#(there's...a LOT of backstory to cover with this man)

[qm-vox]

Man Who Talk To God Have Difficult Life - Playing Clerics In D&D

(St. Nokta Kinslayer, whom you'll meet further down in the article. Art by the esteemed @druid-for-hire who quite frankly cannot be thanked enough!)

Guess who's back motherfuckers. When they ask how I died, tell them, still angry. After the paladin article I asked around about classes to cover "next" and got a lot of requests; rogue, warlock, sorcerer, so of course I have elected to be a good friend by losing my will to live for months on end and then doing none of those. Let's talk Clerics, shall we? I'll not lie to you, this is going to be an angrier article than the paladin one, in no small part because it's inevitably going to go into contentious ideas like alignment, fantasy religion, and others that the player base has been knife fighting about since mammoths still walked the Earth. There are going to be moments when I look y'all in the eyes and say with my metaphorical human mouth that the problem is you Doing It Wrong, and I can only ask that you hear me out. Not to assign you homework about my fuckin' cleric article or anything, but the one I previously did about The Many may be helpful here as well. There's going to be a bit of a focus on D&D 5e here, and I'll be frank about that: most people are playing 5e these days, and as I'll be arguing further down, Pathfinder's take on Clerics and more broadly on faith are a worthless poison that actively worsens the world.

This article's title is drawn from Small Gods by the esteemed Sir Professor Terry Pratchett. As always, credit goes to Afroakuma for teaching me a great deal of the examples I'm going to give, though citing specific sources are going to be difficult as many of the books in question have been out of print for decades and I am neither an academic nor a machine.

Now for the obligatory Content Warnings. We're looking at discussion of fantasy religion & comparisons to real-world religion, violence, discussions of atrocities such as torture, desecration of the dead, and destruction of culture, as well as traumatic deaths/backstories for the sample clerics at the end. As mentioned above, there is also going to be some alignment discourse. You have been warned; do as thou wilt.

Without further ado, let us begin with...

O Mighty Smiter - Clerics Through D&D's History

We begin the obligatory text wall.

Clerics have been here since the beginning. They were around back when "Elf" was a class, and while their history is complex it has, eternally, been colored by the bit where Cleric has an inherent identity problem. In many ways it is, as a class, too broad, so wide-open that getting something coherent out of it is an exercise in frustration or even futility. It'll be easier to talk about what Clerics aren't than what they are, and oh boy, will I. A brief note here: while Druid is going to come up in the context of 1e and 2e, and again a bit later when I start talking about priests (yeah, that's a separate conversation, we're gonna get there), this article is not otherwise dedicated to Druid. I'm gonna need a significant amount of whiskey for both me and my priestess before we god damn go there.

AD&D 1e and 2e: Deus Vult - Do the world a favor if you ever pass near Gary Gygax's grave: piss on it. Ol' Gary G rooted Cleric in his classic blend of obsession with medieval ideas and piss-poor research, invoking many myths about priests of the Crusades and applying them as a one-size-fits-all vision of war-clergy of Every God. He would personally run into problems with this in his own writing before he got out of the game, and rather quickly at that, as he tried to write faiths whose imagery and ideals did not fit the Crusader Priest ideal, but since he was, and I cannot stress this enough, a hack with all the morals and emotional intelligence of mustard gas, he never quite solved those problems for himself. I'll hop off my screed now, I just want this said up front, especially since it's the fundamental evil that chases Cleric to this day.

The O.G. Cleric was described as a melee combatant that took a close second-place to Fighter in that arena, with proficiency in heavy armor and a variety of useful weapons, though they were forbidden from using "edged weapons that spill blood" (there's those Crusader myths). Random fun fact, the very first incarnation of Cleric only had spells up to 7th level, but the level tables for their class went up to level 29 or so, and man, ain't that just wild. As your Cleric gained levels they also became more highly placed in the church of their god, eventually hitting High Priest and just kinda sitting there as they leveled up. Interesting note here: Clerics couldn't be Neutral (that is, not Lawful, Chaotic, Good, or Evil) back in the day, and instead anyone wanting to run a Neutral Cleric had to take a subclass you might have heard of by the name of Druid, which in turn eventually had to face other Druids in SINGLE COMBAT in order to level up past a certain point. Why? I don't know. Summon Gygax's ghost and ask him between rounds of spiritual torture. This original version of Cleric had Turn Undead, a feature that's been attached to almost all Clerics by some name or another in all of their incarnations, and boy, Turn Undead used to be fucking wild. Roll a dice, consult a table based on your result and your level, and end up Turning or Destroying a number of very specific kinds of undead. AD&D 2e would put "undead gods" on this list starting at 13th level or so, and let me tell you: this came up in published material more often than you might think. Last but not least, like most characters back in 1e and 2e, Clerics eventually got to run a building full of people. At first the Cleric attracted about 20-200 "fanatics" who would work for free and help them build a shrine (no word on how TF you feed and water these fanatics) but eventually was given the right to build a proper castle-temple and produce 1 silver per month per resident via "trade, taxes, tariffs". Ladies and gentlemen, D&D.

Aside from the aforementioned alterations to Turn Undead, AD&D 2e introduced a concept known as Spheres to Cleric casting. Now, stop me if you've heard this before: each god gave access to 1 or more Spheres, which were specific lists of spells that their Clerics had access to (fun fact, Paladin casting was "as Cleric of 9 levels lower", but only with access to specific Spheres). So if you worshiped, say, Lathander, you had access to Healing, Sun, Divination, and IIRC a couple of others, and that's it, that's the whole ticket. Now, you may remember Kits from the Paladin article, and Clerics did have some of that action, but more than that they had "specialty priests", a sort of even-more-hardcore version of this whole proto-Domain deal; a Specialty Priest had different class features in comparison to normal Cleric, and access to different or more Spheres, both of which were determined by their god. Each Specialty Priest was, in its way, its own separate subclass of Cleric and if you published a god back in the day you had to get one of these installed. Were they all good? No. Fuck no. God no. Are you kidding me? But they were often very distinctive.

This doesn't get talked about a lot, at least not until we hit Pathfinder, but Clerics have had codes of conduct like Paladins for as long as they've existed, sort of atomized across their various gods. The rules around these have always been vague, and rarely culturally enforced in the player communities, but they did and do exist. A cleric of Kelemvor raising a zombie has done a bit of a blasphemy; raising a ghoul or vampire probably entails divine retribution, a reduction in character level, or even the loss of their powers. Oh, and other gods are probably trying to court you since clearly you're looking for new management and a trained cleric is a resourced that's hard to pass up.

No version of Cleric has ever particularly had a strong identity, but this original version may have been the closest to having one...because it's bad. To the credit of 1e and 2e, the eventual installation of Nonweapon Proficiencies, later to become the Skills system, did let them be competent as actual like, priests? Cleric got access to the stuff needed to actually minister as a spiritual leader with some extra socked away to practice sacred arts related to their god (ex. bookbinding for a cleric of Denier) and maybe even some god damn hobbies too. But outside of the ever-more-niche & esoteric arena of specialty priests, themselves presented as particular fanatics, agents, or chosen ones, every cleric was a Crusader, and every god's clergy were war-priests. And that's weird, right? And so now we must move on to the demon that never dies.

D&D 3.5: The Word Of My God Is 'Begone' - Quick question, have you ever wanted to roleplay someone perceptive but otherwise deeply stupid and utterly incompetent to move unsupervised through human society, who is, nonetheless, OMNIPOTENT? Welcome to the 3.5 Cleric, one of THE casters of all time in the absolute Caster Supremacy Edition. I hope you came ready to hear casual mentions of mechanics that would make a Victorian occultist cry. If you go looking at the class page for Cleric you might notice there's both jack and shit there, and for my readers who got into D&D at 5e the following might be a bit of a shock: Cleric was one of the strongest classes in 3.5.

In terms of the actual mechanics related to Cleric in 3.5, Turn or Rebuke Undead and spontaneous casting were some of the big ones. Well, "big" ones; Turn Undead qua Turn Undead was actually kind of shit and would often just not actually like...turn...the undead, but the charges of Turn Undead a Cleric kept around could be used for many other options that permitted alternate spending, notably here to include Divine Metamagic. These alternate spends were better than using Turn Undead for its actual intended purpose more or less always, and Divine Metamagic (DMM) in particular was an unholy monstrosity that underlied a lot of Cleric's power later in 3.5's run, letting them customize their prepared spells on the fly without having to use up higher-level spell slots. Now, I really cannot stress this enough: Cleric was one of the most powerful classes in core alone, without adding any supplements. DMM and similar options made Cleric even stronger but they were very much gilding the lily, to be frank. "Hey Vox why are you saying this," you would not believe the number of ignorant pricks who made a literal moral crusade out of going to "core only" in 3.5 claiming it made for a better balanced game. The good version of 3.5 has never existed, destroy anyone who claims otherwise.

Where was I - spontaneous casting, yes. Now, Clerics were still prepared casters, they had X spell slots every day at very specific levels and had to pick specific spells to fill them. That is, if you want to cast create water more than once in a given day, you need to memorize create water more than once that day. However, Clerics could convert a spell of any level to either cure wounds or inflict wounds of the same level, depending on the alignment of the Cleric (Good Clerics Turn Undead and cure wounds, Evil Clerics Rebuke Undead and inflict wounds, and Neutral Clerics not otherwise restricted by their god get to pick one for their entire career). This gave 3.5 Cleric a lot of flexibility, very valuable flexibility in a game environment where casting a heal mid-combat was basically always the wrong move, but out-of-combat healing was still an invaluable resource. RIP to Evil Clerics though, inflict sucked ass.

Lastly, we have domains. Now, if you check through the domain list on the SRD you may notice that they are rather less defining than the 5e Domains, granting a single power apiece and a list of spells you get access to. Most gods in 3.5 granted access to 3+ Domains, and their Clerics got to pick 2; together, these are the "kind" of Cleric you are, the aspects of your god that you kinda embody which then shape your power. Clerics got special extra spell slots solely for Domain spells in addition to their usual progression, and could memorize these Domain spells in normal slots as well. 3.5's list of Domains was deep and wide to the point of self-parody, and the power that gave a player to customize their Cleric's aesthetic and mechanics could be immense. Sure, many Domains were much weaker than others (Magic Domain is bonkers and that asshole is in core) but ultimately every Domain is stapled to Cleric, and since Clerics don't learn spells, only memorize them, there's a floor as to how weak you can possibly be.

So, what are your restrictions on Cleric? Not many. Non-War Domain Clerics had a sort of mid list of weapon options, sure, but if you're not casting you're playing wrong already so who gives a shit. Heavy armor and full access to shields meant a lot of build flexibility as far as that goes, so no problems here. The biggest thing is that a Cleric needed to be, and remain, within one alignment "step" of their god, plus or minus any other specific restrictions. That is, a Cleric of Liira, who is Chaotic Good, must be Neutral Good, Chaotic Good, or Chaotic Neutral; becoming Lawful Good, True Neutral, Chaotic Evil, etc would result in losing all Cleric powers and being unable to take Cleric levels until they fixed their shit or found a new god. Strictly speaking, these Clerics could/would still Fall a la paladins if they sufficiently blasphemed against or angered their god, but in practice this sort of thing was just...not common.

This is the section where I would talk about other divine classes in 3.X but honestly they were all so god damn weird and specific that no comparison really could be made. Shugenja, for instance, just isn't cognate to Cleric. The closest thing is the Healer class, no points for guessing what their deal is, but the thing with Healer is they have more in common with paladin, so like. Cleric or bust baby, welcome to fucktown.

Which brings us back to what Cleric was like narratively, the answer to which is: confused. The thing is...Clerics have always, likely will always, want high Wisdom, which makes them perceptive, good at detecting lies, weirdly talented at handling animals, competent to navigate the wilderness, and also I just described a Disney Princess. The trouble is, nearly everything else is strictly secondary. Every caster wants and needs Constitution in 3.X so they can make those Concentration checks and also, you know, not die, so okay, you're perceptive and you can hold your liquor, but after that nothing else matters. On the one hand, this makes for a great deal of versatility in terms of your ability scores, but on the other hand Cleric had 2+Int skill points per level on the most dog shit skill list in the game so being a very smart Cleric rarely bought you anything. Higher Charisma could be cool, but hey, see that skill list? It's still shit, and if you aren't also buying Intelligence you quite literally can't afford to keep up the social skill tax. A true war-priest wants Dexterity so they can act before their enemies and command the battlefield but that's more or less all you buy out of Dexterity on Cleric so congratulations, you're an almighty quickdraw and also illiterate. "What about Strength," what about it.

I really cannot overstate the paralyzing nature of that skill list, because priests - which 3.5 wanted Clerics to be, which it thinks they are - need more of them than most people think. A proper spiritual leader needs to buy up Insight, Knowledge (Religion), Knowledge (Local), Knowledge (Nobility), and Persuasion at a minimum, and they sure do also want Intimidate and Perception. You get two of those. Two. Just two. If you buy up Intelligence after you eat your vegetables like a good player, you maybe get to buy four of those. And that's it, that's all you fucking get. Clerics are not competent to be priests, which is going to be true of them going forward from this edition on. Now, I'm painting with a relatively broad brush here, and there's definitely religions on Earth these days which did, or still do, separate out roles that might reasonably be called a priest & Cleric vs. those roles that are community leaders and interpreters of doctrine and law, but there's a shocking amount of "here's my vision of what priests are and do" that Cleric wants to be, and isn't, because of this whole fucking deal.

But while 3.5 was extremely blind to the bit where Clerics just were not what it thinks priests are any more, it was very much not blind to the terror and power of their spellcasting. A high-level cleric, in the narrative of any given setting, is a terrifying force - an army unto themselves, a one-woman political bloc whose existence is an implicit threat of violence on a civilizational scale. I didn't spill all that ink about the power and mechanics of Cleric up there for nothing; 3.5 was very interested in how those mechanics could manifest within the narrative, how they are inextricably bound to said narrative. Hell, in Expedition to Undermountain alone the backstory of the dungeon includes one non-relevant sect of Clerics who was, in-universe, trying to game the spell slot system, alongside another unrelated sect that the PCs trip over by accident and fight inside their half-constructed fortress of partially undead bone which they control via Rebuke Undead.

Lemme say that again just for emphasis: there's an adventure where an accidental encounter is a long siege through a half-animated evil fortress that can be controlled through pure divinity, which was invented because its builders, in-universe, were trying to optimize their power and create an advantage they could control but their enemies couldn't. And this is just my favorite example, it's hardly the only one. Even the fucking novels got in on this sort of thing. We all joke about how wizards have no rights, because they don't, but watch a Cleric hit level 7 or so and you'll realize quickly that they are becoming something to which mortal laws are more like polite suggestions. Nor is this necessarily solely the sign of greater favor and thus potentially restriction from their god; indeed, a Cleric has to bring things to the table themself, narratively speaking! Divine spellcasting is a real skillset that you get better at with practice and experience, and part of the reason higher level Clerics get so much attention from other gods - aside from the obvious "this person can solo an army and still go home in a mood to have sex with their wife" angle - is that a skilled Cleric is a rare resource worth stealing.

Overall, 3.5's vision of Cleric is perhaps the one that suffers most from Cleric's identity-draining lack of specificity. Its Clerics were powerful, but they were also largely all the same; they could change their spells every day, but that only really meant that your list of spells doesn't really matter beyond personal preference. Domains offered some customization, but they didn't go far enough, and indeed if they were to go far enough the all-consuming might of Cleric would only be even more flagrant. So let's return to the most honest edition of D&D, shall we?

D&D 4e: Healer Calls The Shots - There are a lot of reasons that D&D 4e was born dead, and a big one is that classes with healing abilities were labeled 'leaders'. This seems absurd these days, especially if you're into esports at all; the support player being the team leader has become accepted strategy in a variety of games, in no small part because one simply cannot win without them, and yet at the time the D&D fanbase - still in an awkward transitional period of nerd masculinity that I don't have the time or the PhD to write about - rebelled against this concept with fountaining violence. The "girlfriend classes", leaders? Absurd. Preposterous. Clearly Sir Dipshit the Fighter with no mental stats or applicable skills is the leader.

I'm not fucking bitter, you are.

So what was Cleric's deal, exactly? Cleric qua Cleric was a Leader, as mentioned before, that could primarily be built either as a scrappy melee type or a more hard-support implement caster. "What's an implement caster?" glad you asked; back in 4e you had to hold a casting implement to cast your spells, something like a rod, staff, wand, holy symbol, your mother's haunted skull, whatever, and these had specific mechanical effects that altered your abilities. Some classes, like Cleric, could also or instead use a weapon as their implement, but in practical terms the strict wealth-by-level guidelines meant you got one or the other and would build your stats accordingly. Keep this in your back pocket for later, it's going to come up again. Also for your back pocket for later: these implements were, well, implemented as part of 4e's item progression, and the expectation was that you would spend your available resources (in this case, gold/phantom gold, collectively Wealth By Level) on better implements that would make your abilities work more work-y. Limited wealth meant that while in theory you could have both a magic weapon and a magical implement, in practical terms you get one or the other 'cause there's other shit you gotta buy.

What Clerics did with these implements was sell healing and healing accessories. While 4e introduced the concept of Radiant damage (used there as especially good against fiends, undead, and other forces of evil) and Clerics did indeed have access to some of that as well as buff abilities, their main thing was being the ranged healer par excellence, able to heal or cause healing far in excess of their peers in the role such as Warlord. Here, then, we return to the throughline of the divine healer which stretches all the way back to fucking BECMI, and which modern audiences may recognize more readily as the JRPG archetype of the White Mage - itself rooted in BECMI again! This hobby is an ouroboros, I say, with love.

Joining Cleric here are a selection of other classes with divine powers who take on a similar conceptual space. I talked a bit about Invoker during the Paladin article so I'm not gonna go over them again (this shit is long enough as it is), so we're gonna talk about Warpriest and Runepriest.

Introduced in the Essentials line, Warpriest was - like most Essentials classes - a simplified take on Cleric meant to be more accessible to new players. It shifted just about everything towards Wisdom in terms of writing one's character. Warpriests were these tanky all-around characters who gave up some of Cleric's team support for better attacks, and notably did not select powers on level-up, but rather got a progression based on their Domain. Readers familiar with D&D 5e might see some similarities here.

Runepriest, on the other hand, was a weird freak of a Defender whose thing was projecting offensive or defensive Auras that they could amplify with their support abilities and swap out every time they attacked. Their primary stat was Strength, drawing on a similar idea to the later revised 5e Barbarian or, perhaps more familiar to y'all, Beast incantations in Elden Ring. Very much not simplified, Runepriest offered some initial build diversity but didn't get a lot of support as the gameline continued, ironically ending up as very limited despite seeming intentions of breadth.

Narratively, these classes were somewhere in the range of 'village preacher with a hidden badass streak' to 'war missionary' to 'literal thug for the literal god of literal fascism'. 4e here stands out for being the first edition to acknowledge that a Cleric is not really a priest as such, and is much more like...a chosen one, a conception that very much fit well into 4e's idea that adventurers are inherently freaks who do things no sane person would ever consider. If you're thinking, "gee that sounds odd, why wouldn't there be like Clerics just existing inside cities", I point you at works like Dungeon Meshi who advance this same idea. Fundamentally, the skills one uses to break into ancient tombs full of undead are not skills you develop while working as a spiritual leader or a bureaucrat or even as a military officer. Adventuring is not a career you get into because your life is going well.

Of course, as mentioned, D&D 4e was born dead, so now we need to talk about the demon that ate its corpse and was, for a time, the unquestioned king of the TTRPG space by dint of its treachery and malice.

Pathfinder: Deus Vult Part II: World Holy War - Keep Pathfinder in your back pocket next to casting implements, they're gonna star in the religion section later as I express a fundamental anger that borders on inhuman rage. You have no earthly idea just how much I'm cutting out of this section alone considering that like many, I was there for Pathfinder during the beta and thus got in on the ground floor of a great deal of incompetence, malice, cruelty, outright betrayal, unexamined double-think, and egotistical bullshit.

That said, let's actually talk about Cleric.

In terms of Cleric qua Cleric, you may be noticing that the table there looks a lot like 3.5's Cleric, and indeed in many ways they're pretty similar. The biggest immediate difference is the addition of Channel Energy, which lets a Cleric become a healing bomb (or harm undead bomb, or vice versa) a certain number of times per day linked to their Charisma modifier. This is in addition to spontaneous casting, so it's a strict addition; further, it being a 30-foot burst means a channeled heal might actually be worth your Standard Action at some point in your career. It won't be, but it might. Additionally, Pathfinder Clerics are proficient in the Favored Weapon of their god by default (more on this later), which - by contrast - was often much harder to access in 3.5.

Like D&D 3.5, Pathfinder has a dizzying array of Domains to go with a default setting packed full of gods (more on this in the religion section later), ranging from things as broad as 'all magic ever' to things as embarrassingly specific as 'ambushes as laid by kobolds specifically'. Seriously, look at this list, it's absurd. And while by sheer numbers and specificity it's roughly equivalent with 3.5, I'm not about to claim 3.5 has the high road here, Clerics in Pathfinder get more abilities from their Domains and thus your choice of Domain and/or Subdomain is far more important to your Cleric than it ever was in PF's parent game.

Indeed, option paralysis is going to be the name of the game here. Clerics in Pathfinder, in addition to Domain and Subdomain and their choice of god, also get to pick out variants on the Channeling ability that I talked about and, like all Pathfinder classes, have access to a dizzying array of Archetypes. These Archetypes in turn range in scope and concept from variations on how one has trained as a Cleric (such as Crusader, keep that name in mind for later) to like, race essentialism as class features such as Fiendish Vessel. Sit on that statement for a bit. Really internalize it.

Now, while the rules for Pathfinder give provisions for older versions of Clerics such as Clerics of ideals, Planar Clerics, etc, in practice Pathfinder is very much married to its one-and-only setting, Golarion, and to its particular vision of Clerics as the dedicated priests of a single god. This is a difficult vision to accomplish, as they still aren't competent to be priests, but it's also one that adds another layer of information a player has to juggle, as Golarion makes a much bigger and yet somehow much smaller deal about Clerics falling and losing their powers; each of its gods has a published code of conduct, Obediences you can perform for mechanical benefits, and sometimes even exclusive spells. I said I was gonna cut my beefs with Paizo out of this section but I really cannot resist just one: this is from the creators who made their first bones by arguing that mechanical bloat was the cardinal sin of 3.5 and advertised a return to the purity of Core. It would be funny if it weren't so fucking infuriating. If you can't hack it as a Cleric of your god, you lose your powers until you either start hacking it, or find a new god that agrees better with your current behavior, and those gods are very much in the market to hire.

In addition to Clerics as the hypothetical main priests (both as PCs and NPCs), Pathfinder introduces Inquisitors, Oracles, and Warpriests and we're gonna have to talk about all of them so I hope you weren't doing anything else with your day. Let's start with Inquisitors. Meant to be to Cleric what Ranger is to druid, Inquisitor is a wildly revealing take on how Paizo thinks about religion and ethics. To wit:

"Grim and determined, the inquisitor roots out enemies of the faith, using trickery and guile when righteousness and purity is not enough. Although inquisitors are dedicated to a deity, they are above many of the normal rules and conventions of the church. They answer to their deity and their own sense of justice alone, and are willing to take extreme measures to meet their goals. Role: Inquisitors tend to move from place to place, chasing down enemies and researching emerging threats. As a result, they often travel with others, if for no other reason than to mask their presence. Inquisitors work with members of their faith whenever possible, but even such allies are not above suspicion."

James Jacobs would like to tell you, with a straight face, that this is a normal and expected way to engage with religion, to think about religion, and that Inquisitors as presented here can be of any alignment and serve any god, all of whom will keep them around on purpose. In a related story, James Jacobs is a sniveling wretch. In another related story, the aesthetics and proficiencies of Inquisitor are very much like, the Hugh Jackman Van Helsing. I do not say this as an insult to either Inquisitor or to Mister Van Helsing, his aesthetics slap, but do keep that in mind for what I'm gonna say later.

Mechanically, Inquisitor drops a lot of control and damage, gleefully sacrificing most of the support a Cleric offers in favor of singling out particular targets and persecuting them to death. They also get a surprising amount of out-of-combat utility, adding their Wisdom modifier to Knowledge checks to identify "monsters" ("hey what's a monster" good FUCKING question), gaining bonuses to tracking like a Ranger, and adding a FAT bonus to Sense Motive (this becomes Insight in 5e) & Intimidate checks. Their combat style is a mix of hard control spells and self-buffs to damage so they can sandpaper their enemies to death; very functional, but also very much a particular vision of a holy warrior. And lest we leave this unsaid, Inquisitor spells were very much concerned with rooting out "heresy", heterodoxy, and punishing "sinners" within their own faiths, which is a wild-ass statement when you remember, again, that they can follow any god. You wanna tell me the god of revolutions runs secret police whose job it is to murder heretics? You wanna tell me that, James Jacobs? That's what you're telling me? Fucksake. Adding to this is that while Inquisitors can take Domains, they more commonly take bespoke Inquisitions that, well, make them better at being the secret police. You know how the god of the harvest runs the Grain Gestapo and they're the good guys somehow? Like that.

This, however, is where I drop the other shoe. Look at Inquisitor's skill list. Look at their skills per level. Are you seeing what I'm seeing? They're competent to serve as spiritual leaders, indeed, infinitely more competent to do so than either Cleric or Warpriest are or ever will be. The rest of their abilities make that idea just a little bit absurd, but if you don't mind every local village priest being an apprentice serial killer on their off hours Inquisitor is the only divine class that can do the job. The only one. There are no others. The next-closest candidates are fucking Bard and Rogue.

Which brings us to Warpriest, I think. I will not mince words here: Warpriest fucking sucks. Pitched as one of the many so-called "hybrid classes", Warpriest's parent classes are Fighter and Cleric, and it really got the worst end of both. Cleric is cracked enough that even with 6th level casting Warpriest evens out to doing fine, but my fucking god. Warpriests get some minor buffs to their weapons and armor, allowing them to customize those items and granting a phantom buff to the budget they can assign to them, as well as access to Blessings, their particular spin on Domains. These are good ways to extend their spellcasting but are, essentially, equivalent to a secondary pool of spells and buffs; likewise, their Fervor ability is a pool of healing/harming in theory, but in practice you burn Fervor to self-buff as a Swift action (Bonus Action for you 5e folks) or you're doing it wrong. The problem here is that Warpriest is just...worse Cleric. The phantom buffs to their weapons and armor, as well as their pool of bonus Combat feats, do not make up for the bit where they swing less accurately, less often, than an equal level Fighter, Paladin, Ranger, etc. You're casting or you're failing, and if you're already a hard caster, you're a Cleric - and Clerics, y'know, are already war-priests.

Oracle is the weird one out of this list. A spontaneous and Charisma-based divine caster, Oracle stands out for having a more limited list of spells that they get to use more often, and for having flexibility with their use of Metamagic feats the way a Sorcerer does. "What if I don't want to use Metamagic feats," I'm afraid you'll need to go fuck yourself, this is what you're doing. Oracle was an instant smash-hit with the player base of Pathfinder for its strong aesthetics and customization; where most Clerics are essentially the same with minor differences, every Oracle is, in some way, different. In particular, each Oracle has a Curse which makes them like, literally & textually disabled in some way but also grants them power, ranging from "you're just deaf, that's it that's the curse" to "you've been infested by an alien hive-mind from literal space, good luck fucker", and also pursues a Mystery that gives them themed abilities and further customizes their spell list. Unfortunately this is still a Paizo class; in terms of the actual mechanics, most Curses are essentially meaningless, with a rare few either being so bad that they're unpickable or so good that you kinda have to justify why you didn't take them (Deafened is the latter, incidentally) and most just being nothingburgers that matter not at all.

Now, notable here before I talk about Mysteries is that Oracle, like Cleric, is living that 3/4th base attack bonus life and can natively wear up to medium armor. Unlike Cleric they are not natively proficient with their god's Favored Weapon but otherwise they're fronting as a gish (spellblade for you youngbloods, a character that mixes magic and melee). The thing is, while that 3/4 attack bonus is great for spells that make attack rolls - here Oracle is handily beating contenders like Wizard or Sorcerer in terms of accuracy - they are, you know, ninth-level casters. The correct move for your turn is "I cast a spell". There are not exceptions to this. In an extremely related story, most Mysteries are full of not-spell things to do with the actions you would normally use to cast spells, and while some of them - such as the endless parade of ways to boost your Armor Class - replace certain spells, essentially saving you a slot, many of them are just kinda...weak blasts or control abilities that don't meaningfully compete with, again, "I cast a spell". And like, the flip side of your choice of Mystery often not mattering is that you're free to pick something that seems thematic to you, but riddle me this: if you never use the abilities you pick up, does it matter that you have them?

There's some obvious winners in Mysteries, as there always is. Lore and Time are cracked as hell, and you can get away with something like Metal that has mostly passive abilities, but here we need to talk a bit about the theme and flavor of Oracle. Paizo sold the class on the idea of mysterious connections to the divine, a sort of divine mirror to their Witch class whose associations with the otherworldly are potentially unknown to them and move them without their consent. They then immediately abandoned this faster than my father abandoned me; every published Oracle is the Oracle of one god in particular, Mysteries are associated with gods the way Domains are, and this means that in all ways Oracle is a Cleric who can get laid. I am, perhaps, disproportionately angry about this, both on a professional level (lying to your readers is a bit of a dick move) and on a personal one (I wanted the Oracle they sold and did not receive it). And that's...a bit of a let-down, right? Paladins are already god-locked in Pathfinder too, so at this point Oracle, while having strong imagery, is not meaningfully different from its peers in a way that you can really latch onto. I dunno. It's a waste, y'know?

Overall, Paizo's vision of its divine classes is not able to be separated from its vision of religion as a zero-sum holy war in which everyone is desperate for converts, no one trusts anyone else, and rooting out one's own flock for heretics and heterodoxy is considered normal and morally acceptable behavior. Paizo deadass thinks the Spanish Inquisition are the good guys, if not literally, then in spirit, and that is, not to put too fine a point on it, disgusting. Mechanical innovations are present here, but to be frank the signal-to-noise ratio is awful, and it's very much not worth the effort to pillage their work for the few good ideas that have managed to survive.

Which brings us, at long last, to:

D&D 5e: The Power of God And Anime On My Side - I apologize for nothing and I will do this again.

So, right here up front, before I talk about anything else, anything else at all, Fifth Edition Clerics are, for the first time, both not priests and not trying to be priests. To quote Pages 56-57 of the 2014 Player's Handbook: "Not every acolyte or officiant at a temple or shrine is a cleric. Some priests are called to a simple life of temple service, carrying out their gods' will through prayer and sacrifice, not by magic and strength of arms. In some cities, preisthood amounts to a political office, viewed as a stepping stone to higher positions of authority and involving no communion with a god at all. True clerics are rare in most hierarchies.

When a cleric takes up an adventuring life, it is usually because his or her god demands it. Pursuing the goals of the gods often involves braving dangers beyond the walls of civilization, smiting evil or seeking holy relics in ancient tombs. Many clerics are also expected to protect their deities' worshippers, which can mean fighting rampaging orcs, negotiating peace between warring nations, or sealing a portal that would allow a demon prince to enter the world.

Most adventuring clerics maintain some connection to established temples and orders of their faiths. A temple might ask for a cleric's aid, or a high priest might be in a position to demand it."

Merciful fucking Illmater, we made it y'all. Not that the player base, by and large, has noticed; many people continue to play clerics as priests, to think of all clerics as priests and spiritual leaders, and to expect them to be such. And they are not priests. As I've argued already they've never been priests, but 5e does have a firm vision of Clerics - they're shonen protagonists. The chosen many, as it were, and that vision is clearer and more thematic than Cleric has been since mammoths still walked the Earth. Y'all are doing this wrong. Please stop.

Anyway, mechanics! The more things change, the more they stay the same; Cleric still has a dog shit skill list, they're still a mid-armored all-rounder with anti-undead features, they're still pretty good at resisting mind control. The Optimal Cleric(tm) is rocking high Wis and Dex so they can act first and get off their powerful control spells, which in turn implies light armor in an unusual first for D&D, but I'll be real with you: Cleric has one of the best spell lists in the game, as long as your Wisdom is high you can do whatever you want and never be punished for it. Notable here in comparison to previous editions are the flexibility of the Cleric's spell slots in 5e - you can cast any spell you have prepared out of your slots rather than locking 1 spell to 1 slot - and Ritual Casting, a feature most people associate with Wizards but which is very, very much available to Cleric and gives them similar out-of-combat utility. Turn Undead and Destroy Undead return, both more functional than they've been in decades, and are now linked to rests of any kind and also used to charge Domain features. "What about Divine Intervention -" what the fuck about it.

Which brings us to Domains. And the thing about Domains is there's still a lot of them in the context of 5e; the Player's Handbook alone published seven of them, and just about every player-oriented book after that had 1-2 more, sometimes as many as three. Cleric is feasting, and while most of the food is decidedly mid it still doesn't matter because it is, again, stapled to Cleric. Like I could wax poetic, at some considerable length, about why Domains like War, Trickery, or Grave are bad options, but y'know, the thing is, they're still fucking Clerics, they'd be doing fine with no Domain at all. I'm not gonna go into a massive breakdown of the pros and cons of any given Domain, but in general you'll have the most harmonious time with Domains that don't expect you to be spending your actions doing things that aren't casting spells. War, for instance, is gonna be a let-down because it really wants you to be making weapon attacks and you do not have the tools to make that remotely worth it; conversely, Grave also sucks, but it mostly fills in actions that your spells can't or won't, so you'll have a much smoother time playing Grave. For those wondering, the hands-down winners of the Domain list are Knowledge, Life, Light, and Tempest, though an extremely dishonorable shout-out goes to Order as a control & utility pick that is completely unaware of its own existence as a cosmic fucking horror story. See the sample Clerics below for that shit.

Now, remember when I told you to keep implements in your back pocket? 5e also has them, but they're introduced a bit...unevenly. Magical items do exist that do what magic implements used to do, namely, boost your spell DCs and spell attack modifiers - the caster equivalent of a magical weapon - but not many were ever published, and the ones that were are mainly for arcane casters. Fans of Critical Role may be recognizing items like the Spire of Conflux or the Hand Cone of Clarity as taking this role (and indeed quite a bit of Mercer's world and mechanics draws influence from D&D 4e), while players of Baldur's Gate 3 are pointing at the screen and naming some of their favorite caster-focused shields, gloves, and helmets right now. Any of these are a pretty neat way to engage on this idea as long as you keep things under control (you don't wanna exceed a total of like, +3/+3 here), but you as the DM, or you and your DM if you're a player, can and will be making this shit up yourself for your Cleric.

