some site talks about "a nymph called Paeonia, who was so attractive that Apollo, son of Zeus, fell in love with her. This irked Aphrodite, goddess of beauty and love, who became jealous. She turned Paeonia into a flower." and "In one of the myths, the peony got its name from Paeon, the physician to the Greek gods. He was the apprentice of Asclepius who is the god of healing and medicine. Paeon is believed to have discovered a root that could help relieve the pain of childbirth. His master, jealous that Paeon would soon eclipse his popularity, vowed to kill him. Zeus turned Paeon into a peony flower to save him from certain death." though I can't find where either of these came from.

or

Myrtle - glory, home, honor, a bloodless victory. Another flower associated with Aphrodite, who's name Hesiod derives from aphrós "sea-foam".

Thanking Wikipedia again for not making me scavenge a bunch of vague flower websites:

Two myths are connected to the myrtle; in the first, Myrsine was a chaste girl beloved by Athena who outdid all the other athletes, so they murdered her in retaliation. Athena turned her into a myrtle, which became sacred to her. In the second, Myrina was a dedicated priestess of Aphrodite who was either abducted to be married or willingly wished to entered marriage in spite of her vows. In any case, Aphrodite turned her into myrtle, and gave it fragrant smell, as her favourite plant.

In Rome, Virgil explains that "the poplar is most dear to Alcides, the vine to Bacchus, the myrtle to lovely Venus, and his own laurel to Phoebus." At the Veneralia, women bathed wearing crowns woven of myrtle branches, and myrtle was used in wedding rituals. In the Aeneid, myrtle marks the grave of the murdered Polydorus in Thrace. Aeneas' attempts to uproot the shrub cause the ground to bleed, and the voice of the dead Polydorus warns him to leave. The spears which impaled Polydorus have been magically transformed into the myrtle which marks his grave.

4th:

Delphinium - flight of fancy, happiness, reaching for your goals, attracting new opportunities. Also known as Lark's spur or Knight's spur. Comes from the Greek word for dolphin (delphis), similar to the word for womb (delphys). Some sites say it's associated with Apollo as a delphinium sprung from Ajax's blood, and also because Delphi is the site of Apollo's temple. Mythologically the city name comes from Delphyne, a she-serpent who was the foster mother of Typhon. They're poisonous to humans and livestock, and peasants used to carry them to protect themselves against Scorpion stings. It is one of the July birth flowers.

Returning to the topic of dolphins, there's a lot of myths about those too. Mentions here they were associated with Poseidon; which sounds a little irrelevant but apparently he was the God of horses? Which suddenly makes it feel pretty relevant.

The cool dolphin site says "In one myth about Poseidon, dolphin messengers were sent to bring him a nymph he loved, who he later married. As a reward, he set the dolphin in the sky as a constellation." and "Once, some pirates captured the god Bacchus or Dionysus who confused him with a Prince, with the intention to ask for ransom. Dionysus raged and turned the ship’s oars into snakes, which frightened the pirates and made them jump into the sea. However, the god had mercy on them and decided to turn them into dolphins so that from then on they would help men."

5th:

Purple Rose - allure, respect, mystery, wealth and royalty. Associated with Aphrodite. In the Iliad, Aphrodite protects the body of Hector using the "immortal oil of the rose" and the archaic Greek lyric poet Ibycus praises a beautiful youth saying that Aphrodite nursed him "among rose blossoms". There's also an account of a sanctuary to the Charites (three sisters who attended to Aphrodite) made of wood, showing them holding a rose, a die (huh...) and a branch of myrtle. It is one of the June birth flowers.

6th:

Primrose (Evening Primrose or Water Primrose, though despite the name they aren't actually closely related) - inconstancy, friendship and good will. From Medieval Latin prima rosa - "first rose". Apparently there's an English superstition that if you bring any home it has to be 13, and that any more or less brings bad luck. It is one of the February birth flowers.

