#Positively inscrutable

[minionresearch]

[limeshade]

An inscrutable, nightmarish, surreal dreamscape set to Modest Mussorgsky's famous composition of the same name, "A Night on Bald Mountain" is one of only a handful of short films ever created using pinscreen animation, a method in which shadows cast by miniscule steel pins positioned against a sidelit screen are manipulated to produce images of unique texture and dimension unparalleled in the field of traditional animation. Co-directors Alexandre Alexeieff (1901–1982) and his partner Claire Parker (1906–1981) built their first pinscreen device in 1931 with the assistance of Alexandre's then-wife, fellow artist Alexandra Grinevsky (1899–1976). Alexeieff and Parker then spent nearly two years animating this 8-minute film, which preceded the better-known cel-animated short "Night on Bald Mountain" from Disney's Fantasia (1940) by seven years. "A Night on Bald Mountain" represented the public debut of Alexeieff and Parker's pinscreen method.

A NIGHT ON BALD MOUNTAIN (1933) "Une nuit sur le mont chauve" Directed and animated by Alexandre Alexeieff, Claire Parker

[koiiiji]

in the shadows

author's note ; just entered solo leveling fandom, and only watched anime, so i don't know lore that much yet, as a result it maybe ooc as hell

tw ; reader described as non!human and a little tsundere. just fluff

Igris x reader

────୨ৎ────

you had always prided yourself on being the one thing Sung Jinwoo could count on — whether or not he appreciated it. from the day you were bound to his system, you were there, guiding him, helping him navigate the endless challenges of his rise to power. sure, you’d complain and grumble, maybe tease him more than a proper assistant should, but deep down, you were fond and proud of this guy.

and, unlike the other shadows, you weren’t just another faceless warrior pulled from the void. you had your own personality, your own quirks — and a lot of sass to back it up. your sharp tongue making up for your questionable fighting skills, but you were here as a system assistant in the first place, right?

small, curved horns sprouted from your forehead, curling subtly and gleaming faintly in the dim light of the shadow world. a thin, agile tail swayed behind you as if it had a mind of its own, a pair of leathery wings carried you around effortlessly as you hovered at Jin-woo’s side, whenever he toyed with the system interface.

today had been brutal. the battle was long and relentless, the air thick with the stench of blood and the echo of falling enemies. Jinwoo stood amidst the ruins, his shirt torn and streaked with blood, beads of sweat rolling down his sharp jawline.

“and why is he staring like that?” you asked lazily, floating around him, propping your chin on your hand as you gestured towards a silent figure sitting on the ruins of a staircase..

“who?” Jinwoo replied, wiping sweat from his chin.

“him. tincan.” you nodded at Igris, the silent, imposing knight who had been watching you with that inscrutable helmeted gaze.

Jinwoo barely spared him a glance. “that’s just Igris. he’s always like that. he never talks.”

“well, it’s creepy,” you huffed. then, louder: “hey, nailhead! what’re you staring at?”

Igris didn’t move, only tilting his head slightly as though considering you. then, without a word, he stood, disappearing in a gust of black wind.

“see? he’s weird,” you grumbled, puffing out your chest smugly. Jinwoo only shook his head, used to your antics by now. he let out a soft chuckle, brushing a hand through his damp hair. “you know, i never feel that stare at me. he only stares at you like that. maybe he’s got a thing for you.”

you froze mid-hover, your tail twitching nervously before you lost your balance and fall on the ground. “what a nonsense!! watch your mouth young man!” then quietly “..like he’s capable of feelings. he’s just a big, hollow suit of armor.”

Jinwoo smirked, wiping his hands on his pants. “suit yourself.” with that, he walked off, leaving you flustered and scowling.

────୨ৎ────

later, when Jinwoo finally left the shadow world, you took it as your cue to reclaim your rightful position as the system’s most important entity. you were the assistant, the navigator, the closest thing to a leader these shadows had while Jinwoo was gone. and what better way to assert your dominance than lounging on the throne itself?

you sprawled lazily across the dark, jagged seat, one leg draped over the armrest and your wings curled comfortably behind you. you fiddled with a shadowy orb in your hands, tossing it up and catching it with ease as you tried to stave off boredom.

still, Jinwoo’s words wouldn’t leave you alone. you found yourself glancing around the room more than usual, half-expecting those glowing blue eyes to pop out of the shadows.

and of course, they did.

you felt it before you saw it — the familiar sensation of being watched. your tail flicked nervously as you froze mid-throw, the orb dissipating into mist as you glanced around the room. your eyes landed on a familiar figure standing in the shadows, scanning the room. there he was, lurking at the edge of the shadows, as silent and menacing as always.

“hey, tin can!” you called, trying to mask your unease with bravado. “didn’t i tell you to stop staring? you’re making me nervous!”

Igris didn’t reply. he never did. instead, the faint sound of metal echoed through the room as he stood up and took a step closer.

you frowned, narrowing your eyes. “what is your deal, huh? why don’t you ever talk? who am i even yelling at?”

he kept moving forward, his slow, deliberate steps making your confidence falter with each sound.

“h-hey! stop! i-i mean it!” you snapped, but your voice lacked its usual bite.

by the time he reached the throne, you had pressed yourself back into the seat, your wings curling around you protectively. but instead of whatever terrifying move you expected, Igris did something completely unexpected.

the imposing knight lowered himself to one knee in front of you. slowly, reverently, he leaned forward, resting the cold, smooth surface of his helmet against your lap.

your breath hitched, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to do. a soft, rhythmic sound emerged from beneath his helmet — a low purring noise that reminded you of a contented cat.

“w-what the hell…” you muttered, staring down at him, utterly baffled.

cautiously, you raised a hand, letting it hover over his helmet. “you’re such a freak, you know that?”

when he didn’t move, you hesitated for another second before finally giving in. your fingers brushed the metal, and then you stroked it lightly, your touch was awkward and unsure at first. his purring grew louder, and you couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped you.

“you’re so weird, nailhead,” you murmured, a small, fond smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

and though you’d never admit it, you didn’t mind the company. not one bit.

────୨ৎ────

[crxwn-06]

NOSTALGIA

Yandere!Platonic!batfam x f!Hawkeye!reader: your life is all good, in the end. You have a loving father, awesome siblings, excellent grades, a good group of friends and a talent for archery, enough to almost convince your father to let you start being a vigilante. But when your mother tries to get back into said life you start to realise that, maybe, you were just living in a pretty cage.

Prologue: if you hesitate, the gettin’ is gone

prologue, chapter one, chapter two, …

IF YOU WISH TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST, LEAVE A COMMENT <3!

Tw: yandere tendencies, mention of blood, violence

There exists a very peculiar photograph of you and Bruce Wayne, one that seems almost out of place in the context of his carefully curated life. In it, he appears to be in his early twenties, the sharpness of youth still clinging to his features, though his eyes already carry the weight of responsibility far beyond his years. He’s seated casually on a sleek, minimalist chair—one foot crossed over the other, his heels resting comfortably on the modest coffee table before him.

And there you are, a newborn—no more than ten days old—propped tenderly against his legs, your tiny body curled into the crook of his knees, utterly unaware of the world, safe in its quietest moment.

What’s most striking isn’t the unusual composition or the contrast between your size and his or, one would argue, the relatively small age gap between the two of you.—it’s his expression. He gazes down at you with a softness so genuine, so unguarded, it’s almost startling. It is the sort of look one wouldn’t expect from Gotham’s most elusive figure: its number-one vigilante, its most eligible and emotionally inscrutable bachelor.

Yet in this stolen frame of time, that myth falls away. What remains is something profoundly human, even delicate—a man wholly undone by the presence of someone so small, and so utterly his.

This photograph does not hang in the public eye. It isn’t framed on the grand corridors of Wayne Manor, nor is it positioned among the more polished family portraits in the drawing room. No—this particular image sits on his desk, quietly set apart from the others, half-concealed beneath a folder or nestled near the corner lamp. As if it were meant only for him. As if it held something sacred, something private—too vulnerable for the world to see, yet too meaningful to keep hidden away entirely.

It is, without question, a portrait of love. But not just any love. The strong, unwavering kind. The kind that surprises even a legend, that bends even his ideals.

The kind that changed him, the moment you arrived.

You draw in a slow breath, steadying your grip on the bow. The weight in your hands, the pull of the string—it’s all muscle memory now. Back straight. Focus sharpened. One heartbeat. Two.

Then you let go.

The arrow cuts through the air with a whisper and lands dead center.

«Bullseye»

The voice behind you calls it before your own eyes confirm it, confident and casual—too casual. It isn’t praise. It’s expectation. As if anything less would’ve surprised him. As if he never even considered you missing.

You turn, already knowing who it is, and sure enough: «Dick!» you laugh, the joy in your voice genuine, unguarded, as you throw yourself into his arms. He catches you instantly—like he’s been waiting to—and holds you a second too long. Just long enough that you notice. His arms wrap around you tightly, anchoring you against him as if letting go might allow something—someone—to slip away.

Richard “Dick” Grayson. First Robin, now Nightwing. The eldest of the Wayne brood. He doesn’t live at the Manor anymore, not officially. But you’ve never really believed that meant much. He’s always around. Dropping by for a visit. Showing up unannounced. Checking in.

Watching.

He grins at you now, that same easy grin he’s used since you were little. The one that makes him seem like the carefree older brother, effortlessly charming, always teasing. He likes to claim he’s your favorite—loudly, obnoxiously, and often. You always deny it. You’re supposed to. It’s part of the game.

But deep down, you both know it’s not entirely a joke, for him. You’ve spent the most time with him. You’ve always been his.

You pull away slightly, but his hands linger on your back, thumbs brushing a slow, absent pattern over your shoulder blades. Like he’s memorizing the feel of you. Or checking you’re still there.

«What are you doing here?» you ask, half-laughing, trying not to read into the way his gaze sticks to you like a second shadow. «Are you staying for dinner?»

«Can’t a man visit his darling sister?» His grin shifts, softens slightly. «Was hoping to» he says, brushing a bit of wind-tousled hair from your forehead like he used to when you were smaller. «Wouldn’t miss Alfred’s cooking—or you—for the world.»

You roll your eyes playfully, but your heart’s full. It’s just another evening at the Manor—but with Dick around, it always feels a little brighter.

He doesn’t ask what you’ve been up to. He already knows. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He’s been watching long enough to see every crack, every change. There’s something unspoken in the air between you. A promise. A warning. A need.

He might not say it outright. He doesn’t need to.

He’s here because you’re here.

And as far as he’s concerned, that’s where he belongs. You’re his, after all, far more than you are of the others.

He stands just a few paces back, hands in his pockets, watching as you move across the training field. You don’t hurry. You never do. With quiet care, you begin pulling your arrows from the target one by one, humming to yourself—a small, wordless melody that drifts on the warm evening air. It’s the kind of sound that makes everything feel normal. Peaceful.

Maybe that’s why Dick doesn’t say anything right away. Maybe he just wants to keep watching you like this—content, unaware, and safe.

