#((but it's Vox and he's always got an angle to work)) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hazelfoureyes · 1 month ago

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Coven: @fraugwinska @minkdelovely @sugoi-writes @macabr3-barbi3 @synamartia (banners by Syn!)

Masterlist for Kinktober (Thank you Syn!)

Kinktober 2024 - Day 25ish - Role Reversal

Val fucks up Angel’s filming so Angel fucks Val’s top.

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷

「warnings/promises: TopAngel x BottomVox, first time anal for Mr. V, Praise kink, safe sex. Insults to Val, filming the deed, ruining suits」

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷

MDNI 📸 🍑

HUNGOVER, SORRY! NOT COMING. 💋

Vox and Angel got the same text at the same time, looking down at the sound of the ding to see Valentino’s message. It was paired with a photo of him in a strange bed, someone’s head on his chest while he blew a kiss to the screen.

“Val,” Vox groaned, hand swiping down his screen as Angel just sighed and let his body fall into the back of the elevator.

A second ding, both men looking in tandem.

IN TO WORK. 💦 😜

“You got that too? Why does he always gotta do this shit?” Angel’s fist hit the metal in frustration. “Bad enough he’s not comin’, I don’t gotta see his latest victim.”

“Hey, at least you get a day off. I have to handle his shit and mine now.” Every time one of the Vees didn’t show up for work, he got the raw end of the deal. Val was the worst at it, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating.

“But I actually wanted to work today! He fuckin’ promised me I could film my first toppin’ shoot. He’s done this crap like, five times already.” Angel whined. Val continually held over his head the opportunity to star in a role where he wasn’t on his knees or wobbling home after. Every single time he was scheduled to film his first top role, Val ended up either a no-show or suddenly deciding he needed a change of plans. “Last time he said he said the vibes were off so I couldn’t shoot.”

“Yeah well, I don’t know what to tell you. That’s Val. Always fucking people over.” Vox closed the messenger and opened Slack. Angel watched Vox’s blue nails tap rapidly on the screen.

“You don’t seem too peeved.” He mused.

“You get used to it. Getting angry won’t make the work easier.” Vox let out a tired sigh, the lines under his eyes multiplying with little glitches to his face. “Not that I wouldn’t love to give him a taste of his own medicine. Just like, not show up for work one day and see how he fucking handles it.” Phone pocketed, he looked over to see Angel grinning down at him. “What?”

“Someone should give him a taste of his own medicine.” Angel leaned into Vox’s shoulder, arm coming to slip behind his back, “Doncha think?”

Angel had decided in that moment he was going to fuck that television.

Vox audibly gulped, “I was just bitching. I don’t think Val would even notice if I didn’t show up to work.”

“Probably not. But,” the elevator opened to the studio and one of Angel’s famously long legs jutted forward to stop it from closing, “maybe it’d do him some good to get a similar kinda text. I mean, he left you to do his work. And left me to film... Technically,” Vox’s blue face began a soft pink glow as Angel’s hand came to rest on his ass. With a devious chuckle he pulled his foot back in and let the doors close, “We got all we need right here to get the job done.”

When Vox could only choke on his own spit and wave his arms around looking for a response, Angel took the opportunity to turn him around and press him into the far wall. “Alls I’m sayin’ is, wouldn’t it be funny?” Two hands angled the media mogul’s screen up to meet his eyes, “Just put your little key in that there slot and take us up to your penthouse. Snap a few pics from bed, tell him no worries we got it handled here.” Angel practically sang the suggestion.

Vox dabbed at his casing, sweat dripping down in pixels. A smirk pulled to the left as he laughed with a false confidence, “Uh, ha, he’ll kill us.”

“Oh? He can kill the big bad leader of the Vees?” Angel pulled the bow tie undone. He hummed, he was surprised it wasn’t a clip on. His sure as shit was.

“No, not without a fight at least but-,” Vox stammered.

“Buuuut?” Angel used a slender finger to pop the top button off of Vox’s shirt. The doors opened again and Angel pressed the ‘close door’ button. “How about I put it in for you? We can just say it was all my fault.” The wiggle of his brows made Vox avert his gaze. Faux grumbling as he set the key in Angel’s waiting palm, deciding he wasn’t really agreeing to anything yet.

The spider sinner whistled when the penthouse opened up before him. Val never let him up to Vox’s area, his apartment was in the studio space and that counted as cohabitation enough for Val’s ego.

“So,” Vox’s hands were in his pockets as he rocked back on his heels, “Just a few pictures right? To ruffle his wings?”

Without looking back at him, Angel nodded. He could already see Val seething when he got the pictures, “He’ll probably drive straight into the lobby.” He hopped down the steps into the sitting space, “again.”

“He really shouldn’t be allowed to drive.”

“Shouldn’t be allowed to do most things he does.” It was said quietly under the star’s breath, “Where’s the bedroom? This place is massive.”

There was a hesitancy to the way Vox moved through his own home. Angel made him nervous and always had. The sinner commanded a presence no matter where he went, a talent Vox worked hard to manufacture. Yet for Angel Dust, it was effortless. Even the way he moved was entertaining. Prettier than the sharks he had downstairs, no, more akin to a glorious betta moving through it’s tank.

“Alright let me try my hand at directing. I’m thinking you on your hands and knees, and maybe we can put the camera over here,” Angel scrambled across the round bed and pulled out his phone, setting it on the built-in bookshelf of the bed’s headboard.

“Woah now, I’m on my knees?” His eyebrow arched, “I don’t get on my knees.”

With a huff, Angel sat crossed legged in the center of the bed, “Okay? How do you normally like to take it?”

There was a long pause. Vox staring at Angel incredulously, Angel staring at Vox with an increasingly frustrated confusion.

“I don’t. I’m a top. Obviously.” Vox shined his nails on his suit lapel, suddenly noticing his bow tie was undone. Embarrassed, he pulled it off and walked to the closet to hang it up. He’d been too entranced by Angel’s teasing earlier to realize what had happened.

“Okay do you not have your ears plugged in or somethin’? I told you, I was supposed to top today. That’s the joke. We’re pretendin’ we’re filmin’ without him.” He looked at Vox like he was stupid, which Angel was quickly beginning to think was the case. He had to lean back on his hands to see the other man, neatly putting his bow tie on a rotating stand of nearly identical other bow ties.

Vox turned his monitor away from Angel, hiding the returned pink hue burning into his screen. He had thought about it before… not being topped, but having both sets of Angel’s hands on him. Val often showed him his personal videos when he was high, Angel was always so inviting looking. But Vox was a nerd before, err, still was, but he knew how things worked, pretty people spent time with pretty people.

And Vox had never been one of the pretty ones. He was, of course, the geek. Money brought power though and power got you nearly anything so, he wasn’t too bitter anymore.

It was obvious he was stalling, Angel could see his hands weren’t even moving anymore. He was just standing in the corner of his walk-in closet.

“Sooo are you chicken shit or what? Come on, I don’t bite without pay so you’re safe.”

Puffing his chest with false bravado, Vox spun around and sauntered to the bed, “Chicken shit? I own this tower. I own the network we’re sending these photos through. I’m not scared.” The tiniest crack of his voice in the last word as his knees hit the bed and Angel’s body bent further back. He looked like a pin up. In life he’d never been so lucky to get a partner so picturesque.

Normally, when Vox felt envy, he would mask it with disgust. Sneering at the beautiful sinners floating around Val, grimacing when Alastor’s name popped up, rolling his eyes at the ubiquity of Carmilla’s products.

But as he settled down in front of Angel, the dirty tricks failed him. There was no envy to be had now. The star was sitting spread on his bed, wiggling his hips and instructing him.

Oh fuck Angel was talking.

Vox tuned in for just the last part, “Playin’ director is fun!”

He nodded. Angel stared.

“Val can’t see for shit and you apparently can’t hear…. Turn around, it’ll look better with me behind you.”

Vox’s mouth opened and his finger raised to argue but Angel’s strong arms turning him around caught him off guard. It was… kind of nice. To be manhandled and manipulated.

He choked back some noise threatening to bubble up and let himself be set onto his hands and knees. When two of Angel’s hands gripped his hips and yanked him back to pressed his ass into the taller man’s crotch, his attempt at stifling the yelp made him sound like he was groaning against the friction. Angel mercifully just snorted a laugh and reached over him to adjust the phone.

Setting the timer, Angel posed as if he’d planned it. Which he had, while Vox has been standing silently in the closet. One hand formed a V that he let his tongue protrude through, one slid down Vox’s spine, and the other two gripped his waist.

“Look at the camera,” he said, but Vox just whined and further buried his face into his monochromatic white silk pillows. “You’re on camera all day, why are ya gettin’ all shy now?”

It was embarrassing and he couldn’t pinpoint why. He’d broadcast much more before, however this pose and this partner was making him uncharacteristically sheepish.

“Scared of Val seein’ ya enjoy yourself?” Angel knew exactly how to push his buttons.

With a seethed “fuck off”, Vox lifted his flat face to the camera, tongue snaking out from his plasma screen.

“Yeeeees!” Angel praised, sending a little pop of electricity to Vox’s core. “Ah but you’re too close now, can’t see your body.”

Angel backed up and then again pulled Vox by the hips into him. The move made the overlord’s knees buckle.

He entirely failed to stop his moan when his ass firmly sat onto Angel’s tiny lap.

Vox’s eyes shot up to the camera, watching Angel’s image there for any sign of recognition that he had heard the offending sound.

Had Angel been smirking before? He couldn’t remember…

Two soft hands roamed up his sides, “On second thought,” Angel had absolutely heard the wanton moan, “You’re right. This position ain’t so good. Let’s get ya on your back.”

“Uh, yeah. Okay.” Vox was uncharacteristically quiet, sitting up and then nestling himself into his bedding, knees to his chest like he’d never seen someone fucked in missionary before. He looked to Angel with a face that asked, ‘like this?’

Angel tested his new theory, “Good boy, just like that.” He watched Vox clench his eyes shut and nod.

He never found anything particular catching about Vox, never really thought about him outside of how he fucked Val when he was so much smaller, but something about making Val’s top lie under him was getting his blood flowing.

And when he grabbed those two knees Vox had drawn in and pulled them down and apart, he found the way Vox hid his face under his hands kind of cute.

Leaning over to take the phone, his lower stomach pressed into the other man’s, rubbing against his crotch with his own. Fiddling with the framing, he didn’t hear Vox’s muffled protests until he felt the soft space between them get harder and tighter.

“Oh,” Angel set the phone down, “Mista Vox. Is that a remote in your pocket or,”

“Shut it.” He groaned, “Just— just shut the fuck up. Take the fucking photos.”

He could. Or…

Angel sat back on his haunches and let one hand follow the outline of Vox’s growing erection through his pants. When Vox jumped, Angel pressed him back down by the chest.

“What a great idea, it’ll be even more believable like this. I’ll get ya nice and hard and we’ll take a few more shots.” Angel leaned down close and whispered into Vox’s neck, “Can I keep goin’?”

A nervous laugh, “Yeah whatever.” His vision spun as Angel’s fingers started again, palming him through his trousers softly. Playing it cool wasn’t working when his cock was getting so hard so quickly.

When he was fully tenting his pants, hands still over his screen, Angel cooed, “There ya go.”

Vox’s lip bled, red dripping down his frame, as he bit back a satisfied whimper.

But his hands flew down and body lifted off the bed as he felt his belt being undone.

“Can’t see my handiwork on camera, the black is flattenin’ everything out.” Angel yanked Vox’s pants down, cock springing loose and bouncing against the bottom of his button up.

Before he could protest further, as if Angel’s special skill was cutting him off, Angel’s hand stroked him twice.

Holding the phone up, hand still wrapped around his cock, Angel took several photos from between Vox’s thighs.

All the other man could do was groan and let his flat head fall back, eyes closing and focusing on the reality in front of him. The most successful pornstar in all of hell was gripping his manhood. No drugs or money necessary.

“How many times have ya seen me naked?” Angel asked, dropping the phone to the bed and letting his fingers glide over Vox’s slit.

A sharp gasp at the sensation, “I don’t fucking know. Dozens. Hundreds.”

“Exactly. And I’ve never seen ya naked once. Seems unfair.” His hand wrapped about the base and squeezed, “Anyways, I gotchu all worked up huh?”

A rhetorical question Vox ignored, choosing instead to let his hands grip the sheets. Hips rising up to chase Angel’s touch every time his hand swiped up his shaft.

It was… nice, Angel thought. Vox was reacting like a sensitive virgin and that was endearing. Angel hadn’t handled a virgin possibly ever.

“Ya really never bottomed?” The question hung in the air. “Hey.” Angel rolled his hips against Vox’s ass.

“What?!” He snapped, eyes opening again to glare at the sinner.

“Ever? Even when ya were alive?”

Vox shook his head. Angle hummed, rolling his hips now to the motion of his hand.

With slow and deep breaths, Vox stared at the high ceiling and let the shocks of pleasure run free throughout his system.

Val was always rushing through foreplay. Ah, not that this was foreplay! This was the main act.

Right.

This was…….it.

But it was nice to linger on hands instead of just shoving his cock in whatever hole Val offered up and fucking the discount sexed up moth man into a stupor.

“Do ya mind if I-?” Angel’s voice brought him back to hell. Angel was rubbing his cock through his tiny latex shorts, looking uncomfortable as he did so.

“Oh, yeah.” Vox sounded apologetic as he watched Angel pull himself free and begin jerking off at a catch-up rhythm. An odd tinge of something bitter bit his tongue.

He’d never been a selfish lover, if anything he took great pride in how much pleasure he got from pleasing others. What if Angel left the tower telling stories of how Vox just lied there like a dead fish?

Angel moaned when Vox leaned over and took his cock in his hand. “Mista Vox, look at you.” a sharp gasp as the other man’s hand squeezed like he had done, “So good. Fuck.”

They both felt Vox jump in reply.

“Donchu wanna,” Angel leaned back on two arms and fucked up into Vox’s fist, “feel it from the inside?”

Vox’s lips straightened as he focused on not answering.