In Greek mythology, the primrose was linked to the goddess Persephone. According to the myth, when Persephone was abducted by Hades, her mother Demeter plunged the world into darkness and despair. However, when Persephone was allowed to return to the surface, Demeter’s joy brought forth the blooming of primroses, signaling the return of spring and the revival of nature.

or

Wood Poppy? which would entail all the same symbolism I previously mentioned but with the added meanings of weath and success.

This took about 4 days for me to conclude so I'm praying on the downfall of whoever decided to make these so abstract and style accurate.

Onto other details now; the flowers (which I brought up earlier) also have the colours of Roxy, Calliope, Kanaya and Jade on them. GC's has Roxy's colour on it, the sea foam one has Kanaya's, the blue one has Calliope's and the green / yellow one has Jade's.

As of now this could really mean anything - maybe it's to show which are gonna be the omega kid's patron... things as one of them is GC's, or maybe it's classpect related. There's a chance it's ideological too as they say this-

-in the artist's commentary, but there's still no evidence for that as of now.

We'll probably get to see these kids next month since Candy's just had it's big important plot climax and this update came out in March. Looking forward to seeing these little freaks of nature...

[uraharashouten]

hey silk, idk, i bet you have already posted about it, given the age of your blog, but i was trying to find an answer to this and simply can't seem to find it, so i thought why not ask *the* person who i am sure knows it all.

i know how you can get a soul out of a gigai (normal human body or artificially created by kisuke). but *how* does a soul get into a gigai? what would ukitake have to do to step into his gigai? i don't think i have ever seen / read how that works.

all i've ever known is how ichigo swallows the kon pill or how rukia uses the glove to separate his soul from his body but not the other way around, how to get back into his body.

Thank you for the meta question! I have actually never written about this.

Unfortunately, in terms of canon examples, nothing has come to mind. The closest we get is in Everything But the Rain.

Kisuke introduces Isshin's Gigai...

Isshin prepares to enter it...

Then we get the whole bit with him saving Masaki in her inner world, and the next time we see Isshin, he's in the gigai:

(He must have put on that green pullover after entering it.)

So... I don't think we ever see a shinigami entering a gigai in canon (though if anyone thinks of an example, please leave a comment!).

Edit from the future: We do see Ichigo re-enter his body!

Most roleplayers and fic authors have gone with fanon that one simply steps in. We can imagine some reishi supremacy going on here; we know a strong soul can cause a physical body to do things it otherwise can't, as Kon does for Ichigo's body, so it probably is just a matter of aligning the konpaku with the artificial body with the intent to operate it, and it simply works. Bleach runs on willpower.

Now, supposedly, if that's not enough, one may use a Sōma Fixer (内魄固定剤　(ソーマフィクサー) to help synchronize with their gigai. Supposedly...

Although it is worth pointing out that we may take whatever Kisuke tells Rukia about Sōma Fixers with a grain of salt, because we know her gigai was specifically designed by him to sap her reiatsu and keep her shinigami powers from returning, as he'd hidden the Hōgyoku inside her konpaku and did not want her to be findable by anyone in Soul Society. (Spoiler alert: it didn't work, because Hiyosu is a freak who watches human television and happened to see her on the Don Kanonji show.)

Moreover, the name should tip us off: anyone who's read Brave New World will recognize Soma as the drug that keeps all the artificially-conceived citizens happily in their lane and not asking too many questions. Perhaps Kubo's read that book. In any case, we never hear of any other shinigami using Sōma Fixers ever again, so it is also entirely possible that they were only a placebo he sold her, so that when she ultimately could no longer exit her gigai, she would blame herself.

Side note: It's usually a mistake to generalize "information" we get in Bleach too early from special cases and unreliable narrators.

