#while simultaneously needing it to survive

[depressedzelda]

u know when u overthink shit and ur convinced something is destined to spiral into a fuckshow but you have no control over it or leaving said situation. Feeling that with this job

[misstycloud]

Imagine yandere vampire hunter finding out he married one of the creatures he vowed to destroy. The very monster he dedicated his entire life to kill.

“…no..i-it can’t be..” his voice was barely a whisper, but you heard it loud and clear as if he was right next to you.

You stood still in the darkness, your face was a mask of indifference. If you hadn’t been blinking he would have mistook you for a statue. It appeared you’d been careless and let yourself be seen- by him no less. You could still feel the warmth of the blood dripping down you chin; a curtain of red fell down the front of your dress and stained it.

“Please tell me this isn’t real..” your husband let his eyes wander to the soon-lifeless body laying not far away. Small puffs of air was seen coming for the person, indicating they were not yet dead. The disgusting sound of gurgling in one’s own blood sent a shiver down his spine. His eyes met yours, searching for any sort of confirmation that everything was indeed a figment of his imagination.

“It is, I’m afraid.” You said.

He let out a devestatd choke, muttering ‘no’ over and over while shaking his head, clearly in denial.

You reminded yourself not to show any emotion and stepped forward. “I will not lie to you and therefor I will utter the clear truth in front of you. I am a vampire.”

“No, no you’re not.” He refused to believe it. If it had been his friend, he would prioritise duty before friendship. If it was his brother, he would do the same. Even if it was his own parents, he would die before letting insensible things such as emotions to come in the way of doing what is right. But this was different. It was you. It can’t be you. It could never be you.

But it was. Clearly. The evidence- the body- was right in front of him, unblinking and unmoving.

“You cannot look away from what is in front of you-“

“Stop saying that!” He suddenly shouted, surprising you with the sudden change in tone. “You can’t be one of….them.” He expressed in great repulsion.

Despite knowing how evil your kind is, you still though of yourself as quite good- well, as good as you can be when you’re a blood sucking, murderous creature of the night. So your husbands disdain awoke some sort of defensiveness in you.

“Wel, I am. And I have been for a while now.”

He seemed to think for a moment. Then he asked, “how long? How long have you been a…a vampire?” He furrowed his brow at the end, not believing he’d ever connect ‘you’ and the word ‘vampire’ in his life.

“36 years. Not as long as some others, but it should still count as something.”

“Oh god..”

It meant that you were one since the start- no before- your marriage. Was he truly that blind? Had love taken such hold of him that he could no longer do his job properly?

How many vampires had he killed during you union? All that while simultaneously being wed to one himself. While loving one, caring for one and even making passionate love to one. It was like some fucked-up punishment tailor-made for him.

He knew what he had to do.

The first tear fell down his cheek, betraying his stern expression and showcasing his endless sorrow. “You are evil,” he raised his crossbow, “and now you have to be judged for your crimes.” How ironic of him to talk about committing crimes of slaughter as if he wasn’t doing exactly the same. He wasn’t stupid, not all immortals were pure darkness, it wasn’t that simple. They do what they have to in order to survive. Only some killed more than they had to. Still, it didn’t change the fact that they all need to be destroyed.

Your eyes widened when he pointed the weapon straight at you. You expected this. Of course he would kill you. However, a part of you could not stop from hoping he wouldn’t think of you as a monster. That perhaps you’d finally find somewhere you can call home and be accepted for what you are. It was a naive dream. Weren’t you his wife before you were a monster? Apparently not, because an arrow shot at you at incredible speed. It hit you in the arm and you cried out in pain.

While you had physical advantages, it doesn’t mean you are immune to pain.

Ripping it out, you studied the black liquid staining it. Your husband swore and immediately prepared to launch another. You felt your fangs grow in length and you hissed at him. Throwing yourself at him the two of you rolled around on the floor, each trying to restrain the other. You managed to get ahold of his crossbow and threw it away form his reach.

Your husband quickly dug into his pockets to grab a dagger, and tried to stab you. Luckily you stopped him in time, fighting him with your vampiric strength. You had to give it to him, he was surprisingly strong for a human. Despite you having supernatural gifts, he was definitely a match and you had a hard time holding you down. If it was any other situation you would have been impressed and rather seduced by his sheer strength, unfortunately this was not a good situation for you.

You leaned down, planning to bite him, but his fast reflexes let him use his free arm to keep you at a distance. He was now on the floor with you straddling him and trying with all your might to end his life.

Your husband knocked your heads together which was the distraction he needed to kick you off of him. You clenched you forehead in pain and backed away. But there was no more time to dwell on that pain, because it was minor compared to what you felt next. Agony was in your side, accompanied by the dagger you had previously defended yourself against.

Your lover was close. Enough for you to feel his breath, and enough for you to see tears running down his regretful face.

“Why was it you?”

Whether he referred to you being a vampire or you being the one he married, you did not know. It hardly mattered anyway.

In a way, you did love your husband. It was probably not in the normal spousal way but it was there. Maybe if you weren’t a blood-sucker you two would have been truly happy together. Too bad fate had other plans. Even though it was true that you were probably evil, you wanted to live. And despite the one threatening your existence was none other than the man who’d showed you the devotion and love you thought you’d never find again, this was not where you wanted it to end.

With a shriek, you used all your power to push him as hard as you could. He flew backwards into the wall. You supposed he’d fainted from the force since he wasn’t making any move to get up. You clutched your side and groaned. You had to get out of there; somewhere safe.

You stumbled to the window and put your foot on the ledge. The dagger he’d stabbed you with must be silver, otherwise it wouldn’t have made as much damage. The wound in your side burned and sizzled with pain. You had no idea if your body would be able to fully heal you in time for when you need blood again- or even at all.

“Ugh….”

You heard a cough from behind you. It was your dearest. He must be sturdier than he looks to have woken up so quickly. He had rolled over to lay on his stomach and had his arms pathetically stretched in your direction.

“D-don’t go.”

You scoffed at his audacity. “What, so you can finally finish me off?”

He whimpered pathetically, “ N-no, I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have done that- why did I do that?” The last part appeared to be a criticism on himself. Nevertheless he continued, “please, I won’t do it again. I was wrong, you’re not evil I know that, I don’t know why I said that. I’m so sorry, please..”

A frown adorned your face. “It’s okay. I’m not evil, but I know I’m far from good- I’m not that delusional.” Then you turned back to the view of the outside world.

“Wait, no-“

“I have to go. I really mean it when I say this, ‘thank you for all these years together, they have been the happiest days I am now able to remember’.

“My love, don’t-“

You ignored his pleas as you jumped from the window. You landed in the dirt outside. You looked back at the house which you’d just escaped from and as you prepared to run off to another town and build up a new life (until you’d eventually have to run again) you listened to the scream of the man who’d been your husband for six years.

What was he screaming? What else if not your name.

-

[imbecominggayer]

Writing Advice: How To Trauma

In seeing the recent explosion of my "How To Write Trauma With Humanity" post, I have decided to jump back into this topic!

This cute post will be covering how to write complicated individuals with Trauma. From the good, the bad, and especially the ugly since people tend to assume that victimhood is inherently seperated from assholehood

A) Being A Person And Afraid

In my experience, the majority of people with trauma have simultaneously existing fears and desires that often contradict, complicate, or outright hurt themselves.

I call them "fear combinations"

It's these fear combinations that cause people with trauma to often act in ways that seem confusing to outsiders.

For example, the person that's always on the hunt for a relationship but whenever an opportunity for romance strikes, they create relationship havok so the relationship can end

Or a person tries to always sincerely bring attention to themselves but whenver the attention is on them, they just shrug it off as not being worthy of it

This behavior seems kinda weird until you stop to take a closer look at their psyche.

Example 1 is based off of my character, Monday Vũ who has a tendency of jumping into relationships with a sincere desire to find romance until the honeymoon period ends as Monday realizes that if the relationship continues they might have to settle down, forgo their entire identity, and all of their freedom. Then they sabotage the relationship under the guise that it's a selfless endeavour.

Example 2 is based off my character, Niko Preyr who uses grand public gestures and his friendships to prop himself up as a person to be known but if you ever spoke to him then you would quickly see one of the most insecure yet attention-hungry individuals you have ever seen.

"Fear Combinations" are an excellent device in making your characters complex. In my opinion, the trauma-writing scene is just a little bit too neat in it's displays of trauma. It's too logical. It doesn't feel real to my personal experiences.

"he has trust issues because of trauma" What if he also had issues with being clingy to people he sees as trust-worthy?

What if your characters weren't so easy to understand? But I hear you wondering.

How? How do these people manifest such confusing behavior? Why should I add this into my characters?

I'll tell you

B) Instinct Vs Terror, Fighting Against Yourself

In my opinion, "fear combinations" are either caused by the distortion of a human fear or the event in which an intrinsic desire is contrasted against a "survival method".

Humans are born with certain "intrinsic" fears and desires. Humans are born with a desire for belonging, a desire for vulnerability, a desire for self-fulfillment, a desire for independence, a desire for security in themselves.

And with desire comes the fear of "missing out". The fear that you want something that everyone wants but for some reason you won't be able to get it. The fear that you'll loose it. And the fear that your desire might put you into danger. What if you get rejected? What if you never find that group? What if you never find freedom?

In not-traumatized individuals, while it may take some introspection, people can and often do reconcile their fears and desires in a movie-montage when they're children with the help of a strong support system.

In traumtized individuals, what tends to happen is that either the fear of lose and the fear of gain tend to be increased to unpredencented levels

Either that, or a lack of a strong support system doesn't allow the child to safely confront their fears in order to get what they want.

This causes "fear combination"

Niko Preyr has the natural desire to be validated as "good", as "special", as "worthy". A desire we are all born with. However, his upbringing convinced him that he is underserving of what we all need. This causes Niko Preyr to use attention as validation. However whenever he receives this attention, his gifted fear that he is undeserving causes him to reject the attention. But he continues searching for attention to serve that need for validation. A hellish cycle.

Monday Vũ has two understandable fears that we all have. The fear of losing two necessary things: indepedence and security. Monday fears being abandoned, fears being engulfed into relationships. While children and adults can often reconcile those fears in their childhood through a strong support system, Monday never had that. Instead she had her father who emotionally left her and her mother who literally left her. Monday only had herself to rely on, at least thats how she felt. And now, as an adult, Monday wants to fulfill that desire we all have. To be loved. To be connected. But she's afraid. Afraid of being blindsided. Afraid of not having the last laugh. Afraid of being apart of something.

What if that loner wolf found someone who they think is perfect. Someone worthy of their trust. Do you really think that all those years of yearning for love, for connection, are just going to be smothered when they have the perfect person to unleash their childish, half-developed, horrifying emotions onto?

But what next? After we have our character's contradictory fears and desires, after we have the justification for why they feel like this, what's next?

It's this:

C) Self-Destructive Habits: Why We Understand And Can't Change

Let me tell you, unless in very specific conditions such as certain personality disorders and so on, people tend to understand that their behavior is foolish, illogical, and hurting other people.

Monday knows that betraying other people, hurting their trust and faith in their relationships, and entering relationships when she understands her history is bad. It makes her a bad person.

Niko knows that their habits are actively hurting their chances at finding worth.

That "Lone Wolf" understands, deep down, that no single person can handle the high expectations and emotions.

They know it because they can see it. Many times. Monday can see that characters in movies who have their relationship history tend to be casted as the antagonist. Niko can hear the gossip. That "Lone Wolf" can see the way that their loved ones cracked under the pressure and guilt.

So why do they do it? It feeds into their idea of the world. It feeds into what they want to be perceived as. It feeds into their stagnancy.

If Monday can ignore how they hurt others, then they can live under the Martyr label for the rest of their life without having to come to term with the fact that this isn't selflessness, it's called being pathetic.

If Niko can ignore how deep that hurt goes, then they never have to actually make the effort to change. To take that potential and make themselves into something. To be responsible.

If "Lone Wolf" can ignore how nobody can meet their expectations without crumbling down, then they use everyone's failure to feed into their cynical, self-hating notion of how nobody's trustworthy. How they don't have the responsibility of being considerate.

[catboybiologist]

A rant to the void. I'm transgender. I've been doing molecular biology and genetics research for over 8 years. Those are not in conflict with each other.