But then, as if the silence starts to stretch too far, he speaks. «You’ve been getting better.» His tone is light, casual—but deliberately placed. He’s not really offering a compliment. Not exactly. He just wants your attention back on him.

And it works. You glance over your shoulder with a mischievous spark in your eyes, the kind he’s seen since you could first talk back. «Enough to convince Dad to let me come on patrol with you?»

The shift is subtle—barely there—but he stiffens. Just a little.

«(Name).» he says, and your name alone is a warning. Gentle, but firm.

«Aww, come on!» you groan dramatically, spinning around to face him fully. «You let Dami come with you! And I’m almost three years older than him.»

«He’s trained» Dick replies, too quickly.

«I am too!» you shoot back, crossing your arms. «You know I am. You’ve trained me more than anyone. I tackled Duke yesterday»

He doesn’t argue that point. He can’t. It’s true. Every hour on the mats, every marksmanship session, every lesson on pressure points, urban navigation, code-switching mid-patrol—most of it came from him. You learned by watching the best. By watching him.

And he remembers it all—your first punch, your first fall, the first time you bled and didn’t cry. He remembers the way you kept looking at him for approval, for reassurance. And maybe that’s the problem. Because it was never just about teaching you to fight. He’s known for a long time that if it were up to him, he’d keep you out of the field forever.

You don’t see the quiet desperation in the way he looks at you now, but it’s there—tucked behind the crooked grin he offers you, trying to play it off. «I know you’re good» he says finally. «I just don’t think it’s time yet.»

You narrow your eyes, suspicious. «You mean Dad doesn’t think it’s time, or you don’t?»

He hesitates, and that hesitation says everything.

The truth is, your father probably would have allowed it by now. Batman believes in preparation, not emotion. But Dick—he doesn’t separate the two where you’re concerned. Not easily. Not well. And it’s not just protectiveness. It’s deeper than that, something heavier and tangled up in every part of him.

You’re not just family. You’re his. His person. His center of gravity.

And the idea of you out there—his little sister, his shadow—facing the same dangers he does every night? Covered in blood like he had been?

But Dick knows something else too—something that’s haunted him more than once: You are, without question, incredibly stubborn.

If he says no outright, if he tries to keep you grounded, away, untouched by the dangers he knows all too well… you will find your own way in. You always do. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not this week. But eventually, you’ll slip out. You’ll track a comm line or tail them from the rooftops, no mask, no backup, just your fists and that relentless fire in your chest that says, I belong out there, too. And when—not if—something goes wrong, he knows it’ll be worse. Not just for you. For him.

If you’re with him, under his wing, he can keep an eye on you. Control the exposure. Offer structure. Protection. Some version of safety, however flawed.

So he breathes in. Thinks it through. Feels that deep pull of conflict—love as a weight, not just a tether. You’re watching him closely, reading him in the way only someone who’s grown up beneath his shadow could. And just when you start to open your mouth to argue again, he cuts in, voice lower now, less performative.

«Say what» he mutters, almost like he’s talking to himself. Then louder, more deliberate: «I talk to B. You come. You stay on the sidelines. Strictly. No direct engagement. Offer cover. Zone control. Eyes on exits. But no direct contact with villains.»

You blink. «Wait. Seriously?». He sighs, already regretting how easily he’s caved—but it’s not weakness. It’s calculation. Compromise. «Seriously.»

Your face lights up instantly. «You are THE BEST!» you nearly shout, and before he can brace for it, you’ve thrown your arms around his neck again, squeezing tight. He laughs softly into your shoulder, but there’s no lightness in his eyes. Just a quiet storm of thoughts he’ll never say out loud.

You think you’ve won. But he’s still planning. Still calculating. Because if you’re coming into the field—even from the sidelines—then you’re not just his kid sister anymore. You’re a moving piece in the chaos.

And God help anyone who underestimates that.

Or worse—hurts you.

«Let’s go! Maybe we’ll find something to snack before dinner!»

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Heheh, new story that as been on my mind for SO LONG, like, I’m genuinely fixated on this

My first time ever posting on tumblr,, let’s hope all goes well <33

Next »

[hotchner-edu]

Intertwined | Aaron Hotchner

Synopsis: Following the bullet you took for Aaron, he must pick up the pieces of himself to face the awful realization of what comes next. — part 2 of THIS

Pairing: Father-figure!Aaron Hotchner x BAU!Reader (Platonic)

Warning: angst, hurt/comfort, daddy issues, happy ending, descriptions of blood/feeding tubes, medical inaccuracies—

In spite of how dangerous being an agent in the field was, and how often Jack’s pediatric appointments occurred, Aaron never grew accustomed to the overwhelming stench of sterileness.

It coated every surface of every room, pervading his senses to remind him of the hollowing anxiety that swirled in his chest— the feeling of utter helplessness in the face of impending doom.

His eyes were rimmed red, stinging from exhaustion and unshed tears. He's slumped in his chair, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together as his eyes stared unblinkingly into the vinyl floor.

Guilt was trapped in his heart, tugging and stabbing as he replayed the conversations he had with you the day prior. He knows he's been unfair with the team as of late because of the divorce proceedings with Haley, but unfair doesn't even begin to describe his treatment toward you.

You were young and careless. He hated how careless you were. It made you susceptible to slip ups, it made your heart too soft, and it made you take that damn bullet for him. And now you were being operated on by every competent staff member in the damn place, echoes of his desperate yells and furious shouts ringing through his head.

He'd lost all composure in front of the hospital staff— in front of his team. But he found it hard to care, every ounce of his energy circling around the memory of blood rapidly gushing from your neck.

Derek had started to chew him out at the scene, but stopped when he saw his horrified face, eyes glued to the paramedics who were urgently trying to resuscitate you.

His jaw shifts, clenching hard as the burning of tears stirs in his eyes once again.

He feels something cold press against the back of his neck, momentarily causing him to close his eyes.

"Pull yourself together." Dave's voice comes out calmly, trying to comfort Aaron to the best of his ability.

"She looked dead." He whispers out, voice quiet but etched with regret.

Dave shakes his head— he can see it in his peripheral, and the older man moves in front of him, squatting down to catch Aaron's eyes. "But she's not."

"How can she not be?" He mutters, shoulders sagging as his mind instantly shoots toward the worst case scenario, imagining himself having to fill out the case reports— having to fill out the papers explaining how you were killed on the field.

Dave's eyebrows raise slowly, speaking softly. "Do you want me to get Reid over here to read off some statistics?" He attempts to joke, glancing over at the rest of the team as they all sat in silence down the hallway.

Aaron doesn't react to the joke. "Why did she push me out of the way, Dave?" He asks, searching futilely for an explanation as he stares at his friend.

"The same reason you would have done the same for her if you were in her shoes." Dave states with a sad smile, patting his shoulder before handing him the cold water bottle.

By three in the morning, six hours since you've been in surgery, Aaron can see that most of the team has fallen asleep in their chairs. He's still sat in the same spot, back protesting the odd position he's put himself into as he busied himself with catastrophizing.

He only musters up the energy to sit up when the OR doors open, a visibly disheveled and exhausted surgeon walking toward them. He shoots up from his chair, joints cracking as he hurries toward the woman.

"For Y/N L/N?" She asks gently, gazing at him with an inscrutable expression.

Aaron nods quickly, mouth dry. "Yes. Is she okay?" He asks urgently.

"She pulled through. A few centimeters to the right and her carotid artery would have been severed. She likely won't wake up for a while, and we'll need to put her on a nasogastric tube for a few weeks since swallowing will be difficult." The woman explains.

Aaron's ears ring in relief when he realizes you're alive, but the more he hears, the more his stomach sinks. You were going to be enduring hell for the next few weeks.

"Thank you. Thank you so much." He whispers breathlessly and rubs a hand across his forehead.

"She'll be situated in the ICU. However, you'll have to wait until tomorrow morning to see her." She explains, flashing a glance over his shoulder to look at the rest of the team.

Aaron has to be dragged from the hospital that night, the team urging him to go back to the hotel to clean up and sleep so that he could visit early.

A part of him felt a bit of shame for falling apart, needing his team to reorient him as he seemed to be stuck in a perpetual daze.

He's unable to sleep for more than two hours, waking up in cold sweat with the unmistakable sound of a gunshot ringing in his ears as he sits up. He's sure his mind is tricking him, but he's almost certain he can hear the sound of the bullet piercing through your flesh in the back of his head.

Aaron is driving off to the hospital again before most of the team is even up, rehearsing what to say to you in his head as he is reminded of the cruel words he spat at you in the precinct.

Everything is moving in a blur for him, and by the time he's by your bedside, he isn't even able to remember when he even parked and walked into the hospital.

He pulls up a chair to sit by your side, eyes studying the bruising around your neck that’s peeking out from the bandages wrapped around your stitched-up wound.

The only thing assuring him of your breathing was the rhythmic beeping from the vital monitor that echoed like a backtrack for his jumbled thoughts.

He could swear you weren't breathing.

Maybe the machine was deceiving him? Did the nurses hook everything up right?

Maybe the job was finally getting to him and he was losing his mind.

"Can you hear me?" He croaks out, hand moving to cover your limp one. "Y/N?"

You can see colors warping, dancing and spinning before melting into a soothing darkness. It felt like you were floating, then wading through water, then being lifted into suspension again.

You felt nothing, but you also knew there was something you needed to remember.

Like a sponge soaking up water, bit by bit, you could feel your senses returning. For a split second you could feel every muscle in your body, every sound around you, and then nothing again.

"Y/N?"

The sound was deeper and worn down. Yes, that was your name.

Willing yourself to move, you felt a tingle run down your body.

Your eyes peel open and you're blinded by brightness, stabbing into your nerves and triggering blossoms of dull pain to erupt around your body.

When you're fully awake and cognizant, the memories come pouring in like an irrepressible tsunami. Your neck was pulsing in pain, and it takes you a moment to understand why.

"Y/N? Hey, hey. You're up..."

Your eyes shift over to your side and you're met with the sight of a disheveled Aaron Hotchner who looked like he just survived a combination of natural disasters.

A part of you feels pity for his uncharacteristically unkempt appearance, realizing he was probably at his wits end from worry. Then, you're slapped over the head with the memory of his acerbic words.

You're still deeply wounded from what he said to you, the image and esteem you held him in faltering with every replay of the memory.

"How are you feeling? Are you in a lot of pain? Wait, let me get a nurse." He rushes out breathlessly, turning around to leave the room.

You could tell he cared for you just by how he was conducting himself at that moment, but a nagging voice in your head was convincing you that he was just doing this to alleviate the guilt and pity he felt for himself.

You didn't need him attending to you just to clear his own conscience. It was a bit juvenile, but you wanted him to suffer a bit more.

True to your initial resolve, over the next following days, you stay cold toward Aaron. When the team first got word that you had woken up, you were nearly blinded by the sheer volume of colorful balloons Penelope brought.

And tears. So many tears were shed for you that you were sure they thought you were going to drop dead at any given second.

Everyone was taking turns acting like a mother hen toward you, and Derek even toned down his jibing in exchange for playing his various playlists for you. Spencer took to reading to you everyday, citing that he didn't want you to strain your eyes.