“Slippin’ in and out. Hitting your spot nice and fast.” His hips quickened.

Vox watched Angel’s pink head poke in and out of his hand, sliding with the absolutely uncalled for amount of precum leaking out. Another loud gulp as his own hips began to rock in time.

“One of these nightstands must have a condom and some lube… imagine the pictures we could send then. Ooh, the video we could take!”

Angel’s words fell on deaf ears again, Vox fixated on the sight in his hands.

Swollen head rubbing him from the inside?

And it was so warm. And Angel would surely call him a good boy.

“Fuuuuck,” he whined, kicked his legs weakly before lying on his back and hiding behind a pillow, “Just fucking do it already!”

Angel froze, not expecting it to actually work. Clamoring to the right nightstand before Vox could change his mind, he found nothing but rolling bullets, loose pills, and a box of rhinestones.

“Not that one, mine. Left side.” Vox could tell by the sounds it was the wrong drawer. Angel made a mental note and leaned over to the left. Neatly arranged pre-torn condoms, various individual lube packets, and several stacked cock rings on a small suction cupped anal plug were waiting.

Another mental note before snagging a condom and two packets and returning to Vox’s ass. He pulled his pants mostly off and set to work.

“Seriously never? Like what about toys?” Angel poured the lube between Vox’s cheeks and let his fingers stop it from dripping past his hole. He needed to know how to approach this. If Vox was entirely virginal this would need a lot more patience.

Vox told the pillow his little experience with some fingers and plugs, allowing Angel to overhear it. Angel let two fingers press wide circles around Vox’s tight ring of muscle. He could work with that. Though it felt odd to be prepping someone else’s asshole for a change.

Angel’s hips shimmied, he was getting his topping part even if it wasn’t on set. There was something deeply satisfying knowing he was going to fuck Val’s …. What were they, anyway? Didn’t matter.

He pushed in one finger just to the first knuckle and let it sit there. Pulling out he repeated the action to lube up both the outside and inside of Vox’s entrance before sinking in down to his third knuckle.

Vox didn’t mind it much, a single finger felt intruding but didn’t hurt. The pull of his hole was still a novel sensation. He squeaked into his pillow-mask when Angel crooked his finger before beginning to move it in and out.

“Open your legs wider.”

Vox did it without thinking.

“Good boy.”

Angel watched Vox’s erection bounce against his lower stomach and smirked, he was going to be fucking with Vox for a long time with this. He withdrew his finger, gathering more lube and pushing two fingers in. Vox flinched, entrance burning slightly. Angel marveled at how strong he was gripping on just two digits. Who needed cockrings with a hole so tight?

Unconsciously he picked up speed as he imagined himself being squeezed like that. How long could he last? Vox’s knees hitched with the pace.

“Can ya take another finger?” One of Angel’s palms slid under Vox’s shirt and scratched its way back down. Vox nodded enthusiastically.

Angel opened the second packet of lube and rubbed it along his length with three fingers before tentatively wiggling them back into Vox. The three were difficult but manageable, him needing to be a little firmer.

He couldn’t get them in very far, barely halfway to the second knuckle.

It was only when Vox’s thighs began to twitch and his entrance soften did Angel withdraw his fingers and line himself up.

“Enough of the pillow. I don’t wanna fuck a pillow. Here,” he wretched it from Vox’s grip and handed him the phone, “I want ya to film okay? Show Val how good yous can take me.”

Another wave of precum dribbled out of Vox’s now painfully excited member. He held the phone up and used the screen to watch Angel do everything he was feeling happen. Angel rolled the condom down and lined up again.

Hot and round cockhead rubbing over his hole, catching as Angel pushed in with each pass, Vox’s hands were threatening to snap the phone in half with anticipation. Two hands gripped his blue toned thighs firmly.

“You weren’t kiddin’, huh?” Angel hissed.

Vox could only pant through the pain as he felt the widest part of Angel enter him.

Just past the glands, he paused and let Vox adjust.

Nearly painful, Angel struggled to keep from thrusting forward. After what felt like several minutes, Vox’s body went slack and Angel continued until he bottomed out.

Slowly he withdrew, the condom keeping him smoothed and gentle for Vox’s otherwise virgin hole.

The camera phone caught it all, meaning Vox didn’t miss a moment of his official deflowering. But phone was dropped and abandoned when Angel immediately began a languid but deep thrusting into him. As his body rocked with the force the phone fell forward onto his chest and slid down onto the bed.

Hands returned to the duvet to grip for stability, new and sensitive parts of him carved out with a slow determination.

The camera was still on and picked up Vox’s first unrestrained moan. The heat of the friction melted into white hot pleasure as Angel worked him open again and again.

“You’re doing so good for me Mista Vox,” Angel’s two free hands came to rest on either side of Vox’s head as he stared down at the flat faced prince, “taking me so well. How’s your first time bottoming? Feelin’ good?”

Vox thought the question was stupid, his cock was staining his shirt with a flood of precum and every time he was bounced off Angel’s cock he moaned like a slut.

“No need to answer, your shiny little cock is singin’ my praises,” His hand began pumping Vox’s swollen member again. “Can ya feel it? I’m deep in your guts now.”

He placed Vox’s hand over the bulge under his skin he was making as he moved his hips in tight circles.

“Fuck,” Vox thrashed under the porn star.

“I won’t last long. You’re squeezing me so much.” The breathless way Angel spoke was quickening the tension in Vox’s core. “Be a good boy for me and cum first, yeah?”

Angel giggled at how Vox tightened around him. “Oh I am lovin’ this praise kink, you betta not be within earshot of me for awhile.” Every thrust pushed Vox harder into the soft hand around his cock. And every withdrawal swiped over his g-spot and made him buckle in. “Come on, lets fuck up that fancy suit.”

Mouth open, Vox could only string together various lewd noises as he watched Angel Dust grunt and sigh above him.

Pretty.

Vox rushed out a warning seconds before cumming over Angel’s fist and ruining his suit. Cum was notoriously hard to get out.

His body humped up instinctively, weaker and weaker spurts coming as he followed his climax to its conclusion.

But after cumming, he found Angel’s dragging cock more and more imposing. His body was stiffer now and overly sensitive. Hyper aware of every poorly masked ridge making its way through him.

Both men regretted the latex when Angel came with a harsh and uneven pace. He drove as deeply as he could, condom expanding with his contained load. Vox whined, aware he was missing out on something.

Angel fought the urge to fall on top of Vox, pulling out to roll beside him. As Vox picked up the phone and sent himself the evidence of their productive morning, Angel dropped the condom into the right side drawer and closed it silently.

“Send the text!,” he hopped out of the bed in search of the bathroom.

“What should I say?” Vox kicked off the pants still hanging onto one leg.

Angel mulled it over, “How about, ‘Keepin’ the schedule!’ Or whatever you’d normally say back to him. Y’all are weird, I don’t know.”

Vox hummed, typing out, ‘I’ve got it handled, take your time.’ And sent the photo of Angel jerking him off.

“Done!” Vox laughed, “He’s going to fucking kill you, Angel.” He watched the reply messages fly in, silencing the notifications.

“Angel?” He sat up, naked like Pooh Bear and glazed like a donut, and realized he was alone. Angel was already hailing a cab and fleeing back to the hotel.

Both men sighed in a long distance union, “Worth it.”

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ⋆Masterlist.ೃ࿔*:･

˖ ݁𖥔.Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult.𖥔 ݁ ˖

@eris-norwega @reath-solia @catticora , @angelicribbons , @xalygatorx

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @moonmark98

, @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog ,

@thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies

@howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf , @fizzled-phoenix , @star-kujo-platinum

, @a-case-of-attachment, @multifandomfanatic02 @watereddownmilk , @bontensbabygirl @smoky000

@hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain

@harley2223-blog , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima ,

@ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby

@dontfuckbutimfab @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12

#hazbin hotel #Angel x vox #vox x angel dust #Hazbin hotel smut #angel dust #kinktober 2024 #coven kinktober

19 notes · View notes

brisquad-unit-4402 · 2 years ago

Note

Hello, if you write angst, may I request a any character you want x reader, where in the process of time travel, they lost reader.

If you don't write angst, may I request a any character you want x short reader, with anything you want.

lost in time with luxiem

part 2 here ↣

mmmyess YESSSS i do write angst! it’s been a while since i wrote some but i’m glad i got to practice my hurt skills :D long post incoming but i really enjoyed writing these. especially the gory scenes. man. i really am a briskadet aren’t i

tags: established relationship, hurt no comfort, gender neutral reader

⚠️ drinking + gore in luca’s entry

⚠️ drinking in mysta’s entry

⚠️ suffocation + fainting in shu’s entry

⚠️ gore + panic attack in vox’s entry

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

When you’re ripped out of your universe and sent to a completely new world, it’s only natural to react like that...

🖋 Ike Eveland

His usual solution is to throw himself into his work. The must tumultuous of times create the best stories, pressure turns carbon into diamonds, and writing down the pain make it so much easier to let go of when he scraps the draft.

Ike commits pen to paper, as is second nature. He holes himself up in his office. Sleep comes to him randomly. He can never predict when, but he sleeps deeply, and when he wakes up it’s right back to his nightmare. Food becomes a second thought to written word, then third, then fourth, until it’s forgotten completely.

It’s addicting, is what it is. He needs to write. The situation he finds himself in, peeled away from everything he knows, is so wildly impossible that maybe, maybe, impossible thinking will return him to where he once was. If he wishes so much to return to the one he loves, creates a world within his pages that mirrors his own, then maybe the stars above or the spirit of the universe or some cruel higher power will hear him and return him to where he came from.

The world he finds himself in is angular, blocky. Its features are so foreign to the intricate architecture of his homeland. Where there once was grass is now endless gray and metal and stone, pavement under his footsteps, so he stays inside now. The office, just as geometric as the outdoors, is blank and the paper serves as the color he’s neglected to spread within his room.

Because, after all, he’s not going to remain here. Of course, he can’t remain here.

There’s so much he wants to do in his original world. He’s no revolutionary author, but his works are getting recognition after years and years of publishing. He just used the money to move into a proper home of his own, and it’s no mansion but it’s more than comfortable, and the window in his bedroom is at the perfect angle to gently wake him with soft sunlight every morning.

And after all, there’s an angelic face sleeping next to him every time he rises.

He writes tales of a princess trapped in her own castle, with no way to communicate with her subjects. After that, a novel about a hermit who returns to society, and how decades of living alone impacts his daily public life. Whenever he runs out of ideas, he works on a collection of short stories from the perspective of various people locked within a strange, enclosed new environment.

The poetry is new. Novels are paintings, but poetry is sculpture, and he struggles to find the right words in the right order, but whenever he writes the last line it always tells stories of loneliness.

Each draft takes place along flowering fields and rolling skies, clouds that adorn tall trees. Houses painted in candy colors. Streets in sepia. Snow that falls gently like blankets, and sun rays that greet mountain peaks. The aurora borealis heralds the climax of each protagonist’s journey.

Ike’s pen runs out of ink on what he would estimate is the seventh night. He curses, and his throat is so out of use, the sound is barely decipherable. He reaches to his drawer of office supplies, only to grab nothing. There is no drawer. He’s forgotten exactly where he is again.

Ike clears his throat, and raises his voice. “Reader? Be a dear and get me some more ink, please?”

Ike waits.

“Reader?”

There’s no response.

“Reader, my darling.”

There is no Reader. He’s forgotten exactly where he is again.

It’s strange that he does, he notes. Why, he’s written so many stories as his own escapism, but he can’t even remember that he left his darling Reader.

His darling Reader, all alone, the only person in their shared home. They make meal servings for one, now, and wakes up later now without another in their bed. They have access to the study and the shelves upon shelves of home-bound books, the first edition before publication, but there is no novelist at the desk, no handwriting, no one to hold a mug and offer his gratitude. No one to sit behind as they read his latest work and offer their thoughts and notice his plot holes and typos and errors, no one to hold his pen back and insist, It’s late, let’s go to sleep, and carry him out of his chair and tuck him into bed themselves, and run their hands through his hair until his eyes close and his breathing softens and he wakes up to warm soft sunlight on an angelic face.

“Reader.” Ike says it again, but this time he knows there’s no one to respond to it. His voice breaks halfway through.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🦁 Luca Kaneshiro

At the end of the day Luca Kaneshiro is a social creature. Moreover, he’s a social creature that just got cut off from his friends, family, mafia, and lover all in one fell swoop.

It’s that appreciation for others that drives Luca to walk the streets, acting like he still owns the world despite the completely different reality he finds himself in. He’s a man that’s spent his life around family, both blood and hired. New people to meet and friends to catch up with. A sweet thing he could hold and love openly, one that he would do anything for. Believe it, he means anything; that’s a promise only a mafia boss could keep and truly mean.

There’s no replacement for them in this time, but he can’t let go of it. He doesn’t actively drink in his original time but in 2022, there’s a party every night, and he wakes up every morning with a hangover. Luca admits it. He’s a nobody, a friendless loser here, but at least every night coupled with the booze and the bodies all dyed under the colorful lights he can forget. Pretend those faces are the ones he’s come to know underneath lion masks.

The first night was the hardest. He entered the club to color his mindlessly lonely days, because at least he could have a meltdown properly with drinks than the husk he is during the day. A young woman taught him to dance, and he traded dance partners with the rest of her friends until most of them went to get drinks, and the best dancer of them all cozied up to his arm.

By the time they returned with cocktails Luca was already long gone on the way back home, his coat wrapped around his body. He felt dirty. Everything about that night was supposed to make him feel like his legacy was still alive but when it wasn’t you feeling him up, he could feel his stomach turn.

Sure enough, the next morning he retched out the remains of alcohol and women, and swore he’d never go clubbing again until he returned to his timeline with you by his side… until the loneliness threatened to swallow him whole, and that very evening he was back to pretending that the people in the club were his.

People flirt with him often, and he’s surprised he hasn’t bolted from one yet. Instead he politely excuses himself and ditches the club with a hollow feeling in his chest.