[kiritila]

Are you still gonna be updating no one saw me?

this is such a long time overdue, but since ive been away so long i figured this would be a good way to address everything, like whats been happening in my life and my future plans for no1sm for everyones clarity.

to put it shortly, i work full-time, and have done for nearly 2 years now. i am a product designer and i work monday-friday, 9-5. i attend a full day of college classes once a week, this day being even longer than a work day, and on top of that i have a personal work-based tutor that i have to complete work for as well. so in terms of professional obligations, im extremely busy. in my personal life, ive been seeing friends a lot, running errands, planning for weddings, parties, buying a car, SO MANY THINGS. my life has been so hectic.

ive also been suffering some health problems recently. my earliest or readers that are close friends probably know i began writing no1sm to vent my feelings about trauma i underwent, and this obviously still affects me quite greatly alongside depression and anxiety. ive also been suffering quite badly with insomnia and fatigue problems, as well as, embarrassingly, moderately bad eczema.

perhaps the most ridiculous development of all: I AM NOT CURRENTLY HYPERFIXATED ON SOUTH PARK. SHOCK HORROR. BUT PLEASE DONT PANIC: it is still my spin, stan and kyle are still my most favourite characters ever, and most of all i still ENJOY south park and enjoy thinking about, planning, and writing no1sm (when im not completely utterly knackered). ive actually recently gotten majorly into formula 1 as a result of my friends, so if there are any f1 fans following me PLEASE SAY HI!!!!! i plan to do art for it but i have been busy and im also very much a perfectionist. (FYI: my favourite driver is max verstappen. no questions asked. i also love charles daniel lando oscar and honestly most drivers on the grid. i love niki lauda james hunt seb vettel and jenson button. i had a brief mclaren tooned hyperfixation. I AM CURRENTLY INCREDIBLY DEPRESSED OVER DANIEL RICCIARDO LOSING HIS SEAT)

anyway.. getting back on track.

AM I STILL GOING TO BE UPDATING NO1SM?

YES. YES YES A MILLION TIMES YES. i dont know when, but this story is something i have to complete for myself and for you guys. i realised i was putting myself under so much pressure for it to be perfect that it sapped the love i felt for it from me. now that i no longer have visible eyes on me waiting for updates on twitter, i feel much freer and relaxed with it. i dont know how or when, but yes, the story will be completed. do not ask me about the kyle prequel ive planned though DONT DO IT.

i also dont plan on posting about updates anywhere other than tumblr going forwards. ive since moved on from the twitter south park fandom where i was most active, as i felt like i was too old to be in a fandom of minors and the discourse was simply too much. so i decided to move to a fan space and sport that is a million times worse but still somehow has been better for me. so if you still want to follow me on twitter even though i dont south park post anymore, you can follow me at @vrstappns :)

WILL NO1SM HAVE AN UPDATE SCHEDULE?

NO. sorry, my mental health and my career comes first. i want to try and find a better balance that leaves me time to write but im afraid i need time to ease myself back in after so long off and theres no guarantee how long that will take me.

WILL YOU STILL BE MAKING ART FOR NO1SM?

YES. I HOPE. who knows when though cause i havent been able to draw in a long time and im still pissed off that i cant draw max verstappen as easily as i could ever draw kyle broflovski.

AM I ALLOWED TO USE YOUR STORY AND WRITE THE ENDING FOR MYSELF?

NO. PLEASE DO NOT DO THIS. as much as other authors may encourage this I REALLY DO NOT LIKE THIS. you dont know how much work i have put into this fic as well as how much of my own life and traumas are embedded between the lines of writing. this fic is practically half of me in the same way my parents’ DNA is a part of my make-up. not to sound rude but to even think you could possibly imagine how i intend for this fic to resolve and end when you dont even know me is laughable.

