#But at least the portraits are up to my taste so that's still good

[dollya-robinprotector]

British schoolboys assemble!

Reference from this fantastic post of @fraternum-momentum. Thank you so much, Fura-san, for letting me use the concept!! Portraits only under the cut:

And of course, a little bonus for Kylar because the social anxiety boy hid his face too good

[yandere-wishes]

Alice in Marvel-land

𐙚Yandere! Deadpool (Wade Wilson) x Reader x Yandere Wolverine (Logan Howlett)

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ In some worlds, you were Logan's little darling. In others, you were Wade's starry-eyed lover. But here in the void, there is only one of you and two of them.

⁀➷ GORE, yandere behavior, kidnapping, Deadpool being Deadpool.

⁺₊𝄞₊⁺ IDK, probs the Deadpool and Wolverine soundtrack

Logan feels the world slipping away.

Piece by piece, atom by atom.

In a blink, he's falling down darkness.

An endless rabbit hole.

What was the name of that fairy tale you liked so much?

The one with the girl who gets lost in splendor?

The dust is kicking up, framing the sunset portrait along the horizon.

The envoys are nearly home, this time they've brought someone back. The cage balls chime along the unsteady road. If you squint just far enough you can almost make out vibrant specks of red and yellow.

Strange, the void tends to wash out bright colors. Well, it tends to wash out just about everything.

You scrape your nails along the skeleton's sockets. Leave crescents in the decaying cartilage. "They're almost here" you call out awaiting Cassandra's next move. You watch dolefully as she's transfixed on a portal. The sparky thing unfurled like a fresh wound, strewing salt on persistent lacerations. She watches her brother, or well some variation of her brother. Surrounded by his new family, surrounded by those he loves. He's forgotten her, or maybe never even knew her. You think that the latter would hurt the most.

"Cassandra" Your voice rises in octave, this time getting her attention. "They're here".

"Coming" She sings, voice so chip it almost sounds like unshed tears. You send a final glare at the portal before it collapses on itself.

If you tried hard enough, maybe you could bring yourself to understand her pain. Those pesky notions of desperation for someone to love. But it

doesn't matter now everyone you've ever loved is dead anyway. And unlike Cassandra, you've long since given up on the childish dreams of being rescued by someone who would offer up love so freely.

"Maybe shut up now"

Logan's nerves are frying. Thin strings snapping with every syllable that leaves the red merc's mouth. He's starting to appreciate Stryker in a way he didn't even know he could. The man was a psychotic sadist but at least he knew when to sew someone's mouth shut. Maybe he can convince this Cassadra chick to do the same.

Logan's eyes are almost at 90 degrees of a roll when they stop. He stops, frozen. In the gaping mouth of the rotting skull, something all too familiar stands.

Or rather someone.

Someone he knew.

Someone he loved.

Your name tastes bitter on his tongue. All death and whisky.

Maybe cause it's been so long since the attack. Since he walked off for the night and left his family to die. Cause the last time he saw you, you were a mangled corpse laying in an open grave. Deadweight as he cradled you in his arms.

You walk closer. Face painted in too many shades of confusion.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Damn, he's started quoting that stupid book again.

"How do you know my name" You ask. You look just as beautiful as he remembers. Spine carved straight in pride with perfect lips, perfect eyes. His talons itch to glide across your soft skin, to feel you so intimately once more.

"LOOOGAN did you see what the bald chick just- HEY!!"

It takes too much effort to pull his gaze away. To stare at red and black and be reminded of cruel realities. But Wade has a tendency to be a persistent ache, some unwelcomed anchor to every problem he's ever had.

Only this time when he actually looks at him. Looks at the jittery body that's stilled abruptly. He can't help but be glad that he did. A bitter laugh bubbles in his throat. Maybe Wade's shut up for good this time.

He always knew you were special but this is truly a miracle.

"IT'S YOU!!"

Nope, didn't work. He knew he couldn't be that lucky.

Wade whispers your name, a forgotten prayer. Logan didn't even know the loudmouth knew how to pray. But he seems to almost soften when he sees you. That feral, cheeky killer, looks so so soft when he stares into your doe-eyes. Reaching out zealously to twirl a lock of your hair around his blood-soaked finger.

He can almost feel Wade choking on your essence, heart erratic, like a child finding a lost toy. He's drowning in ecstasy, and Logan is almost tempted to join him. You're here, a breath away. So close it's taking every ounce of self-control not to pull you to his chest and keep you locked between his arms until he finally dies too.

"Penunt look that's my girl!!"

"Your girl!?"

He had taken you for granted as he tends to do with most peaceful things. The realization had occurred a little too late. Right as he had been emptying a round into the target of the week's head.

He lands.

Arms high like an Olympian pleasing the crowd.

He wonders if he can make you cheer for him.

Clap and shout his name as he twirls around the mess he's made.

He wants to feel loved, although he'll never say it out loud. He's only ever been good with words when they're laced with sarcasm and profanity.

And maybe 'I love you' is just about the most obscene thing he can ever say to someone as sweet as you.

Wade plays the white rabbit, fluffy coat stained red from every kill. Tricking poor Alice into following him down cruel rabbit holes. Making you chase him through labyrinths then leaving you at every turn. He leads you to every kill, makes you watch as he dances in slaughter. He can even feel your eyes right now. Starlight slicing him open to quench vulgar interests.  

Alice always follows the rabbit.

He stalks closer, white eyes fixated on your deliciously bewildered expression. Precious thing caught in a warzone. He can almost taste you on his tongue, the sharp tip of a star slivering the inside of his mouth, soft hands painting crescent moons along the back of his neck. He needs to carve his essence across your lips, to pour the after-kill adrenaline into your soul. He needs you.

Only this time...

This time he'd been too distracted. So caught up in claiming you as his victory prize that he didn't notice the grizzled man clinging to life...

And a pistole.

The bullet punctures his shoulder. An afterthought.

But the lead keeps going.

Penetrating the air until it lands bunglingly between your eyes.

You fall into his arms.

Deadweight.

Did the white rabbit ever miss Alice?

Did he ever realize how truly special such a curious girl made him feel?

He doubts it.

Doubts that a stupid rodent would have better emotional stability than him.

He's been given a second chance. A whole plethora of them actually. He's been deemed holy, righteous. And aren't gifts of marvel bestowed upon the truly blessed? What better blessing than the sight of you standing amongst the sand and skulls?

Good to see your affinity for dainty dresses spans across all universes...

He lets the blood trickle down his claws.

What else is there to do but dream of you?

It's the fourth day of his massacre and he's lost count of how many humans he's killed. Maybe cause after the first hundred the faces tend to blur.

He leaves your pleasants in between the rotting carcasses and broken glass. Only taking the torturous parts of you. The things that can hurt him. The sharp edges that he can slit his pulse point on, the vague memory of your glare before you cried. The soft skin of your neck between his jagged teeth.

Enough to keep the hate burning.

He wonders if the creatures of Wonderland wept after Alice left. He wonders if Wonderland lost its wonder.

But now you're standing here.

Alive.

And he wants so badly to remember the sweet taste of your lips. The soft push against his chapped lips as he swallows you whole. Even desperate rabbits can go a little feral. His eyes take in every breath, every scowl.

Alive.

Alive.

Alive.

Good to see your affinity for dainty dresses spans across all universes...

Aliath skids forward, mystified in lightning and smoke. You feel your bones collapsing under the rugged man's, Logan's, vice grip. You thrash and scream trying to break free but he only barks out orders to his friend before they take off running.

"Your safe, don't worry we got you." There's a comedic cadence to every word Wade says. You can almost fool yourself into enjoying it if the two weren't actively attempting to defy Cassandra, to defy Aliath, to defy deities and absolutes. To ripe you away from the only semblance of opulence you've come to know.

"Let me go, you custome-wearing freaks." His gripe tenses. "Don't struggle so much, we said you're safe, now hold still" Logan's anger ripples through you. It's almost muscle memory to still, to obey.

Did you know him? Know them?

In some past life too out of reach?

The ground shutters to a jagged rhythm. You're flying up, escaping the misty horrors of the ground. Your head pounds with the force, air slapping across your body as you taste the cotton of the clouds between your teeth.

Is this how Alice felt as her head hit the roof?

Wade mutters about the stars and educated wishes. About people who live and matter. Logan slices through his thigh, the mercenary's optimism making his body ring with phantom pains.

No one matters.

And when they start to, they die.

There are cruel absolutes in this world. He's tasted them all. Let them slice his tongue and heart and danced to every tune they've sung. He rips his claws out and digs them into Wade's chest.

Again

And again.  

Wade savors the salty tang of blood inside his mouth.

Licks his teeth and runs his tongue over the gaping holes.

He's sitting in the front seat head rolled back.

High off the blood and adrenaline and the thought of having you so close.

"I take it all back, the Honda odysseys fucks hard"

Bones crack, interrupted mid-heal as Logan turns his head to glare. "Shut up" he rasps and Wade almost, almost, hears approval.

There's a low moan reverberating across the broken car. Late night sleepy mumble that's half 'I love you' and half 'I need you'. Neither one has heard it in such a long time.

"Finally awake sleeping beauty? Kinda surprised you could sleep through all of that" Wade shimmies to the back, only to be greeted by your foot smashing into his face, cracking his nose open, and sending a fresh wave of blood into his mouth. He pins your knee to the seat and wiggles himself between you. caging you with his elbows as he stares down at your pretty face. "Miss me, angel baby?"

"Wrong fairy tale" Logan turns around in his seat, claws out running them across your cheek "Please stop, just let me go" you've never begged before, never fallen so low. But these two things, mutants, mutates, or whatever they are, scare you. Reckless, suicidal, dangerous. You feel so helpless in their presence. Never knowing you're to be kissed or killed.

"You're as lovely as I remember" The melancholy colors him in a monochrome of sympathy. Here is a man who's gone through every horror and still gets out of bed. Or maybe he has to, maybe he can't quite die and can't quite reach heaven. So he gulps down his immortality with black coffee to at least pretend he's being buried six feet deep. "Even after all this time I still love you" You almost melt in his brown eyes. So lonely, so desperate.

Kill or kiss

You want him to do both. Want to kiss extinction on his lips while being impaled by the claws. Kill or kiss.

Both, both, both.

"You know~" Wade pushes himself up, "I think your dress should be red...and black. To match your favorite man."

"Who the hell said you were the favorite?" Wade leans forward, in a blink he's gripped Logan's wrist and lunged the Wolvarine's claws into your abdomen.

You writhe, the bones and metal feel almost heavenly inside of you. When he retracts the claws you moan out, it's too saccharine to hold back. Everything feels so much lighter, colorful. You feel your essence slipping out, gushing over the back seat.

Red waterfall, so pretty.

Dress stained red.

"Told ya so!"

Wade pulls you roughly by the shoulders and smashes his lips against yours. He's so cute, fickle Cheshire cat, tongue dancing across your mouth, slitting itself on your peaked teeth, and filling your mouth with thick red caterpillar smoke. "What the hell is wrong with you? You really are God's perfect idiot" Logan's anger is tangible, sweet, and bitter like hatter tea at midnight.

"S'okay Logan, it feels nice" Your words slur, slipping gauche from your tongue as you giggle profusely. You feel like Alice cracking open Wonderland's ribs, crawling inside, and smearing the wonder across your face.

"When I used to read fairy tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one" You've heard these words before, Alice's words. she's right. Your fairy tale is painted red with pretty, crazy, princes who think that slicing open a princess is easier than kissing her. You reach out for Logan, desperate for a kiss. "eat me" you mutter, and Logan's face morphs into pure terror "Wade what the hell have you done to her?".

"What? It's better this way trust me"

"I hate you"

Logan bends, meeting you halfway. He kisses you with all the wary of a dead man walking. All teeth and heart and bitter memories left to rot three lifetimes ago. He pushes himself between your bones, trying to carve out his ethos in your body. He'd burn the world so long as he gets to keep you.

You squeeze your thighs around Wade's muscular thighs and hips unlocking a gibby giggle from the man. His mask is half pulled up as he trails sloppy fervorous kisses across your neck and chest. The nostalgia slithering under your skin has you squirming, you've been through this all before. In a past life somewhere where storm monsters and voids don't exist. "Remember how good this feels?" Wade mumbles as his fingers dig into your puncture wounds, drawing slow, desperate moans from your puffy lips. You don't dare answer you don't know what would be worst admitting to liking the loudmouth ministrations or admitting there were other versions of you out there, other happy versions.

"Oh for hell's sake," Logan reclines the front seat and shuffles closer. Pulling down the back of your dress. His kisses are bite marks in disguise rabid and feral, the two things the man will never escape. His name rolls across your tongue, you let it slip in an airy moan. "No fair " Wade complains "I want you to say my name too." He pulls out his baby knife and etches the skin of your thighs. Scribbling doodles of stars and half hearts and the little symbol he wears on his belt. "W-wade" you gasp never knowing whether to scream in pain or giggle in bliss.

Logan laughs into your neck. You didn't even know he was capable of such a gentle thing. You bite his lip playfully. Dragging your fingers across his muscular arms. Your thumb pushes into the space between his knuckles asking for the claws. For the most macabre parts of him. You glide your tongue across the parish where flesh meets metal. Kissing the metal and bones and lapping at the blood. Watch curiously as he draws out a long airy sigh. "Good girl" he mumbles voice marred with ecstasy and you almost see the ghost of a smile smear across his pretty lips.

Wade's thumb gently rubs against your hips. Softly usering you into peace, tranquility. Your eyes get heavy, the car gets blurry. The grotesque realignment of their bones steering you into a deep, content sleep.

"Hey Peanut, you think Alice in Wonderland here would mind if we keep going? "  

"Shut it, moron "

"Oh, how I wish I could shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if only I knew how to begin.”

🎀Bonus

Deadpool: "Do you think the author's going to write about us again? Or is she planning to finally write that Dune fic she keeps talking about?

Wolverine: "I have no fucking idea what the hell you're even talking about.

🪐@yandere-romanticaa @bad4amficideas @sugarplumz100 @oscarissac2099 @facelessfionna @siphite @tocotuesday69 @linoleunm @mei-simp @shamelessdarkprince @gabriqllas @lovely-liliacs @shiroi-asashin17 @failinguniversity

[ellecdc]

Black!reader that is “I don’t smoke” (mitski) because if their parents ‘you need to be mean be mean to her me, she I can take it and put it inside of me’

hi babes, this was my take on Black!reader who was always hurting on behalf of everyone else. this fic is very angsty compared to my usual standards, so please keep that in mind before reading, and mind the warnings. of course, as typical on ellecdc we have a happy/hopeful ending

Remus Lupin x Black!sister reader after The Prank™ [4.7k words]

CW: The Prank™, Black family trauma, the Marauders aren't speaking to each other, depressive episodes and self-loathing, siblings get quasi-violent/threats of violence? but for a good cause?, Remus' typical self-loathing, discussion of forgiveness and hatred, breaking up [not pictured] and making up [pictured]

The worst part-

Though, even the thought caused Sirius to scoff humourlessly, because what could possibly be the worst part of this? What could possibly be any ‘more worse’ than the worst thing he’d ever done?

Still, Sirius supposed, wand to his head, the worst thing about all of this would be the fact that Sirius didn’t regret it. Not really.

If anything, he only felt stronger in his conviction that Snape deserved to be mauled violently to death.

Yet…

Yet he didn’t find he felt particularly good about it all; about the way Remus woke up with new, deep, angry scars across his face courtesy of The Wolf who finally had a chance at a meal only to have that stolen before he turned on himself, about the way he looked at Sirius with an expression of pure unadulterated betrayal and then fury when he realised what he had done, about the three well aimed hits he took from James, nor about the way he had to listen through the door as Remus ended your relationship with you, officially giving into all of his deep-seeded self-loathing and beliefs that no one could or should possibly accept him.

And all Sirius managed to do was prove that to be true; that Remus couldn’t trust anyone. And as a result, he robbed you of the only love you had access to save what little you received from Regulus and Sirius.

So perhaps Sirius regretted that, but without access to a Time Turner, there was nothing to be done. 

There was nothing to be done. 

James had told him that “until he made things right with Remus, he wanted nothing to do with him”, and while he didn’t blame James, Sirius knew he was officially on his own because there would be no ‘making things right’. There was nothing right, not with Sirius, at least. 

Everything about Sirius was wrong.

There was nothing to be done. 

He brought the cigarette back up to his lips, the sensitive skin at the corner of his mouth cracking painfully as he took a drag. He appreciated the sting as his teeth started to taste like iron; the pain was both a welcome reminder and a distraction of his inner turmoil as he kept his gaze on the grounds below him.

He couldn’t look at the common room; the red and gold that once felt like home had faded into shades of grey. He couldn’t look in a mirror; his permanently downturned lips and angry eyes found him looking more like his father than he did himself. He couldn’t look at his hands; they were blistered and cracked from his tryst in the forest where he emptied his lungs by screaming until he was choking on air and punching uselessly at a tree.

He couldn’t look at any of his friends, because they couldn’t even look at him; they hated him.

He was hated. 

Sirius began to wonder how many more classes he could miss before McGonagall followed through on her threats to write home when the portrait hole opened.

He couldn’t look, though. Because he was hated.

