#“haha what do you mean 'ironically'?”

[rom-e-o]

MW!Rook: I never took advanced classes. Got too... busy.

Now I'm intrigued by the thought of a Rook who ends up deciding to continue their Watcher studies after defeating Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain, taking the advanced classes and realising that Emmrich Volkarin himself was to be their professor in advanced necromantic arts. Imagine how awkward that must be, trying to maintain a sort of professional distance with a man you saved the world with???? Who you have

Also on a semi-related note-

Just imagining the aftermath of defeating the gods if you chose Harding to lead the other group and just... the Veilguard ends up having some grand celebration for it (with nobility involved because of course they want to have a piece of the pie, to say they were involved, just like the Inquisition after defeating Corypheus)

And Cassandra is there. Maybe Leliana.

And one of them is most certainly pissed at Rook for letting three Inquisition members die. Dorian tries his best to smooth things over, and Rook just feels so, incredibly guilty over what happened. Nothing they say or do will ever make it better, will never change the fact that they lost Varric, Harding, and the Inquisitor all at once. And these were their closest friends.

I feel like it's Josephine or even the Iron Bull who tries to comfort Rook, to tell them that it wasn't their fault (though Iron Bull would be more along the lines of 'they died a warriors' death' sort of thing)

I honestly love that idea. I mean, let's face it, it makes perfect sense MW! Rook in this universe wouldn't have time to devote the study needed to join the more elite Mourn Watch ranks. Even from their talks with Myrna ("Back straight") and Emmrich saying Rook has "advanced adequately", I very much get the vibe that Rook's studies are not their strongest bargaining chip.

But hey, between the War of the Banners and two blighted elven gods, who has the time?

But then, you dive back into your studies after a little final boss-reprieve only to find that your beau is your handsome professor. Unlike Johanna's arrangement, this one is a favorable one. Needless to say, many lessons are tentatively guided with should squeezes, intimate guiding of the ceremonial hand gestures ("raise them higher, darling, just a bit more for me...") and ... desk sex. I don't know if Em could SWEEP everything off the desk like Cullen though, haha. ("That chalice is a relic from the Storm Age! Here, let me put it over here.")

Ohhh, yeah. Harding's death would hurt. Dorian, of course, tries to swoop in, but that's not enough. Same with Varric, even though Rook really can't be blamed for that one. OH GOSH, imagine losing the Inquisitor too. CULLEN, MY MAN. ;;

Leliana and Cassandra ... it would be hard, but they would know their leader did what they had to do. They could honor that, I think. Cassandra would cry, I think. In secret, of course. That was their best friend.

Inky's spouse/lover? MUCH more pissed. Now THAT is a confrontation I want to see - very bittersweet.

I can see Josie doing it (Emmrich and Josie actually have the same writer, so it's poetic that it's her). It just suits her personality so well. But I LOVE it being Bull as well.

"It's hard to lose good men, but they chose to fight. Be proud that you rallied a team that believed in you that much. Who stuck their necks out. That doesn't come around every day."

Some extra Trespasser foreshadowing with that. Just a smudge.

[alchemicourtesy]

HEYEY! glad to see more people into vat7k!!! Would you mind sharing more of the insight n what your perceptions of the characters are? I saw your post about Hugo n Var as well as the involvement with Nuru in the tags and was wondering!!! No pressure ofc <3 also love your art it's REALLY AWESOME !

hi! thank you so much :] im rlly glad ur interested... as new as i am to this story and world i'm still ironing out my own opinions and headcanons and ideas so everything is in a rough place atm but i'd love to talk about what i Do have right now ^^

i'm sort of operating under the idea of what this would look like if it were a tv show rather than a comic only for the sake of structure and me being able to visualize it haha. doesnt mean anything beyond that.

i love the idea of there being 7 kingdoms, 7 alchemic laws, and 7 "lessons" for the characters to learn and id probably divide it through 3 seasons with the last season focusing on either 2 or 1 (heavy emphasis on what would be the "library arc") and allocating the extra "arcs" to s1. but anyways

mainly i like the idea of like. each of the group getting a chance to shine an equal amount. obviously they'd all have something to gain from every lesson but imo id put a particular emphasis on them all getting 2 each to hammer home their development and experiences. i havent ironed out who learns what and its not like...an exact science rn so thats a work in progress

nuru is interesting to me in particular bc i think theres a notable position she is in being a princess and wanting to be hands on. for her character particularly i feel like its important she be able to learn how to care for her subjects and hone the skills she needs for the responsibility she has but also allowing herself to understand herself as a person and an individual without having to sacrifice her duty to her people and her community. too many times i see in media where a character has this huge responsibility and they have to learn to care about and understand Themselves first and while thats important i feel like its not always possible or feasible and also it's hard. it's rlly hard to grapple with both of those things at the same time. and nuru being a princess she Wants to help her people. she Wants to have the responsibility to care for them but she still must learn what that will look like for her specifically and how she can be that person she wants to be without phoning it in or anything.

with yong i saw it was mentioned he has a huge loving family that supports him and wants to see him succeed, but he's just sort of wild and unpredictable in ways i think varian can relate to from when he was younger. there's nothing really "wrong" with yong, but he has to understand and learn balance and control where he struggles with it and that he can be the person he wants to be but there has to be instances where he takes his time and understands that progress isnt linear. which gives varian a good place to act as an older brother figure obviously bc thats shit he himself learned in tts lol

varian's arc Kind of began and ended in tts so i just see vat7k as a way of expanding on stuff he already has learned yet not rlly like. rehashing stuff he should already know

hugo is a little trickier for me bc i think there are a Lot of similarities he shares narratively with eugene (which makes sense given that he was said to have been acquainted with eugene in the past, at least somewhat). they're similar but they're not the Same, so i wouldnt want hugo to just be repeating the same beats that eugene already learned. in my opinion hugo is smug and he thinks somewhat highly of himself, but hes not a bragger. hes not snarky nor will he actively antagonize the group. what reason would he have to? he wants them to like and trust him and i dont rlly see that happening if hes always being a jerk to them haha.

thats all i got for now i think but feel free to ask me abt more stuff if ur interested : )

[textsfromtheemblem]

[ganondoodle]

me: finally im able to cope with how much i hate totk and can fuel that energy into other things :)

nintendy: the shiekah tech just dissappeared and no one knows why or cares enough to investigate it lol. lmao. its gone bc the calamity is gone or something even tho it literally isnt bc ganondorf is right there haha lol, stop asking, why do you care. just forget it existed and look at that sexy goatman and glue instead!! glue! isnt that wild?? also its totally a direct, 100% same universe and exact same characters, despite them act totally out of character, sequel to botw-

[vaguely-concerned]

I've been trying to figure out a dynamic between neve and rye that I find more compelling, because right now there's not much of anything there for me to sink my little teeth into. but I think I've landed on something delicious with the idea that especially after minrathous gets fucked, rye looks at neve and sees myrna -- someone he feels he keeps letting down horribly no matter how hard he tries not to and can't quite achieve the approval of/connection with that he wishes so it's better to just pull away completely and disengage rather than stay in that unshifting shame. neve is (very understandably) measured and distant with him after what happened, and he's flashing back to his student days of myrna gazing at the perpetually hungover heartbroken heap of a person of him on the other side of her desk every time he missed the deadline of a paper or project like '...can we at least both agree that this is. a bit disappointing. especially considering your potential.' (and him all smudged black eyeshadow and numb ruefulness being like 'sure that's a very kind way to put it myrna thank you'.)