So, what's 5e's vision of Clerics, narratively? Well...see, the thing is, the text I quoted above is mainly it. D&D 5e is remarkably lore-light on the player-facing end, instead investing a lot of its lore writing in wild reworks of various cultures such as drow or gnolls, which I will not comment on because I do need to end this article at some point and I'm still in the fucking context section. There's a soft sympathy towards the position that 5e's Clerics, as they level, are holier Clerics, rather than more skilled Clerics (again, see above), but even that is a very tepidly held position, one which in novel writing and related media is far from consistent or primary. That said, I couldn't walk out of this section with a straight face if I didn't talk about the WILD fucking Domain assignments 5e makes for its gods, which in some cases is an artifact of many more specific Domains no longer existing, but in other cases appears to be the product of some of the most ignorant Protestant bullshit you can possibly imagine when thinking of the gods in question. Again, see the existence and flavor of the Order Domain as an example here, but like, in what fucking universe is Helm associated with the Light Domain? Since when was Wee Jas a Grave Domain kinda goddess? Not to hype this up twice in two paragraphs, but you will notice when we get there that I have chosen to ignore this whole affair for many of the upcoming sample Clerics and when I do there'll be some discussion about it. I do these things to myself and I really wish I didn't but this is who I am as a person now.

Going to the Land Of Context is like going to the Underworld, it takes you three days no matter how fast you travel. But at long last we have arrived, and we can conduct the actual fucking article. May Oghma pity me, for I myself will not.

Gotta Go, The People In The Important Pajamas Are Mad - Clerics At Your Table

Before I say anything else, that headline is not my original line but I cannot for the LIFE of me remember what early aughts webcomic it's from. I am likely misquoting it but if anyone on this hellsite recognizes it and can point me back to it for a proper credit I will be quite grateful & also get the citation in.

The following section is meant to help you in fleshing out a Cleric concept to play or even to use as an NPC. While some of this advice is edition-agnostic and indeed when we get to the religion section we're gonna return to some Takes Through The Editions and I will be very sad and also angry, a great deal of it will be slanted towards 5e because, let's face it, that's what people are playing. Make of this what you will. Also covered here will be same-paging (again), Clerics & alignment, and common pitfalls of playing Clerics (and suggestions of how to avoid them). So, without further ado:

Same Paging - In Which I Blow The Meta Joke About This Being In Any Class Article I Do Early Like A Damn Fool

Same-paging is the practice of talking to your group in a way that helps set mutual expectations, and it’s something every RPG group should strive to do regardless of the system they’re playing in. You’ve probably done this to an extent before, as part of being pitched a game (”We’re going to do a dungeon crawl through the deadly halls of Undermountain”), during character creation, and the like. If this opener to the section sounds familiar, it's because I copy-pasted it from my last class article and there's nothing you can do to stop me. In the specific case of Cleric, the elephant in the room you need to explicitly talk about and not just assume shit about is the sort of relationship you're looking to develop between your character and their god(s) and, y'know, any themes or ideas about spirituality that you explicitly would like to see included or, conversely, very much need to not see included. We're gonna get into it more in the religion section later but man it truly does fucking blow chunks if you're looking to have, say, a serious exploration of your character's faith and its relationship to society, but the rest of your group is on some Reddit Atheist shit, right? Hell, it's not even pleasant if you unexpectedly end up doing the inverse. In addition to this, if you're looking to explore ethical or doctrinal dilemmas (i.e. if you're really into the idea of playing a Cleric of Eldath as a dedicated pacifist, or dig into the conflicts that might arise between the Orders of Denier who preserve knowledge vs. some kinda magical infohazard), this is the time to say it and chew it over with your group. And again, as long as everyone's having fun and not hurting someone else any way you play it is fine - a kick-in-the-door style campaign is a perfectly fun campaign to have. The point is to set expectations up front, not to like, ensure that the group is playing in the one ordained way to play. Which is bold words considering how many times in this article up to this point I've deadass accused people of playing wrong, but I do mean it. I contain multitudes.

One Day, A Tortoise Will Learn To Fly - Making Your Cleric

The Pratchett quotes will continue until morale improves.

Once you and your group have communicated your expectations to each other, it’s finally time to start sketching out your concept! There are many ways to do this, though the two primary schools are mechanics-first and narrative-first. That is to say, opening up with something like "Using the Knowledge Domain to pick up proficiencies on the fly sounds fun to me," works out great, as does opening up with something like, "My Cleric learned her ex-wife was literally a goddess about three weeks ago and is having a wild one about it." However, this article is about to be long enough already without me trying to write a mechanical guide to 5e Cleric, let alone any other Cleric, so we're gonna focus on the narrative approach. If you need a mechanical guide, I promise you that the player base of whatever edition you're into has made several and that the author of each one has some kind of passionate beef with the authors of all of the others. Consider the following questions for your Cleric:

Why Did You Become A Cleric? To be a Cleric is to be of the chosen many; inherently, you're gonna be a bit weird. That weirdness may be because of the conflict between your perceived social station vs. who you are as a person (to wit, people might expect a Cleric of Oghma in the Forgotten Realms to be a stuffy scholar and be surprised when he shows up to strongman competitions or turns out to be one of the Sword Coast's most prolific authors of erotica), but in all honesty odds are much higher that you're a freak. Incredible divine power doesn't erase the bit where adventuring is not a career one takes up because one's life is going well. That said, just because you're a chosen one doesn't mean you didn't also get to choose. Did your Cleric pursue Clerichood for some reason, and if so, why seek that power? If they didn't seek it out on purpose, how do they feel about this change in their relationship to divinity and the burgeoning power within them? This is where you can get both characterization and plot hooks; a Cleric forged when she swore herself to the Red Knight in a desperate attempt to defend her farm from bandits is a very different beast from one who sought power and station from Bahamut so they could enact reforms in their society. Look for connections to the game world and reasons to care about it.

How Did You Learn? There's some obvious things to answer here - your Cleric learned how to wear up to Medium armor, the proper use of shields, and basic combat techniques - but the more interesting question to dig into is your spells. D&D has actually had many different schools of thought here, some of them co-existing or competing with each other. D&D 5e, as mentioned above, breaks on the idea that a higher-level Cleric is a holier Cleric, and that their casting is an almost intuitive process of seeking intercession or requesting miracles in advance in case they need them. Many people play their Clerics this way, but here I will once again climb atop my mountain of old-ass lore and offer an alternative: divine spellcasting as a skill you actually have to learn and practice. In this school of thought, a higher level Cleric is a more practiced and powerful Cleric, and is intrinsically attractive to "rival" deities not simply because they are a great champion of their own but because they are a potent resource. For those in the audience wondering how this makes any fucking sense, I will point out, gently, that this idea is actually still prevalent in Japanese media and its White Mage archetypes, as well as in popular videogames like Elden Ring. These Clerics learn spells from somewhere, and the "somewhere" has a broad variety of answers; they unlock the secrets of their rites through cryptotheology, they experience divine revelation, their god teaches them personally, they're mentored by more experienced Clerics. Indeed, Ms. Jester Lavorre of Critical Role fame engages on her divine casting in this mode, often expressing that the Traveler has been telling her about new spells or teaching them to her personally, and while this is set up as something suspicious about the Traveler in her story it's actually a quite storied idea of Being A Cleric with deep roots in many D&D settings. Regardless of your choice here, though, consider this next question:

How Do You Relate To Your Power? This is another arena with a lot of unquestioned ideas that do not necessarily like, relate to how Clerics have been historically or even what they could be if we took only 5e as gospel. In most cases, people take a very Protestant slant to their Cleric; their spells and powers are divine gifts which can and should be revoked at the whim of their god, who is in turn a being of higher morality who intrinsically knows better. And like, I'ma get into this in the religion section here in a bit, but this is a wild idea when you actually look at the gods in question, let alone when you remember that to be a Cleric is to build a relationship with one's deity. Pious service as thought of by Christians is a way to relate to your deity, sure, and there's even some hanging around that are into it (Torm, f'rinstance), but like, Waukeen would find such a relationship distasteful, would say to such a cleric, "Girl, you're selling yourself short." So put some real thought into this, and you may come to surprising answers for your Cleric. Do they see their divine power as bringing forth the holiness intrinsic to the world? As an outflowing of their own passions and obsessions? Could your Cleric read as a grim cynic to others because they view their spells as not fundamentally different from arcane magic, and caution sternly that power is power regardless of source? Are they gifts from the world of wonder and horror, which anyone could use if they knew the right way of seeing? Your Cleric's abilities are not like a second layer on top of their personality, they're part and parcel of who they are as a person; give it consideration.

What Are Your Values? Hear me out; this seems like an obvious question, something every character should ask, but here I'm going to introduce an argument that I'll elaborate on later - gods in D&D are, essentially, worldviews. And while the worldview embodied by your Cleric's god(s) is obviously the one most important to them - they did become a wholeass Cleric about it - D&D has some specific-ass gods. A Cleric of like, Azuth (god of spells, patron of wizards) is not getting a party line about a whole lot of basic ethics and kinda has to figure that shit out for himself. So ask yourself not just who your Cleric believes in, but what, and how this might relate to their faith or grow from who they are as a person. A Cleric who is the fourth child of a noble house (kicked out to a life of adventure because they ain't inheriting shit) may well have opinions about noblesse oblige, politics, and power that have absolutely nothing to do with their chosen god; likewise, D&D has a rich tradition of Clerics of fairly evil gods such as Auril, Loviatar, or Umberlee who are out here selling the wonders those dark powers have on offer because they genuinely believe in helping people or, you know, have Standards, the thing professionals are supposed to have. A frontier Cleric may well have opinions, for better or worse (traditionally worse, D&D has a long history of being friendly to empire) about the colonial project they're a part of, or a Cleric up from the Underdark might be spending her free time in academic knife fights defending the beauty and splendor of her home's ecology. Your Cleric is a real person in a real reality, not an extension of her god; that's the kind of thing that gives a person some fucking opinions, no?

What's Your Relationship To Your God(s) Like? And in a related story, this point! Unless something really odd is going on, your Cleric is not a divine being free from mortal needs or the burdens of history; it therefore follows that she is not about to be a perfect incarnation of her god(s) ideals. That's, y'know, the neat bonus you get for having an afterlife. Let's leave alone for a moment that there is a pretty strong possibility that your Cleric is so uneducated and/or fucking stupid that they don't know the textual dogma of their own faith (though please, do not forget this, it's one of the funniest things about Cleric); the ideals of that faith, and of their god in particular, are something they are probably growing into. This really should not be a controversial take, not after Critical Role blew the fuck up with the likes of Caduceus Clay and his spiritual journey in the name of the Wildmother, but you might be surprised. It is, genuinely, okay if your Cleric is kinda bad at following their god(s) in some ways! Maybe even many ways! A dwarf Cleric who's out adventuring instead of at home using their magic to help their clan is already failing at least one major ideal of the dwarven pantheon, for instance. Clerics and even priests of Sune Firehair (goddess of art and beauty, a chaotic and capricious foe of evil whose mantle is the splendor of the living world) have a partly-deserved reputation as shallow hedonists who reify existing beauty standards; the entire faith of Lathander has a serial inquisition problem that they haven't stopped having an ongoing civil war about since the fucking Dawn Cataclysm. So how does your Cleric see the divine ideals to which they are meant to aspire? Is their deity their teacher and guide? A stern master to be obeyed? A distant and dazzling figure almost disconnected from matters of dogma in the Cleric's mind? Their literal actual lover? There can be many answers here, and while I don't want to downplay the delicious angst of a well-done "I'm a bad worshipper of my god and I'm guilty about it" arc...well, the signal-to-noise ratio there is real bad, let's say. More on this in a later section.

Hobbies? Pick some. I really should not have to be saying this and honestly it's a dependent consideration with the whole 'what are your values' thing but if I see one more Cleric whose entire life and job is religious service with no interests outside of it I'm going to drop the moon on Europe and whatever happens will happen. Fucksake, this isn't even a 'many D&D players are culturally Christian' thing, this is just lazy writing and historical illiteracy. Did you think all those monasteries and temples in like, Redwall and such making beer or growing crops was just the authors having a fuckin' laugh? Come on.

Playing With The Big Boys Now - Cleric Aesthetics

You may be remembering this section as where the Paladin article talked a bit about refluffing. This is...sort of like that. As one of D&D's full casters, Cleric is deep in its particular idiosyncrasies, and using the Cleric kit to make a non-Cleric thing, while possible, is still going to have a...a particular shape, let's call it. If, for instance, your setting doesn't have any separation of arcane and divine magic & "clerics" are just a different school of magical study, you're probably fine. If you're trying to do a fully technological setting where "spells" are high-tech gadgets, you're gonna run into a bigger set of problems much faster. All of that said, though, there's still quite a bit to talk about in terms of bringing out unique flavor for your Cleric, some of which are habits that the 5e player base has already rushed ahead to hold up as good practice and others which are rarely thought explicitly about. I do hope you came ready to learn about obscure TTRPG audience drama that has never wholly died out. Let's start with the easy one first, shall we?

Spell Aesthetics - I'll not lie to you, I should probably be angrier about this topic but the convoluted history of the player base's relationship to "what do your spells look like?" is too fascinating for me to really build up the fury it deserves. There has been, indeed, in some senses still is a shockingly vitriolic argument within D&D circles about whether or not all spells of the same name look the same, and while I am vastly simplifying the two perspectives generally break down into "they need to look the same so that they are identifiable for balance reasons" vs. "having your own personal brand is sick as hell". The latter has traditionally won by default in terms of the overall body of D&D's work, especially in the spaces defined by the novel-writing, though the influence of CRPGs like Neverwinter Nights who break on the side of spells looking the same for everyone (for obvious reasons) shouldn't be downplayed. D&D 3.5 had a Feat for this that makes your spells a little harder for people to recognize via the Spellcraft skill but mostly just gives you absolute reign to customize the look of your casting; Pathfinder, by contrast, doesn't want you customizing jack shit (and indeed late in its run also edited Silent Spell and Still Spell so that your casting of spells is still detectable to the naked eye, cowards that they are). That said, and to the surprise of absolutely fucking nobody, I break very strongly on the side of "having your own personal brand is sick as hell", as do many of the major works of modern 5e, here to very much include Critical Role but also many other actual plays such as Dice Shame or Planet Arcana.

So, what goes into deciding what your spells are like? First things first, the mechanics; an aesthetic that doesn't do what the spell does, or have the components the spell uses, is right out. It's one thing if your group handwaves certain ideas for ease of play or because they don't interest y'all (see here the common practice of replacing expensive material components with just subtracting the gold from your sheet when you cast), but like, your guiding bolt fires Something that requires an attack roll, it deals Radiant damage, and it causes some kind of light that clings to an opponent. Verbal components, mechanically, must be spoken in a clear voice. Somatic components...exist. To be perfectly honest no one has had a clear idea of what Somatic components are ever aside from a vague idea that they require your hands (this is mechanically explicit in 4e & 5e) and even then there's exceptions, dishonorable shout-out to the scene in War of the Spider Queen where a wizard casts with his fucking feet. Notable here is that casters in 3.5 through 5e can replace non-expensive material components with a focus/implement/character feat, such as a staff, orb, wand, crystal, or in the case of Clerics, their holy symbol; these implements are touched, invoked, involved in the somatic components, or otherwise pretty obvious. The next bit of this is gonna be all about selecting your own aesthetics but I do want to reiterate first something I have said before and will continue saying over and over and over and over and over and over and over again: in any conflict between the narrative and the mechanics, the mechanics win by default. This is because they are the tools with which you actually engage with the game world. When your Cleric of Umberlee casts flame strike, there is some manner of dealing Fire damage involved. Maybe it's boiling sea water, maybe you hit a motherfucker with an underwater volcano, maybe you just go "the classic burning column of fire is fine", but you can't bitch slap people with that spell and then say it's actually the cold ocean depths. Alright? Alright.

So when you're looking at "what do my spells look like" there's three places I like to interrogate. The first and most obvious is, what's the deal with my god? This can be a pretty broad thing to look at; gods are worldviews, and those can be interpreted very differently. Not to return to a super famous example here or anything, but when your friend and mine Caduceus Clay (Critical Role) has spiritual guardians that look like swarms of beetles and manifests his damage spells as aspects of decay, another Cleric of the Wildmother may well lean into vines and trees, or their guiding bolt might appear as hurling a whole-ass rhino at your face that then explodes into light. Here, then, we roll into the second question: what domain is your Cleric? This is the aspect of your god or your faith that you're the closest to, which is dearest to your heart, and will therefore manifest in the act of spellcasting - which in turn is derived from your relationship with the divine. A War Domain Cleric of say, Eilistraee, may well emphasize the martial prowess of that goddess in their spells, manifesting spiritual armor, blades of moonlight, mighty shields, numinous warriors, while a Twilight Domain Cleric of the same goddess is gonna be all in on the moon and stars, the sky at night, crescents, and the like.

Lastly there's the physical action of spellcasting to consider, and here I would like to hasten to point something out. While it is common practice to simply use one's holy symbol as a divine focus, it is not required. Many faiths on Earth have holy symbols or something cognate to them, but there are also many that do not, and for those looking to explore a faith in a D&D god which doesn't practice that sorta thing Clerics are, like all casters, perfectly empowered to use a Component Pouch and cast spells in a more formal, ritualistic fashion than the typical image of calling out to one's god and seemingly producing a miracle without actually casting a spell (but more on this in a bit). Is your Cleric a student of divine magic, going through carefully-practiced forms? Are they intuiting their way through spellcasting, a razor's width away from being something like a Sorcerer? An almost saintly figure, whose spells appear for all the world as miracles (and if they are how do you square that with the dumb plans the average adventuring party engages with)? Do they speak their spells in a booming voice, announcing the presence of the divine? Are the rites they chant almost business-like, a concession to the needs of the casting but perhaps not seen as properly holy or reverent? What language are you casting in? Give it some thought.

Turn Undead & Other Features - Surprise bitches, there's old-ass lore about this too. While all Clerics can Turn Undead no matter how little sense it makes (look my in my lich eyes: what the fuck does Azuth care about undead?) and this is for Doylist reasons of legacy design, how they've gone about doing so and why have multiple interpretations. Way back in AD&D 2e this was something you were encouraged to think about and design for your cleric (see: The Complete Cleric's Handbook & The Complete Paladin's Handbook), both in terms of the physical action and what the power looks like. The classic wave-of-radiating-force look, displayed in Baldur's Gate 3 and used extensively in Critical Role, is indeed an old one with a lot of pedigree, associated with Clerics of sun deities such as Pelor or Lathander, but also with militant deities like the Red Knight, Bahamut, or even Wee Jas (it might seem weird that the goddess of necromancy is out here sponsoring Turn Undead but for the Ruby Lady specifically it's less 'begone, unnatural horrors' and more 'behold, my eviction notice'). Going with this has traditionally been some kind of plainly-spoken invocation or prayer; 'disperse and dispel', 'back to dust', 'return to sleep', that sorta thing.

However, this is far from the only possible look or interpretation. Indeed, popular these days is simply lifting one's holy symbol and calling upon one's god, which I have some objections to - it's not appropriate for every god, and it's also just kinda unoriginal - but is perfectly serviceable. Turn Undead as a sort of spell, with obscure incantations or formal rites for gods like Azuth (here making one's Turn Undead similar to dispel magic rather than any intrinsic divine abhorrence) could fit your Cleric, as could Turn Undead as a power move where you assert your god's greater authority over the undying (excellent for many non-nature Evil-aligned gods, and hilarious for gods like Loviatar). Likewise, Turning or destroying the undead can and should be flavored by your god and Domain; a Cleric of Chauntea that Turns Undead may well terrify them with the reminder of the grave, the bounty of the earth that will grow from their stolen bones, while a Cleric of Mystra simply unbinds the magic that holds them together (and, again, the eternally hilarious Clerics of Loviatar manifest the power of their goddess to beat the shit out of the undead). One move might even be to say your Cleric of a god who doesn't give a shit about the undead is actually drawing on another god from their pantheon who does; the aforementioned Cleric of Azuth is actually invoking his vassal, Velsharoon, who has authority over necromancy.

When it comes to one's Domain powers, you kinda live and die by your brand here. Every Tempest Cleric in 5e is gonna have the exact same fucking power list, so if you're not making your Tempest Cleric of Umberlee different from a Tempest Cleric of Gruumsh what the fuck are you even doing. While the way your god interprets these themes is obviously important - your character chose to follow them for a reason, after all - perhaps more important is the way your Cleric relates to them. A Chaotic Neutral Cleric of Umberlee who has a love of the terrible beauty of the sea conjures storms of sublime awe, like something out of a Gothic novel, while a more traditional Chaotic Evil one may well lean on storms as instruments of vengeance and punishment, sharing in her goddess's petty malice. When your War Domain Cleric takes that attack as a bonus action, is he seizing a moment, or drawing on berserk rage? What kind of Light or Life do you have? The opportunities are here y'all, seize 'em.

Radiant and Necrotic Damage - These are relatively young as far as D&D goes, and while they have bones in with earlier kinds of damage they're actually a bit thematically confused. Just to give you an idea here, Radiant damage is dealt by guiding bolt, the Light Domain power, ACTUAL FUCKING LASER RIFLES, and also flame strike. It has replaced instances of "this damage derives from pure divine power and cannot be resisted", Positive Energy damage, and also just fire damage for some fuckass reason. So when your Cleric is dealing Radiant damage, something all Clerics do, what is it? Nearly any of the above is a potential option, though I'll admit that I'm a sucker for the Positive Energy damage where you give living beings super-cancer that devours them in moments and/or unbind and dispel undead. Complicating this is that in the 5e paradigm, Radiant and Necrotic damage are both associated heavily with divine classes, and have nearly equal claim to holy power.

Which brings us to Necrotic damage, which is dealt by inflict wounds, as well as spells like blight, and also associated with Evil Clerics via spiritual guardians and similar spells. This one is derived from Negative Energy damage historically - that is, pure entropic power, not just death but "stop", "cease", "still", "silence" - but this is not always the case, and it very definitely has been used in 5e to represent things like blood drain, soul drain, pure unholy power, and also flaying someone alive. Similar considerations to Radiant damage apply, but they apply especially when you're out here casting Necrotic blasts when you, say, worship a nature or life god. What exactly are you doing? Why is it you're doing it that way? How is this, too, a miracle?

I May Have Started Worshiping Umberlee Because The Priestesses Are Hot - Clerics & Alignment

So here's the thing. As I mentioned above in the 69 page long context section, Clerics have had Falling mechanics for awhile, even if they have been consistently downplayed or ignored in comparison to Paladin. There's also been a very long time in which Clerics were required to be close to their god(s) in alignment, and there's something to be said there; how can one build up a deep and intimate relationship with a divinity that you have nothing in common with? But there are many groups that don't want to fuck with alignment (I'm gonna do that alignment article one of these days and on that day I will die), settings where alignment and worship are less connected (see: Eberron), and of course in 5e these ideas are no longer formally connected in that fashion, with alignment requirements being removed. Hell, books like Xanathar's Guide to Everything and Tasha's Cauldron of Everything introduce some wild-ass ideas on the random fucking tables like "your Cleric has an ongoing relationship with an imp she doesn't fuckin' like". That seems pretty functional, so, why am I talking about it? Glad you asked: I'm an ancient-ass lich and a bit of an alignment apologist, and also this is my article and I'll infodump about alignment bullshit if I want to.

Now to make a proper run at this I'd really need to actually do that alignment article, so I'm gonna ask you instead to journey with me to an imaginary land where everyone is engaging on alignment in good faith and understands two foundational principles that the modern zeitgeist has kinda left behind; the first being that alignments are broad categories that describe beliefs which have things in common, and the second being that any given one of the nine alignments has room for many, many variations on those beliefs. Not to put like too fine a point on it but just as one f'rinstance there are no less than three different Outer Planes you can point to and say "this is Lawful Good" and each and every one of those three separate dimensions of Lawful Goodness contains its own internal array of differing beliefs and expressions of what it means to be Lawful Good. And in that sense, your Cleric's god is going to be a worldview that is included in their alignment, but is not necessarily, often, or even ever a generative force for that alignment. Evenhanded Tyr is not a fount of Lawful Goodness from which mortal beings drink to become more holy; he has a worldview, beliefs, and dogmas which one can describe as being Lawful Good, and he/his church seeks to teach them. Likewise Umberlee, the famous Bitch Queen, is not Chaotic Evil in the sense of 'overthrow all governments' but in the sense that the sea recognizes no master, is sovereign in itself, and will not be denied; that she is friendlier to Chaotic worshipers comes down to a sort of mutual comfort and expectation. A Chaotic person might not like that her goddess is a divinely infamous bitch, but she like, gets it, y'know?

So when it comes to your Cleric and alignment, there's an easy ask: what is it about their faith that attracted them to it, and in what ways are they aligned with that faith & in what ways are they lacking, opposed, or still have things to learn? The gods of D&D are stranger and wilder things than people give them credit for, to be sure, but the thing is that being a perfect embodiment of your god(s)'s worldview is one of those neat bonuses you get for being a dead person, not something people generally pull off while yet living. And, not to leave this bit on the table, not all or even most of those conflicts are necessarily what one might call a dealbreaker. It can be something as simple and doesn't-need-to-be-solved as like, a follower of Azuth spending time running for political office (a Lawful/Lawful disconnect; Azuth doesn't really give much of a shit about mortal law), something profoundly wrong but understandable (a follower of Oghma who passionately hates certain kinds of literature or poetry; Oghma is the god of all language and written art), or even really major which can form the core of an arc where either the character or god has to give (Shadowheart in Baldur's Gate 3 goes through this, but for the one person on Earth who hasn't played yet a different example might be a worshiper of Bahamut who ended up joining the colonial invasion of Chult, directly angering his god because he has failed to understand some fundamental fucking lessons here).

All of this is a lot of words to re-argue a previous point; your Cleric is not a sovereign being, capable of acting without reference to the real reality or by pure ideal alone. They have baggage, they have community, they have or had a family, they have beliefs shaped by being a real thing in a real reality. Look at the ways these aligned beliefs both touch and conflict with their church, their god, or both, and you will find a bounty of characterization and plot hooks. Keep in mind as well that the gods of D&D are fallible beings; they are students of their own ideals as much as they are teachers of such, and there are, indeed, perfectly usable hooks to be found there as well. Your Cleric is not a saint or a savior, usually; they are a student and teacher of divinity who seeks to understand it, and going on that journey together with one's god is something that has been lost in the current paradigm of the D&D audience being friendly to fucking Reddit atheism.

Call It A Girlfriend Class One More Time Motherfucker - Common Cleric Pitfalls

I'm not bitter, you're bitter.

D&D is a snake devouring itself, and like many such ongoing communities and fandoms it therefore has a lot of cultural baggage which is, how do you say, completely disconnected from objective fucking reality. This section covers some common pitfalls people walk into when making and playing Clerics. If some of these end up sounding like personal callouts...dunno what to tell you. Examine your shit.

Healbot.exe - Yeah we're starting off with the big one. Look me in my eyes. Look me directly in my fucking lich eyes. Clerics are not healers. No one in D&D is a primary healer. There have been exactly two effective primary healers in all of D&D history; the first is the Vitalist, a Psionic class published by Dreamscarred Press as part of a third-party supplement for Pathfinder 1e, and the second is Life Domain Cleric in 5e. That's it. End of list in all of history. "But what about -" no. I promise you, whatever you're thinking of is not a primary healer in the fashion you think it is. This is an ancient misconception, rooting all the way back to when only divine-type classes could heal (Cleric, Druid, Paladin, Ranger), but even back in that day healing was valued more highly than its actual effectiveness; the archetype of a videogame healer, someone like Mercy in Overwatch who can turn the tide by keeping vital people alive long enough to make big plays, that has never been part of D&D - at least not before players have access to the spell heal, which radically flips the math by itself. Much like the question of alignment, I do not have the page space or the fucking game theory degree to give this topic the attention it truly deserves, but the very short version is that PC hit points are very low, damage is quite high, and healing doesn't solve either of those problems. When you burn your action, Bahamut fucking forbid your one spell per round, on a heal what you have done is a few things: failed to advance the combat towards a conclusion, failed to meaningfully mitigate damage, burned a spell slot that could have done one of those first two, and quite possibly put yourself out of tactical position. There are cases where a heal is the right call - the spell heal as mentioned already, or in 5e getting someone to stop making Death Saves - but in general if your options are healing or doing literally anything else, pick literally anything else. Am I coming at this very strongly? Yes, but the thing is that the perception of Clerics as being "healbots", expected to memorize primarily healing spells and cast the same, has been an equally ancient and infamous perceived drawback to playing Clerics; indeed, there was a time when tables would offer incentives to someone for playing the Cleric because "someone has to be the healer" and nobody wanted to be. Does that sound like a fun experience to you? Is that the future you want to keep having? No? Good, STOP FUCKING HEALING.

Now, I said I don't have the game theory degree to unpack this, and I don't, but that was aggro as hell so I do owe a bit of an explanation. Healing being bad in D&D comes down to a few incentives, some of which I just mentioned above, but there's another big one - the only hit point that matters is your last one. Your PC, and indeed NPCs/monsters, are just as effective at 1 hit point as they are at 100 as they are at one thousand as they are at one million. Meanwhile, especially in 5e towards which this article has a significant bias, average NPC/monster damage is more than double that of an on-level heal until, again, heal; therefore, a cure wounds or healing word for someone who isn't unconscious has, at best, bought them half a turn of being alive, and given that the real swing is much larger than actual average damage the odds that you get that half a turn - pathetic in and of itself - are not in your favor. Your party does not need to be healthy, only alive; this, then, is why you only start healing once they stop being alive. Area-of-effect heals like mass cure wounds change this math a bit especially in response to area-of-effect damage which is typically lower than single-target damage, but here I will finally hold to my repeated statements that I lack the education to unpack this; if a mathematician wants to compare a devil's fireball to mass cure wounds in the notes here, please, be my guest, genuinely.

Zealotry - Welcome to the Cleric version of "stop making your paladin a cop", which readers may remember from the Paladin article. Here I need to cut a fine line; the average D&D player likely has a pretty strong idea of a particular kind of person when I say "zealot", and that kind of person is the scum of the Earth. And, indeed, while masterful roleplaying and acting might make running a fanatical missionary interesting for your play group, this is a common failure mode and I do not fucking encourage it unless you're really sure that you are, in fact, the god-king of Big Dick Mountain. However, this mode of like, the Baptist preacher is a very narrow and specific kind of zealotry and passionate belief, and I am here to make the argument that a good Cleric is, indeed, a zealot on some level, at least in part because odds are good that you, person reading this article, are yourself a zealot on some topic or other! The esteemed Kendrick Lamar, for instance, is a zealot of hip-hop. I am a zealot of old D&D lore. Ed Greenwood, praise fucking be, is a zealot of anthropological worldbuilding. To be a Cleric, one of the chosen many, is to have a deep and passionate connection to the ideals of your god; it is to care about those ideals, and to learn them further, to be a student and teacher of them, to be a disciple and practitioner of them, and that indeed is a kind of zealotry that has nothing to do with trying to convert people or oppress them (usually). Kill the part of you/your Cleric that cringes; if you're running a Cleric of like, Sune Firehair, right, pour in your passionate opinions about art and beauty and love. Go on rants about proper trade and taxes when you're running a Cleric of Waukeen. Get fuckin' homoerotic about the ocean with your Cleric of Umberlee. When your Cleric is moved to share their wisdom with others, look for ways in which these lessons are relevant to their lives, and commit to the fuckin' bit. These are the things which are, definitionally, most important to your Cleric, closest to their heart. By all means, act like it, yeah?

Slapfights And Other Bad Ideas - Way back in 1e, D&D described Cleric as a secondary weapon-user, competent to fight in melee but lesser than Warrior-group classes. This is a lie. This has always been a lie. 5e furthers this lie with the Divine Strike class feature, but the thing is that while you are not technically doing nothing by making a weapon attack you really are not doing much and should be looking into doing literally anything else; if you're not casting, you're doing it wrong. There are going to be levels in which Divine Strike edges out a Cantrip, but ultimately you are not a weapon user and should not be acting like one. Going further here, the sanctioned action for Cleric is to bump your Wisdom as fast and hard as you can, because it controls all the Cleric things you do. Here I again return to my statement that in any fight between mechanics and narrative, the mechanics win by default because they are how you engage with the game world. Once you eat your vegetables, then you can go off doing wild shit like taking strange Feats. If you need to see this in action, look no further than the oft-cited Ms. Jester Lavorre of Critical Role fame (Campaign 2, The Mighty Nein).

St. Dipshit the Illiterate - Man I hope you're ready for a third version of this joke when the inevitable Druid article happens. Like with the Paladin article, this isn't so much a pitfall as it is a for-your-consideration; Intelligence has long been a real easy dump for Clerics, and that's gonna shape how they move through the world. While D&D 5.5 (the 2024 releases) went some distance here by giving Clerics the ability to add Wisdom to their information-style checks, for every other Cleric you have someone who is very attuned and attentive to the living world (high Perception, Insight, and Survival), but very bad at formal learning, academic study, and the like. Does your Cleric compensate for this by seeking aid when they need that kind of intellectual rigor? Taking more time (that is, making more rolls) so they can correct for their own shortcomings? Do they embrace the intuitive knowledge they can gain via their Wisdom-based skills rather than attempting to record or examine? Of course, I should not leave this on the table either; as of 5e, Charisma is also an extremely easy an attractive dump stat, and since CLERICS ARE NOT PRIESTS exploring a low-Charisma Cleric who can only really show her troth through works rather than words could be quite interesting, should you be inclined.

The People In The Important Pajamas - "Cleric" NPCs

Again, if anyone can track that webcomic down my life is yours.

You may remember this section from the paladin article and be wondering what the scare quotes are about. Following through with my argument that Clerics aren't priests, some of the potential NPC roles I'm about to outline aren't Clerics, strictly speaking, but would have been Clerics back in 2e (when they could be priests) or 3.PF (when everyone was in fucking denial). Our first entry is going to cover a concept that you could pillage for worldbuilding purposes, and then the rest are potential Cleric roles. Ready set GO!

Adepts (Revenge Of The Old Lore) - Introduced by this name back in D&D 3.0 and rarely used by Dungeon Masters or, if we're being honest, the game writers, Adepts were an NPC-only class back when PCs and NPCs were built using similar rules. Sorta like a Cleric, and sorta like a Druid, and sorta like a Wizard, but absolutely dog shit at all three of them, an Adept is the spellcaster who is worse than other spellcasters at everything; that is, they're meant to suck shit, but can be competent to, say, buy a remove curse from, to manufacture magical potions, to help enchant divine-type magical items, and the like. Notably, being an Adept means you're not part of the chosen many - this was the class associated with people who put in the work to learn divine magic the hard way, or who for one reason or another could not commune with their god in a manner that might be more associated with a Cleric. As little use as it saw, this is a concept that could use some bringing forward - many, many D&D settings, here to include Greyhawk, the Forgotten Realms, and Eberron, blithely assume that these services are on offer, and indeed that in a big enough city you might even be able to buy raise dead or stronger magic. You know who sells that but isn't qualified to be the kind of freak an adventurer is? Adepts!