(this is a copy/paste of a post I made to r/labrats last night, a subreddit for lab scientists. Its directed towards scientists. I'll link it at the end if you want to see the positive reception from other scientists, but I thought it would be worth posting here, to my predominantly transgender userbase.)

I'm exhausted.

I'm laughing and memeing about the transgender mice as much as the next person, but there's genuine pain and grief here. I'm in grad school right now, and I've been doing research since my freshman year of undergrad. I started estrogen hormone replacement therapy in 2023, and I've been living openly as a transgender woman since summer last year.

I attribute my studies in biology, and my ability to read primary sources about the biology of sex determination, hormonal physiology, and my background with fundamental concepts like gene expression as key reasons why I was able to finally feel comfortable enough to transition, both medically and socially.

I've received nothing but love and support from other biologists. Mostly a few fun nerdy rambles while catching up with old colleagues about the precise biology of what I'm doing to myself right now, and over sharing about my own changing gene expression and physiology.

The growing hate coming from outside the field, from nonscientists, from stupid fucks who've never picked up a pipette in their fucking life, who've never seen a fasta file, who would struggle to pronounce two words in a paper... I can't even begin to articulate how simultaneously stupid and heartbreaking it is.

My career, my passion, my contributions to the world, are being gutted, censored, and used against me. I'm trying to be as grounded and practical as possible, but sometimes I break and feel like I need space for the genuine grief I'm feeling, for lack of a better word.

I feel like I'm in a unique position to do something, say something, but I'm in such a whirlwhind myself and trying to figure out what to do with my own life and survive through these years, that I really don't know what I can or should do.

So I guess I'll scream into the void with this post, attend a march on Friday, survive, and see what I can do later. Fuck.

[heron-knight]

decided to crack open my skull and pour the contents of my brain onto the keyboard. thought the denizens of tumblr might enjoy it. bon appetite

Mech Pilot Care guide

You never expect it, do you. Even as you see the flashes of pulse-decay fire in the sky, illuminating a scene of violence on the cosmic scale. Planetary defense satellites forming Monolithic structures in the sky, their purpose now revealed as they scatter constellations of destruction across the night horizon, drowning out the stars and replacing them with ones born of death. The oxygen in a ship catching fire and burning away in an instant, a flash of light that marks the death of its crew of hundreds. Even if you take your telescope to watch this spectacle, this war in a place without screams, you still feel profoundly disconnected from it.

Even as you see a pilot cleave through a drone hive with a fusion blade, the molten metal glistening in the light of the explosions around it, scattering without gravity to the corners of the universe, even as two mechs dance across the sky, their reactors pouring into the engines enough energy to power the house atop which you sit for ten thousand years, flying in a 3.5 dimensional dance with only one word to the song that can reach across the vacuum: “I Will Kill You.” you don’t feel even the slightest glimpse of what goes on inside their minds. You don’t feel the neurological feedback tearing across the brain-computer interface, filling her mind with more simultaneous pain and elation that an unmodified human could ever experience. You don’t feel it as the pneumatic lance punctures through steel and nanocarbon polymer, the mech AI sending floods of a sensation you could never truly know through the skull and into every corner of the body carried on enhanced nerves for every layer of armor punctured, tearing into the enemy chassis with a desire beyond anything the flesh can provide. Let the stars kill each other. After all, I am safe on earth. No, you don’t expect it when the star is hit with a sub-relativistic projectile, piercing through both engines in an instant. You don’t expect it to fall. You never would have expected it to land, the impact nearly vaporizing the soil and setting trees aflame, on the hill beyond your house, and you would never have expected, beneath the layers of cooling slag, for the life-support indicator light to still be visible.

All the fire extinguishers in your house, your old plasma cutter that you haven’t used in years, and whatever medical supplies you think they might still be able to benefit from. All that on a hoverbike, speeding at 120 kilometers per hour through the valley and up onto the hill, still illuminated by the battle above, unsurprisingly unchanged by this new development. 200 meters. 100 meters. You don’t know how much time you’ve got. It wasn’t exactly covered in school, how long a pilot can survive in an overheating frame. You’ve heard rumors, of course, of what these things that used to be human have become. That they don’t eat and barely need air. That they don’t feel any desire beyond what instructions are pumped directly into their brains. Not so much of a person as much as an attack dog. It’s understandably a bit concerning, as if they are alive, then it’s not guaranteed that you will be. Three fire extinguishers later, the surface of the mech is mostly solid, and the cutter slices through the exterior plating. With a satisfying crunch, the cockpit is forced open, revealing the pilot, and confirming a few of the rumors, while refuting others. Pilots, it seems, are not quite emotionless. In fact, there seems to be genuine fear on its face when it sees you, followed by… a sort of grim certainty as it opens its mouth, moves its jaw into a strange position, and you only have half a second to react before it would have bitten down with all its force on the tooth that seemed to be made of a different material then all the rest.

Your thumb is definitely bleeding, and is caught between a metamaterial-based dental implant, and one containing a military-grade neurotoxin. You’re not sure exactly why you did it. The pilot looks at you for a second, before the tubes that attach to its arms like puppet strings run out of stimulants, and it passes out after who knows how long without sleep. This battle has been going on for weeks already. Has it been fighting that long? Its various frame-tethered implants disconnect easily, the unconscious pilot draped over your shoulder twitching slightly with each one you remove. It’s a much longer ride back to the house. Avoiding having the pilot fall off the bike is the top priority, and the injured thumb stings in the fast-moving air. 

An internet search doesn’t lead to many helpful sources to the question of “there is a mech pilot on my couch, what do I do?” a few articles about how easy targets retired pilots are for the “doll sellers,” a few military recruitment ads, and a couple near-incomprehensible legal documents full of words like “proprietary technology” or “instant termination.” However, there is one link, a few rows down from the top-- “Mech Pilot Care Guide.” It’s a detailed list, arranged in numbered steps. The website has no other links on it, just the step-by-step instructions: a quick read reveals that this isn’t going to be easy, but looking at the unconscious pilot, unabsorbed chemicals dripping from the ports in its arms and head onto the mildly bloodstained towel, you come to the conclusion that there’s no other option.

Step one: the first 24 hours.

The first thing you should know is that pilots aren’t used to sleeping. They’re used to being put under for transport and storage, but after the neural augmentations and years of week-long battles sustained by stimulants that would fry the brain of anyone that still has an intact one, they’ve more or less forgotten what real sleep is. If they see you asleep, they’ll think you’re dead, so don’t try to let them stay in your room yet. Once you’ve removed the neurotoxin from the tooth (it breaks easily with a bit of applied pressure, but be careful not to let any fall into their mouth or onto your skin.), start by moving them into a chair (preferably a recliner or gaming chair, as the mech seat is about halfway in between), and putting a heavy blanket over them. Don’t worry, they don’t need as much air as normal humans do, and can handle high temperatures up to a point. This is an environment similar to the one they’re used to. It’ll stay like this for about 12 hours-- barely breathing, trembling slightly underneath the blanket. Feel free to check if it’s alive every few hours, not that you could help it if it wasn’t. It won’t freak out when it wakes up. In fact, it doesn’t seem like they can. Turn down the lights and remove the blanket from its face. It’ll stare blankly at you, trying to evaluate the situation with a brain that’s not connected to a computer that’s bigger than they are anymore. Coming to terms, if you could call it that, with the fact that it isn’t dead. Don’t expect it to start reacting to things for a while yet, give it a couple hours. 

It’s been a bit, and its eyes are starting to focus on you. The next thing you should know is this: pilots only have two groups into which they can categorize non-pilots: handler and enemy. You need to work on making sure you’re in the right one. Move slowly, standing up and walking toward them, making sure they can see where you’re going to step. Place both hands on their shoulders, then slide one under their arm and carefully pick them up. Don’t be startled by how light they are, or how they still shake slightly as they realize their arms don’t have anything connected to them. Most importantly, don’t break. Don’t reflect on how something can be done to a person so that this is all that’s left. Just focus on rotating them as if you’re inspecting all the brain-computer interface ports, while holding them at half an arm’s length. Set them back down, wrap the blanket around them, then lean in close and say “status report.” they won’t say anything, as they usually upload the data via interface, but what’s important is that now they recognise you as their handler. Their entire mind will be focused on the fact that they exist now to do what you want. Now it’s up to you to prove them wrong.

Step two: the first week.

They’re shaking so hard that you’ve had to move them from the chair back to the couch, sweating heavily as they pant like the dog they’ve been trained to think they are. This was to be expected, really. Pilots are constantly being filled with a mix of stimulants, painkillers, and who knows what else, and you’ve just cut them off completely. You’ve woken up several times in the night and rushed to check if they’re still breathing, debating whether you should try to tell them that they’re going to be okay. The guide says they’re not ready for that yet, whatever that means. They’re still wearing the suit you found them in, made from nanofiber mesh and apparently recycling nutrients and water before re-infusing them intravenously. It’s been three days since you tore them out of the lump of metal atop the hill outside. Long enough that the suit’s battery, apparently, has run out. You lift them gently from the couch and carry them to the bathroom. The shower’s been on for the past hour or so, meaning the temperature should be high enough. You set them on their chair, which you’ve rolled there from the living room and covered with a towel. Removing the suit normally isn’t done except in between missions, and it’s only done to exchange it for a new one. Without the proper tools, you’ve opted for a pair of scissors. Cutting through the suit takes a bit of time, but you manage to cut a sizable line from the neck down to the front to the bottom of the torso. The pilot recoils slightly from the cold metal against their skin, but you manage to peel off the suit without incident, The Temperature of which was roughly the same as the steam filling the room, and you’ve done your best to minimize air currents. They’ve got a bit more shape to them than you expected of someone who’s been so heavily modified. Perhaps what little fat storage it provides helps on longer missions, or perhaps this is for the purposes of marketing. Just another recruitment ad that appeals to baser instincts. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Using a cloth with the least noticeable texture possible, you wash off as much sweat and dead skin as you can, avoiding the various interface and IV ports, as you’re not yet sure that they’re waterproof. Embarrassment is the enemy of efficiency, so you’re slightly glad that their eyes never completely focus on you. They shift their weight slightly, however. Despite the difficulty moving with their current symptoms, they lean in the direction opposite the places you wash once you're done, allowing you to more easily access the places you haven’t got to yet. An act of trust that you have a suspicion they weren't “programmed” to do.  As they dry out, you prepare for the difficult part. You take the blanket that previously wrapped around their suit, and gently touch a corner of it to their shoulder. Pilots are used to an amount of sensory  information that would overload any normal human in an instant, but most rarely experience textures against their skin. After about half an hour, they’re used to it enough that you’re able to replace what’s left of the suit with it, and after another you’re able to wrap them in it again. You carry them back to the couch, and place a few of your old shirts next to their hand. They pick one and touch it with one finger before recoiling slightly. Eventually, they’ll be used to at least one of them enough that they can wear it. It’s slow progress, but it’s progress.

Step 3: food

It goes without saying that it’s usually been at least a year since they’ve eaten anything. The augmentations scooped out much of their knowledge on how to survive as a human, assuming that they would die before ever needing to be one again. Start them off with just flavors. Give them a chance to pick favorites by giving them a wide selection and firmly telling them to try all of them. Avoid anything solid for the first month or so, both because they can’t digest it and because they associate chewing with their self-destruct mechanism. Trying to and surviving might make them think the “mission’s fully compromised” and attempt to improvise. They’ll typically pick out favorites quickly with their enhanced senses, so once they’ve sampled everything, tell them to pick one. Remember it, not in order to use it as a reward or anything, but them still being able to have a “favorite” anything is something you should keep in mind for later. 

Use a similar method anytime they become able to handle the next level of solidity. Don’t be alarmed if one of their favorite foods is the meat that’s most similar to humans (such as pork.) they’re not going to eat you, they just will have already formed an association between that flavor and the moment they went from being a weapon to living in your house. Don’t worry about your thumb getting infected, by the way. Pilots barely have a microbiome.