Luca wakes up every afternoon- noon or later, depending on how wild the night before was- alone in a bed meant for two people. His apartment is nice, but it’s devoid of personality. Glass encompasses one side of the wall, granting him a view of the skyline, and every piece of furniture is clean white. It’s almost hilarious how much it resembles one of his penthouses in Melbourne, but without any of the charm that branded a Kaneshiro home.

He misses it so much. His active schedule has gone to the wayside, and instead he can spend hours at a time laying in bed. It’s a destructive cycle. Party at night to keep up the pretend life, then wallow during the day about how the life is gone. How unfair, he thinks bitterly. I never asked for this. I don’t even know how I got here. Why me?

The dreary thoughts never ebb while the sun’s out, and once night falls he can’t bear to spend another moment with them. Everything is a distraction now. He can’t bring himself to imagine the mafia surrounding him at the clubs anymore. It sends him into veiled turmoil.

That’s a future worry for future Luca, though.

He walks home one night in better condition than usual. The night is blank and silent, only to be interrupted by a stifled cry.

He turns to the source of the noise. Two people stand by a closed store. One of them is a older man, and the other is a young woman. Luca recognizes her as a girl from the club he just left, mostly because she barely looked old enough to enter. Her face is flush with alcohol, and the man practically drags her along closer to the door with a hand over her mouth.

Luca’s eyes meet the woman’s. They’re nearly closed, but widen when she realizes there’s a bystander, and then she’s gone. The man led her into an alleyway out of sight.

Sobriety regained, he dashes to the alley, and feels for the hidden pocket on the inside of his coat. It was one of the first things he reached for when he fell into the future, and he thanked his lucky stars he still had a pistol and rounds of ammo on him.

He takes the safety off but keeps it concealed, and turns into the alley. Two other men lurked deeper into the row, while the first shrugged the woman’s body off to the ground. She was barely conscious.

One of the creeps cocked his head. “The fuck’re you looking at?”

Another raises an arm but Luca fires before the loser aimed his weapon properly. The bullet shatters the wrist, and the gun spills out of his grasp along with blood. He clutches the mangled appendage and cries out. “Bastard shot my fucking hand!”

The second man raises his gun as well but Luca’s already aiming for his arms and fires, disabling him long enough to move closer into the alley.

The final guy brings out a knife, but Luca’s built for this. He shoves him off, then grabs his arm with one hand and forces the knife away in the other. There’s a cold look in Luca’s eye, he hasn’t said a thing. He pushes the arm the wrong direction, and feels muscle trembling to stay upright. The creep curses again, an empty threat Luca doesn’t care to hear, and the knife clatters to the floor. Luca stomps on the handle with his sole, preventing it from moving any further.

Luca keeps his grip on the arm, and feels the other guy’s joints give out. An ugly thought wants him to go further. So he indulges even after he hears the snap of broken bone, and when he’s done twisting the limb he yanks it out. The scream of dislocation is like music.

He feels monstrous, but the most alive he’s been in weeks, an animal let out of its cage with the scent of blood in the air. He notices the one with bullets in either arm struggle for one of the guns, so in one clean movement Luca pins him down, blows an elbow joint out with his own gun, and drags the disfigured arm out along the jagged pavement as his weight rises. Hopefully he’ll get it amputated.

The first one he shot, the one with one less hand than he started with, helplessly struggles for the gun he dropped with his good arm, so Luca drives the leftover knife through the flesh and into the ground. He lets the bloodthirst win as the blade curves into the muscle like a hook, twists, and snatches it out.

He covers the knife in a handkerchief, then retrieves the guns, and crouches eye-level to their drunken target. Her head is lolled to the side, but unharmed.

“I’m gonna bring you back outside the club,” Luca says. “Get some staff to watch you and call a taxi.”

He helps her up. She’s conscious enough to walk, but her body is limp, and she relies on him to guide her. The blank silent night returns as they return.

The woman slurs something out, and when Luca looks to her in confusion she repeats herself. “You’re the guy that’s always there…? At the club.”

“Yeah.” Luca keeps his face steady. “Yeah, I am.”

“You always have people around you.” She giggles. At least she seems to be a happy drunk. “Normal people don’t gun. Have guns.” She throws her free arm into the air and makes a finger gun. “Pew, pew…”

He doesn’t answer that. “What’s your name?”

She tells him. “Don’t remember it. You’re too sad for me.”

“I just saved you.”

“And thanks but you’re so… fake!” Luca should be insulted, but he’s so taken aback he doesn’t say a word. The woman is amused by it though. She continues. “Like, okay, you’re cool, I’d hang, but you’re avoiding something, aren’t you? And I’m not talking about the, the pew, guns…”

She used up so much energy talking that she doesn’t notice a crack in the sidewalk and trips. Luca catches her.

“Hero, much?” She laughs. “You’re such a hero, you’re waiting around for something. What, want me to trip again? Go find it if you care so much about it.”

The woman babbles on as they return to the club. Barely five minutes after, a taxi pulls up to the curb.

“Bye, hero!” She chirps. “Stop being so sad all the time!” Luca gives her a small wave and she’s off.

He re-embarks on his walk home, and her drunken ramblings follow him the way back. He’d save her again without question, but her words pissed him off.

She’s right, you know, he thinks. But of course she is, and of course it’s not as easy as a drunk woman makes it out to be. Longing for something is one thing. Longing for a time long gone is another.

Luca looks back at the club, so small in the distance. Already he can feel the isolation taking hold, and it’s only going to get worse the more time he spends in his apartment, but it’s not like he has the energy for anything else.

He brushes his hand against his coat. A splatter of blood stains the fur, not so much to be noticeable in the night but daylight is a whole other story. Some hero he is. He’s never been as brutal in a fight as he was today, and the way he didn’t feel a thing, how easy it was for the ugly and dark and depressed to control his weapons… it scares him.

That’s all he is. Afraid. Is this really who he is without anyone by his side? Maybe it was a good thing he was cast out of his original time. Someone like him shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near you. You’re too good for human trash that drinks until he can’t straighten out his thoughts anymore and revels in inflicting pain. Monsters don’t deserve kindness like yours, after all.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🦊 Mysta Rias

There is logic in everything. Everything happens for a reason; every action has an equal and opposite reaction; energy is neither created nor destroyed, only transformed. This is what the detective Mysta Rias knows.

But people don’t just disappear like that. The city he finds himself in is tall and sweeping just like his home, but the lights are brighter and the people are stranger. He catches the year 2022 on a billboard advertisement and balks. This is what the detective Mysta Rias doesn’t know, and he’d admit he doesn’t know in a snap. There’s simply no reasonable way he sprung over sixty years in the future just like that.

It’s been a while since he was transported into the future with no warning. After week two, he resigned himself to living long-term in the twenty-first century. About a month in, he started a private investigation service to scrounge up money and make sure his deductive abilities stayed sharp. He met some lovely people, but at the end of the day, this isn’t his time.

What goes up must come down, and what gets magically transported out of his intended timeline must return. You can’t toss an apple on Earth and expect it to float into space. Mysta acknowledges how silly it must be to apply physics to a time portal, but it’s the only thing he can cling onto. The Doctrine of Uniformity states the present is the key to the past, and surely the present must be the key to the future as well.

During his first week in the future he already searched for his information when he was in his original time. His house was destroyed decades ago to make space for a school. The home phone went to a storefront in Glasgow. So he retraces the steps. Surely there needs to be a gap where the original homeowners sign off on a deal with new owners, and that’s where he can identify the whereabouts of him and his partner.

Hours of research and calling later, either any mention of Mysta Rias and Reader were wiped off the face of the earth, or they were never on this earth in the first place.

Mysta tries not to let it get to him. After all, even if the original hypothesis is inaccurate, it narrows down the possibilities. Just keep going.

Staking out his old haunts proved to be fruitless as well. His favorite restaurant is gone, as expected, but so is the library downtown that his city insisted on preserving for decades.

Later that evening Mysta grabs a cocktail glass of orange juice, pours vodka into the glass, and places the screwdriver on the coaster of his desk as he looks deeper into the people of this world. Clearly there’s no records of Mysta Rias nor the person he spent his life with, but he recognizes the Queen of England even in her old age, and Paddington Bear is still a thing, so surely there must be other similarities between his UK and the one he landed in.

The first thing he searches for is his mother’s name, and he’s not exactly surprised when no search results come up. His associates are nowhere to be found either. The closest he gets to finding one of his old friends is an online obituary for someone he doesn’t recognize and an archive of a newspaper comic strip.

Your family is nowhere to be seen either. A few awkward calls later, he’s confirmed the phone numbers of family and friends as well as his old detective agency are being used by completely different people. He wishes he had some kind of photo from the past. While browsing around online he learned about reverse image searching. Maybe he could see if there were any social media posts or timeless landscapes that could trace back to his origin. Being able to see your face would be a good motivation too.

Mysta pauses. Man, he misses your face. He’s been so focused on getting back to the right time that he hasn’t even acknowledged the pit of loneliness he’s been fighting off. Emotion makes reason messy, after all. The screwdriver isn’t helping either. If only Reader was here, he muses. They always watch over me when I’m drinking. Fuck, his head’s spinning. How much vodka is in this thing? He’s poured another glass, at least one more, his recollections are getting blurry.

He blinks out of his thoughts before they can begin to spiral. Even if he didn’t measure out proper shots there’s no way he’s getting drunk on a screwdriver, and during a work night no less.

The detective hones in on his legal pad and the scrawl of notes on it. He crosses out another failed method. There has to be something out there that can explain it. He chants it under his breath, because after all, he’s a detective. What is a detective without his reasoning?

Whenever he’s struggling on a case, it always helps to have fresh eyes look over his thought process. It’s always you. But he’s alone now without his partner, and he fears he’s working himself into a rut. Ugh, who is he kidding. He begrudgingly drains the rest of the screwdriver. The rut’s already here, and it always has been. The drink’s making it worse but it’s about time he acknowledges it.

He’s sick of this feeling, so isolated out from everything he knows and the future that’s left him behind, and it’s almost like he can hear your voice melting into the silence of his bleak office. But the words that you’d say evade him. You’re irreplaceable even in his imagination, and it mocks him. His focus has abandoned him, and he’s been spiraling for a while now, it’s just that his mask is starting to crumple now, and he’s already starting to regret letting it slip.

“There has to be something,” he utters, and his voice is already lifting from the alcohol. It’s high and pathetic. Mysta slaps his hands over his face and lets them drag down, as if that would fix everything, and picks up his pencil again. “There has to be a reason.”

The pencil doesn’t move. Mysta repeats himself, reason is a mantra he’s lived by, but doubt drowns him. There’s no reason in time travel, after all, but he says it again, expecting something to change. He’s running out of platitudes. But he clings to it, clings to reason, because without it he’s nothing, and stripped of his home and love, it’s all he has left. Denial of absurdity is the only thing he can do. He can’t afford to wrap his head around it, because that means he accepts this nonsensical problem, so he lives without believing it at all.

He pours himself vodka without juice and drinks.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

👟 Shu Yamino

The Yamino household was no stranger to holding the supernatural within itself. For as long as Shu can remember, there’s always been scrolls hung up on the walls in thumbtacks rather than frames for easy access, rows of herbs left out to dry for spellcraft, even the living room regularly had its furniture pushed to the side to make space for a magic circle.

That was what made morphing his own home into a witch’s hut a smoother transition than he expected from the apartment unit he shared with you. The glamour made it easier to work, and besides, looking at your favorite things and the home you created together hurt too much. Either way, you were going to come back. There wasn’t a single question about it.

Shu drags a clump of chalk along the stony floor. The outline of the circle is already complete, featuring countless shapes crafted for the exact target, and all that was left to do was to etch runes into it. The chalk digs into the floor with intention.

“It’s going to work.” He rubs a stray line of chalk away, and checks his handiwork. The angular shapes inside of the circle are in position for a standard summoning. Runes form coordinates along the outline.

He doesn’t even let himself feel proud for the summoning circle before he dashes off into your room. Moments later he returns with three items: your favorite accessory, your hairbrush, and a framed picture.

There are three winding spirals drawn equal distances apart from one another in the circle. He gently placed your accessory in the center of one, before pulling out a strand of hair from your brush and into the second spiral. One represents sentimental attachments, and the other is something physical for the forces that be to identify a target.

Shu takes great care as he removes the backing of the frame and turns the photo in his hand. He sees himself first. He’s barely holding a giant teddy bear in his arms, and the plush head poked his face, threatening to make the sunglasses on the top of his head fall. On his other side, his beloved partner held the phone in one hand and his shoulder in the other. You timed the phone to take a picture just in time as you pecked his cheek and the beginnings of his blush started to set in. When you printed out the picture, you insisted on captioning it with a thin marker. “5/11/2022: Went to an amusement park and Shu won me a bear. He got a prize too!”

The memory is warm but Shu’s face is still grim. He sets the picture down on the final spiral. Any sorcerer worth their salt knows that you reap what you sow and miracles don’t come from thin air, and if you want that miracle, you’d better be willing to sacrifice something with emotional value.

The picture captured his surprise and your affection from that day, and stares up at him as he stands. It’s been weeks since you were cast out of this reality. Even as a practitioner of the occult, Shu had no idea where the spontaneous portal came from, but it stole you away in front of his eyes. He was lucky he had the instinct to cast identification spells just as soon as you disappeared. They classified the portal as a time travel rift, and allowed him to reverse-engineer a summoning circle to locate and retrieve you. That picture, one of the most recent, was one of his favorites. It marked a shift in his relationship to you that was a long time coming, which is why it was so treasured. He would miss it, but, well, miracles aren’t cheap. He’d make new memories soon when you’re back in his arms in the timeline you’re meant to be in.

Shu lights a stick of incense, and rising smoke couples with the scent of jasmine and palo santo. He allows it to trail around the witch’s hut glamour and cleanse the room, a clean slate for his sorcery. Curses are his specialty, but he’s no stranger to ritual casting. He steps into the circle, and begins his incantation.