Retiree - Of course, sometimes Clerics do survive being adventurers, often "intact" for a given value of that (having regeneration in-house saves you a fortune on prosthetic limbs). This kind of Cleric-as-NPC are going to be famous figures, perhaps thrust into positions of spiritual or communal responsibility they might not be equal to; after all, Clerics aren't priests. Make an NPC a lot like a Cleric, turn them middle-aged or old, call it a day. Someone like this may have taught a PC Cleric, especially if they caught said PC early on and intervened to try and ensure this youngblood doesn't die screaming between learning the difference between "my god is with me" and "I'm invulnerable."

Rival - As a PC Cleric gets more powerful and starts, you know, slaying fucking dragons and shit, the strength of their legend may well give their word weight on dogma, doctrine, and ethics. Someone more happy with the status quo of their faith, or someone with a differing vision, these can be great Cleric NPCs, rife with potential for social conflict and always able to be tapped for an epic caster-on-caster showdown. Your goal here is to make someone who could be a player character, they just aren't; bring in passionate ideals, think through their reasons for supporting the vision of faith they do, and, oh yeah, don't forget the weird pile of magic items endemic to all adventurers.

Cackling Villain - Did you know Clerics have been either the best or second-best necromancers in D&D for nearly every edition? They're third-place in 5e, behind Necromancer Wizards and Oathbreaker Paladins, a first-time event for them, but quite literally every Cleric of 5th level or higher can wake up in the morning, decide to raise an army of the dead, and then do that. They can just do that! Even outside of strict necromancy Clerics have that combination of zeal, competence, perceptiveness, and, let us not forget, terrifying magic that can make them excellent setpiece villains or even non-villainous antagonists. Your party thinks a wizard is behind this bullshit? They're gonna wish it was a wizard.

Religion In D&D Part 1 - Context Part II: Revenge Of The Context

Do I need to break this up into two headlines? Strictly, no. However, this thing is already a fucking doorstopper, I might as well give a place where people can pause.

So remember, eighty years ago, way back at the top of the article, when I said this was going to be an angrier article than the last one? Despite writing that warning myself I have, during the course of this, been shocked at how salty and aggressive I've gotten about things thus far, and this is coming from someone who knows he has anger issues in the first place. I genuinely did not realize the depths of passionate opinions I have on offer about Cleric. However, that warning was for these next two sections, as I'm very, acutely aware of my beef here, my deep well of bitterness, and my years of confused rage that have become a kind of formless hate for the way the discussion on fantasy religion across the genre, but especially in D&D, has been discussed. Y'all got a lifelong atheist out here about to tell you that you're being harsh and reductive about religion as like, a concept, and to make matters worse the behavior of the D&D audience in general has been such that I am now in a position where I need to do apologetics for known genocide enthusiast Gary fucking Gygax. Do you have the slightest idea how little that pleases me?

So let's start this off right. A lot of folks operate on incomplete, incorrect, or just plain nonexistent ideas of what faith has, historically, looked like in various D&D settings, so I'ma play the hits here and then we're gonna get into the next section where I make some suggestions. Alright? Alright.

Greyhawk: Weirdly Coherent - Commonly and incorrectly hailed as the first D&D setting (rest in peace Blackmoor & Dave Arneson), Greyhawk (known in-universe as Oerth) was written primarily by Gary Gygax, though shaped heavily by his home games and the players thereof. Now, I'm not gonna veer into a hit piece on Gygax (and even if I wanted to better ones already exist), but notable in the context of his writing on fantasy religion is that Gary Gygax was a fanboy for the Crusades, but also a massive (and half-educated, poorly researched) fanboy for ancient Celtic legend. Some of the oddities for this strange mix have already been mentioned, such as how the original Cleric is based on Crusader priests and the modern Cleric is still feeling that influence, but this - alongside growing up very culturally Christian in, you know, the United States of America - was also very much influential on how Gygax would come to write his fantasy faiths and also run up on his own limits with the same.

Faith in Greyhawk is polytheism as brought to you by someone who almost sort of understands the idea of polytheism. Genuinely, Gygax made a good run at this and kinda tripped over his own shoelaces at the end...well, his own shoelaces and his unrelenting race essentialism, thanks for the racial pantheons buddy. Greyhawk is home to many faiths, which worship and/or fear and/or oppose multiple gods (for example, Erythnul is associated with the so-called New Faith of the Flaeness but is more of a demonic figure of evil than a god you are, socially, expected to 'worship'). For your average person, the buck stops here. While an individual god may have greater prominence in a given region for political, social, or mythological reasons (for example, the relative prominence of Boccob the Uncaring in the Free City of Greyhawk in no small part due to the influence of the legendary Cleric known as Riggby) and therefore have a grand temple or dedicated cults in their name, this isn't the norm everywhere. When the Church of St. Cuthbert of the Cudgel installs a building in your frontier village they're here on a mission, it's weird, and you should be worried. On a normal day, your average lay member performs acts of worship as part of their day-to-day life, calling upon the god(s) who are relevant to their endeavors to give thanks, to ask for blessings, to honor them, or to plead mercy. Clerics, in turn, while socially conflated with the more specific cults are often pantheistic Clerics, drawing upon many gods as representatives of the overall faith. Dogmas are typically a little light on details when it comes to the afterlife, in part because the idea of an unearthly reward for one's faith is often seen as a little distasteful, and in part because going to the afterlife of a particular god is actually pretty rare on Greyhawk. Your average person is drawn to the Outer Plane that most aligns with their worldview, and goes on their spiritual journey in the hereafter without reference to a particular god.

Which is where we get to the weird shoelace tripping, because you only get an afterlife related to your faith if you've developed an intimate and intense relationship with one god in particular. When this relationship has become a defining, perhaps the defining part of your life (whether or not you're a divine caster), then you go to that god's afterlife when you die. The typical case here is someone with a deep passion for work that falls under the purview of a god, such as a master thief ending up with Olidammara, or a mountain man passing into the dominion of Elhonna. Clerics, though rarer, are prime candidates for this sort of afterlife, but also like...the fuck were you on, Gygax? Admittedly not all faiths in the real world particularly concern themselves with the hereafter or claim to have answers about what it might be like or what it entails, and in that sense Gygax's Planar afterlives as soft mysteries and a sort of default state aren't entirely out there - it's the strange dash of monotheism at the end that gets me. And, not to leave this unsaid, Gygax is not a particularly good fantasy anthropologist, so sometimes he just. Wrote shit. That he perhaps should not have written if he wanted to retain the chunk of his dignity that he lost by publishing it. I'd say to do a shot every time he writes something weird about women as gods or women in faith but you'd get through one book and be dead already.

Forgotten Realms: The Original Sin - Ed Greenwood you are this hobby's cool grandpa and also mine and I'm so sorry that I need to put you on fucking blast here. I can only hope that you've heard all this already; it's been being bitched about for twenty years, after all.

Statistically the first D&D setting that you personally have encountered, the Forgotten Realms (the continent of Faerun on the planet Toril, in-universe) was originally written by Ed Greenwood and has been contributed to by a list of other authors entirely too long for me to cite without dying of starvation at this keyboard. Most commonly known for its gonzo locations, intricate worldbuilding, and being absolutely riddled with famous high-level NPCs engaged in high-level bullshit with one another and the world at large (a status encouraged by the staggering array of novels and videogames set in it), the Forgotten Realms is also infamous in the audience for requiring that people worship a god that is their closest and most favored god and to be true to that god or face punishment in the afterlife. Those who are False to their faith face an eternity of civil service in the City of the Dead, while the Faithless end up mortared into the Wall of the Faithless to suffer until eventually becoming one with the Fugue Plane. It's very easy to point the finger at Ed Greenwood's Catholic faith when it comes to these worldbuilding elements, and while I'm certain that has something to do with the state of affairs I need you to take a walk with me.

The Forgotten Realms is a land of miracles and wonders. It is lousy with gods; indeed, if you ever go look up a full list (do NOT fucking use the FR Wiki) you may well spit your drink at the screen. Faerun is home to gods native to the world, interlopers from other Primes, gods from human cultures that ended up here when their faithful were kidnapped across the Planes (here to include gods from Ireland, Egypt, and Finland, raise your hand if this sentence is how you learned that there are gods native to Finland), alien horrors from beyond the stars, Planar luminaries, ascended mortals, and more. These gods gather into pantheons, though to be frank that relationship is often quite uh, feudal, or familial. Trying to claim the gods of someone else's pantheon don't exist or are lesser than your own god on Faerun is a real fast ticket to getting your ass beat by said gods while your own gently asks what you've learned from this experience. Among other things, though, this means that "converting" within your own faith basically isn't conversion; if you grew up in a family of Chauntea worshipers and you get real into Mielikki this event, socially, is fucking nothing, it's a non-event. It might be a different story if you turned around and started worshiping Mystra, but even then that question is very much mediated by one's culture and geography; converting even far outside one's current or native faith is a non-event in, say, Waterdeep, but it might be a little more surprising in Neverwinter.

Here's the thing: the Forgotten Realms does not experience a separation of "religious life" from "normal life". This is gonna be a hard idea for my American readers in particular to grasp, but while Jane Average Realmswoman has a single patron deity and she is trying to emulate that god's example as much as possible, it is perfectly normal for her to pray to other gods, ask for their favor, and interact with their worshipers, and this is in no small part because they are inescapably bound with Jane's everyday life. The local cults of Azuth and/or Mystra bankroll the parchment makers who print the novels Jane reads (because parchment is required for scrolls, and both churches are also in heavy on magical industries), the fishermen who catch the food she buys offer fearful worship to Umberlee who is both their provider and their destroyer, the faithful of Sylvanus, Chauntea, or Eldath maintain the city parks and fight tooth and nail to keep them wild. When she feels lost in her life and needs guidance, the temples of Selune are open at all hours of the day and night and are the closest thing the Realm has seen to A. therapists and B. benevolent therapists. The weird BDSM club she goes to every now and again opens every party with a hymn to Loviatar. The Temple of Illmater doesn't run a fucking bake sale once a month vaguely for poor people in general, they go forth amongst the downtrodden and help them every god damn day, offering food and potable water, healing, healing again, healing a third time it's a bit of a theme, a listening ear, and campaigning for their interests in the political arena. Jane herself is a worshiper of, oh, let's say Deneir, she runs a bookstore and dedicates herself to the Goddess of Libraries; she goes to the temple of Deneir for copies of their holy texts to give away to those who ask, to verify rare tomes or donate them for the public good, and for those rites which are held in the temple, but when she went and got married a few years back she and her wife were joined in the temple of Sune Firehair, goddess of love. These gods and the organizations they run have been part of Jane's community since that community was founded, and each advances something in the living world that they see as holy and worth having; they are entwined, active, earnest. You've gotta be chill about people worshiping another god or being part of another faith entirely or your social life is going to just fucking explode.

This, then, is the full and glorious flower of Ed Greenwood's zealous dedication to anthropological worldbuilding, and unfortunately it has been sorta softly hidden and scraped under by years of corporate writing. Back in AD&D 2e, the books Faiths & Avatars and Powers & Pantheons went in deep on this subject, digging on all levels into how these religions practice and their role in everyday life, but from 3.0 onward this theme has seen less importance alongside a plethora of other writers who did not understand the vision, not that I'm looking at any RA SALVATORE YOU FUCKING HACK in particular. The end result is that the average player for 20+ years has been introduced to the part of faith in the Forgotten Realms that is deeply weird monolatry, and has reacted to that vision, but been denied the full view of a strange but very functional polytheism whose bones are still in the setting. That vision of strange monolatry is also one that other settings have been copying for a dog's age, here to include our next subject, Pathfinder. Strap in, I am going to say a lot of things and none of them are kind.

Golarion: World Holy War - Originally written by James Jacobs and contributed to by a plethora of freelancers and internal staff members at Paizo, Golarion is a shallow theme park of a setting characterized by incuriosity, disinterest in the human condition, incompetent homages to other, better settings, and thoughtless, distinctly American sympathy for empire. Like with many things James Jacobs claims to love but refuses to understand, Golarion's model of divinity is very much based on what people think the Forgotten Realms model is, and even in the context of that already-corrupt shadow, Golarion's is much worse. Much of the worldbuilding around divinity and cosmology is utilitarian; for instance, Mr. Jacobs is on record stating that gods on Golarion empower Clerics and other champions because direct miraculous intervention would set off a chain of mutually assured destruction that would leave no mortal life behind. Other bits are clearly more personal; as a key for-instance here, gods on Golarion are generative forces for alignment. That is, a god defines what it is to be, say, Lawful Good or Chaotic Neutral, and to defy a god is to have your alignment changed (see: Wrath of the Righteous). It is for this reason that the churches of Golarion concern themselves to an extreme extent with orthodoxy ("right thought", contrast orthopraxy, "right action"). Sharp-eyed readers may be recalling that I talked about paladins in Golarion being expected to root out heresy; this situation is also why every god on Golarion supposedly maintains Inquisitors, as seen prior in this article. Further, these literal thought police deploy spells like castigate which punish and humiliate victims, primarily those of one's own faith, into confessing their "sins", which, while we're right here, how did the literal god damn Catholic remember that not every faith has sins or engages with the idea of sin and James Jacobs fucking couldn't pull that shit off?

Churches on Golarion do not have broad faiths that include multiple gods. Any given god may have divine friends, allies, or slaves, but ultimately the churches they run all have missionary work & attempted conversion in common. There was a good chunk of time in which Sarenrae, goddess of redemption, was running a fucking slave empire into swordpoint conversions, and only as of Pathfinder 2e has that been being fixed at all, in no small part because, again, James Jacobs does not understand the things he claims to love and dug his heels in when readers told him to his fucking face that this was a bad look. Likewise, these churches are separated from "normal" life quite a bit, being a place where one walks to in order to get one's worship on before returning to the rest of one's life, a particularly Protestant model of worship reproduced so thoughtlessly that I'm shocked Mr. Jacobs didn't achieve a state of no-mind and escape Samsara. Sometimes they sponsor religious organizations such as knightly orders or wizard colleges but these are exceptions, not the rule, and even then "oh hey the Hellknights are coming to town" isn't exactly a day to day kind of fuckin' event, is it? Mechanics like Obediences attempt to walk this back, but the thing about requiring you to spend resources to get mechanical benefits from worshiping your god is that you've turned around and made this a strange thing. Praying and honoring, say, Shelyn every day is no longer something you just do, it's something weird freaks do and they get divine power from doing it. There is no escaping the blade of the ludonarrative; mechanics win all conflicts because they influence the actual game world.

Now, while I sincerely hope my complete contempt for James Jacobs has come across here, I do have an obligation to be evenhanded. Pathfinder 2e has walked some of this back, but the root problems remain. The second edition of Golarion has, for example, removed Alignment entirely, which certainly solves one problem, but it also replaced castigate with crisis of faith, a Cleric spell designed to kill other Clerics by making them doubt their gods. Likewise, Pathfinder 2e has been mum on certain cosmological revelations from late in Pathfinder 1e, one of which being the idea that only one god will survive the end of the universe and they get to be the supreme god of the next one, which is given as the motivation for them being so far up on the nuts of getting converts. This idea is, to me, completely repulsive, but it's also just such a revealing take on what Paizo thinks gods are and what they think of faith. And unfortunately, the broad zeitgeist of the current D&D audience is very sympathetic to that idea, which brings us to:

Religion In D&D Part 2 - I Cannot Believe I Of All Fucking People Have To Tell You To Stop Being Such A Cynic

Man the little icon on the scroll bar is gettin' real fuckin' small at this point. This will be the last major set of arguments for the article; following this section will be one sample Cleric for every Domain published in 5.0 (5.5, released in 2024, is a bit young for me to bother just yet), so just stay with me here y'all. It's been a long, angry, bitter journey, and yet there is this final hill to die on.

So, what's this broad zeitgeist I was just talking about? To be frank, it's a combination of thoughtless American Protestantism and some r/atheism bullshit. As the audience for D&D has gotten more left-leaning and queer, in no small part due to the wild successes of shows like Critical Role and Dimension 20 (and WotC's weak, half-done, and yet unambiguously open support for including queer players, players of color, and others traditionally gated out of D&D), there has been a...conflation, shall we call it, of the fictional religions in various D&D settings with, not to put too fine a point on it, real-world Evangelicals and others who perpetuate harm in the name of faith. And, y'know, I get it. I'm a whole-ass bi dude from the edge of the Bible Belt, I used to get fuckin' jumped every other day or so, I lived in Kansas for six mother fucking years, I get it. But uh, remember when I said I'm a bit of a zealot for the old lore? Remember my consistent theme in articles of not liking it when things with great potential are left on the table because there is an Approved Way to view them? Yeah. So. Let's talk. We're gonna lay out some arguments and some suggestions.

Everything Old Is New Again - "But Vox," the strawman who teleported into this sentence is saying, "you yourself have said that the stuff you're into is old! Surely there needs to be an accounting for the changes in play culture, let alone real-world culture?" And like yeah, sure, but here's the thing: edgy-ass immature atheism (I say, as an edgy atheist) is also old as hell in D&D. Like, old-old. Late-game AD&D 1e old. Older-than-me old. Now, D&D's first serious and nuanced internal conversation about the nature of divinity and its role in mortal lives was part of Planescape, whose bones remain in all modern settings to this day (even Exandria, primarily written by Matthew "I Am In Every Videogame, Yes, Even That One" Mercer), but like a lot of settings it was very...inconsistently brought forward during 3.X, leading to the loss of a lot of its strangeness, its philosophy, and even its earnest willingness to simply be cringe but free. Though this was by no means confined to Planescape, as many writers of D&D novels were extremely willing to question the utility, motives, or even divinity of the gods - here to include Paul Kidd (author of the novelizations for White Plume Mountain, Descent Into The Depths Of The Earth, and Queen of the Demonweb Pits), who I usually claim as my gold standard for D&D novelizations but whose attitude here is, quite frankly, embarrassing in its confident thoughtlessness and cynicism. The ideas that gods are super-predators, that they are a class of abusers, that they are false idols, that they cannot claim divinity because they are limited/can be killed, these ideas are, statistically, likely to be older than you are. Better writers than you have been fumbling this since before you learned how to read.

Jesus Christ Is An Outlier And Should Not Be Counted - So here's the thing. The idea that a god needs to be a transcendent being, with attributes that render them sovereign from the living world, removed from time and supreme in all senses? That's just Christianity. If you go talk to like, a rabbi, an imam, if you can have a frank conversation with a Hellenic pagan or a Zoroastrian or a follower of Voudoun, they'll offer quite different perspectives, often a number of different ones from within their own faiths. There are more conceptions of what it is to be divine, to be a god and to worship gods, than there are cultures that have believed in gods, and to be frank the best advice I have for you here is to go outside and touch grass. Then, take some of the grass with you and have some fascinating & frank conversations with anyone who is not Christian. Even Gary Gygax, fanboy of the literal fucking Crusades, tried to handle his shit here and got more than nowhere in terms of success. When you insist that the gods of D&D need to be like the god of Christianity, you are both limiting yourself creatively and engaging on a great deal of art in bad faith, bringing with you your own baggage which you are failing to question. These conversations are gonna be difficult! You're going to feel ignorant; you may try the patience of the people you're seeking to learn from. But to learn is an unalloyed good, and here I am speaking of far more than the hypothetical benefit it's going to bring to your Cleric in your happy elfgame time.

The Lord Is God Of Both Good And Evil - Surprise bitches it's a second alignment section. First tings first, I want to repeat again that gods in D&D are not generative forces of virtue; rather, they are worldviews. This changes if you're playing Pathfinder, but if you are playing Pathfinder, stop immediately. And this argument can seem like I'm splitting hairs, but it changes the game quite a bit; a lot of players and readers wonder why, say, Liira isn't out here trying to solve all of the world's problems, but that is not Liira's fucking job, y'know? Her job is to be the goddess of joy, the pure light and laughter of seeing the world of wonder, to be god of delights and surprises, and it's not exactly fair to ask her to be something else. If your character is a Liiran and you have some concerns about, I dunno, the homelessness problem in Waterdeep, that's on you to work towards.

Broadly, though, there is a problem in the fanbase that was laid out excellently in The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas, written by the esteemed Ursula K. Le Guin; people find it very easy to assume that if something is described as good, as benevolent, as truly kind and compassionate and full of wonder, there has to be some kind of catch. There is a hidden evil, there is a dark cost, there is an ulterior motive. And like, look, the gods of D&D are fallible beings, they make mistakes, but the thing is that when D&D tells you a god is Good, it like...means it. Does the writing always bear this up? No. The writing is often friendly to things that are in fact bad. But even figures like Bahamut or Tyr, infamous for their associations with fantasy cops, they're trying to be the gods of like, Sam Vimes, not the gods of police brutality. Likewise gods are not the primary drivers of the battle between good and evil - they are prosecuting their worldviews, and those worldviews relate to a Prime Material Plane that is of both wonder and horror, that is full of the creations of many gods and even many mortals. It is the law of the living world that wasps lay their eggs in living things, but so too is it the law that the land is bountiful, that a shocking number of alien beings would love you to pet them, that the sunrise after a storm is uncommonly beautiful and glorious.

As far as evil gods go, let me link my article there again so I can expand on it. Broadly, evil gods in D&D can be thought of as part of two camps; Greenwoodian evil, and Dickensonian evil (shout-out to my close friend and priestess - don't question it - the Celt for this framework). Greenwoodian evils are parts of nature, unrelentingly bound to the living world, who are gods over things that are terrible but necessary. Talona (goddess of plagues), Umberlee (goddess of the sea), Auril (goddess of winter), Loviatar (goddess of suffering), these are Greenwoodian evils, and if you're noticing that most of these are women, well, Ed Greenwood seems constitutionally incapable of writing a woman who is not, at worst, both glorious and terrible, and this is a compliment. Now, Greenwood has gods that don't fit this conception - look no further than Bane, god of tyranny - but the great joke at the expense of these gods is that they are not, contrary to their own belief, sovereign from the living world, they are not above it, removed from it. They are, instead, bent, defeated, broken, and beaten down until they service the natural order, and each time they attempt to shatter the cage the world of wonder has woven around them they lose some part of themselves in the process.

Now, Dickensonian evil is named for the works of Seth Dickenson, which concerns itself with the Sword Logic, the logic of empire. The argument it makes is that reliance on others makes you vulnerable, and only through becoming a sovereign being can you be safe and complete; the ideal being, in the conception of Dickensonian evil, interacts with others not at all, or, if it must, interacts with them only to consume them for resources. Bane is a Dickensonian evil, as are Bhaal, Myrkul, Gruumsh, Hextor, and the like, and the thing about the Sword Logic is that it is persuasive, powerful, and wrong. However, while it is ultimately self-defeating, the harm done to real people in the meantime is an incalculable tragedy, and thus it needs to be opposed at all times. As edgy bastards say constantly: you can't let God do all the work. This style of evil appeals to people who are, themselves, cruel, ruthless, and inclined towards consumption, but it also appeals to people who are hurt, who have been betrayed, whom the world has let down, and in that sense there is quite a lot to explore here. The ordinary person does not give in to the logic of empire without cause.

For gods of both good and of evil, the question at the root of it all is this: why do people willingly worship them? What worldview is on offer, and why are you sympathetic to that worldview? What would it mean to change, adopt, or oppose that worldview? If you take nothing else from this section, take that and ponder it.

Death Is For The Dead - Going with the above, holy fucking hell y'all the cosmology is not as important as you think it is. There is a vast emphasis placed by the player base upon the afterlife, one which sometimes bleed into the writing (in Starfinder, published by Paizo, "choosing your own afterlife" is seen as the ultimate expression of religious freedom) but you know what most people know about the afterlife? Nothing useful! Jane Average Realmswoman knows that she will in some way be with her goddess when she's dead and that it'll probably be pretty cool and that's about it, and as far as these things go Jane is correct. People tend to react with shock and horror when they learn for the first time that the usual spiritual journey someone goes on in the afterlife will end with them becoming one with the Plane and/or god they're associated with, and to an extent I have some sympathy for this. Lifelong atheist, remember, the idea of "losing myself" to become part of something greater sounds terrifying...but is that what's fucking happening? If one is to experience an afterlife, that is, a form of life, one must be able to change. There is no escape from eventually changing so much that you would be unrecognizable as the living person you once were, and for those who want to try we have undeath on offer (except we don't, undead also experience those sorts of changes and as a result there is truly no escape from being a real thing in the real reality). And in this cynicism for the afterlife people miss the forest for the trees. When you end up, say, in the divine realm of Oghma and are filing books in his infinite library, Oghma isn't using your soul for slave labor here. You're a newly dead person who needs time to acclimate to not having the needs of the living, and moreover you're a newly dead person whose greatest, most ardent passion was language, poetry, prose, nonfiction, the glory of writing in all its flower, and now you have unlimited access to such, an endless opportunity to truly understand and grow closer to this thing that was so important to you. I'm not saying not to involve cosmological themes or to not take adventures to divine realms, don't mistake me, but...maybe try to open your mind to the idea that this thing which is supposed to be good and natural is, in fact, good and natural.

Gods & You - This is more or less re-stating some arguments from above, but put some thought into the churches and faiths your character has a relationship with. Are they part of a broader faith? Is such a faith big where they live, and what does that mean for them? What sorts of interactions and opinions, right or wrong, do they have with the local religions and why? It doesn't have to be anything huge, but the faithful are, again, inescapable. People's lives in these settings are religious, and that faith infuses their day-to-day; so too does it infuse your character's. And while I'm right here, having beef with those faiths and/or the gods behind them? Legit. Not just legit, but on the table to be consummated; there is a long and strong tradition in D&D of killing gods with your own two hands, and while gods can be hard to keep dead (look at Bane), killing them always means something. Maybe you can take their place and try your hand at being a better god than they were. Maybe you're just trying to stop their evil schemes. Maybe they slept with your mom and you take some exception to this. Whatever it is, these sorts of conflicts both have bones in with real-world religion and a storied history in D&D itself, and they shouldn't be considered outside the scope of your ambition if you really wanna go for it.

Y'all, it's been a journey. If you've made it this far thank you for reading, and as always I remain open to feedback and criticism. Please don't let the incredible length of this piece or my unrelenting, undying fucking rage intimidate you; I wouldn't be making articles like this if I wasn't trying to have a legitimate dialogue with my audience, y'know? Now, I have one last bit for you. In an effort to be helpful, to fucking flex with my writing, and as a little treat, the following section will present some example Clerics. All but one (Matthias Winters) are from the Forgotten Realms. If you make the egregious mistake of looking up the Forgotten Realms wiki, it will tell you that Matthias's god is an aspect of Velsharoon; this is incorrect, and the first person to try to tell me otherwise will be turned into a bowl of spaghetti and served up at a high school dance. This is the one thing I will be entertaining no arguments about. That said, please feel free to take these characters as inspiration, mine them for ideas, or even just to play them yourself if you're inclined to indulge my staggering arrogance in such a fashion.

One last note; you will notice that I have often disregarded the Domains associated with various gods in the books. This is in no small part because WotC did those assignments with incredible, mind-blowing fucking incompetence, and also because a great deal of their former Domains or Spheres no longer have adequate representation. I have chosen to ignore them on purpose and with malice aforethought.

Now, without further ado, may I present:

The Chosen Many - Sample Clerics

Our sample Clerics will be formatted as follows:

[NAME]

Species Domain Cleric [Background]

General pitch of their concept & plot hooks

Personality Traits: [HERE] / Ideals: [HERE] / Bonds: [HERE] / Flaws: [HERE]

Matthias Winters

Human Death Cleric [Guild Artisan]

Mattie was only an apprentice when the monsters came to his village, ravening things set loose by an unwise summoner. People he knew died, until the Shrouded Lady came and destroyed the beasts with a dark and divine grace he had never before encountered. This Lady did not ask for money, and she did not ask for favors, but of the proud and simple people of the village she did ask two things: to let others know that they had a friend in the lich-god Mellifleur, Friend of Heroes, and for Matthias's services as her apprentice. Both were granted, with many tearful goodbyes and promises to write, which have been, it must be said, kept. It's a strange life, working as a Cleric to the Lord of the Last Shroud. Matthias isn't terribly educated, no, but he's no fool: he knows his god is evil, far more vile and underhanded than Matthias himself would ever want to be. And yet, "Friend of Heroes" seems to be no empty title. Matthias is sent on odd errands all across the land, all of them ominous and to some nebulous good. Go here, says the Shrouded Lady, and warn the town that a drow raid is coming; go there, and deliver these potions to the Moonstone Four, who will have need of them. Matthias has guarded caravans, healed the sick, slain the wicked, and placed far more magical items into chests within crumbling ruins than he ever thought plausible. During less pressing times, his work as a smith still sees use, crafting items of unusual make and odd, threatening beauty for more powerful spellcasters to enchant. One day, the Shrouded Lady has promised, his training will be advanced enough to create his own.

Mellifleur is evil. Matthias knows this. But does it matter so much, if Matthias is still helping? Does the promise of lichdom for himself really matter, if he can do more right by the world with all that time? He thinks about this, between hammer strokes, and he has no answer yet.

Personality Traits: "I tend to work when I need to think." & "I ask people what they think of death." & "I eat big and hearty; quality is a distant consideration." / Ideals: "If you've helped others, the method shouldn't matter [Neutral]." & "Professionals have standards [Lawful]." / Bonds: "I might uh, be in love with the Shrouded Lady." & "I seek a lost artifact of Mellifleur that can divine the plots of other evil gods." / Flaws: "When I don't know what to do, I take the first order I'm given that sounds right." & "There is no kill like overkill."

Elrissa Morrowmoon

Drow War Cleric [Soldier]

Born on the surface as the first generation of her family to be so born, Elrissa was raised in a community devoted to Eilistraee, actively involved in shepherding escapees from Lolth's dominions. She grew up idolizing the warrior-priests of her goddess, their grace and confidence, their surety, but never felt that for herself; big for a drow, hell, big even in comparison to a human, she despaired at ever achieving her dreams of becoming one of Eilistraee's paladins, even as she trained every day with gritted teeth and tearful eyes. When her community was found and raided in an attempt to capture the escapees as sacrifices to Lolth, Elrissa lost her father, and the very next night she stormed into the sacred grove and screamed her demand for vengeance up to her goddess.

She was answered.

In a sick way, Elrissa feels sometimes it might have been better if she wasn't. Now she's a holy warrior, now she knows she has the favor of her goddess and none can deny it, but she's still the plodding, clonking, clanging thing she was before, hunting the faithful of Lolth in her plate armor like an army of pots and pans. She lacks subtlety; she lacks grace. But while Elrissa is still in some ways the little girl who was never good enough in her own eyes, watch her change when the innocent are threatened, or when the priests of the Spider Queen are within striking distance. She does not leave survivors. She will not heed surrenders. She is coming, in a tide of moonlight and hateful sorrow, until no brick stands atop another.

Personality Traits: "I am very earnest and forthright." & "I get easily distracted by nature." & "I maintain my own equipment; no one else gets to." / Ideals: "People get better when they're offered love and support [Good]." & "For drow to have a future, Lolth must die [Neutral]." / Bonds: "I will find the ones who killed my father and repay them in kind." & "Sacred groves, even those of other gods, are worthy of my protection." / Flaws: "My hatred of Lolth can blind me to practical realities." & "Alcohol isn't a problem, it's a solution."

Gemma Rivergard

Half-Elf Forge Cleric [Noble]

Gemma acquired her vocation the way she gets most things: she bought it. As the fourth child of the noble Rivergards, who make their money in trade, her life was always a bit of a loose end. On a dare, she walked into a temple of Waukeen, laid out a spread of gems and gold and art pieces from the family vault, and announced her intention to purchase the exalted station of Cleric. She was as surprised as everyone else when the Goddess of Coins agreed.

Gemma is still a bit of a loose end. Waukeen blessed her with the power to make the goods her family merely trades, and much more besides, but lacking a specific holy mission she's taken to traveling, and it's broadened her horizons. One walk down a poorly maintained road might lead to a quest to cull the monsters threatening it, or politics with a greedy lord who has forgotten the value of commerce. She's set predatory contracts to rights, fought to the death against slaver rings, and purchased a truly concerning amount of amateur art from various goblins. And yet while she's happy with her growth as a person, Gemma still feels like she's lacking a purpose. Surely she can't purchase that.

…Surely not?

Personality Traits: "Is this some kind of peasant joke I'm too rich to understand?" & "You not understanding if I'm joking kinda is the joke." & "That really updated my journal." / Ideals: "To broaden one's horizons is to improve oneself [Good]." & "Every man has his price. That's not always a bad thing [Neutral]." / Bonds: "I haven't left my family! I'm still looking out for them." & "I still keep up with the goblin artists I've bought paintings from. I'm kinda their patron." / Flaws: "You bet I can't? Hold my beer." & "I forget sometimes that my experiences aren't universal."

Neela Wagonborn

Halfling Trickery Cleric [Haunted One]

So, here's the thing. This isn't Neela. Neela is not here at the moment, and you can't leave a message. Neela, you see, was captured by a Thayan looking to build a better Mirror of Opposition, and the wizard's experiment spit out Aleen, the Lawful Evil reflection of the original Neela, who had spent her life to date as a Cleric of Liira, Goddess of Joy. The mirror's enchantment, normally used to compel the summoned copy to kill the original, did not do this to Aleen, who was swiftly captured herself, brutally experimented upon, and then turned loose with the promise that her "creator" would be watching.

She's been hiding for all her life is worth, posing as Neela and playing a nerve-shredding game of balancing distance from Neela's loved ones with staying close enough to not arouse suspicion. Who knows if she'd survive getting killed in this Faerun, which is so unlike the one she knows? Praise be to the gods both above and below, though, Aleen here has an excuse: she's been receiving revelations from Liira, which are guiding her on a quest whose objective is unclear to her, but which has enabled her to become more powerful as a Cleric. If she's tricked the Lady of Illusions…well, that speaks well of her odds, right?

Liira has not been tricked. This journey of self-discovery into the world of beauty and wonder is about to be the funniest prank the Lady of Mists has pulled in fucking centuries.

Personality Traits: "The road calls! Immediately!" & "I remember those who wrong me." & "I have a weakness for musicians." / Ideals: "A deal is a deal [Lawful]." & "Everyone else is looking out for themselves first. Why should I be better? [Evil]." / Bonds: "That Thayan needs to die. Screaming." & "No one can find out who I am. No one." / Flaws: "I'm a good liar, but not as good as I think I am." & "My cruel streak can snatch defeat from the jaws of victory."