aside from the 'if I let him get too deeply into this he'll go the way of brom and it'll be all my fault (again)' element, neve thinks rye is dismissing her and her city/being a bit callous in the same way he was after varric's death (listen. how fucking wild must rook's reaction to losing a beloved mentor seem to the rest of the crew who aren't seeing the blood magic paper doll ghost varric the whole time, especially those who got to see them interact. you WOULD think 'there's something wrong with this guy. putting the job first is one thing just not seeming to react at all is another this is fucking freaky', wouldn't you, especially after seeing the warmth in that dynamic in action beforehand.) perfect storm of two people who grit their teeth and turn inwards in pain deciding that not talking about it is their best bet (NEWSFLASH: IT ISN'T) lmao

(rye spent his last year of watcher training on a mostly joyless bender and then got it together enough to finish the eternal orb project last moment in a fevered near-sleepless week instead of the half a year that was intended. emmrich is both astounded and distressed to hear this. "a week? but -- but that is an astounding accomplishment rook!! and also why in the maker's good light would you ever do that to yourself?" ("well you see there was no one to stop me from doing it like that but me. and under those conditions these things tend to happen".) rye was working through/looking up stuff around transitioning and doing every kind of OTHER high level watcher research through that whole time, but ultimately he's an excellent watcher and a terrible student, at least under traditional methods. adhd from here to the fucking moon. touched by something akin to divine inspiration in moments of high tension that pulls all the threads into one coherent unbreakable cord, a bit of a frayed mess in most other settings. in our world he'd be dropping out of a masters program at the very last hurdle in this moment maker bless and protect him)

[mokeonn]

I have crawled out of my "only doing art studies pit" to craft a piece so full of love, and I shall now post that piece before once again disappearing to cry over anatomy

[hide-your-bugs-away]

hearing Alan talk about how much he liked Albert Grossman and Eric talk about how much he liked Brian Epstein makes my tiny emotional brain implode like GHGhHhh the Animals' actual manager was Not Good!!!!!!! they were actively looking at the managers of their contemporaries and wished they could've had that instead!!!!!!! 🥹

[dapperrokyuu]

Fact about me that will only be understood and potentially found amusing by a niche amount of people: oddly, the first Vocaloid project I found myself getting into was Shuuen no Shiori and then Kagerou Project. I clicked on a Kagerou Days thumbnail thinking it was a PART of Shuuen no Shiori, lol.

[pears-trinkets]

.

[sampahaha]

SHANKS WAS BORN A CELESTIAL DRAGON????????????

[puppetlooselystrung]

duality of man is playing a genuinely nice tabaxi divination wizard whos a little out of touch with society and then also playing a fallen aasimar warlock who people either see as this bright sunny summer themed person or this like. awful demonic being. and they will never let you know which one is correct

[reshinless]

“just the tip” turing into “i know you can take it just a few more rounds” with kinich? im totally normal about this man i promise 🙂‍↕️

7 rounds, with a side of coffee please!

nsfw utc, marathon sex if u squint, sex mention + the morning after, usage of 'cunt' but think of this how u want (I don't specify pronouns), praise kink, mentions of blindfold/rope (not the main point), shower sex somewhat (again not the main point)

wc: ~0.9k. artwork belongs to @/leisomnium on x, go check out their page.

he promised you it'd be just his tip snug inside your cunt. why are his thrusts soo mean now! (you asked for it)

all happening right after a celebration party mualani throws- she offers you two a house to share before going home. (three-day celebration in which you both do it on the third day)

he said he'd be gentle, that was four rounds ago. it felt as if he was losing his sanity inside you (literally), and he only wanted more.

the coos, and whispers against the shell of your ear- fuck you couldn't help but get turned on. he could feel the hefty amount of essence, and wetness on his shaft, as it spread everywhere.

the different speeds you could observe throughout the seven separate rounds you both underwent, he was rougher in the middle- vanilla towards the end.

spending the first few hours letting your tight cunt get used to his girth and length. fuck it was already the morning after but it's as if it was still there, your legs trembling at the thought.

he loved how loud you were last night though, he could hear the sounds of animals nearby getting startled. and a knock on the door from a neighbor, haha.

he was against the idea of tying you down to the bed or blindfolding you at first. but he will give in if you ask nicely, say please :)

he prefers he handles you himself, your skin on his, nothing in between. but it definitely would help him out by not needing to hold you down. the only times he does do it on his own when you don't ask is when you've been a little more than just 'bad'.

his tattoos glow a little when he gets pleasured, so in a way, you get clues on your own when you rode him, which spot he preferred inside you, or which position he preferred... (it was cowgirl by the way)

his hands cause marks on your skin, and he genuinely feels bad. he always offers help to cover them by wrapping his jacket around your waist or making his headwear into a scarf to cover up the hickeys on your nape.

yet you couldn't discard the feeling of the previous night. would always remind you whenever you tried to move the next. using nearby objects for support 'till kinich noticed, and wrapped your arm around his neck instead to support you, or full-on bridal style, whatever you want.

how he whispered "don't worry, let's just get you to the bed" sounded so familiar to the tone he used yesterday to tell you how good you took his cock inside you. about how deep it was... or how he'd fill you up to your very brim. "not a drop wasted." word for word.

"i know you can take it for a lil' longer, sweetheart... c'mon..." is all you heard in the moment as his godly speed along with merciless thrusts ironically enough. his mouth lusted praise into your hears, while his dick said much else.

he spent a few rounds thinking about what position he wanted to fuck you in the most. but he was stuck between his top three; missionary, mating press, and cowgirl. he couldn't decide but doggy style was a close second.

he much preferred a position in which he could stare at your features when doing so. like missionary- he could lean in to kiss your sweaty forehead, and hold your hips close to his as he repeatedly slammed himself inside.

or mating press where he could get a pretty lil' close-up of your face, he could feel your legs get tired while he trusted inside though, and honestly felt bad, that's when he started slowing down. instead of the ruthless pounding, he'd be a regular to grinded his angry red tip against your g-spot in hopes it's just as pleasurable as the previous feeling.

maybe it was cowgirl, wherein you'd do all the work. and he could watch how good your cunt swallows him whole, or how your head threw back in pleasure because of his cock. nothing turned him on more than your own expression. gosh, he could already feel himself harden at the sudden thought of it.

honestly would be the same for reverse cowgirl but if he were going to be real with you- he'd rather watch your expression range from your eyes rolling to the back of your head rather than for those beautiful faces you make be faced away from him. he could care less about seeing how you take it from behind somewhat.

it was the sixth round in which you remembered he was the loudest in, and in all honesty, it wasn't even supposed to go up 'till seven rounds. but you looked just so.. appetizing in your bathrobe. the fact you trust him so much enough to shower with him, he still blushed at the thought even when you've been together for about three years now.

he could feel his orgasm build up again as he pinned you to the wall of the steamy hot springs. shit, he knows mualani would get mad; having to clean the pool again but he couldn't help but release on your back as it arched, you both climaxing together.

maybe he did have a favorite though, and it didn't necessarily concern his shaft rubbing against you this time.

the way you tasted definitely changed his point of view on intercourse. damn did it taste better than any meat stew he's eaten and made before!

but how could he not? you forgot your last pair of clothing for the night, having to borrow his and fuck. he's turned on again from the sight of you in his clothing.

too late to realize when he already lifted the shirt up a little to seep his tongue into your hole. fingers already working over your clit, making sure you feel everything.

oh he knew how much you liked when he hummed in response to your little whimpers to turn them into moans, and whines. of his name? of course!

you tasted nice, especially when your gummy walls clenched around his fingers as they interchanged positions with his tongue, he landed pretty little kitty licks onto your clit. he added another digit up into your entrance as they curled riiiiight theeeree...

flashback over, the night was done and dawn arrived as kinich decided on just carrying you bridal style home using his rope to quickly travel back instead of using mualani's koholasaurus like previously done (took two days to arrive LOL).

mualani arrived at the hot springs near to the home she lent you both to, cookies and milk in hand. "man.. i didn't even get to say goodby- is that.. white in the water.. KINIIIIIIIIICH!!!"