“Aren’t you meant to be in class?” He heard you call to him, listening to your measured steps as you made your way to his spot on a windowsill. 

“I could ask the same of you.” He gruffed; voice cracking from disuse, from chain smoking, and from the perpetual tightness he had felt since That Night. 

“What are you doing, Sirius?” You sighed; you were exhausted. Exhausted of him. 

He was exhausted too.

“I’m minding my business, Y/N.” He spat back, stubbing out his smoke before lighting another one with a snap of his fingers. “You should try it sometime.” 

With a wave of your hand, the smoke was gone.

“What the fuck?”

“Get up.” You ordered simply, and Sirius shook his head at you.

“Go back to the dungeons.”

“No.” 

“I’m not in the fucking mood, Y/N.”

You shrugged your shoulders. “Great, neither am I.” 

“I don’t want you here.”

“And I don’t want to be here,” You agreed, voice rising at Sirius’ petulance, “but I’ve got a brother who decided to stop functioning a few weeks ago, so here I am.” 

“I’m perfectly fine.”

“You smell.”

“Yeah well, you’re ugly.” Sirius sneered, pulling out another cigarette only for you to vanish the entire pack. 

“When was the last time you showered?” You demanded, and Sirius refused to look at you.

“Hm? Or changed? Or ate? When’s the last time you brushed your teeth?”

Sirius kept his gaze pointed at the grounds outside. 

“Sirius. Your hair is greasy, you smell stale, you look gaunt, and…they’re going to write home.”

“Good.” Sirius spat quickly. “As they should.”

“Is that what you want, Sirius? You want more people to be mad at you? More people to punish you?”

He didn’t answer.

“You’re already doing that enough for the rest of us.” You sighed, attempting to grab him by the arm only for him to shove you away. 

“Get away from me, Y/N, I mean it.” 

“No, get up.”

“Fuck off.”

“Now.” You nearly growled, and Sirius turned to see you aiming your wand in his direction, surprising a sarcastic laugh from him.

“What? Gonna hex me? Or are you gonna skip right to the Unforgivables, hm? Maybe an imperio? Or are you going to try some negative reinforcement? A crucio for disobedience? Salope stupide, de plus en plus comme ma mère chérie chaque jour.” (translation: stupid bitch, more and more like mother dearest every day)

Sirius flinched as you quickly raised your hand, prepared for a blow that you never landed. 

He looked back to see you standing there, hand poised like it was ready to hit him as you stared at him defiantly; your cool, piercing eyes so much like his own, but the displeased pinch of your mouth was that of your mother. 

“Is that what you want, Sirius? Huh? You want to be walloped a few more times on the nose so that everyone knows what a bad dog you are? You want to be punished for your misdeeds? Maybe get a few more of these?” And you punctuated your question by roughly grabbing at his jaw, fingers pressing into the painful bruises still colouring his cheeks courtesy of James. “That’s why you haven’t bothered healing them, yeah? So that everyone who sees will know what a right bastard you are."

He smacked your hand away with one arm and shoved you away from him with the other. 

“Or,” you continued - rather unphased by Sirius’ aggression - grabbing his balled up fist and bringing it up to your own face, “is it me you want to hit, hm? You want everyone else to hurt just as badly as you are? The world has been just terrible to you Sirius, you were dealt an awful hand! You just want everyone to suffer for it; to pay for the wrongs done to you.”

“Stop it.” Sirius hissed, trying to yank his hand away from you to no avail. 

“Hit me then, Sirius. Hit me. You wanna give into that Black Darkness? Want to be just as bad as they are? Just as bad as they’ve painted you to be? Go ahead.” 

“Stop.” 

“Then get up.” 

“Y/N…” He warned.

“Get up, Sirius.” 

“I hate you.” He spat, and your jaw tightened but you rolled your eyes as if you found him to be quite tiresome.

“Yeah, well, I don’t like you very much right now either.” 

He stood then, giving you no time to get out of his way before he was towering over you. You never faltered, though. He let you grab him by the sleeve of his shirt, he let you drag him up the stairs towards his dormitory - somewhere he hadn’t been since That Night, opting instead to sleep on the couches, a time or two in the room of requirement, and one night in the Shrieking Shack as Padfoot - and he let you bodily shove him into the boys’ bathroom. 

“Get in the shower, Sirius.”

“Sunny, please.”

“I’m not asking.” You said firmly. “Get in the shower.”

“I can’t.” 

You swore under your breath as you dragged him over to the shower stall, said nothing as he went no bones and sunk to the floor, and simply turned the shower on, soaking you both.

“Y/N, stop.” 

“Sirius, if you’re not going to take care of yourself, I will. Those are your choices.” You said defiantly, staring down at him as your school uniform became more and more drenched and your hair started sticking to the side of your neck.

Sirius let out a sigh and rested his head against his knees, and you accepted his relenting as the acquiescence it was. 

You pointed the shower head at him and began lathering soap into his hair before doing much the same with the conditioner. 

Sirius let the soap burn his eyes; welcomed it, even. He did nothing to help you with your tasks, though you didn’t ask him to. He did, however, draw the line at you trying to disrobe him.

“These need to come off, Sirius.” You said, pulling at his uniform shirt like something disgusting you found in a gutter.

“And I will take them off once you’re no longer staring at me.” He growled, causing you to scoff a humourless laugh.

“Like hells I’m letting you out of my sight again.”

Sirius simply groaned. 

“How are you going to wash your body, Sirius? Please don’t tell me you’re going to make me do that too.”

Sirius ripped the bar of soap out of your hands and glared at you as he shoved it beneath his clothes, washing himself the best he could under his sopping wet uniform. 

Though he was more than likely still sudsy, you shut the water off and vanished what water you could from both of your beings; each of your heads and uniforms still dripping wet as you flung open the bathroom door and marched across the hall.

Sirius’ mouth ran dry when you knocked on their dormitory door; somewhere between you confronting him in the common room and forcing him to bathe, classes seemed to have ended. 

He should’ve flung himself out of the common room window when he had the chance; he couldn’t see Remus, James, or Peter. They hated him.

He was hated.

Remus wouldn’t talk to any of them, and James and Peter weren’t talking to Sirius. Even though Remus had told them he didn’t want them “taking sides”, he didn’t seem too bothered watching Sirius get iced out. 

Because he hated him.

Sirius was hated. 

“Oh…hi, Y/N…” James offered awkwardly as he opened the door. 

You barely spared him a glance. “Potter.” You greeted simply as you dipped under his arm which had been holding the door open and marched towards Sirius’ bed. 

Remus pulled his head through the hole of his jumper as he watched you start digging through Sirius’ trunk, sharing a quick glance with James and Peter before his gaze moved to Sirius all but cowering in the doorframe. 

“Are you…wet?” Peter asked cautiously then, all three boys staring at you in bemusement as you packed up a duffle. 

“Yeah.” You responded simply, throwing Sirius a towel that he (thankfully) caught as everyone’s eyes fell to him. 

Sirius quickly ran the towel over his person as you let his trunk close with a loud thunk, hiked the bag you packed for him over your shoulder, and stalked out of the dorm room without sparing any of the boys - including your ex boyfriend - a passing glance. 

“Don’t you hate me?” Sirius whispered as he allowed you to lead him to the Slytherin dorms.

“No, Sirius. I hate what you did.” You sighed, never faltering in your steps but strengthening your hold on your brother's wrist. “I love you, that’s why I’m here.” 

Remus had tried telling Peter and James to leave him alone; he wanted to be alone. 

Yet somehow, every morning, the two of them would sit across from him in the Great Hall, say hello, and then talk amongst themselves whilst pretending he wasn’t there. 

That was fine, though. Remus was sort of pretending he wasn’t there, too. 

But while Remus could ignore James and Peter’s existence, Sirius’ existence, and even his own if he really tried hard enough, he couldn’t ignore your existence. 

He’d been more than slightly confused when you stormed into his dorm room last night completely drenched without your eyes ever cutting to him and packed up a bag for your equally drenched brother. 

He’d been more than slightly hurt when you left without sparing him a glance, too. Though he figured perhaps he deserved that. This is what he wanted, right?

Scratch that, actually, what he had wanted was to be safe and loved and protected by the people who promised to do that for him. That was what he had wanted.

It wasn’t until Peter and James paused in their conversation to look at Remus concernedly that he realised he had caused his tea to overflow by means of accidental magic. 

Remus threw a wad of napkins at the mess as he made to stand, but his legs felt wholly incapable of holding him up when he saw you enter the Great Hall, quickly followed by a rather dispirited looking Sirius who nearly bumped into you as you paused at the entrance.

Your gaze automatically fell to the Slytherin table where Regulus was shooting you and Sirius a perturbed look. 

You turned then towards the Gryffindor table when your gaze fell to Remus.

He found himself unable to break your gaze; he wondered if you could see the heartbreak pooling in his eyes, or the longing painted in the space between his brows.

He wondered if you could even manage to see past the new, ferocious scars decorating his face.

He certainly couldn’t. 

Your shoulders fell as you shook your head - so minutely that Remus wondered if he had only imagined it - before you grabbed Sirius’ sleeve and dragged him towards the Ravenclaw table where both Pandora and Benjy accepted the pair of you without issue. 

He was simultaneously grateful that neither of you were sitting over here and furious that the two of you deigned to sit anywhere else. You were his; his friend, and his girlfriend, you were supposed to be here with him. 

But he didn’t want either of you over here, he didn’t want… 

He didn’t…

“Moony?” James asked cautiously.

“Don’t call me that.” Remus spat before he stood abruptly and stormed out of the Great Hall. 

He never wanted any of this; sure, he wanted to go to school, but he never wanted friends. He didn’t need friends, he’d never had them before. He met some kind kids on the train who ended up being his roommates, but he was ready and willing to hold them at arm's length. 

And then…

And then he found that he rather liked their company, and that they seemed to enjoy his. And then he found that he cared for them, and that they seemed to care for him. And then they found out, and they were accepting of him. And then they did the impossible and found a way to be there for him like no one else before, they showed up for him in ways no one else had ever tried, in ways he never imagined possible. 

And then he fell in love, and then…

And then. 

And then one of the worst people Remus could imagine to know learned of his darkest secret, his biggest shame, his lifelong curse. 

And he learned that from one of his best friends; Snape learned of Remus’ darkest secret, biggest shame, and lifelong curse from one of his best friends. 

And suddenly, everything everyone had ever said about lycanthropy was true; he was a monster, unloveable, a threat and hazard to everyone around him.

And as he paused in front of a window where he could see his reflection - three violent claw marks stretching from his left eye across the bridge of his nose down over his lips - the monster stared back at him. 

He was a beast. He was a monster playing dress up; cosplaying as a wizard day in and day out when in reality, deep down, he was a vicious, disgusting freak. 

And now everyone knew it; Sirius knew it, you knew it, Snape knew it.

And for those who didn’t know it, they could suspect it; rumours flying around of how Remus managed to be mauled by some creature and survive to tell the tale, because the only thing scarier than a beast among men is a man that can take on a beast and live to tell the tale.

The worst part-

But the thought made Remus snort humourlessly, because really, how could there be a worst part of any of this? What could possibly be ‘more worse’ than the worst thing to ever happen to him, second only to being bitten all those years ago. 

But Remus supposed, wand to his head, that the worst part of all of this was losing you.

Remus let out another humourless chuckle as he let his head fall with a thunk against the windowpane. 

And the absolute fucking kicker was that losing you had been his own doing. 

For the first time in perhaps five days, you were alone. 

You sat in the farthest corner of the library near rows of tomes with enough layers of dust on them to promise you some solitude as you waited for Sirius’ meeting with McGonagall to end. 

You’d convinced him (rather forced him) to start attending his classes again, though you were certain he wasn’t exactly a delight to have in the classroom at the moment. You only hoped it was enough for the school to refrain from writing home.

You dropped your quill and pressed your fingers into your eyes hard enough to see stars. Sirius was displeased with you for ordering him about. Regulus was displeased with you for babysitting Sirius and ‘cleaning up’ after him. Your parents were displeased with you seemingly because you were born with free will. Your professors were displeased with you for submitting sloppy work because you spent the majority of your time doing Sirius’ for him in order to keep him from being expelled. Your roommates were displeased with you for smuggling a dog into your room for the past week, even though he was very well behaved and slept dutifully on the end of your bed. And Remus…

And Remus. 

He had looked so hollow and… dead when he told you this needed to end, that he couldn’t see you anymore. You didn’t think he was capable of occlusion, but that was the only thing that could possibly explain how he could manage to look at you like you didn’t even matter to him anymore.

Perhaps you didn’t.

You didn’t matter. 

Perhaps you were too much like your brother; he couldn’t forgive him, so you were unforgivable too. Perhaps you were just too much of a Black for him; perhaps he realised the mistake in keeping your kind around. 

You couldn’t blame him, you supposed.

You were a tiresome bunch. You didn’t often want to keep your kind around, either. 

You shook yourself out of your pity party and returned to your notes, only to watch as Remus pulled out a chair opposite of you at your table. 

“The library’s plenty large, Lupin; I’m sure if you looked harder you could find another table.” you offered, hoping for indignation but landing somewhere around disheartened. 

“Is Sirius alright?” He murmured quietly, and you forced your eyes up to meet his. 

He looked dead tired; his eyes were sunken and his skin was missing its warm glow. But in his eyes laid an earnestness that had you remembering just how wholly safe and full you felt whenever you found yourself pinned beneath his gaze. 

You quickly looked away.

“Not really.” You replied honestly. “But I think he deserves that.” 

Remus made a noncommittal sound as he continued staring at the top of your head; you couldn’t see it, mind you, but you could certainly feel it.

“And you?” 

“What about me?”

“Are you alright?”

“Why?” You demanded, and you looked up in time to see Remus finally look down into his lap. 

You stared at him as he wrung his hands in his lap while you catalogued the scars across his face. You wondered if where they landed over his eyes caused him any vision issues. You wondered what the ones over the bridge of his nose would feel like as you traced your fingertip over them. You wondered what the ones on his lips might feel like under your own. 

You hated them, knowing that he did too, knowing how he came to have them. But you loved them because they were his, because it was him. Because you loved him. 

“Are you alright?” You decided to ask then, and he looked up at you as if he was surprised you were still there.

“No.” He responded quickly.

“I’m sorry.” You offered, though you knew not what for. You really hadn’t done anything. 

“How-” Remus started, though he quickly looked back down at his hands as he searched for the words.

You waited for him. 

“How…can you help him?”

You felt your eyebrows furrow, because whatever you thought Remus might’ve been about to ask, it certainly wasn’t that. 

“What?” You asked dumbly. 

“How can you help Sirius? After all that he’s done?” He continued gently.

“I… because, Remus, someone has to.” 

Remus nodded as he considered your response. “There’s a… part of me that feels as though you’re choosing him over me.” 

“Remus. You chose; you made that decision for me. I didn’t choose anyone’s side.”

“So if we were still dating right now, would you have forgiven Sirius?”

“Forgiven?” You repeated incredulously. “Who said anything about forgiveness?” 

Remus simply blinked at you owlishly. 

“Remus, I cannot just sit here and let him whither away into nothing because I’m mad at him. He fucked up - big time - there’s no question about it. And deep down, I know he knows that too; that’s why he’s been torturing himself over it. There is no way in which I could treat him that would be worse than the way he’s treating himself right now. But I-”

You shook your head as you fought off the stinging in your sinuses; you did not want to cry in front of him. 

“There is no one rooting for us, Remus. No one. You’re pissed at him - rightfully so, and completely justified - Potter and Pettigrew are pissed at him too, he’s pissed at himself and I… someone has to, Remus. Someone has to root for him, I can’t…I can’t just abandon him, not when there’s no one else.” 

“I can’t… I can’t feel bad for him, Y/N.” Remus exclaimed helplessly. 

“I’m not asking you to; I’m simply telling you why I do.” 

“I don’t…I don’t know how to forgive him, dove, I don’t know how to not hate him for this.” He nearly sobbed, holding his hands out helplessly as if the grief and torment were tangible things that he could crush in the palm of his hands if only he could catch them. “Why don’t you hate him? Please tell me? Because I genuinely want to know. I need to know - I don’t…I don’t want to hate him.” 

“He’s my brother, Rem.” You said simply, shrugging your shoulders helplessly. “I hate what he’s done, I hate the choice he made, I hate the outcome of that choice, I hate what he did to you, I hate what that’s done to me, but… but I don’t hate him. I can't hate him.” 

The two of you sat in silence for a while; the only sounds coming from the odd book being magically sent back to its shelf and the odd voices from students downstairs when a study group got a touch too boisterous. 

“Do you hate me?” Remus whispered then; your eyes flit up to meet his which were already steady on you. 

“No, Remus.” You whispered back.

He nodded as his gaze fell. “Just what I did?” 

Your lip quirked in the faintest ghost of a smirk. “Yes I…I sort of hated that, I suppose.” 

“I don’t want to hate him.” He repeated.

“I know.” 

“Do you-” Remus paused, turning away and screwing his eyes shut as you realised he was crying. “Do you think you’ll ever be able to forgive me?”

“Remus…”

“I was scared, and hurt, and angry, and-” he hiccuped, reaching across the table as he nearly begged for your hand. You gave it willingly. “-and I hated him but I mostly hated myself.”