HOW WILL THE INTENSE HOMOSEXUAL RIVALRIES OF FORMULA ONE INFLUENCE THE INTENSE HOMOSEXUAL RIVALRY OF STAN AND KYLE GOING FORWARDS?

im sure 2019 charles leclerc and max verstappen guided carefully by brocedes and james hunt and niki lauda will figure something out. maybe not brocedes actually i am unsure if i want stan marsh to end up like nico rosberg. but i guess he is a good youtuber too and has great hair which is two things stan is NOT. gay loser. also david coulthard and sebastian vettel are there somewhere. GAY RED BULL RACING WILL LEAD US TO WORLD PEACE

thank you so much for reading, i know youve all probably moved on with your life but its a weight off my chest to finally write this out. i love this fic and i love that you all love this fic, if you are still here. i can only apologise for how long ive made you all wait.

please just have patience with me,

thanks muchly,

mike (formerly marshplaylist) vrstappns

[saint-vagrant]

heyyy, somehow gained many new followers recently. thank you very much for enjoying my work! in light of that, let's do a small introduction.

i'm Seosamh Dáire, or you can call me joe. he/him • sé/é only. transsexual butch man and leatherdyke ✦ fear tras/aiteach agus gearrán 🐗

i'm a painter, comic author-illustrator, web/html artist, petty designer, smalltime archivist, passionate marxist. i like anime and virtual pets both from ~1990. as someone working primarily with past decades, i'm interested in broadening our ideas of time/place and who was in it. pro-palestine, native rights and strong proponent/student of irish-native solidarity, blm, roma, the works (uninterested in debating these topics!)

i make trans gay art for perverts and i was recently an artist in residence in the Burren, focusing on traditional paintings and reflecting/writing on being Queer In The Land.

SUPERPOSE: the tremendous dark trans sci-fi comic i make with my life+work partner Anka @kingfisher-cove . take a look! this project is my whole LIFE, and almost every piece i make pertains to it, so if you're unsure of who or what my images are of, that's a safe bet. the comic is recommended for mature readers. here's a brief synopsis,

An ongoing queer sci-fi horror comic about physics.

On the Atlantic coast, in a town called PORT CITY— “a place out of time”

While a tourist destination boasting a popular beach and boardwalk, Port City is also home to ROMAN LABS, an aerospace-turned-tech company now floundering in the tech boom.

Rafael and Royal are each listless in their own lives as longtime locals with little mobility, whose orbits have only occasionally overlapped, until now. Turning a job at the lab into a last-ditch effort for a glimpse of a more equitable future brings Royal and Rafael together, and beaches Kas, a young physicist, on Port City’s shores.

Together they seize the opportunity to alter their future and carve out a place in time for themselves, finally shaking the town and their lives from standstill. Changing history begins with the machine.

(also a supplementary web art/ARG aspect, using flat digital spaces to create a sense of 3d depth and narrative.)

SUPERPOSEBLOG @superposeblog is the repository for all updates and news about the comic.

198X.LOVE our homepage & portfolio

PATREON is where i share most of my work first, early comic pages, WIP, process and thoughts and other resources. it's a direct way to support mine & my partner's work. we are an independent team of two and i'm sure you can appreciate the effort and dedication to managing our practise as well as life obligations. for one-time support, there's also ko-fi. thank you!

i've also begun a new, as of yet unnamed 18+ comic about trans disposability/sapped as a resource + weird blood + nuclear war. so look out for that next year 😘

[suchi05]

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Read more: https://togglenow.com/services/sap-audit-services/

[decepticons-one-half]

Icon and reference commission for the Decepticon Air Medic Night Mare (that's me~), by SidVenBlu.

The thing about being a plural fanfic author is that sometimes you plan to have an OC or elaborated-upon version of a character show up in future installments of your Transformers x Ranma ½ crossover, and sometimes that character loudly declares that she's going over to the Decepticons because they have less of a problem with her being a qi-draining ikiryō headmate who stole a clone body so she could continue exercising her idea of protecting the system's host.