Shu’s flames alight after the first verse, a series of commands and words crafted carefully in accordance with the mystical. Shikigami circle around him as he gets to the second, manifestation of his ability. The room feels like it’s floating. Static prickles in the air as it warps, the smoke mixing with the buzz, and for a moment the glamour blurs. It’s the spirit of the circle shifting the world around it as it was programmed to do.

The chalk along the floor brightens, shining luminescent with his words in white to lavender to bright, burning violet. A bead of sweat dribbles down Shu’s neck. It’s getting harder to breathe. If the world intends on taking Reader away from me, he thinks, then I’ll shred the very fabric of space-time itself to bring them back.

His fury is quiet, but concealed under how the air compresses around him. It’s a strange sensation, and if the Yamino name didn’t have generations of magic practitioners before him, the way that the atmosphere around him morphs would take him by surprise and ruin his ritual.

Shu remains steadfast, though, and holds his breath through gritted teeth as the oxygen itself fights to separate itself from the circle. Even his flames flicker at the absence of fuel, and the heat transfers from the halo around his head and into his lungs as the air pressure increases tenfold, and tenfold of that.

The third verse of the incantation is a fight to speak clearly, especially as the movements require him to fight hard against the resistance of literally rending space-time apart in his living room. For a moment he thinks of Atlas, the titan sentenced to hold the world itself. Then he tells himself to get off his high horse, fight the urge to let go of his breath, and finishes the verse half-ready to choke.

As he does the circle of chalk bursts into flames that lap at his feet, now floating in midair, and he doesn’t need a mirror to know the fire spouting from his body resembles pillars more than anything. Doesn’t matter. He’s fighting to keep his eyes open, but he swears there’s a crack levitating in nothing right in front of him. The fire around him pulses away from the crack and the air gets even tighter, teasing him with the vacuity of the universe he provoked.

The sorcerer thinks of the final verse less of words and more of sounds, anything to make it seem less like all the world’s weight is suffocating him. The crack in space is real. It stares at him unblinkingly.

Even when his eyes are open he’s seeing double, even in the silence he can’t hear himself utter the incantation. His chest is screaming and burning, a red-hot sensation unfamiliar to his purple heat, like claws raking through his lungs and threatening to shred him into ribbons from the inside. The pressure is too much to bear.

The body is practically frozen in place as the vast emptiness of the crack slowly widens into a hole- a portal- and absorbs all the life from the room, and constricts him to where he stands. The claws inside start to pry and drag along his organs running dry without oxygen, and it’s a completely different sensation than incineration, it’s dead and deep, and slow. Shu’s eyes widen and strain, before blinking once, twice, and feeling the world turn upside down as everything goes black. He faints.

The sorcerer gasps alive minutes later, before entering a sharp coughing fit. The burning in his lungs has subsided, but the coughs are raspy and gritty.

Shu clutches a hand over his heart as the memories of the ritual flood back, some areas spottier than others. The last thing he remembers is the way that the portal widened and the watercolor webbing inside of it, freckled starlight between the pure pitch, and clouds of color dyeing the fabric of space-time.

He rolls over weakly. He doesn’t have the energy to stand up. Instead he drags a tired hand over the remains of the magic circle, now a smoldering drawing in the center of his living room. Looks like the witch’s hut glamor faded. Not only that, but the chalk has turned to residual ash, easily brushed away by his fingers.

He inspects the rest of his surroundings as best as he can in his faint bleariness. The incense has gone out long ago, the room is in utter disarray, and barely a speck of dust is left on the spirals where his components were spent. They’re gone.

Shu tries to call your name but before he can get a sound out he’s already choking on his words. He fights to stand upright and clear his throat. He doesn’t know why he tried calling out to you. He should’ve known it was a failure. It’s just that he’s gone so long without you, without answers, without a single successful summoning, but this was the first time he saw the crack in space.

Something’s going right. His body feels like it got caught in a land mine, but he’s on the warpath now, and he’s got his sights set on a new ritual draft, something that will certainly bring you back next time.

Shu hacks out a plume of ashy smoke and violet sparks. He’ll return to the drawing board soon, but he’s overexerted himself like nothing else.

Despite how much his body feels like a crumpled ball of paper, he writhes to a pen and paper knocked to the ground from his ritual. He’ll summon you yet. Hopefully his next ritual won’t result in drowning on land, but he’s not too optimistic. He’s not going to stop until you’re back in his arms or his body gives out entirely, but he can’t kid himself forever. He’s going to burn himself out one day if he keeps this up, either metaphorically or literally.

He writes down new observations from this ritual. It still doesn’t change a thing. He’s going to break himself if it means returning you to where you belong.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

👹 Vox Akuma

The Voice Demon snaps awake with fire in his eyes and a growl from his throat. He’s been in stasis for what feels like eons but the memory of searing flames and cold wet blood and the razing of Akuma Castle is fresh. His heart aches. A look down and he identifies why: his red shirt is even redder along the center of his chest, and darkness blooms through the fabric in an unsightly stain. He stares underneath the fabric and sure enough, his torso is covered in slashes, though they fade in supernatural speed. This is demonic reincarnation, as expected, the same mind in a new body, the old transfiguring into the new. His blood boils as he watches the lesser lacerations fade into pale skin. The clotted blood reforms, places itself into his open wound, and the skin reseals itself. A fresh patch, an untouched body, a man seemingly unharmed.

It’s nothing compared to the first man fallen in his clan. Shot dead in the temple, an arrow protruding from his brain, pink and red staining the other end of the arrowhead. The young scholar that took up a bow to defend in the castle’s time of need, only for a catapult to sling a boulder directly to their perch, and send them falling to their demise. A woman, well-known by her Kindred for being a second mother to all, and how she went up in flames when the opposing army set fire to her refuge shelter.

Vox was no stranger to combat, and no coward that would allow his clan to fall for his sake while he stood by. He took to the battlefield, sword in hand, accompanied by his most trusted advisor and most capable warrior.

“Be safe,” was all you said before you armed yourself with your treasured naginata, grabbed him for a life-or-death kiss, and launched into the fray beside your lord.

You worked in tandem with Lord Akuma. His sword slid bodies for you to stab through, confirming they would never rise again. But you were only two of 522, and Tokugawa’s troops made short work of the defenseless, the inexperienced, the unprepared.

Blood pooled along your naginata blade, but when you could catch a glimpse of the metal, it reflected the burning of Akuma Castle behind you. You dodged one blade and blocked another, then skewered the man for his sloppy mistake.

Vox fought his own battles, now, as the shogun commanded his troops to target the lord of the castle. His sword caught on the bone of a soldier before slicing another. He snapped his wrist, shaking the two off his weapon, before raising it into a defensive position in time with another attacker.

You spun the naginata in your hands and fell back to reposition. The maneuver forced your enemies to approach, just in time for you to attack first. They dwindled in number. You were no longer the priority. You held your own against another warrior, decorated in medals and a wakizashi in their hands, more seasoned than the last unit you fought against.

The duel was a mind game, littered with fake-outs and feints, neither you or the warrior landing a blow. Their movements were calculated, without an obvious weakness, so you focused on observation. Their slashes were quick and left little room for a counterattack. They stayed in your face so your naginata can’t outrange them. They were mobile, moving low and high, their body contorting unpredictably against the backdrop of your burning home and-

And Lord Vox…!

You screamed his name. One of the bodies, one you recognized, still moving. Bloodied, barely alive, but quiet, behind your lord, raising his blade.

“Behind you! VOX!” You cried out so loud your throat went hoarse, only for blood to pour out of your mouth.

In your attempt to warn your lord, the warrior noticed an opening, and drove their wakizashi through your neck.

Vox spun on his heel at your command and drove his sword clean through the ambusher, only to watch as you fell to the mud. “Reader!”

He howled as a knife drove through his arm, the first good hit against him. You didn’t move. Another katana next. The gash on his leg disabled his movement. The fire against his blade flashed. Your body laid in a pool of your own blood. Tokugawa stood before him and pulled his own weapon back, aiming for the heart. You were dead, and he was no fool, but the sword plunged forward…

Vox stands. The ground below him, concrete. Across from him is a tiled wall and railroad tracks. He turns on his heel, fury in his eyes, ready to tear apart this subway station. “Woah, dude,” the man next to him says jokingly. His beard is turning gray and he’s covered in a worn winter jacket, and stays seated on the ground.

“Piss off,” Vox snarls.

The man is as unbothered as ever, but seems concerned. “No thank you. Er, you good?”

“Good? Why, yes, I’m the very picture of ‘good’.” Vox lowers himself to the man’s eyes. He slams a fist against the wall, next to his head, as his words alight with poison and ember through gritted teeth. His voice burns demonic. “I said, get out of my sight like the vermin you are and PISS. OFF.”

The man’s face, once so calm and and sympathetic, forms into a visage of fear. He trembles like a deer in headlights before pushing Vox out of the way and bolting further into the subway.

The subway platform Vox finds himself in is dismal and lonely. It’s dark, with some broken fluorescent lighting, and debris along the ground. The signs suggest the next train isn’t arriving anytime soon.

So Vox wracks his hands over his face, contorted in rage, and screams. When he runs out of breath he inhales and cries out again, ugliness crawling out of his throat, and when he closes his eyes he imagines the ugliness as blood, the splatters that coated your lips as you fell. The wakizashi sword through your neck.

He can’t form words, but the heartbreak is primal. It echoes through the empty station, and when his voice shatters into a sob the acoustics remind him of his mourning. His broken heart tightens, tries to reform itself around the blood of his chest, and only gives him palpitations that lodge in his chest.

Panic becomes him. What else could he be? Vox’s legacy is besmirched, his subjects slain, and most brutal of all, his greatest love gave their life to warn him in futility. He heeded their advice but- but the shaking in his heart, it’s so stifling, he can’t think straight, he needs to sit down- but he was useless to do the one thing you requested, to be safe. Now here he is, another casualty right after you fell, without the grace to even stay a dead lord. In another world, with another chance at life, and the first thing he does is spiral. How pathetic of Lord Akuma. Utterly disgusting. Even after his demonic blood gave him another chance, he’s spending it bawling like a baby, crumpled on the ground of a grungy subway station, his breath so shallow he feels like he’s about to die again.

Misery. He’s too afraid to take in the world around him without the comfort of you, so his hands tangle into his hair and against his tears. Rebirth is nothing to an infernal, but today, the very picture of grief, the Voice Demon has been defeated for the first time in his immortal life.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

#ike eveland x reader #ike eveland #luca kaneshiro x reader #luca kaneshiro #mysta rias x reader #mysta rias #shu yamino x reader #shu yamino #vox akuma x reader #vox akuma #luxiem x reader #nijisanji x reader #luxiem #nijisanji en #4402 writes #necella

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violivs · 7 months ago

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NMTDaily: We Are The Watch and The Game is Afoot(ball)

- Doing the first two Dogberry & Verges episodes in one post. They’re always the characters I care about the least in any version of Much Ado, but these two are so cute I can’t help but love them.

- I totally forgot their videos are all posted on Ursula’s Watch Projects channel! I definitely somehow developed the incorrect memory of them having their own channel because they have orange borders on their thumbnails and every other new thumbnail color so far has heralded a new channel.

- Someone in the comments called Dogberry & Verges “Sherlock and Brittany S. Pierce,” and I will never recover from the sheer brilliance of that call. Verges definitely has Brittany energy.

- They’re very cute, arguing about what kinds of cases they’ll take. Do we ever find out whose cat Tibbles is? I bet she’s Dogberry’s cat and she got out when he left the door open too long.

- The malapropisms and exaggerated speech are so perfect though. It takes skill to write (and act!) two characters who are so wrong in every big fancy word choice and yet so convinced they’re right, who take their detective work SO seriously even though no one else does. And making them two kids playing at a detective agency. What great adaptations of these characters from the play.

- I think we already got the famous line “my mom says I have to wear the suspenders to keep the Devil from infiltrating me” in Vox Pops if I’m not mistaken, but I forgot to talk about it. Do we think Verges’ mom is crazy religious so Verges hides out at Dogberry’s house to get away from her? I love their friendship but the idea of Verges feeling unsafe at home makes me sad.

- “We are The Watch. And we are Watching!” *staring awkwardly*

- The kazoo Sherlock theme!!!! I genuinely almost forgot about that. Comedy gold. I love it. And I love that D&v definitely recorded that together (with Ursula’s help). I was wondering whether the Kazoo player was Dogberry and then the accompaniment of the second kazoo started and I cracked up imagining Verges very seriously chiming in to play her part. On kazoo. Amazing.

- “The ginger nuts you will find in your bag are from us” Perfect unhinged yet thoughtful energy. I know this video description is addressed to Ursula, but I have a strange urge to check my own bag, as though D&v have reached across ten years and thousands of miles to somehow leave ME ginger nuts. Mysterious.

- Starting “The Game is Afoot(ball)” now. I love how many angles we get on this same scene at the game. Reminds me of a future scene we get multiple angles on, except that scene we get D&v scrambled footage first and are left to frantically piece together what’s happening…

- Okay, I had to pause the video to die a little at Verges saying “masturbation” instead of “mastication” when talking about the muffins. I cannot believe they snuck that in lol. I want to cover Verges’ ears even though she doesn’t know what she’s saying! Cringing so hard for her right now.

- “We are going to interview civilizations!” Love that line lol

- So the first game of the season is a rematch with the team Messina was forced to forfeit last year’s championship or whatever to because the fire alarm was mysteriously pulled. Wild how Dogberry & Verges are actually giving us Important Backstory here.

- “what does that have to do with soccer” GASP! Why did that girl say “soccer”? She’s not American! Huh??? (This may be copy editor brain wondering whether I try really hard to get terminology right in my fanfics for nothing…)

- Does Pedro/Peter know that John pulled the fire alarm? It seems like everyone else does. It makes you wonder why he’s so surprised that John hates him enough to do what he does later on. I guess he’s just in denial of how bad things really are between them.

- We get shown exactly how bad things are between the Donaldsons with Pedro’s snippy “HALF-brother” comment and the way he slaps the car keys into John’s hand in that little moment we see between them. All is not well in the house of Donaldson. And at this point, we only know that because of Dogberry and Verges’ videos. It’s amazing how everything is important in its own way in this show.