Emily and JJ talked about everything under the sun with you, making promises and plans for the next few months— shopping trips, movie dates, and anything else they could think of.

Well, you weren't able to really talk yet so they mainly chatted with each other while looking to you for nods or headshakes.

Penelope entertained you by pulling up private information on anybody you could name from your past (which was maybe a little illegal, but the things she did for you.)

Rossi indulged you by recounting some anecdotes from his time serving in the Marine Corps.

Aaron was probably your most constant visitor, dropping by everyday and staying for hours. You barely looked at him on most days, but when the team is called back to Quantico after a week, he becomes your only companion after he decides to take a few weeks off to take care of you.

You could see how disheartened he was getting everyday you ignored him, and you cursed yourself for feeling awful about it.

Two weeks have since passed since the rest of your team returned to DC, and Aaron was lucky to get a few words out of you everyday. You're currently watching a rerun of an old sitcom, trying to distract yourself from the awkward tension between you and Aaron.

"The doctor said you're not allowed to fly for a while, but you can be discharged by tomorrow since you're able to eat soft foods now." Aaron speaks softly, leaning forward in his seat before reclining again, a nervous habit of his.

Staying quiet, you gently prod the tube in your nose that was being removed in a few hours.

"Do you feel ready to leave?" He asks kindly, voice patient and soft.

You nod once and you can see him smiling a bit from your peripheral.

"That's great, sweetheart. I'll ask the doctor for all the medication you'll need." He says before hesitating. "I'll drive us back to DC. It'll take three days or so."

Your head snaps to look at him in shock, wincing a bit as the sudden movement causes a sharp pain to cut through your neck and shoulder.

Aaron can see your shock and indignance at the news. "I'm sorry." He whispers. You're not sure if he's apologizing for making you endure his constant presence for three days on the road, or if he's apologizing for everything that happened prior, but you just exhale through your nose and look away.

Being bedridden for most of your stay caused your muscles to be significantly weaker. Your legs were like jelly when you attempted to shuffle off your hospital bed, meaning Aaron had to help you around.

You were sinking further into confliction. A part of you wanted to wholeheartedly accept his help, the appreciation for his fatherly tendencies growing stronger. In the weeks that you've stonewalled him, he stayed by you and was always jumping to attend to your every need.

It was hard to forget the one night you woke up in blinding pain, huffing and hissing silently. Aaron had woken up in a matter of minutes, holding your hand and trying to soothe you back to sleep.

Maybe he did care.

On the first day of your drive back to DC, you're sitting comfortably in the passenger seat, the pain medication you're on making you relaxed and drowsy.

Aaron doesn't try to talk to you until you're two hours into the drive. "I know you probably don't want to talk about it right now, but I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

You stay silent, having expected him to bring up the topic sooner or later.

"I was being completely unfair to you. I won't make excuses for what I said and did because I should have been able to keep myself in check, but I failed." He continues, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.

"I want you to know, above all else, that I don't think you're incompetent or unskilled— you're a crucial part of the team, and I'm sorry if I made you doubt that." His voice wavers slightly, growing heavy with emotion as he seems to be unleashing everything he's been holding in since you woke up.

Your chest rumbles softly as you speak quietly, voice weak from the lack of speech in the past few weeks. "I always saw you as like a father to me."

The moment those words left your mouth, you almost wanted to take them back as the heartbreak in Aaron's face was clear as day. He swallows hard, clearly becoming even more emotional from your declaration.

It clearly meant a lot to Aaron since he knew how poor your relationship with your father was growing up. So to have your trust, something that's been battered by others and locked away inside of you, it reminded him of the hurt he carried because of his own father. It reminded him that he once was like you, vying for that affection and care when everyone's backs were turned.

"I'm sorry." He whispers, clenching his jaw as his eyes well up.

"Do you really care about me?" You ask, looking ahead at the road.

"Yes. I always have." He answers back, voice almost inaudible as he sounds a it choked up. "Because the same way you view me as a father, I always saw you as my kid. My reckless and soft-hearted kid that I needed to protect."

Tears fall from your eyes at his words. "I don't know if I can forgive you." You whisper candidly.

"I know." He nods and blinks away his tears. "But I just... I hope that the light inside of you never dies. This job... it takes everything from us. It almost took you from us. So we need you to keep that fire inside of you alive."

You feel very small at that moment, wanting nothing more than to shrink away and abandon everything. But despite that pervasive feeling, you can't help but continue clinging onto the hope and safety Aaron provides you with.

"Promise that you care about me?" You ask almost childishly, not wanting to be strong and alone any longer. The medications you were on certainly made you feel less inhibited, your honest feelings pouring out of you.

Aaron's words are almost hushed as he's quick to reassure you. "Yes. I promise, you can cry on me and depend on me. I promise that it's okay to be tired."

"I... I'm so tired." You whisper softly.

"You've endured so much all this time. I'm sorry I couldn't see it before." He says quietly.

Neither of you say anything after that, letting the conversation slip away as some semblance of closure blankets you both.

When the sun begins to set, the sky a canvas filled with an array of oranges and purples, you let yourself relax.

You can't pinpoint when you fell asleep, but when you're conscious again, Aaron is by your side, gently patting your shoulder. "There she is." He says softly when he sees you blinking awake. "It's almost midnight, I thought it'd be better for us to rest up for a few hours. I also need to check on your wound dressings."

Grumbling a bit, you slowly sit up and look through the windshield to see a roadside inn in front of you both. Nodding, you let him help you out of the car and toward the check-in desk.

"Does your neck hurt?" He asks quietly.

"No. Just sore right now." You whisper back tiredly, limbs feeling heavy.

When you're both checked into a room for the night, you waste no time dragging yourself toward one of the beds.

"Don't lay down just yet." Aaron is quick to say, placing your bags down and going to wash his hands.

You reckoned that if he weren't such a great agent, he'd fare well as a nurse from the way he was deftly redressing the bandages on your neck, disinfecting and cleaning like it was second nature to him.

He can sense your questioning gaze and he huffs a bit sheepishly. "I, uh, asked Reid for some pointers on the phone. And searched the internet."

"Let me guess, WebMD?" You smile weakly.

Aaron's face breaks out into a small grin and he chuckles. "Yeah, and ReidMD."

You snort a bit at his joke. "That was awful."

"Jack says I'm getting really good at making dad jokes." Aaron quips back playfully.

"I'll have to teach him that it's not good to lie like that." You muse, hiding a small smile as he narrows his eyes at you in fake offense.

It felt like you were gaining a bit of normalcy back, and you would be lying if you said you didn't miss being able to talk freely like this with Aaron.

"Alright, done." He sighs and hesitantly rests his hand on your uninjured shoulder. "Anything else you'd like me to do?"

You caught onto his true meaning, knowing he was trying to make further amends with you. Considering it for a moment, you shake your head gently and smile tiredly. "No, you're all good."

Aaron lets out a shaky exhale before leaning down to hug you, being mindful to not press on your injuries. "I love you, kiddo."

"I love you, too." You whisper back and pat his back reassuringly.

You would be out of commission for a while and that reality weighed down on you, but Aaron's reassurance and presence provided you with some relief.

You were tired, but for now you could rest.

[theflashjaygarrick]

Today I want to talk about Cassandra Cain and the 'silent asian' trope.

From what I have read the silent Asian trope is seemingly a manifestation of the far older 'inscrutable Asian trope in Western culture and fiction. The inscrutable Asian trope positions Asian characters as the perpetual foreign other in comparison to a ''familiar' whiteness or Westernness. They are mercurial, mysterious, and 'exotic', hyper-competent and alluring but cold. Considering the white, Western gaze in which American media is created, these Asian characters are therefore constructed to be as distant and mysterious to the audience as they are to the characters. And it is in this way that Cass, even when she was (largely) silent challenges this trope.

I'm going to be analysing issue #2 of the Batgirl 2000 run. (it'll be a long post so I'm going to put this under a keep reading.

Cass is undoubtedly mysterious to the other (largely white) members of the Batfamily but through Batgirl 2000s the reader is made very aware of who she is. This is achieved through close narrative focus wherein the reader is more mostly supposed to be seeing the world from Cass’s perspective, not her from other peoples perspective.

This disparity between the inner world the audience is privy to and the external impression of her is made explicit in issue #2. We see explicitly that Babs finds Cass unknowable.

Cass’s shrug is snarky and she is smiling and looks pretty pleased with herself. But Barbara cannot understand what she means, and condescendingly berates Cass for not learning language and therefore not being able to talk to her like a ‘normal person’. Here we have a blatant case of the inscrutable Asian trope, but we aren’t meant to be seeing this story through Babs’ eyes. We’re seeing it through Cass’s.

Damon Scott’s art style here emphasises dynamic and clear expression over looking pretty or normal. Thus allows the reader to see the world through Cass’s eyes where the important information is equally communicated through pose and facial expressions. What would be micro expressions becoming macro expressions through Cass’s eyes. See how Babs’ friendly smile contorts into an exaggerated frown one panel apart. See again the smug and satisfied look on Cass’ face that in universe a skilled detective cannot decipher.

the characters in this (of all genders) are allowed to be expressive even when it is not attractive. The close ups are centred around their faces and their bodies in a way meant to convey emotion and unspoken thought, not sex appeal. Like compare this depiction of Babs and Cass to how Oracle is drawn by Ed Benes in birds of prey.

And unlike the inscrutable Asian Cass is allowed to be bold, opinionated, and snarky when silent. She’s allowed to have emotions so clear on her face that the reader can identify them beneath a full face mask. In a world where casting directors are still saying they don’t hire Asian actors because they ‘can’t emote enough’ drawing an Asian woman as one of the most expressive dc heroines is important.

In the rest of this Cass goes to find a missing man who she saved earlier in the issue. Oracle has located him in an abandoned derelict prison and Cass immediately throws herself into the situation. By the time she gets there however the man is already about to die. He’s been beaten too bad for anyone, even a Batgirl, to save him. And when he dies Cass stands there watching as the light leaves his eyes. She becomes brutal, although not murderous. And he when he dies he gives his wife the last letter he ever wrote. He asks this Batgirl to gave his final words to his wife.

Of course Cass does. And sees the tears drying in the widow’s eyes as the woman reads what he said (we don’t know what, Cass does not either). No other well meaning words or gestures can bring the relief and peace to that woman that his letter did. Seeing for the first time what the written word can mean to people Cass goes home to Oracle’s watchtowers and begins to try to learn to write.

And there we are one again introduced to the external perspective that sees Cass as unknowable. Who cannot begin to imagine what about seeing a man die after failing to save him would encourage her write when she never was interested before.

But we know. To the audience she is not inscrutable but instead a traumatised yet perfectly understandable young women. We are walked through her motives. see the world filtered through her point of view. Even with her speaking two words throughout this issue it is hard to call her silent.