Fila Firetouched

High Elf Tempest Cleric [Entertainer]

Descended from a long line of Waterdhavian elves, Fila broke with family tradition by converting to the worship of Sune Firehair, goddess of beauty and patron of the arts. During their more youthful years they lived down to the stereotypes of the many lay members, producing a frankly embarrassing catalogue of love poetry, ex-lovers, and amateur paintings, but after the loss of their sibling to a sea storm their art took a rather more gloomy and Gothic direction. Storms and landscapes featured heavily, and with their newfound focus Fila was praised as an artist to watch, with a keen eye for the sublime. Their parents and community did their best to support Fila, but they were determined to process their grief in their own way, seeking to capture the "true heart of the storm", which they feared, hated, and also loved.

It was atop a hill in the Dessarin Valley, during a savage spring storm, that Fila was struck by lightning while trying to paint. They died in an instant of eternal agony, but it was not to be their end. Rather than claim Fila's soul, Sune Firehair offered them the chance to return, to continue their art and seek out others whose beauty was hidden by the cruelties of the world. Fila accepted, and returned to a body branded by the storm and crackling with divine power.

The plate armor is still taking some getting used to, as are the odd glances and awkward greetings from the church, but the storm, oh, the storm…

It feels like an old friend now, beautiful and terrible. It's all too happy to help with Fila's work.

Personality Traits: "Hold a moment, I need to sketch this for later." & "There is a party person in me that comes out sometimes." & "The amateur poetry will continue until morale improves." / Ideals: "The world is good, the world is beautiful, the world is worth fighting for [Good]." & "If you don't challenge norms and expectations, people will never examine them [Chaotic]." / Bonds: "I don't always get on with my family, but I'd still do anything for them." & "I haven't forgotten any of my ex-lovers; they can ask a lot more of me than I care to admit." / Flaws: "My resurrection was a miracle, but sometimes when people say my scars are a curse it still feels like they're right." & "I may be a little too excited about my newfound powers of violence."

Nattie Kells

Human Order Cleric [Hermit]

Nattie's family likes to say she was born morose; a depressed and somber child, she never quite got on with the people of her river town, and made few friends, not even during her wild years of late adolescence when she carved her way through every interested lass available only to seemingly lose her passion. Oh, yes, people tried to help, but the things they found meaning in just didn't quite resonate with Nattie, and she dabbled with this church and that career and suchlike before, inevitably, dropping them in favor of her only seemingly eternal passion: reading. Eventually she scraped some money together to go traveling, looking for anything that could speak to her, and she found a long-abandoned shrine to Jergal, the Last Scribe, assistant to Kelemvor and Lord of the End of Everything. It wasn't meaning, not exactly, but the idea that all would be ash one day, that meaning was not required, it had a comfort to it.

She was 23 when Jergal came to her in her dreams and requested her services, which would necessitate a return to lands where other people dwelled. Nattie awoke to find a pile of equipment near her, along with a holy symbol, and she set off, learning the ways of divine magic in her dreams as she made the long and pointless trek back to "civilization". Now, as the Quill of the Last Scribe, Nattie enacts what she thinks of as fate. A charm spell here, a nudge there, and things happen; a man meets his future husband by taking a road he would have walked past, a goblin scout is devoured by an owlbear he would have avoided, a horse spooks and kills its rider. Nattie has hurt people. She has saved people. She tells herself it doesn't matter, but beneath the layers of lassitude and nameless sorrow there is an uncertainty. What is she becoming?

This, too, is Jergal's design. Nattie is determined to live in misery, but the Last Scribe can wait for her to realize better. He can always wait.

Personality Traits: "Ugh. People." & "Primary sources motherfuckers! Write some! Keep them safe!" & "Nobody talk about the kind of person I am around furry animals. I mean it." / Ideals: "It means something, that you were here, and that you were alive [Good]." & "People return to dust eventually. It doesn't matter if they return to dust faster [Evil]." / Bonds: "My lonely home in the shrine is sacred to me." & "The bookstore I used to go to as a child was nearly going out of business, but as long as I keep spending adventuring money there it will never die." / Flaws: "I don't really have any bad feelings about people dying. People die all the time. They're very good at it." & "I wish I felt more blessed by the attention of my god, but he's such an aggravating little bitch. Why's he gotta be so annoying?"

Dagill Tapper

Shield Dwarf Knowledge Cleric [Background]

The son of miners, Dagill quickly proved to have a keen interest in learning, if little talent for academia. For much of his youth he found employment running books for the clan's mines, until - on the advice of the local priests of Moradin - he was sent to Neverwinter to be educated in magic, as the gift was in him and his home had little resources to explore it. Wizardry did not work out for Dagill, despite his passion for the Art, but that passion saw him into the worship of Azuth, God of Spells, and eventually he was chosen as a Cleric.

Dagill's interests lie in the recording and advancement of magical knowledge, and his new faith keeps him busy. Between expeditions to recover lost knowledge and study traditions of spellcraft, he assists in scribing scrolls and seeks out potential mages in under-served populations. Though his clan doesn't approve of his conversion, he's still a dwarf's dwarf, with a deep love for the gods of his people, who returns home often and pays his dues in gold, labor, and knowledge for the good of his people. They'll come around eventually. They must.

Undiscussed with most is Dagill's dearest ambition: to find one of the lost scrolls penned by the very gods, and cast it with his own hands. What else could bring him closer to his new god?

Personality Traits: "Have you heard the good word about how great wizards are today?" & "Despite it all, I'm still a dwarf's dwarf in a lot of ways." & "I make a big deal out of Azuth. All the time! People should appreciate him more!" / Ideals: "The advancement of the Art is meant to help people [Good]." & "We have obligations to truth, and to history [Lawful]." / Bonds: "I still send money to my clan, and I should visit again soon. I might have an arranged marriage coming up." & "The wizard who tried to teach me is a good woman; I need to repay her kindness." / Flaws: "I have a bit of an inferiority complex about wizards." & "I am easily distracted by puzzles and riddles."

St. Nokta Kinslayer

Goblin Life Cleric [Outlander]

Honesty can change a life, you know. Nokta's warband came up against a pack of tall-folk adventurers, as goblin warbands sometimes do. She was a soldier, then, seemingly destined to be smeared beneath a mercenary boot, but when she was captured the adventurers said: talk, and we will let you live. She talked, of course she talked, Maglubiyet teaches survival at all costs, but her fellows found out, and intended to kill her along with the adventurers during an ambush.

The tall-folk fought like demons to save Nokta, because they had said she would live, and they meant it. Despite their best efforts she died, to an arrow in the throat, only to wake with the battle still raging, brought back to life by diamond and spell and the tall-folk shaman in his metal armor. Three times did Nokta die, and three times was she brought back, only to watch the tall-folk shaman take a blade to the heart. Gripped by something she couldn't name, Nokta raced over, and took his diamonds, and tried to speak his spell, fervently calling out for his strange tall-folk god to spare him.

Nokta was answered in the name of Illmater, the Lord on the Rack, god of mercy and of self-sacrifice, and has served him since. For dying and returning, her new church calls her Saint, but her people call her Kinslayer, and the Traitor Shaman, and more besides. There will be no peace, and though Nokta knows her suffering reduces that of the world, this cannot continue. If the Fire-Eyed God wants her head, there can only be one recourse: break his priests until the cost of war sickens Maglubiyet , and he accepts peace. Saint Nokta is unafraid, and she is unmerciful.

Personality Traits: "What, tall-folk - uh, I mean, yes, my child?" & "I don't hate vegetables, I love meat." & "The Tall God says His blessings are for all. For some reason." / Ideals: "Peace for peace, wrath for wrath [Neutral]." & "I don't understand the compassion I was shown, but I do treasure it [Good]." / Bonds: "The adventurers who fought for me have my service for the asking." & "I'll drop everything to fight the servants of the Fire-Eyed God." / Flaws: "I don't know what this 'love' is, and 'trust' is also still pretty difficult for me." & "My fears drive me to violence far more often than the Tall God likes."

Jelka Threebones

Orc Grave Cleric [Acolyte]

Jelka came to live amongst the Sky Pony tribe of the Uthgardt as a young adult, one of several political hostages exchanged between her own tribe and the Sky Pony as part of a peace agreement; with both in the shadow of the Kingdom of Many-Arrows, wise leaders on both sides sought to cool traditional conflicts between them in favor of looking to the greater threat to their mutual north, and Jelka was selected for her cool head, proud bearing, and great foresight for such a young orc. The story might have ended there, if the Cult of the Dragon hadn't moved into the area looking to pillage the spirit mounds and burial grounds of both tribes' warriors to secure a supply of corpses for their necromancies. Outraged at this desecration and disrespect, Jelka called upon Gruumsh and Tempus in the name of both her peoples for the power to revenge herself upon the defilers, and her prayers were answered.

Today, Jelka continues her campaign of revenge in the name of Gruumsh, hunting down those who raise the dead, defile graves, and bend the minds of warriors. Her list of enemies is long and only growing longer, and she is keenly aware that she is not yet mighty enough to face down the likes of dracoliches or, say, the entire sovereign nation of Thay. But she will be. She must be. Wrongs have been done, and she wades into battle chanting the litany of them in an endless roll of accusation and reprisal, screaming hateful hymns alongside her chosen allies. Her new mission has made for strange bedfellows, but for all her outward fury Jelka remains the curious and level-headed young orc she was when she was selected all those years ago. Perhaps there are other enemies she might make peace with, to gain the satisfaction of her almighty vengeance.

Personality Traits: "Raise a cup with me! We should celebrate!" & "I'm very curious about new cultures, sometimes to the point of being annoying." & "I love a good story." / Ideals: "The world will hit you hard. If you don't take revenge, all you'll get is hit again [Evil]." & "If you don't have the guts, you don't deserve the glory [Chaotic]." / Bonds: "My word of alliance, once given, is absolute." & "I have siblings in my first tribe who should be adults soon. If they need my help, they have it." / Flaws: "I never forget a sleight." & "I pick fights I can't win sometimes."

Kellard Frosthalt

Rock Gnome Nature Cleric [Folk Hero]

Kell should have been a druid. He knows it, his clan knows it, druids know it, there's even odds that mushrooms in Menzobarrenzen know it, but he's always had a deep phobia of shape-shifting, so for a long while he was content to study nature…academically. Sure, his papers were trite, but the man published and that's not nothing. When he was hired to catalog finds for an expedition into Netherese ruins, the team found an ancient shrine to the goddess now known as Chauntea, and beset by undead guardians. Unwilling to let the sacred place be defiled, Kell took up arms for the first time, and found himself blessed with power.

Now Kell spends his time in lost places, seeking revelation and tending to the needs of rural communities. His new position is intimidating. More than many other followers of the Lady of Waving Grain, he understands that his goddess is an ancient and persistent foe of evil. Only…can something better truly be grown from her foes? Is Kell ready?

Personality Traits: "I love nature! Let me tell you about this parasitic wasp!" & "I know it doesn't fit my station, but I just, I need to be dressed sharp, okay?" & "I tell jokes with a completely straight face." / Ideals: "There are no pointless things; all things of the world have a treasured place in it [Good]." & "Generosity is the highest virtue [Good]." / Bonds: "Fuck Netheril, fuck the Netherese, burn their ruins and salt the ashes." & "After that first fight in the ruins, a peasant family took me in. I owe them my life." / Flaws: "I have a deep and abiding phobia of having my body changed against my will." & "I never, ever, ever, shut the fuck up."

Dolly Bookchild

Half-Drow Peace Cleric [Investigator]

Most half elves lose their human parent first, but as the child of two adventurers Dolly wasn't exactly surprised when her drow mother bit the big one doing battle with a demon accidentally released from an ancient binding. Seeking to understand her loss, Dolly started spending time in the sacred libraries of Deneir, and eventually converted after falling in love with learning. Academia isn't exactly her strong suit, but Dolly has a lot of practical knowledge that isn't often written down in an accessible fashion. Her new church was proud to fund the publishing of Dolly's Practical Survival Guide.

Still, a new love of learning isn't closure, and Dolly yearned to be an adventurer like her parents. After her second book went off to the printers, she stayed up in vigil to ask Deneir for a cleric's power, vowing to use it to find and advance knowledge, and to protect the ignorant. Her wish was granted, and now she bears the peace of the library wherever she goes. Every day is a lovely day for learning.

Hopefully one of these lovely days Dolly will figure out that the demon isn't done with just her mother.

Personality Traits: "It's a beautiful day to learn something new, isn't it?" & "Ah, the great outdoors!" & "I skip when I'm happy. No really. No, really." / Ideals: "Knowledge belongs to everyone [Lawful]." & "Extend grace to the ignorant; they truly do not know better [Good]." / Bonds: "Dad's getting on in years. I need to make sure he isn't worrying about me when he passes." & "I still return to my temple pretty often; it feels more like home than home does." / Flaws: "Sometimes I forget that my fun adventures can have deadly consequences." & "I'm from the big city where my heritage isn't a big deal, so it's surprising every fucking time that it's a big deal elsewhere."

Jonas Cobbler

Aasimar Light Cleric [Urchin]

So here's the thing. Jonas had a bit of an odd childhood. Raised by a then-single mother who is a devout follower of Lathander, Jonas was maybe six, seven years old when he mentioned in his prayers that he's a boy and asked for some help being a boy because he knew Mommy worked very hard and didn't have a lot of money. His first direct experience with divinity was his god's gentle voice in his mind saying: yes, my child, your new dawn is upon you. He had some explaining to do the next morning, and his mother was happy for him and seemingly cross with Lathander, for some reason?

It wasn't until Jonas was about seventeen that he got answers to that particular mystery; he came home to find his mother, her partner, and a golden-haired stranger waiting up for him. His mother introduced the stranger as Jonas's father...

...Lathander.

Maybe running away from home in a bit of a panic was the wrong move, but uh. Jonas has at least one parent looking out for him now, right? It'll be fine. It'll be fine. It's all gonna be fine.

Personality Traits: "I am extremely food-motivated." & "Let me teach you my secret handshake!" & "Uh, I've got, a spell for this, uh - fuck - uh, in the name of the new dawn uh -" / Ideals: "You don't need a reason to help people [Good]." & "The best time to be a better person was yesterday. The second-best time is now [Good]." / Bonds: "My old friends mostly went off to real careers, but we still stay in touch." & "There's a hidden place in the old neighborhood that I take care of." / Flaws: "I cannot walk into church any more without thinking, holy shit this guy slept with my mom." & "I am embarassingly weak to a pretty face."

Freddie Wright

Human Twilight Cleric [Criminal]

Hailing from a family of Selunite wererats in Yartar, Freddie used to have a fairly exciting life spying on Zhentarim operations, right up until she blundered into a cell of Sharrans in the sewers. They pushed her into a portal to see what would happen, but not before somehow stripping her of her lycantheropy to ensure she would suffer and die. Freddie arrived in Undermountain with nothing but her faith, and in her time of need the Moonmaiden answered. Against all odds, Freddie survived, scrounging up equipment, learning the traps, and eventually staggering out of the Well into the Yawning Portal Inn. She still has nightmares, but Freddie is grateful every day that she's alive to have them.

Now the former wererat stalks the Sharrans up and down the Sword Coast, seeking the return of what was taken. She hates her heavy armor and despises being caged in one body, but despite her snappish ways she takes her duty as a guide very seriously. That's part of the problem, actually. The dead of the Underhalls haunt Freddie and beg her intercession so that they might move on, and with every ghost laid to rest her prey gets further away. But what's a girl to do, ignore them? No. Freddie has faith. This righteous path must, will, make her whole again.

Personality Traits: "Time is money, hurry it up." & "Sometimes I overcomplicate things because I'm biased against direct solutions." & "Hey that reminds me of something that happened in my family -" / Ideals: "If you give people what they need to grow, they become their best selves [Good]." & "No one else can walk your path for you [Chaotic]." / Bonds: "Yartar is still my favorite city, and I stop by to do good by it when I can." & "The dead of the Underhalls that follow me have none other to speak for them." / Flaws: "Do you have any idea how much this stupid monkey body pisses me off?" & "I've got a vengeful streak that is not uh, approved Selunite behavior."

[winterfollows]

If you hear the faintest screeching, it's me. I need to edit Haleir's bio/pages so, so badly to keep up with how I'm currently portraying him but I don't have access to a PC.

[lowkeyclueless5137]

Yay! Bedtime story!

Heh... so... o-o;

Music for the BG:

Yeah, that's all I have to say!

Until next time! Buh bye!

[selineram3421]

Deer Demon Child Headcanons

Requested

Alastor & Child Reader

Warnings? ⚠

⚠ implied death, mention of blood, mention of cannibalism, weapons-gun ⚠

It was a surprise to everyone that a child wandered into the hotel.

A little deer demon.

That's you

Climbed up one of the bar stools and stared the cat man down until he finally noticed them.

"Uh..hey? Kid."

"I want juice!", you pointed at a bottle behind him that was on the shelf.

"That's not juice."

While distracting you with magic tricks and cards games, Husk called Charlie to let her know that a new guest had arrived.

The Princess ran to get to the lobby and rushed over to the bar.

"Hi! Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel!", Charlie sings out before noticing the little deer. "Oh."

Everyone is called into the lobby.

"Ok!", Charlie claps her hands together and introduces you to the group. "Everyone, be nice and say hi."

Later on you are asked by Vaggie and Charlie how you got to the "red place."

Mostly everyone left and it was only you three. Four.

"Before I woke up here I was with my moma.", you said while coloring your drawing. "Dad had a shiney toy in his drawer and showed it to me a lot of times. It made fun clicking noises. I wanted to play with it, so I took it out."

As you were explaining you drew out the shape of a gun.

"I wanted to show Moma but she looked scared. And when I tried to make the clicky noise it came out different. It made a bang and then Moma fell."

You drew your mother covered in red.

"I tried to wake her up but she wouldn't get up. I got sad and started crying."

You didn't notice Charlie and Vaggie looking sad.

"Then Dad came home and started screaming at me and took the toy away. And then everything went dark for a while."

Picking up your paper, you showed the girls your drawings.

"And then I woke up to the red sky!"

Charlie hugged you after and said that she'll make sure you go to Heaven.

Oof sad backstory.

Husk literally growls at Alastor everytime he mentions venison for dinner.

Alastor has joked to others that he'll eat you but stopped once he grew fond of you.

"Little fawn.", he smiles as he greets you. "Would you like gingerbread cookies?"

To be honest, everyone is worried that Alastor might kill you. But surprise, surprise! They are shocked when he takes care of you instead.

You're the favorite hotel guest.

Anyone that tries anything will be taken care of.

Charlie did a talent show day and you sang, surprising everyone with your angelic like voice.

You're a curious little deer and the hotel guests and staff find you in odd places.

Once Angel found you upsidedown behind the couch that was against the wall.

"What are ya doing back there?", he asked after pulling you out.

"Niffty said there was treasure!", you smiled.

Alastor finds it adorable that you go to him when someone you don't know/scary person is in the hotel.

Sir Pentious is told to put all of his weapons away.

Everyone dubs you as Alastor's child. Even the Radio Demon himself.

Vaggie threatens Alastor after he jokes that you'll be a cannibal like him.

Of course he'd never do that but its funny to see Vagatha's and Husker's pissed off faces.

Alastor keeps up with the human news and learns that your father went to prison. So the Radio Demon waits for the man to fall.

Art will be provided. (Later)

~Seline, the person.

Part 2

Art

Taglist@

@ducky-died-inside @scary-noodlesblog @c4rved-pumpk1n @stolas-thebirb @naelys-the-aster @biromanticboba @kiraisastay @faioula16 @pooplyface1423 @lbcreations-blog @+?

ML for Alastor🎙

[sheep-from-rad]

Hi! Sorry if this is weird or anything, this is my first time sending an ask lol

But I just finished reading your writing about the singer/influencer reader and omfg I love your brain. Like imagine the reader did a cover of/wrote like spit in my face by ThxSoMch or Cigarette Ahegao by Penelope Scott (love her sm btw-) cause just imagine the GUILTTT

Imagine the Batfam listening to their music and just hearing the bitterness in their voice as they sing “Screwing everything up, doing everything wrong, In my defence I wasn’t supposed to be around this long, so” HGDECANZZKNFBVD

Anyway, I love your writing and I hope you have an absolutely amazing week! Take care of yourself too- drink water, eat some food and try to get some sleep ml <3

Nah anon you're cool. I love reading asks. ALSO credits to Luludelulusramblings, they made the originally made Influencer reader. Batfam belongs to DC as usual. Singer reader post: here

You know, in the Art History year 1901-1904, Picasso started the Blue Period where he only painted in the shades of Blue. It started due to the death of his friend, later his financial struggles, and of course the current state of the society. Blue Period art was so good but so doleful and depressing that no one wants to hang it in their house. Singer! Reader started their career covering mainstream songs, band songs, maybe even vocaloid. 

Their blue period started months before they planned to leave the manor. It was a simple cover of MARINA’s ‘Are you satisfied?’ A lot of burnt out overachievers ate that cover, even Tim himself. The song is basically the reader questioning the Wayne last name. Sure it was a goldmine to others but to them it’s a ticket to misery. One song cover turned into many song covers, enough to make a long playlist to play at 3 a.m. when you’re about to have a breakdown. 

The whole playlist? Batfam avoids it because it reminds them of the times they could have been giving you love but they didn’t BUT at the same time they can’t really avoid it. It became like those guilty pleasures playlist. Damian loves and hates reader’s ‘The Family Jewels’ cover because it reminds him of the fact that he and the reader are basically on the same boat. They were just children who needed attention and love. He got that attention and love immediately because of the whole league of assassins backstory. He won’t admit it but the weight of the role weighs like tonnes of iron on his shoulders. 

Jason, Bruce and Cigarette Ahegao will roll together so much. That man has twice the amount of trauma Bruce had and his coping mechanism sucks. All the aggressiveness was just a coping mechanism, underneath he’s a man with conflicted feelings and those years of being dead and suddenly being resurrected didn’t help. Let’s face it Bruce is a tired man who lives a double life. He's a man who dresses up like as a bat making sure the city is safe but he can't cover all grounds. The neglect on reader was unintentional but neglect is neglect.

Dick with reader’s cover of ‘Stressed out’ by Twenty one pilots, no explanation needed. ‘This is me trying’ by Taylor Swift with Cassandra, Stephanie, and Tim. Cassandra and Stephanie being raised by villains and Tim being an overachiever to have his parent’s attention. His parents being always away and realizing he basically did the same thing to the reader by making them feel invisible. 

Double guilt if they left the playlist on autoplay and ‘Daddy issues’ plays. Any version but I think the original fits the bill. Reader ends their blue period with a cover of Mother Mother’s ‘Burning Pile’ basically saying ‘Yeah fuck it, it’s over. I’m burning it, I’m leaving it, I’m closing the chapter’. But to the Batfamily, it meant renewal and turning a new leaf, an invitation to make things better.

[batbux]

One of the bats has to go undercover as a patient of a particularly suspect new and upcoming therapist. Bruce already has a backstory fleshed out and a cover identity, but that's no fun now is it.

Dick: Okay, the bat council is now in session. First things first-

Steph: I'm the realest.

Jason: Shut the fuck up.

Dick: No, no arguing. We're here on a MISSION.

Tim: That's right, a very important mission.

Dick: One of us has to go undercover as Dr. Hoffman's patient. But why? Why are we seeking therapy?

Tim: Wrong answers only. If any of you get too real, Dick can and will find you a real therapist.

Dick: And Tim, no superhero related answers. Bernard's PowerPoint nights give you too much of an advantage.

Tim: You're just jealous I know that Batman is actually a tulpa.

Jason: You shut the fuck up too.

---

Dick: Okay, I'll go first to get the obvious answer out of the way. I'm going because I'm secretly Batman, BUT I'm not here about that. I just have incredibly selective amnesia and can't remember the code to the Batmobile.

Jason: Oh that one's good. Let me think.

Steph: Hoffman is a man, right?

Dick: Right.

Steph: Easy, I'll claim womanly problems. Maybe get prescribed a vibrator.

Tim: *wheezes*

Dick: Ok Gotham's in the dark ages of psychology but not THAT much.

Steph: Spoilsport. Fine, I'm Batman's long lost twin sister.

Duke: Come on, we can't all go to therapy because of Batman.

Jason: I don't know, I feel like all of us should go to therapy because of Batman.

Cass: I'll go because I'm Batman.

Jason: I'd vote for you.

Duke: I think I would go because Metropolis isn't real.

Tim: Like, the whole city is-

Duke: It's a conspiracy. The government wants us to think there's this wonderful city where nothing bad ever happens and an actual alien from space saves the day. Tries to make us buy into some utopian bullshit.

Tim: Hoffman's just going to drive you there.

Duke: Ha! He's not getting ME to a secondary location. He might be in on it.

Steph: Compelling, definitely compelling. I nominate Duke's for first place.

Jason: Don't jump the gun.

Tim: Yeah, you haven't heard ours.

Steph: Well? Let's hear it then.

Tim: I'm an alien spy, sent here to study humans. Only I'm not doing well because I was taken in by rich people and they act weirder than me. I want to know what it means to be human, but whenever I look around all I see is how to make a good margarita. It makes me... sad.

Steph: That's no good. We said wrong answers only.

Jason: Solid four out of ten.

Tim: Fuck off.

Jason: I think I would go because I was convinced I was the second coming of Jesus which is all fine and good, but my whole family is Jewish so it's making things a little awkward at the dinner table.

Steph: You did come back from the dead.

Jason: I did and I'll tell him that. Took a little longer than three days this time, though.

Tim: Okay, I'll be honest. Jason and Duke's are the best.

Dick: Hold on- Damian, do you have an answer?

Damian: Of course. And not one so foolish.

Duke: Well?

Damian: Well, my whole family is comprised of vigilantes and I'm under a lot of stress to be one as well and continue the family tradition. I will of course swear him to secrecy and avoid naming any vigilantes by name.

Dick: ...

Jason: This is what I'm talking about. This is exactly what I'm-

Dick: Yes, okay. Game's over. All of you are getting psych referrals in your inbox by the morning.

Steph: What about-

Dick: Duke won.

[wholoveseggs]

Hey lovely, your latest story gave me an idea. How about Reader and Elijah have been together for a while, but he is the one to avoid sex. Every time he has been with a human, it overpowered them or hurt them. He can't keep Red Door Elijah in check, which is fine when he's with a supernatural being, but not when he's with a human. Reader knows his backstory but is determined to show him that their love is different.

Control

{I've officially run out of gifs I want to use, so I'm in my moodboard era now}

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

Plagued by nightmares of hurting you, Elijah avoids any form of intimacy, but you have had enough. You confront him about his rejection and Elijah finally learns how to let go and lose control.

♡♡ Thanks for the request @originals23, love love love red door elijah and his dark side ♡♡

6k words - Warnings: smut, fluff, lots of angst, red door Elijah, trauma, nightmares, visions of death, blood, blood drinking, rough sex, aggressive flirting, dom!elijah, jealously, masquerade ball, elevator vandalism...

Elijah needed control the way a drowning man needed air. It was as if it was a basic function, like oxygen, like blood. He had always been that way, even before he was turned, but it got worse when he was forced to take lives for food and to stay alive. His nature demanded he take what he wanted, when he wanted, but he was afraid of that, so he clung to rules, to discipline.

But no matter what he did, he was still plagued with the same nightmare. You, his perfect love, dead in his arms. Your body limp and lifeless, your eyes open but vacant. And all because he couldn't control himself. Your blood stained his skin, his clothes, his heart.

You knew better than to sneak up on a sleeping vampire, but it wasn't just any vampire. It was your Elijah, your sweet, loving, gentle Elijah.

All you wanted to do was surprise him with some coffee. It was going to be a long day, there was a huge party being hosted by Marcel. All of the factions were gathering for a masquerade ball, the first of its kind in centuries. There were rumors of a peace treaty in the works, and the festivities were the opening salvo.

You were beyond excited, you never experienced this sort of thing, and you were so happy that Elijah would be by your side. You picked out a matching set of masks for the two of you. For him, a sleek, black one with dark feathers at the tips. For yourself, a delicate, lace one in a deep crimson.

When you were younger, you had dreams of wearing beautiful, elaborate gowns, and dancing the night away with a handsome man. You couldn't help but feel giddy thinking about tonight.

You set the coffees down on a nearby table. Elijah's room was dim, only a small shaft of light peeking out from behind the curtains. He was curled up in the center of his large bed, his hair was disheveled and his lips were parted. The sheet was pooled around his hips, revealing his chiseled chest and toned arms.

He was beautiful, and you very much wanted to explore every bit of him. But he wouldn't allow it. He wouldn't allow himself to lose control. He had told you about his darkness, the red door, the place where he put all of the sins he couldn't live with.

When his control was frayed and his mind was weak, it would whisper to him, tempt him. Because there, in that space, he didn't have to feel guilt or pain. He was free. Free to do as he wished. He would be able to take you, claim you, love you the way his darker instincts screamed at him to.

You pulled off your sweater and boots, leaving you in just a mini dress and socks. You padded over to the bed and carefully slid under the covers, trying not to disturb him. You cuddled up next to him, your hand resting on his chest. You wished he would let you in, let you experience all of him, the good, the bad, the ugly. You loved him, and that meant loving everything about him.

Elijah had sensed your presence from the moment you entered his room, but he remained still, feigning sleep. His sweet little love, so utterly defenseless and vulnerable, alone in a vampire's bed. His fingers itched to touch you, to pull you into his embrace and never let you go. He could hear your heartbeat, steady and strong, could smell the sweet perfume you had dabbed behind your ears, and could feel the heat radiating off of your body. He was acutely aware of every aspect of you. It was hard not to give in to temptation, to pull you into his arms and kiss you until your lips were swollen and pink.

"Elijah," you said softly, in a sing-song voice. You brushed your fingers along his jaw, the stubble rough against your soft skin. He stirred slightly, pretending to wake.

"Hmm, good morning, love." He rasped, his voice heavy with sleep.

You kissed him softly, smiling into it. "Good morning. I brought us coffee."

He hummed, "That's perfect. Thank you, sweetheart."

"I can't wait for tonight." You sighed, tracing your fingers down his throat and along his collar bones.

Elijah was torn between letting his eyes flutter shut at the contact or watching your movements. You had him entranced.

"I can't either," he agreed. "You'll be the most beautiful woman there, I have no doubt."

You blushed at his compliment and kissed him again, your lips lingering against his. He groaned and rolled onto his side, bringing his hands up to cup your face, his thumbs stroking along your cheekbones. He let himself give in just a little, let the control slip a fraction. You gasped into the kiss as his tongue swept along the seam of your lips. Your lips parted, allowing him entry. You melted against him, your hand coming up to rest on his bicep.

His hands slid down your body, mapping every dip and curve, memorizing the feel of you. Your skin was like silk, your body supple and soft. You had a slight tremor, nervous, or maybe excited. He wasn't sure, but he loved how your breath hitched as he moved his hands lower and lower, until his palms were flat on your backside, his fingers flexing as he pulled you flush against him.

You hummed, a noise somewhere between a sigh and a moan. He drank it in, taking all of your little sounds and storing them in his memory. He rolled, pulling you with him so that you were under him. You moaned as he settled between your thighs, his weight a welcome comfort. He moved his mouth down, nipping at the skin of your throat and collarbone, careful not to let his fangs break the surface.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling gently. You had fantasized about being with him in this way for so long, dreamed about how his body would feel pressed against yours, how his hands would feel on your bare skin. You didn't know what caused this shift in him, this sudden willingness to be intimate, but you were glad for it.

You tugged at the waistband of his boxers, trying to tell him what you wanted. You were not a shy person, you wanted to experience what it was like to be with such a powerful creature, to feel his strength and passion.

Elijah groaned and rocked his hips against yours, letting you feel how much he desired you. His control was slipping, and he didn't care. You wanted him, and he would have you. He leaned back to look at your beautiful face, wanting to etch this moment in his memory for all eternity. You were a vision, cheeks flushed and eyes dark with want.

Suddenly everything started to warp, your flushed skin turned cold, your warm eyes grew distant, and your heart slowed to a stop. His breath caught as a trickle of blood leaked from the corner of your mouth. He looked down at his hands and they were covered in your blood, the dark, rich liquid soaking the sheets and staining his skin.

"No, no, no, no, no." He chanted, trying to bring you back, willing the darkness to recede.

Your eyes were glassy, lifeless, bite marks all over your neck, your chest, your legs. You were covered in them, the evidence of his weakness, his inability to keep his desires in check.

Elijah threw himself from the bed, stumbling backwards. He clutched his head in his hands, a scream ripping from his throat. You were gone, dead, and it was his fault. He would never be able to look at your smiling face, never hear your soft laugh, or feel your lips on his again.

"Eli?" you said, stunned by his sudden departure. He was now across the room looking like a caged animal, his eyes wild and his hair a mess. You climbed out of the bed and slowly approached him. He looked like he was going to bolt, his muscles tense and his breath ragged.

"Are you alright?" you asked, reaching out to touch his arm.

"Don't!" he shouted, flinching away from your touch. "Don't touch me."

"Okay," you said, holding up your hands. "I won't."

He felt like he was losing his grip, the world was shifting around him, the ground threatening to give out beneath his feet. He felt like he was back there, back in that slaughterhouse that haunted him, the place that whispered his darkest desires, the place that taunted him with visions of what he truly was, no matter how much control he thought he had over it.

You reached out to him again, and he snapped. He grabbed your arm and pushed you against the wall, his eyes black and his fangs sharp. You gasped, but didn't struggle, trusting that he would never hurt you.

He released you at once, horrified by what he had done. He backed away, shaking his head. "No, no, no. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

He sank to his knees, his eyes wild and frantic.

"It's okay, Eli." You said, kneeling in front of him.

"You need to leave, please." He begged, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm not going anywhere." You said firmly, reaching out to touch him again. He tensed, his breath hitching as you made contact.

"LEAVE," he roared, his eyes flashing. You jerked your hand back, surprised by his outburst.

Elijah regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, he watched you run out of the room and all he wanted was to chase after you, but his pride and fear kept him rooted in place. He couldn't let you be around him, look at what he did? If he couldn't control himself in a moment of passion, what would happen if he really let go?

Elijah stood in front of his mirror, adjusting and readjusting his tie. His hair was combed and his suit was tailored perfectly. But none of it felt right, the buttons on his shirt were too tight, the cufflinks too heavy, the material of his suit too coarse. He needed it all to go away.

He felt like a monster. A monster wearing a man's skin.

Elijah closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could do this. He could get through this night. He didn't know if you were coming to the party, and he couldn't decide if he wanted you there or not. He hated the idea of you being away from him, but he also couldn't bear the thought of you seeing him like this, a man unraveling, barely keeping himself together.