“I know, Rem.”

“Please? Do you…do you think you’d be able to forgive me? For leaving, for running, for abandoning you? You’ve never once given up on the people important to you and one bad thing happens to me and…and I just throw you away, I-” He looked at you as if he was only realising all of this now; hurt, frustration, anger, and betrayal all on your behalf flickered behind his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Remus.” You insisted, but he quickly shook his head at you. 

“It’s not; it’s not okay, I- … I’m not as gracious as you, clearly, but I just…I just feel like if you’re strong enough to forgive me then there’s…there’s hope for me, too. That maybe I can be strong enough to forgive Sirius.” 

“You’re forgiven, Remus.” 

His eyes fell shut as more tears fell, but you were sure it was more from relief than it was from pain. 

Both boys - Remus and Sirius - were so good at torturing themselves over choices they’ve made that you were certain no one else would ever have to as long as they both should live. 

And for different reasons, you loved them both beyond measure. 

“I don’t deserve forgiveness.” Remus whispered.

“Of course you do.” You countered, squeezing his hand in yours and watching as some of the tension in his shoulders dissipated. 

“Does Sirius?” He asked quietly, keeping his eyes pointed at where your joined hands sat on the table between you. 

You’re not sure when or how you became the leading expert on conflict resolution and forgiveness; perhaps it was in refereeing Sirius and Regulus’ petty squabbles growing up, perhaps it was in shielding Regulus from your parents fury, perhaps it was in trying to tame Sirius enough to keep him out of trouble, perhaps it was in being the youngest cousin along with Regulus and watching the siblings before you find their own ways to define what was right and good, perhaps…perhaps it came from the many examples of conflict and spite that you had witnessed growing up.

“I don’t know, Rem.” You answered honestly. “I think…I think the only one who can really know that is you.”

If he was displeased by your answer, he didn’t show it.

“But,” you continued cautiously, “I don’t think you have to forgive him for what he’s done. You just have to decide whether you’re going to hate him for it or love him in spite of it.” 

His lips pursed, pulling at scars both new and old in ways you’re not sure you’d ever grow tired of watching, as he nodded. “I don’t want to hate him.”

“I know, Rem.” 

“I don’t want James or Peter to hate him either…I don’t know why they were willing to watch him wither away like that.”

You couldn’t hide your smile at that; the first genuine smile since That Night. “They don’t, and they weren’t.” You countered, only moving to explain when he looked at you in bemusement. “They were the ones who told me how bad he was getting…they wanted to make sure someone was looking after him without giving into his pity party.” 

“Always taking care of everyone else, hm?” Remus murmured at you, bringing your hand up to his lips to press a delicate kiss to your knuckles. 

You simply hummed noncommittally. 

“Can I return the favour?”

“You can certainly try, but I’m quite high maintenance.” You teased gently. 

“That’s alright.” He agreed quickly. “You’re more than worth the effort.” 

You breathed out a quiet laugh through your nose. “Whatever you say, Lupin.”

[cj-ghostemoji-destielpie]

⚠️⚠️⚠️PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS IN THE ABOVE SCREENSHOT BEFORE CONTINUING!!! ⚠️⚠️⚠️

This is my fic btw 💖 it'll only get worse. Chapter two will be posted soon and it's... F-d up.

Royal Tastes, by Dragonborn_Eldenlord on AO3.

Chapter 1: The Young King, The Cannibal Knight, The Dead Knight:

Sir Hannibal Lecter. A knight, ruthless and merciless in his quests. Or hunts, as he calls them.

Hannibal was infamous among many kingdoms as the Cannibal Knight, or Hannibal the Cannibal, that ate his enemies as a show of strength; not a popular habit. Most Knights hated or reluctantly accepted their jobs, but he reveled in the bloodshed. The scars, the agony, the screams, the light fading in his victims eyes, blood gurgling from their mouths or dripping from shallow wounds til they slowly bleed out… He saw beauty in it all.

Hannibal was visiting a kingdom he hadn't visited in a good twenty years or more; the Ophiuchus Kingdom, named after the serpent constellation due to the multiple snakes that infest the forests. Ophiuchus was infamous. The past rulers were known for their vicious and violent tactics, for their greed and gluttony. The only reason Hannibal was coming here in the first place was to and get in the good graces of the new ruler, as they had recently had their coronation if rumors were to be believed.

Walking into the throne room, Hannibal noticed the grandiosity of the palace. The new King is obviously doing some remodeling since there's multiple portraits stacked in a corner, many of which are torn. Hanging on the walls in their place are tapestries, animal hides, and furs, making the throne room have more of an animalistic, wild, and feral vibe.

Hannibal noticed the lack of the King as the throne was momentarily empty but he knelt anyway, the dark gray metal of his armor scraping against the expensive tiled floor; dark inky black tile with gold outlines and occasional intricate designs. He kept his head hung low, and soon he heard the footsteps of who he presumed to be the new King.

“Sir Hannibal Lecter, at your service, my Lord,” He greeted, head still positioned towards the dark ground.

"My apologies, Sir Lecter, but I'm not exactly... Educated on the proper etiquette of societal expectations for how I'm supposed to act and talk so I hope you'll be patient with me. Stand. I'm Lokka La’Rose, new King, blah blah blah. Killed the last King because he was a dick, so on and so forth," Lokka says casually as he perches on the arm of the fancy throne, not even looking at Hannibal as the Knight stands, instead he's briefly frowning in distaste at the gawdy throne before finally looking back at Hannibal with curiosity, golden eyes slowly taking in Hannibal's armor clad body and handsome face.

Hannibal stood, looking at the new King now fully. He seemed young. At least, younger than most rulers. If he's an adult it's just barely. His outfit—well, it lacked any form of royalty. Wearing something like that in court would make him the laughing stock of all the nobles. He's dressed in simple hunter-like garbs; a simple dagger on his hip, faded animal hide trousers and shirt. His curly hair is messy but pulled back in a low ponytail to keep it out of his face.

There's an old ugly scar running across his face that somehow danced between both eyes without harming them. And his eyes are peculiar as well; unnatural gold, reflecting all light, and feline-like with slit pupils.

"No worries, there's nothing wrong with not knowing etiquette. You’ll learn, it’ll feel like second nature in no time at all, Your Highness,” Hannibal studies the scars on the young King's face, "May I ask how you got those?”

"The scar? I was eight years old, a starving orphan, tried stealing from some noble man and he actually noticed and decided to teach me a lesson. Left me with a scar so I'd be reminded of the consequences of theft. Instead it just reminded me of the power imbalance in the Kingdom and the greed of the rich.”

Hannibal stayed silent for a moment, his eyes locked onto the other man. He studied the scar again, as it ran across his face in a jagged line. It had clearly scarred over years ago, but it still looked quite prominent. He knew the old King, and he was a greedy man, for sure. He thought the entire Kingdom was a piece of him to flaunt around. And many of his nobles had the same mentality.

"I see. You didn’t deserve that, child," He said the word in a somewhat condescending tone, though his facial expressions didn’t change from their almost emotionless state.

A small quiet huff of amusement escapes the King, “So, what are you here for? You requested an audience with the King. I know I'm not probably who you expected but I suppose I can still hear your piece and possibly assist.”

Hannibal smirked at his slight amusement, finding the King somewhat amusing. He began to circle around the throne, eyeing the golden details. He then came back to the front of the throne, locking eyes with the young King who'd allowed the Knight to pace and circle around him, looking entirely unthreatened.

"I didn't expect y ou , no," He paused for a moment, "Though I heard that you killed the last King. Tell me, was it worth it?”

Lokka tilts his head in thought, ".... worth it for the people....perhaps not for me though. I didn't want to be King. I just wanted there to be change. But no one else had the power to do it.”

Hannibal nodded slightly, silently admiring his slight vulnerability. He seemed to have thought about it a lot. He crossed his arms behind his back, shifting his weight to one foot. He seemed to look him up and down again before speaking again.

"You did this for the people, not yourself. That’s very admirable, Lord La’Rose.”

"Thank you, but please, just call me Lokka. I'm still not used to that title… and you're interesting enough to keep around and befriend.”

"Very well, Lokka ."

The way Hannibal says the King’s name makes the young King shiver and his cat-like pupils dilate.

Hannibal tilted his head downwards slightly, his arms behind his back casually and nonthreatening but somehow still imposing. The boy seemed somewhat shy, but somewhat confident, at least for speaking to a Knight that was feared by many for his bloodthirsty killing. He took a few steps closer to the throne.

"How old are you, if you don't mind me asking?”

“17,” The young King states simply.

Hannibal nodded as an indication of acknowledgement, slightly impressed that he had managed to kill a man—let alone a King—at that age. There was clearly a lot of determination and courage, perhaps some foolish bravery as well. He took another few steps, now being a few feet away from the throne.

"Ah. Young and full of life," He teases.

Lokka gives a small playful smirk, "I've heard of you, Sir Lecter. Hannibal the Cannibal . The Cannibal Knight . Are you here to add another man to your diet or are you after something else? I'm not easy to kill so I'd think twice if I were you,” His tone isn't threatening, just playful but with a hint of promise.

Hannibal chuckled dryly at Lokka’s comment, his hands still behind his back. Hannibal seemed amused by Lokka, intrigued even. Lokka was a curious thing.

" You're smarter than you look, kid ," He paused for a moment, looking into his odd eyes, before continuing, "And you seem a tad bit cocky for a young Lord.”

“Fake it til you make it," He says with a simple shrug, a hint of insecurity in his strange eyes.

Hannibal chuckled, noting a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. He tilted his head to the side, studying him a little closer.

"You're not confident, are you?" He teased him, finding a way to get under the new king’s skin.

Lokka shrugs, unperturbed, “No, I'm not. But I'm stubborn and spiteful so I'm planning on sticking around as King for a long time. At least until I find a suitable heir."

Hannibal hummed in acknowledgement, somewhat impressed by Lokka's determination and stubbornness. He seemed like a boy filled with ambition and power…and yet so vulnerable. So…breakable.

He'll be fun to break . Hannibal thinks to himself with a secret smile.

" And when you find that suitable heir, will you simply pass the throne over to them without a fight?" Hannibal asked, taking a small jab at him.

"I'll train them, have them educated on the life of the nobles and the poor, make sure they have decent morals and a support system, and then I'll peacefully step down, give them the throne when they're ready, and perhaps stick around as an advisor or something if needed.”

Hannibal’s eyebrows raised slightly, impressed by his thought-out plan. He had clearly thought it through for a while, which he respected.

"So you already have a plan in mind, that's quite…ingenious." He paused for a moment, "And you're sure they’ll be fit enough to rule your kingdom?”

"I've no idea. Haven't met a suitable heir yet. Enough about that though. What is it you wished to accomplish with your audience with the King, Sir Lecter?”

Hannibal chuckled at him, slightly amused. Lokka was clearly done talking about the subject for now, which Hannibal was willing to respect. Sometimes you have to play the long game when playing with a new toy you wish to enjoy breaking.

"Ah. Straight to the point. I like you, Lokka." He commented, now towering over the shorter man, "I simply came to offer my services to you—to the kingdom, I mean.”

Lokka gives Hannibal a small playful smile, not bothered at all with Hannibal towering over him- most Kings would've had Hannibal thrown out for the attempt at appearing imposing or threatening, instead Lokka just peers up at Hannibal in amused interest, "You wish to be my knight?" He basically purrs sweetly.

Hannibal found Lokka's lack of fear for him amusing, almost down right hilarious. Most rulers would be intimidated by a man like him, but the boy didn’t even seem slightly bothered by it. Hannibal found it quite interesting.

"Yes, of course," He said, somewhat amused. "I am the best in my field. You’d be unwise to decline my services, kid.”

Lokka chuckles, "Most would be practically begging or at least respectful when offering their services to a King, even a young and naive King enjoys respect instead of being called a kid," Lokka says with a playful smile, casually crossing his legs as he remains perched on the arm of the throne.

Lokka studies Hannibal for a long few moments, golden cat-eyes piercing and intelligent as he takes Hannibal in, like a wild cat studying its prey. Slowly he returns his gaze to Hannibal’s.

"Ask again." He says, a small smirk tugging his lip, “maybe with a pretty please ?" He asks, basically taunting Hannibal.

Hannibal was taken somewhat aback by his request, his eyes widening a slight bit. He had expected him to be polite and shy in his response, not demanding and confident. Hannibal’s smug expression soon faded away, the slight teasing look still in his eyes.

"My apologies," He began, his expression almost blank by now, "I'll be respectful , like you'd like."

He took a deep breath, knowing he was going to hate it.

"May I please be your Knight, Your Majesty, Lokka ?”

Lokka giggles in honest amusement, golden eyes lighting up with joy before he schools his expression.

"hm...no," He says before smiling again. "I'm not going to waste your services as a common Knight. If you'd like to work for me, I'd rather you be my main security. Top knight, Housecarl, or whatever the fancy noble terminology is. I've heard of your skills and I'd love to see them in person. I've had multiple attempts on my life within just a week so I imagine you'll get a chance to prove yourself interesting . If you grow bored of being a bodyguard, then I suppose I can send you out to play with the other Knights. Does that sound appealing enough to you, Sir Hannibal Lecter ?”

Hannibal’s eyebrows shot up at Lokka's words, surprised. He was expecting to be a regular Knight of the castle, which was just fine. But security for the King? That was unexpected, but he was very much intrigued by the offer. And it would make it easier to toy with the King and slowly break him.

"That sounds very appealing," He commented, his smirk returning once again, "I agree to those terms.”

"Good. Splendid. Hope you don't mind explaining the seemingly stupid noble jargon the people here keep expecting me to understand. Do you understand the purpose of so many forks for one meal?" He asks, tone switching from the teasing playful to genuinely open and curious

He chuckled at his question, amused by the King’s clear lack of knowledge of the social rules.

"Of course. And I know the noble jargon.” He explained. "And it’s stupid, honestly. There’s so many rules for a simple meal. A commoner would eat an entire turkey with their hands, while Kings and Queens have to use specific forks and spoons for specific items of a meal. And don’t even dare to use your hands; you’ll be chastised by the etiquette police.”

The King sighs dramatically as he lays across the throne, "Everything has so many ridiculous rules and yet the commoners are more concerned with surviving, which is more understandable. Why so many forks when hands work just fine? It's stupid…”

"I think I'm going to like you, Sir Lecter." The young King says, rolling his head where he lays across the throne to look up at Hannibal.

"Perhaps I may say the same," Hannibal replied, an amused smile tugging at his lips. He studied him for a moment, admiring his confidence, especially for a young king like him.

“ Goddesses ! I need to get rid of this throne !" He jumps off of it dramatically, a good three feet in the air before landing on his feet in a squat like a feral cat before slowly standing like a normal human, "that thing is so ridiculously uncomfortable. And such an eyesore . Like, we get it! This is a throne! But if you're going to show off wealth you may as well use it for something comfortable . Especially if you're expected to sit in the evil thing for days on end and play nice with other nobility.”

Hannibal was surprised by Lokka's sudden outburst and unexpected agility as he jumped from his throne, not expecting him to be nearly as physically adept as he was for a King or a human. He let out a dry chuckle as he stood next to him.

"Most nobles and royalty don’t care about what’s comfortable. They just care about what looks good and makes them look better than everyone else," Hannibal replied dryly.

Lokka huffs and crosses his arms, glaring at the throne like a petulant child who was just told that he has to eat his veggies before dessert, “Well I'm not most kings. If I could have that replaced with a recliner I would... I suppose I'll just settle for having this fancy throne melted down to coins and donated to the commoners, maybe the orphanage. Then I'll just feckin' carve a nice throne from some cherry wood perhaps and get some nice comfy- but I suppose fancy fabric- cushions to line it with."

Hannibal chuckled at Lokka's…rant, finding his determination for a more comfortable throne quite amusing. He tilted his head to the side, studying the younger man.

"A cherry wood chair," He repeated, a single brow quirked, "With plush velvet cushions," He added dryly with a slight tone of mockery. He was clearly holding back his laughter.

The King huffs and throws his hands in the air with dramatic exasperation "Ye have better design ideas, Sir Lecter?”

Hannibal let out a few dry chuckles at his dramatic actions before replying with a smirk.

"Maybe. I was thinking something a little more… aesthetic ," He said, thinking over the design in his mind, "Dark oak. Gold or a dark material for the trimmings. Soft light fur as a cushioning.”

"....I might actually be able to work with that...I'll sketch something up and have you look it over,” the King says after actually seeming to seriously be pondering over Hannibal's words.

Hannibal hummed, finding him quite amusing. Who would’ve thought a newly crowned King would ask for his input on a throne design of all things? Hannibal had to hold back his smirk at Lokka's eagerness.

“Of course. I’ll look it over once you have it sketched up, Lokka.”

"....so," Lokka clasps his hands and rocks slightly in place, "I'm supposed to play nice and be all Kingly for a few more hours today. One of the servants told me that there were a couple different knights and messengers from different kingdoms coming today- aside from you. I was even warned that at least one messenger is going to try and get me to marry some King's daughter from a neighboring kingdom," he says, looking disgusted but hides it mostly, "Are you ready to play advisor/bodyguard today or do you wish to have a servant show you to your new quarters and start tomorrow?”