[thedreadvampy]

I keep seeing posts about how Alison Bechdel is a TERF and I'm not here to mitigate the question of whether she is or isn't

(as far as I can gauge: less so than bell hooks but not entirely out of the woods)

but mostly I just find the tone of these posts fascinating because they seem to frame it as though they've Uncovered Alison Bechdel's Secret when they talk about her going to Michfest and having fond memories of Michfest. as if. she didn't write Several Comic Book Plots both about doing that and about feeling conflicted and having tensions in her pro-trans friendship groups about it.

and similarly these posts always seem to act generally as if We'll Never Know What Alison Bechdel Thinks and have to judge from what she said in interviews. and it's like ok. So Alison Bechdel is a memoirist? She's written like 7 books and a long-running comic strip, all of which are pretty much entirely about her navel-gazing about her own beliefs and thought processes?

it's not even as if we have to divine her thoughts now from things she wrote in the 2000s. She's still working, you know? I literally just read her new book that she put out this year about being an aging dyke in the second Trump term. It's on my lap right now. Of all the writers to treat as an inscrutable mystery, Alison Bechdel simply is not it.

(fwiw: based on her work I continue to think she's trying to be accepting but also has that very common 'oh I just don't know what all the kids these days are doing with the genders' thing that a lot of people her age are stuck on. obviously her fictionalised autobio work is not inherent fact but it's clear that, as far as she's concerned, most of her close friends are more actively trans-positive than her and that this is often part and parcel of her feeling like she's failing at being politically radical. Literally every Alison Bechdel work I've read is at least 50% about her feelings that she's politically inactive, not doing enough, and not as right-on and praxis-led as she'd like to be, and pretty much all the times she brings up a direct discussion about transness (rather than just Having Trans Characters be in her social circles) she's poking fun at herself for being square or not putting her money where her mouth is or being mired in ambivalence. Open to the idea that she's also making fun of Those Darn Kids And Their Genders and that she has never entirely sorted through those 90s separatist ideas about trans dykes not being inherently part of dykery, and I think that's reasonable to be frustrated or upset by, but like nothing in her work suggests she's committed to trans exclusion. I think she often sends to be transphobic in the same way a lot of people, especially older women, often are - not in a committed hatred way but in an awkward and othering way - but I also think we can draw a distinction between people for whom transphobia is a major guiding principle of their politics (which is what I understand TERFism to be) and people who are transphobic the way your loving and accepting Catholic nan is homophobic - uncomfortable with the idea but aware that they're in the wrong for being so. Like neither is great but there's a massive gulf in terms of impact imo.)

[munefille]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥

yandere!m.merman x gn.reader

cw: mentions of death, disturbing imagery

as a fish takes refuge inside an oyster, it sees only the chance to hide from the unforgiving water within the calm mollusk, unaware of the true nature of its biology. unfortunately for the fish, the oyster has already activated its unique defense mechanism, encasing the fish as an immortal, precious pearl.

The rhythmic push and pull of the tides never failed to lull you into a state of mild stupor. Soft, slightly cool sand cushioned you while a gentle breeze brushed past your cheek and played with your hair. The day was only moderately gloomy, a grey tinted sky hanging over you as the clouds came and went, the sun nowhere to be seen. Still, you almost liked it better like this. The beach was more private, freer without the confines of eyes watching it.

Your calloused feet hopped onto the rocky shore, leaving the inviting sand disturbed as a sign of your presence. The salty ocean scent intensified the closer you came to the evermoving water. You stood atop the tallest rock, attempting to scan the waves at your vantage point, searching for your most curious find.

At last, peeking out from between the waves, did you spot the partially submerged head of your friend. His black eyes were trained on your form, no doubt watching you long before you noticed him.

A grin emerged across your face. "I see you!" you called, motioning for him to come closer as you waded into the water. The eyes disappeared beneath the tide at your request.

You felt him before you could see him, smooth scales wrapping around your leg in a firm hold. He reappeared directly in front of you, inky black eyes mere inches away from your own.

The creature's appearance was a far cry from the mermaids of your childhood, beautiful human women who happened to have a tail as their bottom half. No, he hardly mirrored the sentimental fairytale. You noticed his eyes first, sclera and pupil alike darkened together as they melded into each other- then you noticed his rubbery flesh stretched taunt across his sharp bones, with pale, sallow skin, nearly as grey as a corpse. You initially thought that's what he had been when he simply peered at you from afar, unmoving and unblinking against the rocking sea. He was just humanoid enough to lure concerned passersby like yourself deeper into the water, yet not quite passable as human.

In a closer vicinity, as you are now, you could see small scales dotting his cheeks and neck. Under the right light they appeared as little moons, revealing an opalescent luster that you could only describe as ethereal.

"Hello," you greeted with a wide close-lipped smile. Last time you had bared your teeth at him ended with him misunderstanding your friendliness for a threat. You weren't sure if he could talk, but that didn't stop you from trying to make conversation. You had a feeling he understood you to an extent anyways.

The mercreature tilted his head sideways in response, sleek, wet dark hair falling over his shoulder. An inscrutable expression remained plastered on his features; one you gave up trying to interpret using human facial language.

Silky scales gently tugged you further into the waves towards a rocky mass that stood above the crashing water. The current strengthened, oscillating you to its whims, but the guidance of the unyielding sea creature kept you from being swept away entirely. Although you would consider yourself a strong swimmer, you knew you would never compare to a creature born of the water, one who moved so in tune to the sea that his lithe form became indistinguishable from the tides.

Finally, you reached the rocks, gripping the relatively dry surface for relief from the unrelenting waters. You found a comfortable position on them, resting your upper body while you let your legs dangle. The mercreature remained below, lower half of his face once again concealed under the water, leaving only his unblinking eyes visible. His body underneath the water became obscured even further by the dark ring of hair that floated around him. Those eyes regarded you with scrutinizing intensity that would've resembled a predator, had you thought hard enough about it.

"What a nice view-" you began, but the thought was cut short when your companion pulled himself below the water, disappearing from your sight almost completely, save for the movement in the water that signified a strong tail pushing against it.

Confusion laced your face. The few minutes he had gone was enough to make you worry. Why had he left so abruptly? Surely he would be back? You weren't certain you could swim back to shore on your own. Although you trusted him- in fact, you would even consider him a friend- doubt from his apparent unpredictability lingered. After all, you had no way to reliably communicate, nor were you sure if your opinion of your relationship was mutual.

Your concerns vanished as he broke the surface of the water, swimming towards the rocks with something that gleamed as the light hit it.

He stopped at your feet, lifting the object slowly up to you. If you hadn't known better, you'd say the action seemed almost shy.

A gasp left you as you got a view of it. In his webbed, slender fingers lay a glistering mass of refined pearl, hints of color dancing across it the glossy surface. Distantly, you recalled that the creature's scales were of the same material. It resembled an anatomically correct heart. Never before had you seen a pearl shaped in such a way, nor did you know how it could've been, or why the shape was so accurate, even down to the imprint of the vessels. It was as if the thing had been pulsating. Why was it so accurate?

The beautiful piece was presented to you like a gift, so you had gladly accepted. You collected it from the awaiting hands. The coolness of it nearly burned you as it touched your flesh, the brilliant iridescence of it stealing your attention away from the faint scent of iron permeating the breeze. It distracted you from the bloody teeth of the now grinning merman, sharp rows glinting bright cardinal red. You thought nothing of the diluted red in the dark water, seeping towards your feet. The sinking body below, twisted and stuck eternally in a cry for help, was lost to you as you held the glimmering heart with reverence.

_____________________________✧_______________________________

i love creepy mermaids

[macbethsymphony]

Negotiations

Dracule Mihawk x Reader

wc: 5.2 k

tw: NSFW, 18+, this is just pure filth guys, it's 5k of smut, there's no plot. Edging, overstimulation, slightly dubcon, fingering, Mihawk has the hyperfocus of a god? this is highly toxic and slightly unethical ngl

Summary: The tale of how a negotiator convinced the marine hunter to consider becoming a warlord.

AO3

Eat, drink, nap, kill marines, drink some more, sleep, and repeat. That was the unvarying routine of Dracule Mihawk, marine hunter. At least, that’s what he’d been up to, these past two months.

Marine hunter. What a fucking joke. Marine killer was more accurate. The man was deranged, his actions driven by an insidious boredom that turned slaughter into a twisted game. It was painfully obvious that he was merely toying with the Marines, savoring the macabre sport, desperately looking for someone who would match his skills. If you had your way, you’d be plotting his demise instead. Though you supposed if you were here, it meant they’d all failed.

Tsuru’s words echoed in your mind, firm and unyielding: “I trust you are able to bring him to the table,” she had said. “You are our best negotiator, after all.”

So, you grit your teeth and set the scene. For in no world was disappointment an option; failing your superiors, especially Tsuru, was unthinkable.

Your officers were meticulously positioned, the bar’s usual faces replaced by those of disguised operatives. Only a few of the establishment's staff remained. A strategic decision to ensure the venue’s operations ran smoothly without drawing suspicion. The air was thick with tension, and you were acutely aware that the slightest misstep could unravel the entire thing. The possibility of disaster loomed large; a single error could transform this carefully orchestrated meeting into a chaotic bloodbath, with no chance of containing Mihawk’s whims.

Your heart pounded with an almost unbearable intensity, a drumbeat of anxiety and anticipation. You reminded yourself that your team were experts, each one adept at their role, and that every detail had been rehearsed to perfection. You could do this. You would succeed where all others had failed.

The door to the bar creaked open, drawing your attention as you smoothly transitioned into your assigned role. “Whiskey, neat, please,” you requested from the bartender, your eyes never leaving the imposing figure in the corner. “Actually, I’ll take the whole bottle.”

You watched with a tight-lipped smile as Mihawk, with deliberate nonchalance, made his way behind the bar. He selected two bottles of fine wine, his movements leisurely, and then settled into his usual spot, a booth in the corner, away from everyone. A fleeting, almost imperceptible smirk played on his lips as he uncorked one of the bottles and poured himself a glass. Your breath caught, a shiver of doubt sliding through you, but you forced yourself to look again. 

Good. 

It was nothing more than a trick of the light.

You downed your glass, slamming it with a bit too much force on the bar counter. 

Everything was falling into place. You had him where you wanted him; all you needed to do was stick to the script. You adjusted your dress, the provocative cut emphasizing every curve. Confidence surged through you. You knew how to handle men like him. This would be no different. 

You approached him, whiskey bottle in hand, your movements practiced and deliberate. “Hello, handsome,” you purred, your voice a silky caress. He would be putty in your hands before long.

But as his gaze locked with yours, the air between you seemed to thicken. The intensity of his stare left you breathless, feeling strangely vulnerable. The mastery you usually wielded over people faltered. You couldn’t decipher him, couldn’t read him. At all.

This was not how it was supposed to go.

Fuck.

Fuck.

You were always in control, always able to manipulate the situation with ease. You were the master and they the puppets. The fact that Mihawk’s inscrutable expression was completely impenetrable threw you off balance.

You were already committed, though. Backing out now was not an option.

“Mind if I sit?” you asked, voice dropping to a husky whisper. You allowed your fingers to trail delicately along his shoulder and then drift over the exposed skin of his chest. Your gaze flickered to the other banquette, the seat occupied by the bulk of his massive sword, back to him. The invitation in your eyes was unmistakable.