He opened his eyes and forced himself to smile, but the sight was a mockery. His lips were pulled taut, and his teeth looked like daggers. He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, he wanted to tear down the entire city and start anew.

"Elijah! we are going to be late!" He heard Rebekah yell from the courtyard below.

"Be right there," he called, his voice hoarse. He gave himself one last look in the mirror before he walked out of the room and descended the stairs. He could see his siblings all gathered, dressed impeccably with their dates on their arms.

Klaus was talking with Camille, they were dressed in matching shades of blue. Freya and Keelin were standing close together, their hands entwined. Kol was whispering something in Davina's ear, making her laugh. Rebekah was on the phone with Marcel, telling him she was on her way. And Hayley was chatting with Jackson, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist.

"There you are." Freya said, noticing his presence. "Where is y/n? She was so excited about tonight."

The sound of your name made his chest ache, he was about to explain, or rather, come up with a plausible excuse when he heard a voice from behind him.

"I'm right here."

He turned around to see you walking down the stairs, dressed in an ornate black gown, matching his suit, your mask hanging in your hand.

"Y/n," he said, stunned by how beautiful you were.

You smiled slightly and approached him, your heels clicking on the stones. He took your hand, inspecting your arm. It was bruised and there were small scratches from where he had dug his nails into your skin. He brushed his fingers over the marks, regret and guilt filling him.

"It's fine," you said, squeezing his hand.

"No, it's not."

You leaned in and kissed him softly, the feeling of your lips on his caused him to relax a little. He kissed you back, the contact grounding him, reminding him why he needed to stay in control, for you.

"Let's go," Klaus said, gesturing for everyone to follow him out the door.

You took your mask and placed it on, the crimson filigree complimenting the dark silk of your gown. Elijah put on his mask, the bold design making his dark eyes stand out.

The group arrived at Marcel's penthouse, finding the place already crowded. People were drinking, dancing, and mingling. It was a lively atmosphere, filled with music and laughter.

"It's nice," you commented, holding Elijah's hand.

"It is," he agreed, looking around the room. "Shall we?"

He gestured to the dance floor and you nodded, taking his offered arm. He led you to the center of the room, where couples were already twirling and spinning.

"May I have this dance?" he asked, his voice low and seductive.

"You may," you answered, giving him a shy smile.

He took your hand and placed his other on your hip, guiding you through the steps. The two of you swayed to the music, moving gracefully.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his lips brushing your ear.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," you reassured him.

He wanted to argue, but you didn't give him a chance. You captured his lips in a kiss, the world around you melting away. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close. The two of you stayed locked in the embrace, the music and the crowd fading into the background.

The two of you danced for a while, enjoying the feeling of being close to one another. The environment letting him relax a little. But when the music changed, becoming slow and sultry, his mind started to drift.

Elijah imagined pushing you against a wall, kissing your neck and leaving marks. He wanted to rip your dress off, and explore every inch of you. He wanted to bite you, to taste your blood. He wanted to claim you, to make you his.

He wanted to let go, to allow himself to give in. To experience the kind of pleasure and power that only came with a lack of control. But then he saw the blood again, the crimson of your mask, the ruby red of your lipstick, turned to the viscous liquid that both haunted and nourished him.

"What is it?" you asked, noticing the way his body tensed.

"Nothing," he said, his voice strained. "I just need a drink,"

He let go of you and headed to the bar, needing some strong alcohol to help calm his nerves. He ordered a scotch and downed it in one go, the liquid burning his throat. He ordered another, and another, until the world was pleasantly fuzzy and his thoughts were quiet.

"Mr. Mikaelson, so good to see you," a woman said, coming up to him.

"Madam," he replied, not looking up from his drink.

"How is business?" she asked, clearly wanting to engage in a conversation.

"Fine." He said shortly, hoping she would get the hint.

"The party is wonderful," she commented, sipping from a champagne flute, her mask was turquoise and silver, a few strands of her dark hair escaping her updo.

"Thank you, the decorations were my sister's doing," he replied, trying to be polite.

"Ah yes, your sister," the woman said, her eyes drifting over the crowd, landing on the blonde vampire. "She's almost as pretty as you," the woman added, a seductive smile on her lips.

"You're quite flattering, but I'm spoken for," Elijah told her, not unkindly.

The woman pouted. "So I heard, a human though? That must be...difficult," she said.

"How so?" He asked, not liking the direction the conversation was going.

"Humans are frail, their lives are fleeting," the woman replied, her hand coming to rest on his chest. He looked down at her hand touching him, her daylight ring a large sapphire. "And they are so easily broken," she added.

He clenched his jaw, trying not to let her words get to him. "That is why they are treasured," he replied, scanning the crowd in search for you.

"They are food. I thought an original vampire would know the difference," the woman grinned, enjoying getting a reaction out of him.

"Watch your tongue, Madam, or you might find it missing," he warned, his voice low and dangerous.

"Oh, feisty," the woman purred, her free hand went up and she ran her finger over the edge of his mask. "You could have any creature here, take them however you want. Break them in the best possible way," she purred, her pupils dilated.

"That's not how I operate, now if you will excuse me," he said, his anger starting to bubble.

"That's how you used to operate," the woman taunted, her fingers trailing over the buttons of his jacket. "I'm a little hurt that you don't recognize me," the woman pouted, batting her eyelashes at him.

"Should I?" He asked, trying to place her face.

"Paris, summer of 1783, you had me by the hair, bent over the side of a balcony, fucking me so hard that the cement cracked," she told him, licking her lips. "You were wild, rough, animalistic. And it was amazing," she breathed, her gaze unfocused as she remembered the night.

Elijah couldn't remember her, nor did he remember the event. It was amusing to him that this vampire thought she was special. She wasn't. He had bedded hundreds, maybe even thousands, of women. He only ever remembered the ones he loved.

"A shame you can't recall, I've thought about it many times over the years," she said.

He raised his eyebrows. "That's a bit pathetic," he said bluntly.

She laughed, not taking offense. "Perhaps, but the sex was fantastic, I can still feel your bite," she smiled, her eyes falling to his mouth.

Elijah shook his head. "My dear, I'm sure there are plenty of willing participants here, if you truly wish to relive the past, you'll have no trouble finding someone to assist," he said dismissively.

"I would prefer you," the woman said, her tone changing. "No one here matches your power, no one can fuck me like you did."

"Maybe try Niklaus, ask him to bite you," he smirked, watching as his brother and Camille were laughing together.

"Both of you dating humans, what a complete and utter waste," she said, her eyes flicking to you. "I bet I could make you forget all about her," she cooed, pressing herself closer to him.

You could see this vampire all over Elijah, touching him and speaking in his ear. You weaved through the crowd, wanting to put an end to it.

Elijah's attention turned from the woman, a smile spreading across his face as he saw you walking towards him.

"I'm going to have to politely decline, thank you." he said, reaching his hand out for yours.

"Come now, surely you could use some relief," the woman cooed, her hands trailing over his body, ignoring your presence completely.

You didn't quite know what came over you, but you reached up and gently slapped her hand away from him.

The vampire turned her attention to you, her eyes going to the bruising on your arm. She let out a laugh. "Oh my, perhaps I was wrong, looks like your little plaything can handle you," the woman mocked, a smirk on her lips.

"Don't," Elijah growled, not appreciating her words.

She just laughed and shrugged, turning her attention back to him. "If you change your mind, I'll be here all night." the vampire winked at him and walked away, joining another group.

Elijah let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

You gave Elijah a half-smile, hoping he wouldn't think you were stupid for hitting the vampire. She could have so easily crushed you, but you weren't afraid of her.

"Who was that?" you asked, annoyed by the exchange.

He shook his head. "An old lover, it seems," he told you, his lips pressed in a thin line.

"Oh," was all you said, sadness filling you. You weren't the overly jealous type, but knowing that vampire had Elijah in a way you hadn't made you envious and sad.

Elijah saw the change in your demeanor and realized he had not answered the question right. You misunderstood him.

"Not a recent lover," he explained. "It was a very long time ago, and I do not remember the night," he assured you, his hand cupping your cheek.

You sighed, his touch instantly easing the tension in your body.

He pulled you close, his arm wrapping around your waist. "That was very brave of you, that could have ended very badly" he said softly in your ear.

Your hands went to his shoulders, clinging to his jacket, the material warm from his body. "You make me feel brave, you make me feel safe," you murmured.

His heart constricted. He didn't deserve your faith or your trust. The bruise on your arm was proof enough of that. He should let you go, make you hate him and walk away from you before you get hurt anymore, but he couldn't. Not while you were looking up at him with all that trust and affection in your eyes. He loved you far too much to give up.

He leaned in and kissed you, the familiar spark of electricity passing between you. He deepened the kiss, his hand cupping the back of your neck. He was pouring everything he felt for you into it, hoping you could feel the depths of his love and devotion.

You returned the kiss, trying to convey all the things you couldn't say. You broke apart, panting slightly. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed.

"Eli, I was hoping that we could...," you trailed off, biting your lip.

"What?" he asked, his eyes fluttering open.

"I want us to...you know," you whispered.

His eyes darkened, hunger and need filled him. All of the work he had done to push away his urges, to protect you, had unraveled in an instant. Now all he could focus on was the vision of your body beneath his, the feeling of skin against skin. The blood flowing through your veins singing a song to him that he could not deny, at least, not completely.

He pulled you a little closer, swaying you to the music playing, his other hand gripping your hip possessively. You watched his pupils dilate, saw the tension in his jaw and the bob of his Adam's apple.

"Not tonight," he murmured, trying his hardest to hide how much he wanted you, how much it would hurt to reject you again.

Your fingers curled around the lapels of his suit jacket, tugging on it a little harder than you meant to. He never wanted to give in, to allow himself a taste of pleasure. Even with his walls down, Elijah could never truly give himself to you completely.

His hands went to yours, prying your fingers from his jacket, his eyes dark and dangerous. "You do not understand how difficult it is," he hissed.

You pulled against his grip, anger bubbling up. "So, help me understand," you said in a soft tone, ignoring the fact that you were arguing in a room full of people and that you were both gripping each other hard enough to bruise.

"It feels like..." you started, shaking your head a little, "like, I am not enough. Do you not want me? Or have you realized that you need more and I cannot provide that to you?" You finished in a small voice.

His grip on your hands tightened, a warning look flashing in his eyes. "You are more than enough," he whispered, his eyes softening.

You took a steadying breath. "Then. Please. Fuck. Me," you said bluntly.

Elijah let go of you as if you had burned him. Your words cut him deeply.

You let out a frustrated sigh, his rejection stinging. "I... I'm going to go home," you said, blinking back tears.

He went to grab you but you moved out of his reach, his fingers barely grazing your arm. He watched you leave, his eyes following your figure until it disappeared into the crowd.

It was in that moment that he knew he had to make a decision, either he could keep trying to be gentle with you and risk losing you or he could give in and have you completely, but at the cost of hurting you.

Elijah drained his drink and placed the empty glass on the bar, his mind made up. He followed you, moving so fast that no one saw him leave.

You were upset, your feelings a tangled mess, waiting in a quiet hallway for the elevator to arrive. Your eyes were glazed with tears, your breathing shaky. You didn't know what to do, and you didn't know what you wanted from him.

You were lost in thought when the elevator dinged, announcing its arrival, but before the doors opened, hands were on your waist and you were pressed against the wall. His lips were on yours, hungry and demanding. You gasped and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth.

You melted into his touch, your fingers tangling in his hair. His hands were on your thighs, lifting you up and pushing your dress higher.

You wrapped your legs around him, pressing your body against his. The heat between you erupting, causing a soft moan to escape your lips.

He broke the kiss, his mouth going to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses and bites. His hands were on your hips, pulling your body closer. He was rough and urgent, his nails digging into your skin. You gasped, arching into him, needing to feel more.

"You want me to fuck you?" he whispered in your ear, his voice low and husky. "I will," he promised, his lips ghosting over yours.

You clung to him, giving yourself over to the moment. He lifted you off the ground and carried you to the elevator. The doors slid open and he stepped inside, pressing you against the wall. His hands were all over your body, touching and teasing.

You were so caught up in his touch that you didn't notice the doors closing, trapping the two of you alone. He punched the panel, making the elevator come to a jerking stop. He kissed you, his hands finding their way under your dress, pushing the fabric out of the way.

He gripped your hips, grinding against you. The intensity and desperation in his touch was new, making your head spin. You wanted more, needed more. You moaned, the sound echoing off the walls. He groaned, his fingers digging into your skin.

He pushed your panties aside, sliding a finger into your wet heat. You gasped, arching into him. He pumped his finger in and out of you, curling it inside of you. He added a second finger, his thumb rubbing circles around your clit.

He groaned, the feeling of you tightening around him almost too much, his lips brushing your ear. "I want to hear you say my name when I make you come," he whispered, his hot breath tickling your skin.

All you could do was nod, your cheeks flushed and your eyes closed, it was all happening so fast and you couldn't get enough of it. He pressed his lips to your neck, nipping at your skin. He added a third finger, the heel of his palm pressing against your clit.

Your eyebrows arched, locking eyes with him, your mouth open and your hands clutching his jacket. The pressure was building and you felt like you were going to explode. You gasped, his fingers pumping in and out of you.

"Elijah," you said his name breathlessly.

"That's it," he encouraged, pulling on your earlobe with his teeth. "Say my name," he ordered.

"Elijah," you moaned, the pressure coiling tighter.

"Again," he demanded, his hand speeding up.

"Elijah," his name fell from your lips, your release crashing through you.

Your eyes slammed shut, your head thrown back, the muscles in your neck straining. You were trembling, a sheen of sweat coating your skin. He slowly withdrew his fingers, placing gentle kisses along your neck and jaw. You could feel his fangs graze your skin.

He was so hard, you could feel his erection pressing against you. You shifted your weight, trying to gain some friction, but he pulled away, his hands on your hips, pinning you in place.

You opened your eyes, looking at his face, his eyes completely black, the veins under them moving, his mouth open slightly, showing his fangs. You felt fear, but not the type of fear that made you want to run, but the kind of fear that sent a thrill through your body, the kind that made you crave danger.

You lightly traced your fingers over the veins, a smile on your lips. His chest rising and falling rapidly. You ran your finger over his lower lip, and he leaned in, his fangs scraping the pad of your finger. You could feel the sharp tips. He was so dangerous, so lethal, a perfect predator, yet here you were, trapped and wanting nothing more than to have him consume you.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He pressed his body against yours, his erection grinding against you. You moaned, reaching between you, your fingers deftly working the button and zipper of his trousers. You tugged his boxers down, his hard cock springing free. You wrapped your fingers around him, stroking him.

"Fuck," he growled, his hips bucking, seeking more of your touch.

You tightened your grip, stroking him faster, twisting your wrist a little. He groaned, his hands on your thighs, his eyes hooded and his mouth parted slightly.

You released him and wrapped your arms back around his neck, grinding yourself against him. He growled, his hands cupping your ass, lifting you. You used the wall for support and wrapped your legs around him, angling yourself just right. You cried out as he pressed inside, stretching and filling you.

His breath was hot against your neck. "That's my girl," he said softly.

He paused a moment, giving you time to adjust. Then he started to thrust, his rhythm slow and measured, watching the way your expression changed as he fucked you. You moaned, your legs tightening around him, your ankles locking together, trying to pull him closer.

He pumped his hips, burying himself deep inside you. You tilted your head back, exposing the soft flesh of your neck.

It took every bit of control he had not to give in and bite you. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, feeling your blood pump just below the surface of your skin. His hips snapped harder, driving into you, focused on fucking you, on drawing more delicious moans and whimpers from sweet lips.

The coil within you grew tighter, the pressure increasing with every movement of his hips. You clung to his jacket, needing something to anchor you, feeling as if you were spinning out of control. He grunted with each thrust, the sound of skin against skin almost drowned out by the blood pumping furiously in your ears.

His eyes never left yours, a predatory look crossing his features, his fingers gripping the swell of your ass, pounding into you with incredible force, your head hitting the wall with each powerful thrust.

It was intense and consuming and you couldn't get enough of him, and neither could he.

You lost track of how many times you'd come, all you knew was the sweet, aching tension was building again and you didn't know if you could handle another. He held you so tight, your body pressed so close to his, his fangs threatening to pierce the delicate skin of your neck. You couldn't stop, you didn't want it to stop.

Then his rhythm faltered, his breathing becoming labored, his hips pumping furiously. He needed a release. It had been a while since he'd experienced such raw, carnal lust.

He could no longer keep himself from drinking from you, he'd waited too long, denied his primal urges. With a snarl, he sunk his fangs into the side of your neck. A guttural cry fell from your lips, your back arching as you came undone, the sudden pain mixed with the pleasure so intense, you felt your vision darkening as you blacked out.

Elijah gripped your thighs, his lips pulling blood from your body, sending your pulse racing, your blood so hot and sweet that he thought he would combust. He let himself go, cumming deep inside of you, your blood in his mouth, the sweetness coating his tongue and rushing into his system. Your body went limp in his arms, your heartbeat slowing.

Sudden panic consumed him, what had he done? The guilt and fear crashed over him in waves. You looked so pale, you were dying in his arms and it was his fault. The rage and self-hatred he had tried so hard to keep in check ripped through him, his true nature unleashed.

But then you opened your eyes, smiling at him dreamily and something inside of him snapped back into place.

Elijah chuckled, still inside of you. He grinned, the edges of his lips curving upwards. He kissed you softly, reverently.

"Holy fuck Elijah," you chuckled, panting slightly, your heart beating erratically, but you felt alive and amazing, and loved.

"You scared me for a moment," he confessed, resting his forehead against yours.

"That was.. You are..," you struggled for words. "Just wow," you laughed.

You held on to him, wrapping your arms around him, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He wrapped an arm around you, supporting you, the other stroking the side of your head. You breathed him in, savoring the moment, never wanting it to end. He smiled, nuzzling your cheek, his nose rubbing against your skin.

"Let's go home, I want you all to myself," you murmured, kissing his neck, the taste of him filling you.

He chuckled, his voice a deep rumble. "As you wish."

"We have a lot of catching up to do," you grinned, thinking of all the things you were going to do to him.

Elijah chuckled. "My sweet girl," he murmured, kissing you gently.

The elevator rattled, the emergency lights coming on. Elijah pulled away from you, adjusting your dress, smoothing the fabric. He zipped and buttoned his trousers, straightening his clothes. The panel was broken, slight electrical sparks coming from the metal. Elijah gripped the doors, forcing them open. He stepped out and helped you down. You smoothed your dress, looking at him shyly. He grabbed your hand, intertwining your fingers, leading you out of the building.

"I like it when you lose control, perhaps that was the solution all along," you teased, walking along the street, your fingers intertwined with his.

Elijah laughed. "Perhaps, my darling, you may be right."

And with that, he swept you off your feet and into his arms, carrying you out into the night.

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[teenidlegirl]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝓑eauty 𝓞f 𝓣his 𝓜ess ♡ 𝓒hapter 𝓕ive

꒰⠀⠀⟡⠀.⠀military!miguel⠀𝓍⠀fem!neighbor!reader⠀.⠀⟡⠀⠀꒱

‧ ִ ۫⠀♱ 𝓢𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. the bond between you and miguel grows a little more as you two continue hanging out together. however, things from the past come back unexpectedly.

‧ ִ ۫⠀♱ 𝓒𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓. fluff, angst, pet names, swearing, backstories (since it’s an AU, george o'hara is a good step-dad in this), brief mention of divorce, mentions of cheating, hint of a crossover

❛⠀ previous chapter⠀⋅⠀masterlist⠀⋅⠀next chapter ⠀❜

getting off work early today was a surprise.

it was a quiet day at the office, not much interesting stories to cover which was very rare in new york. but what surprise you the most is jameson telling you can go home early today. probably the most generous thing he has ever done.

you didn’t question why or hesitate to leave, it was basically a blessing in disguise.

pulling up in the parking garage and parking in your designated spot, your eyes detect a familiar broad figure across the lot. they light up ever so slightly, a your lips subconsciously raised up in a tiny smile.

why not say hi to him? just super quick.

grabbing your purse and exiting your car, you make your way over to him. miguel is kneeling beside his bike, cleaning it with a black rag.

sensing someone approaching, miguel ups look and immediately smiles when he sees you. he worried it would’ve been that annoying neighbor jason from the 6th floor bugging about buying his bike. miguel would never, it’s his precious baby. a huge wave of relief hits him when he realizes it’s you.

he’s glad that it’s you.

miguel quickly takes out his earphones, the wires dangling over the collar of his shirt since he tucked them inside his shirt, and stands up, towering you.

“hey. how was work?” he asks while cleaning his hands with a different, clean rag.

“for once, great. i got off early.”

“that’s good.”

“yeah, it’s just strange because my boss never lets anyone off early but i’ll take it.” you chuckle softly.

“where do you work at again?” miguel recalls you’re a journalist back at the bar with your friends but can’t remember which company you work for.

“the daily bugle.”

“oh, now i see why it’s strange.” miguel chuckles, aware of the company’s, and jameson’s, reputation. “how long have you been writing for him?”

“three years and hopefully more to come.”

miguel smiles softly at your enthusiasm, how hopeful you seem for your future. the sight makes his heart warm. he hopes for more years to come as well.

“so, how long have you had this pretty thing?” you nod your head at his bike.

“7 years, it was birthday present to myself.”

you hum. “my dad used to own a red one.”

“really?” his brows raised up amusingly.

“yeah, it was his first baby but unfortunately had to sell it since he became a dad.”

“must’ve been hard but had to make the sacrifice.”

“he still misses it to this day. he still loves it more than his own damn kids.” you joke.

miguel chuckles at that. “it was a tough sacrifice.” he indulges in your joke. arms crossed over his chest, biceps bulging through his shirt.

“it was.” you laugh. “he’s a big motorcycle fanatic, i think you two would get along well.” a tiny smirk plastered on your lips, arms crossed as well.

for some reason, the idea of meeting your dad seems amusing to him. miguel is curious to know your dad’s preferences and opinions. it would be nice to talk to someone with a similar interest. his buddies in the military aren’t the biggest fanatics nor owned bikes themselves but still managed to talk about them.

“i think so too, looking forward to it.” he mirrors your smirk, mimicking each other’s stance.

the amount of times this man has been able to make your heart flutter is insane yet you adore it.

“is your dad a motorcycle fanatic too?”

you watch his smirk falter a little. the amused expression turns into a solemn one. you recognize it from your last encounter. you notice that whenever you ask or mention his family.

“no, he isn’t.” miguel said solemnly. “he’s more into money and control.” he watches your brows furrowed, a sign for him to elaborate. “he’s a ceo.”

you hum lightly, acknowledging the given information. “which company?”

“the most famous company, alchemax.”

your brows raise in astonishment. “wow. well, he definitely is into money and control.”

you’re aware of alchemax’s reputation, one of the most successful companies in the country. the fact your neighbor is the son of the ceo amazes you. it was something you weren’t expecting.

miguel briefly smiles at your amusement before turning away, tossing the used rag in a small container then grabs the other he was using previously. “we were never close.” he crouches next to his bike and begins cleaning. “my step-dad is more of a fanatic.”

now it makes sense, his parents are divorced. you can’t help but feel sympathy for miguel.

“he owned a harley. i never liked harleys, i was more into yamaha and ducati.” miguel elaborates while cleaning his bike with the rug. “he taught me how to ride, how to clean, gave some tips and tricks.”

flashbacks of those days, george teaching a young miguel about motorcycles in the garage. iron maiden blasting through the stereo george had in the garage as he and miguel endorsed in father-son bonding. sometimes gabriel would join them, learning some information about motorcycles but never grew interested in them like his older brother.

those memories makes miguel smile, ever so slightly.

you remain silent, attentive to every word he says. you yourself imagine a little miguel learning about motorcycles with his step-dad. the domestic thought makes you smile as well.

“he taught me how to do my first wheelie, right in our neighborhood. my mom saw it and she was furious.” he softly chuckles at the silly memory.

you laugh as well. “did you get your ass whooped?”

“no, thankfully.” miguel chuckles. “she said i couldn’t do it again and gave my step-dad shit for teaching me. she was more worried than angry.”

“i don’t blame her.” you snort. “wheelies aren’t safe, especially doing it as a kid.”

he chuckles at your retorting words. “it isn’t a good childhood without busting your ass.”

“alright, fair point.”

you and miguel continue chitchatting when he cleans his bike. you’re in a middle of a sentence when your phone suddenly rings. grabbing it from inside your purse, your face drops at the number on the screen.

you recognize that number immediately.

the one phone number you deleted two years ago.

never thought you’d ever see it again.

your blood sudden goes cold as you stare at the number. phone vibrating in your hand as the ringtone echos through out the parking garage.

it can’t be… there’s no fucking way.

he swore to leave you alone…

he swore to never call you again. well… you demanded him to never call you again, delete your number just like you did with his. you were there when he deleted it, to make he did.

but… he kept it?… these two past years?

that lying, selfish son of a bitch.

the other option would be him redialing by memory.

miguel noticed the sudden silence from you, turning around to see your mortified expression staring at your phone. his brows furrowed. “everything okay?”

his voice makes you snap out of it, quickly blinking away the nasty feeling in your chest. “yeah, it’s fine.” quickly tapping the decline button, you shove your phone back in your purse as if nothing happened.

miguel’s brows furrowed more, confused by your sudden change in behavior. you seemed so mortified, it worried him. whoever that called you, you definitely did not want to answer. as if you were getting a phone call from a serial killer.

miguel did not like seeing you so terrified.

he wants to know who was calling you. should’ve taken a glance at the number so he could dial them himself. if it got you scared like that, miguel wouldn’t hesitate to track the caller ID. being part of the military includes hacking skills.

“are you sure? you seemed scared.” hint of concern laced in his tone.

“no, i’m fine.” you lie, shaking your head. “it was just a scam call, that’s all.” a fake smile painted on your face, concealing your freaking out state.

even if you sound genuine, miguel knows you’re lying. you didn’t stare mortified at your phone for a scam call. his concern level rises even more.

he’s about to ask again but you start walking away.

“luna’s waiting for me, see ya.” you flash him a half-hearted smile before rushing away, entering the apartment building, ignoring miguel calling after you but you keep going, never looking back.

a confused, worried miguel left in the parking garage. he wants to chase after you. he was literally packing away his stuff until he noticed you were long gone, completely out of his sight. vanished into the air like a ghost. his brows only furrowed more.

who the hell called you?

why did you seemed so terrified to answer?

it bothers miguel so much. an uncomfortable feeling settled in his chest. unable to feel relief until those questions are answered.

miguel desperately wants to head over to your apartment. but he figures you wish to be alone, left unbothered. the last thing he wants is to pry. it seems personal and miguel wants to respect that.

but that doesn’t stop the unease sensation bubbling inside him, consuming his body.

with a sad sigh, he finishes packing up and leaves.

⠀⠀⠀⠀𓂃 ୨ ₊ 𓂃 ౨ৎ   𓂃 ₊ ୧   𓂃

it’s been four days since that asshole called you.

you were scared he would call back but thankfully he didn’t. that fucker hurt you, why the fuck would he try to reconnect with you?

two years later? no mames güey.

work has been a distraction but also busy. jameson on everyone’s ass like always. one day you had to pick up eddie after his car broke down. he spilled the beans about him and anne have been talking. two old friends reconnecting in a slow process. it’s a great start for them, you wish them well.

after working endlessly, it’s your day off which means relaxing time. you take luna out on a walk around your block. it’s perfect weather for a nice walk out. rays of sunshine casting down on you from the vibrant sun, relishing the warmth. the sky cleared from clouds, only the gorgeous blue atmosphere.

the sunlight makes luna’s fur glow. a white fluff ball wandering around. her adorable little pink bows and matching leash. yes, you’re that type of pet owner who dresses up and stylize their pets. she’s your baby, you dress her up however you like.

as you’re heading back to your apartment building, a figure slowly approaches you.

you smell it… you smell him.

you know his signature scent from miles and miles away. that fucking cologne you adored. the intoxicating scent consuming your senses.

looking forward, your heart fucking drops.

no no no… it can’t be.

he can’t be here.

that son of a bitch who broke your heart. betrayed you with his disgusting behavior and lies. who pathetically begged you to not leave, said he needed you and couldn’t live without you.

why did he need you when he was fucking another woman? in your shared bed, not to mention.

you never forgot that night.

two years later, it still haunts you sometimes.

your blood suddenly goes cold, just like when you got that phone call the other day. his phone call.

clad in a basic black shirt and jeans. an outfit you loved seeing him wear. the asshole knew what he was doing. dressed up like that running back to you.

the asshole who hurt you.

joel fucking miller.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓. ♡ @reverieblondie @nina-from-317 @kavimoo @aly29a2001 @marshhbs @lazyjellyfish300 @tojishugetiddies @aphinthestars @novelaaaaaaaa @imamexican @obessgurlll @deputy-videogamer @watertribeissuperior @lovehadlovelost @auiciqa @agoddoesnotplead @saintdiior @whoopwhoppghost @tomalymme @skadiloki @miguelsfavwife @asterrrrose @glossygreene @aefin @youcantseem3 @resident-clown @kutsipie @zuevcs @totorotales-08 @meowgirl1 @sukunash0e @jadeloverxd @sirendyes @leahnicole1219

© teenidlegirl. don’t steal, plagiarize, or translate my work. ♡

[captain-joongz]

Penny for your ghosts; chapter 1

Pairing: OT7!BTS x f!reader

Genre: hybrid au, supernatural au, ghost hunting au (based on Lockwood&Co lore), found family, fluff and humour, some angst, eventual smut

Chapter summary: Hoping for a new beginning, you make a decision and end up at Bangtan Inc. looking for a chance. And somehow unbeknownst to you make a life-defining choice.

Chapter word count: 10k

Next part | Series masterlist

Warnings: not much really - a lot of exposition and some spooky stuff happening, sad ghost backstory, jimin is a little shit, yoongi being effortlessly waaaay too hot while also being adorable and sweet

A/N: here we go folks, the first chapter of our sweet autumnal spooky story! i had such a blast writing this, it's been so amazing to work with the Lockwood&Co universe (it made me reread the first book, again), and this story satisfies something in me that yearns for comfort and coziness, so enjoy! as always, i'd love any kind of feedback or response, so don't be shy and comment, reblog, send me an ask!

divider by the amazing @saradika-graphics

Standing face to face with the old-timey mansion, I didn’t really know how to feel.

It looked fairly inconspicuous in the daylight – just another old expensive house built on this street. It was half hidden behind a stone wall, the wrought iron gate giving me a little peek into the bleary autumnal garden slowly getting covered up with fallen leaves.

There was an iron sign nailed to the wall that read “BANGTAN INC., paranormal investigations” and I gave it a long look.

A new beginning, hopefully, was waiting for me beyond this gate, and I gulped, steeling myself into finally ringing the bell instead of just endlessly shuffling around on the street like a weirdo. I felt the pressure of the paper on which I’d written down the address burning through my pocket. It was just a job interview, and yet it felt like a pivotal moment in my life. It was this or back home, to the cold god-forgotten mountains and that prick Lee. He’d have a field day with me if I crawled back, and that’s why I had to ace this.

“I wouldn’t go in there,” a deep voice from somewhere behind me uttered, a touch of amusement to his words. I jerked around, too consumed by my own thoughts to take notice of my surroundings, even with my heightened senses.

A hybrid stood there, a mischievous expression painting his face. He was pretty tall and built, hair cut fairly short and swept off of his face with two black rounded ears standing in attention amidst those spiky waves. His face was rounded and soft. When my eyes slid down towards his hips, there was no tail. He was most probably a bear.

“I’m sorry?” I asked him, subtly trying to search the air for any noticeable scents, but the air was a little too crisp to carry anything. The man only giggled and stepped a little closer.

“I said,” he replied, “I wouldn’t go in there. Heard the house is haunted.” He brought up his hand to wiggle his fingers in a spooky gesture, trying his hardest to sell the scare, but losing to his own amused snickers.

“Hauntings only manifest after sun-down,” I cited monotonal, subconsciously turning my head to check the greyish blue sky. It was still early afternoon and even though autumn was coming, it wouldn’t start getting dark for another few hours.

The hybrid pouted, sad that he couldn’t scare me, and I wondered what exactly was he trying to do here.

“Taehyung, stop messing with everyone walking by,” a firm voice from my left suddenly appeared, softly chiding the still pouting hybrid, “I told you a thousand times.”

Another hybrid appeared suddenly from my periphery and I couldn’t believe I completely missed his presence on the empty street. He must have been walking over and I just didn’t hear him. Or maybe he came from the neighbouring house?

He was of similar height, broad-shouldered but slim. His attractive face was pulled into an amicable polite smile and the brown rounded ears flicked towards me in interest as he took me in. Another bear.

“Hello, dear,” he said towards me, tone much kinder in that ‘I’m talking to a stranger’ sort of way, “Are you a client? Do you need help with a haunting?” There was something undeniably eager in his voice and it gave me a little pause. They were Bangtan Inc.

Caught red-handed loitering in front of their house, I panicked and did something very stupid.

“Y-yeah,” I stuttered out maybe a little too fast, lying through my teeth – but the men didn’t notice, no. Their faces immediately brightened, postures straightening. 

“Amazing!” the newcomer exclaimed, hands clapping together. He almost threw himself towards the gate, fumbling with the lock for a few seconds before it creaked open and he invited me to step in with a wide gesture, a tinge of nervousness to him like he was afraid I’d turn around and run.

I didn’t. Instead I offered my own hopefully easy smile and nervously fiddled with my wool hat, hoping it still effectively covered my ears, as I accepted and slowly started on the walk over to the main entrance of the house. The giggley from before quickly slipped in as well, shuffling cutely by the broad-shouldered man’s side.

I had just stepped on the first stone stair of the veranda when the door flew open and I startled, foot slipping on the damp surface. Before I even had the time to yelp, there was a hand on my lower back supporting me.

“Oh my! Be careful!”

“Hyung!”

A few shouts rang out at the same time, but I barely even listened. My hand shot out, almost slapping myself in my own face, trying to keep the headwear in place. I felt my ears twitching underneath it, but it stayed firmly on.

“Thank you,” I muttered, righting myself again and looking towards the third hybrid, “sorry for the inconvenience.”

“No no no, none at all,” the handsome hybrid said, “it was Hoseokie’s fault, he should have been more careful with the door.”

The new hybrid standing in the door was looking at me sheepishly, an embarrassed blush painting his face pink.

“I’m sorry,” he said plainly, red fox ears twitching in his curly hair, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Hoseokie, please bring our new client inside and into the sitting room,” there was an understanding that ran through them at the word client, and immediately the fox, Hoseok, turned all professional and beckoned me inside with a practiced friendly smile.

Giggley said nothing since the other bear’s arrival, only hung around in the back of the group, watching me with a strange kind of excitement.