- Pedro must be so eager to publicly distance himself from John with the half-brother comment both because he begrudged John’s arrival making his family life tough for a while, but also because other kids at school think John’s weird and Pedro, however unconsciously, doesn’t want him to tarnish his image. At least he does seem to feel bad about the little tiff over the keys.

- You also have to feel for John, because Pedro making comments like that publicly means that the whole community knows all of John’s personal business and probably whispers about his parentage, and he knows that they all know. It has to be very lonely to be John. And Pedro is doing the opposite of making things easier for him. It all must have been hard on Pedro too, their family being so talked about, and he’s also just a kid, but it’s still a huge dick move on his part to treat John that way.

- “John owned up to it” says Claudio, so everyone does know, so Pedro must know that John sabotaged the game. He just doesn’t understand it as an act of sabotage against him specifically, which is clearly what it was. He picked the most important game of the season because it would hurt Pedro most to have ruined, more than any other game. (And Robbie helps John pull the fire alarm because *he*, Robbie, wants revenge against Claudio for ‘stealing’ his spot as goalie, so he ruins Claudio’s first ever game).

- Ooh Ben is walking away with the group and does not have his green uniform shirt with him, so he did leave it on the ground in front of Beatrice! Do we think she really took it home to give back to him at school? Or did it end up in the lost and found? Not that we ever see another game, but he would need it back. Oh, maybe Bea gave it to Leo to give back to Ben, without telling him who left it there so he and Hero wouldn’t have more ammo to tease her about Ben. Analyzing incredibly minor details is fun!

- I also adore that Benedick apparently named this video by making a “the game is afoot-ball” pun when talking to Dogberry and Verges. Interesting that there’s so little footage of Ben in this video- did they interview him in this scene at all? Or did he name the video when he and D&V were all over at Ursula’s house getting editing help with their new vlogs? Either way, love this random little Ben-related detail.

- Also, you hear a lot of Ben being described as all limbs, but watching him walk away in the background here? Jesus, the boy is TRULY all limbs. Look at him! Flailing around. Playing catch with Balth, establishing them as friends. I am… like, still ALARMINGLY obsessed with this character, my god. I was just trying to see if we could hear what the group walking away were saying, I swear, lol.

- The blond guy who was standing with Balthazar in Balth’s clip in this video: Surf-Lifesaving Tony? Other Tony? Damien???

- “Exit stage right!” “It’s left, you moron!” Adieu for now, readers!

💖🦩🥭

#nmtd #nmtdaily #dogberry & verges #violivs nmtdaily liveblog #nmtd spoilers

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blueseachelle · 2 years ago

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Hi I was wondering if you could write a scanlan x fem reader smut where the reader is either a human or a half orc, I don’t have anything specific in mind. Vox machina smut is rare and I can’t find anything for scanlan 😭

Hello! Of course I can do this one! I have a half orc imagine in the works so, I’m gonna do a female human reader for you! Tbh, the reason I started writing stuff again was for the same reason as you stated. Time to fuel the Fandom! One post at a time! Of course as always, if this is not up to your standard, let me know! I can always retype! Happy Reading!

Critical Role Vox Machina

Sweet Melodies

Scanlan X Fem! Reader

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Scanlan, a player and a Bard. Looking for love yet scared to be held down.

He doesn’t know why he has this problem. He has always had this fear of just giving all his love and affection into someone and them to just discard it like nothing and leave. He thinks it will always be this way. Well, maybe he hasn’t met the right person to change his thought process.

Y/n is a monk. She dedicated herself to be holy and never medal with the affairs of the darkness. No matter what it was. She had her stray moments that she is not proud of but, she forgave herself and her ancestors have as well. She is not associated with a God of any sort. Not yet anyway. She hasn’t found the right one she wants to dedicate her life to.

She wears a sapphire and gold amulet to represent her family. She is a fighter. She’s not all that much peaceful. She has righteous judgment and will crush her enemies. She uses a specially crafted short sword that was pasted down in her family for generations. She also has an enchanted gold arm brace that turns into a gold staff on command to get her out of tight situations. She travels around the world trying to find her place. She helps people when needed and she brings judgement upon the unjust.

How her and Scanlan met was interesting.

Scanlan and the crew were doing a small bounty to get some coin in there pocket for there new (New to them) Keep. Well, the thieves camp they came to clear had the thieves that they were looking for… plus, a lot of company. Scanlan thought it was a criminal convention with how many there were. He soon got surrounded as did the rest of the group individually. He was about to strum to use Mage Hand to get out of there but, one of his strings broke,

“Oh Damn it. Why now of all times!?!”

Right before one of the attackers struck, a SHING was heard. Scanlan watched as a girl launched herself out of the tree that was behind him, land in front of him, and deflect the attack coming towards him. She wore blue robes that crossed her body from hip to shoulder. She had wraps around her chest and knuckles. From this angle, that’s all Scanlan could see. She kicked the attacker away with such a force that he was knocked back into the crowd behind him and he knocked over a few of the guys he flew into. Scanlan’s eyes were wide,

“Oh Damn.”

The mysterious girl sheathed her sword and quickly turned to the gnome bard. She held out her hand,

“Let’s help your friends now. I’ll be by your side.”

The bard blushed slightly. She was gorgeous. She had beautiful raven hair tied in a ponytail with a stripe of silver hair pulled forward to blow in the wind. Her stunning blue eyes made contact with his amber ones. He hesitantly took her hand,

“Y-Yeah. Let’s do that.”

The girl took the gold band off of her arm and tossed into the air, instantly turning it into a staff. Soon enough, they were launched into the air.. The staff was back to the band on her arm. Scanlan kept his eyes screwed shut until his feet gently made contact with the ground. He opened his eyes to see the rest of his group. Pike was the first to say something,

“Scanlan! Where did you go? You just upped and disappeared!”

Scanlan finally removed his hand from yours as he ran towards his group,

“Well, I got surrounded and my string broke but, this girl saved me.”

The said girl was already taken off into battle. She had her short sword drawn and was helping. She weaved amongst the group like she had been fighting with them her whole life. She knew where she was needed and when.

After that all the thieves were defeated, the group finally caught there breath. Scanlan looked up and saw his savior making her way out of the village. He quickly tossed his lute aside and ran to catch up with her.

“Wait! Hey!”

He called out as he ran towards her. She stopped in her tracks and looked at him over her shoulder. When he finally caught up, he put his hands on his knees trying to catch his breath,

“B-before you g-go. I just wanted to ask you a question.”

He finally got his breathing under control and stood up,

“I want to know the name of my savior please.”

This made the girl tilt her head and put her hand into her short pocket. Her eyes held such purity and kindness.

“My name is Y/n. I am one with the wind and the bringer of justice. If you need me, Call to it.”

With that, she tossed an opal carving to the gnome bard. Little did he know that the carving was of her family crest, if he was going to ask around about her, that would give him the answers he seeks. He stumbled to catch the the carving but caught it. The carving was a ring with a beautiful flower in the middle. As he struggled slightly, a breeze swept over the land. He looked up to see that she was gone. Gone with the breeze.

He stood there for a second with the words ringing in his head. He slowly turned back to the group and made his way back to them.

*TIME SKIP A COUPLE MONTHS*

Scanlan could not get the girl out of his head. Every time he went to make moves on anyone, his heart would hurt. He thought about her every second of every day. Every time he would think of anyone else, his heart would ache. He didn’t know what was happening to him. He kept her carving in his pocket at all times.

The day after that encounter with her, he asked around with the carving until he found a monk that knew what the carving was. He told Scanlan that the carving was the crest of the Sato family. The last of them pasted away long ago. There has been many rumors of a helping girl that carry’s the crest. The monk told him that the only girl born in the Sato family was a girl named Y/n, which the monk thought that‘s who the girl was. Scanlan confirmed it. The monk told him as much as he could remember of the family. Scanlan absorbed all of it. He at least knew a lot more about this girl but, the more he knew, the more he would think about her and the more his heart would ache.

He sat up in the night and just think about Y/n. His room was eerily silent. His ears picked up on the whistling of the wind. Wait… wind. Hold on.

He quickly sat up and put on his robe. He will get to the bottom of this right now. He will stop these all nighters and the heat aches.

Scanlan made his way to the Keep’s garden and stood in the middle of it. He held the carving and looked at it before speaking to the wind,

“Hey. I don’t think this is what you meant but… Oh screw it. Y/n, I need you.”

The carving softly glowed blue before the glow disappeared. He looked up to see the cause of his inner turmoil. Y/n stood on the wall of the Keep. She dropped down and walked to the nearby pond and took a seat, crossed legged.

Scanlan stared in shock. His heart pounded in his ears. His breath caught in his throat. He slowly walked to the sitting figure. Y/n eyes watched him carefully. He sat next to her, facing her. He locked eyes with her. The pure, kind eyes looked into his troubled ones.

Y/n knew what was wrong. She reads auras. She can feel the turmoil and confusion in his. She closed her eyes to ask her ancestors what to do. She slowly opened her eyes after being told. To cleanse his spirit would be more than a ritual, it would be a self sacrifice.

She locked eyes with him again and reached her hand out and caressed his cheek,

“I know what your troubles are. I sought out guidance on how to help you. You seek love but, is scared to take the leap of faith.”

She leaned closer to inspecting his face before continuing,

“As someone of faith, I know the consequences of wrong leaps but, sometimes, we have to just do it and hope it goes the best. My ancestors tell me to leap but, only if you are.”

The gnome’s brain short circuited. She knew everything. She understands him.

‘Am I ready to leap? Love one person for the rest of my life? It’s what I want…. Yes. I want to leap.’

After a couple seconds of thinking, Scanlan leaned forward to meet his lips with her’s. Finally, Scanlan found relief in his spirit. He knew that she was his ground. He refuses to be though out it for any longer. The kiss got progressively more needy. Scanlan snaked his tongue it her mouth. She let out a small moan. Her hands reached out and wrapped around him and found there way into his hair.

Y/n couldn’t believe that her ancestors were approving this. They know he is the one so, this is going to help him be put unto the right track. The one he has longed for. She was his savior, his salvation, her ground. He will let her know that she is all those and more.

Scanlan pulled her into his lap. He groped at her body. He knew this is the one. He will change for her. She is what he desired. He knew that she would be loyal and never just disappear. She will always be there for him.

The breeze woke them from there lust induced haze. He shivered.

“Maybe we should take this to my room.”

He lead her by her hand into the Keep and to his room. When he got to his room, he opened the door. After leading her to his plum silk sheets, he shut the door. He soon joined her on the bed. Of course, taking control.

The kissing resumed and soon, clothes were tossed across the room. Y/n lied under he kissed down her body, worshiping every inch of her. She absorbed every single kiss, suck, and nibble. He left hickeys across her body. Not one place didn’t have a bruise forming.

Y/n was a moaning mess as he made his way down.

“My Love, before we continue, how long has it been for you?”

Y/n swallowed thickly,

“It’s been about 8 years, My Beloved.”

Scanlan smirked,

“I promise I will be as gentle as I can but, with as beautiful as you are and ALL mine, I don’t know how gentle I can be for long.”

Y/n nodded,

“Scanlan, I am prepared. I’m stronger than I look and flexible.”

He kissed her thigh as he sat between her legs as he stared up at her,

“I know but, overstimulation is the slayer of the strongest people.”

With that he kissed her open clint, her heat was covered with her slick, she was more than ready for the real deal but, he wants to play with his beloved. He was to drive her insane. He wanted her to cum as may times as she could. She has been deprived for so long. He will make her reliant on his touch and his cock for pleasure. She is now his. He is now her’s. He wants the first time to be the best time of both over there lives.

As his lips kissed her heat, she let out a moan. Her hands reached down to grip his hair. He kept on. He started to prod your entrance with his tongue.

Soon enough, he added one of his hands that were holding onto your quivering thighs. He inserted a figure in to the tight wetness. He could feel you clinch on his finger.

Y/n arched her back and moaned. He started to move the finger back and forth with his hungry mouth. He was hungry for you. He wanted you to cum in his mouth. You taste like heaven to him already. He wants more, so much more.

Y/n’s thighs quivered more and more. Her hands gripped his hair as more stimulation was added. When he added a second finger, she felt a long sought feeling build in her abdomen.

Scanlan started to scissor the two digits, slowly stretching the tight hole. He sucked harder as he felt her start to arch and quiver more. He removed his other hand from your thigh and moved it to play with your swollen bud. That’s when you lost it. Hands gripped harder, thighs squeezed together, and a cry left her lips,

“My Beloved! Scanlan!”

He quickly removed his fingers and lightly sucked on your womanhood until all the juices were cleaned up by his mouth. While catching her breath, Y/n looked down to see Scanlan sucking on his fingers, cleaning them off. She saw her wetness drip down his hand as he lapped it up like a thirsty animal.

He smirked up at her,

"If you think that was all, Babe, you are greatly mistaken."

With that, he crawled forward, taking off his boxers in the process. She blushed at the slight glimpse she saw of his manhood before Scanlan blocked her sight with a kiss.

He kissed her with such passion and love that her hands reached up and found his way into his hair. The kiss seemed to last forever until Y/n felt his tip prod at her entrance.

The kiss ended. Scanlan breathed heavily has he looked down at her with such lust and love,

"Let's make some Sweet Melodies together."

She nodded vigorously.

When he entered her, all his work paid off. He was able to slide right in. No discomfort crossed her face, only pleasure filled moans and sighs.

Scanlan thrusted his hips at a set rhythm. He groaned along with her symphony of moans. The slapping sound of skin on skin was heard along with it.

His hands traveled around her body as hers did the same. He caressed her body while whispering sweet nothings to her has they made love.

Soon enough, Y/n felt that knot in her stomach form for the second time tonight. Her back arched once again. Scanlan immediately wrapped his arms around her. He could feel her start to tighten around his cock. He started to move his hips faster.

He actually felt like he was gonna come with her. This would be the fasted time he came in his life but, he was happy it was with his Love. Maybe that was a sign that she was the one.