Step 4: entertainment:

Roll them over to your computer and give them access to your game library. No, really. They need enrichment, and there’s only one activity that they’re able to enjoy at the moment. A simulation of it will make the shift from weapon to guest easier. Start them off with an FPS with a story. Don’t go multiplayer, as your account may get banned for being suspected of using aimbots. Watch as they progress the story. The military left pilots with just enough of a personality to allow them to improvise, and that should be enough for them to make decisions on this level. They won’t do much character customization, but keep an eye on which starting character body shape they pick. No pilot would consciously think they have enough of a “Self” to still have a gender, but keep track of the ones they pick in the games. As for the one you’ve found, it appears that she’s got a player-character preference. You even saw her nudge one of the appearance sliders before clicking “start game.” Whether this means that a pilot doesn’t think of themselves as “it” or that it means there’s still enough of their mind left for them to know there’s more to themselves than the body they have, it’s a handy bit of information to know. Some pilots might have had this decision influenced by their handlers having referred to them as “she” in the way it refers to boats, but still, on some level they always know that “it” meant that they’re a weapon. 

Step 6: outside:

There’s a profound difference between experiencing the world through information fed directly into your brain and standing up for the first time, wandering around the room and investigating with hands not made of a half-ton of metal. She’s not used to feeling the air on her skin as she stands in front of the window, visual data coming from two eyes instead of seven cameras. It’ll take a while to get used to it again. New old data, reminiscent of a time before she’s been trained not to remember. It’ll take a while until she’s walking like a human and not a mech, as the muscles used are different, and the ones to hold herself upright haven’t been used in a while. She’s going to fall down at least once. Be sure you’re standing next to her when it happens, as pilots that fall aren’t trained to think they can get back up. It’s worth it, though, when she opens the door herself and strides into the yard, still wobbly but standing. Be careful not to let her look into the sun, partially because it looks nearly identical to the barrel of a pulse-decay blaster milliseconds before it fires. She would get hurt trying to dodge it. It will be somewhat confusing for her, standing on a hill as she once did, but not contained within a 12-meter metal chassis. A feeling of being small and alone without the voices of the computer. This means it’s time for step seven.

Step 7: 

All this time, and any idea that she’s still a person has, for her, been subconscious. Any thought of humanity is stopped when it slams into the wall of her handlers and mech AIs reminding her for years before now that she is a weapon. She’ll still ask for your permission before doing just about anything, and that’s just the rare times that she’ll do something you don’t tell her to. Even after you’ve moved her into your room, she’ll still try to sleep on the floor. She still thinks that beds are only for humans. Kneel next to her as she curls into a ball on the ground, assuming that’s what she’s supposed to do. Expect her to try to move down to the foot of the bed after you set her down on it. Gently move her back up until her head’s on the pillow. Sit on the edge of the bed, and hold out your hand to her. After a bit, she’ll take it, wrapping both hands around it and tracing her fingers along the scar on your thumb. Lie down next to her, an arm’s length apart. Place your other hand on her forearm, then slide it up her arm to her shoulder. Don’t move too quickly, and don’t surprise her. Whisper softly but audibly every movement you’re going to make in advance. Move in a bit closer, until you’re wrapped in her arms. Mech pilots aren’t used to this. They aren't used to feeling someone next to them. Not above them, but next to them, getting exactly as much out of this as they are. Even after several months, many won’t admit they deserve it. You wouldn’t waste time lying next to a gun. So why do they feel so strongly that they don’t want you to leave? Why do they hold on tighter? They often feel they’re doing something wrong. Overstepping a boundary. There’s a rift between what they want and what they’re told they can want that nearly tears their mind in half, and it hurts. No normal human will ever know how much it hurts them to think they’ve broken some instruction, that they feel things they aren’t allowed to. Nobody said it was easy, learning how to become human again. Tell her it’s okay. That she’s allowed to feel this way. She still won’t know why. It’s time to tell her. The guide can’t tell you what to say, only that you have to say it. It has to come from you. You have to be the one that tells her what she is underneath all the modifications. It’s time, say it.

“Do you feel that? Do you feel your heart start to beat faster as it presses up against mine? Do you feel your own breath against your skin after it reflects off my shoulder? Do you feel your muscles start to tighten as I slide my hand across them, then relax because you know it means that you are safe? It’s because you’re alive. Because despite everything, you’re still alive. Still someone left after all the changes, all the augmentations. And I know you’re someone because you are someone that likes food a bit spicier than most would prefer. Someone that closes her eyes and gets lost in music whenever it’s playing. Someone that added that one piece of customization to her character, even though they would wear a helmet for most of the game and nobody would know it was there but you. Maybe you aren’t the same person you were before. Maybe they did take some things from you that nothing can give back. But you’re still someone. Someone that people can still care about, and I know because I do.”

You can feel her tears drip down onto your neck as she pulls you closer. She tries to say something, but you can’t understand what. You tell her it’s okay. That it’s not easy, and that she doesn’t have to pretend that it is. Not for you, and not for anyone anymore. She doesn’t have to be useful anymore. No need to keep it together. All that matters is that she’s alive. 

There’s another battle going on in the night sky outside. The same flashes of light you saw the night you stopped living alone, even if the other person couldn’t admit that they were one yet. She still flinches at the brighter bursts of pulse-decay fire, still stretches out her hand on reflex to prime a pneumatic lance that isn’t there. But she knows it’s not her, it’s just a ghost of the weapon that died when it hit the ground. You can feel her relax as she realizes this, moving her hand back to dry her face before reaching out towards yours. You hadn’t noticed the tears on your own face. You place your hand on hers as she wipes the corner of your eye. Outside and above, the war continues on a cosmic scale, so far apart from where you both are now that you barely notice it. Let the stars kill each other. After all, the one before you has already fallen, and she doesn’t have to return to the sky. Together, you are safe on earth. 

[lisdens]

i fear some people aren't ready to face the fact that at some point vi had to let go of her parentified-child role because it would also mean understanding that jinx is an adult who makes her own choices and doesn't need protection the same way she needed back when they were kids. vi says so herself ('why did you come get me? you don't actually need my help, you haven't for a long time').

everyone who expected vi to become some sort of leader for zaun didn't understand that the reason she fought so hard in her youth for her family was because what she truly craved for was safety for herself and her loved ones. it's the whole reason she has that conversation with vander back in episode 2 of season 1.

vi going after jinx when caitlyn opens the cell would only reinforce the idea that vi has to step into the role of caregiver/protector again. vi isn't jinx's mom, she's her sister, and she has her own battle against her internal demons.

in fact, she spirals down very quickly once locked inside the cell, which is later reflected when caitlyn finds her; she's certain she screwed up again and she believes she's lost both jinx and caitlyn, and she knows it happened because vi was being herself, by doing something she wouldn't have done during her act1 self.

her fallout with caitlyn happened because caitlyn couldn't accept who vi truly is, so how can vi expect caitlyn to be okay with what she's done, when that was the reason they grew apart in the first place?

because caitlyn chooses vi, she prioritizes her over her revenge. caitlyn lets go of it because she loves vi for who she is, and not despite it.

jinx and vi love each other unconditionally, even if they don't understand each other entirely ('i didn't get to do much of this with my sister, she was more into hitting things'), so how could anyone outside of her family love vi, while simultaneously understanding her?

vi probably just went through ten different scenarios of how caitlyn is going to reject her for it, for showing who she is, and who she's always been.

and what does caitlyn do in response?

by this point caitlyn doesn't believe vi has forgiven her, so the whole 'you've grown a bit predictable' isn't a pickup line to get in her pants.

this is caitlyn's attempt at cracking a joke.

vi's worries are met with a dumb phrase that's meant to cheer her up, the same way vi did back in episode 1 ('thought for sure you were gonna get yourself killed').

she spiraled down believing she had lost everyone, and caitlyn proves her wrong with an easy smile and a reassurance; 'this is who you are, i know it, watch me be more than okay with it'.

this, for vi, must feel so, so freeing.

this is the one thing she's been craving for her whole life; the feeling of safety. i'm me, and i'm safe to exist that way in here.

she spent her entire childhood fighting to provide that stability for her family because she was given no other choice but to step into that role, she pushed her own needs aside to make sure everyone else was okay. and now, her sister is an adult who has survived without vi's protection, who has accomplished a lot of things without her big sister by her side.

now it's vi's turn to crave safety, it's vi's turn to choose and let someone else make her feel safe and reassured.

vi's not a symbol of zaun, that's what characters like sevika and ekko exist for; neither of them were pressured to step in and take that role, they fight for their city because they chose to and because they want to (and, if i might add, they're very good at it!).

she's just a girl who went through some really fucked up things in life and only ever wished for a little stability.

and she finds that in caitlyn, so she chooses it.

[asidian]

Edwin is a fascinating character for a lot of reasons, but one I haven't delved into very deeply yet is the juxtaposition between the fact that he is genuinely, earnestly kind while also simultaneously being unsure of how to express that kindness.

He was raised in a time when physical affection and emotional conversations were avoided if not actively discouraged. On top of that, he's had 70 years in hell in survival mode that did not help him hone his people skills at all.

But we see him try, again and again, especially for Charles.

The most memorable instances are, of course, when Edwin offers Charles comfort after his breakdown at the beach, the two separate offers to talk if Charles needs to, the hug, and their meeting in the attic with the lantern.

But there's one small moment that isn't as obvious; I didn't notice it at all on my first few watch-throughs.

It's just after the Devlin house, when Charles has had a truly awful night. Edwin has just started to understand the scope of how upset he is by what happened there, and why.

And then we get this remarkable exchange:

While Charles is lost in his thoughts somewhere behind that thousand-yard stare, Edwin gives Crystal a straightforward, earnest, not at all backhanded compliment. It's the first time he does; compared to the one he offers her in the episode with the sprites, this is practically effusive.

By itself, it's a very sweet moment between the two of them as their relationship develops.

And it is that.

But it's something else, too. Because this is how Edwin follows it up:

Crystal hearing it isn't enough.

He wants Charles to hear it.

In fact, he wants Charles to hear it so badly that he pauses, waits for Charles to react, doesn't get a reaction, and asks again.

Yes, this compliment is meant for Crystal, but it's meant for Charles, too – in a different way.

This is Edwin playing nice, like Charles has been wanting him to do since episode one. This is him giving Charles what he's been making puppy dog eyes over for days now.

This is Edwin pulling out the thing he thinks will make Charles the happiest. This is Edwin, fumbling to figure out what will help.

The hug that Charles needs so desperately isn't for some episodes yet – and these boys do get there eventually.

But I dearly love this first uncertain step on the path to Edwin figuring out what Charles needs from him.

He may not have the best instincts when it comes to handling social situations, but by god, he's so very kind, and he's trying, and there is something unspeakably sweet about that.

[ddejavvu]

Mean Logan who needs the answer to a question ( you don't have the answer) and decides to ask while he's inside u. Won't move until u answer his question and you're just crying and begging him to move

this post is 18+, minors dni.

He's cruel for asking in the first place, but he's even worse for asking while he's got you sitting in his lap, his cock nestled snugly into your tightly-clenched hole. You're gripping him practically hard enough to bruise, your legs wound around his waist but tensed all the same as your cunt sucks him in. He's rocking you on his hips, bouncing you up and down as you wrap yourself around him, breathing heavily into his shoulder and muffling your moans into his flushed skin.

"You got an answer for me, sweetheart?" Logan asks, and he knows you can feel his vocal chords thrum where you're burrowed into his throat, nosing at his pulse like a vampire about to sink your teeth into him.

You don't so much respond as you do acknowledge, but the humming whine you release into the joint between his neck and his shoulder is distinctly negatory.

"C'mon, you don't know? Who's better, me or Cyclops?"

"That's- He's not- Scott's my friend." You insist, but your body ignites with shame just as much as it does pleasure at the memory of Logan walking in on you and Scott clumsily hooking up. You're not lying, you are friends with him, but sometimes friends get drunk and make poor decisions. Your friendship with Scott survives, but perhaps your pride dies here and now against Logan's queries.

"Oh, it's Scott, is it? That doesn't seem like something you'd be worried about stressing if you were just friends. Come on. I saw it all. He was pathetic. Couldn't even get his pants down right."

That's unfair, mostly because you and Scott were both wasted beyond belief. You're sure Scott could deliver a spectacular performance were he in possession of his fine motor skills, but as it was, his zipper had bested him. Admittedly, it was not your best lay.