[suiana]

guys imagine being an attraction in a zoo and having a yandere! alien zookeeper??

basically you're a human right, and these aliens captured you one day because humans are a dying species and they're endangered and stuff 🤑 so then they put you in a zoo enclosure that's reminiscent to human apartments based on what they read in books because it's cute.

all day long you just sit around in your enclosure and do random ass things while getting gawked at by aliens who try touching you through the bars of your enclosure. you felt like a lesser being. i mean, that's what humans were to these aliens anyway.

the only one who treats you like a decent and equal being is the zookeeper who has a rather odd attraction to you. he doesn't touch you without your consent, calls you by your name instead of just 'human', and even gives you food that you like! plus, he's just so sweet! turning red whenever you two are close to each other, trying to learn more about human culture...

it's just that he's a little weird.

lingering gazes, the constant monitor checking, asking about how humans show love and stuff... if you didn't know better you'd have thought he was in love with you! haha... not like he is one, right? he's just doing his job. learning more about humans and stuff... haha...

but you trusted him. he took such good care of you after all. he'd never try and hurt you. and he's an alien anyway, albeit a handsome and attractive one. he wouldn't be interested in you, a human, of all things.

that is, until, another human gets captured and put into the same exhibit as you. they wanted you two to copulate-to continue the bloodline you know.

that's when you started noticing your zookeeper acting up. you noticed how his lingering gazes and questions about love quickly turned into threats against the other human who didn't even want to be there.

surely your weird but sweet alien zookeeper wouldn't do anything, right? your poor roommate doesn't even like you that way! your caretaker would definitely see that right?

wrong.

one day, you were sleeping until you get rudely awoken by the scream of your new roommate.

"oi quiet down will you? I'm-"

"sorry my dear, go back to sleep."

standing in front of you was your alien caretaker, drenched in the blood of your mangled roommate. a sickeningly sweet smile was on his face as he held your roommate's now limp body by his... crushed head? you couldn't even recognize your roomie's body anymore.

"it's okay, I'm sorry you had to see that. humans get startled easily don't they?"

startled was an understatement to what you were feeling right now. you felt like you were about to vomit out your guts.

you watched as the red liquid dripped from your alien zookeeper's arms, the smell of iron overpowering your senses as you black out. this is all just a dream. it's just a dream. it has to be. when you wake up, you and your roomie will be perfectly fine in your cute little enclosure.

however when you awoke, you found yourself in a completely new room with pictures of you plastered all over the walls. realization seeps in as you hear the familiar voice of someone you should've never trusted.

"you're awake, my dear. how are you feeling?"

man you were so fucked.

[weirdmageddon]

i love these tags this person is so right

actually, can you imagine if dave was raised by B1 roxy?

i wanna get into this actually

(ok i had to spend a few hours rewriting this because IT DIDNT FUCKING SAVE AFTER FIVE HOURS OF WRITING WHEN MY COMPUTER UPDATED WHILE I WAS AFK so it would mean a lot to show this post some appreciation. i LOVEEE hearing what other people have to say)

even though these things mom does are presented in an extravagant, kitsch, jokey way, her intentions always came from a place of sincerity. she is simply Funnie

but rose reads too far into it and assumes things that aren't there, that her mother is passive-aggressively feigning interest in rose's interests simply because the things she does are so extra. "why do all of this if not to mock me"

im telling you right now if dave lived in this household he wouldn't assume antagonism, he'd go,

don’t forget who LITERALLY patented tangible jpeg artifacts as their post-scratch adult self and scattered shitty scummed up statue of liberties all over the planet. theres no way some of that overboard artful shit wasnt post-ironic / circling back around to genuine funny sincerity

dave's natural state is funny sincerity like roxy. he's had the natural capacity for this type of humor from the start and this is the direction he goes towards when he grows out of his brother's shadow by the end of the comic. dave and roxy share an earnest “so bad its good” type of humor

(lots more under the cut; the length of this meta analysis just got unwieldly with all the pictures and whatnot)

despite the alcoholism, roxy is a supportive mother. she's not the ideal guardian but hells of a lot more supportive of her kid than bro is. if she knew dave's interests she would totally indulge in them with some over the top silly goofy haha shit as a genuine gesture simply because she loves him

rose isn't too keen on it though. but she is more similar to dirk in her natural state of thinking of overthinking shit and assuming the worst, like the tags said

and yes dave got the sweet cuddly yet sometimes backhanded ouppy gene from roxy, probably even moreso lol

roxy's even said rose "sounds like girl dirk"

side tangent here, but this is something i wanna talk about.

i dont think bro should ever be in custody of children ever but if theres anyone who would be up to the task it's rose probably. i know she'd be able to keep up with him. not only does she have a defined personality (dave is more malleable and absorbs his environment like a sponge), if anyone can pick apart B1 dirk's batshit brain and probably be right on the money it's her. lil cal has been pumping patriarchal nonsense into bro's head and rose would be able to bring the fucking facts to the table without losing her own and being a living example of a badass little girl. i also don't think bro would try to force masculine roles onto rose like he did with dave, seeing as she is a girl, so she would actually have more of a leg up and get some passes that dave was never afforded. and rose wouldn't stand idly and accept any bullshit; she is no doormat. and i think this would earn bro's respect

but anyway, from this, couldn't we conclude roxy "sounds like girl dave"?

yeah okay. we havent even gotten into their penchant for funny typos or misspeaks, deliberate or otherwise

so, dave's environment

the sentiment "god you hope you can be as good as your bro at this some day" might have been genuine at the time when he idolized bro but of course he's not able to express that in any sort of sincere fashion because he's in dirk's fucking household. and this level 10 irony shit isnt doing dave any favors

his role models were the Internet and a vague idea of what Bro was like. So he built up his facade based on irony–not the literary definition of irony, as Rose might be quick to point out, but a popular concept of irony based on the idea that things that didn’t make sense actually made sense in some roundabout way. As a master of irony, Dave probably reasoned, he could see in a way other people couldn’t why a world that was scary and didn’t make sense really did make sense, and could therefore convince those people that he was superior to them. And he would wield his knowledge to maintain the appearance of superiority by calling everything ironic and pretending he didn’t care about things that didn’t make sense, and he would use walls of vaguely rhyming words to keep everyone at arm’s length so they wouldn’t discover his insecurities (source)

roxy's style is the embodiment of post-irony. being raised by mom lalonde would be like being raised by joel vinesauce ok

what can i say ….. (getting meta about this actually, hussie got these jpeg wizard wallpapers from a spyware website. link takes some time to load because internet archive)

rose is quick to read post-irony as actually being a joke/insincere, which in bro's case would be true. but i believe dave's natural instinct, outside of the influence of bro, is to read post-irony as genuine, which is exactly how mom serves it. we see this as early as act 3 from him; he understands her motives better than rose does herself:

and in act 6 intermission 2 i think it's pretty clear

but the thing is, it's always genuine from her. dave wouldn't have to second guess it because he's not one to naturally second guess someone's sincerity; that was learned due to his bro being virtually unassailable

there two types of ironies at play here:

seems like a joke, is actually genuine (roxy)

doesnt seem like a joke, is actually a joke (dirk)

you can make the argument that the second is is more psychologically destructive because it makes you question the reality of what is genuine sentiment and what isn't. dave never knew what was genuine and what was irony so he just sort of existed in this sincerity-ironic limbo and always did the opposite of what he genuinely felt on principle even if it always did originate from a genuine place.