Soon enough, Y/n reached down and grabbed his shoulders. She gripped onto him as she chanted 'I'm cumming' over and over again. Scanlan responded after a couple seconds with 'Me too, My Love. Me too.'

They then came together. He never usually empties himself in this partners but, this time, he did without hesitation. Y/n felt his cum fill her up. She knew why he did. He felt safe and secure with her. He knew that whatever happens, will happen and he will be there every step of the way and so will she.

After they both came down from their highs, Scanlan grabbed a nearby washcloth that he had in his drawer. He pulled out and cleaned himself off before cleaning Y/n off. He tossed the rag into the darkness and crawled up to cuddle his beautiful girlfriend.

She turned towards him and he turned to her. They interlocked on hand as they gazed into each other's eyes. He squeezed his hand a little tighter,

"I love you so much. Thank you for wanting to be mine."

She gave him a smile and squeezed back,

"I love you so much too. Thank you for overcoming your fears and deciding to stay with me."

"We can thank your ancestors for that."

They then shared a sweet kiss before cuddling under the sheets, sleeping until late in the morning.

Scanlan's dreams were not troubling to him now that the one with him is now his. His past dreams that he used to have with faceless women now all had his Love's faces. He knew this was it and he would fight to never have it taken away.

Thank you for reading! Let me know if you enjoyed this! I do take requests, as most of you know! See you in the next one!

#the legend of vox machina #scanlan shorthalt #tlovm scanlan #scanlan x reader #scanlan smut #tlovm smut #tlovm x reader #SMUT #requested

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cyberrat · 9 months ago

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Ok jfc fuck me im sitting here at WORK and I just

1- Vintage Staticmoth cameraman Vox/PornStar Val—Vals pimp would sweetly tormenting Vox under the cover of “needing the best angle” and making him get on the bed with his little handheld recorder under Val while he’s getting railed for those so absolutely necessary upshot perspectives. He’s not allowed to touch but Val is on top of him giving his best performance, grinding on cock, and there’s so much heat he can’t breathe and his lap is soaked because Val and his John are dripping over him and Valentino is looking him straight in the eye. It’s not enough and everything he’s ever wanted at the same time.

Their boss makes Vox thank him for letting Val grinding on top of him at a discount (yeah he docks his pay for this) because he knows how down bad the loser is for his prized whore. And hey if Vox behaves and stays in his lane maybe next time he’ll let Valentino say his name when he cums, wouldn’t that be a nice treat for both of them?

2-current day— Vox actually misses filming those upshots and since his whole face can function as a camera now with all his nice upgrades he loves having Val ride his tongue and cum on his screen for their own private movie collection

Vox is nearly alone in the room. It is dark and the air is thick after all the fucking that‘s been going on throughout the day.

It would be too disgusting if it weren‘t tempered by the sweet perfume Valentino is oozing out of every pore.

Behind him, the moth is slightly moving in his cage, a soft rustling of him adjusting his wings anew; a little trilling whimper that he might just be so used to that he is doing it in his sleep.

Vox turns and peers behind him. From the dim light of the screen and his own face, he can see Valentino curled up like the pet he is, using his neck fur as a makeshift pillow. He is not quite sleeping, though. He just pretends to be.

Vox can see the tiny red slits of his eyes that he keeps cracked open. He must not realize Vox can see his bluff and he lets him be for now.

He turns back around and stares at the screen he‘s got there with the still frame of Valentino‘s cock, his plump little cunt beneath stretched almost brutally around a cock.

Vox bounces his leg restlessly, then presses the play button.

His camera work is excellent as always, of course. He does not really need to sit here and review the footage, he does not need to tinker with it much.

But he needs to see Val in action again. He needs to relive the moments of him beneath the tall demon, filming as he is getting railed. He needs to make a copy of the *sounds* he made while speared on cock.

All trilling and high-pitched and sloppy, tongue dangling from his sharp toothed mouth.

Vox‘ camera work is so good that it‘s barely noticeable how one stud stops fucking and another takes his place. It seems like one continuous session. One hyper potent bull that fucks Valentino until all four arms cave and he stops trilling and starts *wailing*.

He‘s been so close to Vox like that. Eye to eye. Almost like *Vox* was the one fucking him and abusing this perfect little peach he‘s got. The one that‘s all swollen now from the rough treatment.

He hadn‘t been able to keep himself from kissing Val. Wet and needy. Just one more thing Val‘s Master and Vox‘ employer took out of his paycheck. But it was worth it.

He keeps stopping and rewinding and repeating the same scenes, the object of his obsession just feet away curled up in a cage. Waiting for the next time he‘s drug out to perform like a circus animal.

Vox aches.

#cyberratting writes stuff #hazbin hotel #static moth #staticmoth #cellar bug au

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voxiiferous · 8 months ago

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Vox sits at an angle, turned enough to keep talking to Alastor, comfortably even, but not so much that the playground is every outside her peripheral vision. It's almost funny, looking at Alastor again-- for seven years, the closest he's seen is in Veronique, and originally, it had been endless rounds of seeing Alastor in her, now, he' seeing her in Alastor-- his hair is different, the straight, bisected bob a far cry form her monochrome curls. He'd forgotten just how red Alastor's eyes were, how yellow his teeth. The radio he'd never been able to bring himself to get rid of had languished for seven years, and here was the man himself.

This time it's Vox's turn to laugh. "I might not get it, but I can respect what Rosie's done here-- plus my PA's wife works here. Dia's always thrilled to see Veronique, even if it means I've officially been downgraded to her third favourite Vee, behind Vark and my daughter." They might have different approaches to their districts, but he'd never had a problem with Rosie, unlike some of the other Overlords-- the one beside him, for example, the last seven years had just proven to him that Rosie was one of the more sensible people down here, and especially in the first few months, the recipient of panicked messages.

Vox shrugs. "About Veronique mostly, at least at first. When she got a little older, mostly about you. I wanted her to know who you were, Rosie was the best option for that." The least biased against him, and he'd be a fool to sacrifice someone who could be support just because he had issues with Alastor. Sometimes about Hell and the city, but conversations about politics could be... interesting.

"It's not about me," he says, twirling the stuffed snake's tail around a finger. "The world's changed in your absence, and don't you know, I'm all about going with the times."

Alastor sat at the bench, feeling wrongfooted. His body faced the playing children but his head swiveled to keep an eye on Vox, even when the angle would have strained anyone else. It hurt his own neck as well, but nerves were silly things not to be relied on or necessarily even listened to. Across the ether the Radio Demon roamed, searching for that small little blip he'd caught a glimpse of earlier. He's not willing to believe in a daughter yet, but no one was allowed to use the radio waves without his permission. He'd spent his time since he'd gotten back between the hotel and hunting down the little pirate radio stations that had cropped up in his absence and bringing them into his fold. When he'd returned he'd expected he'd have to fight Vox for them. A lot of technology like wi-fi and mobile towers utilized radio waves. Any TV used them as well, just on different bands than Alastor had claimed. Vox moving in on Alastor's bands wouldn't have been that surprising. What was surprising was to find them untouched, unmonitored.

"Rosie?" of course he'd had to have her permission to be here. The cannibals guarded their town zealously. It was by necessity as much as sheer enjoyment at gutting trespassers; real estate was a prime commodity in Hell, and the cannibals wouldn't be missed by most. If they didn't band together they'd get walked all over. Alastor laughed.

"You expect me to believe she lets you here every week? What would you even talk about it's not like you're a cannibal or care for any of this," he waved his hand to encompass Cannibal Town, which could easily be lumped into old-timey, not worth a hypermodern Vox's attention. A place caught in time and incompatible with most of Hell which seemed to be racing towards the future. Still, there's something uneasy beneath it. Vox was far too comfortable here, and Alastor didn't like that.

#sanguineradio #*filming schedule (rp)#*verse: you gave her life in the middle of the night (Veronique)

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bigskydreaming · 2 years ago

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Its always bummed me out that Wildstorm got folded into the DC universe, because I’ve always thought it would have meshed a lot better with the Marvel universe if it got absorbed into that one. Not necessarily the Authority characters so much, since they were created as pastiches of the JLA of course, but the rest of the Wildstorm universe, yeah.

Gen13 and most of the Stormwatch seedlings would have worked well as mutants, Grifter and Backlash and Taboo would have been interesting characters to play off everyone from Wolverine to Spider-Man, I would LOVE to see the Monarchy characters like Professor Q, Condition Red, the Metropolitan, Morningstar and Vox Populi interacting with the Fantastic Four or the X-Men, and Battalion and Synergy and their whole approach to shepherding gen-actives would have been a very interesting contrast to say, Magneto and Professor X.

(Plus, Claremont’s Gen13 lineup gets a lot of flack, but I maintain he originally intended those characters to be Marvel mutants, and they work MUCH better from that angle, IMO).

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darwin-xf · 3 years ago

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Fire and Water

So this isn’t new work. New work very soon from me! But I’m re-,watching the show, and when I got to Fire, I Had to post this excerpt from Vox Mulder that deals with that ep. For context, Moose and Squirrel are getting busy in an outdoor soaking tub.

_____________________

Scully. His woman.

He hadn’t always known it. Maybe the understanding began years before as a tingling disturbance at the base of his spine, some realignment of particles unseen, a chafe to his heart. From there it had grown, the way a pearl forms laminous around an irritant, becoming over time a thing of strength and beauty.

He knew it now. And, miraculously, she seemed to know it too.

She floated on her belly, her face inches from his, her hands gripping the sides of the tub. The aqua pura provided a supportive atmosphere for their bodies, a protean heft and warmth. Then her lips were dense and cool against his, so different from the water; he scooched lower for a better angle to meet her surging toward him, loosening his jaw to receive her, their mouths the only point of contact. Hers was compact and precise, advancing and retreating, riding the waves, alive with possibility.

But when? Could he locate the genesis? It didn’t matter, really. And yet he recalled a learning so subtle he gleaned it only much later. The case with his ex, and the fire. Phoebe had consumed him for years, then she was there in the basement, statuesque and superior next to Scully. His newish partner, strategically adversarial but becoming a friend.

She was smart and even cute in her way--which just didn’t happen to be his way--and she had seemed to him that day the commoner, Phoebe the alluring aristocrat. Phoebe with her silly cassette pranks and her mind games. Legs for miles. Arrogance and duplicity. He had been so stupid.

He’d ditched Scully but she was on his back anyway, doggedly working the case without ego, finding him in the smoke-clogged corridor in the hotel, looking after him, keeping him company in his humiliation. Later she flanked him as he overcame his mortal fear. Just quietly and clearly being Scully while seeing him as he was. And staying.

As it happened she’d solved the case single-handedly, as well.

“She hates me,” Phoebe had stage whispered to him, more of her bullshit, but she was wrong. Phoebe was nothing to Scully, no one worth acknowledging, not a good use of their time. She hadn’t said a word to or about her, just given him the space to figure it out on his own.

As spacious as she was, everything about Scully was a little smaller than he was used to, like a three-quarter scale model of a girlfriend. She was smoother, too, and strong as hell. Her boxy little mouth on his made him want to to swoon like a girl. Her breasts bobbed in the water before him like jellyfish in their radial symmetry, their bright formless form. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep from touching her.

Already, whatever she had been feeling for him--only friendship back then, and probably a dose of pity too--she was loving him. Love being what she did for him, for everyone. Love being the root from which her actions flowed. Love being who she was.

Though it took him years to feel himself even possibly eligible, this was his first evanescent glimpse of what a woman could be, could do.

And here she was, floating above him, melding her mouth to his: woman, warrior, goddess, healer. Ravaged and marred, yet strong enough to show him the places, to let herself want him, need him.

He gave in first, his hands gripping her head, and she curled her body into his, chin against chest, belly and breast, sliding and colliding, unimaginable softness.

He held her tightly, grounding her, displacing the water between them as he caressed her mouth with his, hands on her back.

He looked to the sky as she suckled his neck, up at the countless bodies of light and he wanted to pray, or at least to say hey, to give voice to his fathomless gratitude that they were truly and actually here, despite the scrapes and scars, at last laid bare--the two of them--beneath the stars.

He had never said a prayer but he gave it a shot anyway: Dear sky and all sentient beings contained on any plane of existence without or within: Thanks for the girl. Sincerely Fox Mulder.

More like a thank you note his mother back in the day made him write than any prayer he’d ever heard. But it was the thought that counted.

___________________

Read the rest at AO3

Sincerely Fox Mulder

https://archiveofourown.org/works/14457993/chapters/33970536

#xfiles #xf rewatch #today in fic #msr

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mikeisthricedeceased · 4 years ago

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Mike, dear, I need to know how much marcus m would love to be held down and ridden. Like arms pinned down over his head no where to go ridden hard and put away wet.

Oh, Julia. I’m so sorry this took so long. It’s been forever and there’s a good chance that you don’t even remember sending this.

I had a good bit of it written out shortly after you sent this, but then decided I didn’t like what I wrote and ended up falling into a long period of writer’s block before I could rewrite it

Hopefully, this kinda makes up for the wait

Warnings: D/s, choking, light roleplay, bruising, fighting as foreplay, very mild degradation

~ Smut 18+ under the cut ~

“I always forget,” Marcus pants as he pushes himself back onto his feet, “that we both end up covered in bruises after doing the ‘Hero and Villain’ thing.” He rolls his shoulder, wincing slightly as the muscle strains before it relaxes.

You laugh breathlessly, holding a hand over where he’d gotten a hit in on your side. “You’re the one that suggested it. I think you just like playing villain sometimes. Get to try out all those pent up one liners.”

He wheezes out a laugh. “You got me.”

“C’mon,” you nod to the house and reach for his hand, “we should shower. I don’t want to smell gross when we pick Missy up from school.” Then, you smile and whisper, “Plus, I want to get a few kisses in before she’s home to say ‘ew.’”

When you try to pull him toward the door, he pulls you back. “It’s Friday, honey. Ms. Vox is picking her up.”

It takes you a moment to remember. “The sleepover. Right.”