"That's not fair." You whine, though whether you're referring to his rampant criticism of Scott or the way that he's interrogating you while you're speared on his cock is unknown even to you. It doesn't seem to matter to Logan, though, because he lets out a deep, rumbling chuckle, one that you feel against your face and your core simultaneously.

When he halts the movement of his hips, leaving your cunt buzzing with the need for the constant stimulation it had just been receiving, you think he meant everything to be rather unfair.

"Well, you'd better figure it out, honey, because you're not cumming until you give me an answer. I'll be here," He shifts his hips, nestling his cock just that much tighter into your hole, "-so you just pry your face out of my neck whenever you're ready to admit it."

[senualothbrok]

Hello my friend!! Regarding your amazing “Tight Fit” fic from @daisyofwaterdeep’s 10/10 scenario, I’m obsessed with how Gale would act around Tav after the whole debacle:

Just adorably a mess. Shy, flustered. Stumbling over words.

Trying not to mention it in conversation. Trying to act normal. Occasionally failing on both counts with verbal flubs: “I wholeheartedly support whatever Tav decides. Our leader knows breast—BEST! I mean best!” etc. etc.

Praying Tav doesn’t hate him. Trying not to get aroused every time Tav smiles at him.

Going out of his way to be extra kind to Tav while simultaneously trying to avoid her.

Forcing himself not to daydream about it during the day, thinking about it literally every night. Reimagining every detail while in his bedroll. Instantly so hard he has to finish himself off or he won’t be able to sleep.

Climaxing so hard he’s legitimately concerned about his orb.

Berating himself internally, reminding himself he needs to learn some damned self-control…but then recalling Tav’s breath on his neck, the feeling of her fingers eagerly stroking him, and any hope of self-control is instantly lost

Would love to hear your and/or @daisyofwaterdeep’s thoughts 💖

Hello my dear friend! I 1000% agree with your thoughts on this and I have written something to describe how I think it might go. Hopefully this is enjoyable!

A Generous Portion

Summary: Gale is a flustered mess after you are locked in a room together. Sequel to A Tight Fit.

Set in early Act 1. Featuring matchmakers Karlach and Astarion, gentleman hero Wyll, I've-had-it-up-to-here Shadowheart, and oblivious Lae'zel.

Word count: 1.7k

AO3 link

Disclaimers: Non-18+. Blushy, flustered, awkward Gale. Sexual tension.

****

“Gale.” Wyll's voice is warm with delight. “You've outdone yourself.”

Gale beams as he passes a steaming plate to Wyll. The stew Gale ladles out is thick and rich, and your stomach rumbles at its buttery fragrance. He grins as he hands out generous portions to a nodding Shadowheart, a grunting Lae'zel. 

“It’s not every day that we cross paths with a butcher.” He bobs his head. “A good cook makes the most of every opportunity.”

You see none of the uneasy stiffness of the past few days, none of the squirming mania that has possessed Gale whenever your eyes have met. Karlach claps before she takes her plate from him, and he gives a playful half bow that makes you smile.

“Besides, a hearty meal is the best cure for a weary body and mind. And as far as hearty meals go–”

Since the last time you were alone, Gale has been avoiding you. He has fled from every look and conversation, as though it were a matter of survival. And yet, you have often felt his attention on you, stripping you bare. You feel it now, as his focus flits over your outstretched hand, as he serves you.

“–There’s nothing like some good Waterdhavian sausage.”

His eyes meet yours. Panic flares in his face. He jerks his head, a grimace clenching his features as he flinches away. You settle back in your seat next to Astarion, feeling strangely guilty. Astarion's smirk does not escape you. Nor does the bright flash of Karlach's eyes.

For an eternity, there is only the scraping of plates, the soft stirring of bodies. The sizzle and hiss of the campfire, punctuated by little hums of satisfied chewing. The stew is exquisite, and you almost forget the crackling tension around you as you devour it. It spills from your lips, trickling down your chin in your haste. You wipe it away with your fingers, sucking them clean, wasting nothing. 

When you look up, Gale is staring at you. He spins away, clearing his throat as he examines his stew with obsessive intensity. The flush of his cheeks makes your core swell with memory. The ghost of his hardness twitches against your fingers. You shift awkwardly.

When Wyll breaks the silence, you look at him with a newfound appreciation. 

“This is delicious, Gale,” Wyll says politely. “Truly delicious.” 

Relief surges in Gale’s frame. “It's my pleasure.” 

“We're spoiled to have you cooking for us.” 

You have never been so grateful for Wyll's courtly upbringing, his natural tact. You send out a missive of frantic admiration with your eyes. Wyll’s gaze flickers to yours for the briefest instant before returning to Gale.

Gale is chewing his lip, composing himself. His furrowed brow eases. He waves his hand in an approximation of dismissal.  

“I try my breast.”

You drop your spoon. Astarion bursts into laughter. Shadowheart buries her face in her hands.

“Best!” Gale is fully crimson now, his pitch higher than you have ever heard it. “I try my best!”

“I can't watch anymore,” Shadowheart murmurs under her breath. Karlach jostles her quiet. There is an excruciating pause. You glance at Wyll, pleading.

Wyll's jaw feathers as he leans forward, his smile tight and wide. 

“And tell us, Gale, where did you learn to cook?”

Gale combs frenzied fingers through his hair. His gaze darts around like a fish evading a net. 

“I learned from the best.” His words are slow and strained at first, snowballing as he recovers. “My formidable mother. A master cook, who could work miracles with modest and extravagant ingredients alike. She taught me everything I know.”

Wyll hums approvingly, patiently. You are beyond thankful to see Gale’s breaths levelling, his voice lowering to its usual timbre.

“In fact,” he draws himself up, “the last time I made her a meal, she said my food might even match hers.” 

Wyll lets out a courteous titter. “Well-deserved praise.”

“Your food is pleasant even to a Githyanki palate,” Lae’zel remarks matter of factly. She seems oblivious to tonight’s disasters - or perhaps indifferent to them.

“Awesome grub, mate.” Karlach gives an enthusiastic thumbs up. “Can't get enough.”

With each affirmation, Gale’s body uncoils a little. The alarming scarlet of his skin is fading to its usual golden bronze. You are desperate to give him relief. You nod furiously. 

“I love your food. I’d eat anything of yours.”

All heads turn to you – vistas of disbelief, delight, despair. Karlach lets out a guffaw as Astarion snickers. Shadowheart and Wyll press their hands to their temples. Lae'zel stares at Gale with disdain as he begins to cough, clutching his chest. He hacks and heaves, until you are genuinely concerned that he is choking.

“Are you alright, Gale?” 

“Fine!” he gasps, his hands whipping around him in frenetic arcs. “Absolutely fine!”

Anxiety seizes you as a flash of lavender peeks through the opening above his chest. Hurriedly, you pour him a glass of wine, moving forward to kneel beside him. 

“Well.” Astarion springs up, gesturing to Karlach pointedly. “This is as good a time as any for that thing you mentioned, Karlach.”

For a second, Karlach looks just as confused as you feel, her brow scrunched as she considers. The recognition that blooms on her face is like victory. She leaps up to join him.

“Right! That thing! That I wanted to show you. And Shadowheart. And Wyll. And Lae'zel. Right now! Somewhere else!”

She pulls them up in turn. You stare at each of them, bewildered, imploring. Gale wheezes beside you. 

“What are you–”

“Must dash!” Astarion calls out, grabbing and jostling at arms and elbows. “Places to go, people to be!”

You glare at your companions’ retreating backs. When Gale takes the glass from your hand, his fingers brush against yours. He looks away as he throws the wine down with a groan.

*****

“Are you sure you don't need anything?”

“Yes, I'm fine, thank you.”

“Because if you need anything, I can–”

“No, I'm quite alright, Tav. Thank you very much for your kindness.”

The politeness between you is painful. Gale’s hands jolt from his lap to his sides, his fingers rippling and fisting. You suddenly realise how close you are, your face an arm’s length from his knee, your eye line parallel to the crook of his…

You lurch back, perching on the log opposite him. Gale’s features writhe as he fumbles at his robe. He looks absolutely miserable. You cannot help but feel stung. Your friendship and affection for him had come so easily. You cannot say you do not miss it, and the promise of what it might become.

“Would you rather I left?” you ask finally. “If I'm bothering you, I can go.”

Is it shock in his widened eyes? Disbelief? You cannot tell. He shakes his head with surprising force. 

“No, Tav. You never bother me. You could never...”

He trails off, gaze fixed on the campfire with a fervour like fear. You sigh. You cannot skirt around the edges of it any longer.

“Gale, have I done something wrong?” 

He looks up then. His eyes quiver, sunlight on a brown sea. 

“Have I upset you in some way? Because if I have, I apologise. I never meant to cause you any distress, or any kind of offence–”

He winces, as though you have struck him. 

“Of course not,” he exclaims, a little too loudly. He bites his lip. A stray strand of silver falls over his eye. You ignore your urge to brush it away.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. You could never do anything to upset me. You're...”

Something in his tone simmers beneath your skin. It is breathy and hoarse, and you are reminded of the way he had moaned over your parted mouth as you grasped the bulge rising between you. Your skin throbs as your gaze drifts over the fullness of his cupid’s bow, the hard curves of his chest, the shadowed dip between his legs. You swallow.

He whirls away from you, as if he can read your thoughts. It is your turn to clear your throat now, to stare into the campfire as your face burns and you battle against the images that flood you. When, without warning, he jumps up and bounds away, you do not have words. Rudeness is a trait you did not think Gale possessed. You sit, stunned, wondering what to do with yourself.

You are taken aback when he returns from his tent. He stoops and stumbles slightly as he takes a seat beside you, close enough that his scent of sandalwood and sweat sends your head spinning. With gentle deliberation, he places a basket in your lap. You marvel at the peaches that fill it, sunset-blushed and plump, ripe to bursting. 

“Gale,” you breathe. “What is this?”

He rubs at the back of his neck. “Forgive me… but I couldn’t help but overhear you and Lae'zel the other day.” His throat bobs, his crow’s feet crinkling. “You were telling her about the food you love most, so when I saw these peaches at the market, I couldn’t help but…”

It takes all of your self control not to throw your arms around him. You press a peach to your nose and close your eyes, breathing deeply, savouring its fragrance, sweeter than the sweetest wine. The tickle of its down, the feel of its flesh, firm and soft at the same time. A little gasp of joy escapes you.

When you open your eyes, he is smiling - beaming - at you. He looks away quickly.

“Thank you, Gale,” you manage. “This is incredibly generous. How can I ever repay you?”

He dips his head. There is the hint of an arched eyebrow, a sideways curl of his lips, as his dark eyes flicker back to yours.

“Your pleasure… is all I desire.”

For a while, you simply look at him, speechless from relief, beauty, gratitude, yearning. The air around you is taut to snapping, the space between your bodies at once too much and too little. You open your mouth and sink your teeth into the peach in your hand. It bursts into a spurt of nectar, coating your lips and chin and fingers, sticky and smooth on your skin. You let out a small moan.

He trembles. A purple haze flares as your tongue follows the trail of juice winding down your fingers, catching the drips on your wrist. You lick your lips as he watches, still and rapt. Laid bare.

You hold the bitten peach out to him, an unspoken offering. He hesitates for an eternal moment before he leans forward, bathing you in his indigo glow. 

He holds your gaze as he bites down.

*****

Read the sequel, A Perfect Storm

Liked this fic? Check out my other work

[mochasucculent]

I'm rewatching Arcane, and after my third time seeing season 1 I had a hot new reading on Viktor's scenes in episodes 6, 7, and 8.

Like a lot of other people, I felt it was weird and unsavory that Viktor - very close to death with a disease that affects his lungs - suddenly starts experimenting on his disabled leg. Those two things have nothing in common, save for the fact that the cause of both might have been the toxic fumes of the undercity, which could have resulted in Viktor being born disabled if his parents were also subject to those conditions.

So why does Viktor try to "fix" his leg when his main goal is to utilize the Hexcore to prolong and improve living conditions before he's gone?

Viktor in acts 2 and 3 is motivated to save himself long enough to make a difference in the world. Even though Hextech is revolutionary for Piltover, it hasn't reached who Viktor wanted to help this whole time, the disenfranchised in the undercity. In his mind, he hasn't done enough to change the world for the better, and he will be gone before he has the chance to do so.