Hannibal could sense Lokka's disgust in his voice and almost chuckled but contained himself. It seemed he disliked the prospect of having to listen to someone ask him to marry someone’s daughter for political purposes. He smirked, crossing his arms over his chest once again.

"I’m quite ready. And if any messenger does decide to try to convince you to marry an ugly daughter, I’ll be your bodyguard and advisor.”

"I'm not concerned with their looks , I'm just opposed to marrying some girl I don't know nor wish to know ," He says simply, reluctantly sitting back on the throne, though properly this time. He glances at the grand fancy clock across the throne room, "The next person should be here soon. Don't remember if it's a knight or some noble, or a messenger though.”

Hannibal watched as Lokka sat back down on the throne, this time properly. He still found the throne to be a little gaudy looking, no amount of proper sitting would change that. He took a few steps closer to the throne, positioning himself on the right side of him.

"Well, whoever this next person may be, I’ll be right here," He replied, referring to his position beside Lokka.

Lokka gives Hannibal a small smile, "Good boy," He says playfully, but praising, and before Hannibal can snark or react, a servant enters and announces the arrival of another visitor; another Knight.

Hannibal’s smirk quickly faded in surprise with Lokka's playful praise, his cheeks taking on a slight red hue. He was not expecting him to say that, but he quickly shook it off. He refocused his attention back towards the entrance to the throne room as the servant announced the arrival of another Knight. His eyes narrowed slightly as he watched the Knight carefully for his mannerisms.

The Knight was mature in age, probably around Hannibal’s age. His armor was shiny and well-polished; he's probably rather stuffy and hasn't actually seen many battles. He entered the room rather arrogantly—like most Knights were—and began to speak in an overly cocky tone.

“Your majesty, I am Sir Charles,” The Knight said, standing in the middle of the room, not bothering to take a knee or bow or show any respect, making Hannibal curl his lip in distaste.

Lokka tilts his head, studying the man, "Sir Charles... I'm Lord La'Rose. What have you come here to ask of the new King of Ophiuchus?" Lokka asks, all previous playful energy gone, in his place is now a serious calm intelligent King.

Hannibal noticed that Lokka even used his title this time, instead of being casual like Lokka had been with him. The change was sudden. Happened as soon as Sir Charles entered, only a brief moment of Lokka sniffing the air prerequisites his personality shift when Sir Charles entered.

Sir Charles was taken aback by Lokka's sudden and unexpected shift into a completely different person. From a giddy, happy, young King to a stoic, serious individual in a matter of seconds. He paused for a moment, almost intimidated by the change, but eventually responded.

"Well, your majesty, I have come to… congratulate you.” He replied, the word ‘congratulate’ sounding almost bitter coming from his lips.

"hmmm... Is that so? You could've just sent some gift like most of the others singing my praises lately," Lokka doesn't sound cocky despite his words, he actually seems uncomfortable with the thought of being praised for what he'd done, "So, what else is it you wanted from me, Sir Charles, aside from wasting my time?”

Sir Charles was once again taken aback, clearly not expecting the King to brush off his praise and assume he was just there to waste his time. He stood silently for a few moments, almost shocked, before speaking up again.

“I wasn’t just here to give my congratulations, your majesty.” He replied, his tone somewhat snarky and somewhat irritated now. “I also came to request something.”

"speak, no need to dawdle.” Lokka says when Sir Charles doesn't get straight to the point, making Hannibal fight a proud smirk.

Sir Charles let out a snort, crossing his arms over his chest and taking a few steps closer to the King.

“If you’d be so kind, Your Majesty, I was hoping you’d send a few of your troops to help us in a little battle we’re having.” He explained, the tone in his voice still demanding.

"A little battle?" Lokka asks, a single brow raised, "Why? Plead your case, Sir Charles.”

Sir Charles let out another snort, his arrogance seemingly taking control as he spoke again.

“My kingdom has been at war for over a year now. We just lost a significant amount of soldiers and are requesting backup.” He said, as if the reason was obvious and simple. “It would be immensely appreciated if you would send whatever soldiers you can spare.”

"...you have yet to explain why you're even at war or why I should be inclined to help. Perhaps I'd rather help your enemies, hm? What say ye to that?"

Sir Charles stood silent, shocked, for a few moments. The arrogance on his face now faded into disbelief. Obviously, he hadn’t expected the King to be so indifferent and ask for a reason to send soldiers to help.

“The reason for our war…” He repeated, “Why- the reason is…”

He paused for another moment, trying to come up with a reasonable response on why they were at war and why they needed his help. A good reason. One that wasn't seeped in greed.

Lokka chuckles, darkly, in amusement, before speaking with a light disturbingly kind tone despite his words, "Give me a good reason, Sir Charles, before I send you back to your King without a head.”

Sir Charles almost staggered backward in shock, horrified by the King's response. His dark amusement and the threat of beheading him if he can’t come up with a good reason was enough to nearly make Sir Charles piss in his armor, but he managed to stay composed. Mostly. He swallowed thickly before replying again.

“We’ve been at war with our neighboring kingdom for years now. A war we can’t win without you. If you do not help, Your Majesty…” He paused once again, his voice wavering slightly, “We will be overtaken and lost.”

"Still," Lokka says, casually standing from his throne, and slowly walking down the steps of the platform to the main part of the throne room, gesturing with one hand casually for Hannibal to stay, back for now, "You've yet to explain why you're at war. Just that you are and that you're losing." Lokka's tone softens to an almost teasing seductive tone as he nears Sir Charles and raises a hand to gently caress the taller older man's cheek and tilts his gaze to meet his eyes, "so... Explain to me, Sir," Lokka practically purrs, "why," he traces his fingers over the Knight's pulse point, "you need me?”

Sir Charles froze as the King suddenly approached him, his hand gently caressing his cheek and moving his head to face him. The sudden shift in his tone and attitude to something more seductive and playful shocked him, his heart almost stopping as he felt his slender fingers tracing over his pulse point.

He inhaled deeply, unable to find the words to respond. His words got caught in his throat, but he eventually began speaking despite the dryness in his throat.

“I- We…” He paused, swallowing the lump in his throat.

"ooh, has a cat got your tongue?”

Sir Charles tensed his shoulders, his cheeks turning a slight pink at his words. It didn’t help that Lokka was so close to him, his slender but firm and calloused fingers still gently caressing his pulse point. Sir Charles swallowed again, his words stuck in his throat like a frog for a few moments.

“N-no.” He managed to stutter out, cursing himself for stuttering like a boy with a middle school crush.

The King chuckles playfully, dancing around behind the large Knight and draping his arms over the man's shoulders from behind, wrapping his arms around the man's neck and resting his hands teasingly on the man's chest armor.

"hmmm..." Lokka hums in thought, glancing over to Hannibal, "Sir Hannibal, what do you know of Sir Charles and his Kingdom?”

Sir Charles tensed more as the King began to dance around him, jumping slightly as he suddenly draped his arms over his shoulders. He immediately tried to look at whatever Hannibal’s reaction was to the King’s action, his stomach twisting into knots at the King’s forward and almost…flirtatious behavior.

Hannibal’s eyes remained fixated on the pair, his head tilted to the side observing the King’s behavior, and Sir Charles’ reaction. He noted his tension and how he seemed almost afraid of the small young King.

The boy continues to surprise me…

"Don't tell me a cat's got your tongue too now, Sir Hannibal," the young King calls out playfully to his Advisor and Knight, "Do you know of Sir Charles or his Kingdom? Feel free to speak your mind, Sir Hannibal.”

Hannibal’s eyes flicked over to the King as soon as he spoke up, his eyes narrowing for a moment before his normal, calm demeanor returned to him. He raised an eyebrow, a little surprised with the King’s almost childish behavior. He took no issue with it, it was almost…endearing…

Hannibal glanced back at Charles for a moment, observing his behavior further, before speaking up in his usual polite but crisp and composed tone.

“I know of his kingdom and his cause. I also know of his king.”

"Hmm," Lokka hums, teasingly nuzzling his face into Sir Charles' neck from behind, though from where Hannibal stands, Hannibal can see the way Lokka curls his nose in disgust at whatever he smells, or just disgust for the Knight Sir Charles in general.

“Continue to speak your thoughts, Sir Hannibal. What's your opinion? Since you know of him and his King. Should we help them? Why are they in a war?”

Hannibal noticed the way the King’s nose curled in disgust as he nuzzled into the Knight’s neck. That was interesting. Clearly, there was more going on than a simple plea for help. Hannibal kept that thought in the back of his mind for now as he continued to speak up.

“They’re at war with their neighboring kingdom because of a fight over land.” He explained, “Their King wants to expand his kingdom and is willing to take it by any means necessary, even if it means going to war.”

"Hmm...." Lokka hums, tracing his hands teasingly in a sexual manner over Sir Charles chest armor from behind as he continues to nose Sir Charles' neck, "pathetic," he hisses out before suddenly biting down and tearing into Sir Charles' neck, tearing out a large chunk of his flesh and causing blood to gush from his artery.

Sir Charles drops dead to the ground, a few brief gurgling noises before he dies. Lokka is now covered in Sir Charles' blood but looks unbothered. More annoyed with the blood on the beautiful tile throne room floor than anything else.

Lokka whistles out a sharp note and a servant enters.

"Maria, darling,” Lokka says sweetly, almost apologetic, and it seems genuine, “Can you have the gardener get rid of this one like they did with the King? You and the servants may sell or keep whatever he has on him. I'll need someone to clean this blood out of the floor. Again."

Hannibal’s eyes widened in utter shock the moment the young King suddenly bit the Knight’s neck. He stood speechless for a few moments, unable to speak or form any words or coherent thought. Everything about this moment was so…unexpected..

And strangely attractive.

Hannibal watched as the King called in a servant named Maria, almost stunned as he listened to what the pair said. He was still trying to process what just happened, and it almost felt like he was dreaming.

Maria nods and quickly fetches a few other servants. Soon the dead Knight is gone- a handsome but awkward looking man, the gardener presumably, fetching the body and carrying it out- and there's a servant cleaning the blood up. Lokka walks slowly back up to the throne and stops a few feet in front of you.

"Do you still want this job?" Lokka asks, unknowingly licking the blood on his lips.

Lokka's mouth, jaw, neck, and the front of his shirt is soaked in blood from Sir Charles.

"I promise to play nice and let you leave without harm if your answer is no. Though I will be sad if you do choose to leave.”

Hannibal’s eyes remained fixated on the bloody, almost gorey scene before him, unable to tear his eyes away from the blood on the floor.

He stayed silent for a few moments as he finally registered his question to him, his eyes snapping up to meet his gaze. His usual stoic features were now replaced with slight shock and awe. He wasn’t sure how to feel about any of this, it was all so…unexpected…

“I…I do still want the job, Your Majesty.” Hannibal says with a small stutter, surprising even himself. It's not fear though that makes him stutter. Something about the way Lokka looks with blood dripping from his chin is just… delicious. Maddeningly so.

"hmm... Very well then," Lokka turns and looks back at the servant currently cleaning the floor, "Maria? Sir Hannibal and I will be gone for a few minutes. If any guest comes, please apologize for the wait and have them guided to... I don't know where, just somewhere nice and keep them entertained and fed til I return. Understood, doll?”

Maria, a young, brown-haired, and freckled servant, looked up as the King addressed her. She paused for half a second before nodding her head. She didn't seem afraid of him despite the gore and violence.

“Understood, Your Majesty. Will do.” she says simply.

"Good." Lokka says with a soft smile to the girl, though the blood on him ruins the attempt at a kind image.

He turns and gestures for Hannibal to follow as he leaves the throne room and heads for his private chambers.

They're not the original King's Chambers- far too casual and not as overly decorated. There's still nice furniture and a sitting area but it's also decorated with multiple books filled with notes and scribbles in the margins, animal hides and leathers tossed everywhere, half finished crochet and wood carvings and leatherworking projects everywhere.

Lokka leads Hannibal in and practically ignores his presence as he goes to his wardrobe and pulls out a nicer but still not exactly Kingly clothes; simple black pants and a long sleeve black shirt. He changes and washes the blood from his face at the water basin before finally turning to look at Hannibal, not caring that he'd stripped down to his boxers and undershirt in front of the other man since the boxers and undershirt hid the parts of himself he likes to keep hidden from everyone who doesn't need to know his secret.

"So, any opinions or questions as to why I killed that Knight? You're allowed to speak freely. I won't give you the same side of me I gave him.”

Hannibal took the invitation to speak his mind, taking a moment to properly organize his thoughts before beginning to speak.

“You’ve clearly got a distaste for people who you see as weak, a person like the late Knight.” He began, keeping his voice and tone calm, and his words precise and careful to avoid sounding disrespectful. “Perhaps the Knight said something, or you simply got…fed up with him.”

The King chuckles softly, "hm, good theory but not quite, Sir Hannibal," He says as he sits on one of the couches in the sitting area of his private chambers, "I was going to kill him the moment I smelled him- I'm not a normal human if you haven't noticed yet."

Hannibal tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing for a moment as he fully assessed the king now, taking in his unnaturally keen sense of smell. This kid was far more than he seemed. He slowly walked over to the same couch and sat down a few feet away, keeping his usual polite composure still.

“You’re a werecat.”

Hannibal stated, not asking but saying it like it was factual.

“Precisely," the King says with a chuckle.

This was a very interesting development, to say the least. Werecats were relatively rare. Hannibal noted that Lokka's eyes resembled that of a cat. Sharp, unwavering, and almost predatory in a way.

“I assume you could smell that he was a coward…” Hannibal mused out loud, pausing for a moment as he noted more differences about the King.

“I did not kill him for his cowardice. But rather what I smelled on him- what he'd done- before he'd dirtied my Kingdom with his presence."

Hannibal raised an eyebrow, intrigued to know what he smelled on him. He never would’ve expected such a young king to be so…violent. The death was so vicious and sudden, and not to mention messy. And it was all over a particular scent.

But God, was it beautiful…

“What did you smell on him?” Hannibal questioned, his curiosity getting the better of him.

A murderous snarl tugs Lokka's lip, but not at Hannibal, rather the Knight he'd killed, "He smelled of children, suffering children, at least two. Two whose scents were far too different from his to have been his offspring. And scents that reeked of fear and pain. He'd harmed them. I dare not dwell in what ways."

Hannibal’s eyes momentarily darkened as he listened to the kid’s reply. Child abuse, a particular weakness of his. His hatred for it was almost as strong as his cannibalism.

For a split second, Hannibal suddenly felt a pang of…admiration. The kid had a sense of justice, in a way. A strange moral sense of delivering justice but still. He wasn’t a normal royal, that’s for sure.

“Is that why you killed him the way you did?” He questioned, masking his previous internal admiration and remaining composed and polite.

"Yes.”

Hannibal didn’t know how to feel about the King being so…unapologetic and straightforward about his violence, yet he found it almost refreshing and…charming. Usually, nobles danced and tiptoed around the subject and acted disgusted or horrified when acts like this were brought up.

“A brutal, yet justified death.” Hannibal muttered under his breath, speaking his thoughts out loud by accident.

"I'm glad you think so," Lokka says softly, head tilted slightly as he looks up at Hannibal.

Hannibal noticed his head tilt, taking in the small action further. He couldn’t help but find it…cute. The little King was clearly not an ordinary King, especially for his age. He was young, wild, and violent, and yet there was an almost endearing quality to him. Almost like that of a small, feral creature.

Hannibal's eyes drifted to the King's lips.

Soft and stained a faint red from the blood that he'd just washed off.

Lips that had parted to kill a man.

Lethal but beautiful lips that Hannibal wants to-

------

The gif of Hannibal covered in blood belongs to @bloodydancy ☮️💖

[abiiors]

Lessons in Patience

oh, uh, happy birthday to him and time for me to disappear after posting this...

warnings: minors dni, orgasm denial, she/her pronouns, maybe just a smidge toxic idk, cockwarming??? typos maybe; it is what it is, anyway enjoy...

wc: 4k

the minimalist, modern round clock on the wall ticks by mercilessly slow. 

the office is fully his space, designed to his tastes and likes, and she, the intruder. sure, she’s a very very welcome intruder but an interloper regardless. and there’s not much she can do but peak at her husband over the edge of the book she’s been reading for the past half an hour. or trying to at least. just in the last five minutes, she’s read the same three lines at least seven times. it’s of no use but, the other option is to sit and stare at ross while he works. which is always a good option. except today. 

in his fitted black button-down, that’s tastefully unbuttoned, he looks like the stuff of her fantasies. he has always been, of course, but the way his gold chain peeks out and grazes the hollow of his throat every time he moves, makes her think all kinds of thoughts. his mouth is parted in concentration, pink lips that he occasionally gnaws on, and his thick brows furrow as he intensely stares at whatever’s on the screen. 

and while it’s enough to turn her thoughts extremely filthy, the realisation that he hasn’t been paying her any attention douses cold water on her for the millionth time. 

‘ross,’ she calls out, desperately trying to keep the neediness out of her voice, ‘how much longer?’

he hums distractedly without looking up, ‘need to read this thing before i sign it, my love.’ 

obviously, that’s not the answer she’s looking for. “need to read the thing” can range from anywhere between ten minutes to an hour, and he’s so focused on it too. 