"it just a joke bro i was just being ironic i dont actually x" is so much more trust-breaking and psychologically damaging than "wait are you being serious" / "i am being so fucking fr rn davy gravy" / "ok thats actually pretty fucking awesome. giant ass wizard statue" / "RIGHT"

how much about dave would change do you think? his character arc would be completely different for one thing, i think he'd have it good aside from mom's alcohol issues. he'd be left with the sweet and funny parts of him that we see at the end of the comic. the fake coolguy stuff is out, but this remains. this is dave in his element and we see it as early as act 1

he'd probably have no shades growing up in the lalonde residence* either cause those were given to him by bro straight out of the crater as an extension of his own cool image. and john gave dave ben stiller’s aviators for his 13th birthday to replace them so he could “spread his wings”

dave said he was wearing them for the ironies but i kind of doubt it. maybe post-irony but there was some reacharound to it being genuine because dave never put those pointy anime shades on his face again.

*though... it’s kind of hard to imagine him without his shades at all? B2 dave still got stiller’s shades from stiller himself so maybe getting them is a universal constant. i can imagine mom getting him them as a birthday gift cause shes pretty wealthy and probably could buy it out in an auction. but also itd be cool if john still gave him it as a gift

dave is actually a lot more genuine and easy to read than he lets on even when grappling with his upbringing with B1 dirk (again, see this post). this can be seen all throughout he comic but a good example is the evolution of thoughts about his interest in the preserved dead things in his room:

if B1 roxy was dave's guardian he probably WOULD have pursued paleontology because she wouldve indulged him in it and probably find it cool and worthwhile to pursue, instead of allowing dave to flounder under ironic detachment, being poisoned by irony to the point of gaslighting himself into believing he doesnt actually believe he thinks this shit is cool. even if it was indulged in this such a way; a superficially kitsch and ironic appearing presentation, it comes from a genuine place and inspires genuine interest. just read the comments.

basically, i think if B1 roxy raised dave, their relationship would have a surface level appearance of being bizarre or over-the-top but they’d have an unsaid mutual understanding that it’s completely in earnest and just build on each other's funny and absurd gestures of affection. rather than seeing it as one-upping each other, it'd more like collaboration of some silly bullshit that you take a step back and look at full and just say, "fucking incredible"

speaking of paleontology, mom had the proto-ectobiology lab. maybe they'd be able to use the equipment to appearify paradox ghost imprints of the dead shit to create paradox clones of things from the cambrian era??? sounds like a fun mother son bonding activity. and theyd actually put the sciencey shit in the household to use

oh god i know exactly the kinds of music shed listen too also growing up as a teen in the 80s. she on that (post)-punk/art rock/new wave/new romantic mtv stuff. XTC shit fr. this is a B-52S HOUSEHOLD. maybe the associates for the campy melodramatic flair. so he gets to keep the record on his shirt cause he is an enjoyer of the shit in her vinyl collection. dave would still gravitate towards musical expression and music itself but of more variety outside of just rap, with an 80s-90s, even 70s flavor due to mom’s influence. see this for perhaps a glimpse. ​she probably visited new york city a lot for business trips and because the music scene was cool as hell around that time, imports came straight from jfk airport, she probably got in on that a bit and have remnants in the form of vinyls and cassettes. in this way she could be distributing void to dave (influencing him with forgotten / presently irrelevant music). now he can REALLY rave about bands none of his friends have heard of. “hey davy grvay watcha listenin to” (he holds up vinyl cover) “omg snakefinger”

btw dave lalonde would look like this to me

[iceunhie]

HEART TO HEART — aventurine

premise ⁠☆ the five times aventurine bares his heart out to you, and the one time it works in his favor (or, in which aventurine says he loves you, in his own little ways.)

a/n ⁠☆ lovesick aventurine, i repeat super lovesick aventurine this is not half-assed, reader is the same reader from make a bet !!

The first time Aventurine opened up to you, he thinks that you looked like what starlight could be in human form.

He speaks your name like a victory falling upon his lips, a measured weight in its cadence. Aventurine relishes in the way you look alert, placing your attention on him (and him alone), sticking to his side like the faithful subordinate that you are.

He's come to learn that you don't exactly do friends—you are the very image of professionalism, never crossing the lines you shouldn't cross; and if he’s not careful, you could disappear at the slightest touch, just like starlight. (Would it kill you to stay just for him?)

“Have I ever told you that you look prettier when you smile?”

You pause from your game, looking up from the chessboard you and your co-worker, boss, and give him a look that one can truly only enjoy if they were either a masochist or someone who enjoyed another's disgust of them. “About 25 times now, Aventurine.”

“You've been counting? I didn't know you loved my praise that much.”

“Does every word that comes out of your lips lack sense, or is it just me?”

“Haha, it's just you.”

“Lucky me.” you roll your eyes. Aventurine's eyes melt, like butter in the sun.

Sometimes he feels the urge to always compliment you—because this is the only way for you to keep your eyes on him, to only look at him, and Aventurine has always loved looking at your eyes.

(If he kept looking, would he convey his heart to you?)

You scrunch up your face. Cute. “What?”

“Nothing.” Fondness bleeds from within him, the Kakavasha of old seeping into the cracks of his hollow shell. Aventurine plays gambles, risks death, yet this feeling of elation is something that triumphed in all of that.

He wonders if you notice; if you know that his honeyed words are genuine, as genuine as a liar like him can be. Aventurine wonders if you can tell that every poke and prod hides the underlying meaning of desperation—the words he can never bring himself to say because he thinks he's far too unworthy (for you). Still…

“I hope you know that it's true.” Just this once, he’ll let you see, just this once. “I mean it. You look prettier when you smile.”

Just this once, Aventurine thinks. He’ll bare his heart to you just this once. It's a gamble, a risk; a gamble he wants to risk.

And indeed, perhaps this is what Gaiathra’s blessing is for.

He sees you bristle like a cat, so wary—but he sees the flush coating your cheeks, reaching well up to the tips of your ears, and he knows he's won. Checkmate. “That's such a lame compliment. Is that best you executives can do?”

“Mm, wouldn't you like to know?” (To love is such an unpredictable thing.)

Aventurine may be a liar, but Kakavasha isn't, because Kakavasha strung together his remains in hopes of perceiving you.

In hopes of loving you.

—

Aventurine has only three words to describe himself: loser, liar, and murderer.

He can think of other words too, like Sigonian, IPC lapdog, coward, unworthy… a plethora of ugly, demeaning, visceral words— it makes his throat bubble with acid, coiling ang churning under the weight of his own existence. Disgusting.

There's another, too. Greedy. He's greedy. Whether as Kakavasha or Aventurine, the hunger to consume all lingers fresh in his mind. The strong takes all, and the weak is left to suffer. It's a need that knows no end, embittering all he cherished, cherishes. Like an iron chain upon his neck. He's greedy for solace, freedom; death, and—

“Aventurine, are you okay?” you.

How truly fortunate he is to behold your expression, when your concern is as slim as the chances of a collision of planets; when the expressive range of your emotions towards him range from either exasperation or irritation.

His smile feels rotten today, unbearably sweet. The smile of a thief. A liar. A Sigonian. “Are you worried about me?”

“You…” the traces of care don't slip from your expression despite the annoyance that betrays your tone. “Be serious here—you haven't been sleeping, have you? What is it? Is Sir Diamond assigning you yet another impossible mission?”

“No. Nothing of the sort, my friend.” His voice is flat. He doesn't know what's more agonizing. Knowing you care (and always have cared) for him, or knowing that he's making you go through all this trouble just to care for him.

He smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. “It's just a minor upset, don't worry.”

(How could you even care about someone like him? Is this love? Care? How could you look at him like he's worthy of being perceived? He is a liar, a cheat, a coward.)

He doesn't want to be indebted to you. Rather, he doesn't want you to see him; vulnerable, weak. Allowing you to freely enter his study as he's buried under piles of duty bound work just to come across one of the rare times where he's just Kakavasha—alone, weak, and fickle.

(Because as Kakavasha, Aventurine cannot hide his yearning for you, for deceit is unworthy of you; just like he is for you.)