“Please, please, through here,” I found myself pulled through the door and the main hall, under a pretty arch with wooden beams carved into branches with leaves and into what I presumed must have been the aforementioned sitting room.

I wasn’t even sure what that was, must have been a rich people house thing.

The happy fox was flitting around me, fussing with my light coat and assuring me I can step inside with my shoes on. After a barrage of questions about refreshments he danced out of the room, presumably into the kitchen to fetch the promised tea and biscuits.

There was no trace of the other two hybrids, but I heard movement through the house – someone calling a name I couldn’t fully decipher, heavy steady footsteps through a hall, a distant buzz of conversation. Signs of living.

The house smelt happy, lived in. I wanted to go find giggley and argue with him – this house wasn’t haunted; it was a home.

Shuffling a little on the armchair, I felt nervousness sink in. Now that I was here in this situation, I had no idea how to get out of it. The scent suppressant I sprayed on in the morning was going to protect me for a little while more, but if someone really tried I would no doubt be sniffed out without a problem. My ears started to hurt from how I pressed them down in order to not have a suspiciously twitchy hat and no matter how I tried to manoeuvre myself onto the chair, I couldn’t avoid sitting on my tail that was tucked and hidden into the long skirt I wore and protectively curled around my thigh.

I wasn’t even trying to fool them – I wanted the job they offered on the dingy website and for that I had to be a hybrid, but it was easier travelling through the city while pretending to be human – people stared less, whispered less about ghosts and death. It kind of just snowballed from when they assumed I was a client. No other reason for a human to be hanging about a paranormal investigations agency.

I shouldn’t have agreed, but then a strange fear choked me – I wasn’t ready to go in and ask for a chance. It seemed like a great idea to just scope them out, but now it was painfully obvious to me from their joy that not many clients walked through that gate and now I didn’t know how to tell them I wasn’t one.

Before I could spiral further, two hybrids walked into the room – Hoseok and one I haven’t met yet. He was tall, even taller than the two bears, and muscled. Strength radiated off of him, an aura of power that shocked me into silence as I eyed him with something suspiciously close to awe. Something about him was pressing onto my instincts, blanketing my brain with a layer of rightness, safeness. I fought myself not to submit then and there and embarrassment flooded through me.

But at least I wasn’t the only one – from where my eyes caught onto his greyish wolf ears I saw them twitch nervously and then I realised he was actually blushing under my stare, to which I burst into flames even further and politely shifted my eyes to the little table in front of me.

I heard Hosoek’s snickers, but from his relaxed stance I deduced I probably wasn’t the first to get caught into the lure of this hybrid’s aura. It would surprise me if I was.

He cleared his throat, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot and still a little pink, before he regained a little bit of his professionality back.

“Good afternoon, Miss,” he recited smoothly, deep voice like honey, and I blushed a little more, pointedly avoiding Hoseok’s amused eyes, “thank you for choosing our agency to help with your little problem. O-or not little, I mean, it could be a big problem. We can definitely handle anything though, you don’t have to worry.” He stuttered through his little speech miserably, shooting a shy glance towards his companion who was watching with fond eyes.

“Oh Joon,” the little sigh came from behind me and I twirled around to once again come face to face with the brown bear, the man still smiling kindly, “Don’t worry dear, he always gets stuttered up like that.”

He stepped into the room and stuck out his hand in an offered handshake. I quickly fumbled to get on my feet, alleviating the pressure on my poor tail and stumbling in the process, but this time I righted myself before any of the men could. I grabbed his hand with cheeks still red, but with a shy smile back.

“I’m Kim Seokjin,” he introduced himself and then gestured towards the wolf, “and that is Kim Namjoon. He is the owner and the director of Bangtan Inc.” I moved along, offering my hand to the blushing man as well and he took it eagerly yet gently.

I was so distracted by the soft calming grip of his hand that I didn’t even notice the way the wolf sniffed the air and froze, smile melting off into a frown. Namjoon took a step back and his hand got torn out of my hold, and I looked up in alarm worried something happened.

And something did. The man was watching me with apprehension, no trace of the smiling shy man – in his place stood a powerful hybrid sensing a threat. And I immediately understood what happened.

“W-wait!” I exclaimed, “I can explain, I promise!”

The other two hybrids in the room also took a cautious step back, following the director’s lead and I realised – they must have been a pack and he must have been their alpha. That would explain the reaction of my body I was faced with upon seeing him for the first time.

“Why are you trying to sneak into my house?” the question came out a lot unfriendlier than I was used from these hybrids, but I couldn’t blame him – I had unknowingly tried to cheat the alpha of the house and that was a big offense between hybrids, especially since I was a stranger to his pack.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” I whispered, also slowly backing away from the man now that he was so high-strung about my proximity. His packmates watched us with confusion, but I saw the realisation slowly sink into their faces, so I decided to stop the farce and reached for the hat, yanking it off. It was impolite to keep headwear on inside anyway, and I know that wasn’t lost on Hoseok since he tried to take it off for me even though I insisted on keeping it.

Their gasps were less shocked by now, both of them anticipating something like that to be the revelation, but I was sure it was more a reaction to opening a whole new level of information about me. The ears were undeniably feline, even though I wouldn’t blame them for not recognising them, and now that I finally unfurled my tail, it started peeking out from the bottom of my long skirt – that was the one cons about it – it was very long, impractically so.

I saw their eyes trained on the fluffy tip of the appendage, their faces written with their attempts to guess what kind of feline I was.

Not Namjoon though, the wolf was staring me down, eyes shining bronze and posture tense, tail ram-rod straight in a show of dominance. I crumpled into myself a little, showing him I wasn’t a threat even though I entered his territory under false pretences.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, alpha,” the name slipped out of my mouth quite naturally, even though I’ve never lived with wolves before – this man just made it easy to submit. He did relax slightly then, but his senses were still alert, no doubt driving him insane because he couldn’t fully smell me.

“I saw the job offer and I came to ask about it, but when I got surprised at the gate by the bears, I panicked and agreed to come in as a client,” I quickly explained, hoping this wouldn’t end up with me kicked out and no prospects of a future employment, “It was stupid of me, I should have thought more carefully about entering a stranger’s territory while pretending to be human.”

That seemed to have diffused the situation completely and I finally sighed out in relief when Namjoon moved, shoulders relaxed a smidge more and only a trace of mistrust on his face. I was proper ashamed though, and watching the floor with burning face, ears pressed into my head so hard it hurt.

Then I sensed Seokjin moving closer before he gently laid a hand on my shoulder, leading me back into the armchair just as Hoseok shook out of his stupor and started serving the tea and biscuits he brought over. Namjoon still stood still on the opposite side, by the dark brown sofa, but he didn’t seem as hostile anymore.

“You little dummy,” Seokjin teased, and had it been said by anyone else with a different intonation, I would have been mad, but his words only made me blush more, shy and embarrassed. Then he looked over at his packmate and tsked gently.

“Come on Joon, cut her some slack,” he chided, “she was caught off guard because Taehyung started teasing her with the whole ‘the house is haunted’ thing he does.” That had the man relaxing completely and he finally sunk down into the sofa, Hoseok joining him shortly and making himself comfortable in the huge pillows.

There was a light disapproving tint to his expression, but mostly he just looked fondly exasperated, shaking his head slightly and chuckling under his breath.

“I told him a thousand times to stop doing that, it makes people nervous and then they don’t ring the doorbell,” he muttered much the same words as Seokjin had before on the street, and the fight drained out of my body when I realised I really wasn’t going to get kicked out.

“I’m still sorry,” I piped up carefully, gathering the hot mug into my hands and cuddling up to it on instinct before I stopped myself. I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one afternoon.

“So you’re interested in the job, then?” Namjoon changed the subject smoothly, fully settling into his director persona. I nodded eagerly and watched Seokjin walk over to the sofa and sit down elegantly, direct opposite of the lounging fox that now sat with a pillow squished into his arms.

“I got interested because it mentioned you are a hybrid run agency without human supervision,” I told him and the effect of my words was clear.

Human supervision was a concept as old as PI (paranormal investigations) agencies themselves, hybrids weren’t even allowed to own and run them up until like fifty years ago, and even after human supervision was a standard occurrence.

Even though humans had no affinity for the paranormal (some were a little more sensitive to it then others, especially when it came to children) it still ingrained itself as some sort of a staple of quality of agencies – those that didn’t have human supervisors were often ostracised and disadvantaged, there were quite strong smear campaigns against them and people still held mistrust towards them.

If investigators made mistakes that cost lives or destroyed property at an agency with human supervision, nobody thought anything of it, but if the same happened in agencies without, they were often dragged through the mud and sometimes even shut down after “thorough investigations”. It was more than unfair – it was discrimination. Most humans still saw us as animals and therefore incapable of having the same judgements and freedoms as humans did. They didn’t trust the hybrids that risked their lives to make their homes safe again, they rather turned to the humans that accompanied them in and did nothing.

Most human supervisors were older, still very much in the mindset that hybrids weren’t supposed to have their own opinions, and they were absolutely useless in the face of the paranormal – they were a bunch of pricks drunk on their own power, barking orders they didn’t fully understand, putting investigators into difficult spots and overriding their decisions according to a manual that was outdated and unflexible.

But even though you truly couldn’t find a single hybrid that was happy about this still being a thing, due to the industry pressure they still rather chose to work with them – because working against them was virtually impossible and most of those little stubborn groups usually ended up bankrupt pretty fast. The biggest names were still big corporations that built their traditions on the humans in charge of the operations, and if you wanted to have a successful career or even to be able to make a living, you still had to grovel at their feet and beg for an opportunity.

The dark shadows that overtook the three hybrids’ faces at the mention of human supervision perfectly reflected the grim reality of PI industry.

“No, no humans here,” the wolf stated firmly, “we are fully operated by hybrids. We don’t allow any kind of outside intervention, during the investigations everything is fully in the hands of the operatives.” I nodded, satisfied.

“That’s good to hear,” I said, but didn’t elaborate any further. Most hybrids had bad experiences with their supervisors, so I imagine they must have understood pretty clearly where I was coming from.

“Do you have a resume?” Seokjin asked, bringing the attention back onto the topic at hand. I fumbled with my bag, fighting to pull out the slightly crumpled piece of paper that was pitifully empty, and I flushed under his inquisitive eyes when he caught sight of the free spaces.

I had pretty standard qualifications – I did have all of them, I finished all of my education, but it was nothing special. Everyone that successfully graduated from high school and finished their courses had the same ones (and there was a lot of us). There was some experience from practical education, a part-time job as a graveyard guard and a brief stint at the local office of Black Guard Corp., one of the three giants in the PI industry.

It really didn’t take a long time for the three men to skim through it, it actually felt embarrassingly fast before their gazes shifted back to me, appraising me and searching for at least a sliver of talent.

“Oh, you’re from all the way up north,” Hoseok exclaimed, “Got tired of the mountains?” I chuckled somewhat humourlessly.

“Yeah, something like that,” I muttered. A lot of reclusive communities up in the north – a lot of stigma and not much to do, so it wasn’t that strange that young people moved towards bigger cities searching for modernity and understanding.

“One of our packmates is also from the area,” Hoseok said emphatically, smiling my way, “he moved down as soon as he hit eighteen.” A noise of understanding clawed out of my throat completely unbidden and I awkwardly coughed.

“Yeah, it’s fairly normal,” I replied, “I was one of the few young people left in our village.” Silence barely settled over us when Namjoon broke it again.

“You wrote Hearing and Touch as your strongest senses,” the wolf asked, tapping at the paper where presumably those words were written, “can you elaborate on that a little?”

Those hybrids that had talent (meaning a sense for the paranormal) all mostly had a little bit of everything when it came to the three main senses – sight, smell and hearing. Even if sight wasn’t your strongest sense, you still saw just not as clearly as others. If sight was your strongest sense, you still were able to smell or hear to a certain extent. But usually every investigator had a sense that was stronger than others.

Of course there were levels – someone’s strongest sense could still be weak compared to another person, but it was what he relied upon the most when it came to gathering information about the haunting. Those who had exceptionally strong senses could manifest rare gifts tied to their talents – like those with extremely strong sight could be able to see energy traces, or those with a superior sense of hearing could actually communicate with some of the ghosts.

Touch was a bit of a wild card. It was a considerably rare gift – not that it was super hard to find someone with the capability, but that usually it was very weak. A lot of people who manifested this already rare gift couldn’t actually do much with it and mostly just caught echoes. It was also a gift that only tacked onto a heightened sense of hearing or smell, as that made it stronger.

Touch allowed for the investigator to strike up a connection between themselves and an object closely related to the ghost, it showed them visions – of the ghost’s memories, of their life. Sometimes it shed light onto their motivations to stay behind, sometimes the visions more showed what kind of person they were. Most of the times it made you go through the worst moments of their life – and their death.

It was a dangerous ability that consumed you from within, left you vulnerable. Those with particularly strong Touch often went mad through the years of endless investigations and ended up shells of their former selves.

And mine was – it was on its way there too. It was my greatest pride and my biggest weakness, all at once.

“Do you have anyone else with Touch?” I asked instead of answering at first. The trio on the couch showed their interest was definitely piqued but they let me get away with the small distraction.

Hoseok nodded at the same time as Seokjin said “yes”, and they looked at each other before the fox gestured for the bear to continue.

“We do, we have two,” he replied with a gentle smile, “Jiminie has the same set as you, but his touch isn’t particularly strong. Taehyungie, you met him outside, has smell and touch. His are a little stronger, but he mostly just complains that all he gets are terrible scents.” I chuckled at that.

“I can imagine. I used to know this ferret with the same combination and she always whined that it just makes the smells worse,” the anecdote made me relax even more as I thought back to the few good people I met through my old agency and remembered the reasons for why I stayed there for such a long time. Well, if a few months could be considered a long time. Then I took a deep breath.

“Well, both of my senses are quite… pronounced,” I admitted. People with Touch had to be careful about their talents – either it made you vulnerable to exploitation or you were seen as an emotional wreck and a liability. It was hard to say what people’s reaction would be – that’s why I always asked about their own operatives first.

“Are you getting full visions?” Namjoon asked, and his voice was carefully neutral to make me more at ease. I nodded.

“Yeah. My hearing is pretty strong too, usually I was one of the most alert ones in my team,” I told him, wringing my hands in my lap as I recalled my earlier job, “my touch was what I excelled in though. Full visions, manifestations of emotions, the whole shebang.” The men seemed a little troubled but mostly I recognised worry for my health in those gazes, and while it was one of the pitfalls, I was at least glad they didn’t seem to be strangely excited about my talents. Sometimes we could be seen as an easy way to fame and money, and I’d rather starve than work for a company like that.

“Have you ever successfully carried out a conversation with an apparition?” this time it was Seokjin who asked, and I nodded quickly.

“Once, but she was really confused,” I replied eagerly, “I wasn’t able to get much out of her, it was like she drifted in and out of awareness.” Sometimes the hearing ability worked both ways – when ghosts were weak or low levels according to the manuals, they weren’t really capable of communicating. Maybe they said something here or there, but they weren’t fully conscious and aware. The stronger the apparition, the higher the level, the bigger the chance that they would hear you and answer – but just as there was a barrier that allowed only some to hear them, the barrier carried over certain voice better than others. Therefore if you were skilled at hearing, you also had a higher chance of being heard by the ghost.

The strongest apparitions could freely hold a conversation and hear everyone, even if others couldn’t hear them. From what I read, they were usually quite the pieces of work and annoying to talk to.

“That does happen quite often,” Seokjin sighed, folding himself back into the settee, “Most of the conversations with the dead are quite frustrating. Either because they don’t hear you or because they do and you wish they didn’t.” It sounded like he truly spoke from experience, and I did have to agree with him, even though I haven’t bumped into a fully aware ghost yet. I thought it quite safe to assume Seokjin’s affinity was also hearing, then.

“Well, let me quickly introduce you to the offered position,” Namjoon hijacked the conversation again, leaning forward to look a little more professional, “There’s seven of us in total and we usually work in teams of three or four, depending on the danger level. We try to take turns, but often we found ourselves in situations where we didn’t have time both for business and for basic upkeep of the house and such.” I nodded in understanding.

“People in the summer usually feel emboldened by the long days,” the wolf continued, “so we had a slow period, but with the start of autumn and winter the fear will set in again and they’ll be desperate enough to go even to a small hybrid run agency, so we usually get busier, especially here in the local area. We need a helper. I think the offer said an assistant and a junior operative. Basically someone who will fill in the blank spaces – keep the house tidy when everyone is either busy with investigations, resting or researching. Tag along when we could use a helping hand out in the field. Make sure we’re fully stocked up, double check we have all the supplies in our bags and belts. Help out Hoseok with taking calls, caring for customers when they come here. A little bit of everything to make it easier for us, so we can fully focus on our other tasks.” I hummed again and gestured for him to continue.

“In return we offer lodging here in the house, help with training and gaining more experience with both field and off-field work, like researching, orienting yourself in libraries, archives, what you have the authorisation to do and to ask for, such things. We offer full gear – a new rapier, salt bombs, magnesium bombs, shoes, coats, protective glasses – anything you might need or ask for. We’d take you with us to investigations, show you the ropes, train you to be a full operative.” There Namjoon stopped and wavered a little, hesitation creeping into his face.

I assumed that this was where it usually all fell apart for him, so I straightened in the armchair and waited with bated breath what would follow.

“I know it seems a lot, but it could be a good opportunity,” the wolf smiled at me, the shyness and kindness he displayed earlier before I was found out shining through once more, “Of course… it won’t pay as much as if you worked for Black Guard or the Iron Sword, but it’s still a good pay, more than enough to live comfortably. And as I said, you can live here so that will lower living costs as well…” I released a big huff in relief. I see, so he was worried about money.

The trio of hybrids didn’t seem to know how to interpret my reaction, so I gave them a huge toothy grin, a real one, that channelled just how interested I was in the position. It was perfect for me and I could use the community, the variety and the opportunity to learn.

“No, that sounds perfect,” I told him, and I meant every word of it. That put blinding smiles on their faces as well, and suddenly Hoseok was jumping to his feet and clapping his hands, once again scaring the living shit out of me.

This time he looked a lot less sheepish and a lot more amused as he said sorry, and then he was beckoning me to follow him out of the sitting room. The other two men chuckled fondly, but followed after him, nodding at me to come with them.

“We’re going to test you a little,” Namjoon explained, eyes searching the sky outside through a window in the hall, “I hope it’s not too early for a little ghostly activity.”

The sitting room was the first room you’d see when you stepped inside the house, but there was actually a similar room to the other side of the entrance hall, only stylised into a darker green instead of the browns and beiges of the one we were sitting at.

The entrance hall then opened into a huge room dominated by an old staircase leading to a little corridor that disappeared on both ends deeper into the house. The backdrop of the corridor though was an absolutely massive window made of stained glass that painted together a flowering meadow with a forest on the horizon. It was a little faded, the colours a little dull, but obviously well-loved and cared for, and it stole my breath away.

On the ground floor the room opened to corridors on the sides that similarly disappeared deeper, but on the left side there had to be a kitchen, because the corridor carried to me absolutely delicious smells, and sounds of a knife hitting a cutting board in a steady rhythm. I almost salivated upon smelling that, and wished I could weasel myself into staying for dinner, but instead I followed the men to the right, away from the tantalising scents.

We passed two sets of double doors made from dark polished wood. One was cracked open and I clearly heard giggles and a hushed conversation coming from there, recognising one of those voices as the deep baritone of the black bear that was trying to scare me outside. He was the one of the two with touch, and if I managed to get this job, I couldn’t wait to talk to them about their gift. Up in the north there was only one other girl with touch – the ferret hybrid that had smell as her other sense, but since her touch wasn’t as strong, our experiences with it were completely different.

But that’s not where we were going – the three hybrids continued to the end of the hall where another set of dark-wood doors sat firmly closed. Namjoon fished out a bundle of keys from his pants, and I couldn’t believe the chunky ball of iron fit into his trousers without bulging out uncomfortably.

There were two locks on the door and I promptly realised where he was taking me.

Every agency had a storage room – a place where all the dangerous things sat properly handled and out of reach to anyone that didn’t know how to work with them and could get hurt. That meant everything from spare rapiers and magnesium bombs to active artefacts – ghost sources with their apparitions still attached to them.

A source could be anything that bound a ghost to the place of haunting and allowed them to come back – objects that were loved during their life, objects that were tied to their death or quite straightforwardly, their remains. Sometimes the ghosts were tied to a certain space, and those cases were the most annoying, because there wasn’t much you could do about it – especially if it was a random spot in the middle of a forest or an actively lived-in house.

Operative’s job was to investigate the haunting, find the source and handle it – with salt, iron or silver, depending on the strength of the ghost. Those materials acted as a buffer and eliminated all chances of the ghost slipping through into our world again – it locked the door, one could say. Some ghosts could be chased away with a little bit of salt or a sprinkle of iron filings, but some had to have their sources wrapped in silver and destroyed in fire – those were the most dangerous ones.

Certain artefacts were allowed to be kept as trophies, even though no one really kept an eye on that. The black market was very profitable and unfortunately a lot of people that were supposed to be regulators themselves dabbled in it and collected strong active sources. So the rule of thumb was that regular sources were disposed of in the furnaces while the ones tied to famous cases were kept – people didn’t really care for grandpa Smith’s old walking stick, but they sure were interested in the remains of blood-thirsty ghosts that terrorised and killed until they were swiftly handled by an agency – getting rid of an artefact like that could be a huge PR hit for companies, and they were usually safely showed off in their headquarters to forever burn into people’s memories that they were the ones closing that case.

I assumed Namjoon was taking me to a similar trophy case to gauge the strength and depth of my senses.

Unlike the showy glass buildings of big corporations, Bangtan’s headquarters were situated in the basement under their house – it was mostly one big spacious room with walls made of red bricks and a floor of stone tiles. There were three tables there, covered in paperwork, and one wall was lined with filing cabinets, which must have been filled with old, closed cases.

A little light shined in through small oblong windows near the ceiling, so I was grateful when someone flicked a switch and artificial lights came on with a low hum.

And then I saw it – deeper into the space where two smaller rooms, cutting the space unevenly in half – and the wall facing us currently still standing by the door was covered with luminescent shelves.

It wasn’t the shelves themselves that shined – it was their contents.

There weren’t many artefacts, in fact most of the shelves were completely empty, but they made up for it with their brightness. Usually the brighter the source was, the stronger the ghost tied to it – and these were some potent sources.

I made a little panicked noise at the back of my throat, ears flattening to my head and tail flicking with agitation. I pointed towards the wall and then looked to the men with wide scared eyes.

“You can’t open those, look how bright they are even in the middle of the day!” I exclaimed and the men laughed lightly.

Namjoon leisurely made his way over towards the wall, and in my panic I followed him, heart beating out of my throat. But once there, he didn’t reach towards any of the sources encased in glass tubes infused with silver and iron for safe-keeping, he actually turned toward one of the shelves I previously thought was empty.

Only, when I came closer I realised it was lined with passive sources – ones that used to be tied to a ghost who was either destroyed and left their source behind or chose to move on, or just simply were charged with energy of a haunting and not the apparition itself. They were no longer dangerous and mostly deserted of any activity.

The wolf whispered around with the fox for a little while, hands lingering on certain objects as they deliberated on which they wanted to give me as a test. Seokjin stood to the other side of me, eyes glued to the active sources as if he looked for something specific.

I waited with bated breath to see when his eyes lit up with recognition, eager to know what it was, but I was interrupted by Namjoon’s deep voice as he beckoned me closer.

I looked to them and saw that both he and Hoseok had an object in their hands, having chosen their favourite. Namjoon carefully cradled an intricately carved wooden comb – it was absolutely beautiful and it looked very old and frail, with some of its teeth broken or missing.

He nudged his hands to me, motioning for me to pick it up.

“Tell me this comb’s story, Y/N,” he said, and the sudden appearance of my name shocked me enough to flinch in surprise. I realised I never actually introduced myself to them, the whole clusterfuck of a situation derailing the usual pleasantries – he had to have read it on my resume.

With blushing cheeks I rushed to grab it, careful to give it the same gentle consideration as the wolf did. The last thing I wanted was to break it.

At first I felt nothing. I heard the men’s breathing, the wild beating of all our hearts as the anticipation gripped us. I heard the faint clanks coming from the kitchen on the floor above. I felt my ears twitch as they tried to focus on the echoes of things long gone instead of the very present and very alive hybrids.

Anxiety spilled through me and I squirmed. Slowly I felt myself sink into panic, brain running its mouth telling me that I was useless and couldn’t even feel the object, that they’d laugh at me, they’d hate me. They’d kick me out and I’d have to go back home, embarrassed and defeated. I wouldn’t be able to impress them, I was a sham, a phony. I had nothing to offer anyone. I was worthless. Maybe I should just-

The thought startled me into a more present grounded mindset, and I ashamedly realised that due to me being nervous about the test I hadn’t noticed when I slipped into my ability. Those weren’t my thoughts, but whoever once owned this comb had a really bad time.

Shakily I dropped the comb back into Namjoon’s waiting hands, noting the concern on his face at my queasy expression. Hoseok was standing next to him still holding his own item, but his eyes were wide and a little scared.

“Are you okay dear?” Seokjin suddenly asked me, hands settling on my shoulders as he spun me around, “You suddenly got really pale.” I nodded hurriedly, using the sleeve of my sweater to dry off some of the accumulated sweat on my face.

“No, yeah, I’m fine, sorry,” I stuttered out, turning back to Namjoon and looking straight into his worried eyes, “The woman who wore this comb killed herself, didn’t she? She felt worthless – someone had left her. Maybe the very person who gave her the comb.” The devastation hit the wolf’s face as soon as I was finished speaking.

“I am so sorry, Y/N. I’ve never met anyone with touch as strong as yours, I didn’t realise you’d feel it so intensely,” he said, comb long forgotten discarded haphazardly on the shelf.

To say I was surprised would be an understatement – the genuine remorse at putting me through an experience like that, even unknowingly – it was enough to make me blush under his brown gentle eyes.

“It’s okay, it’s my ability and I’ve learnt to deal with it,” I told him softly, “I just got a little surprised, I wasn’t paying enough attention and let it suck me in a little.” He looked like he saved my words into memory for later use, like he wanted to make sure to help me along the way to not slip into the memories as easily again, and I flushed again, warmth spreading through my chest.

I’d never met anyone so invested in the well-being of their operatives. Which was quite sad, thinking about it.

“Was I right, though?” I enquired, and he shook out of his stupor, looking at me, then at the comb, then back at me and then as if everything caught up with him he nodded quickly.

“Yeah, her actual source were her remains – they got stuck deep in the mud in the river she drowned herself in, but the comb was in her hands and carried over the aura of her haunting,” the wolf explained eagerly, “she was mostly just sitting around on the bank, scaring off some of the local children who felt unsafe there due to her aura. She wasn’t dangerous at all, just really sad.” I felt a pained pang in my heart, some of the unsettled feelings and thoughts from her last moments still lingering in the corners of my soul.

“That’s incredibly heart-breaking,” I whispered, eyes glued to the beautiful accessory.

Before I could spiral any deeper into those thoughts, Hoseok awkwardly cleared his throat, hands hanging in the air between us unsure of whether he should offer the artefact or not. Everybody’s attention was drawn to him and Namjoon was just about to open his mouth to protest, when I beat him to it by grabbing the little thingy.

It was a really fancy pen, felt and looked new, like it would still write if I tried it on a piece of paper, and its ghostly traces were incredibly weak. This time I was more cautious as I examined it, rolling it around in my hands, eyes closed and fingers trying to feel every ridge, every scratch.

There wasn’t much. Almost nothing actually. I caught some waves, but they fizzled out as quickly as they appeared, leaving me with little fragments here and there. I tried again to make sure, but came to the conclusion that this item couldn’t have been tied to a haunting. It felt more like they just took it from the deceased’s house than anything else.

“Umm, are you sure this is what you wanted me to touch?” I asked hesitantly, “It’s just that there’s not much here. I feel mostly just stress from it, but it’s very fragmented.” At my words everyone in the room chuckled, Hoseok’s face heating up until he was as red as a tomato.

“Good job,” Namjoon said, snickering in amusement and looking towards the embarrassed fox, “this isn’t an actual haunted item or an artefact. It’s one of those fancy pens they advertise to ghost hunters because it has an outer layer of silver on it. Well, Hoseokie-hyung here bought it as a joke and it ended up saving his life. But turns out that the energy of coming into contact with ghost plasm holds onto it well and it’s kind of cursed now.” That definitely caught my attention and I looked at the hybrid who was shooting daggers into the wolf.

“He was being a big old dummy and while handling the sources marked for destruction he dropped one and the case broke,” Seokjin jumped in to continue the story, “he had nothing but the pen in hand and he had to fend off a very angry and a very confused apparition. We heard him screaming and all ran here as fast as we could to see him running around the basement waving around a silver pen and hysterically yelling at a ghost.” At this point I was giggling along with the men, the fox laughing along too as if he saw the visual his mate was painting as well.

“It was the best day of my life,” Namjoon sighed through snickers, “I almost didn’t want to help him because it was too funny.”

“I love to hear that you’d let me die for your entertainment, Joonie,” the man in question grumbled, but it was all in good nature, that much was obvious through their fond looks they threw each other.

As the laughter died down, a more serious expression settled onto Seokjin’s face and he gazed back onto the shelves with active sources, this time eyes immediately locking onto a specific case that glowed strongly with cold, steely blue light.

The other two men quietened the second they recognised what the bear was looking at, ears flinching and flattening to their heads.

“I was curious about what you’d tell us about an item we have here,” Seokjin started explaining, a far-away look in his eyes, “but seeing how strong of a reaction you had to the comb, I think we better not.” I looked towards the case, head tilted in consideration.

It was obvious there was something different, something strange, about that specific artefact – and judging by their nervous stances it wasn’t anything good.

“I can try,” I said easily, moving towards the shelf. Seokjin made an aborted panicked sounds, hands shooting up to stop me, but ultimately he let me walk past him and do what I wanted. I turned back, looking at the men watching me with scared but curious expressions, I steeled myself and looked at it properly.

It was fairly small – a single skeleton finger with a bejewelled ring stuck onto it. I wasn’t sure what they exactly expected from that. I clearly couldn’t take it out as the apparition would no doubt immediately manifest, and you really couldn’t feel through the glass.

But oh how quickly I realised I was wrong about that. I raised my hand, hearing the gasps of the three hybrids, reached for it and promptly stopped. I felt almost paralysed with the wave of dark resentful energy rolling off of it in thick waves, so thick that I was almost choking on them.

Whoever that ghost was, he was strong, angry and dangerous enough for his energy to manifest even through protective silver casing. Panic gripped me, just blind fear that this shouldn’t be here – this shouldn’t be anywhere. Suddenly I was stumbling back, tripping over my own feet to put distance between me and whatever that thing was.

My wild terrified eyes found Namjoon’s own worried ones and I couldn’t hold back a whimper clawing its way out of my throat.

“What the fuck,” I gritted through my teeth, “is that? Why the fuck is that here?” The alpha seemed to be fighting off his instincts, my palpable fear and the whimper must have put him in for a spin to try and calm me down, but we didn’t know each other at all for any attempts to be appropriate.

I realised I was shaking, the hand with which I almost grabbed the artefact cold and frozen to the bone.

“It was one of our biggest cases,” Seokjin whispered, voice gentle and monotone as he slowly started moving towards me trying not to scare me more, “a nasty piece of shit, a killer in life and a killer in death. Jimin refuses to get any closer to it, says it gives him the creeps even through the glass. He’s been telling us it has an aura even through the protection case and here or there tries to persuade us to get rid of it. None of us can feel much, just that it has bad energy, so I got curious… I’m glad you didn’t touch it. Those are some memories you don’t want to see.”

The bear hybrid managed to get all the way to me, his soft grip to my shoulder grounding me into the present and finally breathing some warmth back into my frozen scared body. I relaxed enough to let him start dragging me back towards the stairs, the two other hybrids guiltily tagging along.

“Jimin has a fucking point,” I replied, “That thing should be destroyed.” There was still a slight tremble to my hands, and I realised for the first time that day I was feeling extremely cold. I mechanically forced my feet to carry me a stair after a stair, yearning for the cosy vibe of the sitting room and the delicious smells coming from the kitchen.

“Told you,” a new voice joined us from up the stairs and I jerked to look up, coming face to face with a pretty boy with big eyes and plump lips. White ears stuck out excitedly from a mop of black silky hair, but I couldn’t gauge what kind of hybrid he was.

“Jimin,” Seokjin sighed, pulling me closer to his side, “please go start up a fire in the green room.” The boy said nothing more, only winked at me good-naturedly and then disappeared back into the house.

When we made it into the green room – which was the sitting room across the one we were in before – there indeed was a fireplace and an excited hybrid loading it with wood. I looked at his snow-white fluffy tail, the shape of it flaring out a little towards the end, and realised he was another fox, an arctic one. He must have been the hybrid Hoseok was talking about before, the one that moved down here from up north.

“After that I’m afraid I must insist you stay for dinner,” Seokjin spoke again, voice firm and leaving no space for objections. And it was the polite thing to do, to object and pretend like I wasn’t dying to sit down by the fire and eat, but just that afternoon I wouldn’t – I was too tired and too shaken. I wanted that damn food and I’d take it.

“Thank you so much,” I whispered only, letting the man fuss over me with a blanket. Shortly after he ushered Namjoon and Hoseok away with him, muttering something about guests and Yoongi, which I didn’t fully comprehend.

Jimin still sat down by the fireplace, kindling the little fire and feeding it paper, but then he turned to me and watched me with interested curious eyes for a moment.

“You got the touch?” he asked finally, and I simply nodded. Another moment of silence.

“Did you touch the finger?” this question came a little quieter. I saw the warring emotions in his eyes – excitement over meeting someone with the same gift, apprehension of the cursed object and a worry over my well-being. I was grateful to him, to his easy friendliness that put me at ease.

“No… I couldn’t,” I whispered the reply, but he understood, he did all too well. He gave me an empathetic smile, which quickly melted into a smirk.

“Maybe now Joonie-hyung will finally listen to me and do something about that awful thing,” he teased, giggling and pulling me along with him.

I was just about to open my mouth with my own smart remark when a new face stormed into the room, immediately stopping in his tracks upon seeing me bundled up in the blankets in an armchair by the fire.

He was small, noticeably so once Seokjin arrived as well and stood next to him, but his form was obviously strong and lean, a quite typical build for a classically trained operative. He must have been a terror with rapiers, it was written all over him.

“Aish, I leave you three alone for an hour and this is what you do?” he scolded the guiltily looking trio, “Look at that poor kid, you totally traumatised her!” Jimin on the ground was giggling, watching their pulled back ears with delight, but I just sheepishly sunk further into the chair, cheeks pink over how strongly the unknown hybrid defended me.