After realizing the Hexcore responded to organic matter when it absorbed Viktor's blood, he experiments with plants, only to find that they wither and die soon after the Hexcore makes them grow.

This causes him to visit Singed once again for anything that could help him figure out how to use the Hexcore for magic that could save lives, one last shot at accomplishing his dreams.

Viktor parted ways with with him as a child upon seeing that Singed was willing to hurt Rio, his salamander test subject, in order to prolong her life. Viktor didn't understand that cost before, but he does now, being in the same position as Singed and Rio simultaneously, both the scientist trying to make a breakthrough and the subject he needs to save in order to do so.

Like Rio, Viktor is not his own end goal to his scientific pursuits. Singed is trying to save his daughter, Viktor is trying to help his people. He's his own means to an end, and is now willing to pay the cost of getting there.

Singed gives Viktor a variant of Shimmer to experiment with, the idea being that it will stabilize an organism while the Hexcore's magic affects it, hopefully allowing it to survive through the aggressive and sudden healing process.

Viktor injects the Shimmer into his leg, as well as carving runes into both his brace and thigh to channel the magic towards there before he offers the Hexcore his blood. It does Something to his leg which we don't see till the following episode.

The new reading I have of this scene is that the reason Viktor chose his leg specifically is not because he was trying to "fix" it, but because:

-He's not willing to put others' lives at risk and knows he's not long for this world, so the only test subject he's willing to use is himself

-He knows the organic matter he tests the Hexcore on might die

-Viktor's leg is a part of his body he's willing to lose if things go wrong and it rejects the transmutation (he also knows that he could just fully die then and there too and is willing to take that risk)

Obviously, the scenes involving Viktor's experimentation center his physical disabilities (shots of his back brace, the focus on his leg) and equate them with the disease that is literally killing him. The narrative lens shows us that Viktor "curing" himself begins with his disability, which sucks.

So while the boat scene undoubtedly is written to be "triumphant" because Viktor's leg is no longer disabled (shown by him dropping his crutch, the swelling music, the parallel to the scene where a child Viktor can't keep up with his toy boat), a different reading is that it's another experiment to him.

Viktor is stress testing the organic matter he infused with magic, and the scene is triumphant because he's realized his leg isn't deteriorating or weakening - it holds up. The mutation of the magic in his leg survived. It's a sign that maybe he can use the Hexcore on the rest of his body, keep himself alive long enough to do what he's always wanted to do: leave a legacy that changes the world for the better.

To me that's a much more in-character perspective for Viktor in these scenes than what is being said narratively through directing, framing, music, etc. Previously, Viktor had never expressed distaste for his disability as an adult, only commenting on it as a part of why he was isolated socially from Piltover. To me, him testing the Hexcore on his leg is merely an indifference to its current state, rather than a preference to have it changed. I don't even necessarily think it'd be a bad thing if Viktor did outright say "I would like to not be disabled", because I'm sure many other disabled people feel that way from time to time, but season 1 really does a poor job of pushing that framing of "curing" disability onto a character that did not express those perspectives himself at this point.

It gives off a big ol' "aw, poor Viktor, not only is he dying because of the political landscape that leaves disenfranchised people to suffer preventable diseases, but he's got a disabled leg too!" One of those things is much more problematic than the other lol.

Season 2 definitely hurtles Viktor very quickly into the Machine Herald perspective in which he thinks humans must evolve past ANY limitations of their original bodies, but to me season 1 Viktor just doesn't feel that way about himself. His primary concern has always been rooted in how to improve the lives of his people permanently, and it's only when he's actively dying that his secondary goal is to live long enough to see that happen.

It's something he drops completely after his experimentation results in Sky's death. He's immediately spiteful of the Hexcore and tries to destroy it - and himself.

Viktor now accepts that he will die before he's able to change the world the way he wanted, and hides the fact that he fucked with his body from everyone as he awaits his demise. "Fixing" his leg is not something he celebrates in and of itself, it's now only a reminder that the pursuit of his dream resulted in someone else's death.

The narrative does well in season 2 to frame Viktor's Glorious Evolution as a Bad Thing at least, and Jayce's speech at the end about Viktor never being broken is extremely valuable and important, but it's just weird to see him say this:

Cause to me now, that ain't what Viktor was trying to do at all! The writers may have retconned that to be the case, which is fine, whatever, but season 1 in isolation does not support that idea to me after this rewatch.

Overall, I think Arcane can have confusing directing sometimes that focuses on evoking feelings and themes rather than the richness of its characters, their dynamics, and the world they inhabit - to the detriment of all the above. In season 2, this resulted in a lot of scenes that felt emotionally unearned or muddy to me, like pretty much everything with Jinx, Vi, and Vander together rip.

It's for this same reason that I think it took me so long to really come to this reading of Viktor's season 1 scenes, because the directing bias REALLY wants to make you feel sorrow and hope alongside Viktor, even though it means he'll seem to randomly start equating his disabled leg to his illness. It just felt like a weird disparity to me until I watched these episodes again and was like "wait" lol.

Anyway peace and love on planet Earth I cannot stop thinking about Viktor Arcane

[heestoleurgirl]

park jay 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ in which your boyfriend finally returns from tour, you missed him so much (non-idol au)

genre: fluff pairing: rockstar bf!jay x fem!reader wc: 2.2k

consider this my proposal to @s1rawb3rry <3

masterlist 𖤐.ᐟ

You haven’t felt this excited in a while. Today was the day Jay would be coming home, you’d missed him so much and you were practically buzzing with nerves ever since you woke up. Of course, the two of you had texted every day while he was on tour, but it was never quite the same as seeing him in person. The photos of him made you smile while simultaneously causing your heart to ache slightly. 

You knew he’d be really exhausted so you took it upon yourself to spoil him today. The house was cleaned spotless, the old, dead flowers in the kitchen were replaced with fresh ones. To top it all off, you’d spent the majority of the day in the kitchen, cooking his favourite food. His meals hadn’t been the best while he was away, since his schedule was so tight and he didn’t have access to a proper kitchen for the most part.

All you had to do now was wait, which sounded easy enough in theory. It wasn’t that simple, especially when every minute felt like a painfully long hour. How could you have survived a month if you couldn’t even wait a few minutes? You tried to busy yourself with whatever useless task you came up with, like wiping the counter for the third time that day.

The faint click of the doorknob being turned grabbed your attention immediately, your body was instantly flooded with adrenaline. The damp cloth in your hand was discarded in the blink of an eye as you rushed to the front door. There he was, closing the door behind him with some difficulty since he had a few bags in his hands. You smiled so wide your cheeks hurt, and hurried to help him with his baggage.

જ⁀➴ more under the cut!

You didn’t care to be very gentle, practically taking the stuff from his hands and throwing them aside. Jay’s face lit up when he realized you were right there, it still felt a bit surreal to finally be with you again. Apart from his guitar case, all his things were carelessly shoved aside in an instant. He didn’t bother to take his leather jacket off, he opened his arms for you right away.

“Jay!” you exclaimed as you jumped into his arms, throwing yours around his neck and hugging him so tightly. His familiar scent filled your nose, which made your heart swell with affection even more if that was possible.

“I missed you so much baby.” Jay eagerly returned the hug, pulling you flush against his chest while his hands rested on your lower back. His exhaustion felt insignificant right now.

“I’m never letting you leave again.” You joked, giggling when he squeezed your waist in response.

“Nah, next time you’re coming with me. I need my biggest fan to support me in person.”

God, you’d missed his voice so much. It sounded even better when he wasn’t talking through the phone. The thought of joining him on tours sounded like a dream come true, you weren’t sure you’d be able to survive another month (or more) without him. 

You reluctantly pulled away, not taking your eyes off his handsome face that you missed so much. He smiled at you softly, similarly admiring your sparkly eyes and enjoying the way your hand moved to cup the side of his face with endless care. 

You stood on your tiptoes to be able to kiss him properly. Jay leaned down to meet your lips, kissing you with a deep sense of need and love. He missed your lips against his, the kiss made his mind go blank. Your heart beat faster at the contact you’d been daydreaming about for so long. Your lips moved together in a languid way, both of you savouring the feeling of each other. Though you wanted to hold onto him and kiss him for the rest of the night, you knew he was probably tired and hungry. So after a few minutes, you unwillingly detached your pink lips from his soft ones. 

“I made dinner, come on.” You grabbed his hand and made your way to the kitchen, where everything was already prepared neatly.

“Wow, darling… you didn’t have to.” He was astonished with your effort, and seeing that you did all this just for him made him feel like he was falling in love with you again. His dazed state was cut short as he felt you ushering him to sit down. The smile never left his face, you were so endearing when you were taking care of him like this. 

“Don’t say dumb things, of course I had to. You need to eat properly, especially after being so busy and overworked.” You took a seat next to him, wanting to be as close as possible because even his presence was incredibly soothing.

There was no point in arguing with you and Jay was well aware of that. Not that he didn’t like you looking after him, it was just an urge for him to make sure you never had to break a sweat for anything. He loved spoiling you too much.

“Thank you.” 

You smiled in response before the room fell into comfortable silence as you both started eating together. Jay was so glad to finally have a proper meal, especially his favourite food made by his favourite person.

“Love, this is so good. You’re an amazing cook.” He hummed, closing his eyes as he savoured the taste.

“Really? I tried a new recipe.” You responded while stabbing at the meat with your fork. “How was your trip home?”

Jay thought for a moment before telling you about his day. You listened intently, feeling happy that he was right next to you. You paid attention to his every word, but also took it as an opportunity to adore him at the same time. Even if it was something simple like having dinner with him and talking about each other’s day, the moment felt really special to you. That’s probably why you were grinning like an idiot.

“What-?” Jay raised an eyebrow in slight confusion as he met your eyes.

“Nothing, I just missed you so much” You shook your head and laughed, standing up to take your empty plates to the sink. He followed after you with the leftovers, grabbing some empty containers while you washed the dishes. 

“Wanna take a shower?” You tensed for a moment, caught off guard by his arms snaking around your waist as he hugged you from behind. His tall frame enveloped yours completely, blocking some of the light from the ceiling lamps.

“Sure, give me a second.”

“I feel sweaty and disgusting, you deserve a clean boyfriend.”

You smiled and rolled your eyes at his comment, sweat was not something that bothered you much, even more so when you had been deprived of him for too long. It was safe to say your relationship was past the point where either of you would be embarrassed about such insignificant and normal things. Once you were done with the dishes and dried your hands, Jay spun you around and placed a brief kiss on your lips. He chuckled at the evident disappointment on your face when he pulled away, even though he felt the same way.

The floorboards creaked faintly as you both made your way upstairs, grabbing some shower essentials from the bedroom. His hand was holding yours, pulling you along with him while you talked about random things.

The door closed behind you and you started taking your clothes off, unaware of his appreciative gaze watching you strip. If he wasn't so tired right now, he would definitely have other plans than just showering together with you. You suddenly caught him staring and playfully narrowed your eyes, to which he merely grinned before undressing too.

Jay followed as you stepped into the shower and turned it on. The warm water felt so good against your skin, it was soothing and comfortable. Not even a moment later he was already pulling you against his body again. The hug felt so much more intimate when you were both naked, like there was nothing separating the two of you from each other. Your head was resting against his chest, your eyes closed as you felt his hands caress your sides oh so gently.

The humid air only served to relax you both even more. All you wanted was this moment to last forever, just you and him with no distractions or obligations.

"I love you, my darling." He broke the silence and kissed the top of your head affectionately.

You swore your heart was going to burst with the amount of love you had for this man. "I love you too." You tilted your head to look up at him, letting him see the raw sincerity in your eyes.

He smiled back at you soflty and moved to grab the shower gel. Your gaze followed him curiously, watching as he wet the loofah and faced you.

"turn around." The gentleness in his tone gave you goosebumps, you obeyed silently without question.

Jay began rubbing your neck, shoulders and back, cleaning your body like it was the most precious thing in his world. It felt nothing short of amazing as your boyfriend cared for you so willingly, helping you with something you could've done yourself too.

When he was done, he turned you around and repeated his actions again. No part of your body was left untouched by his loving hands. All you could do was stand there and wonder how on earth you managed to get the most amazing guy on the entire planet.