Marcus hums, smiling softly. “But we can still head to the shower and do some kissing.”

You squeeze his hand as you look him over. “Not yet.” At his look of surprise, you continue, “Since we have the time, I think I want to go another round. I’ll be the villain this time, and you’ll be the dashing hero.”

He grins when you pat his cheek, a brow raised. “Dashing, huh?”

“Oh, very.”

There’s a beat as he just looks at you, considering. “One round?”

You nod, brushing your fingers through the short hair curling over the top of his ear.

He sighs. “Okay. One round.”

~*~*~*~

It starts off like a usual round of sparring; full contact, adding bruises on top of bruises and spiking adrenaline. You exchange breathless quips and dart around one another. No weapons, no powers.

The first time your hand brushes along his ribs instead of fully landing, he assumes it’s a miscalculation and moves to take advantage.

But you twist away like you’re ready for it. Your next strike is the same, barely bumping his shoulder. Things continue like that for a while, skimming touches that ignite a particular form of frustration that he doesn’t usually feel when sparring.

He’s fully onto the game by the time your palm brushes his inner thigh when you duck under his swing. He returns the favor, pressing a hand to your lower back as he steps around you at one point. His pulse spikes when he catches the sharp look in your eyes once you’re face to face again, both shuffling around each other near the edge of the training mat.

“The fences are pretty tall,” you say suddenly, gaze steady on him.

The comment throws him off but you don’t move to take advantage, instead waiting for him to respond. “Fences?” is all he can manage, confused.

He watches your eyes move, can feel them drag down his body.

You meet his gaze again, lips quirking. “No one is coming to your rescue here, Moreno. They won’t even know you’re in danger until it’s too late.”

The offer behind the actual words registers and heat prickles along the back of his neck. “I’m not worried about a rescue. Your tricks don’t work on me.”

“So confident,” you say, subtly pushing forward to get him closer to the edge of the mat, “I’ll have to prove you wrong.”

He wets his lips and nods. “Be my guest.”

The urge to touch him is almost unbearable, only ramping up as you watch his gaze drop to follow a bead of sweat roll down your neck.

You lunge for him and he braces for the impact, but you pull back at the last second. He isn’t prepared for you to twist toward his side and plant a foot behind his leg, using what’s left of your forward momentum as you push his chest, forcing him backward.

Stumbling, he gives a surprised shout and falls back, upper body landing in the grass and legs splayed out on the mat.

You’re on him immediately, straddling his chest and pinning his arms over his head.

His chest heaves under you as he catches his breath, eyes wide.

“Sure you won’t be needing that rescue?”

The look in his eyes burns you from the inside out. You let go of his hands and he tries to reach for you, only to be foiled by a set corded roots wrapped around each of his wrists. He looks at them with a frown. “Thought we said no powers?”

You smile slyly, leaning close to his face. “Villains fight dirty, Marcus,” you whisper, kissing his cheek.

He huffs.

“If you really want them off, I’ll take them off.” You shift to straddle his hips, your hands sliding down his chest. “Otherwise,” you continue softly, sitting back on the tops of his thighs, “you can stay right where you are,” your finger hooks into the waistband of his shorts and you bite your lip as you meet his eyes, “and we can have a little fun.”

Groaning, he lets his head fall back onto the grass. “Fuck.” He looks back up at you, those soft brown eyes now endless and dark as he squirms between your thighs, his adam’s apple bobbing. “Leave them on.”

“Yeah?”

Even when you’re being a little intimidating with him, he can still see how your expression brightens through it all. Somehow, that makes the whole thing even sexier to him, knowing how pleased you are. The way you’re sliding his waistband down doesn’t hurt either.

Then it’s like all the frustration that had been building up is finally set free. You lean down, catching his mouth in a messy clash as you tug his shorts lower until you can get a hand on him. The angle is awkward, his hips a bit higher than his torso because of how he’s laying halfway off the mat, and you’re barely able to hold yourself over him with one arm.

But you’re kissing him, a hand around his cock while you trace the crown with the tip of your thumb, tasting every gasp and moan as you stroke, and it’s worth the slight twinge in your forearm.

His hips jerk. “Like it when you play the villain,” he grunts.

You hum, biting his lower lip and relishing his sharp intake of breath, how he desperately fucks into your fist when you squeeze him a little tighter. “I like having you where I want you,” you tell him. “And you always look so good when we spar like this. Out of breath, sweaty, hair a fucking mess. Been wanting to ride you since the third round.”

He curses, eyes squeezing shut. You kiss down his neck, the salt on his hot skin making you groan. He swallows and you can feel his throat bob under your lips. “Do it,” he pleads gruffly. “Ride me. Please, baby.”

It’s your turn to curse as you push yourself off of him. Kicking your shoes off, you frantically shimmy out of your workout pants and underwear, only pausing for a moment when you catch sight of him.

He’s watching, lips parted and chest still heaving. There’s a hot blush across his cheeks and down his neck, making him look thoroughly ravished.

And you haven’t even really started yet.

He says your name, voice rough while he blinks up at you and shifts his legs, still restricted by his shorts.

You straddle him again, down on your knees, and kiss him hard. The moan that rises out of him fills your chest and warms your blood. It pushes you to reach down and take hold of him again, to get the angle right and sink down until your moan is mixed with his.

This is usually slow. You’d take your time and explore, toeing the line until neither of you could hold back any longer.

Today, though...today, you’re riding hard and fast because you feel like you’ll combust if you don’t.

So, you kiss him until you can’t breathe, all tongue and teeth and frustration, grinding down on his cock. You sit up and bounce, tugging his shirt up so you can drag your nails over his chest and stomach, steadying yourself while leaving half-moons in his skin.

He tries to hold your gaze but the angle is wrong with his hands tied over his head, and you can see tendons strain in his neck when he holds up his head. So you wrap a hand around his throat to keep him down, making him whine and buck up into you.

“Fearless leader,” you growl, taunting, “so eager to give in. What would your team think?”

Marcus shudders, muscles tensing as his back arches. “Harder,” he gasps.

You dig your nails in and tighten your hold on his neck, earning a voiceless whine. “One nudge in the right direction,” you fuck down onto him hard, “and you completely fall apart.”

His head is full of white noise and everything else is sensation. He hears you tell him to come as you let go of his throat, and there isn’t anything else he can do as his whole body is flooded with pleasure, hot and slick and you, you, you.

He doesn’t know how long it takes him to open his eyes but he’s looking up at the sky, panting, feeling your breath against his neck.

“Good boy,” you’re whispering, fingers tangled in his hair, “Did so good for me, Marcus.”

His shoulders ache and the roots are gone but he can still feel where they’d been wrapped around his wrists, the skin itchy.

Slowly, groaning at the shift in position, he brings his arms down and holds you.

“We still have that stuff you make? For the bruises?” he grits out.

You laugh softly. “Yeah, and I can make more if we need it.”

He pats your back. “We might.”

“Painkillers, too.”

He closes his eyes and sighs. “God, I love you.”

“Love you too,” you snort, kissing his shoulder.

#huliabitch #marcus moreno #we can be heroes #ask prompt

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sillypandalover91 · 5 years ago

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Part 2: After the Auction

Alastor wasnt used to losing.

Not in the sense that he would flip over the board of monopoly if someone had stolen Boardwalk and Park Ave. from right under his nose. Though Husk swore that he would never again count cards when playing with Hazbins no matter how hilarious Alastor's face had been when he handed over the last of his colorful paper money to the feline when he landed on the overpriced blue territories.

No, Al wasn't a sore loser.

But this DrAngler44 was a bad winner if he ever saw one.

"Computer offend you again, babe?"

Alastor had gotten into a habit of playing with Angel's laptop while he went through his hour long nighttime ritual of thoroughly bathing himself, drying and dusting his fur and followed by his face routine and ending by brushing his teeth.

The laptop had been a gag gift from Vaggie, who had found it amusing to see the two old men fumble their way trying to figure out how to use it. After figuring out how to set it up, Angel was the first to master searching for things and using helltube. Alastor was more than happy to call it Angel's laptop if it meant he didnt have to continue embarrassing himself trying to figure the damn thing out.

But then Angel, during their nightly cuddles, mentioned finding a funny sounding video on Helltube that one of his fans uploaded recently. It was a haul of his merchandise, both recent and vintage.

And the vintage items certainly caught Alastor's attention. He scrolled down to the comments, smile widening as he figured out how to torment demons in a way that wouldn't upset Charlie. Angel's delighted face as they watched the doe demon unwrap a limited edition trilogy called "Lady Science".

"Holy shit," cried Angel, accidentally jostling Alastor in his excitement, "Sorry, babe."

Alastor rolled over on to his side but kept a hand buried in Angel's fluff, "It's no problem at all, cher. I take that you are fond of this particular installment of your rather impressive repertoire?"

Nodding, Angel turned down the volume but paid careful attention to the goodies that came in the set. "This one was so much fun to do. The director is an incubus, one of Lady Lilliths personal court now, which is a shame cause I loved working with him so much."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, he gave me artistic control and even let me write this one! It did so well that we did two more. You should really listen to the commentary on that one, it's a hoot!"

"Do all of your picture shows have commentary?"

"Some of them, yeah. Well, the fun ones do." Angel glanced down at his thighs where the bruises were covered by his pajama pants, "Mostly the ones Val ain't got his nasty little talons in which, these days, they're few'n between."

After that conversation, Alastor borrowed a few films from Angel's library and, with Husk's reluctant help found the commentary.

"I'd ask why you're watching porn of your boyfriend banging other guys but quite frankly I dont give a fuck," grumbled Husk as he took a seat next to him.

Alastor paused the video and gave the feline a side glance, "Just what do you think you're doing?"

"What? It's not like I'm going to beat off with you here and I know your virgin ass isnt going to get off to this either."

Eyes and smile sharpening, Alastor said, "My good fellow, the implication that you are going to, as you crassly put it beat off did not go unnoticed. I'm not going to let you watch my beau in the throes of ecstasy."

Husk snorted, "Why not, all of hell has."

"They're not my friends, Husker. Now, go away. I'd hate to cut our friendship short because you lust after my darling."

At this, Husk spat out his beer, "I- I don't, you know what, I'm not drunk enough to unpack that one. You enjoy," he squinted at the title, "Angel in The Baby Sitter."

"I intend to, old sport~"

One film had turned into two and three, five, until Alastor watched well over half of the videos in Angel's collection.

Who knew Angel was so beautiful when he was genuinely happy and having fun without the use of drugs. Ah, he did! But it was still refreshing to see him this happy when at work.

It was so endearing that he couldnt help but want to see more. Unfortunately there were only so many films left in Angel's library and the newer stuff had Valentino written all over it. So once again enlisting Husk's help, Alastor learned how to use the laptop to find where to buy Angel's earlier work.

"You know you can always ask him to get you more...fucking addict." The last part was muttered under his breath so Alastor ignored it.

After all it wasn't an addiction and it was, well, there were worse things to be addicted to than wanting to hear Angel's witty comments and joyous laughter.

"Or you can watch the actual porn with him and have him comment irl." Both men turned to see Cherrie grinning at them, "What? The princess said I could visit with my bestie so long it was in the parlour. Bet she didnt know there were a couple of old horny motherfuckers in here already."

Slamming the laptop shut, Alastor picked it up and made his way out, "What you do with your mother is your business. Now if you excuse me, I have things I need to win."

Angel found out because there was no way his sales suddenly boosting both on the Studio's website and on auction sites went unnoticed by Val who asked him to his office and nervously informed him that all future productions were going to be overseen by the incubus director Angel was so fond of.

That had been a few months ago and Alastor usually always had that air of self satisfaction that he usually attributed to an amazing release but Al wasn't one to do that and his self satisfaction came from securing items lesser demons wanted to get their repulsive hands on.

Those nights always resulted in heated make out sessions and some light petting on Alastor's part and ended in cuddled sleep.

Tonight, however, when Angel stepped out of the bathroom, he found Alastor glaring at the computer screen face void of a smile before carefully and slowly typing with his two index fingers.

Angel covered his mouth to hide his endeared smile, "Computer offend you again, babe?"

"Not the computer," muttered Alastor, his brow furrowed in concentration as he continued to type out his message in the chat of the auctioning website he frequented, "Some imbecile is flaunting the lot I wished to procure."

"Aw, I'm sorry, doll." Walking up behind his disgruntled beau, Angle draped his arms around Alastor's shoulders and rested his chin between his fluffy ears, giggling as they twitched in response, "You know I can just go through the Studion Vault and steal ya whatever you want. Not like Val actually keeps track of my older work anyway."

Alastor stopped typing and glanced up at Angel, "You mean you can find me this beautiful photograph of yourself? And the corresponding body pillow?" He pointed at the images DrAngler44 uploaded, "I loathe the idea of this creature having these photos of you but I admit that it is wholly because I had just the spot for them in my office at the radio tower."

When Angel didn't respond, Alastor frowned and spun around on his chair to tug Angel onto his lap, "Mon ange?"

"I haven't seen these in years," replied Angel, still staring at pictures. "Hells, this was the very first time I ever let my stupid feet be photographed. I had to beg Val to destroy most the of the copies and cut the photo off at the feet. You know there are only like 3 of these, right?" Ignoring the sudden burst of static, he counted off who had the other two copies, Vox has one cause, of course he had to have my feet in his possession and Lucifer has the other one cause Lilith thought I looked cute."

The static grew worse behind him and, now that he thought about it, maybe he shouldn't have brought Vox up. Angel felt Alastor tightened his hold on him, "You ok, baby?"

"Can you help me write my message," gritted out Alastor through his smiling teeth. Angel typed it out much quicker and sent it with Alastor's approval.

Alastor got up and carried his beau to bed where he tucked Angel in much to the spider's protest, "What about you?"

"Oh, I'll be back soon, cher. Vox has something I want."