Movement by his legs caught my eye and I finally noticed the kind of hybrid he was – that was definitely a white tiger tail swishing wildly behind him! I physically felt my ears perk up as my back straightened and my own tail raised in interest, which brought even more colour to my cheeks and stuttered up the black-haired man in the middle of his spiel.

Soon he was blushing too, and I realised he was reading my body language and I’ve just given myself away, quite spectacularly.

I felt the intense need to explain myself but there wasn’t really much to say – I was excited to meet another feline hybrid, one that wasn’t of my own community – because I’ve never met another cat outside the ones I grew up with, and those weren’t exactly great. But I just looked like I totally had the hots for him (which I totally didn’t).

“N-no- I mean- I just- I’ve never met a tiger hybrid,” I finally pushed out, ignoring Jimin’s teasing shit-eating grin where he sat by my feet next to the fireplace. Namjoon, Hoseok and Seokjin were watching me with open fascination, which was definitely better than the anger I was imagining they would feel over me obviously being into their mate (which I wasn’t!!! It was a misunderstanding, nothing more!!!).

The tiger in question shifted on his feet, hand going to scratch behind the striped ear, his own characteristics now betraying a curiosity and interest on his part. His gaze swept over my features, passive but warm.

“You’re a snow leopard, aren't you?” he asked and where Namjoon’s voice was deep and smooth, Taehyung’s voice was deep and sweet, this hybrid’s voice was deep and raspy, sending me into a whole new spiral at hearing it.

I barely even managed to nod, embarrassedly pulling my tail and pushing it into my lap before it divulged even more of my secrets. Jimin was smirking at me as if he knew exactly what I was going through, and I kind of wanted to kick him a little.

“I suppose you came down here fairly recently then? Your folk only mostly only lives up in the mountains and they’re pretty reclusive…” he asked some more, angling more towards me and I felt my treacherous tail twitch in my hands.

“Yeah, it was a pretty tight community,” I told him easily, “They’re not exactly… forward and… open-minded.” It felt weird to be sharing such a private information with people I’d just met a few hours ago, but apart from the fact that this was something mostly all hybrids kind of knew, in those hours they managed to make me trust their judgement and believe that even if I wouldn’t end up getting employed by them, they still cared for my comfort.

But subverting all my expectations, the hybrid who up until now stayed fairly neutral even with a soft blush to his cheeks suddenly smirked at me, taking in my wide-eyes and flushed face before saying: “Well, it’s an honour for me to be your first tiger.” and walking out nonchalantly.

The trio that he originally came in here while scolding them stood there wordlessly, eyes flitting between my embarrassed form, a little too amused Jimin and the empty space where the tiger used to stand. Then Hoseok made a non-descript delighted noise in the back of the throat, launching into a sprint while screaming at the top of his lungs: “Jungkookie, you have competition!”

I was very much confused, but judging from Namjoon’s embarrassed blush and Jimin’s outright evil snickers, I probably didn’t want to know.

Seokjin smiled blindingly and then walked away again, while Namjoon slowly slinked into the room and made himself comfortable at the other armchair, still watching me glare at the laughing Jimin with wide eyes.

“Well, I certainly didn’t expect this outcome when you sneaked in today,” the wolf muttered, but there was a grin gently pulling at his lips. I was too embarrassed to banter and the attempt at a smile came out more as a grimace, so I just sunk deeper into the armchair and stubbornly looked on into the fire, ignoring the two giggling men.

“I’m sorry though,” Namjoon said quietly suddenly. I looked at him confused and I was surprised by the guilty expression on his face. “I’m sure this wasn’t the most pleasant of first meetings,” the hybrid muttered sheepishly, a bit of shame settled into his features.

“Namjoon-ssi, I made the decision to touch the source,” I told him firmly, hoping to alleviate some of his worry, “Seokjin-ssi was clear that I probably shouldn’t, but I wanted to try. You did nothing wrong.” The wolf didn’t seem much appeased, but he at least eased up a little, a little bit of determination creeping into his eyes.

“I’m going to get a bigger case and put it as a second barrier,” he proudly stated, more to himself than to us, and me and Jimin shared a glance before promptly bursting out into a fit of giggles. A sort of warmth settled into me, especially as distinctly recognisable voice of the brown bear shouted from somewhere that dinner will be ready shortly.

“Would be foolish to hope you’d like to accept the offer?” the question came out of nowhere, even Namjoon himself looking a little shy though he was the one who said it. I froze. Jimin stopped laughing. The happy chatter flowing in from the kitchen died down and everything settled into a buzz of anticipation.

The house was suddenly plunged into silence that I hadn’t heard since I stepped in, and the longer I was shocked at his words, the more I could see the alpha spiral that I’d inevitably reject him.

“I wasn’t aware you were waiting for my answer,” I uttered, teasing cheekiness creeping into my voice, and Jimin’s face once more morphed into a beautiful smile, “But I’d love to accept.” Namjoon smiled in relief, but both of our attentions were snatched by giggles coming from the artic fox.

“Of course she accepts hyung,” Jimin reiterated, “she wants to keep her first tiger.”

I’d never wished for the ground to swallow me so hard as I did in that moment.

Thank you for reading <3

Taglist (open): @borahaetelevision @socksfirst1 @shakespeare-in-the-park7 @iwishiwasrichasfuck @authorpj

@bangatanily @sassy-snassy @booksintheheart00-blog @bangbangcon @kiki-zb

@luvian-art @ldysmfrst @jinsleftairpod

[problemduetest4life]

epic list of all the things I've considered for Jeremy Knox's big bad backstory (many are unserious pls consider)

popular vote: complicit in sibling death/blamed for sibling suicide

plot twist!! He was the one struggling with mental health and the police know him from a welfare check.

vehicular manslaughter, DUI edition or nah. I've seen this as a meme a lot on twitter....

DRUGS! mans is skiiing

HEADLINE: Jeremy Knox caught sucking dick at the fall banquet

hooking up with a professor/coach (this was my very first theory I DON'T KNOW WHY?? also not a current coach dw)

Seth's brother? (Bryan? Also, how?)

caused his parents divorce/is the zodiac killer/did a ukelele cover of Riptide/idk pls tell me your ideas

[melrosing]

so stuff I’ve not liked about the finale and S2 more generally…. unfortunately it’s a lot and i'm thinking i might need to say this in several parts but first and foremost: the pacing really was shit and i don't just mean there weren't enough action scenes i mean the whole season they've had almost nothing to say about these characters and have just been making us think they do by having them repeat the same ham-fisted monologues about power and peace and the cost of war and whatever whilst moving at a glacial pace from one minor plot point to another and by the end of it most of these characters STILL haven't changed, and where they have it feels undeserved, and yes they really are at roughly the place they started so what have they even got to show for these eight hours of TV?? like damn

and I do get that the writer's strike has really effected them here and HBO hacking two eps off their season affected them too and that really can't be helped. but the pacing has been pretty poor from kick off and I can't just put it down to this being a more 'internal' season. i do not care about big battles. it's fine to have a season of a show that’s more about the characters’ interiority rather than plot action. that’s the exact reason why I like AFFC so much.

but these characters barely have interiority like idk what to say. some like Rhaenyra, Jace and Alicent have been spouting the same monologues every episode about wanting peace/wanting agency/wanting peace again etc etc, and the more interesting moments like Alicent's apparent suicide attempts, Rhaenyra's butchering of the dragonseeds etc... I mean where IS the interiority here?? unless they are spelling out a character's thoughts in the most literal way they can (as per Jace's diatribes about the dragonseeds), they leave their audience to do absolutely all the work by showing us nothing, and just leaving us to figure that the characters must be having some kind of thoughts but y'all can decide what they are.

and even Daemon, whose entire ARC was about his interiority.... like look I was so so ready to love this arc. i love fucked up little dream sequences. i love harrenhal. i was really enjoying the angle they took with alys. i was here for it. but now we've seen the whole of his S2 arc, im going to say yes, it was intended as a redemption adjacent kind of arc, and it isn't a very good one. Daemon has a handful of weird dreams, gets shouted at by some Riverlands folk, and he's a changed man.

consider the character everyone compares Daemon to (and who I'm always more than happy to talk about) and that's Jaime. and look at the sheer ground covered in ASOS: Jaime breaks out of a dungeon, Jaime meets a younger version of himself, Jaime gets his hand hacked off, Jaime reveals his anime villain backstory in the bath, Jaime deals with Roose Bolton, Jaime has a weird weirwood dream, Jaime fights a fucking bear - and at this point we're still only about halfway through.

now in contrast, what have they actually managed to do with Daemon this season. where has that finale moment with Rhaenyra been earned. this is not slow pacing for the sake of powerful character development, it's slow because they don't have anything else to say.

and also look at the state of characters like Aemond who seemed really promising in S1, yet in this season he barely reflects on the fact that he hadn't meant to kill Luke, and this war is an accident that he started, etc etc - he's just a killing machine lol. there were some nice touches in there, like i say i enjoyed Helaena telling Aemond how he'll die in the finale. but I no longer trust these writers to do anything with their more inspired ideas because they just consistently fail to do so.

look at Baela!!! like my god, has Baela had the opportunity to do anything except A) what she's told and B) counsel men on their feelings. she has like one moment looking at Daemon and you feel like the series is going to explore how complex it is to be Daemon Targaryen's daughter.... but my god they never do!! so where IS this interiority we've spent eight episodes on! what have they got to show for it!!

and i talked more weeks back about how frustrating i've found the writing of women more generally in this series and as of the finale I am finding it so egregious and so condescending. women want peace. women want to protect their children. women are tired of men. women are tired of war. women are trying to end this war peacefully. women are pacifists. women hate violence. and so on and so on and so on like jesus christ who am i even talking about here. even i don't know. it's so boring. it's so dry. and it requires female characters to always be the paragons of virtue, never do anything truly condemnable, never be unlikeable, never fucking anything except stand around saying how much they hate this. im bored of it and it makes me angry that they would do this in a series that specifically seeks to make everyone grey and everyone complex - they keep suggesting that might extend to the women before abruptly shutting it down again. see Alicent and Rhaenyra even STILL, after EVERYTHING, trying to peacefully shut down the war for the sake of love and friendship in the goddamn finale. I don't believe it anymore!! it's not cute! it's just dull!!!

and finally that just kind of brings me to how shortsighted a lot of the plot developments seem, when you see how the characters fail to reckon with their pasts or shit that just happened. Rhaenyra and Mysaria make out, and then that's never mentioned again and the tone never changes between them. Rhaenyra is done thinking about Luke. Helaena is done thinking about Jaehaerys. Aegon actually didn't mention Jaehaerys in the list of things he's 'lost' in that finale. Alicent's relationship w Viserys was just now condensed to 'we were fond of each other but he always liked your mum better'

like idk it's just. if this season's pacing is all about giving characters the chance to change and grow into the people they'll be when this war REALLY kicks off.... do it. write it. do not just write the same monologue a dozen times and hope it'll hit harder with each. doesn't work like that. sorry.

[lurkingshan]

Japanese QL Corner

Another week chock full of Japanese ql. I am officially dropping a currently airing show from QL Corner--let us never speak of it again. Of the other six shows still airing now, five are streaming weekly on Gaga and the other is available via fansub.

Takara's Treasure

This is quickly becoming one of my favorite things airing—it gets better every week, and it's been good from the start! This story is a great example of the way tension and depth of feeling in a great romance can build. I was delighted to have Takara confirm Taishin's confession and coax him into dating this early on because it means we are going to actually spend some time with them figuring out how to work as a couple. And I don't expect it will be smooth sailing, because these two have some incompatible issues that are going to exacerbate each other.

Cosmetic Playlover

This show is gorgeous, but it all feels pretty empty. Thank you to @usertoxicyaoi for confirming that the show is racing through the plot so it can cover the whole arc of the manga. I'm glad to understand why it's doing this, but it doesn't help with my total emotional disconnect from the story, because the show is rushing through and not letting us actually experience this relationship. They tell us they like each other, then that they're in love, then that they're established and struggling, but I can't feel it because they haven't brought us along for any of that. This week featured an interesting plot about their professional growth and how it challenges their relationship, but I was frustrated because I have no investment in said relationship to give the plot stakes. I may just have to accept that this one will stay a treat for the eyes but lacking in depth for me.

I Hear the Sunspot

We back! After a bit of a miscalibrated installment last week, this episode felt more characteristic and we finally got our boys back on track. Maya was less egregiously mean to people this week and her interference was treated as more comedic than sinister, which is a much better fit for the tone of this show. And once Kohei got around her, he finally talked properly with Taichi and asked him to stay on as his notetaker, reaffirming their friendship in the process. Despite Maya's efforts to convince him otherwise, Kohei has not wavered and his firm declaration that he doesn't want anyone but Taichi taking his notes or eating his food had me gasping. For his part, Taichi is getting better at keeping his cool and finding words when Kohei lets his feelings slip, and he's clearly thinking a lot about his own feelings and whether their connection is really about friendship.

Ayaka is in Love with Hiroko

Oh man, this show has really gotten itself into a muddle. We finally got a kiss, but it hardly felt like a triumph. This episode was a bit of a return to form, with Ayaka back to her relentless pursuit of Hiroko, but the way the story diverged to change the conflict midstream has mucked it all up. For the first half the conflict was about Hiroko believing Ayaka is straight, and then suddenly it was about a different work-related closet trauma that did not connect to that. Now it’s touching on both but in a way that makes Hiroko seem inconsistent, because now that she knows Ayaka is a lesbian it doesn't track that she would continue to patronize and dismiss her, and it also sucks that Ayaka is harassing Hiroko at work despite knowing she doesn't want to be out. It feels like the story is invalidating Hiroko’s fears about being out in a way we know is not consistent with reality. This would all work better if the backstory had been about Hiroko falling for a woman who succumbed to comphet and we kept up the misunderstanding and comedy about Ayaka being straight. As it is, I feel like our heroine no longer makes sense and our couple still hasn't formed a real connection, and with only one episode to go it’s unlikely they’ll land the plane.

Mr. Mitsuya's Planned Feeding

I just love everything about this show and its mature perspective on relationships. In the aftermath of Ishida's hasty confession (and his attempt to walk it back, which I love that Mitsuya did not fall for), we take a beat for Mitsuya to consider the two men circling him and what he wants from his life. I loved that he took the time he needed to process and end his relationship with Noguchi on his own terms this time, and to consider whether he has the desire and the energy to try again with someone new. When he said he has his home and his work and his Frito and that's enough for him, I felt that. But Ishida has already gotten to him, and as Shige wisely pointed out, Mitsuya must care about him quite a bit to be considering this deeply before making a move. I'm not sure he's ready to dive in, but he doesn't have much will to fight it, either. You can go here for the files to watch this episode, with big thanks to @isaksbestpillow and @nicks-den.

Tagging @bengiyo to add this week's anime update.

[shima-draws]

I've been teasing her for months!! But at long last her ref is complete 🌷

I actually DON'T have a 5 page essay on her backstory this time (like I did for Ilari LMAO) but I do have some info about her if anybody is curious!

Name: Ione

Age: 25

Hair color: Silver

Eye color: Orangish-yellow

Element: Light

Grabbing info from the few posts I've talked about her already, Ione was originally a very famous singer, pretty much an idol within the world of ATS. She'd hold huge concerts that were always sold out and people from around the world would flock to see her perform. Eventually tho all of the attention started to attract the wrong kinds of people, and sooner or later Ione was "scouted" by a very rich man who wanted her all to himself. She was manipulated and blackmailed into signing a contract with him that would essentially end her touring and make it so that she would become a private singer for him. He basically chained her with this contract and so she disappeared from the public eye.

Ione soon discovered that other people with similar talents had also been gathered and trapped by this man's contracts. Among them was a prodigy violin player who she grew very close with. The two of them struggled under the demands of this man, and eventually violin boy started to get physically abused by him 😭 Things escalated to the point where Ione decided she wanted OUT and was determined to do anything to escape. This led to a very...traumatic event that caused her to go mute by choice.

When Ione finally makes her escape, thankfully she's changed so much that people don't recognize her in public (mostly her hair! It used to be short and didn't cover one of her eyes before). Shortly after she runs into Nahu and his group, and is unceremoniously recruited to join them lol (Nahu can be VERY persuasive). Ione communicates with them through sign language, which luckily a couple of them are fluent in--Ezio and Sage to be specific. They then teach the others in the group sign language too. It takes Nahu a bit to get the hang of it bc he has like, no attention span whatsoever, but being a dragon elemental helps since his senses are super attuned all the time, so he can generally tell what Ione is feeling and what she's trying to convey when she talks to him :")

Over time Ione grows closer with them, and like everybody else is hit with the Found Family, and realizes that yeah. She'd do absolutely ANYTHING for this group of crazy weirdos. She starts to fall in love with Nahu (bc who WOULDN'T), and slowly gains the courage to use her voice again. This leads to secret meetings with Sage, who helps her relearn how to use her vocal cords.

Eventually her past catches up with her, of course, but the group all bands together to set her free from it. She has to face off against violin boy, who thought she'd abandoned him and got Messed Up Mentally as a result, so THAT'S a thing she's gotta deal with. But she's able to reach him by singing for the first time in over five years, and everyone absolutely loses their shit at how beautiful her voice is and they all cry and it’s very emotional!!

Even after regaining her voice she still prefers to stay quiet most of the time, as that is what she's comfortable with, but she's totally okay with speaking when she needs to. Also I need to mention this but bc she used to be like. An idol. Obviously her routines consisted of both song and dance so she's a pretty good dancer. Out of everyone in the group, Ione is the ONLY person Ezio will dance with (and he is a very VERY good dancer himself, but will only dance with someone who can keep up with him, which Ione can). Everyone is very jealous of this, ESPECIALLY Nahu lol bc he wants to dance with Ezio too 😂

Ione's a light elemental! I haven't given a LOT of thought into her powers yet but I do know that her singing makes her stronger and also gives her powers a boost, which in turn helps the rest of the group. She also can ride on these light waves--I will have to draw them sometime bc I can't really explain them in words, it'd be better to show them visually lol

And that's her!! My flower light mute girl <33333

[actiniumwrites]

𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒

synopsis: in which you friendzone them to protect your feelings, ignorant to the way they feel about you

characters: diluc, xiao, and kaveh x gn! reader (separately)

warnings: angst to fluff, reverse hurt/comfort, , slight swearing (i think), mentions of alcohol/ being drunk, spoilers for kaveh’s backstory, kaveh’s part is actually so long i’m so sorry

notes: got the idea for this out of the blue, but really liked it! i had a lot of fun writing these and would honestly be down to make a part two if you guys want it. also kaveh’s part was written before he was officially released this patch, so if anything is inaccurate, i apologize!

Diluc:

When Diluc had asked you to attend an event at his house in honor of the winery, you hadn’t expected it to be so extravagant. Though, perhaps it was because it was the first time you had ever been to his house. Either way, you were in awe at the sheer luxuriousness everything seemed to possess.

“Wow, I seriously cannot believe you’ve never invited me to your house before,” you tease as your eyes glanced around the room. The dining table was huge and lined with various dishes you didn’t even know existed. Not to mention what the entire house looked like in general. You were too scared to touch anything in fear of it breaking.

“I did invite you over — several times, if you can recall. But according to you, you’re just so busy you never have the time,” the red haired male corrected you as he moved slightly behind you to guide you across the room, shoulders bumping together every so often.

“Well if I had known you were living like this maybe I would’ve made the time,” you joked, intentionally bumping your shoulder into his as you threw a smile toward him. His eyes averted themselves from your face and smiled off into the distance, completely ignoring your jests about his wealth.

The two of you had continued to joke around with each other playfully as he walked you around his house to give you a tour of sorts. You had noticed all the people around as you walked, all laughing and enjoying the delicious food and wine Diluc had provided. Even Kaeya was here, you noted to your own surprise, seemingly catching up with some of the maids.

“Oh, I almost forgot, there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” Diluc interrupted your moment to observe. His hand moved to the lower half of your back to guide you in the direction of blonde haired woman in maid attire. Your hand shook hers as Diluc introduced her to you, “This is Adelinde, the head housemaid of the winery.”

You smiled and told her your name, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m Diluc’s best friend.”

“Oh,” she said strangely, as if you had said something wrong. Almost seamlessly, Adelinde covered up her tone as she spoke again, “Ahem, it’s a pleasure to meet you as well. Please do enjoy yourselves tonight and let me know if you need anything.”

Diluc cleared his throat and put his hand around your shoulders as you said your goodbyes. Although, the second she was out of your sights, he dropped it, “So, how about some food?”

You hesitated, sensing something was wrong. His smile looked stiff, like it wasn’t quite reaching his eyes. You could almost sense desperation within his tone, like he didn’t want you to start your usual interrogation when you thought something was wrong, “Oh um, sure.”

He walked you over to the table standing next to your side, but didn’t dare to put a hand on you like usual. It wasn’t something you often paid any attention toward, but now it just felt weird — cold even.

“I’ll go grab you some fresh wine from the cellar, take whatever you’d like,” Diluc said quickly before rushing away. Your brow furrowed as you watched him disappear from your sight.

“What’s with the frown?” a silk voice asked. Your eyes snapped up to meet the blue haired man you knew to be Diluc’s brother, Kaeya.

“Long time no see, Kaeya,” you said, turning your attention back to the food as you served yourself a plate. Kaeya grabbed one too and began filling it as well.

“Oh, you should try these, they’re delicious,” he said as he placed a small dessert on your plate, “but don’t tell Diluc I said that. Can’t have him thinking I like his baking or anything.”

He continued as he grabbed himself another glass of wine off the table next to the food, “Anyway, what’s up with the gloom expression? Don’t tell me Diluc hurt your feelings?”

“No,” you grumble. It had been awhile since you had last seen Kaeya. Not that it was on purpose, because honestly, you never had a problem with him like Diluc did. Time just didn’t seem to allow the two of you to meet aside from a few times a year. “If anything, it was the other way around. Problem is, I don’t know what I did.”

“Well if it’s any consolation, Diluc is very fond of y—“

“Kaeya. Leave them alone,” Diluc interrupts with an annoyed look, shooing Kaeya away. Kaeya leaves without a word. A sly expression was on his face, hoping you would catch on to what he was trying to tell you.

Diluc held the bottle of wine in front of him, silently offering you some. You nodded your head and he poured you a glass before making another excuse to walk off again. The same thing seems to happen a few more times before you reach the end of the night. What had started off as a fun event for the two of you to enjoy, seemed to trickle into nothing but misery for the both of you.

The walk home was quiet. Honestly, you weren’t even sure why he had offered to walk you home if he was just going to stay silent the entire time, “You didn’t have to walk me home if you’re just gonna have to walk all the way back, y’know?”

“It’s fine,” he said curtly, not even making eye contact with you, “I have to go to Angel’s Share anyway. There’s some paperwork I have to pick up.”

“Oh.”

It’s silent again for the next ten minutes of the walk. It isn’t until you’re approaching the bridge to the city that you speak up again, “Diluc?”

“Yeah?”

You sighed and stopped walking, “Listen…did I maybe, I don’t know, say or do something to upset you? Because if I did, I’m really sorry and I just want things to not be awkward between us.”

You could tell he was contemplating not answering you by the frustrated expression on his face. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he finally spoke, still staring somberly off into the distance, “Answer this honestly. What are we? What is this?” His hands gestured between you and him as he spoke. His tone is rushed and there’s bitterness behind it.

“Well, we’re friends…aren’t we?” you carefully asked, almost questioning yourself.

“That’s the problem,” Diluc finally cracked, “I don’t want to be just friends. This entire time I thought that maybe there was something more than that between us…but I suppose I was wrong.”

Your eyes widened and your hands moved to grip tightly around his own before he could walk away from you again, “Why didn’t you say anything? I could’ve told you I felt the same if you had just, I don’t know? Said something about it? How was I supposed to know you had feelings for me?”

“I’m sorry, what? So you do feel the same way?”

You put two and two together and a teasing smiled made it’s way back to your face,“Archons, was this all because I introduced myself as your best friend to Adelinde?”

“What? No, of course not,” Diluc adamantly denied your accusation. He grabbed your hand and began to pull you away while you burst out laughing at the realization, “You’ve had too much to drink.”

“No! I barely drank anything, you liar,” you punched his shoulder, “Admit it, you were upset you got friendzoned and —“

Diluc turned around swiftly, pulled you toward him and placed his lips on yours within a matter of seconds, effectively shutting you up. His fingers interlocked with yours as he pulled away and began to walk you to your house. When you arrived at your doorstep, you turned around and placed one final kiss on his lips.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” you smiled. Diluc looked away again, failing to resist the smile that tugged at his lips. It was the first time Diluc had been genuinely happy in a long time.

He smiled as he turned away from your house to leave, “Yeah, see you tomorrow.”

Xiao:

Xiao felt his heart racing when he heard your voice calling his name from somewhere in Liyue. Somewhere he couldn’t pinpoint. There was pain in it, and Xiao hated when you said his name in any way that wasn’t positive.

“Xiao! Please,” he heard you call out again, this time more pained than the last. The sound of your cries echoed in his ears and a feeling of his own pain surrounded his heart.

A few seconds longer and you could’ve ended up dead. It’s all Xiao could think about when he finally made it to you, heavily breathing in and out from how scared he was to lose you.

You were covered in bruises and bathed in blood — whether or not it was your own, he wasn’t sure. Your eyes were half shut and your head was leaned back in relief at the sight of him. Several abyss mages of varying elements lie dead on the ground around you. Your polearm lay amongst them, cracked in half and dented all over.

Xiao spotted your vision a few feet away, anemo like his own. He gathered it quickly alongside your polearm before securing it on him so he could pick you up. Once his arms were wrapped carefully around you, he didn’t hesitate to teleport away and back to the inn.

“Here, lay down,” he spoke curtly. You watched through half-lidded eyes as he moved across the room to fetch his medical supplies. This wasn’t the first time he had to treat your injuries, but it wasn’t often that it was this bad.

Xiao worked quickly with your injuries, it was effortless and he was careful not to hurt you. Unbeknownst to you, his heart was racing out of control the entire time. Not only was there left over anxiety from when you had first called for him, but it had carried over and made itself at home as he worked away at your injuries. There was too much red oozing out of your body and the bruises were only growing.

What if he hadn’t gotten there on time? What if he was only a few seconds later? What if he hadn’t heard you call out for him?

“Archons, I am feeling so much better,” you interrupted his poisonous thoughts. Your leg was lifted into the air as you inspected the bandages wrapped around it and all the bloodied rags that sat beside you on the floor.

Xiao’s eyes hardened for a moment while looking over you, an unreadable expression within them, “Please do not get injured like this again.”

Contrary to his eyes, yours softened and you took his hand in yours, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you, I just—“

“It’s fine,” he cut you off when he began to feel weird, not used to people caring about his feelings. Xiao helped you up and out of the bed, his arms wrapped around yours to keep you stable as he walked you to the bathroom counter to finally change out of your bloodied clothes.

Your face was close to his as you spoke, “No, Xiao, really. I can’t thank you enough for all the times you’ve helped me out and even allowed me to help you. You just mean so much to me and I’m so lucky to have you as a friend.”

‘So lucky to have you as a friend’

It echoed in his mind over and over again, more than the voices of his late yaksha friends. For once, another source of pain had finally outmatched his past.

You didn’t see him how he saw you.

Xiao felt his body go cold at the realization. He remained oddly silent as he helped you to the bathroom, not even bothering to give you a response or so much as a simple nod. As soon as you were actually in the bathroom, he backed up immediately and nodded before mumbling something about needing to take care of some other stuff. He had even disappeared before you could utter a goodbye.

Not returning for hours was something you were used to when it came to Xiao. He wasn’t social at all, and that was something you readily accepted when you first offered to become friends with him — even if he declined over and over again.

But hours turned into days and days turned into a week. Xiao hadn’t returned since that night you were injured.

You weren’t sure what happened to him. Maybe he was hurt while out protecting, or maybe he was just in one of those weird social slumps again. But when Xiao finally ran into you one day, it was undeniably awkward between the two of you.

“Xiao?” you urgently called out to him, a mix of worry and shock in your voice, “Hey, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he replied bluntly, eyes barely looking at yours. He looked as if he wanted to be anywhere but there.

You squinted your eyes, analyzing him carefully, “That’s it? I haven’t seen you for a week! I get injured and then all of the sudden you just freak out and leave? It doesn’t make any sense. Listen, if something happened, you can tell—“

“Nothing happened. I said I’m fine,” he cut you off before turning his body and grabbing his polearm, ready to teleport off like he always did. You quickly grabbed his arm before he could though, a tight grip that wasn’t painful but made sure he couldn’t escape.

“Let go.”

“No.”

“Ugh, could you stop holding my hand like that.”

“Huh?” Your phase morphed into shock, confused as to why he suddenly cared about you holding his hand. You’d done it in the past, so it wasn’t like it was anything new to him. Besides, you were always careful not to do anything to freak him out.

“If we are just friends, then I do not want you holding my hand like that,” Xiao said before pulling his hand from yours with a harsh sigh.

“Wait, what?” you asked quickly before he could leave, “What does this have to do with us being friends?”

Xiao stared blankly at you for a few seconds, like he was contemplating whether or not he should speak again, until finally, he confessed, “The other day…you thanked me for being such a good friend. That is not what I want.”

A pang hit your chest and a tiny prick rippled behind your eyes at his confession, “You don’t want to be friends anymore?”

“Huh? Why would you think such idiotic things? No— I mean yes, I do want to be your friend. But I do not want to be…just friends,” Xiao explained. His cheeks were beginning to turn red and his eyes averted even more. He was nervous, you finally realized.

“You…you have feelings for me? Xiao, you should’ve told me. Avoiding me for a week straight wasn’t cool, you know?”

Xiao nods and crosses his arms, seemingly unsatisfied with your answer until you added on, “I have feelings for you too. I really like you, Xiao. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you were just a friend, but I also didn’t want to make you uncomfortable or scare you off or something.”

“It’s okay,” he said quietly, barely above a whisper. His hand twitched before it quietly reached for your own and took it in his. His grip was firm, like he was scared you would leave.

“Xiao?” You grabbed his attention when you noticed his eyes falter, like he still couldn’t quite grasp the reality of your feelings.

“Yes?”

“I really like you, okay? I don’t want you to ever think otherwise.”

Kaveh:

“Kaveh! Look at this!” your smile lit up as you dragged Kaveh toward a merchant selling various little trinkets. Kaveh willingly followed, idiotically smiling behind you at your childlike excitement. His hand tightly gripped around yours to ensure you wouldn’t go too far or get separated from him.

The two of you had decided to take a greatly needed break after working for hours upon hours each day for the past two weeks on a shiny new blueprint for a brand new Akademiya research center in the desert. The complications of what the research required versus the heat in the desert and its effect on the lab materials was making it difficult to come up with a practical, yet complex enough lab for the researchers. The headache it had brought upon the two of you was no joke, and you had finally realized that a break was the only thing that would get you through the block you were collectively stuck in.

“Hello, dears,” the old woman spoke gently, a bright smile on her face that perfectly creased her eyes. She had an immensely warm aura to her and you couldn’t help but match her smile. Kaveh glanced to you, a small smile gracing his own face as his cheeks turned slightly pink. He couldn’t help it after he saw how good you looked today.

“So,” you started, eyes bouncing around to each and every item she had to sell, “How long has your shop been open? Everything here looks so beautiful!”

“Oh, why thank you, dear! It’s been open for nearly two decades now. It is indeed strange to see how much time has passed,” she answered happily, reminiscing on the early days of her shop. She had told you how she opened it with her husband, but how he had long since passed, to which Kaveh and you had offered your respects.

Your eyes danced over all the trinkets again, but you couldn’t help but notice the little figurines that looked like creatures from your childhood. You couldn’t quite place where you knew them from, but you picked it up regardless and fidgeted with it before turning to Kaveh, “I think I’m gonna get this one, what do you think?”

“It’s cute,” he said with a gentle smile, admiring the little blue plant like figure in your hand, “I think I’ll get one in red.”

You finished paying the kind woman for your purchases and thanked her dearly once the two of you were done. The conversation had continued a little while afterward, with both you and Kaveh intrigued in the stories she kindly shared with you.

The sun was beginning to near its setting time, you noticed. The blues were fading to oranges and reds and the air was beginning to get a little colder, signaling the night was on its way.

“Thank you again,” you told her, “These are really nice, I’ll be sure to place them in my workroom so I can see it everyday!”

“Oh, that’s awfully kind of you, dear. I must say, I admire the way you treat everyone as your friend. It’s truly a rare quality to find in someone these days,” she gushed.

“Thank you! I really just try to make everyone feel comfortable and welcome,” you explained before you said your goodbyes. The woman said her goodbyes too, telling the two of you to visit her again sometime soon and tell her all about the architectural work you guys do.

Kaveh nearly stopped in his tracks as he processed the conversation the two of you just had. You hadn’t even caught the hesitation in his voice or the sudden change in his mood.

You treat everyone like that?

“Ugh, she was so nice, wasn’t she?” you rambled, but Kaveh was only half listening. Not that you had noticed that either.

“Oh, uh, yeah!” he blurted out, not entirely sure that he had even heard you correctly. His eyes followed the pattern of his shoes pressing against the floor as he swung the bag next to him back and forth, lost in thought. You didn’t question him once.

It was quiet for the rest of the walk aside from you announcing that you were tired and were going to check in for the night. Kaveh had agreed and walked you home all while hoping that you wouldn’t notice his sudden quietness.

If Kaveh was being honest, his brain felt like it was spiraling out of control.

One moment he’s walking around with you all day, enjoying his time off. And the next, he can’t stop replaying a silly conversation with an old woman who he barely knew.

The worst part is, he couldn’t help but take it personally. Being treated like he was on a pedestal and then having it ripped away is something Kaveh is used to, but he never thought he would have to go through it with you.

You made him feel special, like one of a kind. The way your eyes always lit up so brightly when you greeted him at work everyday. The way you hugged him when you were feeling down and no one else. The way you always treated him to food and drinks without ever asking him to pay you back because you knew he was struggling — and not once did you ever make him feel bad about it. The way you would jump to hold his hand when you got excited about something or when you were scared when lightning would strike.

You never did any of those things with anyone else. But all this time, you made everyone feel like they were your friend, like they were special in their own way. For all he knew, you did little things like that with everyone and made them feel like one of a kind too. Maybe Kaveh was nothing, he thought, maybe he was really just like everyone else. Just your friend and nothing more.

Kaveh bowed his head to his chest when he arrived home, his hand leaned forward to support himself as he felt the tears coming on. Being emotional or overdramatic was something Alhaitham had always criticized him for, but you? You always taught him to embrace it and let what he was feeling out. You had helped him with so much of his life and moving on toward bigger and better things, but now he couldn’t help but feel bitterness in his heart.