Jay reached for the shower head and angled it, letting the water wash off all the soap from your skin. Once he was done, you kissed his cheek and took the loofah from his hand, indicating that it was your turn to return the favour. His hands were placed on your hips lazily as you started massaging the soap into his skin.

In moments like these you were always reminded of how deep the relationship between you two was. You knew in your heart that if it wasn't going to be him standing at the altar, then nonody would. He was perfect for you, and you were perfect for him too.

You didn't talk much as you finished the shower, but both of your actions spoke more than words could. You'd done enough talking during his time away, now you just wanted to enjoy his presence and touch.

He brushed his teeth next to you, his eyes always darting to see your face through the mirror, as if he was still in disbelief that you were real. You occasionally bumped your hips against him, to which he responded with a kiss on your face.

Jay groaned in satisfaction when he finally pulled his pajamas on, the pent up exhaustion was finally catching up to him. You wore his shirt to sleep (obviously), it had lost its smell already but that didn't matter anymore when Jay was finally going to be next to you.

He didn't waste much time and climbed into bed, opening his arms for you impatiently. "Come here baby."

You smiled widely, ignoring the way your cheeks were starting to hurt from the constant grinning. The bed dipped with your added weight, you eagerly climbed into his arms and let out a satisfied sigh. His fingers brushed through your hair gently, his body was aching with the need for sleep. You rested your face against the fabric of his shirt and tangled your legs with his in hopes of being as close as possible.

"I'm so glad you're here again, I missed you so much." Even though you already told him that, it didn't feel enough. The words couldn't convey how much you'd truly missed him.

"Me too sweetheart. Me too." He mumbled against your hair. "I'm going to make it up to you I promise. For the next few weeks you won't spend a single second without me."

You smiled at the thought and nodded, your plans were very similar. You weren't going to let him go for the foreseeable future. "Deal."

His other hand found your chin and carefully tilted it upward so he could see your face. You took this as an opportunity to say something you wanted to say for a while now, "I'm so proud of you, Jay. You always work so hard and still take care of me."

His lips curved into a smile, his eyes were shining with adoration. "Of course, I'll always make time for you. My life would be so much worse without you in it. You're my gorgeous girl and I just want to spoil you for the rest of my life."

If he wanted to say more, it was cut short by your lips pressing against his. He returned it happily, pulling you closer against him by your waist. Nothing felt better than his sweet, loving kisses. After a few minutes, he pulled away and brushed a strand of your hair aside. "We should get some sleep, you're going to need your energy for tomorrow."

"For what?" You hummed curiously, studying his face for a hint.

"I'm going to show you just how much I missed you and that pretty little body of yours." He grinned, his voice carried a hint of suggestiveness which made your heart beat faster in anticipation.

"Well then, you too" You replied simply and pecked his lips one last time. "Goodnight babe."

"Goodnight love."

tags: @vivimura @who-tf-soddhi @laurradoesloveu @p1hbrook @hoonielvv @nodoubtily @enhamonsterghoul @heebambilee @en-chantedtomeetyou @hsbae @jellyluv4eva @vivissection @beigerin @jwywife @elairah @heekilrvs @jayjw16enxp @lakoya @ijustreallylike2read @annovaz @strawberrynull @abbyeey @celestiai0 @enhalxvr @llearlert @raizennloll @rizzmura @sabriochee @sol3chu @fluveriiez @kitty-won07 @sucrosxi @kukkurookkoo @mimisxs @darquette @hhyvsstuff @lovelydeliciousfestival @luciathcv @bigwforjay @pshfan0812 @lov4hoon @jaerisdiction @kireiinahana @abzyissupersleepy @madslove-enhypen @b3tt7boop @dodot04lover @ki2rins @sugarikiz (mwah) ( ◡̀_◡́)ᕤ

[minettacreekk]

sam winchester is a MUNCH in bed. no questions about it.

warnings: light smut , nicknames (sweetheart, doll, etc.), softdom!sam, praise, probably other stuff but idk 🙏

a/n: HAVENT WROTE IN 4EVA ik its a bit mid but ive been ITCHING to post literally anything

“fuck..” you groan out, feeling sams lips claim your neck as he works his hands up your body to grope your tits. has it always felt this good? or is it the way sam whispers sweet praises into your ear thats pushing you into this fuzzy headspace? “doin’ so good for me baby..” he says bringing his head lower and lower till its mere inches from your already soaked core.

As his large hands grip the inner part of your thighs, spreading them apart for better access, he looks at your cunt like a man starved. “mind if i take care of you tonight sweetheart?”. You knew it wasnt a question as he was going to do it anyway. He grabs your panties and slides them down your legs, discarding them somewhere in yalls room to find later. Bringing his hand up to your pussy, sam begins to start playing with your clit in all the ways he knows will get you worked up. “sam.. please..” you whimper, knowing that he would tease you for the rest of his life if he could. He loves to see you get all squirmy when your stubborn self doesn’t wanna ask for him to do something

“i know doll, always so needy for me huh?” relishing in the fact that you always needed to be by his side. always holding onto his arm whenever possible, or even just sitting next to him while hes researching something. Your breath quickens as he ghosts his long fingers against your slit, pushing one finger, then two into you whilst simultaneously bringing his head down and beginning to suck on your clit.

You gasp at the feeling, instinctively trying to close your legs before his other hand grips your thigh, pushing then back open “need these to stay open or i cant give you what you want baby” he mumbles into your cunt, working his fingers further into you, reaching that one spongey spot that makes you see stars. Your hands once gripping onto the sheets, have found themselves tangled in sams brown locks. He moves his fingers at a steady pace, getting you closer and closer to release. his mouth still suckling on your clit.

“oh my god- sammy..im close-“ you whine out, hips shifting a bit while your becoming unable to control to urge to hold out. Hes still pumping his fingers in and out of you as you get closer and closer to cumming. “go ahead doll, ive got ya” sam assures you. You let out a moan as your back arches slightly, brain going foggy as you ride out your high on his hand. Sam slides his fingers out of your cunt and he pulls himself back up to your lips to kiss you sweetly. “always do so good for me honey” he praises.

“mm love you so much sam..” you say softly eye drifting shut while you start to doze off into a deep, comfortable, safe sleep. Sam cleans you up, and tucks you in before climbing into bed himself.

“love you more sweetheart .” placing a kiss on your forehead before cuddling up next to you snd going to sleeo. Just being around you like this was enough for him to survive off of for years.

• SORRY IT WAS SO SHORT, i rlly needed something to get me back in the habit of this stuff

[lay-z]

Another Johnny blurb :) A bit of folklore in this.

After barely surviving and recovering from a gunshot to the head by Makarov, Johnny is sent on medical leave, back to live on his elderly parents' farm in Scotland.

Now blind in his left eye and with the decline of his hearing, he keeps himself busy as best as he can helps taking care of the farm animals around, tends to the large pond in the spacious backyard and catches up with some old friends.

However, now suffering from nervous anxiety, Johnny picks up hiking as his new favourite pastime, needing to get away from the hubbub of his hovering family more than ever; his injury causing him excruciating headaches and, if he's particularly unlucky, panic attacks.

He takes his new journal on his hikes, buys a few more pencils (in case one breaks while he's out again), and finds the most bonnie places to catch a break and either sketch away or write down his memories because he doesn't quite trust his brain anymore.

One day, after hiking down a new path he found on a yellowed map from his late gran'da, Johnny finds a dale straight out of a fairytale.

Honey-bright rays of sunshine break through the surrounding treetops of willows, rowans, and copper beeches, shrouding the scenery in a myriad of shades of yellow and green while the local fauna goes about its merry day, ignoring Johnny like he's just another lost intruder stumbling upon the place.

And Johnny feels drawn to the overflowing creek after the earlier summer downpour, finds a cluster of moss-covered rocks, and decides to take a well-deserved break until his good right eye catches sight of someone already occupying the spot.

A woman clad in something he can only describe as... historical. The dress she wears is dripping with water, her wet hair sticking to her equally dewy skin, an aura of mystery and sorrow surrounding her as she sits there all by herself.

"Oi, miss? Ye shouldnae be around here by yerself. Ye need help find yer way back?"

You glance at him over your shoulder, and Johnny bristles, pulled forward, and screamed at to run by his most primal instincts simultaneously. At first, he doesn't even notice the sudden eerie silence surrounding him, blames it on his bad ears, but there is no more chirping and bird songs only the trickling of the nearby stream gently rushing in his ears.

Steamin' Jesus, she's beautiful. Hauntingly breathtaking that one. A wee bit strange perhaps, he thinks, but

"Death clings to ye, lad," you tell him matter-of-factly, tilting your head as you regard him with murky yet curious eyes, "and he'll come fer ye again."

Your nonchalant remark, spoken so sweetly, nearly knocks him onto his knees like a physical blow. The grip on his leatherbound journal tightens, knuckles whitening as he takes panting breaths to rid himself of the bile suddenly rising in his throat.

It's then he knows what you are, and while Johnny has lost his youthful wonder and believe of his own countries folklore, he can't help but believe that you must be a bean-nighe, a washerwoman.

An omen of death.

"N-no," Johnny croaks out, eyes widening with disbelief and fear before shaking his head so harshly, it worsens the headache already sneaking up on him. "Tha's not true! Tha's not Tha's not possible. I'm home! I'm safe here!"

Then, the softest smile lifts the corner of your mouth, and your buried maternal instinct makes you want to reach out to soothe his worries while he's already scrambling clumsily to get a grip.

"You'll see, sweet man," you snicker, standing up to watch him run, leaving your valley. "We will meet again."

And how was Johnny supposed to know that you simply wanted tell him about missing Simon's phone call? He didn't even give you a chance to clarify.

Ghoap x spirit!Reader ? Or perhaps I should make her a pixie :)

[tallulahneale]

Wade in the water 

Summary: Sammie and Ellita (Reader) reconnect after years of distance.

At the age of 6 Ellita was adopted by George Moore, the father of Elias and Elijah. They restored life to the lost love she didn’t know she needed or missed. Her brothers always looked out for her and made sure she had the confidence to survive in any situation life presents. The rest of the Moore dynasty were receptive and accommodating through her transition into the home, especially Sammie. They were the closest in age; 10 and 14 respectively, which created a partners-in-crime type friendship. After skill class, they would walk home together sharing stories and pranks to play the following week. This weekend was the expansion of the church, Sammie’s father was the preacher and that meant he would be spending more time at the parish than with her. But no worries, she’ll see him on the Saturday.

For as along as she could remember, Saturday evenings at the Moore residence has always been busy and vibrant. Her role was in the kitchen with the other ladies preparing lunch for the community, while Elias and Elijah arrange the church schedule for tomorrow. She deslimes and debones the catfish, placing them in a bowl for the other women to continue slicing and seasoning.

“Guess who?” Sammie says tiptoeing behind her.

“Sammieee” Ellita squeals with glee.

The women glance across at her with a warning ‘not to leave the kitchen’ stare but Ellita runs out before they could get a word in. She hugs Sammie like she hasn’t seen him in months and begins to yap.

“Slow down” Sammie laughs at her rambling

“-and then” She pauses, taking a breathe in “Sorry, I get carried away sometimes” she twiddles her fingers nervously, while looking at the floor.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” She asks.

Sammie had being preparing a new song for the service, in hope that his Pops sees his passion for crooning. His voice is harmonious and powerful, she even gets goosebumps when he talks.

“Yep, Pops said I can play at the end” He smiles while swings their hands together. 

“I’m really glad for ya’ Sammie maybe you-”

“Ellita!” Elijah bellows from the hallway, sighting her and Sammie yapping.

“Quick run!!” She hears Elias say from behind his twin, as she and Sammie dash to the porch into the front yard giggling.

“Tasks need to be completed little sis” Elijah reprimands loudly “If everyone ran off with their friend, then no work would get done.” 

She rolls her eyes, crouching behind the store shed with Sammie as they watch the twins walk back into the house.

They spend the rest of the evening laid out on the warm green grass, staring into the navy blue sky scattered with stars. Sammie reaches over to grasp her hand, which she squeezes gently.

“I’m glad Unc found you”

“I’m glad he did too” She agrees with a nod, as they share a fleeting look at each other.