For a moment, you thought you glimpsed a spark of amusement in his gaze, but it was so fleeting that you couldn’t be sure. Mihawk tilted his head slightly, the feather on his hat accentuating the movement with a languid grace.

“Be my guest,” he said, his tone flat and devoid of emotion.

He made no move to shift from his position, no move to shift the position of his sword. You bit the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to maintain composure. The arrangement was deliberate—there was no easy way for you to sit without essentially stepping over him and trapping yourself between him and the wall.

He was toying with you, you realized with a flicker of frustration. But if he wanted a game, you were more than capable of playing along. You were a master of your craft after all. With a deliberate motion, you took the third, more unexpected option. You straddled him, the hem of your already short dress rising even higher as your legs settled to his side. 

You held his gaze steadily as you sipped from the whiskey bottle, slamming it behind you with a practiced flourish once you were done.

His gaze didn’t shift as he drank in your form, lingering on your curves, then back to your features. You did the same, taking him in, the sharpness of his jaw, the solidity of his muscles. You’d already known he was handsome, hours of looking at pictures had told you that, but by the gods above he was almost ethereal. You prayed for a moment that the heat you felt was from the alcohol you just downed. But you knew it wasn’t.

“Bold.” The word snapped you out of your thoughts. “For a marine that is.”

Your spine went cold at the statement. 

He knew. 

Of course, he knew. 

But you were still alive, which meant he was still willing to entertain this scene. 

It’d been a power play you realized a touch too late. He’d just flipped the script you had so carefully prepared. 

Interesting. 

Absolutely thrilling.

You hadn’t expected that he’d be a worthy opponent and you’d let him earn the first point in your carelessness. It didn’t matter, however, you could easily recover from such a small blunder.

You leaned in closer, your breath mingling with his as you whispered, “Boldness is often rewarded, don’t you think, marine hunter?” Your fingers traced lazy patterns on his chest, feeling the marble-like skin, the uneven rhythm hoping to distract in its randomness.

Mihawk’s gaze darkened, his eyes flicking down to your lips before returning to your eyes. “Rewards come in many forms,” his voice was a seductive drawl. “Some more satisfying than others.”

You stopped the patterns, nails digging tenderly into hard muscles as you traveled down.

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, the sound low and inviting. “Well, I do aim to satisfy.” You pursed your lips, emphasizing the word. Your fingers continued their path, slipping to rest on his belt buckle, playing with the metal. “But satisfaction is a two-way street. What would it take to make you happy, Mihawk?”

His hand moved, a distracting caress tracing up your thigh, stopping right under the hem of your dress. The touch was electrifying, sending a shiver down your spine. “Happiness is a fleeting emotion,” he said, his eyes boring into yours. His fingers roamed back down, nails digging softly in the plush skin, mirroring your previous actions. “I prefer something more... enduring.”

Fuck.

He was good.

You swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry. “And what might that be?”

He smirked, a predatory gleam taking over the amber hues of his eyes. “Isn’t that your job to figure out, little marine?”

You bit your lip trying to come back. He wasn’t just good, he was almost your match. You could feel the unbridled heat of desire starting to swirl through your veins at the challenge. “I’m very good at my job,” you whispered, your voice dripping with insinuations as you leaned closer, your lips a hair’s breadth away. “I’m sure I can find a way to please you.”

Mihawk’s fingers traveled back up your thigh, right past the hem of your dress, dug in before the curve of your rear, the pressure a mix of pleasure and pain. “I wasn’t aware, the marines sent whores to negotiate their deals.” He looked down at you, a sneer nearly breaking his lips. 

You felt a sliver of satisfaction. He’d almost cracked. Soooo, he had standards. He didn’t like things too easy, did he? You could play with that. 

You laughed, your hands roaming up, palms flat against his chest. You traced the sharpness of his jaw. “Oh no.” You brought the tips of your fingers to his lips. “I’m not here to whore myself out. But if it brings you to the table, I’m sure I can find the sweetest cunt on the grand line for you.”

His eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint flashing through them as he considered your words. You were suddenly reminded of how he held every card, how you were at the mercy of his every caprice. You only happened to hold his attention for now, only happened to entertain him enough for him to let you and your squadron live. He was THE marine hunter. It didn’t matter if every officer in the establishment were to pull their weapons out and point at him. He’d be fine and you’d all be dead. The tension between you crackled like a storm about to break, every touch and every word a loaded gun.

“What a tempting offer,” he finally said, his voice a low purr that sent your heart racing in more ways than one. “But I find that I prefer a more... personal touch.”

To punctuate his point his hand reached further, against the curve of your ass, before coming back and digging in your hip, pressing you down to him. You almost moaned, every fiber of your being fighting the primal urges that strained to be free. You let out a silent gasp instead. This was going too far, getting out of your grasp. A mistake. An admission of your desires. You were slipping more by the moment. You moved your hand up, giving the signal for everyone to vacate. You’d have to do this alone, you wouldn’t risk so many lives on your inability to handle one man.

Mihawk noticed the subtle movement of your hand, his eyebrow arching with curiosity and a hint of amusement. “Calling off your dogs, are you? Either you’re very confident or very foolish,” he commented, his tone teasing yet edged with something sharper.

You felt a touch of annoyance prick at the edge of your mind. He was rubbing it in. Toying with you, trying to tease out reactions. Even though you felt anything but confident, you flashed a daring smile, the tension between you sparking with the undercurrent of unsaid words. 

You resumed your mindless patterns on his chest, slowly getting lower and lower. "Let's just say I would rather handle the finer details of these negotiations with more privacy. Make room for more... satisfying outcomes."

His fingers continued their dance along your side, dipping dangerously close to forbidden territory. Mihawk's smirk deepened as he seemed to see right through you, fixed right on your uncertainty. You felt yourself flailing, felt yourself losing your composure. 

“Privacy can certainly be... conducive to more fruitful negotiations,” he murmured, a dark caress relishing on the hold he held on you. He leaned in, reaching for his glass of wine. He took a slow sip, watching the gears turn in your head before putting it back behind you. “So what is it you want?” He asked, his hand grabbing to your chin, moving your head side to side with an appraising look, making you look at him.

You took a steadying breath, leaning into his touch, playing along with his game. “Oh not much,” You cooed, hand reaching his at your face, splaying it along your cheek, brushing your lips on his palm. ”I’ve only been instructed to get you to the negotiation table, nothing more, nothing less.” You dragged his hand down, spreading it along your throat bringing it over your heart. “I’m sure I could at the very least get you to consider it?”

It all happened too fast. You heard the sound of glass shattering on the floor before you registered the change in perspective. The hold he had over your throat was harsh as he pinned you down to the table, the remnants of the wine pooling in the tile like spilled blood.

“You think you can just waltz in and sway me with a few promises, like a common man?” There was something nearing disappointment in his tone and you realized you’d messed up. You’d been too hasty, too forward, he had been hoping to play longer. “How about this little marine, show me how badly you need me to do what you need and if you’re entertaining enough, I might consider it.”

The shift in Mihawk’s demeanor was almost terrifying in its intensity, and you struggled to keep your composure as his grip tightened on your throat. Your mind raced, trying to find a way to turn the situation back in your favor. The room was deathly silent in its emptiness, the tension palpable and if it wasn’t for the stiffness of his crotch against yours you’d think you’d lost all of your cards.

It might just get you killed but you arched your back beneath him, pressing into him. Your thighs trembled at his side as you struggled for breath but still, your hands grasped at his over your throat, pushing him further against you, cutting your airflow almost completely. If he wanted a show, then you’d give him one he’d remember until his last moments on earth.

Mihawk’s grip on your throat tightened for a second and you thought for an instant that this was it, that the underworld awaited you. But before darkness could cloud your eyes he loosened it, his gaze glinting with a mixture of curiosity and dark amusement. You could feel the rapid beat of your heart echoing in your ears as you gasped for breath, your whole body shaking beneath his. The room seemed to pulse with the intensity of the moment, every sense heightened.

“You’re quite the performer,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that only served to enhance the heat building between your legs. “But I’m not easily swayed by theatrics. Show me something real.”

You swallowed hard, your throat still aching from his grip, but you forced a smile. “Real, you say?” You let your hands glide away from his wrist, trailed your curves, and slipped the straps of your dress off from your shoulders, revealing more skin and black lace. “I can do real.”

Mihawk’s eyes darkened with interest, his gaze tracing the path of your hands as they moved. He released his grip on your throat, his fingers now trailing down to your collarbone, leaving a searing embers in their wake. The intensity in his stare was almost overwhelming, and you knew you had to find a way to keep control of the situation, even if it felt like you were barely holding on.

You grasped his hand, guiding it along your bare skin, to the plushness of your breast. “What is it you truly desire, Mihawk? Power? Control? Or perhaps something more... visceral?” You practically moaned out the words. 

His hand lingered on the lace, pushing it aside, fingers tracing lazy circles. The air between you was electric, charged with unspoken promises and the underlying tension of a predator toying with its prey.  This was a delicate game. You let out a soft moan, arching your back further, pressing yourself against him, rolling your hips.

A smirk broke on his lips as he saw right through your little performance. He knew exactly what game you were playing, and it was clear he was enjoying every moment of it. His hand moved with deliberate slowness, tracing the curve of your breast, his touch a maddening mix of gentle and firm. The control you sought seemed to slip further from your grasp with each passing second.

“And what do you propose, little marine?”

You let out a soft, breathy laugh. “I propose we make this interesting. A game, if you will. You test my… resolve, and I test yours. We both get what we want.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “A game, you say? And what are the stakes?”

You bit your lip, your hand guiding his lower, your fingers ushering his along the dripping lace of your underwear. “If I can prove my worth to you, you agree to come to the negotiation table. If I fail...” You paused, letting the weight of the words hang between you. “If I fail, you can do with me as you please.”

He pushed aside the ruined fabric, the pads of his fingers meeting your slick before dipping inside. “You’re playing a dangerous game, little marine.” His smirk widened as a moan escaped you. “What makes you think I can’t just take what I want?”

The words hung in the air, thick with implication. You felt the intensity of his gaze boring into you, the heat from his touch searing into your skin. As though to emphasize his point, his thumb found your clit, tracing slow, deliberate circles, each movement sending jolts of pleasure through your body, mewls you tried to muffle out of your lips.

You swallowed hard, your breath coming in ragged gasps. “You could,” you admitted, your hand wrapping around his wrist as he moved his fingers in a come-hither motion, pressing all those delightfully right spots. Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, fingers trembling, nails digging into him as a wave of ecstasy washed over you. You struggled to come back, half-lidded eyes meeting his. “But I’m sure I can make it much, much more entertaining for you if you decide to play along.”

His eyes flickered with a mixture of amusement and dark curiosity. “You certainly know how to make an offer enticing.” He leaned in close, his breath touching your lips. “But from where I’m standing you’re already breaking.”

He was right, you were so close to falling apart under him. "Am I not to your pleasing?" You asked, voice trembling against his. You reached up and discarded his hat, your fingers seeking to tangle in his hair. “Am I not entertaining enough for you, marine hunter?”