The keys in the blonde’s hand returned back to his pocket almost immediately after retrieving them. His palm dragged down the gray wall of Alhaitham’s house and back to his side. Kaveh couldn’t bear to enter his own home, not at this hour with such painful thoughts in his mind. Alhaitham would probably nag him anyway, and he really didn’t feel like dealing with his cruel words tonight — and Kaveh never liked when they were about you. You didn’t deserve that, even if it was just a joke.

And so he returned to the tavern once more in his life. Drinking away his problems was unhealthy, you had told him, but right now he didn’t care. You weren’t here and there was no one around to stop him from throwing back drink after drink. It had been a long time since Kaveh had been truly drunk, but today was enough to turn him away from sobriety.

“Kaveh. Get up.” A voice echoed painfully in his ears.

“[Name]?” he mumbled out incoherently as he blindly reached toward the figure in front of him. Their hand swatted his away before swooping under to pick him up. Kaveh mumbled your name a few more times, desperately trying to figure out what was happening.

“Why are you at the Tavern, Kaveh? Have you not learned your lesson about drinking?”

Oh. That’s who it was. Kaveh should have known by the sharpness in the voice or the annoying familiarity it held.

“Alhaitham? Get off of me,” he tried pushing the Scribe away. Alhaitham didn’t budge as he slammed a few bills on the table and carried Kaveh out of the Tavern. Lambad waved him off, but thanked him for taking care of the architect.

Your name continued to slur from his mouth, blending together into what almost sounded like gibberish. Not to mention the near beating Alhaitham had endured as he carried Kaveh around Sumeru.

You, on the other hand, hadn’t expected a knock at your door at nearly two in the morning.

“Alhaitham? What’s going on? Why do you have Kaveh?” you quickly questioned. Alhaitham shoved Kaveh toward you, a pained groan falling from his lips as he fell into you. The Scribe explained the situation to you. How he had never seen Kaveh come home that night, but later found him at Lambad’s Tavern drinking himself to death as he cried to the sound of your name.

You could only muster a silent nod out, confused but entirely willing to take care of Kaveh. You cared a lot for him after all. Alhaitham had shown himself out afterward, telling you to drop him back off tomorrow so he won’t bother you too much with all his whining. You breathed out a strained laugh and then shut the door before you turned your attention back to Kaveh and helped him to your couch.

“Kaveh?” you asked gently as you tucked a blanket over his shivering body. Teary red eyes stared back at you blankly, refusing to answer. You sighed and then nodded, accepting he may not have been willing to tell you anything. And although you had never outright admitted it, drunk Kaveh was not someone you enjoyed dealing with, “If you don’t tell me what’s wrong, I can’t help you.”

“It doesn’t matter. You can’t help me anyway,” he scoffed and turned away like a child who just got told they couldn’t have their favorite toy. You wanted to say your patience was wearing thin, but honestly, you could never truly be mad at Kaveh.

“Kaveh.”

It was silent for a moment. You could only see about half of Kaveh’s face as he buried the other half in the side of the couch with his hair covering parts of his eyes. The quiver of his lip, however, was not amiss to you. Neither was the quiet sniffle or the tears that gently slid down his face.

“It’s nothing,” he whispered to you, voice cracking as a hand quickly moved to his mouth to muffle his cries. He hoped you didn’t hear, but he knew you weren’t stupid.

“It’s not nothing. You’re hurt, Kaveh,” you rubbed his back. Kaveh leaned into your touch and brought his head up to meet your eyes.

Teary eyes stared into yours and he sighed before speaking, giving into you like he wished he always could have, “I thought I was more than just a friend to you. But I was stupid and I realized today that I’m not any more special than anyone else. You treat me just like you treat everyone else because you’re so kind and caring and— Archons, I am so stupid to believe that we were ever more than that.”

Kaveh paused before he spoke again, voice shakier than before, “I really don’t want you to leave, but I get it if you want to or if you don’t want to be friends anymo—”

Your lips were on his before he could finish his sentence. When you pulled back, you noticed his eyes widened like he had sobered up all at once, “You are special to me, Kaveh. I’m so sorry if I made you feel like you weren’t.”

Kaveh smiled as a few more tears spilled out of his eyes, “You really mean it?”

“With my whole heart.”

[hellfirecvnt]

Hallelujah, What a Payday

Baby Billy Freeman x Fem!Reader

Summary: Baby Billy's on the search for his next co-star.

Warnings: Sex with that weird, old man (at the very end.) Religious trauma but with zero detail at all. If I refer to anything as "nonsense" or whatever, that's not about any religion and is only about the silly Gemstone activities.

Notes: Tiffany just doesn't exist here. I love her too much to write that she got left or something. This should've been two parts, but I promised we were gonna fuck him, so. We're also gonna ignore the Baby Billy body-double pp they show in the first episode. Don't even fucking act like that dastardly old man isn't packing.

"Five minutes, Y/N!" The angry stage manager screams backstage. You perfect your lipstick in the mirror and stand to straighten up your ensemble. You sing a few nights a week at a local lounge/venue for extra money. You're a local hit and it pays the bills.

Across the entire building, a man pays his way inside, tired after days of wasted effort. He sighs as he takes a seat, alone in a VIP booth. They're not cheap, but even if he hadn't sat there, anyone can tell he has money just from the way he dresses.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight's entertainment." A smooth voice vibrates over the intercom. You gracefully file out onto the small stage, illuminated well by a single spotlight amongst the mood lighting throughout the lounge. The tired man taps a finger on his table, watching with boredom as he waits for his drink to arrive.

"I'm all out of hope. One more bad dream could bring a fall..." Your voice rings through the air like honey sweetens tea. The lone man at the VIP booth nearly gives himself whiplash with the rate at which he turns to face the source of the illustrious talent. You continue to sing your cover, and slowly he begins to recognize the song.

Your eyes meet his, as you do at every show to engage with the audience.

"It's easy to deceive. It's easy to tease," you slide your hands down your sides, swaying back and forth sensually for this verse. "But hard to get release."

The pianist serves as backup vocals, delivering the iconic lyrics: "Les yeux sans visage."

"Eyes without a face; got no human grace. You're eyes without a face." Your vocals swell and the man stares at you, inspired. His mouth hangs agape with a hopeful smile.

After you finish your set of five songs, you take a small bow and excuse yourself to the bar. The well-dressed man all but trips over himself as he scrambles to meet you over there.

"Double vodka cran, please, Henry." You tell the bartender and he nods, starting your order.

"That's some voice you got there, darlin'." The man appears next to you, smiling a large, white, evangelical grin.

"Thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed the show."

"Well, I more than enjoyed it. You got yourself a gift, now." The man extends his hand. "I'm Baby Billy."

"Baby?" You look at him, perplexed. He explains his backstory a little, insisting you should at least know who his sister is.

"You ain't never heard of Aimee-Leigh Gemstone?"

"Of course I have, I just don't listen to a lot of gospel." You shrug, truthfully hoping the conversation could end there.

"Well, darlin', do you ever sing gospel?" His eyes twinkle in the dimly lit bar area.

"I don't think that'd fare well for me here. This place looks fancy, it's costly to get in, but it's just a bar at the end of the day. No one wants to be preached to." You take a sip of your drink and he watches you closely, noting the pout of your lips as you press them to the glass.

"No, not here. Here." He lies a pamphlet out in front of you, sliding it closer along the bar. "I'm the head preacher at the new church in Locust Grove. Opens in a month."

"A man of God, huh?" You mumble as you skim over the pamphlet. "Does this gig pay?"

"God never asked us to exploit our talents for free." Baby Billy grins. You look him up and down. He's a walking red flag, but it's clear he's got money and as a broke woman on your own, you can never have enough.

"I'm free on weekends. I'll adjust my availability when I know you're serious." You say, stone-faced. Baby Billy hands you his card, passing it smoothly between his index and middle finger. You take it and stand from the bar, walking away, and disappearing into the green room to prepare for another set in an hour. He watches you, still sporting a wide smile as you stand. His eyebrows twitch in short-lived confusion. He pushes all that aside, only one thing matters now. He has his co-star.

Friday afternoon rolls around and Baby Billy attends your show, beaming at you from his expensive, empty VIP booth. He's practically got dollar signs for pupils.

"Friday is a weekday, Billy." You call over your shoulder as you excuse yourself to the bar.

"Baby Billy," he corrects, clinging to his childhood fame with all he has. "It's a brand, now. And who said I'm here for work? Can't a man just enjoy the show?" He follows you to the bar, taking a seat next to you.

"Well, did you enjoy it?" You turn to him with an amused smile. "The show?"

"It was even better the second time around."

"Thank you, Baby Billy," you say, with a knowing emphasis on 'baby.' "I guess I'll be calling you tomorrow, then."

"I'll be ready when you are, darlin'." He smiles warmly and you begin to wonder if you'll ever see him without that goofy, toothy grin stretched across his face.

Saturday morning, you're up, bright and early. You think nothing of the process of getting ready, throwing on a T-shirt and jeans along with various accessories you only get to wear on your days off, so you take every chance.

"This ain't a repeat of that... Lost soul you brought in last time, is it?" Eli settles back in his seat. He's sitting in one of the thousands of seats in the Gemstone Auditorium along with his three children, Judy, Jesse, and Kelvin. Baby Billy stands before them.

"No, damn, Eli. She's perfect for the job. She's got the face, she's got the voice, and most importantly, she's got stage presence." Baby Billy makes a grand case, convincing the Gemstone family that he's found an angel on Earth. Which is why it's all the more shocking when you walk in looking like an entirely different person than the woman he met at the lounge.

Everyone falls silent, they turn to face you as you walk through the door. The second you come into clear view, Judy Gemstone does a poor job of stifling a hateful chortle. Baby Billy meets you halfway, keeping you off to the side before you're front and center in front of everyone.

"The fuck you look like that for?" He asks with a peculiar sense of genuine confusion/ curiosity.

"I'm sorry, I didn't think it'd be a dress rehearsal." You narrow your eyes, placing a hand on your hip.

"When you called me this morning I thought I made it clear what kind of... Environment you might find yourself in." He waves his hands around as he says this.

"Is this an audition or did you scout me out?" You ask with a smirk, looking him up and down.

"Well, hear me out, now. Because if it were up to me, you're hired. But you need to hop up on there and prove to these assholes that I know what I'm doing."

"Playing dress up costs extra," You whisper. Without leaving time for him to respond, you walk ahead of him and confidently offer a handshake to Eli. The two of you become acquainted and he welcomes you to the stage.

As you step out onto the grand platform, it's awkwardly empty. You find yourself almost nervous, which is out of character for you. You've been performing since you were young.

"What am I singing for you today, Dr. Gemstone?" You ask, sensing a little bit of decorum could go a long way here.

"Looks like she's about to start blasting Rob fuckin' Zombie," Jesse, the oldest Gemstone son, quips under his breath. You narrow your eyes at him, clocking his appearance on the spot.

"I think I know what you wanna hear," you smile politely, pointing directly at Jesse. After a quick speed walk to the sound tech, you queue up the track for the song you've chosen. The music starts, and the two youngest Gemstone siblings burst into laughter. Even Eli chuckles.

"Hello, Darlin'. Nice to see you," you start. "It's been a long time, you're just as lovely as you used to be." The joke about Jesse's appearance quickly fizzles away as the Gemstones take in your voice. Baby Billy stands off to the side, gauging their reaction, absolutely elated.

"I told you he was trying to be Conway fuckin' Twitty," Judy whispers to Kelvin.

"Come back Darlin'. I'll be waiting for you..." You finish your song and take an unserious bow. You secure the job, and Eli even commends Baby Billy for finding you. After researching the Gemstones a little bit the night before, you quickly begin to realize how much money you could potentially make here.

"That was fantastic! That old fucker didn't think I could do it," Baby Billy gushes.

"And what did you do, just now?" You side-eye him.

"I found a star." He emphasizes his words with his hands. He's a charismatic and handsome man even given his older age.

"What's next? I'm sure this next month will be pretty busy with rehearsals." You laugh, already contemplating quitting your recurring lounge gig.

"Well, sure. We'll put in the work and all, but," he looks at you expectantly.

"What?" You ask, but he only gestures with his hand as if you should've caught on by now. "Oh, Baby Billy. I don't know if I'll be attending church tomorrow. I'm um, not a Christian."

"Huh," he says, dryly. You scrunch your nose, awaiting an uncomfortable lecture. "You work in this industry for so long, you forget some people aren't religious." He shrugs and you feel a sense of relief.

"I'm not busy today. Care to show me around the Locust Grove church? It's nice to know what I'm going into." He holds the door for you as you step out into the bright parking lot.

"I'd love nothing more." He grins.

At the Locust Grove location, you're wowed by the remodeled mall-turned-megachurch. He gives you the grand tour, specifying that you'd have your own area to get ready before each service.

"This is... A lot," you laugh.

"You're about to make it much more, darlin'." He ushers you up to the stage with him. "Let's give it a go, see how we sound together."

"What song are you thinking?"

"You don't know any gospel?" He peeks over his glasses at you.

"Not really," you shrug. "Well, I know Angel Band and I know Down to The River to Pray from that movie I like."

"Good fuckin' God." He sighs. "Down to The River." He counts off and starts the first verse. His voice is southern, crisp, and clear. You quickly decide in your head what fashion of singing would best compliment his. The chorus approaches and you ready your breath.

"Oh, sisters, let's go down. Let's go down, come on down," your voices melt together pleasingly. You can tell by the look on his face that he likes what he hears. The song ends for the two of you after that first chorus, that's all he needed to hear.

"It's about time something worked out for ol' Baby Billy," he shakes his head. "Now, the next matter to discuss is... Wardrobe."

"Yeah, I figured 'sunday best' would cut it, right?"

"Well, not quite." He leads you to a room past the storage area full of broken, useless mannequins. He walks up to a large armoire and pulls it open. Inside is one dress. It's wrapped in a layer of protective plastic that's done wonders to preserve it. It's campy and dated, though you can tell it was high dollar fashion for its time.

"Baby Billy, I'm not wearing this." You look at him, as if hoping he'll tell you he's joking.

"What? Why not? Now that was Aimee-Leigh's favorite dress," he glances back and forth from you and the dress.

"Okay and it's beautiful, but it looks like it's a hundred years old." You look at the striking piece of clothing again. "This is helpful, though. If this is the kind of look you wanna go for, I think I can make it work."

The two of you spend the rest of your time in the unopened church getting acquainted. You find him charming and entertaining. He finds you beautiful and unintentionally hilarious. You make him laugh often. It's like his own personal ray of sunshine on his shoulder.

It's late when you head to leave. You hardly noticed how long you'd been there. As you open the door to the dark parking lot, you turn to bid Baby Billy goodbye.

"Well, hold on, now, darlin'. Let me walk you to your car." He follows you out the door and to your vehicle. You roll the window down to thank him for the job, pulling your seatbelt over your head.

"I'll see you...?" You wait for him to tell you what day he plans to start practice.

"Monday afternoon, if you can make it." He places a hand on the roof of your car. "Now, listen. I know you ain't the religious type-"

"I will see you Monday, Baby Billy." You interrupt before he has the chance to invite you to church tomorrow. He shrugs, waving to you as you drive off.

That night, as you shower, you wonder if you were too rude with your rejection of his invitation. After all, you grew up going to church. Certainly not a mega church, but a church regardless. It's not a chapter of your youth and adolescence that you hold dear, hence your inclination to stay away from it all.

You set an alarm and wake up early Sunday morning... To get ready for church. You take this outing as a chance to demonstrate to Baby Billy and all the Gemstones that while your personal style may not mesh with their vibe, you've always had a way of blending in.

You put on a white dress with statement sleeves. Something to play off of the whole "voice of an angel" shtick. After perfecting the rest of the look, you leave with a satisfied smile.

You walk through the large double doors to the "Gemstone Worship Center" and look around. It's needlessly gigantic and overwhelming to take in.

"Y/N, is that you, darlin'?" Baby Billy's voice grounds you back on Earth. You turn to face him and he raises his eyebrows, shocked by your range of appearances. "Don't you look pretty this morning?" He grins, admiring your pearly glow in the white garment. He's elated to see you there. Not because he thinks you need church, but because he wanted to see you.

He introduces you to a few colleagues, and even Eli Gemstone reintroduces himself, shocked to learn you're the same woman from yesterday.

"Who is this with you today?" A tall, bald man with a thick African accent asks with a warm smile.

"Now, this is my girl, Y/N," Baby Billy gestures to you like a grand prize. Something about the title "his girl" makes your stomach flip, and you're not sure how you feel about that. "She'll be performing with me at Locust Grove."

The theatrical, pretentious service is long, loud, and feels uncomfortable the entire time, so it's hard to keep your mind and eye from wandering to anything else. Often, you glance at Baby Billy. He's brought you to his seats in the front area, so it's hard to drown the music out entirely, but everything does seem to muffle when you're staring down the white-haired enigma of a man before you.

After service, Baby Billy invites you to join the family at a restaurant called Jason's. You're hesitant at first, but Eli insists. When you arrive, the Gemstones are escorted to a level above the restaurant to a private section for their own VIP dining experience. It's frivolous to you, but it's nice to do something different for once.

After church lunch, the entire group congregates in the parking lot, saying their goodbyes and making promises to see each other next week. You smile politely, though a bit awkward, as you don't really know anyone besides Baby Billy.

"Nice get up, Rob Zombie." Judy Gemstone appears beside you, seemingly complimenting you, but she's just as confused as you are.

"Thank you, Judy. I just wanted to show that I know how to fit into a crowd."

"Yeah, well. You're not so bad, up there, on stage." Her tone sounds like she's accosting you, but her words sound genuine. As if she's not sure how to... Just be nice without intimidation tactics. "Singer to singer, don't let Uncle Baby Billy ride your coattails too hard." She struts off, linking arms with her husband and loading up into their lavish vehicles.

You feel a sense of comfort now, knowing Judy is just like that. It's nice to know you have another woman in the mix that you can look to as an acquaintance. Slowly, but surely, you find yourself melding into the atmosphere that follows people like Baby Billy around. You begin to feel more comfortable around the rest of the church leaders, though you realize rather quickly that there isn't much talk about God. It's nice.

As the weeks go by, you meet up with Baby Billy for practice every day. It's not the schedule you meant to give him, you just find yourself wanting to see him more and more. You delight in the strange way he talks and his charming mannerisms. You also think it's really funny when something goes wrong and he's suddenly not grandpa sunshine anymore, and he's kicking a speaker calling it a dick.

As the rehearsal window comes to a close, you and your co-star are inseparably close. On more than one occasion, one of you has slipped up and gotten a little too comfortable.

"Baby Billy, why does the mirror say something about washing my hands keeping me safe from Satan?" You ask, returning from the restrooms.

"That was song lyrics from back in mine and Aimee-Leigh's day," he laughs.

"Well, how do clean hands keep me safe in the eyes of the Lord?" You furrow your brow, in disbelief that anyone could believe this. Baby Billy is tinkering with the stage lights as they two of you converse.

"Well," he says, still messing with the light. "Just like those hands can commit sins, they can be washed clean by his mercy." He chuckles as if he already knows he's going to overstep. "Those look like sinner hands to me, darlin'." He winks.

"Sinner hands?"

"Ain't you ever done anything with those hands? Something the Lord might not smile upon?" He continues with his back to you, finally flicking on the light after his adjustments. Your face is hot and red with the realization of what he meant.

"Oh, yeah. I guess so." You shrug. Baby Billy turns to face you, taking a few steps closer. He's a good deal taller than you, so his lanky frame looms over you in a way that makes your stomach flip. He's barely a foot away, smiling down at you.

"You guess so," he repeats, tilting his head and grinning, letting the silence thicken for a moment. You give up on trying to fight back the blush in your cheeks, there is no way around it.

"Well, I guess let's get back to it," you clap your hands once in front of you as if to break up this moment and you take your position. Baby Billy just laughs and leaves you with a lingering confusion. The rest of the day, you can't seem to keep your head clear. A flip has switched and you find yourself lusting after this televangelist old man.

The two of you wrap up rehearsals for the day, but instead of leaving, you linger behind a little longer. You're unsure if it's nerves telling you to practice more, or if it's just you wanting to be around him.

"Next week is opening day," Baby Billy grins. The excitement is clear on his face with that brilliant, big smile. He takes a seat next to you and you both face the large, beautifully lit and decorated stage.

"That fast, huh?" You chuckle, trying to laugh away the knot in your throat so you don't have to swallow it.

"You're gonna be great up there," he says, catching you off guard. He seems to have mistaken your unexpected attraction as pre-show nerves. "Right next to ol' Baby Billy Freeman. This is a big break for you."

"Oh, it is?" You laugh.

"Look, I'm serious, now. The right ears hear us and we're signed and touring," he snaps his fingers. "Like that!"

"You sure you could handle being on the road with me? I'm kind of a diva," you joke. "If I don't get my beauty sleep, I look like a dead bug and I'll hit someone." Baby Billy bursts into laughter.

"I don't think a lack of sleep or even a semi-truck could deter what you've got goin', sweetheart."

"What do you mean?" You ask through a laugh.

"You're a looker, darlin'. You walk into a room and draw everybody's eye." His hands are animated as he speaks.

"Oh, yes. Flattery will get you everywhere," you laugh, lightly shoving his arm playfully.

"I mean it, now. You the prettiest girl I know." He shrugs.

"You're not so bad yourself." You smirk, leaning closer to him than you realized. He notices the closing gap and can't help himself, he leans toward you as well. Time seems to slow down just for a moment as you two share this closeness.

He glances at your lips, and then back up to your eyes. Your heart begins to race before the sudden, loud crash of the stage light Baby Billy messed with hitting the stage with great weight. You both sit up, startled by the sound, jumping away from the close quarters you'd just been in.

"Oh, uh," you regain your grip, realizing what poor business practice has just nearly taken place. You've fucked your boss before. You know it doesn't end well... "I should get going."

You stand and readjust your skirt, smiling nervously as you start toward the door. Baby Billy stands too, hopelessly searching for his next sentence, but for the first time in his life, he seems unable to find the words.

"Same time tomorrow, darlin'," he calls out to you as you step out the door. He takes a step over to the stage, sitting down and exhaling a big breath. What an old fool he'd have to be to think you'd want anything to do with him when you're so young-spirited and beautiful? Will that stop him? No. It won't.

The last few days leading up to the grand opening are full of those small, close encounters. One day, you tripped during dance practice and practically landed in his arms. You two locked eyes and it would've been done for right then if a janitor hadn't walked through the stage door. Another time, you were high up on a ladder, making Baby Billy hold it steady out of fear. The entire time you're above him in your dress rehearsal skirt, he can't seem to fight the perverted urge to glance up. When he does, he nearly loses his bearings. His face ignites red and he can't help but smile ear to ear.

It's no secret to either of you that some kind of tension has been brewing. Even the Gemstone siblings share a look of confusion when they see you two forget anyone else is in the room. Neither of you seems to notice how long your eye will linger on the other.

The Sunday of the Church's debut sneaks up on you after the last few days of having nothing but Baby Billy on the brain. You're less nervous about performing and more nervous about seeing him again. It's as if every time you two come together, the palpable tension in the air becomes thicker. You're certain you'll lose the ability to breathe the air around you if it gets any worse.

"You ready to make some magic, darlin'?" An excited Baby Billy startles you as he intrusively enters your dressing room.

"My God, don't you knock? I could've been naked," you laugh, perfecting your makeup in the mirror.

"I don't think you'd hear any protest from me, sweetheart." He winks and makes a quick getaway. To be honest, he wasn't quite meaning to say that part out loud. You're left red-faced and pleasantly shocked. The comments between the two of you have been growing more bold by the day, but that one takes the cake... So far.

You get dressed in your opening night outfit. It's a bit different than the one you wore to rehearsals. It's nicer, fancier, flashier, without all the dated glitz of Aimee-Leigh's 80's-esque dress that Baby Billy attempted to lend you.

It hadn't occurred to you that Baby Billy hadn't seen this outfit of yours. But his beaming, smiling face when the two of you step out in front of the crowd from opposite ends of the stage gives you a needed stroke of your ego. He holds an arm out to you, inviting you to his side as he introduces you and himself. It was established early in the arrangement that he'd do most of the talking, so you put on your best "quiet and pretty" act. You clap when the crowd claps, and you throw your hands up in "praise" when it seems appropriate.

Anyone who'd met you before this performance is genuinely confused by who they're watching right now. They expected you to give a hell of a singing show, they didn't expect you to play the full part so well. As you told them, you know how to blend in. The surge of energy that comes with any performance this in-depth carries you throughout the whole service.

With each song you sing, with or without Baby Billy, you cannot stop yourself from looking at him, over and over. Fuck the tension, something is building up inside of you and the adrenaline of the stage is only making it worse, for both of you.

Baby Billy bids the crowd farewell and you give a gentle wave as the two of you exit the stage, arm in pining arm. The very second the stage exit door closes behind you, muffling the sounds of the cheering and dispersing crowd, you and Baby Billy fall still, silent, and stare at each other for barely one breathless second and then your lips are on his. You both stumble for a moment before he steadies you, pressing you up against the nearest wall.

"God damn, Y/N," he whispers between hungry kisses. You pull away for just a second, just enough time to ask a question.

"My dressing room or yours?" Baby Billy answers that inquiry by reconnecting his lips to yours and guiding your intertwined bodies to his dressing room. It's the closest. The two of you stumble through the door and straight to the lengthy couch meant to make the room look more glamorous. He lies you back on the cushions and his two careful hands begin to wander.

"Darlin, you look incredible in this get-up," he huffs. "But I can't wait till I get it off of you." He quickly unfastens the buttons of your blouse and groans roughly just at the sight of your lacey bra-clad breasts. Soft, breathy moans escape your lips over and over as he gropes at you and grinds against you. "Now, you don't mind where this is goin', do ya?"

"No, shut up," you chuckle, pulling his mouth back to yours. Your hands rake through his hair and find their way down to his expensive, flashy belt buckle. He sits back on the couch, legs hanging off with his Italian leather shoes resting on the floor. He spreads his knees and you take your position between them. You're breathless with excitement as you free his erection from his slacks. The moment you wrap a hand around his shaft, you feel him still growing harder in your hand.

"God damn it," he sighs, tossing his head back against the couch. He wraps one hand in your hair, guiding your lips toward the head of his cock. "Come on, now. Don't make me beg for it." You chuckle at his eagerness, but you do as he says, wrapping your lips around his tip. Baby Billy sighs with relief as you slowly welcome him into your mouth. He gasps as you press your nose to his waist, taking his full length in your throat.

You bob your head up and down, still riding an adrenaline high that's enough to power through even the worst of neck cramps. He calls out small exclamations and whispers sensual praise, all of which makes the heat between your thighs burn hotter.

His moans become more and more vocal until he roughly pulls your head away, jerking you by the hair. You gasp at the pain, but it only fuels your fire.

"Get on up here, now. Let an ol' man get his kicks," he quips, helping you out of the floor before you take your place, lying before him on the couch. He buries his face in your neck, kissing away up and down your flesh as he continues undressing you. He unfastens the rest of the buttons on your blouse, slipping a hand under your bra and squeezing your breast eagerly.

"Come on, don't make me beg for it," you mimic his words, sliding your skirt up your legs, and exposing your panties. They're wet with arousal and he grins at the sight.

"I might just like to hear a pretty young thing like you beg to get fucked by the pastor." He grins deviously, pressing a gentle hand to your clit over the panties. "All this for me?" He chuckles, basking in the effect he has on you. After what feels like ages of teasing and edging, he slips the drenched underwear from your legs. The white-haired man stares in awe at your throbbing core, extending a hand to play with you.

He slips one digit inside you, earning a filthy, needy moan from your chest. Your mouth hangs agape with a gasp as he pumps his finger in and out of you, staring deeply into your shining eyes. He shakes his head, amused by his power over you and also in disbelief at the position he's in at this moment. Just a month ago you were a stranger with a beautiful voice on a stage he'd never taken a second look at. Since then, you've been the object of all his desires. How could he ever imagine you'd feel the same?

"Oh, my God! Please," you whine, arching your back as he fingers you. He chuckles, unsure how he's holding himself back. It must be how much he's enjoying the show.

"Shhh," he whispers, adding another finger. Guttural moans of heated pleasure pour from your lips like a waterfall. He eats up every second of it.

"You're doin' real good, now, darlin'." He positions his twitching erection at your aching entrance, playing with your arousal with the head of his cock. "Keep being good for me," he says as he slips himself inside. A long, needy cry escapes you as he slowly sinks to his hilt.

You stare up at him, locking eyes as his mouth hangs slightly open. He's breathless as your tightness squeezes him just right.

"Aw, damn, sweetheart," he groans, pulling back only to quickly slide back in. "You're somethin' else." He grunts and moans as he thrusts in and out of you, hastily picking up his pace. For an older man, he's incredibly virile. He fucks you for what feels like hours but is surely only a handful of steamy minutes. You squirm and whine beneath him as he steadily guides you to your climax.

"I- I'm-" you try to speak, but it's too late, he's fucking you into oblivion, riding out your high with a bright white, goofy smile on his face. He loves watching your face contort as you soak him with your orgasm.

"I hope you ain't done yet, sweetheart," he chuckles, sliding out of you. "Flip on over, now, darlin'. Let me get a look at that perfect ass you got." His praise ignites a wave of goosebumps across your skin. You do as he says, turning over and assuming a position on all fours, presenting yourself to him perfectly. He releases a breathy laugh, slapping both hands down on each ass cheek.

Baby Billy tightens his grip on your glutes and fervently tugs at you until you're lined up with his swollen cock. He slips inside you again, thrusting away at maximum pace. Your ass jiggles as he slams into you and he's hypnotized by the sight. His goofy grin has fallen to a serious expression as he chases his climax. He mumbles curse words and praise under his breath while pressing your back downward to amplify your arch.

"God damn, just look at you," he huffs, coming closer and closer to completion. "Whatever you want, Y/N, just say the word," he grunts between heavy breaths. "And it's yours, darlin'." You laugh at the way he offers you the world just from how good he feels inside you. It's a high compliment.

"B- Ba-!" You attempt to beg for mercy, but he's quick to cut you off.

"Shh, shh, now, sweetheart. Just... A little more," he groans, quickening his thrusts as he ends his sentence. He slams into you impossibly hard, incredibly fast, with both hands hooked around your waist. You release sensual cries of pleasure as he chases and finally catches his climax.

He withdraws from you, breathless and sweating. A string of lusty moans drips from his lips as he strokes himself until he finishes all over your ass. He stutters out a grunt before collapsing back on the couch. You're breathless, fucked out with your face buried in the cushion. The two of you fall silent for a moment as you catch your breath.

"Baby Billy?" You break the silence.

"Yeah, darlin'?"

"Could you pass me, um, a towel?"

"Oh!" He scrambles to his feet, tucking away his softening length. His unfastened belt jingles as he makes his way across his dressing room and grabs a towel from the neat, little stack of hand towels. "Allow me," he whispers, still catching his breath, as he wipes your skin clean, allowing you to comfortably collapse as well. He joins you on the couch, buckling his belt and straightening up his suit.

"That was... Amazing..." You sigh, somehow a little shocked at how well he just fucked you.

"It certainly was, Y/N. It certainly was." He lies back on the couch, allowing his eyes to fall shut. A hand reaches up to fix his disheveled hair. "Let's get them drawers back on you, now. We're late for Church Lunch."

You regain your composure and fix your clothes, sliding your panties back up under your skirt. After fixing your hair and your smudged makeup, you're ready to head to Jason's. You and Baby Billy arrive a few minutes after everyone else, and you take your seats next to each other. The table seems to grow quiet when you two join.

"Don't everybody start talkin' at once, now." Baby Billy looks up and down to both ends of the table. "What'd we miss?"

"From the sound of it, you didn't miss anything, Uncle Baby Billy," Judy scoffs. Baby Billy gives you a knowing look, grinning at you sweetly.

"No, Judy, I did not." He beams, proudly, placing an arm around your shoulder and planting a kiss on the side of your forehead.

•••••

Taglist: @justme12200 //

[cafejulii]

Kurapika being deemed by the hxh fandom as one of, if not the most, aesthetically pleasing character in all of hxh is ironically hilarious to me.

While I agree with this sentiment to an extent, as someone who is very keen to elements that make up an inherent sense of asethetic, canonically speaking; it should be expected that Kurapika has almost everything that would go against having a cohesive one. If anything, I am in firm belief that the main reason why he holds such a title is due to the manga covers along with the elegantly crafted filler added in hxh 1999 in which depicts the suffering intertwined with the discovery of his nen ability in such an artistic manner, which then created the baseline aesthetic for the lovely artists of this fandom to further expand upon.

But outside of this? Even so, many hxh fans still agree that he holds a sense of aestheticism to him. It truly does not matter that his color palette is all over the place, or that he would absolutely not care for style, and that, when not his cultural attire or a suit; he dresses as though he had walked into each of his friends closet's, picked out one item from each one, and wore them all together and called it fashion. (They absolutely do not match at all and Killua would absolutely have a stroke at the sheer sight of such grievous combinations).

Specifically talking about these 2011 official arts in which he is one step away from becoming Armin Artlert. (Even complete with the seagull)

Either that, or he dresses like a recently divorced wine mom. Or a butch lesbian. Not to feminize him in any way of course. It’s just the observed truth. It’s just the, pure, unavoidable reality when you dress in those particular color combinations, wear flannel or an oversized sweater, and have that oh so particular “fuck ass bob.”

Specifically talking about these 1999 official arts. A friend of mine had pointed out to me that the one on the right reminded them of Major Hughes’s wife from FMA and I couldn’t stop laughing. Poor 1999 official art Kurapika they did him so wrong.

Though there also many instances in the 1999 official arts in which he does a complete 180, and dresses as though he were the most insufferable character in a shitty 90’s mafia movie. While yes, in the manga, he is technically a mob boss as of now, I genuinely could not fathom watching the absolute mess of succession war unfold with a straight face if he dressed like this.

Yet even still, we have a multitude of artists making the most breathtaking artworks that depict him in agony while holding the eyes of his people almost as if he were some sort of sacrilegious patron, a lot of which are usually inspired Catholic/ Orthodox paintings. (I love these types of arts so much)

Now thinking about it, I suppose, maybe he is so aesthetically appealing because he is an androgynous presenting man with heavy backstory that has many symbolic ties to Christianity as he is representative of Lucifer in juxtaposition to Chrollo who is seen as this twisted version of Jesus Christ. And as we know, it was Lucifer who was considered to be the most “ beautiful of all the angels.”

But anyway, I digress. Bro is just ethereal. Congratulations togashi for creating a character so intentionally-unintentionally aesthetic.

(also this is very much a shitpost please I beg don’t take this seriously at all)