TECH SPECS:

STRENGTH: 7 INTELLIGENCE: 8 SPEED: 9 ENDURANCE: 7 RANK: 4 COURAGE: 8 FIREPOWER: 5 SKILL: 10

"Night Mare" is the designation that Tendō (née Saotome) Ranma's obsessive yin-focused headmate took on after her system host decided to take the plunge and swap in a Biànxíngjīngāngnīchuan (Spring of Drowned Transformer) curse after transitioning by way of locking her previous Jusenkyō 'curse'. Thanks to Ranma's plurality being expressed in cursed form as a mitotic spark, the headmate previously known as Botan was able to hijack a GT System body meant for Skyfire, putting herself into a separate body linked via subspace connections to her system of origin. After some modifications to suit her gender identity and color preferences, Night Mare has signed on with the Decepticons as an Air Medic.

Night Mare's Stonewell/Bellcom F-19 'Einheri' alternate mode offers adaptability thanks to its variable-sweep wings, while her innate ability to sap energy on contact combines with her system's martial arts experience to make this nominal medic a formidable combatant. Her relatively poor ranged weapons and the melee-focused nature of her combat skills forces her to crash mid-air into opponents in order to engage, and she is both easily distracted by her obsession with Ranma and affected by a need to occasionally shunt her part of the system's spark back into the host body, leaving her Seeker frame in stasis. Ultimately, her main assets as a Decepticon are the combination of skills she brings from her shared spark, and her familiarity with Earth's more magical and paranormal aspects.

Night Mare sees herself as the protector of Ranma (AKA "Horsepower"), and is more than willing to take extreme measures to ensure that. She's snuck in to kidnap Ranma to a remote location on more than one occasion, insisting it's for her host's own good. Even with a peace struck between the Autobots and Decepticons, she's managed to get away with this on the grounds that she was acting on her own. A creature of many appetites, Night Mare has been written up more often for over-energizing on cheap fuel and distracting the rank-and-file with 'serial and group interfacing' sessions—a disruptive influence that has led Shockwave to assign her to a team with the religiously-minded Sunstorm and similarly supernatural Watersky in an attempt to keep all of his headaches in one place.

[mejcinta]

HOTD S2 Episode 4 Review: OK, let's do this.

1.“I love my grandsire!” Lil Oscar Tully you are PRECIOUS!

2. “The only reason we know any of this is because of Baela’s efforts.” Look, I might just be slowly becoming a Jace shooter, lol. Especially if he continues justifiably challenging Rhaenyra’s reckless political choices idk.

3. “That castle is more crippled than I am, Your Grace.” Larys can be funny. I find it very interesting that he speaks of the ‘sapping’ nature of Harrenhal that takes up people’s mental faculties, which he supposes is already happening to Daemon. I wonder if this is a setup for what Aemond will sort of be unable to escape when he takes Harrenhal????

4. Aegon and Aemond tussling like siblings at the war strategy board was kind of adorable. On a serious note, however, it is BAFFLING witnessing how absolutely everything happens behind Aegon’s back and everyone undermines his authority. The council is rudderless and it quite frankly never felt that way for me in the book. This is overkill. I cannot suspend my belief.

5. Poor green council members always have to suffer Aegon and Aemond’s bratt-offs on the daily. It’s comical.

6. Aegon really cared so little to learn of his Targaryen heritage because for the longest time he felt disconnected and hated by Viserys who should’ve no doubt walked him through it using love, approval and attention as a means. He understands High Valyrian but bothers little to speak it. He is rebelling against his oppressors by not cooperating while Aemond rebels by perfecting and showing off. It really shows how they coped with Viserys’ neglect, their rivalry aside.

7. Daemon following Aemond’s phantom and encountering Alys Rivers. Very interesting! She definitely already knows about Aemond and the role he will play in the near future. Taking my Alysmond crumbs and running with them.

8. “YOU BORE ME. YOU ALL BORE ME.” Kingie, please. Chill!

9. “Do simply what is needed of you. Nothing.” Alicent does realize that Aegon isn’t pliable, submissive and passive like Viserys was, doesn’t she????? Aegon actually wants to DO something, not to be held captive by the designs of people in the shadows. And while his view might seem naïve it does show more initiative and drive than sitting and waiting to be controlled the way Viserys was with Otto. Also, you’d expect this amount of desperation from a father that’s grieving after his CHILD’S murder!!!!