‘baby, take a break!’

he shakes his head minutely, ‘we just had lunch, darling, an hour ago.’

‘yeah, but…’ she trails off because it’s useless. he’s clearly not listening. 

bent over his slick macbook, hand rubbing his face occasionally, he is the utter portrait of focus. her mind wanders to the drawers of his desk where she knows she’ll find the small toy. this is not her first rendezvous here; nor would it be her last. that desk has seen a lot of things; from their first scandalous hookup in a moment of weakness, to multiple quickies when she has come over. there was even that one time when she had knelt between his legs as he tried to focus on a zoom interview. matty had gone on and on with his thoughtful answers till ross eventually muted the thing and tangled his fingers in her hair. she snickers at the sudden sympathy she feels for the inanimate object. not that it makes ross waver even a smidge. if only, he leans closer to the screen. it’d certainly be a shame if she were to be a…distraction. 

because there is always a third option. 

she pushes herself off the plush settee and saunters over to him purposefully. this has been going on for a week now and she’s had enough of it! enough of him coming home by the time she’s just starting her day, enough of him being dead asleep by the time she returns. and this is not to blame him, of course. she knows how busy he can get once they start getting closer to the release date. but she’s had enough of not seeing him for more than a few hours throughout the week. despite them living together. 

a finger trails down the side of his jaw. down his neck too. she makes sure to use her nail, red-painted and sharp, and halts it right over his pulse point. 

‘lunch was two hours ago.’ a pout. an exaggerated one, sure, but it does the job because he chuckles at her restlessness. 

‘fine, two hours ago. that’s still not a long time.’

‘isn’t it?’ now she’s just being petulant. she leans down, lips hovering right over where her finger was just a moment ago and trails them down his neck the same way. he stills. ‘it could be great if you took a quick break…’ 

this she whispers suggestively and leaves the thought half-finished so his brain might try and fill in the gaps. and it works like a charm.

‘oh,’ he breathes softly, his focus now wavering slightly, but he hasn’t set the laptop aside and turned all his attention to her. not yet. 

‘baby…’ he warns but his voice lacks its usual conviction. torn between work and wife, ross fidgets for a second. ‘i only need a little more time…’

‘you’ve said that to me twice already.’ another kiss. this time, she even strokes his bicep and the muscles under his black shirt respond to her touch. 

‘oh you’re impatient, aren’t you?’ he turns to her partially, only looking at her through the corner of his eye but it’s enough. she’s so close to achieving her goal that she can almost taste it. 

taste him. 

‘so what if i am?’

‘i said,’ his voice takes on a commanding tone, ‘wait a little more.’

on any other day, she would have obeyed the tone almost instantly. she likes their little routine where he’s in control, likes riling him up enough that he reminds her of it. not today though. today she has no patience fo it. 

‘and i said,’ she grits out, equally testy and bold, ‘i want your attention.’ 

‘that’s all you want?’ he challenges. 

‘mmm, for now.’ 

cheekily, she sidles up to him to find an in, one opening to slide onto his lap. but with one huge hand on her hip, he holds her firmly in place. 

ross shakes his head, one eyebrow raised in warning, ‘are you in a mood?’

about to protest indignantly, she opens her mouth. instead, a squeal comes out when he sharply tugs her towards him. 

‘are you that desperate for me?’ he asks again when she’s firmly trapped between his thighs. his voice, his whole demeanour has shifted entirely. now the man in front of her is staring at her intently; his pupils so dilated that his eyes look black. and she’s not just trapped physically, no, he also has her hooked on him. because she simply cannot look away even when a flush creeps up her cheeks. 

‘answer me, darling,’ he mocks while his fingers grip her hips even tighter. ‘not going to run your mouth anymore?’

that snaps her back quickly, just as quickly as the wetness pools between her legs. ‘and if i say yes?’ she challenges right back, ‘are you going to do something about it?’

another sudden tug and now she’s landed right in his lap, right where she has been trying to get. her breath leaves her body the minute she feels his bulge press against her crotch. 

‘oh you really are being a brat today, huh.’ fingers grabbing harshly at her chin so he can make her look at him, ‘my little attention whore. you want my cock? will that shut you up?’

she nods as much as his grip allows her to. still, it’s enthusiastic and more than a little desperate. the sound of him unzipping his trousers makes her grind her hips in anticipation. her hands move swiftly, fidgeting to take him out of his trousers and boxers but ross wraps a hand around her wrist. 

the man has saintly patience. and right now it’s a fucking problem. 

‘you only get,’ he speaks slowly, as if to drill each word into her, ‘what i give you. do you understand?’ 

too eager to even protest, she nods quickly but he’s not satisfied. ‘use your words, my love,’ he taunts and slides her underwear to the side, ‘tell me you understand.’

‘i do,’ she whines, ‘i’ll only get what you give me. but please, just—’

she’s cut off quickly by a harsh kiss; teeth biting her lower lip till she gasps. his tongue runs over the spot, soothing and teasing before he slips it inside her mouth. his hands, once again back on her hips, lift her up until she feels the familiar feeling of his tip nudging against her. 

she slowly sinks onto him, adjusting to the delicious thickness of him, stretched out just enough to straddle the boundary between painful and pleasurable. mindnumbing.

his hands hold her down, giving her time to adjust to him she thinks, but…

but when she tries to move, he doesn’t let her.

‘ah ah,’ he tuts, ‘what did i just say? you,’ he kisses the corner of her mouth, ‘will only,’ another kiss, ‘get what i give you.’

and with that he turns around to his laptop once again, completely unfazed by anything. 

flabbergasted would be an understatement.

for a moment, nothing else registers. not the desk digging into her back, not the clacking of his keys, not even his breath on her neck. the only thing she feels is him, thick and hard inside her and the urge to move, to grind against him, to create some friction. the ache between her legs intensifies tenfold. 

‘wha—’

‘you wanted my attention so desperately and now you have it.’ he answers it so nonchalantly that she wonders for one insane moment if she’s imagining him inside her. ‘now are you going to be a good girl let me finish this?’

‘no–’

‘or are you going to complain and whine?’

his interruptions have her seething. this is torture and he’s doing it on purpose; making her keep his dick wet while he continues to ignore her. and acting like the feeling of her tight cunt and her hard breathing doesn’t bother him one bit when she can feel him twitching inside her. 

what had he called her before? a brat? she’ll show him what a brat is. 

with renewed determination, she lifts up her hips, ready to sink down on him again, ready to set the pace but he calls out her name in warning. a sound that sends a million shivers down her spine. 

‘i’m going to give you one last chance.’ his eyes bore into hers, dark and unflinching, ‘be still for me. until i tell you to move. you know what good girls get?’

oh so now he wants to play games. fine then, she’ll indulge him. ‘what?’

he leans closer, mouth right next to her ear, breath hot on her neck, ‘good girls get to cum. you want that don’t you?’

yes, yes she does, very desperately. but she doesn’t like his tone, doesn’t like being denied things after displaying a saintly amount of patience all week.

‘i can make myself cum,’ she huffs. her tone is not nearly as haughty as she wants it to be but haughtiness is not the point of this. this is a trap and she needs him to walk into it. take the bait. 

ross only raises an eyebrow because seemingly, he knows her better than she knows herself at this point. he’s calling her bluff. 

‘no, i’m serious!’ her hand trails down, making sure to graze against his chest on the way. heart beating faster than ever, she smirks at him right as she rests it right above her clit. 

he moves, just the smallest amount, and a jolt of lightning runs through her entire body so fast that she almost falls onto him. she can imagine this, face into the crook of his neck while he lazily fucks into her, slowly and leisurely until she’s had enough of this pace. then he would grab her hips and make her bounce up and down on his cock till she’s limp with pleasure.

all of this if she showed some patience.

but no. 

she wants him now. not twenty, ten, five minutes later. now. 

her finger rests on her clit and she sucks in a sharp breath, about to flip the tables on him. she’s salivating at the idea…oh, how tortured he would look, how angry. he would surely forget all about his work then…

a hand roughly closes around her wrist and yanks it away. her eyes meet his, dark and angry. no, he’s livid. 

‘i warned you, love. didn’t i?’

*****

a buzzing sound fills the room, almost menacing, while she lies splayed on the desk, hands tied together with his belt. a thrill of anticipation shoots down her spine. this is what she’s been waiting for all day, well a much tamer iteration of it but she has no one but herself to blame for it really. she had squealed the second he pulled out of her and cleared the desk with one swoop of his hand. not that there was much on it, to begin with, but watching him “prepare it” was thrilling just the same. plus there’s the knowledge that anyone can hear what’s going on. yes, his office is locked and almost sound-proof but who’s to say they won’t still be interrupted by a knock or a phone call or any other number of factors?

‘look at you…’ he walks towards her now, the tiny bullet vibrating in his hands. her underwear has long been discarded to one side and her dress is now pushed up to her stomach; all of her lower half on display for him. ‘all eager and pathetic.’

it seemed like all her brattiness had paid off, it seemed like a reward…at first. but now the vibrator buzzes closer to her swollen clit, almost touching, almost—

her thoughts are cut off when he abruptly presses it against her. a sharp cry rings out, her legs going taut instantly as she melts into the sensation. he moves it again, down her slit and back up again spreading delicious tingles all over her body. 

‘feels so good…’ she breathes out. three words, that’s as much as she can get out at the moment.

‘does it?’ 

she hums in response, she thinks so anyway because the bullet circles her clit lightly again. the toy rests against her just long enough for her to get used to it before he moves it away. he ups the setting, making her jerk violently. it’s sudden, it’s amazing and she almost doesn’t register that there’s something in his tone.

‘just like that…’ she gasps softly as toy runs over her inner thighs and then against her opening. 

‘just like that, yeah?’ he repeats her words back to her and she gasps out a yes in response. the darker tone lingers, but none of it matters as the familiar knot builds at the base of her spine. a moan as her back arches off the desk, she’s so close, so…

it stops. 

he stops altogether. 

a feeling of annoyance and borderline anger washes over her. ‘why did you stop?!’ 

through her half-open eyes, she can see his arched eyebrows, mouth quirked to one side in amusement. ‘you think you deserve to cum? what did i say to you before hmm?’

She tries to jog her memory while the bullet comes to life once again. 

‘come on, darling,’ he mocks, ‘i haven’t got all day. what did i say before?’

he rests the vibrator on her lower stomach, inching it downward at a snails pace as she tries to come up with an answer, ‘umm, ahh, i don–i don’t remember.’

‘yes you do.’ his finger slides up her slit, collecting her wetness and spreading it on the tip of the bullet. ‘what did i say about getting to cum?’

‘ahh, oh,’ she tries to speak but it turns into breathless garble as soon as the tip nears her clit again. ‘you said—you said good girls get—fuck, ross please!’

‘good girls get what? hmm? go on,’ he asks again and lifts the bullet up and away from her leaving her feeling cold and whiney and much more frustrated than before. the belt digs into her wrists as she struggles against it, not enough to cause any serious harm, but she knows they would be red by now.

‘good girls get to cum,’ she spits out glaring at him with as much anger as she can muster. of course, he’s ready with his next question. 

‘and have you been a good girl?’

the cycle starts again, vibrator purring right above her clit, then moving down mercilessly slow until her thoughts turn to mush and yet she’s somehow expected to form a coherent answer. 

‘have you?’ he asks again, ‘really think about it.’ his thumb joins the vibrator this time, calloused and rough, as he rubs her in tandem. 

‘i can be–i will be, plea–fuck, i promise please.’ a string of incoherent pleas come out of her mouth the harder he goes. her legs shake and spasm, she’s so close again, almost there, almost ready to make a mess on the table but ross has other plans.

he tuts and takes away her pleasure once again. 

‘you can be, i know you can,’ he walks to her side, looking down at her now and parts her lips with the thumb that was on her clit a moment ago. ‘but have you been good today?’

thumb pushed in her mouth, she glares once again. tears form at her lower lashline but she won’t let them fall. instead, she flicks her tongue around his thumb in a silent plea. 

she can be a good girl for him, she really can. 

he laughs darkly and walks away again only to stand right between her legs. she imagines what she must look like to him from this angle. legs spread wide apart and her swollen cunt on display, her thighs must probably be a mess from her wetness. hands tied together above her head. and that he’s clearly enjoying as he eyes her hungrily. 

the fire burns hot and hungry, ready to incinerate anything in its wake. her body burns with it; feverish and writing as she tries to grind on his face. his hands dig into her thighs keeping her still in place. she has no agency in this; she is only his plaything. what had she said before? she can make herself cum? well of course he had taken that as a challenge. because now, desperate as she is, nothing would make her let go until he says so. 

and he won’t say it until he’s done having his fun. 

‘so fucking sweet,’ he hums against her, ‘almost want to let you cum now so i can taste you…’

she’s sure she nods at that. yes, yes, do that. let me. it’s not just for her benefit, it’s for his too. but then he clicks his tongue softly. 

‘but you know what they say about patience…’

she doesn’t. that’s what got her here in the first place. 

his teeth are on her inner thigh, biting and leaving behind a million red marks that his tongue soothes an instant later. but it doesn’t stop there. his tongue is almost as cruel as his teasing. it laps at her, broad strokes and kitten licks, and swirls around her clit till her thighs are clenched around him and shaking, spasming. maybe he’s finally going to let her cum after denying her time and time again. 

‘so close,’ she mumbles in a daze, ‘please i’m going to cum, please.’

‘no you’re not,’ he stops momentarily and her head spins. please not again, not again. the pressure inside her is painful, she feels like she’s about to burst into tiny pieces and yet he has his hand on her stomach, holding her down, holding her together. 

‘hold it,’ he commands and sucks on her clit again. 

‘i can’t–please, ross, i ca–can’t!’ the tears spill over and she doesn’t care about the begging any more. 

‘yes you can,’ he gets up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘if you don’t hold it…well,’ he looks at his laptop and shrugs casually, ‘i do still have two pages left to read. should i–’

‘no!’ she cries out, holding onto the sobs that threaten to spill. for once she’s grateful for the belt tying her hands together, if it weren’t for that, she would have long since ripped out her hair in frustration. ‘no please, i’ll be good, i’ll be a good girl.’

that makes him smirk. ‘now you want to be a good girl for me? would this have happened if you would have sat still for twenty minutes? hmm?’

she shakes her head vigorously. no, it wouldn’t have. her head lolls to one side, too tired from shaking it and ross laughs. it’s languid and careless, like he really could just walk back to his macbook without a second thought. she could be lying almost spreadeagle on his desk all day and none of it would matter until he’s done. 

‘my pretty baby,’ he coos, fingers trailing up her thigh and resting at the apex, ‘are you going to be a brat again?’

‘no,’ she mumbles and whines out his name again, ‘i–please, ross, please.’ those are the only words she’s capable of saying anyway. everything else has gone hazy and through it all she sees his lazy grin as he lowers his mouth between her legs again. 

‘have you learned your lesson yet?’ spoken so close to her cunt that she feels his gravelly voice shoot straight to her core. she has no idea what she says but it must have satisfied him because his tongue is back on her, so is his thumb. 

somewhere the buzzing starts again or it might just be her ears ringing at this point as she loses herself to the tingling feeling in her body. nothing else matters, only him and pleasing him and being a good girl for him. a jolt goes through her whole body at the touch of the vibrator once again. she can’t take it anymore, not again, not—

‘good,’ he hums, tongue dipped between her folds, ‘you can let go now.’

he doesn’t even finish the sentence before she’s moaning the loudest she has, screaming practically as her thighs clench around his head and the knot inside her breaks. waves after waves after waves of pleasure crashing on her until she’s practically drowning in ecstasy. there’s nothing else but his mouth and his voice. she doesn’t know anymore where they are or what day it is or how long she’s been here. 

all she knows is that she’s trembling and shaking, head lolled to one side. coming down from her high and cold at the absence of his touch. a few minutes later his hands are back on her thighs along with something damp and cold that feels amazing against her skin. every small graze against her clit makes her wince and he apologises softly, first through his words and then by placing small kisses on her head, her shoulder, her hip, whatever’s closest to him. 

‘baby?’ the leather around her wrists loosens and his fingers rub at the red marks as if that would make them go away. maybe they would dissipate a little. 

‘hmm?’

she’s surrounded by his scent now and the feeling of his arms around her. ‘can’t keep your eyes open can you?’

‘mm-hmm.’

‘can’t do much of anything it seems.’ his voice is back to being kind and sweet but there’s also some teasing in it and of course, some smugness. he has just fucked her to within an inch of her life of course…and he didn’t shed a single item of clothing. 

there’s a brief feeling of floating before she feels solid ground again, it’s a lap. ross’s lap. 

‘we’re leaving in ten minutes,’ he tells her. but she’s too far gone to care. 

[jujumin-translates]

[A3!] ★ Main Story | Act 15 - Painful RE:bake | Episode 2 - Portrait / Keiku Karashina

--Whatever. Anyway, I just wanted something easy to understand.

My everyday life is boring and tasteless. At some point, I realized that I was just less sensitive than others.

If we’re talking sweets, I like them sickeningly sweet with lots of cream. I don’t really like wasabi, but I like mustard. Whether sweet or spicy, I like extremes.