He chuckled, his lips brushing over yours. His fingers continued their tantalizing exploration, pushing you closer to the edge with each deliberate movement. He was testing you, pushing your limits to see how far you could go. And yet, despite the overwhelming intensity, you were determined to hold your ground.

“You are quite pleasing,” he admitted, his voice was thick with lust and its intensity almost sent you over. “But I wonder, how much more can you take before you beg for mercy?”

You bit your lip, a mixture of defiance and desire burning in your eyes. “I don’t beg, Mihawk. That’s what makes it interesting.”

His smirk widened, his fingers pressing deeper, eliciting another soft moan from you. “Bold words, little marine. Very bold indeed. Let’s see if that’s true.”

His lips met yours, slow and teasing, a dance of dominance and submission, a battle for control, a negotiation of its own. He moved against you with a practiced precision, each movement calculated to draw out your reactions. You could feel the intensity of his desire, the raw power behind each touch.

You were close. So fucking close. 

You swore under your breath as he suddenly stopped.

“I wonder what will make you break the fastest.” Satisfaction was evident in his voice as he felt you flutter around his fingers. “Denial or pleasure?”

Your breath hitched at Mihawk's words, the sensation of his fingers lingering just out of reach driving you to the edge of your sanity. This was a dangerous game, one where you had to balance the razor's edge between control and surrender. If… if you managed to hold out long enough… even he couldn’t resist lust forever. 

You couldn't let him see just how close you were to breaking.

Drawing on every ounce of willpower, you forced a sly smile. Your hands left his hair and traced down his chest. "Why not try both and find out?" 

He interrupted their path as you reached his belt. Deftly he brought them over your head, his weight pinning you entirely in place as he started moving his fingers again. His eyes gleamed as he looked down at you, relishing the arch of your body against his, relishing your struggle. 

He leaned close, his breath hot against your ear. "Now, now,” he tutted at you. “You can’t just skip ahead. Let's see how long you can endure."

Before you could respond, his lips descended on yours again, demanding and possessive. The kiss was bruising, filled with the same intensity that characterized every touch and word between you. His fingers made you see stars, their exploration agonizingly slow, teasing you mercilessly, never quite giving you what you needed.

You moaned into his mouth, bucked against his hand, your every instinct overtaken by a desperate need for release. The tension between you was unbearable, every nerve ending screaming for more. 

He stopped and started again and again and again, until you struggled with your breath and your whole body quivered and sang to each of his demands.

Mihawk's lips left yours, trailing down your jawline to your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that almost made you lose your mind. "You're holding up better than I expected," he murmured against your skin, biting softly on your exposed nipple before soothing it with his tongue.

You barely managed a breathless laugh, closer to sobs than anything. "I told you, Mihawk. I don't break easily."

He chuckled, a sound that was both dark and amused. "We'll see about that."

His fingers moved with a different purpose now, driving you closer and closer to the edge, fast and hard. You could feel the tension coiling within you, the impending release just out of reach. And still, he held you there, teetering on the brink, refusing to let you fall.

It was maddening, the way he controlled you so effortlessly, drawing out every ounce of pleasure and frustration until you thought you might lose your mind. And yet, you couldn't help but crave more and he couldn’t help but to push you further, to see just how far you could go before you finally shattered.

"Please," you whispered, the word slipping out before you could stop it.

You felt his smile against your skin. “There we go,” he drawled out the words. “The little marine knows how to beg after all.”

With a sudden, devastating precision, he drove you over the edge, his fingers moving in perfect rhythm to bring you to the peak of ecstasy. You cried out, your body convulsing with the force of your release, your muscles straining against his hold.

As you came back to reality, he withdrew his fingers, leaving you gasping at the sudden loss. He brought his hand to your mouth, his eyes never leaving yours. “Taste your resolve, little marine.”

You opened your mouth, taking his fingers in, your tongue swirling around them, tasting the remnants of your desire. The act was a surrender and he watched you with contentment, his gaze victorious.

“Good girl,” his voice was a satisfied purr, one that made your mind feel fuzzy and your body hot. “Now let’s see how well you break under pleasure.” 

His hands moved to your hips, his grip firm as he repositioned you with ease, brought you closer to the edge of the table. You felt some of your slick cooled by time, seep into the fabric of your dress, against your lower back as he pulled you over the puddle of arousal that had been slowly gathering on the wooden top.

His movements were deliberate, calculated, his eyes never leaving yours as he took off his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a whispering sound. He eyed it for a moment, a slow smile spreading across his lips before his attention came back to you. 

“Will you be a good?” His tone was threatening. “Or do I have to restrain you again?”

You swallowed hard, your breath catching in your throat. The challenge was unmistakable.  “I can be good,” you whispered, your voice hoarse but it sounded unconvincing, even to your ears. The thought of being powerless under his hold once again was somehow unbearable.

Mihawk’s smile widened, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “I don’t think you can, little marine.”

With a swift motion, he looped the belt around your wrists, pulling it tight enough to restrain but not to hurt. The leather bit into your skin, the sensation unnerving.

”You’re just waiting for a chance to turn the tables, aren’t you?”

You quirked your head to the side, a hint of defiance shining through. “Can you blame me?” He let go of your hands and you made no effort to keep them up, letting them drop to your stomach. “It’s not fair if you hold ALL the cards.”

“Fairness is a luxury, little marine.” His hands moved to your thighs, pushing them apart with a firm, insistent pressure. “A luxury one can rarely indulge in when playing to win.”

He paused for a moment, his gaze raking over your form, something you couldn’t decipher spreading on his features, an intensity you’d only ever seen on wild animals.

“I must admit, you’re quite the sight.” His fingers traced the edge of your underwear. With a swift motion, he tore the delicate fabric away, leaving you completely exposed. “But I think you’ll be much more entertaining once broken.”

Your breath caught in your throat in a small hiccup, the threat in his words not escaping you. Your eyes stood at a standstill as he deliberately slowly undid his pants.

His cock met your heat, gathering your slick and the soft pressure on your oversensitive clit made you want to twist and buck beneath him. He brought one of your already trembling legs over his shoulder, his hand roaming up and down in a soothing touch. 

You felt his tip at your entrance, the slow delightful stretch as he entered you in a tortuously unhurried advance. Your entire body reacted to the sensation, you arched beneath him, your eyes fluttering close, your wrists strained against your bindings desperate to hold unto something, anything to ground you. The pleasure was intense, almost overwhelming and as he met your cervix you couldn’t help the sharp cry that escaped your lips, nor the tears gathering in your eyes.

“You’re so tight, little marine,” Mihawk chuckled, taking in every detail of the moment and searing it in his mind. “So responsive. I can feel you clenching around me, trying to hold on.” 

His movements were controlled, each thrust calculated to draw out your reactions, to push you closer to the edge. You wouldn’t beg. You wouldn’t cry for mercy. You were so close. Each drag of his cock against your fluttering walls was heavenly. The room seemed to fade away, the only thing that mattered was the sensation of him inside you. 

You could feel the dam within you beginning to crack and then his hand found your clit once more and your breath stopped. It was too much. You came around him with a desperate gasp.

He didn’t stop, his thrusts still perfectly controlled. You knew the overstimulation was coming but it didn’t prepare you for the moment it washed over you. Your eyes shot open and makeup blurred tears stained your cheeks. You fought as though it was a matter of life or death. It was too much. Too fucking much. But his hands held you firmly in place, unable to escape his relentless assault.

And then a second orgasm rippled through your veins, blinding and even more intense than the first. 

But he still didn’t stop. Your cries stuck at the back of your throat, sobs wreaking your body. 

“Please,” you couldn’t help but beg again and again, your limbs so taut beneath him it was painful.

As his laugh hit your ears, you realized he didn’t care. Realized he was having fun. Your body twisted violently beneath him, too harsh for him to control and he let out an annoyed click of his tongue before flipping you over, the edge of the table digging hard into your hips as he entered you again. 

“Mercy,” you pleaded, wrists straining so intensely against your bindings that you knew you’d be nursing those red marks for days.

“Already?” His hand kneaded your ass roughly, pushing you even more painfully against the wooden top. “How disappointing, little marine.” His touch snaked up along your spine and tangled forcefully in your hair, keeping you pinned down and struggling against his hold. “I’m just getting started.”  He punctuated his statement with an especially sharp movement of his hips.

Your legs kicked in the air as another orgasm rippled through you, and you felt your arousal drip down your thigh and your drool seep out of your redded lips.

The world was careening around you and you couldn’t breathe and waves of pleasure washed over you so fast that your mind couldn’t keep up anymore. You eventually went slack beneath him, your entire body surrendering, and only then did his rhythm start to falter. 

He turned you back around, and you didn’t struggle, fully pliant for him. His fingers found your lips, played with the spit on your tongue, kept your mouth open as he reached closer to his own release. 

“Mercy,” you begged one last time, your words muffled, your lips wrapping against his fingers.

And he smiled, a predatory, victorious smile and you couldn’t help but think he looked ethereal in this moment. His hips stuttered one once more, his seed hot inside you and you clenched around him, white blurring your vision for the umpteenth time. 

He slowly pulled out, his gaze dropping to your entrance, watching his cum dribble out with a lust-blown stare. Your whole body still shook in the aftermath, your breath scattered and you spasmed at the feeling, a last vestige of submission as you whimpered. 

His fingers left your mouth and almost tenderly wiped your tear-stained cheek, brushing strands of hair that had been plastered on your sweat-covered skin behind your ear. His gaze stayed on you, considering.

“You’ve been more interesting than I expected,” He admitted as he pulled back up his pants.  “Very well, I’ll consider your offer on one condition.” He gently unraveled his belt, his hand lingering on your wrists and you gave a sharp hiss of pain he seemed to drink in with delight. 

“And that is?” you asked, your voice sounding far away, not your own.

He lazily passed the leather back in the belt loops, put back on his hat, making you wait.

“You’re the one who handles the negotiations. Just you and I. No one else.”

A slow smile of victory made its way to your lips.

“I’m sure that can be arranged.”

Masterlist

Might consider making a part 2, but don't hold me to that.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Denise Hearn and Vass Bednar’s “The Big Fix”

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/05/ted-rogers-is-a-dope/#galen-weston-is-even-worse

The Canadian national identity involves a lot of sneering at the US, but when it comes to oligarchy, Canada makes America look positively amateurish.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this thread to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/05/ted-rogers-is-a-dope/#galen-weston-is-even-worse

Canada's monopolists may be big fish in a small pond, but holy moly are they big, compared to the size of that pond. In their new book, The Big Fix: How Companies Capture Markets and Harm Canadians, Denise Hearn and Vass Bednar lay bare the price-gouging, policy-corrupting ripoff machines that run the Great White North:

https://sutherlandhousebooks.com/product/the-big-fix/

From telecoms to groceries to pharmacies to the resource sector, Canada is a playground for a handful of supremely powerful men from dynastic families, who have bought their way to dominance, consuming small businesses by the hundreds and periodically merging with one another.

Hearn and Bednar tell this story and explain all the ways that Canadian firms use their market power to reduce quality, raise prices, abuse workers and starve suppliers, even as they capture the government and the regulators who are supposed to be overseeing them.