#radiodust #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin hotel angst #im just gonna upload this to ao3 #eventually #its become something of a fic #panda writes

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queenlua · 5 years ago

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tl;dr if you’re always yelling at people to “just google it,” you’re being an asshole

a common problem: i want to know more about thing [x]. i look up the wikipedia article.

for things like “how does this math formula work?” or “who is this ancient philosopher?” that works great, i skim the wikipedia article and go home

but for things like: “it’s 2016 and i literally do not understand why so many people hate Hillary Clinton SO MUCH? what the hell happened in the 90s? did she murder a puppy?”—wikipedia is not helpful. wikipedia can tell me about some boring Whitewater scandal, and like, some weird interview that she came across as “rude” in, by like, 1990s standards?

this leaves me short of enlightenment.

and of course i could do a full literature review, but. i’m busy and my question seems very straightforward.

the real answer, in this particular example, for me, was: call my mom.

obviously my mom is going to give me a biased perspective. but that’s what i want, because i am very familiar with the exact type of bias she has, and thus can correct for it if necessary. and in this case, it’s not even a thing that needs much correction! because i was not interested in The Objective Truth Of Hillary Clinton. i just wanted to know “okay, what were boring conservatives/centrists thinking about Hillary Clinton in the 90s, since that seems to be when they decided to hate her?” mom is in fact this demographic!

and so i listened to mom give her rant, and i found out that, boy, mom picked up a lot of zingers from Rush Limbaugh, and wow she is still mad about that fuckin Family Circle cookie contest all these years later, and okay the Clintons really do act aloof and tetchy in response to some calls for transparency, blah blah.

it certainly didn’t make me understand it on a gut level any better, but i got a solid view into one data point, with an unusually high amount of context for that one data point.

it turns out “ask a friend / family member / etc” is more useful than wikipedia for lots of things, and not just for subjective experiences!

for instance: if i ring up some random literature PhD student friend and i’m like “yo i don’t know literature at all, but i got this weird vibe of alienation when i was reading To The Lighthouse, even though i was spending so much time in everyone’s head, is that intentional?” like, sure, i can go on JSTOR and do a literature review on Woolf scholarship and see what they have to say. but i know my friend cries every time he reads The Waves, and is very bigbrain smart about literary theory in general, and he also knows me personally, and where i’m coming from. so he can tailor what he says. so he can offer a little snarky summary—“oh yeah, there was this one Woolf scholar who was kind of a contrarian asshole, but he had a take similar to yours”—and already everything is more vivid and immediate and fun, because i’m not just reading about some random Woolf scholar in a vacuum; i know from my friend that he’s kind of a contrarian asshole, but also important enough to be taken seriously, yada yada.

obviously you should not always blindly trust your friends! obviously you are losing some data in this transmission! (like, maybe my buddy just had a beef against this one scholar!)

but doing a depth-first search through random literature without any context has its own drawbacks, too, so. pick your poison.

anyway this is why i am often confused when people are like “god why can’t [x] just google it,” they are asking you specifically probably because they want your angle and your experienced eye! gosh!!!

(exercise left for the reader: is there a good way to make challenges of the form “i want a moderately snarky and simple answer to [x]” scale well, outside of one’s own friend circle? the only two examples i can think of are, uh, Quora, and uh, Vox Explainers, but i find both of these dissatisfying for very different reasons.)

anyway information generation via social networks is just really interesting as a phenomenon ok

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multiverse-in-archive · 4 years ago

Note

(Vox/Cash, Cherri/Able, Angel/Able, Angel/Flug, Perkins/Charlie >3 )

{ Give me two characters and I will tell you HOW I ship them }

If I don’t ship them, I will still talk about how they might work if they were a couple.

((Bitch u already know I ship em-

Anyways this long, so under the cut-

Vosh

Basically a couple of dorks that bond over technology and their hobbies, eventually teaching each other their respective hobbies. As a bonus, they’d both help in each other’s respective businesses too. Also Vox, touch staved but touch hesitant dolt getting some affection yes-

Chable

Angel Protection Squad presidents. But also Cherri is protective of her smol boi she can and will physically toss someone to the ground for creeping on her man. Also, if you hurt him, r u n. Able meanwhile knows how to calm her down and helps her ease some of the tension she represses to avoid worrying Angel. They both basically become each other’s outlet for when shit in their lives are fucked. Also, you wouldn’t know it, but Cherri is snuggly when they’re just chilling.

Angle. Yes that is still my ship name for them because math jokes and also fite me, scrub-

Angel’s actually rather guarded, but does open up to Able after a while, a little at a time. Basically kind of like how he’s expected to be with the girls of the hotel in my headcanon, but more romantic path rather than platonic, and also Able’s less strict than them, so he can chill and drink smoke with him, so Able has better luck in breaking the walls down. Also, Angel pushes slob sometimes on dates to see what Able’s limits are about how he’s seen in public with him, and Able’s proven to be pretty chill with how he dresses. They can just go out with Angel wearing the pajamas he fell asleep in the previous night without even bothering to fix his hair or do his makeup, and Able is just ‘You look great babe, let’s go for coffee’. And if you think Angel would not be a cuddly bitch, you are sadly mistaken.

Fable. I’m assuming that you meant AblexFlug rather than AngelxFlug [Flugel, probably I need to think of a better one-] So here is some Fable-

Flug is a shy dork that just melts at the positive attention Able gives. Although he waits for Able to make the first move, because he’s used to people not being into him, so he may or may not have pined for a while before Able was like “You are my boyfriend now”. They tend to help each other out with their jobs, and sometimes they get cute together. Which makes Black Hat sick, so he often has them separated or kicks them out of the manor to do something or other. Also their idea of a date is basically committing crimes together, like robbing a coffee shop or research center. Also yes please give him physical affection-

Perlie

Admittedly, Perkins got some years on her, but they meet when she’s an adult that decided “You know what would be a good idea? Exploring my dangerous homeland all by myself. What could possibly go wrong” So he finds her in a more dodgy part of one of the towns and is like “Nnnnnope, we goin’ take you home”, and after he does so, Charlie goes to find him, and they start to bond over them being like. Two of the few people that are not like. Assholes in Hell. Although they don’t see each other all that often. He helps her with the shit that weighs her down. Eventually they end up dating [Charlie’s poly in my headcanon, so she’s still with Seviathan until she eventually breaks up with him like fifty years before the events of the pilot maybe and then she dates Vaggie sometime after they both meet so ye.] They don’t always see each other until after Charlie leaves the palace, but when they do, they cute and sappy as fuck together. Also, you guessed it, Charlie is a slut for cuddles.

TLDR; All my ships are just cuddly shit-

Come to think of it, most of my muses are touch starved, even if some have some level or form of touch aversion.

I think I may have a problem-))

#Message in a Bottle {Ask}#Outta this World {OOC}#Learn a bit more About Them {Headcanon}#Love is Such a Beautiful Thing… {Romance}#Our Very Own {IC: Dr. Flug}#The Unit {The Happy Group}#The Unit {Bomb Ass Babes}#Our Very Own {IC: Vox}#Not One of Ours {Able}#Not One of Ours {Cashmere}#Not One of Ours {Perkins}#thehighclassbadass

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c-is-for-circinate · 6 years ago

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I wasn’t expecting it, but I think one of the most fascinating things to watch in Campaign 1 of CritRole (and increasingly interesting in Campaign 2!) are the different interactions characters have around gods and religion, and I’m so excited for more.

Pike loves her quiet, distant god of healing and second chances in such an easy, sure-footed way, with bright faith and service. It’s so simple for her, in the middle of all the chaos and muddle and ethical doubt in the hearts of everyone else she loves, and it’s exactly the bright contrast the whole group needs, without being cheap. Faith and sureness in a god doesn’t actually make Pike less confused about everything all the time either. Piety doesn’t make her less fierce. Pike’s fascinating, because she’s sweet and she’s good, deep to her bones, she heals and cares and builds temples and gives council, and she’s also a dragon-slaying monstah who’ll charge out of her room in a midnight assassination attempt naked in her gauntlets, shield in one hand and mace in the other, bleeding from everywhere and ready to fight. And those things don’t conflict for her, because sometimes goodness is fierce, and the pieces that wouldn’t fit together for someone else do for her, and damnit I miss Pike again already.

Percy will make a deal with any god or demon who’ll offer him a good enough bargain. That’s who he is, Percy the Negotiator (do we have official alignments on Vox Machina? Is Percy actually Lawful Neutral or does he just really, really feel like it?). It’s selfish and arrogant and full of a very deep respect for the gods all at the same time. Percy in the Raven Queen’s temple is as humble and honest and bare as he ever gets, stripped down and vulnerable, and even then he’s controlled and deliberate in offering his own vulnerability, like it’s a gift, like it’s something she might want, like a price he’s willingly choosing to pay in hopes of getting the thing he desperately needs in return. He respects gods, and gives them his humility, but he doesn’t have faith, not really, not the soul-deep belief that some other power would do anything for him that he didn’t pay for himself. And meanwhile he reveres people--not person, but people, the work of human lifetimes, the metaphysical enormity of cities, of countries, of history, of concepts and beliefs and things built that become more than the sum of their parts, for good or for ill. The sacred glory of Westrun and Whitestone. The near-divine horror of evil for the firearms he made with his own two hands and then released into the world to become a force, and a terror, and perhaps very soon a power beyond any mortal’s control ever again. Any real reverence Percy has for gods as more than ultra-powerful allies, to be courted and implored and bargained with, comes down to the power he sees in belief and religion and the things people do in their name.

Keyleth never wanted or expected to have anything to do with gods until they decided they wanted something to do with her and hers, and it’s freaking her out so bad. Gods are people, to Keyleth, an there’s nothing sacred about divinity. They have powers and they do things, and that’s all--and in this world of Exandria where gods walk and want and war between each other, and distribute curses and favor at their own whims, who’s to say she’s wrong? A god is just a person with a whole lot of power, and she doesn’t understand reverence, and it scares her. The idea of a being with that much power over her and her loved ones scares her, when there’s so much she doesn’t have power over already. The idea that her family-friends-team doesn’t stand with her in that fear, that they’ll kneel and pray instead of standing themselves, that scares her so, so much. Keyleth believes in what she sees and touches and experiences, sun and seasons and living people, and gods have no place in her world, but they keep inviting themselves in anyway and she doesn’t know how to block them back out.

Vax breaks my fucking heart. We spend a lot of time in fandom talking about sex and love and BDSM-done-like-religion, but the only metaphor I’ve got is that Vax just straight-up does religion like BDSM--not the penance and self-flagellation and humiliation and punishment, but. The submission. The boy is so desperate for solid ground to stand on. Long before the Raven Queen, he’s looking up at Sarenrae and praying and hoping for a gentle hand. For someone to tell him what he’s meant to be doing with himself, with his time, with his life. Someone to promise that he’s done right, someone he can trust to know all the things about the wild, terrible, chaotic world that he doesn’t. He wants a god so badly, to help him be good, to make him good, to give him a purpose and a guide and a promise for tomorrow that he actually trusts, and he wanted it to be Sarenrae but it’s the Raven Queen now, and he’s given himself to her body and soul with all the hope and terror in his heart. He didn’t want this master, but he wanted a master. He’s living right on the push-pull edge of trapped vs secure. Fear and faith and peace are combining into the resigned horror-hope of something that’s been rattling loose for so long now clicking unbreakably into place, and it’s delicious to watch.

I know Vex falls into company with Pelor eventually, and I am so very on edge to see it, to see what it means to her. Vex doesn’t blink at gods, except to nod to Sarenrae in passing on Pike’s behalf, to reread the Raven Queen book a dozen times inside of a month on her brother’s, a bit of a nod to Pelor for the sake of Whitestone. Vex spectates everybody else’s drama and meltdowns, for all she plays selfish and vain and pushy and gossip-hungry, and tries to help, and tries not to control, and tries, and tries. Vex watches her brother and her friends and her someday-husband slip and trip and bruise themselves stumbling through life, and walks the line between keeping an eye on everything she can and keeping out of the way. Vex hasn’t even looked at the gods for herself, not really, not yet. I cannot fucking wait.

There’s Grog and Scanlan, who don’t seem to have any particular relationship to gods so far, and that’s real too, the down-to-earth contrast for everybody else’s drama, and even they’re not bereft of their own little interactions with the divine. There’s the horror of Kashaw and Vesh, there’s Zarah and Lilith and their not-a-god moon patron, there’s Kerr the paladin of no-apparent-god-in-particular. There’s Thorbir and Lyra and Gern who don’t appear to have gods at all. There’s a million NPC’s and there’s Kima’s faith in Bahamut and Allura’s faith in her, and there’s the whole city of Vasselheim, and Whitestone’s once-desecrated temple to Pelor, and its temple to Arathis where people prayed for hope and began a rebellion, and its temple to Vecna deep below ground. There’s the shrine to the Raven Queen in the Whitestone graveyard and the shrine to the soul of Westrun in an underground bunker, and people will find them and see them and react to them in their own ways for as long as they stand. There are so many different angles!

(There’s Jester and her very best friend and the favors she does him in exchange for affection. There’s Caduceus and his Mother and his fears and doubts in himself that never extend to doubting her. There’s Fjord with a dead god’s half-divine offcast in the back of his head, scared enough that he’d make a new deal if he could find a god to back him. There’s Yasha, who follows devotion and worship as a matter of gratitude and honor and not-like-she-has-anything-else-left-either. There’s Caleb and Nott and Imperial state-sponsored religion that they grew up with and don’t even notice, not really; there’s Molly covering himself in the symbols of all those state-sanctioned gods entirely for display and then praying to Moonweaver in some chaotic mix of secret and sincerity and show; there’s Beau praying to Ioun without being told to for the very first time in her life, just in case. There’s the Krynn and the Luxan and so much more to come.)

Fantasy-fiction doesn’t always get a lot of deep exploration of religion and faith and what it means to have actual gods, whose presence can be known and measured and felt, marked down as an objective fact of history. I love that we’re legitimately getting that in these campaigns, and I love that we’re getting it in a D&D format, where it’s so different for each different character, and so valid for each and every one. I can’t fucking wait to see the rest of Campaign 1. I can’t wait to see where Campaign 2 goes next.

#critical role #driveby meta attack

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