It’s not just with my taste, it’s with everything. It’s hard for me to scoop out my feelings.

I’m also not great at non-verbal communication, or whatever they call it. And because I think like this, it’s annoying and confusing and frustrating for me to try and figure out what to tell other people or how to tell what other people are thinking behind their words.

I started feeling nothing but unfulfillment while doing group activities with the other teenagers I’m forced to live with, even though I didn’t want to, just because they’re the same age as me.

Life’s full of things that are hard to understand.

When I see all these people living their lives in such an incomprehensible world with such unconcerned looks on their faces, I can only wonder.

That’s why I’ve started only seeking tastes that are easy to understand… and communication that’s easy to understand.

For example, things like this--.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Vulgar Young Man: --Gh.

*Keiku takes his phone out of his pocket*

Keiku: …Communication completed.

*Notification*

Keiku: …

momo: “Log on as soon as you see this”

Keiku: ?

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Iv has entered the chat.

Kar has entered the chat.

Kar: Sup

shiki has entered the chat.

shiki: Did something happen?

momo: You’re never gonna believe how great things turned out!

momo: Somehow I got a famous influencer to join my theater troupe!

shiki: That’s great! Congrats!

Iv: damn, congrats

Kar: Who’s the influencer?

momo: Have you ever heard of Ibukichi?

shiki: My friend follows them.

Kar: I’ve probably heard of them

momo: It’s kinda crazy, I never thought a famous person like that would join! 

shiki: How’d that happen?

momo: They ended up wanting to do theater after seeing a MANKAI Company play! It was like fate!

momo: MANKAI Company’s Tsuzuru-san promised he’d write us a script if we find two more people, so we’ve just got a little more to go!

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Keiku: …Seriously? 

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

momo: So, what do you think? Will you guys reconsider joining my troupe? Kar: Nope shiki: I can watch your performances, but not actually do it, sorry. momo: I figured~... momo: Then will you at least come and see our play once the troupe successfully forms and decides on a performance to do? momo: I’d love to meet you guys IRL at least once! Kar: Nope shiki: I’m interested, but I don’t know about meeting up in person… I’ll be supporting you from the shadows. Iv: samesies Kar: Good luck tho

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Keiku: (...Well, not like we can actually meet.)

Keiku: (If they keep being persistent like that, I might gotta drop ‘em… Or I could just do it right now.) 

Keiku: (It’s chill, and it’s way easier when it’s over text. No back and forth, just straightforward communication.) 

Keiku: (But it doesn’t have to be them…)

Keiku: …

Keiku: (Well, whatever.)

*Phone rings*

Friend A: “What’s up?”

Keiku: I need to stay over today.

Friend A: “I mean sure, but you still haven’t gone back home?”

Keiku: I’ve never gone back home.

Friend A: “Liar.”

Keiku: (This kinda shallow, meaningless communication is still easier.)

Keiku: (I’ve got no clue what this guy on the other end of the phone is thinking right now, or why he always lets me stay over. Not like I really care.) 

Keiku: (At least I’ve got a place to sleep today. That’s good enough. No problems here.)

Vulgar Young Man: Wait…

Keiku: ?

Vulgar Young Man: Tell me your name…

Keiku: Damn, almost forgot. Thanks.

Keiku: My name is… Nachi Komada of “Wolf”~!

[ ⇠ Previous Part ] • [ Next Part ⇢ ]

[bharv]

WIP: The Portrait

This is the most self indulgent thing I'm writing, but I'm putting this opener out to see if it works at all... feedback welcome.

Lord Gortash requests a portrait of his paramour. The pay is good, the contract legitimate. It seems almost too good to be true...

The request came to the guild house with gold already attached. Wanted, portrait artist. Female subject, three sittings. Half pay upfront. He did not recognise the seal, but Darcus told him it was from the newly minted Lord Gortash, also known as Enver Flymm, also known in certain parts of the back cities as Flymm the Bloody, where they still dared to say such things. The purse held more gold than Guy had ever seen, and Litton laughed at his face when he opened it.

“Oh, dear boy!” he chided, drawing the string again and placing it in the middle of the table. “You are too swayed by money. What of passion? What of love of the craft?”

It was easy, thought Guy, to care only of craft, of passion or love or whatever else you might want when you were the third son of a Patriar, and mummy dearest paid for your garret upfront for the year so you could slum it a little, just for fun. When you had a real life, a real wife, a real child, love started to mean something very different.

“Give it here,” he said. “I’ll take it. If it’s Kerrie Lovelace again, I still have the sketches from the Ravengard commission.”

Lovelace was popular with the Patriars. A half-elf with the wettest eyes he’d ever seen and a permanently quivering, full lip. She was the lover or some, and the favoured subject of far more since Litton had painted her as a beautiful mermaid to mark The Breaking a few years before. The last piece Guy had painted of her had been a garish facsimile of the original with only surface changes, but it had paid fairly. Money seemed to disappear these days. Between clothing and food for little Eva, new dresses for Sal and keeping up with all of these idiots, he was running dry again.

“I’d be careful if I were you,” said Darcus, his tankard resting against his belly. The moon was barely up and he was already deep in his cups. “These new Lords, they ain’t to be trusted. No honour between them.”

“And I’d take it,” said Litton. “Not personally, of course. But you should take it now before Fevras gets wind. At least you might make something worth hanging.”

And so he finds himself being ushered into full halls of the home of Lord Gortash, a surprisingly unassuming and tasteful villa in the new style, all white stone and iron-wrought glass, every wall crammed to the ceiling with art and curios. There are paintings here from the old masters that must have cost a fortune, plenty of Litton’s best (including The Mermaid, he notes, last in the possession of the Jannath’s), and odd pieces of fine mechanica and automata the likes of which the Halls of Wonder would envy. He almost wishes to stop, take it in, but his patron’s pace is unrelenting as he strides through to the very end of the house. It does not seem wise to keep him waiting. 

“I hope it is sufficient light,” says Gortash, opening the door himself to a handsome chamber with full glass windows, a handsome solid desk and a nicely appointed parlour. “You are seeing into the most intimate parts of my estate. I will be present tending to some business while you work, if that is alright with you. I do so like to see a master at their craft.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Guy says as he hands his cloak to a dwarf standing in the centre of the room, who does not move to bow as she takes it. The woman looks at him with some curiosity, and looks over to her Lord with a sharp smile.

“Ah,” starts Gortash, taking the cloak from her and holding it out. An elf in fine brocade sweeps in to take it, and the woman watches with still amusement as they depart. “This, Saer Ceasebourne, is your subject.”

He feels his stomach churn as he looks at her again. She cocks her head in curiosity as she stares back at him. She does not look angry, but now he looks again she does not look amused. No, the look in her eye is something else entirely, and it makes him feel rather sick.

“My apologies, my Lord, I didn’t-”

“Oh dear fellow, do not fret. Though I keep my servants in better finery than this one wears, for future reference.”

“You forget yourself, Lord Gortash.”

The woman’s voice is dark, deep as the Chionthar, and dripping in threat as her eyes flick from him to Gortash. He takes the momentary reprieve from her gaze to cast an eye over her properly. It is hard to see her body under her plain dark red robes, but he can tell from what flesh is exposed at her neck and down her forearms that she is likely to be freckled all over her pale skin. Copper hair is heaped atop her head in a neat bun, her face marked with long lines of a tattoo that traces her strong jaw and pulls into her eyes. 

Her eyes. They are quite extraordinary. At a first glance brown, but as the light pulls into them they shine an almost pinkish hue. Like unblooded meat.

Gortash smiles at her, bowing his head ever so slightly. "I apologise for the perceived slight. You are my guest here today. And I hope we will both show proper decorum, for the occasion."

[the-lost-boys-whore]

Hiii! I was wondering if I can request a poly lost boys nsfw headcanons?? Thank you so much and have a wonderful day! ❤️

Awesome ask babes. I finally got them written and here they are

Poly NSFW headcanons

Okay, here's my take. The boys are horrible at sharing. There is constant fighting over who gets to be with you, sexually or not.

This led to the system David thought would fix this. You picking which boy got you first.

You choose who gets to take you first and then they go from there.

Let's get to the actual NSFW part shall we lol

So individually each boy is very attentive. Some more than others.

David is the absolute most attentive lover of the boys. He always asks how you’re doing and if you can’t respond to him he’ll most likely read your mind. While he’s not very vocal he will whisper praise in your ear.

David is amazing at pulling you to orgasm. Whether it’s with his mouth, fingers, or dick he knows where every single one of your spots are to make you scream his name. 

His favorite thing to do to you is to eat you out.

(Fem) He is god as oral when it comes to your pussy. He easily fingers you, instantly finding the spongy spot inside you while sucking on your clit. He can have you cumming within two minutes. In his mind, it's a plus because you taste wonderful.

(Male) He is amazing at sucking dick too. I feel like the boys would suck each other off just for fun or they’re all super horny. He knows how fast or slow he needs to go and to pay special attention to the tip of your cock. While he’s down there he makes sure to finger your ass open for him so when you cum he can slide right into you to keep you in euphoria.

Dwayne is slightly more attentive than David.

While David fucks you quickly aiming for the most orgasms, Dwayne aims for the most pleasure.

Dwayne would fuck you slowly but with attention. He more or less makes love.

Don’t get me wrong he can pull you apart as fast as David can but he prefers to make you squirm. If he has to he’d edge you for hours

Like I said above he loves to edge you.

On the nights he has you to himself he would sit between your legs the entire night. Even when you’re whining for him to let you cum.

(Fem) Dwayne loves to try and make you squirt. He desperately wants to make you squirm. He won’t let you cum until your cunt is weeping and your legs are shaking. Once you do cum after his hours of edging he’ll get his rocks off. If he wasn’t already inside you he will be soon. He’ll drag another orgasm from your oversensitive pussy just so he can fill you with his cum.

(Male) Dwayne practically worships your cock. He still won’t let you cum until your cock is throbbing and angry red. By the time he’s finished with you your precum is smeared all over his hand and your lower torso. He teases your cock, especially your base and tip. He loves to try and finger your ass to find your prostate and continue to hit it. Just like stated in the fem once you cum it's his turn to fill you for doing a good job.

Marko, surprisingly not maybe, is the kinkiest out of all of them.

He’s willing to try anything at least once.

His favorite thing is to tie you up and either paint on you or sketch a portrait of you.

Most of the time he will take a clean brush and run it across your most sensitive parts.

He loves to drag out your orgasm. It will be hours before you even feel your orgasm in the pit of your stomach.

(Fem) Marko will spend all night between your legs just leisurely taking his time with you. He doesn’t care if he’s painfully hard he will make you cum at least once before he even thinks about fucking you just so he can feel your pussy spasm around his cock over and over from the stimulation. Your clit is his most favorite part. Whether it’s running a brush over it slowly or lapping at it with his tongue, he knows it’s the most sensitive piece of your cunt so he worships it.

(Male) Marko literally loves playing with your cock. He knows it's absolute torture but he’ll take his time getting to unbuttoning your jeans and pulling off your underwear. He wants to prolong his time with you as much as he can before you get swept away from him. Unlike fem, he will suck your cock until you cum over and over. He takes his time before he fucks you, making sure you are prepared properly. He tends to run a brush along the bottom of your dick up to the tip to watch your stomach and thighs stutter.

Paul is the most energetic out of everyone which is no surprise to literally anyone.

He will fuck you quickly and rough.

Constant change of positions, his favorite being your legs on his shoulders while he pounds into you.

Paul is a total switch he will let you fuck him with your strap/cock. And he fucking loves it.

His biggest thing is hair pulling, he loves pulling your hair or you pulling his. 100 percent will moan loudly if you do.

Praise praise. Both ways babes.

(Fem) Paul strives for absolute bliss. He will take his time the first time you have sex but once he maps out all your spots he will fuck you roughly. He loves fingering you and massaging your g-spot to try and make you squirt like he sees Dwayne do to you. He’s not great at it but it does bring you pleasure. He loves playing with your tits while you ride him, though he’s a total ass/thigh guy.

(Male) Paul is usually a bottom with a male s/o. Don’t mistake he will bottom for a female but he wants to be manhandled by a hot guy. Praise him while you fuck him he will melt. Cum inside him and it is over he will beg for you to fill him over and over until he can’t take it anymore. He’s a total slut for you and he loves you completely. He prefers to get head but he will suck your cock and take it like a champ.

Now to all of them.

Combined it's utter chaos.

They will make sure you are a limp, cum filled/covered mess

David usually has you first alone before the rest of them join in

Paul usually fucks your ass, Dwayne, in your pussy (if you have one) or having you jerk him off and Marko fucking your throat

Once everyone gets their fill they are the kings of aftercare. Cuddles, baths, massages. Whatever their mate needs or wants they will give.

[coasting-on-a-wave-of-apathy]

Vampire Legacy Rewrite

This is a rewrite of @simbonez​ Shadow Moon Legacy challenge, mostly done to bring it up to modern packs, and to make a bit more sense with my particular play style. This isn't my original challenge (though I did create generation 6), so this may not make the most sense, but I tried my best to recreate it with its original vibes, and to keep it interesting! (i'm only really posting this for the sake of easy access to it on my part, so I might end up un-uploading it, especially if its thought to be in poor taste).

I haven't play tested this yet, so let me know if there is any conflicts in any of the rules!

Base rules:

Whenever a 'coven' is mentioned, use the get together clubs to represent these.

Max out careers and skills (unless it is mentioned to be unnecessary)

Play on any lifespan you wish

Every generation must be a vampire

You do not have to have children with a vampire in every generation (unless stated otherwise), but for the sake of keeping generation 6 interesting, I would say stick to either vampiric or human blood for whoever you choose to have children with

No generation has a set gender

I have given each generation a set colour, but this is just for fun and not something you have to stick to!

Generation 1 - The Founder (Red)

You're a sim that's obsessed with everything vampiric. Growing up, you where always ambitious, wanting to have power anyway you could. And know you know just how you'll do it - and how you'll maintain your success for generations to come.

Aspiration: Vampire family

Traits: Ambitious, Self-Absorbed, Insider

Career: None

Skills: Painting, Writing, Gardening

Goals:

Live in forgotten hollow

Must start as a human sim and be turned into a vampire

Build your fortune using without any employment (as immortals need to remain unknown from the human world)

Have at least two biological children, and bring in at least two people into your vampire family (through turning)

Paint a portrait of each person in your coven (through reference paintings)

Generation 2 - The Successor (Purple)

Being brought up in a large family meant there was plenty competition, and you are no stranger to attempting to please your parents and their expectations. You vow to become the leader of your familial coven, no matter who you have to step on to get there.

Aspiration: Master Vampire

Traits: Perfectionist, Snob, Proper

Career: Military

Skills: Logic, Pipe Organ, Fitness

Goals:

Live in forgotten hollow

Become the leader of your coven

Marry a 'Pureblood' vampire (one that was not turned, but born as a vampire)

Have at least two children, the first will be your 'false heir'

Give your first born child the most attention (gain top friendship with them, mentor them in skills, etc.)

Have a negative relationship with the generation 3 child

Generation 3 - The Rebel (Green)

You grew up in your older siblings shadow, and whilst it's what you're used to, it's certainly something you're not happy about. Your family's lack of attention to you at the expense on their heir made you resentful, and you decide to leave, and resolve to live your life as far away from them as possible. Suddenly, you can understand why the humans call your nature a curse.

Aspiration: Good vampire

Traits: Socially Awkward, Gloomy, Good

Career: Gardener

Skills: Gardening, Charisma, Cooking

Goals:

Leave forgotten hollow

Never feed from humans

Marry a human

Grow a cowplant

Keep your vampirism a secret from your spouse and children (practically, there is no way to do this, so just avoid feeding or using powers in front of them, do not take weakness that are visible to them, and do not go in the sunlight)

Generation 4 - The Icon (Yellow)

After your young adult birthday, you are informed of your parent's occult origins. This peaks your interest, and you being to explore where you came from. You find one of the worst sights imaginable - a bunch of people who still dress like they're in the 1800s! Makeover, stat!

Aspiration: Neighborhood Confidante

Traits: Outgoing, Creative, Party Animal

Career: Style influencer

Skills: Vampire lore, Dancing, Charisma

Goals:

Give 10 vampires (excluding your parent) a makeover after becoming friends with them

Release your parent from their immortality by creating the vampire cure and gifting it to them

Throw a party every week

Have at least one child that isn't parented by your partner

Generation 5 - The Recluse (Grey)

You grew up surrounded by many extravagant - and very loud - people, and frankly, you've always hated it. You much prefer the company of animals, and you pledge your immortal life to helping them. Oh, and to owning as many animals as possible - especially cats.

Aspiration: Friend of the Animals

Traits: Loner, Cat Lover, Hates Children

Career: Veterinarian

Skills: Pet training, Horse Riding, Handiness

Goals:

Always own at least two pets, and one of those has to be a cat

Run a night vet

Always repair broken items manually, never replace them

Place in the horse championship (I've never played with this pack, so this may change)

Only have relationships with people that have some sort of 'Animal Lover' trait (Cat, Dog, Horse, Animal Enthusiast, etc.)