The odd thing is that Canada has been in the antitrust game for a long time: Canada passed its first antitrust law in 1889, a year before the USA got around to inaugurating its trustbusting era with the passage of the Sherman Act. But despite this early start, Canada's ultra-rich have successfully used the threat of American corporate juggernauts to defend the idea of Made-in-Canada monopolies, as homegrown King Kongs that will keep the nation safe from Yankee Godzillas.

Canada's Competition Bureau is underfunded and underpowered. In its entire history, the agency has never prevented a merger – not even once. This set the stage for Canada's dominant businesses to become many-tentacled conglomerates, like Canadian Tire, which owns Mark's Work Warehouse, Helly Hansen, SportChek, Nevada Bob's Golf, The Fitness Source, Party City, and, of course, a bank.

A surprising number of Canadian conglomerates end up turning into banks: Loblaw has a bank. So does Rogers. Why do these corrupt, price-gouging companies all go into "financial services?" As Hearn and Bednar explain, owning a bank is the key to financialization, with the company's finances disappearing into a black box that absorbs taxation attempts and liabilities like a black hole eating a solar system.

Of course, the neat packaging up of vast swathes of Canada's economy into these financialized and inscrutable mega-firms makes them awfully convenient acquisition targets for US and offshore private equity firms. When the Competition Bureau (inevitably) fails to block those acquisitions, whole chunks of the Canadian economy disappear into foreign hands.

This is a short book, but it's packed with a lot of easily digested detail about how these scams work: how monopolies use cross-subsidies (when one profitable business is used to prop up an unprofitable business in order to kill potential competitors) and market power to rip Canadians off and screw workers.

But the title of the book is The Big Fix, so it's not all doom and gloom. Hearn and Bednar note that Canadians and their elected reps are getting sick of this shit, and a bill to substantially beefed up Canadian competition law passed Parliament unanimously last year.

This is part of a wave of antitrust fever that's sweeping the world's governments, notably the US under Biden, where antitrust enforcers did more in the past four years than their predecessors accomplished over the previous 40 years.

Hearn and Bednar propose a follow-on agenda for Canadian lawmakers and bureaucrats: they call for a "whole of government" approach to dismantling Canada's monopolies, whereby each ministry would be charged with combing through its enabling legislation to find latent powers that could be mobilized against monopolies, and then using those powers.

The authors freely admit that this is an American import, modeled on Biden's July 2021 Executive Order on monopolies, which set out 72 action items for different parts of the administration, virtually all of which were accomplished:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2021/08/party-its-1979-og-antitrust-back-baby

What the authors don't mention is that this plan was actually cooked up by a Canadian: Columbia law professor Tim Wu, who served in the White House as Biden's tech antitrust czar, and who grew up in Toronto (we've known each other since elementary school!).

Wu's plan has been field tested. It worked. It was exciting and effective. There's something weirdly fitting about finding the answer to Canada's monopoly problems coming from America, but only because a Canadian had to go there to find a receptive audience for it.

The Big Fix is a fantastic primer on the uniquely Canadian monopoly problem, a fast read that transcends being a mere economics primer or history lesson. It's a book that will fire you up, make you angry, make you determined, and explain what comes next.

[bucksboobs]

The Exit Interviewer went private on Twitter right after screeners dropped which is an inscrutable but fairly positive sign that this episode might be good

[dark-moonlust]

Paying Tribute to the Satyrs Part 2

Pairing: 3 Satyrs x nymph reader

Summary: the three Satyrs want to take you as their mate.

Warnings: morning after sex, implied smut, possessive satyrs, mating, claiming talk.

Find Part 1 here. Part 3 here. Happy reading!!

Late morning had come.

Lovely gold light filtered through the trees, creating warm patterns on your skin as you lay on the soft bed of moss. Every inch of you felt decadently wet and hot. You were blissfully disoriented from the night before— the night you’d offered yourself as tribute to the three satyrs. The night they’d taken you, leaving no part of you untouched or unclaimed.

The memories whirled in your head like a storm of sensations, a kaleidoscope of colors, textures, and smells. Their warm lips had kissed every inch of your flesh, and their strong and sure hands had manoeuvred you into every position possible, possessing you. You remembered their gazes, touches, heavy grunts and gasps after they devoured you full and marked your skin. You remembered how they moved inside of you, their hooves thrumming on the ground. Their double cocks stuffing you full, their goat-like bodies pulsing with primitive energy.

Paying tribute to the satyrs had become a bittersweet ache, a need that continued to pulse through your veins. Your body remained alive and hot, eager for more; you wanted their bodies wrapped around yours, their warmth and scent on your skin. Your breasts still felt the tugs from their lips, your nipples were soft and sensitive as if kissed by a thousand suns. Your thighs, too, remembered the pressure of their bodies, your holes sore and dripping moisture.

You were, in a way, forever changed, remade by their passion.

Now, as you sat up from the wonderful bed of moss, you flushed in their presence. They were totally naked, with their cocks concealed in protective slits while you huddled in, pulling your knees to your chest to hide your nakedness. You couldn't find your garments because they'd been hurled far away in the heat of the moment. The satyrs didn't seem to care and they stood tall and strong in front of you, possessive and unyielding.

"Seems the tribute's been more than paid," you mumbled, your voice gentle as you stared up at them.

Teofos, Fyrian, and Kynias exchanged glances, their emotions inscrutable.

"Ahhh…. Yes. The tribute…" Fyrian muttered heavily.

“It has been paid in full, right?” you said, hurting a little inside that your time together was over.

Teofos, the leader, kneeled by your side, his hand lifting your chin. "Not necessarily, little nymph," he said, his voice deep. "Last night was not only a tribute.”

“It could be so much more,” Kynias added warmly. “A promise. A promise for you to belong to us and for us to belong to you."

“What are you saying?” you muttered, your heart stuttering as his words sank into you.

“It all started so suddenly but… don’t leave,” Fyrian offered huskily. “Be our mate.”

"I don't want to leave," you mumbled softly.

"Then stay," Teofos said. "Stay with us. Be ours just as we are yours."

Speechless, you stared at each of them, your pulse racing with surprise and delight. The three of them surrounded you and gently pushed your hands aside so they could touch you. Teofos' lips traced the line of your neck, Fyrian's hands cupped the smoothness of your exposed breasts, and Kynias slowly stroked your swollen nipples. You keened and succumbed to their touches —they were gentle and reassuring but also blazing hot.

"But the other tribes," you said, your voice wavering when Kynias licked around the tender skin of your areola.

Teofos kissed your shoulder. "Let them try to separate you from us.”

Fyrian's fingers tightened around your waist. "You are ours, little nymph. Last night was just the beginning.”

“The clan is here,” Kynias alerted calmly. “We will protect you, our nymph mate.”

Indeed you suddenly noticed the change in the atmosphere. The forest surrounding you appeared alive, with satyrs emerging from the trees as if pulled by an invisible call. They were so many! The satyr clan surrounded you in seconds, a big crowd staring at you with admiration, eagerness and anticipation.

And it was clear that they would not go unless customs were upheld.

You snuggled against Fyrian while Teofos and Kynias gripped your sides, their hands remaining firmly on your body. Teofos, the leader, gazed at the crowd fiercely, his eyes possessive, almost primal. Then he spoke up, his voice distinct and unmistakable.

"This nymph belongs to us.”

An elderly satyr stepped closer to the clearing's edge, his face wrinkled with age, his gaze wise. He looked at you and then at your satyrs. "It's tradition, Teofos," he stated. “To claim a mate, you must follow our laws. A public claiming in front of the clan."

“I agree!” Another satyr proclaimed. “Honoring our traditions and laws is sacred.”

A rush of nervousness and excitement ran over your system. You were aware of the Satyrs’ unusual customs: to claim a mate, they had to engage in a public claiming. It was a sacred rite for them. Nymph clans did not adhere to such traditions but as you glanced at the awaiting satyr clan, you did not want to disappoint them or your mates.

“Will you stand with us, little nymph?" Teofos asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Kynias whispered, for your ears only. "Will you let us claim you, show them all that you are ours, and we are yours?"

“You don’t have to do this if you’re not comfortable,” Fyrian added just as quietly. “We can wait for you to be ready.”

“No. I am ready,” you said decisively and met their gazes, your heart racing.

They nodded, unable to form words, great joy spreading across their features. Their hands tightened around your body, their fingers brushing across your skin. They were brimming with pride. The clan remained still, their gazes turning to the four of you until Teofos’s voice broke through, loud and firm.

"You've come to testify, and so you will," he said, his voice resonating across the forest. "She will be ours, bound by the earth, our spirits and bodies. Our nymph mate.”

[rei-ismyname]

Loser Husbands get judged

Judgement Day was a fantastic event running through the entire Marvel universe. In short, the new Prime Eternal thought wiping out the mutants would secure his political position. Tony Stark, Sinister and the Eternal priests built a new God to stop the war - which it briefly did. Then it judged everyone.

Magneto and Storm put on a fantastic show fighting Uranos the Undying, as you can see. The big guy tore Mags' heart out (rude) but he kept fighting with his powers and help from Storm, and eventually the pair fucked Uranos up. That's not what he's judged on.

As part of Arakko's government, Mags and Storm removed themselves from the resurrection protocols. Magneto is dying and The Progenitor chooses to judge him based on whether he sticks to his guns and accepts death. It's right that Xavier would save his loser husband if he called out to him right now, but he doesn't. It appears as his lost daughter Anya and gives him a thumbs up, recontextualising the scene in X-Men Red..

Interestingly, it thinks 'if all were like him there'd be no need for men like him.' Inasmuch as this cobbled together space God based on Tony Stark is worth listening to, it's at least fascinating that Kieron Gillen chose those words. Storm and Mags embracing as he dies is beautiful and the judgement means nothing.

Chuck doesn't fare so well in the 'being judged by a space God' game. The judgement itself is meaningless, but the nature of the test and Xavier's response are significant. The Progenitor has been shown to frequently judge a person based on their own standards and guilt.

The implication that Chuck represses the extent of his guilt over his shoddy parenting wouldn't surprise me. The dude is running a country and overseeing a psychic siege defence of the Quiet Council by himself, something that kills him multiple times via exploding head. He's also taking meetings, communicating with various people, and even has the time for passive aggressive jabs here and there.

I suspect it's not a failure to drop everything and run to David right in this moment, but not even stopping to look at his son on what's looking like the last day of existence for everyone. It could be something else entirely, what with inscrutable space Gods and all, though Charles Xavier is incredibly neglectful to David and always has been. I love that Legion managed to build himself some happiness and stability in spite of this, and I would LOVE to see a conversation between the two right now.