“Sammie, Ellita!” They hear from the porch “Meal time” 

He stands up putting his hand out to pull her up as their names are called for supper. She follows him closely as they make way to the house. Eyeing the food, she sights Elijah who looks at her with a squint. She grins cheekily making a silly-cute face and moves to sit beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. He tugs her ears playfully and mutters something along the lines of her being a handful. 

“You’re not meant to talk with food in your mouth” She says, poking at his dimples. A smile creeps at the corner of his lips as he glances down at her, shaking his head.

Supper is in full swing, with chatting across the table and excitement for the upcoming event.

“Don’t be late tomorrow, Ellita” Sammie says, giving her a tight hug as he heads through the front door. 

“We’ll walk you back lil cousin” Elias and Elijah say simultaneously, Elias hangs his arm across Sammie’s shoulder.

Elijah whispers to Elias briefly before turning to Ellita .

“Make sure you was-“

“I know, I know. I’ll do them dishes” She mutters, carrying the plates and tableware to the sink. She speeds through the cookery, Pa helps her dry before departing just in time for the twins to return. By the time she is done wiping down the table and sweeping the area, the twins are back smelling like ash and a pungent trail of carbon. 

“Pa’s not going to like that” She tells them “Y’all stink!”

“Shhh, go hang your blue gown on the line and wrap your hair tonight” Elias reminds her. She tends to forget and has to waste more time in the morning fixing it. The blue gown in question is only for special occasions, the material is quite delicate so she isn’t allowed to iron it. She places the rich cotton fabric beside the other linens Elijah has beside him. He has taken the mantle of iron-King. 

Ellita yawns quietly placing a kiss on the cheek of the twins and Pa too, walking sluggishly to her room. It’s been a long day.

‘Another day in the house of the lord, full of dancing merriment and love’ Ellita thinks to herself walking in with Pa and the twins. She takes her seat close to the front of the hall, looking around for her best friend in the whole wide world. In the midst of the choir team stood little Sammie Moore. His smile was a bright, dressed in clothing too pristine for such a young boy. He leads the team by humming a tune for the first gospel, the timbers of his melody are soothing and full of vigor.

“He is such an old soul” Ellita whispers to herself, eyes twinkling with a smile.

“Yes is his” Pa Moore agrees, she did not whisper as quiet as she thought. Watching from the pew, she beams joyously at Sammie as their eyes meet. He winks at her before turning to his older cousins and uncle with a nod. That simple gesture was how their friendship started when she joined the Moore family.

But as time flew by, they grew in different directions and slowly became just neighbors. Some friendships build a comfortable distance, no resentment or anguish at the lack of contact. That was the predicament for Ellita and Sammie. A decade had gone by with a few brief waves and idle greetings. The past memories of childhood together; running around and playing jest felt like a dream, 10 years could do that.

Ellita felt proud to call herself a Moore and joining in with the Sunday festivities… until she didn’t. She was more intrigued by the spiritually of their ancestors as opposed to the christian indoctrination of her youth. Over the years she followed elders to understand how plants, water and the environment are the keys to good fortune, success, love and safety. Luckily the existence of these teachings were welcome in the community. She had constant support from her brothers Elijah and Elias, who go by SmokeStack twins now and her Pa, but other members of the Moore family did not take kindly to her new growth. 

Mainly her Uncle.

Preacher Moore did not approve.

He held back on sharing his opinions, but his actions spoke louder than his words. From subtle ridicule during sermons about her practices to the disdain for Smoke and Stacks ‘new’ money despite their effort in helping the community. Ellita blames him for the rift of her friendship, Sammie had no choice but to follow in the footsteps of his father and join the church as a full time trade. Although she was allowed to attend the sermons, she opted out as soon as Pa dead not long after Stack and Smoke left for Chicago. The longing for the rich timber melodic sounds that escapes Sammie’s voice still call out to her. Sometimes she would listen to him singing next-door and smiles at the now baritone harmony of his vocal cords. Her time was well spent, at 21 she had a learnt more than others her age and picked up skills which were slowly dying off with the elders. Ellita followed the footsteps of her brothers and travelling through many neighboring towns and communities to expand her knowledge on various practices; the art of fertility, health, beauty and divinity. She had taken the mantle as Healer of their community, providing advice and herbs to women and men alike.

Smoke and Stack encouraged her pursuit, seeing her gift and drive for all things natural and close to earth. So they built her a generous log-cabin close to the river where she could grow, forage and cultivate all components used in her craft. Whenever the twins returned from their trip, they would kick back and relax in the scenic surroundings of pine tress and a build a fire under the stars sharing stories of Chicago. 

———

Looking up at the sky, Ellita reads the curve of the moon with a look of anticipation and warmth.

“The full moon is approaching” She states softly. 

She began to prepare herself, there were tasks to do in order to remain inline with the ancestors and express gratitude to the elders who created this path for her. She gathers her pre-made oil of chamomile, sage and lemongrass extract, powder from grinded yucca glaccua and the cuttings from the bark of banisteriopsis caapi, her herbalist refers to it as the ‘soul vine’.

Taking note of the time, Ellita informs the town that tonight was her day off so she could re-center and prepare for the new month ahead. The message reaches neighboring communities too as well as their local parishes. She had written a letter to the twins a week ago, just in case they would be stopping by for their monthly visit. It was important that tranquillity of her cabin remains undisturbed to regain balance and focus of her emotions, ensuring that the sustenance provided to her community is pure.

With a shiny steel pail, coconut shell scoop and a luffa aegyptiaca, she strolls to the edge of the creek, where brown loamy earth meets the rushing stream of water. She heads back to the cabin to fetch her woven choctaw basket full of oils and powders, placing them beside the pail.

With a deep breath in, Ellita listens to the whispers of the wind brushing along the leaves, the crickets chirping and rush of water along the stones and pebbles.

“Isë” She chants tenderly. (Let it be so)

Stripping down from head to toe, she removes the silk hair tie freeing her luscious locks into its full afro state. The tendrils at the back of her scalp tickling her nape, the cloth that slides along her womanly curves comes next, a pink and red floral print fabric gifted to her by a seamstress.

Not too far away, Sammie is in a dilemma of his own. Clearing his mind after a heated conversation with his Pops, he takes a wander through the pine filled land far from the parish. 

“I'm gonna lay down my burden, down by the riverside. Down by the riverside, down by the riverside” He sings passionately. Sammie loves serenity of the outdoors the freedom, the fresh air, it helps create a sublime symphony that blends well with his acoustics. Approaching the riverbank, he sights a shapely figure adorned in an a satin-like material toes shuffling into the water. His eyes trail from her white painted toes to the smooth haunches of her calf, the rest of her covered by the fabric. Her exposed shoulder gleam under the pale moonlight as it shines brightly, a vibrant glow against her deep ebony supple skin. His breath hitches as he looks into the face of the goddess before him.

‘Ellita!’ His soul roars in elation.

His eyes locked on her turned back, Sammie gazes at her fingers as they reach up to her nape to untie the knot of the fabric. And there she stood. Free from the constraints of clothing, free as a school of fish in open water, just free. He remains where he stood, gazing at Ellita as she wades into the water stopping to turn and gather the basket sitting it on a boulder, her luffa floating on the surface of the water. His eyes are glued to her full bosom, nipple looking suckable and tight.

He cannot look away.

His palms are clammy, heart beating faster in fear of getting caught and lust for the woman whom he grew up with. ‘Pearline has nothing on her’, he thinks to himself.

He is in a dazed state at roundness of Elltias hips as she sways, like the water she scoops from the river. The liquid run through her hair, drenching it with moisture just as his feels his own leak from the tip. He rearranges his bulge, hoping to remain stealthily enough to walk away.

But his legs stay rooted in the earth below.

Ellita reaches over to her basket, derriere in the air and tear shape breast hung over the pail adding the soul vine in with the water. The liquid is crystal blue floating against the pebbles and stones of its own origin, unaltered by manmade chemicals.

 “Isë” She utters with thanks.

She submerges her body into the water, drenching every crevice and surface of her being. Before returning graceful above, dripping in fresh water. She senses a presence nearby but for some reason it has been  welcomed. It is not one that the ancestors or even herself are disturbed by. She hears the voice before she sees the lips that sign the melody;

“Wade in the water, Wade in the water children

Wade in the water, God’s got trouble the water”

“Sammie” she calls out in fondness, standing stark naked in the water as the day she was born. Their eyes meet just as it did whenever she sat along the front pews in church, him in the corner of the choir team. Ellita continues her practices as he winks at her, stepping closer to the edge of the river.

Generous applying yucca root powder across her neck, around her protruding chest, down her stomach and navel to the apex of her cooch.

Her eyes never leave his.

His eyes stay connected to her own.

Spreading her legs, she dips between her thighs, cleansing her folds with a mewl. Then down to her knees and her ankles. Turning her back, she bends over sultry to scoop water from the pail. Sammie grunts.

“Mmh-mmh, Mmh-mmh

God's gonna trouble the water”

A tremor is felt at the vibration of his voice, she rinses the lather and turns to face him. Her desire is visible as the hairs on her neck stiffen, nipples taut and the flutter in her fanny as he leers along her form

“Whatcha doin’ round here lil Sammie?” She asks.

“Ain’t no little Sammie here Ellita” He replies, leaning against the pine tree.

“I can see that…” Her eyes glancing at the fitted curve of his corduroys. 

“10 years later and you’re still a handful”

“More like two handfuls” She states with wit, rubbing the oil along her thighs and rear massaging the scent into her skin.

Sammie raising an eyebrow in curiosity, reading her eyes. There’s a subtle look of uncertainty but that fades to yearning as she closes her lashes and tilts her head back. With her back arched, Sammie peers down at smooth curls that hide her lips.

“You know I missed ya, right?” He admits “Don’t like that we drifted apart”

She doesn’t acknowledge him.

“Whatcha doin’ round here Sammie?” She asks again, firmly

“You becoming just as tough as Smoke” He mutters, eye locked on her oiled dripping skin.

Ellita lets out a breath, calming herself before continuing.

“Today’s my day off, no-one meant to be round here boy” she says sassily

“Now that’s the Ellita I remember, cheeky” he says, flashing a smile while inching towards her.

“You been watching me for a while huh?”

“Damn right”

“Wanna to join?”Ellita purrs

He blinks as if to snap out of a trance, reaching down to slips off his dress shoes and socks.

“Mmh-mmh, Mmh-mmh, God's gonna trouble the water” He sings eagerly as the rest of his clothes fall to the ground. 

A/n: Currently drafting part 2!! 

[mariasont]

PART I: THE LADY OF SHALOTT

this is what it means to love in verse and violence

part I -> part II -> part III -> part IV -> part V

pairings: spencer reid x fem!reader warnings: dissociation, detachment, depictions of emotional numbness, exploration of unhealthy coping mechanism, obsessive thought patterns, situationship, canon-type cm violence wc: 1.7k

It feels blasphemous somehow, the serenity of your sleep while he quietly burns up in your atmosphere. Spencer watches anyway, the pain like a necessary liturgy, masochism dressed as ritual.

He thinks of Orpheus. The final glimpse. Desire’s ruinous price. You’re a figure behind glass, beautiful in its fragility, and he presses his longing against it like a handprint left on a window. It won’t hold.

It has to be safer like this. It’s the foundational premise, the condition, the contract he obsessively redraws in his head. You and him, whatever this is — it’s not a relationship. It’s too structured, carefully fenced in. No promises or permanence.

His breath briefly fogging your cold glass before inevitably fading away. 

Finite.

But his mind is disloyal to his efforts. It feeds him poetry at midnight, terrible beautiful things about staying, about softness, about wanting. He loathes it. He hates himself more for listening.

Loss is familiar to him. Predictable, even. The reaching, the missing, the grasping for things already halfway gone. Always phantoms. Always slipping. 

Better, then, to keep you preserved in a delicate status, sheltered, just outside the reach of the damage his presence seems destined to inflict. Because love, when it’s real, doesn’t survive contact with his hands. It’s a lesson he’s been forced to memorize in painful repetition.

There had been no reckless start with you. No heat-drunk declarations made in the haze of midnight or slurred confessions coaxed out by a bottle of wine.

Just something quieter. Slower. A gradual arrangement built on the architecture of sidelong glances and the language of proximity. It began in simplicity — how was your weekend? — and ended in confessions neither of you meant to give.