Worst of all, Aventurine feels that if you see him, you’ll find out just how ugly he truly is. You'd slip away from him, like starlight. Out of reach; never to be seen again.

(Humans cannot survive without the light. Aventurine is starting to understand why.)

“Then I'll get you something to eat at least, so you can-”

“No, wait.” He speaks your name like a plea, and you stay. Relief floods through his senses.

Aventurine thinks that perhaps because of the vulnerability he's exposed, you've even become softer. Because why else would you look like that, looking at him like he's worth something? “What is it, Aventurine?”

“Can you stay by my side?” There's a crack in his voice that he wishes to hide, but you don't mind anyway. “Just this once.” Please.

A part of him hurts, having to beg. It reminds him all too much of days when the commodity code on his neck defined the crux of his existence; it is all he will be, will continue to be, all he is allowed to be. But Aventurine is no longer Kakavasha; hiding away from the world.

“...Okay.” Aventurine’s heart throbs when he sees your concerned expression. You know better than to ask questions, something he deems both a boon and a bane. “I'll stay. As- As much as you want.”

Why is he just like a fool whenever he's with you?

They say that to covet what must not be coveted is one’s downfall, and Aventurine is no different. His eyes trail over your form, every inch of the stardust that make you. “Thank you. Really.”

Aventurine has only three words to describe him: liar, loser, and murderer. There may be others, but this defines the very tapestry of his lamentable existence, from the moment he was brought forth upon the world; that of which no longer exists, dissolving like the sand of Sigonia’s deserts.

“Don't thank me, Aventurine. Just—get some rest. I'll be there when you wake up.”

“Nn. You're too kind. Should I double that paycheck of yours next month?”

He can hear you scoff, that bit of mirth you let slip reinvigorating him, sustaining him. “....Sweet dreams, Aventurine.”

And if Aventurine strains his mind enough, deludes himself enough; he can hear you say in a voice that's tender, warm; like the warm embrace of his sister, honeyed Avgin spilling from her lips. Brimming with love. Brimming with care.

‘May the Mother Goddess thrice close her eyes for you,’

Aventurine is a Sigonian lapdog, an unfettered gambler. He needs no tears, for there will be none to shed in his victory. He has never lost, and sees no need to shed tears for something that he will never experience. (His hand still shakes, betting on his life.)

‘keeping your blood eternally pulsing.’

He feels your fingers brush against the strands of his hair, taking off his glasses. Aventurine stills. Kakavasha falls, full of love, loving you.

‘…may your journey be forever peaceful,’

He watches you, staying by his side; and Aventurine can't help but add another name to define him.

‘and your schemes forever concealed.’

A fool. (a lover.)

Two system hours later, Aventurine wakes to the scent of lavender scented candles and a blanket covering his body, with the paperwork neatly handled, your writing scribbled on some of the pages.

Get well soon.

—

Envy is a face Aventurine has long grown accustomed to seeing.

He saw it as Kakavasha; the look others give when they see his eyes, when they look at his profile. As Aventurine, he sees it in the eyes of space traders as they gaze upon his wealth, how the eyes of others fall onto him as he walks past.

Others get consumed by it, others deny it; Aventurine embraces it. He knows the feeling of having nothing and wishing he could have things others can have with little effort.

But the fact that he also wears its mask is ironic, especially given the subject of his envy.

The third time Aventurine bares his heart out to you, it had been an accident.

He shouldn't be jealous, envious of those who get to help you with the IPC’s missions. It is the right, sensible thing to do; because you make him feel illogical, unable to comprehend in the haze of longing.

(Perhaps lovesickness isn't too far off a word.)

This is why you make him break free of his self-imposed apathy at seeing you off. Aventurine checks the file you'd be heading off to, letters in pristine print along with his signature, an indication of his approval. Pier Point. The name besides yours that indicate that you will be travelling together burns him like scalding iron, stinging like a brand upon his skin. Something green and uncomfortable in him roars.

In a sense of uncharacteristic recklessness and perhaps brought upon by his longing; Aventurine ends up seeing you off.

“I'll get going now- Aventurine….?” your words falter when you watch as your co-worker strides toward you, terribly fast. “I thought you weren't coming to see me.”

“I can't have my dearest friend leave without seeing their handsome colleague’s face.” he says, like a liar. Small mercies to his ability to divert his inner feelings—and to not think about the fact that seeing you makes his heart throb in an ache no hunger can satiate.

You scoff, and thankfully you don't seem that irritated. If anything, you're in a good mood today. Even let him see the way your head tilts to bite back a smile. “How fortunate of me then.”

(He is.)

“Extremely.” he calls your name like a wager, seeking an answer. “How long are you going to be away this time?”

“Almost a month, maybe. I was told that since the Pier Point Incursion, many of those under your department have been stationed to help sustain the damage.”

“...I see. My well wishes to you then, friend. Seems you've got your work cut out for you.”

He's sulking, and you can't help but laugh. Like a golden retriever. “Why so glum? Don't tell me you'd miss me.”

And for all his grace at maintaining his carefully crafted mask, Aventurine's whole world stops when he hears the sound. “How could anyone ever not miss you?”

You pause mid-laugh. Aventurine feels his face heat. He slipped up. Again, because of you. Because you always made him feel as though the universe could stop and end with you; and that this rotten hunger that gnawed at his bones might just be that he cared for you far too much for his own good.

…And now he felt like he wanted to fall back into a sandpit and hide there forever. “Is that what you think, Aventurine?”

The way you say his name is so intoxicating. It sounds hesitant, seeing through him in an instant.

“Maybe.” He can't look at you right now, or else he'll imagine it—how could you ever feel the way he feels for you? When you were you and he was… him. “I'm afraid I've been too reliant on my closest colleague.”

“Then come with me next time.” you look at him as though he'd break at any moment; tender. There's something else, too. “If you'd miss me that much.”

You flash him a cheeky, lovely smile, and Aventurine loves, loves, and loves.

How unfair you are, capable of reducing him to bits; bringing him to your light and making his heart set off like fireworks in the night.

For now, he will be Aventurine—he could never resist such a tempting offer, not when its weight was far more valuable than any treasure of all.

He smiles, business-like in nature, one used to deceive, to lie. But Aventurine—Kakavasha smiles in fondness, in adoration. “It would be my pleasure.”

—

Aventurine has always thought that the space in his heart is empty because it was meant to be.

Because he is not worthy of feeling—he is a tool to be used; every part of him taken away and exploited away by others at their whim. In short, he is his best bargaining chip at any stability in his life.

“Aventurine, you’ll catch a cold if you keep forgetting to remove your coat.”

But you don't think that way, and it confuses him, to say the least. Like a shooting star, traces of your existence are specks in his life that have become far too important for him to let go.

Whether it be indulging in his whims of poker, allowing him to see the sight of your expressions in embarrassment and resignation, or the subtleties that have led him to believe (at least, he hopes to believe) that you do care.

And each time, Aventurine embeds your name into his heart even further, dreams of you in the far corners of his heart reserved only for the dead he needed to bury. His feelings, his family, and this growing attachment to you that became too difficult to hold back.

Even now, as you hand him a towel and take his wet coat out of the way, Aventurine doesn't know if this is a blessing or a curse. You are always like this—overwhelmingly blinding, tethering himself to you without warning with your compassion. “I won't get sick.”

“Uh huh.” your eyebrows raise, and you take him inside. “That’s what all the people who get sick after being soaked in the rain say.”

“Well, aren't you just charming.”

“Thanks, I'm told it's one of my defining qualities.”

He laughs, genuine. You're probably the only one to be able to bring out this part of him. “Such an angel you are.”

“Yes, yes, very much.” You smile with faux sweetness, though Aventurine's heart stutters anyway. “Stop patronizing me and dry off already.”

“Alright, no need to get so fussy.” he throws up his hands in surrender, and he waits until you leave his quarters, strides measured as you give him privacy to change.