Only have one child

Generation 6 - The Curious (Blue)

Growing up surrounded by animals, you crave the company of others desperately. But your interest becomes peaked by the idea of the occult, and of meeting others that are like you - vampiric or otherwise. And with these newfound friends, comes a desire to better the world.

Aspiration: Friend of the world

Traits: Outgoing, Adventurous, Freegan

Career: Civil Designer

Skills: Medium, Selvadoradian culture, Fabrication

Goals:

Marry and have a child with an occult that isn't a vampire

Become good friends with one of every occult type

Restore Sulani to its former glory

Live in a haunted house your whole adult life

Generation 7 - The Gifted (Orange)

A child with many talents, you grew up split between worlds. You never felt at home in either occult worlds of your parents, especially with your particularly selfish wants. You let life move you along, content to not have a strong impact upon this world. Overall, you just want to left alone to fill your days with interesting things - like play your guitar, and your child.

Aspiration: Musical Genius

Traits: Unflirty, music lover, lazy

Career: Salary person - you do not have to max this career

Skills: Guitar, DJ mixing, Video Gaming

Goals:

Stay single your whole life (never marry, live with or possess a partner)

Have one child

Stay out of the spotlight your whole life

Write seven songs, never publish them

Gain the indoorsy lifestyle

Gen 8- The Mother (Pink)

Growing up you where the apple of your parent's eye. You had everything you ever wanted. However, due to an accident - blamed on your muddy occult origins - at a young age, you can never bear children. You insist that you will spend your life caring for all those with similar origins, trying to give them the love you experienced from your parent.

Aspiration: Successful lineage

Traits: Childish, Erratic, Neat

Career: Education

Skills: Wellness, Parenting, Knitting

Goals:

Bear no biological children (you can have pregnancies, but none can be carried to term)

Have at least 3 adopted children of various occult origins (no humans allowed)

Always wear dresses

Volunteer at least once a week

Never reveal how you obtained your heir to anyone, even themselves (whether that be through magical conjuring - like through the wishing well - or through adoption or any other means)

Gen 9 - The Engima (Black)

No one really knows where you came from. Adopted, found in the wild, or maybe even made of pure magic? No one knows, and your mother certainly won't tell. But no one really trusts you, or your mysterious origins, so you often wonder if there is a reason for your existence. However, you find that you have a natural talent for all the things found in the darkness - whether that be Mischief or even vampiric lore. A secret vampire coven takes you under their wing, and you never have to look back.

Aspiration: Leader of the Pack

Traits: Evil, Family-Orientated, Active

Career: Criminal

Skills: Vampire lore, Mischief, Mixology

Goals:

Leave your family unit and have negative relationships with them after reaching adulthood

Always own 2 'guard' dogs

Own a home that is valued over £200,00 simoleons

Marry a coworker

Best best friends with your heir (until they reach the teen lifestage)

Generation 10- The Fairytale (White)

Being brought up in a tight-knit coven wasn't the greatest for your love life, and despite how open your parent has been about their job and your eventual role in their coven, you've only ever cared to keep your head in a book. You've always wished for someone to whisk you away from this life, and into one of true romance. But when faced with your perfect match, can you maintain that fantasy?

Aspiration: Soulmate

Traits: Jealous, Romantic, Bookworm

Career: Romantic consultant

Skills: Romance, Piano, Writing

Goals:

Have top grades throughout school

Run away from home as a teen with a partner

Break up with your first partner after aging up into a young adult

Marry and then divorce at least once

Do not marry your permanent partner until you are an elder

Write a book for every romance you have

[folightening]

Muses

Hetalia - Spamano - Humans, Artist and Muse AU Romano was searching for a muse. He found one in Antonio, and so much more. Secret santa gift for@someone-you-do-not-know Ao3 Kinda long, so most of it's under the cut.

It had been months since he'd last made any reasonable progress. Months. And in that time, Veneziano had succeeded in not only finishing projects but gaining popularity. Grandfather's legacy giving him a boost there was the only thing that kept Romano's jealousy relatively low.

It had still been months since he'd last made progress. Finishing any of his projects was out of the question. He just didn't have the inspiration he needed.

Which led him into the countryside. If he couldn't find anything in the city, why not look in the country. Gilbert could protect him well enough and he'd hopefully find the inspiration he needed.

"I've got an idea," Gilbert's loud voice suddenly broke the relative silence.

"A good idea this time?"

Gilbert was trying, but so far none of his ideas or suggestions had worked.

"Follow me," Gilbert laughed.

With no other choice Romano followed him to someone's property. The old home stood single story, the dull white walls and dark tiled roof a striking contrast to the surrounding green. It had clearly belonged to someone with money at some time in history, with the open gateway and cobbled path leading up to the building. There were more than enough plants around: trees casting plenty of shade over the stone and the lawn, a variety of bushes and flowers, and Romano could see a garden of some size past the corner of the house.

"Who lives here?"

"Antonio."

As if that name meant anything to Romano. Gilbert dismounted his horse and helped Romano down as well.

"Go take a look around, I'll go talk to him."

"Are you sure that's okay?"

"Perfectly."

Gilbert left him standing there and Romano sighed. Typical of Gilbert to run off on him and leave him alone on some stranger's property. What if this Antonio was outside? He didn't even know how Gilbert knew the man. What was he supposed to say?

The old building would make a lovely painting but that wasn't inspiring. The flowering trees were beautiful but again not inspiring. Maybe farther on the land but Romano didn't want to trespass no matter how convinced Gilbert was that it would be fine.

Romano sighed and pulled his sketchbook from his pack. He might as well try getting something down. Even if Gilbert only brought him here so he could see a friend, at least Romano could say he tried.

Some time had passed and all he had to show for it were half finished sketches of the bushes and trees when Gilbert finally returned.

"Antonio knows we're here now come on."

Romano followed Gilbert through the yard, past the substantial garden, and through some trees. There was obviously something specific he had wanted to show him. Romano hoped this time it was worth it.

Beyond the small cluster of citrus trees was a cliff. Romano stared out across the view.

"This might work."

"Get to it then." Gilbert clapped him on the back. "Want me to go get something bigger for you to work on?"

"Hurry."

Romano focused on the view in front of him and started sketching the landscape.

"That's Romano?"

An unfamiliar voice Romano assumed belonged to Antonio interrupted his focus and he turned.

Walking over with Gilbert was exactly what Romano had been searching for. Romano stared at him: the sun-kissed skin, the unkempt dark hair, the strong frame under clothes designed more for comfort than anything else.

"Be my muse," Romano blurted out before he could think to stop himself.

"What?"

"You're perfect. Let me paint you."

Antonio's startled expression quickly melted into a sheepish smile.

"Oh. I."

Gilbert laughed and pat Romano's shoulder.

"You got good taste. Take him up on it, Antonio."

"But I've never had my portrait done."

The flustered expression was beautiful too. Romano wanted to spend hours studying Antonio's face. To see how he looked under different lighting, all his different expressions.

"It won't be anything professional. No one else even has to see it. Please."

Romano ignored Gilbert's snickering as Antonio finally nodded.

"Okay. What do you want me to do?"

"I'm going to raid your kitchen," Gilbert said. "Have fun."

"Just stay right there," Romano instructed Antonio as Gilbert left.

Romano turned to an empty page and started sketching. He wouldn't be able to capture every detail in just a sketch, but it would have to do for now.

"Gilbert said you are an artist in search of inspiration."

"Pretty much." A few more lines here for that hair. "I haven't gotten anywhere with it yet."

There was silence between them until Romano finished the picture and showed it to Antonio.

"Wow," Antonio exclaimed. "Do I really look like that?"

"You ever look in a mirror?"

Antonio laughed and Romano stared. He had to stay here for a while and keep drawing this man.

"Do you have room for me to stay here for a while?"

"You want to keep drawing me that much?"

"I do."

Now that he had finally found his muse he couldn't just walk away.

Antonio's laughter quieted.

"It would be nice to have someone around the house again. Okay Mr. Artist, I have a guest room you can use."

Perfect. Now he didn't have to wander aimlessly with Gilbert anymore, or return home to his family's loving judgements. And most importantly he got to spend more time with his muse.

"If I ever make you uncomfortable, tell me to knock it off," Romano said.

"Come on, I'll show you your room."

With how often he stared at and drew Antonio, Romano wanted to do something. Helping Antonio with his garden seemed to Romano a fine trade off with Antonio refusing to accept any money. As it turned out, Romano enjoyed gardening.

Unfortunately, helping Antonio outside meant distraction.

Distraction Antonio was more than happy to provide as he got more and more comfortable with being Romano's muse.

"Look Romano." "How's this Romano?" "Draw this Romano!"

And Romano listened to every demand. He didn't tire of staring at Antonio, loved recording the nature of Antonio in his artwork. Every stupid pose and goofy expression brought him farther and farther from his worries about his family's expectations. Every piece of Antonio - lovingly rendered to captured the man in his entirety - had him following Antonio into a life he had never considered having before. One carefree, without expectations or worries of the judgements of others. The more he followed his muse the less he cared about the life he'd been trying to fit himself into before.

Nonsense lyrics sang to a tune Romano wasn't sure existed before that moment interrupted his thoughts. Antonio was singing? He did have his guitar, and only an idiot would say he didn't play well, but Romano had never heard him sing before… Probably for good reason, if that was his choice of lyrics.

Antonio stopped in front of him, laughed, and Romano blinked himself out of his bewilderment.

"What the fuck kind of lyrics were those?"

Antonio smiled wider.

"Sing with me."

"How about I show you how it's done and you try not to ruin any more songs."

Antonio laughed again as Romano prepared. It had been a while. A long while. He had never sang for Antonio before. But dammit he had to show his idiot how it was done. If Antonio could burst into song, so could Romano.

And when he did, it wasn't quite the burst he had in mind. It started awkward while he regained his vocal footing before rising into the proper singing he prided himself on.

It felt good to sing again.

Antonio's awed adoration felt sublime.

"Why didn't you focus on singing?"

"I don't need other people telling me what to do with my voice." Unless you have any requests. "And it's too much work to make a career of it."

"With that voice you could be famous in no time."

Then I wouldn't have met you.

"I am glad for it though," Antonio added.

"Why?"

Antonio's eyes widened and the flustered expression was just as lovely as the first time Romano had seen it. Flustering Antonio was fun, and so easy - all Romano had to do was talk, especially if he leaned into his accent. Sometimes he wondered just how much Antonio liked hearing him.

"I should check to make sure everything is prepared for tonight."

Right, Antonio was hosting a party. Romano didn't do well with parties but maybe Antonio would let him stay on the side and politely ignore everyone.

"I'll finish up here," Romano said.

All of the expected guests arrived early. Emma and her fiancée Erzsébet's recent engagement made them the unofficial stars of the party. It was really just an excuse for everyone to get together. Romano was content to watch the party. He didn't dance, and didn't know most of the guests.

But for once it wasn't Antonio he was focusing on. Erzsébet had offered him a job earlier: to paint a portrait of herself and Emma. So he was watching the two of them, filling his page with sketches of the couple to get a feel for them before accepting her offer.

"You must be the artist Antonio told me about in his letters."

"Yeah, I am. Who…"

Romano stared at the man who could only be Antonio's twin.

"You must be João."

"Complained about me has he?"

"That he misses you."

João looked taken aback for a moment before lightly laughing.

"So how long have you been with Antonio?"

"A year."

João hummed and Romano took the time to look him over. His resemblance to Antonio was striking, they were identical twins after all, but there were also some things that were so different Romano couldn't believe people confused the two. But more important than the twins' similarities and differences, João knew things about Antonio that Romano didn't. He knew the side of the picture that Romano couldn't paint.

"Tell me about Antonio."

Romano didn't like the mischievous smile.

"You've been with Toninho for a year and need me to tell you about him? It would break his heart to hear that."

"You…" Romano sighed. He had heard about João, this was expected.

"He is talking to me again, and I have to thank you for that. So, and don't tell him I told you but - He thinks you're cute and adores your voice."

That explained earlier. It clarified so many moments that still had left Romano confused. But that wasn't what Romano had been wanting to hear.

"I know I only see part of him. You're his brother, surely you can tell me more."

"I can tell you all my brother's dark secrets later. Right now you don't want to miss Antonio's spotlight stealing." João pointed at Antonio. "He prides himself on his dancing."

Every dip and curve of Antonio's body had held Romano captive for so long, he had long ago committed every part of Antonio to memory. That didn't stop him from becoming utterly entranced by the sway of Antonio's hips and the fluid motion of his dance. Romano had seen him dance before; but this was different from silly dances in the kitchen or garden.

"He should."

This was the part of Antonio he could never hope to capture on any canvas: the pure passion with which he did everything. The passion for life itself shined bright, infecting Romano in ways nothing else could or ever had. Antonio had not only inspired him to complete art again but to find the simple beauties all around him. The man had changed the way Romano viewed the world, for the better, and Romano-

He loved him for it.

Suddenly everything was too much. Antonio's smile, the way he looked at him and Romano knew the man was checking to see if he still had his attention. As if Romano could focus on anyone else right now. As if anyone could have Romano's attention the way Antonio did. Romano tore his gaze from Antonio's perfect form and hurried away from the suffocating atmosphere that had descended over him.

Away from other people he took a deep breath. So he had fallen in love with Antonio. Of course he had, who wouldn't? Everything about the man had had him enthralled from the day they'd met. It was only a matter of time, and the past year had given them plenty of that.

"Romano? You hurried away so suddenly, are you okay?"

Romano looked at Antonio's concern.

"You were supposed to be inspiration- a way to improve my art."

Antonio's brows came together in confusion.

"Instead, you- You made me a better person, Antonio. I see everything differently and it's all your fault."

"What?"

"You have so much passion and love. For everything. I'm the artist, and I couldn't see the world until I met you."

Those irritating tears starting building and Romano swiped them away. Why did he have to tear up every time he got emotional? He was trying to confess.

"I don't understand-"

"Shut up so I can confess. You're gorgeous, and the best muse I've ever had, and so fucking wonderful I want to keep spending my life with you."

Antonio stared at him and for a moment Romano basked in the fact that he had rendered Antonio speechless.

Then Antonio blinded Romano with the force of his smile and knocked him to the ground with his eager embrace, but the pain quickly faded when Antonio's lips were on his. He felt how Romano had imagined he would; was so perfectly Antonio that Romano couldn't get enough.

"Aren't we supposed to date before you propose?" Antonio chuckled.

"That wasn't a proposal dummy."

"Well my answer's yes."

[a-s-levynn]

Mouths

aka the next installment of the how i do stuff

under the cut, 'cause long

sorry for typos, i had no time to proofread and there is a lot of text again, i'm sorry T______T♥

@takemetoasgard If there is anything else, and i mean anything, i'm here to try my best to explain how i do it but also there are still proper artists around here, who might have more useful input. But let's get to it.

Again, i am not proficient in portraits and therefore i am no expert in facial features. But as with everything, as long as i can sell the illusion, it's good enough for me.

I am going to repeat myself here, but i use references all the time. I know how a mouth looks like in general but how it distorts the face with it with certain expressions? Yeah. I prefer looking at something when i want it to look good.

And also recommend looking at how the muscles and tendons of the face sit under the skin, what is the bonestructure of a skull, etc. Those will determine a good portion of the features and where the recesses and hier points of faces are. And i think it's important, because we are not talking monster things but general human parts.

So either by taking a picture of your own face, or finding a reference photo, it is going to be a tremendous help. Especially if it is an open mouth.

SO LIPS

For me what helped a lot was to break away from one width bold lines. No secret i read a lot of comic books. I used to read a lot of manga as well. So i kinda took that approach when i developed how i do them now. Both of which lacks the super harsh outlines.

Arguably manga style drawings have even less lips definition in most cases than western comics.

But what i mean by bold outline? Something like the one on the right. In comaprison for me, it is more pleasing to look at the one on the left. That is absolutely down to preference and style tho. I am pretty sure i have seen people doing these type of outlines and making it works so well. It is just not something that fits aesthetically into my way of drawing more.

In my case they pop out too much from the faces, misdirecting the eyes in a way that the observer focuses on the lips instead of the entire face. In a sort of handsome squidward-y way. Lemme show you:

Arguably one is more pleasent to look at. And just to avoid the bias that one face is shittier than the other, lemme only switch up the lips. (please excuse the additional eraser shavings as well, but i promise no other line were changed other than the lips)

It makes quite the change, isn't it? It pulls your eyes towards the lips and overcrowds the lines. At least for my taste it's too much.

This all and good but it also important where the lips go on the face. There are golden ratios. There are general baselines. I usually sketch up those and start to change up those.

So i was taught that if you look at a face dead on the golden ratio is something like this:

The eyes sit roughly on the halfway line of the entire head. Most of the features are on the lower portion. If you segment it to 3 similar stripes, one marking the tip of the nose, one the lipline and the third the chin, it should look natural. The eyes sit roughly one eye apart and the tip of the ears are at the eyeline. The bottom of the ears should sit around the lipline.

Now this is a very basic and possibly outdated ratio. This is just how one of my art teachers explained it. I work with this. This is the general starting point, and i mix it up. Push the eyes up or down or apart, etc. Make the nose longer, or shorter, offset the lips in any direction.