Until one day, without ceremony, vulnerability became habit. And intimacy, the kind that asked for nothing but the immediacy of bodies, was already there, waiting to be noticed.

Spencer understood that what he craved wasn’t emotional attachment. He didn’t pretend it was. It was physical. It was just sex. But not for the sake of lust or conquest or even pleasure. It was about what sex offered. The temporary illusion of closeness, the feeling of another person’s heat echoing back into him. Fingers skimming ribs, palms pressed to hips. It was a language that bypassed explanation.

He didn’t need to be known. He just needed to be felt. Needed the proof of another heartbeat beside his own.

He refocuses on your sleeping face, mouth tense like you’re fighting something behind your eyes. He’s grown disturbingly adept at interpreting your facial expressions, a proficiency he never consciously sought.

Usually, he leaves before these things become clear, out the door by two at the latest. Tonight, however, the neon glare of the clock on your wall — 2:56 — declares a harsh judgment.

Spencer knows, in some detached sense, he’s violating a fundamental rule of your agreement. 

So why isn’t he already halfway across town, cloistered behind familiar walls?

A simultaneous vibration splinters his thoughts. 

You wake with a sharp inhale. Spencer doesn’t flinch.

He reaches his phone first. One look at the screen is enough, but he answers anyway. Prentiss doesn’t waste words. We have a case. Briefing in thirty.

The call clicks off and he glances up — just in time to catch the look on his face. Sleep-blurred, yes, but also uncertain. Your eyes shift to the clock, then to him. Your lips part slightly, like they might form a question, but close again just as fast. 

He doesn’t offer an answer. You don’t demand one.

Neither of you spoke on the car ride over. It wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, just… quiet. Still meandering in that liminal place between sleep and awake, not able or willing to summon the energy for idle conversation. 

You had yawned at least four times in fifteen minutes. Spencer had counted without meaning to. He felt the same, half-aware and craving rest he couldn’t seem to find.

His exhaustion had been more pronounced than ever over the past couple months. At his own apartment, he sleeps. More or less. As well as anyone in his position could hope to. Enough hours, no interruptions outside of case hours.

He doesn’t wake to the sound of shouting or scraping medal anymore. A soft bed. No concrete slab. No cellmate shifting in the dark.

And still, he wakes up like he’s been emptied. Like rest is no longer a cure, just a placeholder.

He hasn’t admitted it out loud, but a theory’s been forming anyway. One that begins and ends with you.

The headaches are back too. He hadn’t missed them. They weren’t like before, thankfully, no blinding spikes of pain, no full-body shutdowns, but steady. Insistent. A dull pressure rooted behind his eyes, quietly leeching whatever thin layer of energy he manages to remain overnight.

Even the lights in the office feel hostile today, too bright and too cold. Fluorescence like a blade.

He blinks against it, resisting the childish urge to cover his face with his hands.

Instead, he squints toward the board. Three victims. All women. Early twenties.

“Three different methods. Drowning, strangulation, stabbing,” Rossi says, tapping the board with two fingers. “No clear pattern.”

Spencer frowns, eyes narrowing. “Unless that is the pattern,” he murmurs.

Emily looks over. “You think he’s varying methods on purpose?”

“It’s possible,” Spencer replies, suppressing a wince as the pressure in his skull pulses again. “Typically, yes, killers rely on routine or repetition. But each of these is too precise. Too controlled. If he were experimenting, we’d see hesitation, evidence of trial and error.”

“Could he be trying to confuse us? Distract us from the real motive?”

“That could be part of it,” he says, “but there could be something else. He could be assigning meaning to each method. A symbolic system. One we haven’t decoded yet.”

“So, he’s playing games,” You say grimly. Spencer almost reaches for you, just to soften the crease in your forehead. He stops himself.

Games. 

It lands wrong. He hopes that’s not what this is. He hopes the unsub isn’t clever, isn’t strategic, isn’t the type to leave messages behind like breadcrumbs, dragging them out just long enough to make it personal.

Spencer desperately needs this case to be clean. Not because simplicity implies ease, nor because brutality is diminished by brevity, but because he doesn’t possess the mental bandwidth to endure another protracted game of psychological chess.

He insists, adamantly, that it’s driven purely by morality, by justice, because every unanswered crime feels like a stain that seeps into his conscience.

But there’s another part of him that wonders if he’s simply worn down by impatience. If he wants this to be over so he can rest. Wants the luxury of collapsing into your warmth again, tucked behind the shield of excuses he’s been recycling since the start.

And yet, he’s not naive enough to believe rest will come after this.

There will be another case. Then another.

A carousel of grief dressed in new faces. He wonders, sometimes, where he’s supposed to draw the line. To quit before the work finishes hollowing him out completely.

Maybe then, he could allow himself to love you without conditions.

You would make a good wife. You would make a devastating home out of someone like him. Maybe there’s a version of this world, some other branch split clean at the moment he walked into the BAU, where you and him are just ordinary, happy, untouched by bureaucracy and regret.

Maybe.

But not here. Here, the air is dry, the grass brittle beneath his boots, and someone else’s ending waits in the dirt.

His attention flicks to a knot of wildflowers half-trampled by the path, their petals bruised beneath morning’s glare. They look like devotion offered too late. A gesture turned grotesque by where it landed.

She’s been placed, not dropped — the victim. That much is clear. Her body rests in the field, arms folded, face angled upward. Her hair spreads around her like a halo, washed-out gold against the soil. Despite the violence that ended her life, her face remains eerily serene. Mouth slightly open, as if paused mid-word.

“It’s strange, right? Like… the way she’s posed. It almost feels like he cared.” You glanced down, eyes catching on the blood-dark hole through her sternum. “Almost.”

His eyes trace the curve of her shoulder, the positioning of her hands.

“There’s a difference between cruelty and care,” he murmurs. “But I think some people forgot where the line is.”

Spencer crouches slowly, joints stiff with the cold. His gloved hands hover just above the victim’s frame, careful not to disturb the scene.

Why the effort? 

The arrangement suggests something close to tenderness, though the context makes that hard to stomach. Reverence and murder rarely coexist comfortably. Maybe it isn’t about the death at all. Maybe it’s about the preservation. An attempt to suspend something fleeting. Youth. Beauty. Innocence. As if holding her like this could capture forever what can’t naturally endure.

“Do you ever think about how we show up after the worst thing someone’s gone through? And then just… leave?”

He stands slowly, spine aching from crouching too long.

Your face tilts toward the wind and sun catches on a smudge near your jaw. His fingers reach for it this time, brushing over it before the texture of the glove registers.

He drops his hand.

“You had something there.” A pause. “And now you probably have something else.”

“It’s fine. I’ve had worse things on my face.”

“I really hope you mean frosting or face paint,” he mutters.

He knows what you meant. Semantics aside, he’d studied the evidence up close.

The joke had bought him time, but not much. You’d asked him something and he dodged it. Clockwork.

“Yeah. I think about it. Feels like patching bullet holes with band-aids,” he says finally. “Better than letting it bleed out though.”

“Sure.”

The word came out thin, like you didn’t really mean it. He didn’t respond — just watched as techs pass by, then started walking.

The drive back was quiet again. You were scrolling through case notes, thumb dragging lethargic circles over the pages, eyes vacant and half-present.

You never played music. He always gripped the wheel like he was expecting something to go wrong. 

Driving made him anxious. Watching you drive made him worse. You hit curbs like they were suggestions and got distracted by things like birds on telephone wires. He’d said once that riding with you felt like tempting fate on purpose. You laughed. 

You asked if he was okay somewhere near the overpass. He said yeah, quietly and kept his eyes on the road, didn’t trust his face not to betray the lie. That was enough of an answer.

The rest of the day bled out without resolution. By evening, you were both too tired to pretend the lack of leads didn’t matter. 

When you asked if he wanted to stay the night, he knew you expected a hesitation. A caveat. Technically, he wasn’t supposed to. It was another rule you both upheld — not overnights during cases. It was too complicated.

But his agreement came fast. He didn’t pause. Didn’t qualify. He should have. But Spencer’s rules bend with you, and lately, they’ve started to fold, orgami-thin and splitting at the creases.

You step back to let him in, barefoot, already half-undressed in the way you usually were after midnight. 

Spencer keeps his eyes open the whole time. It wasn’t necessarily about watching but more so remembering. If this was wrong, he needed to hold onto it tightly enough to justify the transgression.

Your mouth against his, your hands pulling him in, the curve of your throat, the shiver under his palm. All these pieces of proof he’d replay later, alone, dissecting memories in the silence of his apartment.

He’s not sure he’ll ever know what fragments of these stolen moments he’s allowed to believe in. 

He kisses your skin, fooling himself into believing it was sufficient, that passion could remain confined. 

But even tempered glass has its breaking point.

The mirror crack’d from side to side; / ‘The curse is come upon me,’ cried / The Lady of Shalott.

part II

[jesuistrestriste]

SAAGGEEEE your corrupting art blurb UUUGGGGHHHHH TOO FUCKING GOOD

thinking about the same scenario of him being overwhelmed & so deeply in subspace… but making him cum for the first time ever & he’s so whiny & doesn’t know what’s going on & feels so good when he cums he just doesn’t know what to do 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

DYLAN LISTENNN

i haven’t rlly written too much corruption kink stuff bc i’ve been focused on other things, but now im fully in the game.

i’m thinking about an inexperienced, virgin!art donaldson who’s never had a real orgasm before.

wet dreams? sure!

but’s he’s never been conscious to experience those releases; just woken up to warm, sticky boxers and a funny feeling swirling lingeringly around in his stomach.

maybe he’s never explored that sector of life before due to something like: barely repressed religious guilt, or the fear that it’ll be too intense for him to handle, or just plain business..! but the point is that he’s never experienced that hot, all-consuming, pulsing rush of pleasure that floods through your body when you come undone..

so when he finds himself submitting in your arms, the two of you tangled in your bed while he mindlessly seeks friction against your leg and kisses you, his eyes fly wide open when he feels a bolt of something good shoot through his cock in his briefs.

“oh,” he whines against your lips before he pulls back and swallows thickly, “oh, god..”

you look to his eyes and chuckle softly, catching your breath while your hand snakes down to grope his bulge— rewarding you with a sharp moan and a jerk of his hips.

“you’re so sensitive,” you whisper, your hand giving two tugs on his clothed cock before art is grasping for your arms, his legs starting to tense.

“s-something’s coming.”

he says it in a way that makes him sound utterly terrified but completely elated, simultaneously. he’s quaking against you, letting out little moans into your neck that are rapidly increasing in volume and frequency with each passing half-second.

fuck, he’s already teetering on that ledge— so overcome with the new sensations that he can’t squeeze his thighs together hard enough to stall his crossing of the finish line.

sweat is prickling on his skin almost uncomfortably, and he’s melting into your frame as he buries his face in your shoulder. his blonde curls brush your jaw and cheek. another tug on his erection sends him hurtling toward the end of it all before he can even properly grasp the build-up. poor thing.

“i… i feel really weird—.. i can’t—! i think im gonna..! gonna-!”

he yelps, before his vision completely whites out. his fingers curl into your biceps and his legs kick out and spasm as he lets out another broken cry. his voice comes out mangled through the heady waves of dopamine and the surge of emotions.

he’s never felt anything like it.

nothing’s even come fuckin’ close.

not a win on the court for a sparkling medal or trophy, not a bite of his mom’s special cooking, not even cry-laughing at patrick’s dumb jokes.

nothing.

this is everything.

god, how did he miss out on this for so long? what was life even like before this type of ecstasy?

he’s gushing into his underwear (heaps of held-in loads finally pouring out), rocking against your leg as you gently work him through it with a smile on your face, and he can’t quite seem to think of an answer to either of those questions of his..

it’s all too much in the best way.

“oh fuck, fuck fuck fuck, im cumming,” he gasps, sounding laughably bewildered and unsteady, his touch growing almost painful on your limbs.

he doesn’t mean to grab you so hard, but the feelings are consuming him wholly and he needs to clutch onto something before he’s sure he’ll float away. he needs you to ground him—comfort him, help him, teach him.

he can’t believe what’s happening, and now he’s only got one thing left on his mind as the aftershocks make his head spin:

how’s he ever supposed to survive sex?