Aventurine wonders if you know just how much he loves you. Because he knows he does.

Recently, Kakavasha has come to a dangerous conclusion.

Perhaps the reason the space in his heart is empty was because you had been dictated to fit in it, and that Aventurine knows he’d never want you to leave.

—

Grief haunts Aventurine like a ghost, an old friend. Anguish whispers in Kakavasha’s ears and dictates its path to be his destiny.

But love comes in the form of Aventurine’s adoration for you.

“Have you ever wondered what it would be like to die?”

“No.”

A lie. Aventurine has always had a morbid, twisted curiosity of death. Death is the earliest lesson taught to him, among the lessons of Mama Fenge and the cruel acts of the Katicans. Death is his companion, a reminder that his life is merely defined by his usefulness, his luck.

“Why are you asking?” It is a mundane question, spoken atop the glamourous balcony as you and him look down at the glittering streetlights in Penacony below, watching the people of the dreamscape live the life their reality never brought them.

“No reason. Just… I wondered.” You hum, and Aventurine notes the miniscule shiver of your body, the lowering of your gaze; you're thinking about something again. (He wonders if you'd let him listen to what you want to say.) “What death might be like in this dreamscape.”

An underlying feeling of tension. You know what Aventurine's been up to. What he's been searching for in order to act out the IPC’s plan. Though it infuriates you to know he's doing this to himself, you're powerless to do anything about it. There is a wall between you that Aventurine refuses to cross.

Instead, his silent question comes in the form of his coat draped around your back. There's no motion of rejection from you, which makes him feel nice—even if it's just for a while. “Thank you.”

You didn't need to thank him. Aventurine knows that he'd do anything for you anyway even if you don't ask a thing. But you do anyway, because you were lovely and blinding; and he yearns to grasp at even a single wisp of your reality.

“For what it's worth,” Aventurine says, the characteristic lilt of amusement in his voice gone, replaced with something authentic, “I wouldn't want you to die. Such a thing would be unfortunate for someone with lots of promise in the economic field.”

You glance at him with a funny look, exasperated but not surprised. “Well, I'm glad you think so highly of me...?”

He cringes at that, huffs out a weak ‘naturally’ as he stares out at the distance. The wall between you weakens.

“And, well, the sentiment is the same for me. I don't want you to die either.” you say, and the glow of the streetlights illuminate your face, and Aventurine's eyes don't leave your presence, wanting to burn the sight to his irises, to his pupils; never letting a fiber of your being go unloved. Retaining you and keeping you close when his hands cannot.

(If only you knew.)

“I wouldn't go down without a fight.” he says, and Aventurine takes you in—the ways in which you gaze upon the scenery below, watching how you chuckle as you hear the loud countdown to the fireworks, the way your voice has always been the light, his adoration for you a stone to grab on in his gamble in life.

There's silence. Loving you is like loving the way the air fills your lungs as you breathe, because loving you was as natural as breathing in the sandy dunes of the place he once called home, as natural as the Avgin that filled his ears, and loving you is everything to him, for Kakavasha was a dreamer, and you are his dreams personified.

Loving you reminds him of home, because you have burrowed your way into his bones, his lungs and his skin, and Kakavasha fills himself with your existence and lives. Loves.

He speaks your name like it's the last thing he could ever do, and that through you, Kakavasha lived, and Kakavasha loved you.

And like always, it's there. Your attention, on him, as he always knows it will be (and as he always hopes it shall be.) as you gaze at him like he's the brightest star in the sky. Or maybe it's the light refracting in your eyes. Aventurine doesn't really care which. “What is it?”

The wall between you two disappears completely, and Kakavasha begins anew, his heart undone.

When Aventurine finally bares his heart to you for the fifth time as the burst of fireworks ricochet across the skies, he hopes those three words will reach you.

bonus: the one time aventurine bares out his heart to you, and he gets rewarded.

Aventurine’s hair has always reminded you of the color of gold.

It is the color of the sunlight as it gently basks against your skin, the color of expensive champagne the man next to you so favors, and the color of the edges of his sunglasses.

(You've always been fond of yellow.)

“Aventurine?” you say, tone light, urging him to wake up. He's truly relentless, adamant on sulking as though his most valuable treasure would slip away from his grasp like you are right now because you were running late. “Can you let me get up now?”

“Good morning to you too.” purple eyes greet your form and an arm winds itself around your waist, pulling you even closer. “And unfortunately for you, I'm afraid I don't want to.”

“I'll be late. You know Jade hates tardiness-”

“-And I would be devastated to not have my lover by my side and leave me heartlessly.” Aventurine feigns, the falsity of his hurt not affecting you at all.

“You…” You frown at him, and Aventurine kisses the crease of your eyebrows of your face, enjoying the way your cheeks flush the like burn of alcohol down one’s throat. “You're so insufferable.”

“Mhm, whatever helps you let out that ire of yours.” he looks at you like he would the most precious of ores, the most valuable of cards—Aventurine looks at you unabashedly, wholly, in affection.

“Will you ever let me be on time?”

“Would you ever let me stop loving you?” he presses a kiss to your palm, tender as his hand traces circles on your palm. Aventurine already knows the answer.

“Thats two completely different things.” you sigh, but it's exasperatedly fond, and Aventurine’s heart skips a beat. He finds his answer when you press a chaste kiss upon the edge of his mouth. “Don't answer a question with a question.”

“It's a great conversation tactic, though. And to answer your question, no, I don't think I will.”

“Kakavasha.” You warn. His name on your lips feels a little like salvation, and Aventurine feels a warm ache fill his stomach, blooming into something not so dissimilar to devotion.

With you, there is no Aventurine of Strategems, no Aventurine of the Ten Stonehearts. All that remains is Kakavasha, one that loves you, and one that you love too.

Aventurine laughs, and the die is cast. “Let's make a bet then.”

“Ugh, not another one of those.” you groan, but you make no notion to refuse anyway.

“Sway my heart enough to let you go.” he smirks, cunning as ever. You roll your eyes, though it's nothing if not affectionate, determined glint shining in your eyes just like starlight.

“Oh, that's way too easy. Deal.”

Recently, he's come to a conclusion; Aventurine thinks that if it's with you, no gamble is worthier than this.

(With you, Aventurine is whole, and he is home.)

end notes im gonna kms i hate the ending like actually hate it this fic is the product of boundless hatred and the urge to never show it to the light ever but here i am

© 𝐈𝐂𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐇𝐈𝐄 : do not repost, copy, or plagiarize my work.

[redvexillum]

@alastorthirsty thank you for making the request! This ain't silly and over-the-top at all. I mean...did'ya look at some of my other requests *cough* I love this ask because I can go full on drama-mode and not sure if you know this about me, but my favourite animal is a drama-llama. Haha! Anyway, I realllllly indulged in this one, so bless you for giving me the opportunity 💖👉👈

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, possessive!alastor, p in v, established relationship, love making, gentle s♡x, c♡nnilingus, cuddling, soft!alastor, demisexual!alastor, light b♡ndage with shadow tentacles, smuff (smut + fluff)

Alastor’s fingers dug into your wrist like talons, yanking you through the narrow hotel hallway, up the creaking stairs, and into a suffocating, shadow-cloaked corridor. The acrid stench of fire and ash clung to your skin, a reminder of the chaos that had unfolded – the devastation of Vee’s tower, the flames still dancing in your memory.  

Everything felt so surreal, the shock still pulsing through your veins, leaving you breathless, your mind scrambling to catch up with the frantic pace he set.  

Your legs struggled to keep up, each hurried step barely matching his long, relentless strides. He hadn’t looked at you. Not once. There was no concern in his eyes, no reassurance in his touch – just cold purpose.  