10. “Grown tired of living?” Gwayne continues to make me laugh.

11. And Criston has been surreal as a hands-on, experienced battle commander so far. Love that for Fabien. I feel like respect is finally being put to Criston’s name.

12. Jace and Aegon both being their momma’s firstborns sons and being underestimated by them because of their youth, naivety and inexperience. I’m loving these parallels!!!!

13. SUNFYRE and Aegon playing in the dragonpit was so cute to watch. He’s like a golden retriever and Aegon pats him like a doggy. Sunfyre’s pink flames...amazing!! We’ve lost them way too soon, saw them for so short a moment!!!

14. Aegon really seems to be ‘stumbling upwards’ like Steve Toussaint once said. Charging into war unannounced so that he literally appears as protector of the realm, almost successfully killing his rival when he permits Arryk to impersonate Erryk, buying the approval of the smallfolk by offering free drinks in bars, surviving dragon fire… He is building something of a reputation for himself and it’s all by accident lmao.

15. More of this stupid prophecy shit from boring Rhaenyra uwuuuuuu.

16. LAENA cameo. I won!!! I love seeing Daemon acknowledge her importance and effect on his life.

17. I can’t believe they are they making me feel sorry for Rhaenys. I wonder what motivated her return to faceoff with Aemond: his heinous kinslaying/lawlessness OR the fact that the council would not appreciate her returning with no good results (i.e not having dealt the Greens a blow) or BOTH!

18. I demand to KNOW how Vhagar hid in the woods without House Staunton detecting her presence. Also her popping up out from under the RR castle to attack Rhaenys…wish I’d see how Aemond got there, you get me. I love observing the logistics. Ewan/Aemond is so PERFECT on Vhagar. That’s some serious dragon riding.

19. Aemond was straight flying  back to the crash site to finish Aegon before Rhaenys came after him. The fact that he didn’t care she was getting away is crazy to me. Allow Aemond some military intelligence, please.

20. Sunfyre fighting with every shred of strength he has to land on his belly so that Aegon won’t be crushed, and cradling him. Oh, my heart!

21. Was Sunfyre crying out for meemaw Vhagar as she was falling or am I insane???

22. Dad Criston was great. I cannot imagine the drama that lies ahead after this and how his relationship with Aemond and Aegon will be affected.

23. Alicent, girlie, you about to find a new thing to make you guilty and suicidal all over again! No worries, though, because you are STILL a million times more interesting than boring, righteous girlboss queen.

[kyndaris]

Adrenaline Rush

After slogging through Diablo IV, all the while listening to video essays about terrible authors (thank you ReadswithRachel), there were still a mountain of games that I needed to tackle in order to bring some semblance of order to my ever-growing backlog. But rather than play through yet another hundred-hour adventure, I opted for something far shorter. Enter: Hi-Fi Rush.

While I have very mixed feelings about Microsoft's acquisition of Bethesda and now, it seems, Activision Blizzard, there is no denying that Hi-Fi Rush is a masterpiece of a game that serves as a breath of fresh air for anyone tired of the dull doldrums that come from staring at dirt or uninspired graphic design.

In fact, there is definitely something to be said for choosing a colourful, high contrast and bombastic art style to go with one's game. It certainly livens up the screen and makes everything pop. Something that could not be said of the recent triple-A games that I recently played through.

Beyond that, it just brings a smile to my face to see a game that doesn't take itself too seriously when it comes to world-building. And it's all the better for it.

Too many games these days have gone the realistic grimdark route and it has honestly sapped some of the fun out of what would have been interesting worlds. As a random aside, you can still be grimdark and still have a colourful world filled with a mixture of fun and funny characters.

But back to the game at hand!

Releasing at the start of the year with no fanfare to describe of, Hi-Fi Rush was a sleeper hit for many gamers although it has tracked well with critics. So, when it was on sale on Steam, I went ahead and bought it. And instead of sitting there for years and years, the delay between purchase and me playing it was only a few months, give or take!