[pishifuzul]

you're very close with your dad—always have been. that's how it is with sons and fathers, right? all that male bonding. nevermind how the other boys are always making fun of you for being so giggly, the timbre of your voice, the way that you walk. at least your dad loves you, loves spending time with you, playing with you.

so it's nothing out of the ordinary when he tells you one day to hop in the car; just another adventure with your old man, right? and when the streets turn unfamiliar it's no surprise. he's always taking you somewhere new to explore together. but in a moment you notice you're pulling into a hospital parking lot, and a seed of confusion forms. it builds as you follow your dad into the building, unsure what kind of adventure is supposed to happen at a place like this.

before you can react, you're pulled into an obscure room out of earshot. daddy picks you up and dumps you into the bed gruffly, ignoring your pleas for an explanation. you start to struggle but a solemn, inscrutable doctor appears and binds you with restraints. this isn't normal. even you know that.

the two of them exchange words in low murmurs, but you can catch a phrase here and there. something about a surgery, about anesthesia, and a word you don't know. vaginoplasty? you ask, and of course there's no answer. instead the doctor prepares an IV line, and then a syringe. he nods to your father, who takes position behind your head and grabs you by your temples, bending down. something cold rushes into your arm, and the world starts to dim. dad's voice penetrates the fog.

"you know, I always wanted a girl. and you've never been very good at being a boy. remember that little expression I taught you once? two birds, one stone? you'll understand when you wake up, little bird..."

[interlunium-opus]

►DANCING WITH THE DEVIL #004 [Sunghoon.] — teaser

Previous Parts ‣ #001 | ‣ #002 | ‣ #003 | ‣ #004: Prelude | ‣ #004: FINALE

Abstract: Eight years have passed since you betrayed Park Sunghoon, leaving his fate shrouded in uncertainty. You thought you'd left that world behind, but the serial killings in the capital city —which bore a haunting resemblance to that in your past—pulled you right back into the shadows you once escaped. What began as a quest to prove your worth soon unraveled into something far more sinister: a labyrinthine network of power, deceit, and danger hidden beneath a veneer of opulence. Now, amidst the grandeur of a castle steeped in blood-soaked tradition, you find yourself, once again, entangled with Sunghoon—a ghost from your past whose motives remain as inscrutable as ever. The stakes are now higher, the games deadlier, and survival feels like chasing a mirage. As you navigate a web of twisted rituals and deadly alliances, the tension between you and Sunghoon ignites once again. But this time, the game is different. With whispers of betrayal and lingering wounds threatening to consume you both, you must decide if trust is a risk worth taking—because in doing so, you are not just exposing the truths they've hidden, but also the feelings you’ve fought so hard to suppress and bury.

Genre: vampire!sunghoon | horror | thriller | fantasy | romance (or is it? 😋)

Status: Prelude (released) | Finale (tbc)

>>> | Masterlist |

Author's Note ((if you want a teaser, read me lol)):

Ack, I can't believe I came back (for the last time, probably).

I have written almost 20k and I think this is 70% of the story in my head already. To give you a teaser of it: if you like the gothic and eerie ambience of this series, Part 4 is on another scale -- I bring you right at the nexus of that vampire world (yknow castles, full moons, venetian masks, a ball, lots of fangs and deaths). If you like the tension between Sunghoon and y/n, I can assure you THAT is something that will never die from this series BUT lemme just say this time, the tension is different. I think thus far, the tension and dynamics between them has always been very much an attempt at one-upping the other -- fiery and chaotic, fuelled by emotions they didn’t want to admit even to themselves ((if there were any emotions there is 👀)). But in part 4, the tension has matured -- leaning more into proximity, vulnerability, and unspoken questions. It's less about winning or one-upping each other and more about unraveling hidden truths and struggling with the emotional weight of their past and present. Basically, here's another moodboard because boiii, I needed the main moodboard to have Sunghoon's beautiful face all over so I can't fit the other "important" pics hahah

And that is about as much as what I'll give you hahaha. I really plan to end the series with this part so it will stop haunting us ((me especially)) so I hope your interests has not waned and if you're new to this, I hope this sparks you to read from the beginning hehe

If you're interested to know about the creative process behind this. You can read on: it was effing torturous. It was very hard to think of how to reunite these two in a way that is not cliche nor rushed. It was even harder to try and make them realistically not want to kill each other after the ending of Part 3. Hence why it took me so long. On top of that, I was juggling a full-time work and very recently, academics so you can just imagine. But I digress, hopefully Part 4 will be a good ending to this ((whether it ends positively or not 👀))

-A.

[cyberqueenpatrol]

NEIGHBOUR!GHOST X FEM!READER

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the orange, red and pink spread in the sky in all hues and shades. The shining round figure in the never-ending sky cast its soft rays on your summer dress and you, as you basked on the soft soil and the grass in your front yard shone underneath the changing sky. Riley, your neighbour's humongous and ever lively German Shepherd, was busy trying to catch a butterfly, but soon abandoned his mission and found a comfortable place on your thighs to lay down with a stubborn nudge on your elbow, indicating that he now wanted caresses and cuddles from you.

Soon, the empyrean began to reflect its darker colours. But there was a much darker in farther distance as you maintained your sitting position on the cool earth-

Simon 'Ghost' Riley. Your inscrutable, obscure, ever hidden from the counsel-hungry throng around him neighbour.

After all, for some unknown reason from his side, you were the only person here to know his real name.

Simon walked to your figure that was cradling Riley in your soft, plush thighs. He gradually kneeled beside you, but took a one-second decision to sit down, his head tilted to look at the ever relaxed Riley.

"Looks like someone's got more mellow over the past few days, eh?"

Simon grunted and chuckled, as Riley caught the scent of his beloved master and soon Riley was sitting upright, his tail wagging contently. You pat him gently, appreciating his loyalty and boisterous nature.

"No wonder. It would be a lie if I forget to tell you that he has been a great help around the house. And a wonderful companion too."

You giggle, and the sound of your voice soothed Simon more than ever, along with the calm atmosphere around him. It somewhat felt like home, if not entirely. Yes, no wonder Riley had grown to be so chilled out.

"A small token,uhh.........to thank ya for yer help."

Simon said in a slightly hushed voice, as he held out a rectangular plastic container of your favourite strawberry jam and cream tarts towards you, with his eyes having a little, unknown, sparkling tinge in them. Boy, you literally sat up straight, just like Riley, but that was due to you being so flushed about the generous and kind act.

"That's so thoughtful of you,Simon, but it wasn't really needed. I had a lot of fun with Riley and-"

Simon interrupted you in his not-so-usually-used gentle tone, softly shoving the box of tarts in your hands.

"Can get a small, pretty gift for a pretty lass, can't I?"

"I absolutely love it, Simon. Thank you..........thank you so much."

In that same instance, a harsh, screeching voice of a man that could break the glass of the windows called out your name, causing you to flinch with chills running down your spine and a clear frightened look on your face.

Your husband.

Such an undeserving man he was, that too when he had a pretty stunner like you. Always talking to you in a disgusting tone. Never had seen him hugging or kissing you lovingly like a husband should. Always treated you like a servant, rather than a wife. Roamed about in the neighbourhood acting like a 15 year old playboy, thought Simon.

But here you were. Always being a loyal, chaste and loving wife for him. Always making him delicious lunches before going to work. Always cooking vast meals for your husband after work. Always waited for him to come back home from his usual rambles at the local strip club, for dinner, sometimes you not even eating while you waited for him. And yesterday he even pushed you off the stairs when he was drunk, leading you to beating the shit out of him a little, but you could not do much in front your husband's buff stature.

"Looks like I have to take my leave now. See you later, Simon", you say hurriedly in your unusually hushed tone. As you turned towards your house, the bruise on your elbow from your fall from the stairs did not go unnoticed by Simon.

"What about 'his?", he grunted a bit aggressively, silently taking your bruised elbow in his much calloused fingers. He stared at it for a while, something revengeful and dark was seething in his eyes.

"Oh! It's nothing, just scraped myself while moving about, you kno-", you squeaked, as you looked back at your house.

"Don't be afraid to ring up, if anything's wrong, hmm?", his voice rattled out a soothing tone, but it did have a hint of worry and possessiveness.

You nod, hurrying to take up your job as a wife again, towards your much ungrateful husband, leaving the dark figure with its ĺoyal companion in your lonely backyard.

Next evening

Simon's old jeep sped on the busy streets of the city, occasionally halting on the much crowded crossroads. But he caught something different in the corner of the panoramic view given by his eyes.

You.

Standing there on the pavement in a baby blue formal shirt with its first button undone, jet black high waisted trousers and your glasses perched on the bridge of your nose. Not to mention you looked quite cute in them, according to Simon. God's gonna forsake him for looking at your doughy tits that carved out their curves through the shirt.

You were looking much eager and stressed to go home as you tried to flag down a cab. All because of your stupid husband, bet Simon would never do that if you were his wifey.

His car screeched in front your spot on the pavement, startling you like you were gonna shoot off from your ass or something.

"Got ya gobsmacked, sweetheart?", he grunted with a playful smirk on his much scarred face. His almost carved biceps on the wheel, goddammit,they were big as your face, but hey! You are MARRIED!

"Oh Simon, it's you! God, you hit the brakes like a train in front of me!", you sighed, clutching your handbag. Boy, you would be lying if you didn't check him out just now.

"Sorry, sweetheart. Wanted to give ya a ride back home. You wanna hop in?",that was just like him, straight to the point. He did chuckle as he ended the sentence. No,no,no, you aren't going to think about his thick calves hugged by the sweatpants, no,no, but goddammit

"Oh! Sure, why not? Thank you, Si, I really didn't want to take the busy metro right now", you said as you made a roundabout to the passenger seat. Simon's eyes never left your curved figure, especially the outline of your little tummy bulge peeking through the tight black trousers. He couldn't help but bite the inside of his cheek to stop smirking in appreciation of your plushy figure,that he wanted to grab so bad and so good.

You made yourself comfortable on the passenger seat as you swung the door to close and clicked in the seat belt. Simon saw it all, from meticulous swirl of your fingers on the door handle to the soft pushing of your ass into the seat. It would be great sin if he lied that his knuckles didn't turn white grabbing the steering wheel.

"Ready to hit the road, Si?", you ask sweetly. Your voice softly pierces through his haze that he had watching you. His eyes were stuck on you like glue, and you looked and blinked at him for a second.

"Born ready", he let out half laugh and a half breath.

The rest of the ride back home went smoothly, with you much politely asking him about his deadly getaways, and him nonchalantly giving humorous replies in a while.

You didn't notice for some time but it was raining pretty hard. You could see the light through the window of your house through glossy, wet window of the car.

"Wanna stay back for a while for tea, Si?", you voice drenched in sugar, honey and whatever sweet things out in the world. No wonder Simon had a sweet tooth for a pretty thing like you.

"Never gonna reject tha'", Simon grunted softly, as he pulled over the car in your garage.

You stepped off the vehicle while Simon watched how your curves motioned from the seat, how your unblemished hands smoothed your trousers that hugged your plushy thighs perfectly. Boy, he just wanted his hands on them, only once.

He followed your footsteps towards the door. As you rattled the keys in the lock, bending down a little and giving a supple view of your round ass to Simon so good that he clenched his jaw and knuckles till it hurt, you ask him about Riley's recent adventures. He chuckled and replied,

"Lad has been missin' ya since day one",

You giggle as he finishes his sentence, swing the door open

only to see the most heart breaking and devastating scene before your eyes

Part 2 incoming!