His grip was iron, biting into your flesh with a fierceness that made you wince. You could feel the sharp edge of his claws digging into your skin, a silent punishment for your recklessness.  

“A-Alastor...it hurts,” you whimpered, your voice fragile, cracking under the weight of pain and fear. Your words seemed to snap something in him – his shoulders stiffened, his jaw clenched, and without a word, he loosened his grip just enough for you to breathe. But his pace, his determination, never wavered. He was a storm, sweeping you up in his fury, and you were powerless to stop him.  

The moment you crossed the threshold into his room, the door slammed shut with a finality that echoed through the dark space. Your heart pounded, the rhythm erratic and wild, each beat thundering in your ears. The familiar atmosphere of his room – rich with his scent, a dark blend of metal and the bayou – washed over you, yet it offered no comfort.  

Instead, it only magnified the tension crackling between you, the unspoken anger simmering beneath his silence.  

Your mind flashed back to Vox, the twisted grin on his face as he flaunted his control over you. The Overlord had known exactly who you were and, more importantly, who you belonged to.  

For nearly a year, you had been nothing more than a pawn in his cruel game, locked away in his opulent prison, displayed like a trophy to mock Alastor. You had heard his taunts in the darkness, seen his cold, mirthless eyes as he laughed – Vox had relished every moment of your captivity.  

You had been so foolish, thinking you could appeal to him, thinking you could change anything. Guilt ate away at you, bitter and unrelenting, as memories of your naivety surged back. You had thought that maybe you could free Angel Dust from Valentino’s grasp by being Vox’s friend, by playing along with his twisted games.  

How utterly wrong you had been. Your idealism had shattered, and now all you were left with was the shame of your failures.  

And yet, even as guilt weighed heavy on your chest, there was relief – a deep, painful relief. Alastor had come for you, breaking through Vox’s fortress to drag you out of Vox’s grasp.  

But at what cost? 

A burning flush crept up your cheeks, the sting of shame and self-loathing settling deep in your chest. The adrenaline that had fuelled you, kept you moving, now drained away, leaving only raw, vulnerable emotions in its wake. You had wanted to help, to do something right. But instead, you had been nothing but a burden, another problem for Alastor to fix. Your heart ached with the weight of your failure, the knowledge that, once again, you had only caused trouble.  

“I just wanted to help,” you whispered, your voice barely a breath in the thick silence. But the words felt hollow, empty. Because all you had done was create another mess, another disaster – one that nearly cost you, and him, everything.   

Before an apology could form on your lips, Alastor’s hand was suddenly cradling your face, fingers warm against your tear-streaked cheeks. Through your blurry vision, you saw that ever-present grin, his piercing red eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your heart thump faster, harder, against your chest. Your lips trembled, unsure of what was coming next. Would he yell at you? Scold you for your recklessness? Or worse, would he finally grow tired of you – of all your mistakes? 

You waited, bracing yourself for the inevitable sting of rejection or anger, but it never came. Instead, Alastor leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, featherlight kiss. It felt so delicate, almost accidental, as if the brief touch wasn’t meant to happen. But then, before you could process it, he moved closer, crowding your body against the door, trapping you between the cool wood and the heat radiating from him.  

The next kiss was different – urgent, ferocious, and brimming with unspoken need. His hands, trembling ever so slightly, traced the contours of your face before sliding down your neck, lingering as though savouring every inch of your skin. Then, in a swift, possessive motion, his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him, every inch of his body pressing into yours.  

Kisses came, over and over again, each one deeper, more demanding, as if he were trying to reclaim every moment you had been apart, every second lost to Vox’s cruel game. When your lips parted, gasping for air, he didn’t hesitate – his tongue slipped past the seam of your lips, exploring, tasting, claiming every part of you with fevered desperation. He devoured you, marking you in a way that felt primal, raw, each movement of his mouth more insistent than the last.  

You felt him – all of him – pressed hard against your navel, the heat between you growing with every passing second. His lips left yours, trailing a path of fire down your jawline, grazing the sensitive skin of your neck with gasping, hungry breaths. But just as quickly as the tension built, something in him shifted. His muscles tensed, his body stiffening against yours, and then he stopped.  

Your hands, still clutching the lapels of his jacket, trembled as you tried to catch your breath. You looked down at him, confused, his face buried in the crook of your neck, unmoving, like a statue. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, and you could feel the barely contained tremor running through him. His ears twitched, laying flat against his head before perking up once more, as if caught between conflicting instincts.  

Suddenly, he pulled back, the air around him crackling with static, a low buzz of white noise filling the space. His eyes flashed – flickering between red radio dials and his usual, sharp, black slits. That ever-present grin twisted, tightening into something more akin to a scowl, a dangerous edge creeping into it. Unexpectedly, he grabbed you, dragging you toward the bayou side of his room.  

“Al-Alastor?” you called out, your voice small and hesitant. He let you go abruptly, and with a sharp snap of his fingers, an ornate porcelain bathtub appeared in front of you, its gold clawed feet gleaming under the dim light. Hot, steaming water cascaded from the silver shower head, the water draining to who-knows-where.  

Before you could react, dark tendrils – his tendrils – wrapped around you, lifting you off the ground and unceremoniously dumping you into the bath, clothes and all. The warmth of the water soaked through your clothes, sending a rush of heat through your body. You gasped, coughing as water splashed into your mouth.  

“Alastor!” you sputtered, blinking up at him, confused, your face drenched as you wiped the water from your eyes.  

He stood over you, straight-backed, shoulders rigid, his hands neatly clasped behind him as if he were merely surveying a piece of art. His crimson eyes glinted down at you with cool detachment, that maddening grin still plastered on his face. 

“You don’t smell like me,” he said simply, his tone matter-of-face, but with an underlying possessiveness that sent a shiver down your spine.  

You blinked, still dazed, unsure of what he meant, your heart pounding in your chest. “W-what?” 

His grin widened then, dark amusement dancing in his eyes as he leaned in, his shadow casting over you. “Don’t worry, darling, I’ll make sure you do.” 

With a sharp snap of his fingers, a bar of soap materialized in Alastor’s hand – the kind with a woodsy, metallic scent, popular in Cannibal Town. You had never been fond of its pungent odour, but you knew Alastor adored it, and at this moment, that was all that mattered.  

His focus was singular, almost obsessive, as he leaned forward, the water streaming down his face, drenching his usually pristine hair. His movements were slow but deliberate, his hands shaking ever so slightly as he undressed you, peeling the wet fabric from your skin.  

You caught the slight twitch in his left eye, the tremor in his fingers – he was lost deep in his thoughts, buried somewhere you couldn’t reach. His silence was suffocating, filled with the weight of everything he wasn't saying. As your clothes fell away, baring your vulnerable form before him, your shoulders curled in, and your hands moved to shield your chest.  

But Alastor wasn’t having it. His long fingers captured your wrists, pulling your hand away, gently but firmly. Then, with deliberate care, he began to massage the soap into your skin, the rough texture gliding across your wet body.  

“Where did he touch you, darling?” His voice was deceptively light, playful even, but the malice underneath was unmistakable. His question dripped with venom, barely concealed beneath the surface. “You didn’t let him...” His hand, still holding the soap, drifted up your arm as the hot water poured over both of you, saturating your senses. Alastor, now fully in the tub with you, crouched low, his eyes boring into yours, searching for any hint of truth, any flicker of something unsaid.  

Your wet hair clung to your face and neck as you shook your head, droplets falling in rivulets down your cheeks. “He didn’t touch me like that, Alastor,” you whispered, your voice soft yet steady. For the first time since he rescued you, you found the courage to reach out. Your fingers trembled as they brushed a few strands of his soaked hair back from his face, your touch tender, hesitant.  

Alastor inched backward until his back hit the edge of the tub, his legs unfolding slightly as he stretched out beneath you. You straddled his hips, your thighs brushing against the rough fabric of his wet clothes, the friction sending a shiver through your core. Your chest pressed against his soaked shirt as you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his.  