What struck me immediately was the art. I loved seeing the bold lines that defined the characters and the environment. Instead of the dreary atmosphere that came from Diablo IV or Forspoken, I was met with a highly saturated world that wasn't afraid of splashing around a little colour.

True, it might not be a colour scheme or graphic choice for every game but it certainly stood out from the stuffy triple-A crowd.

The second thing that I fell in love with were the host of allies, from Peppermint to Macaron, CNMN and finally Korsica. Though the game was fairly short and the time that I spent with them didn't extend to hundreds of hours, I enjoyed what few conversations that Chai had with them and the immediate dynamic that naturally sprung up between them through in-game banter.

This was a game that didn't waste one's time with endless backstory. It was a burst of game that could be replayed if one wanted and did not overstay its welcome.

Combat, too, took on an interesting twist with attacks landing on beat. This provided some extra challenge to combat but never made pulling off combos difficult as I slashed and slammed my way through the Vandelay Technologies offices to bring down the man - or in this particular case, greedy CEO Kale Vandelay.

It also made sense from a narrative perspective with Chai having his music player being inserted into his chest when his broken arm was initially replaced with a robot arm at the start of the game.

And perhaps that's what makes Hi-Fi Rush such a great game. Almost all of the aspects of the game are interconnected - be it the gameplay, the narrative or even the logs that players can pick up. The fact that the game isn't afraid to also poke fun and get a little meta, which only adds to the game's charm.

While the villains were a little one-note, playing into stereotypes, there were also hidden depths to their characters that were often revealed in their boss battles. And what spectacles they were! Especially against Roquefort! That was truly wonderful - especially the homage to Scrooge McDuck's money bin.

Honestly, there were so many iconic moments, it's hard for me to nail down which one was my favourite.

If I had to say what my main gripe with the game was though, I'd say it had to be the lack of healing options during battle except for special abilities. It was also disappointing to see how little Chai recovered when he picked up the small health energy that was scattered around the environment.

Still, it did make the boss battles nailbiting knowing that I could only heal Chai only once I'd managed to fill up the energy bar to use my healing special ability.

As for gameplay that wasn't combat related, while it annoyed me that I couldn't explore every inch without first unlocking another character first, I enjoyed the challenges although I did find the platforming a little finicky on occasion.

Overall, though, Hi-Fi Rush was an excellent palate cleanser after the less than impressive Diablo IV. And while I would have liked to spend more time in the world of Hi-Fi Rush to understand the backstory for a few more of the characters, I enjoyed my time with it - from the zany plans to the humorous gags that are maintained through the entire game like the Vandelay robots rebelling by ensuring all the coffee machines only serving decaf.

Here's hoping that developers learn to break up their usual doom and gloom with something that brings back the joy of gaming. It almost feels like we're returning to the early 2000s when all games needed to have dark broody tortured protagonists except they're also now extending it to the game design and game world. Which, in all honestly, I'm not enjoying.

After all, you can still make gut-punching emotional games and still have a beautiful world to admire!

True, don't go the route of Thor: Love and Thunder but it doesn't need to be another cookie-cutter stale grey world.

[pennstateuniversitypress]

The Early Modern Tattoo

By the year 1800, tattooing had become a global phenomenon. Stigma authors Katherine Dauge-Roth and Craig Koslofsky discuss how and why tattoos circulated in the early modern world.

We think of tattooing as a contemporary phenomenon, now ubiquitous in the twenty-first century. We see elaborately tattooed skin daily—at the beach, in the street, and in the college classroom. Nearly half of all Americans under forty today have chosen to adorn their skin with tattoos, often multiple times, and tattoos mark the skin of people of all ages, backgrounds, and genders. But tattooing has been with us since prehistory as a locally defined but widespread and permanent form of cutaneous marking. This form of skin marking carries an extraordinary range of meanings and has traveled across diverse cultures, especially during the early modern period. The years 1450–1800 were a new age of dermal encounters, as forms of marking skin native to the Americas, Asia, Africa, Oceania, and Europe came into contact as never before. Cast simultaneously as a mark of belonging and of distinction, the tattoo held particular prominence as a sign of identity in this period of unprecedented global movement. Global tattooing practices, largely recorded in written archives by European travelers and colonists, but also preserved in archeological findings and oral histories, were an object of fascination, but also familiarity.

Native nations across the Americas practiced tattooing to communicate identity, commemorate valiant deeds, and signal honorable status long before the arrival of Europeans in the late fifteenth century. Using sharpened bird or fish bones and plant- or mineral-based dyes such as genipap, red lead, sap, or charcoal, Native Americans would prick a design into the skin and then rub dye or powder into the incisions, creating a permanent mark. Some European colonists in the Americas chose to be tattooed by Native people, often adopting the practice to fashion new hybrid identities for themselves. While some Europeans discouraged getting marked, seeing tattoos as a sign of “savagery,” French fur traders and military men making their lives in North America were especially open to receiving Native tattoos. Plant, animal, and celestial designs from Native American tradition were placed on their skin alongside crosses and coats of arms borrowed from European Christian tradition.

Dutch, Spanish, Portuguese, and Chinese colonizers, on the other hand, were more hostile to Indigenous tattoo traditions. European and Chinese observers alike noted the “barbarity” of Indigenous Formosan tattooing when they reported on Taiwan in parallel seventeenth-century accounts, though Chinese officials also looked for signs of filial piety consistent with their own Confucian values. Spanish officials and Catholic missionaries worked hard to repress the rich tattoo traditions of the Philippines among the Indigenous Bizayas, reading marks on skin as essential and indelible signs of their inferior identity.

Whatever European colonists might have thought about the marking practices of Indigenous peoples around the globe, tattoos were well known to Europeans prior to these encounters. Indeed, tattoos were familiar in early modern Europe—and had been for centuries—as signs of identity, belonging, love, and piety. Though the Polynesian word tatau came into European languages only in the late eighteenth-century following the South Seas voyages of Bougainville and Cook, the practice of permanently marking the body through pricking and ink had long existed on the European continent. European travelers writing about Native American tattooing in the seventeenth century often referred their readers back to stories of elaborately painted Ancient Picts, indigenous to Britain and France. From their own time, they referenced devoted courtiers who wore their beloveds’ monograms permanently pricked on their arms, alchemists who inscribed their skin with astral characters to harness their power, and Holy Land pilgrims. In Jerusalem and Bethlehem, local Christians “marked” the bodies of Coptic, Armenian, and European pilgrims with scenes of Christ’s passion and representations of sacred sites. Pilgrims would choose from a range of woodblock designs that the tattoo artist would rub in charcoal and imprint on their arm. The tattooist would then use a series of fine needles bound together, dipped in an ink made of fine soot and ox gall, and prick along the lines of the stamped figure, finally washing it with wine, sometimes repeating the process. For European Holy Land pilgrims, tattoos commemorated their arduous travels, signaling their devotion and bravery. Given the pain they experienced—swelling and fever often lasting for days—they may also have imagined their tattoos as stigmata or a form of imitatio Christi.. Even today, Christians visiting Jerusalem can get marked at the Razzouk Tattoo shop, where Wassim Razzouk and his sons still use centuries-old wooden stamps passed down in his family for generations.

In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, Europeans increasingly associated Indigenous forms of tattooing with cultural inferiority and tied tattoos in European traditions exclusively to criminals and sailors. This denial of the age-old use of the tattoo as a desirable and honorable global and European sign lasted until the “tattoo Renaissance” of the late twentieth century.

Stigma: Marking Skin in the Early Modern World is now available from Penn State University Press. Learn more and order the book here: https://www.psupress.org/books/titles/978-0-271-09442-7.html. Save 30% w/ discount code NR23.