“I promise,” you murmured, your lips ghosting over his as if your words could seep into his very soul. His eyes fluttered shut at the intimacy, his grip tightening on your hips, pulling you closer, closer until there was no space between your bodies.  

“I hate the scent of that noisy picture box,” Alastor muttered against your lips, stealing another kiss, his voice low and rough with barely contained frustration. “Sharp, unpleasant,” he continued, his hips grinding into you, the friction sending jolts of heat through your body. The pressure of him, firm and insistent against your core, drew a soft stifled moan from your lips. “Masking everything,” he growled, the words vibrating against your mouth.  

Your hands moved of their own accord, fingers tracing down the lapels of his jacket, your lips trailing soft, lingering kisses along his jaw, down the curve of his neck. One button, then another, came undone beneath your touch, revealing the sharp jut of his collarbone, his skin slick with water. He groaned low in his throat, his hands finding their way between your bodies, undoing the button and zipper of his pants with swift, practised ease.  

The moment his hot shaft pressed against your slick folds, a gasp escaped your lips, the sensation sending sparks of pleasure through you. His hips moved slowly, tortuously so, grinding up and down, creating an unbearable heat that built with each stroke. “Did you miss this, darling?” Alastor murmured, his voice like velvet, thick with desire, as his hips continued their slow rhythm against you.  

Your head fell forward, a wave of pleasure crashing over you, and you bit down on your lower lip, trying to stifle the moans that threatened to spill from your throat. But Alastor wouldn’t allow it. His clawed fingers slipped beneath your chin, tilting your face until your eyes met his. “Don’t hide,” he whispered, his voice laced with command and something darker, more animalistic. “Not when I finally found you.” 

The sound of the shower created a steady backdrop, like heavy rain pouring down, but all that mattered, all you could feel, was him. His body pressed against yours, his hands gripping your hips, his gaze locking you in place as if daring you to look away. And at that moment, there was nothing else – no past, no fear, just the two of you, lost in each other.  

Slowly, you dragged your sensitive clit along the edge of his cock, teasing him with every slight movement. His low, throaty sigh filled the space between you as you positioned yourself above him, your core hovering just over his tip. His eyes, usually so sharp and focused, softened with raw desire, a hunger that mirrored your own.  

With purposeful slowness, you sank down onto him, feeling the pleasant stretch as he filled you, inch by inch, the heat between your bodies sparking into something untamable.  

Alastor hissed through clenched teeth as your tight warmth enveloped him, his grip on your hips tightening, claws digging into your skin as though afraid you’d slip away. The moment you let out a soft, breathless moan, he responded. His hips bucked upward, thrusting deeper into you, your walls clinging to him, making every movement feel electric.  

The slick sound of wet skim meeting wet fabric filled your ears, mingling with the steady beat of the water raining down from the shower. It was as if the outside world had disappeared, leaving only the two of you and the pleasure that built between your bodies.  

“A-Al,” you gasped, your voice trembling as your fingers clawed at his shoulders, gripping the wet, rough fabric of his soaked suit jacket. His eyes were wild, pupils blown wide as he watched you, every reaction you made, every shiver of pleasure fuelling his own.  

Without warning, Alastor’s shadowy tendrils wrapped around you, lifting you effortlessly off his lap, suspending your body in midair. The tentacles curled around your calves, your thighs, spreading you open for him, baring your slick, pulsing core to his ravenous gaze.  

You wobbled, barely able to keep your balance as you were held aloft, your hands clutching his shoulders for stability. But before you could stabilize, Alastor surged forward, thrusting himself into you with a brutal intensity, his hips pounding against yours.  

His pants had slipped down to circle his ankles, but that didn’t slow him. His sharp teeth gritted in pleasure as he watched the way your bodies connected, his cock disappearing inside you over and over again, each thrust sending waves of ecstasy crashing through you. 

His pace was erratic, frantic, as if he couldn't get enough of you, and your moans only spurred him on. Your breasts bounced with each thrust, your face flushed with heat, and just as you were about to come undone, he pulled out, leaving you empty and aching.  

A needy whimper escaped your lips, the absence of him unbearable, but before you could protest, Alastor was on his knees before you, his eyes flickered up meeting your own.  

The tendrils adjusted your height, keeping your legs spread wide as he dove forward, his mouth latching onto your dripping pussy. The water from the shower ran in rivulets down your body, tracing the curves of your breasts and rolling over your heated skin, but all you could focus on was the feel of his tongue.  

He plunged it inside you, swirling and licking, tasting you with desperate fervour. His hands gripped your backside, kneading the soft flesh as he feasted on you, his moans vibrating against your sensitive folds.  

A sharp cry tore from your throat as he sucked and nibbled at your clit, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. You could feel your pussy clenching, grasping at nothing as his tongue worked you over, your head spinning with the intensity of it all.  

Your body tilted backward, but more tendrils sprouted to hold you in place, keeping you suspended as Alastor continued his ministrations, devouring you as though he couldn’t get enough. He was a man stranded in the desert, finally taking the first gulp of water.  

The tension inside you built, higher and higher, your muscles clenching tighter with every flick of his tongue. His moans were muffled against your flesh, but they only heightened your arousal, the vibrations making you gasp. Your climax hovered just unreachable, so close, and as his tongue flicked over your clit in rapid succession, your entire body tensed.  

“Al-Al-Al!” you cried, your voice breaking as the crest of your orgasm finally surged through you. Your muscles clenched, your back arched, and waves of pleasure crashed over you, drowning you in the sensation. Alastor didn’t let up, his tongue relentless as he rode out your climax, dragging every last ounce of pleasure from your trembling body until you were left breathless and spent, your heart thundering in your chest.  

But before you could fully come down from the high, Alastor stood, his cock hard and dripping. He slammed his hips into yours, his cock burying itself deep inside you, filling you in one swift motion. His balls slapped against your soaked skin from the sheer force of his thrust, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. Each time his thick, blunt tip pushed against your sensitive spots, all you could do was cry out, your voice lost behind the steady beat of the shower.  

“Darling...darling,” he moaned, his voice ragged, full of need. His claws dug into your hips, pulling you closer as he relentlessly drove into you, his hips snapping forward with wild, desperate force. His movement became erratic, his breaths coming in short gasps, and you felt the trembling in his muscles as he pushed himself deeper, chasing the same release that had just consumed you.  

When his body finally gave in, he groaned softly, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine. His cock pulsed as he spilled hot, thick cum inside you. He slowed, his thrusts becoming shallow, tender, as if savouring the moment, each gentle motion prolonging the feeling of you milking every last drop from him.  

With a final deep thrust, he buried himself inside you completely, pressing against your trembling walls until you were pressed right into his hilt. The tendrils of shadow that had suspended you vanished, and your body felt heavy and spent.  

Alastor pulled you into him, his arms wrapping around you tightly, his claws gently pricking the soft flesh of your back. His chest heaved with each breath, his face pressing into your hair as he held you close, his heart thundering against yours. You could hear it, or perhaps it was your own heartbeat, pounding in your ears as he held you, locking in each other’s embrace, under the rain of the shower.  

The heat of the water cascaded down your bodies, but all you could feel was his warmth, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he held you as if he would never let go. His silence spoke volumes, the words he couldn’t say hanging in the air between you. He didn’t need to say them – his touch, the way he clung to you, said it all.  

He had missed you, more than words could express. There hadn’t been a moment where you weren’t on his mind, and now that he had your back, he seemed frozen in time, desperate to savour this moment for eternity.  

You rested your head against his chest, the sound of the water blending with the rhythmic thumping of your hearts. Neither of you moved, content to simply exist in the quiet, shared warmth of one another, as the rest of Hell faded away.  

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