It is rare for a face to be perfectly symmetrical, that is why head on portraits are i think one of the hardest things. Because drawing perfect symmetry is hard but if the face isn't symmetrical enough it feels off. I hate frontal portraits. I usually turn the heads at least a little. Even if it is just a mask. It leaves so much more leeway for assymetry.

Let's talk teeth (briefly)

Because those can be hard as well. For me it's the same, less harsh bold lines the better. Teeth are naturally light coloured so if there is too much darkness, there is a feel of something not being right. Especially when it is the dividing line between tooth and tooth.

Arguably there isn't that much of a difference between the two but i still prefer the upper grin. The darkest part is where the two rows of teeth meet and the corners.

In case of the lower grin is just as dark between every tooth, making it feel like there is more gap than it should. Which might be a great choice for a character design to be fair.

Also to keep it natural looking, most teeth aren't perfect. There are going to be misalignments, size variations, etc. Also bottom teeth are usually smaller than upper row ones.

Depending on how much a mouth is open usually determines how much of which row we see. More often the upper row will be visible in some degree but it fully depends on what expression you'd want to sell.

And i think that's it for now? I know i could go into more detail and more complex shading but no matter how much shading i put on something, these are the base ideas i build on.

So yeah, this long post could have been literally the single line of "i just make the lines of the lips lighter" if i'm honest.

I know i have not touched tongues but they are a really not my forte yet so i can't really say much that could be useful even as a springboard.

And i think this is it for this one?

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Richard Dawkins

Published: Nov 13, 2023

“I say, Jarvis, cluster round.”

“Sir?”

“Close on me – if that’s the right expression?”

“A military phrase, sir, employed by officers requiring the presence of their subordinates.”

“Right, Jarvis. Lend me your ears.”

“Equally appropriate, sir. Mark Antony . . .”

“Never mind Mark Antony, Jarvis. This is important.”

“Very good sir.”

“As you know, Jarvis, when it comes to regions north of the collar stud, B Woofter is not rated highly in the form book. Nevertheless, I do have one great scholastic triumph to my credit. And I bet you don’t know what that was?”

“You have frequently adverted to it sir. You won the prize for Scripture Knowledge at your preparatory academy.”

“Yes, Jarvis, I did, to the ill-concealed surprise of the Rev Aubrey Upcock, proprietor and chief screw at that infamous hell-hole. And ever since then, although not much of a lad for Matins or Evensong, I’ve always had a soft spot for Holy Writ as we experts call it. And now we come to the nub. Orcrux, Jarvis?”

“Very appropriate sir, or ‘nitty gritty’ is these days often heard.”

“The point is, Jarvis, as an aficionado, I have long been especially fond of the book of Genesis. God made the world in six days, am I right, Jarvis?”

“Well sir . . .”

“Beginning with light, God moved swiftly through the gears, making plants and things that creep, scaly things with fins, our feathered friends tootling through the trees, furry brothers and sisters in the undergrowth and finally, rounding into the straight, he created chaps like us, before taking to his hammock for a well-earned siesta on the seventh day. Am I right, Jarvis?”

“Yes sir, if I may say so, a colourfully mixed summary of one of our great origin myths.”

“But now, Jarvis, mark the sequel. A fellow at the Dregs Christmas party was bending my ear last night over the snort that refreshes. Seems there’s a cove called Darwin who says Genesis is all a lot of rot. God’s been oversold on the campus. He didn’t make everything after all. There’s something called evaluation . . .”

“Evolution sir. The theory advanced by Charles Darwin in his great book of 1859, On the Origin of Species.”

“That’s the baby, Jarvis. Evolution. Would you credit it, this Darwin bozo wants me to believe my great great grandfather was some kind of hirsute banana-stuffer, scratching himself with his toes and swinging through the treetops. Now, Jarvis, answer me this. If we’re descended from chimpanzees, why are there chimpanzees still among those present and correct? I saw one only last month at the zoo. Why haven’t they all turned into members of the Dregs Club (or the Athenaeum according to taste)? Try that on your pianola, Jarvis.”

“If I might take the liberty, sir, you appear to be labouring under a misunderstanding. Mr Darwin does not say that we are descended from chimpanzees. Chimpanzees and we are descended from a shared ancestor. Chimpanzees are modern apes, which have been evolving since the time of the shared ancestor, just as we have.”

“Hm, well I think I get your drift, Jarvis. Just as my pestilential cousin Thomas and I are both descended from the same grandfather. But neither of us looks any more like the old reprobate than the other, and neither of us has his side-whiskers.”

“Precisely sir.”

“But hang on, Jarvis. We old lags of the Scripture Knowledge handicap don’t give up that easily. My old man’s guvnor may have been a hairy old gargoyle, but he wasn’t what you’d call a chimpanzee. I distinctly remember. Far from dragging his knuckles over the ground, he carried himself with an upright, military bearing (at least until his later years, and when the port had gone round a few times). And the family portraits in the old ancestral home, Jarvis. We Woofters did our bit at Agincourt, and there were no apes on the strength during that “God for Harry, England and St George” carry-on.”

“I think, sir, you underestimate the time spans involved. Only a few centuries have passed since Agincourt. Our shared ancestor with chimpanzees lived more than five million years ago. If I might venture upon a flight of fancy sir?”

“Certainly you might, Jarvis. Venture away, with the young master’s blessing”

“Suppose you walk back in time one mile, sir, to reach the Battle of Agincourt . . .”

“Sort of like walking from here to the Dregs, Jarvis?”

“Yes sir. On the same scale, to walk back to the ancestor we share with chimpanzees, you’d have to walk all the way from London to Australia.”

“Goodness, Jarvis, all the way to the land of cobbers with corks dangling from their lids. No wonder there are no apes among the family portraits, no low-browed chest-thumpers to be seen once-more-unto-the-breaching at Agincourt.”

“Indeed sir, and to go back to our shared ancestor with fish . . .”

“Wait a minute, Jarvis, hold it there. Are you now telling me I’m descended from something that would feel at home on a slab?”

“We share ancestors with modern fish, sir, which would certainly have been called fish if we could see them. You could safely say that we are descended from fish, sir.”

“Jarvis, sometimes you go too far. Although, when I think of Gussie Hake-Wortle . . .”

“I would not have ventured to make the comparison myself sir. But if I might pursue my fanciful perambulation back through time, sir?  To reach the ancestor that we share with our piscine cousins . . .”

“Let me guess, Jarvis, you’d have to walk right round the whole bally globe and come back to where you started and surprise yourself from behind?”

“A considerable underestimate sir. You’d have to walk to the moon and back, and then set off and do the whole journey again sir.”

“Jarvis, this is too much to spring on a lad with a morning head. Go and mix me one of those pick-me-ups of yours before I can take any more.”

“I have one in readiness sir, prepared when I perceived the lateness of the hour of your return from your club last night.”

“Attaboy, Jarvis. But wait, here’s another thing. This Darwin bird says it all happened by chance. Like spinning the big wheel at Le Touquet. Or like when Bufty Snodgrass scored a hole in one and stood drinks for the whole club for a week.”

“No sir that is incorrect. Natural selection is not a matter of chance. Mutation is a chance process. Natural selection is not.”

“Take a run-up and bowl that one by me again, Jarvis, if you wouldn’t mind. And this time make it your slower ball, with no spin. What is mutation?”

“I beg your pardon sir, I presumed too much. From the Latin mutatio, feminine, ‘a change’, a mutation is a mistake in the copying of a gene.”

“Like a misprint in a book, Jarvis?”

“Yes sir, and, like a misprint in a book, a mutation is not likely to lead to improvement. Just occasionally, however, it does, and then it is more likely to survive and be passed on in consequence. That would be natural selection. Mutation, sir, is random in that it has no bias towards improvement. Selection, by contrast, is automatically biased towards improvement, where improvement means ability to survive. One could almost coin a phrase, sir, and say ‘Mutation proposes, selection disposes.’

“Rather neat that, Jarvis. Your own?”

“No sir, the pleasantry is an anonymous parody of Thomas à Kempis.”

“So, Jarvis, let me see if I’ve got a firm grip on the trouser seat of this problem. We see something that looks like a piece of natty design, like an eye or a heart, and we wonder how it bally well got here.”

“Yes sir.”

“It can’t have got here by pure chance because that would be like Bufty’s hole in one, when we had drinks all round for a week.”

“In some respects it would be even more improbable than the Honourable Mr Snodgrass’s alcoholically celebrated feat with the driver, sir. For all the parts of a human body to come together by sheer chance would be about as improbable as a hole in one if Mr Snodgrass were blindfolded and spun around, so that he had no idea of the whereabouts of the ball on the tee, nor of the direction of the green. Were he to be permitted a single stroke with a wood, sir, his chance of scoring a hole in one would be about as great as the chance of a human body spontaneously coming together if all its parts were shuffled at random.”

“What if Bufty had had a few drinks beforehand, Jarvis? Which, by the way, is pretty likely.”

“The contingency of a hole in one is sufficiently remote, sir, and the calculation sufficiently approximate, that we may neglect the possible effects of alcoholic stimulants. The angle subtended at the tee by the hole . . .”

“That’ll do, Jarvis, remember I have a headache. What I clearly see through the fog is that random chance is a non-starter, a washout, scratched at the off. So how do we get complex things that work, like human bodies?”

“To answer that question, sir, was Mr Darwin’s great achievement. Evolution happens gradually and over a very long time. Each generation is imperceptibly different from the previous one, and the degree of improbability required in any one generation is not prohibitive. But after a sufficiently large number of millions of generations, the end product can be very improbable indeed, and can look very much as though it was designed.”

“But it only looks like the work of some slide-rule toting whizz with a drawing board and a row of biros in his top pocket?”

“Yes sir, the illusion of design results from the accumulation of a large number of small improvements in the same direction, each one small enough to result from a single mutation, but the whole cumulative sequence is prolonged enough to culminate in an end result that could not have come about in a single chance event. The metaphor has been advanced of a slow climb up the gentle slopes of what has somewhat over-dramatically been called ‘Mount Improbable’, sir.”

“Jarvis, that’s a doozra of an idea, and I think I’m beginning to get my eye in for it. But I wasn’t too far wrong, was I, when I called it ‘evaluation’ instead of evolution?”

“No sir. The process somewhat resembles the breeding of racehorses. The fastest horses are evaluated by breeders and the best ones are chosen as progenitors of future generations. Mr Darwin realised that in nature the same principle works without the need for any breeder to do the evaluating. The individuals that run fastest are automatically less likely to be caught by lions.”

“Or tigers, Jarvis. Tigers are very fast, Inky Brahmapur was telling me at the Dregs only last week.”

“Yes sir, tigers too. I can well imagine that his Highness would have had ample opportunity to observe their speed from the back of his elephant. The nub, or crux, is that the fastest individual horses survive to breed and pass on the genes that made them fast, because they are less likely to be eaten by large predators.

“By Jove, Jarvis, that makes a lot of sense. And I suppose the fastest tigers also get to breed because they are the first ones to grab their medium rare with all the trimmings, and so survive to have little tigers that also grow up to be fast.”

“Yes sir.”

“But this is amazing, Jarvis. This really prangs the triple twenty. And the same thing works not just for horses and tigers but for everything else?”

“Precisely sir.”

“But Jarvis, wait a moment. I can see that this bowls Genesis middle stump. But where does it leave God? It sounds from what this Darwin bimbo says, that there’s not a lot left for God to do. I mean to say, Jarvis, I know what it’s like to be underemployed, and underemployed is what God, if you get my drift, would seem to be.”

“Very true sir.”

“So, well, dash it, I mean to say, Jarvis, in that case why do we even believe in God at all?”

“Why indeed sir?”

“Jarvis, this is astounding. Incredulous.”

“Incredible sir.”

“Yes, incredible, Jarvis. I shall see the world through new eyes, no longer through a glass darkly as we biblical scholars say. Don’t bother with that pick-me-up, Jarvis. I find I no longer need it. I feel sort of liberated. Instead, bring me my hat, my stick, and the binoculars Aunt Daphne gave me last Goodwood. I’m going out into the park to admire the trees, the butterflies, the birds and the squirrels, and marvel at everything you have told me. You don’t mind if I do a spot of marvelling at everything you’ve told me, Jarvis?”

“No indeed sir. Marvelling is very much in the proper vein, and other gentlemen have told me that they experience the same sense of liberation on first comprehending such matters. If I might make a further suggestion sir?”

“Suggest away, Jarvis, suggest away, we are always ready to hear suggestions from you.”

“Well sir, if you would care to follow the matter further, I have a small volume here, which you might care to peruse.”

“Doesn’t look very small to me, Jarvis, but anyway, what is it called?”

“It is called The Greatest Show on Earth, sir, and it is by . . .”

“It doesn’t matter who it’s by, Jarvis, any friend of yours is a friend of mine. Heave it over and I’ll have a look when I return. Now, the binoculars, the stick and the gents’ bespoke headwear if you please. I have some intensive marvelling to do.”

==

Note: "The Greatest Show on Earth: The Evidence for Evolution" is by Richard Dawkins. It's a little self-referential, tongue-in-cheek joke.

[lordofdragos]

BIG TEXT POST PART 4

Oogh I should really be copy and pasting this part or something... Anyway! This post is about me playing through In Stars and Time, and I highly recommend you do not look if you haven't played the game before! If you think you may at any point play the game DO NOT LOOK BELOW

Is this actually helping...? Aren't we kinda robbing the person of their agency Like they haven't given it to them yet... Oh well. Love wins!

This is one of my favorite dialogues!!!

This picture part is gonna ruin me at some point I already know

uH I swear this dialogue wasn't like this Didn't they like its small face or something? OH OF COURSE I ACTUALLY HAVE TO HIT IT FIRST SO THEY CAN SEE IT OF COURSE ACTUAL LOGIC I THOUGHT I WAS GOING INSANE HELP WHY DOES THIS GAME GET EVERY DETAIL RIGHT ARGHFDGF

The game does the time blip thing when you open the door to the keyknife but Don't I need that…? I can't just open up the doors up when I loop right I always start at Dormont because I'm a weirdo but Then I wouldn't be able to get the stone… right…? Hrngh… might have to use game mechanics at some point… lame…

Bathroom conversation huh because I'm not cheering to myself? Sure . . . Ah. I'm pretty blind aren't I. That... makes a lot of little things fit.

OH GOD THE MUSIC STOPPED AGAIN WAS COMING BACK HERE A MISTAKE OF COURSE ITS HERS AND WE MADE FUN OF IT DAMNIT EVERY TIME MAN

That's the spirit!

Sif says something when they sharpen? It's the name isn't it I SEE THE PIECES BUT I CANT PUT THEM TOGETHER YET ARGH THE CARVING TOOLS ARENT HERE ARE THEY The party looking at Sif run around like a maniac looking for the carving tools room (it ain't here) then calling Loop It's Joever Well King time I guess The shield should still help right?

Oh yeah Claude is Mirabelle's roommate I was right!

I have fought so many battles so definitely enough for them to notice and for it to not be weird honestly

I can... not take the fritters...? That would destroy Bonnie I think GAH THIS GAME THE TASTE IS ALREADY FADING FOR SIF ITS SO OVER

DOES HE THOUGH?? ODILE EVEN KNOWS I MEAN I GUESS THAT MEANS HE IS IN TUNE WITH THEM JUST NOT ACTING ON THEM BUT-

. . . I'm asking.

Yeah so he's talking about that huh...

bro? I can't do that?

Yeah ok you need that shield like 100% uptime it does so much less damage and you will instantly die without it

G-Good? Anxiety meter rising... Let's keep that shield up no need to save my very large amount of salty broths anymore

BONNIE STOP TALKING SHIT THE KING IS GONNA NOTICE YOU I should probably break this tears...

I mean There is a point there A bad point but it kinda exists Like when Mirabelle mentioned how her friend at least had their dog with them so they'd be happy This is giving me chills man I don't feel good OH WAIT THATS NOT LIKE A PHILOSOPHICAL DEBATE THATS A HINT TO USE THE SHIELD AGAIN How do I function sometimes honestly?

also uh Stars.

No music.

NEVERMIND HYPE MUSIC THE GAME IS GONNA RUIN IT SOMEHOW THOUGH TAKIN BETS!

I suddenly feel like I should get a new real life hobby Some change can't hurt I guess...

The King is gonna punt Bonnie like a football that's what I would do in his position

SIF PORTRAIT YOO

ITS HYPE!!!!

Bro if the game is like "Um actually if you were a higher level you would've hit him hard enough and won" I will have words

He was talking about that huh... HOW DOES IT ALL CONNECT

ACHIEVEMENT GET!

Alright one final post after this one

[patowrd]

anyways, dando fic snippet pt. 2 (slight nsfw warning but i've left out most of it here 😌)

they stumble through the marble-floored lobby to the kitchen, and daniel feels like electrified, his whole body thrumming as he follows lando. lando hoists himself up on the kitchen counter, daniel smirking as he examines the labels of various liqueurs and bitters with furrowed brows. “what’s this for?” he asks, picking up daniel’s zippo and letting it dance between his hands as he observes its cold steel case.

“smoking aromatics” daniel says, “orange peels, the like.” and he trails off as he turns to the glassware he’s started polishing: currently, two highball crystal glasses worth enough to cover a third of his rent back home.

“god, my dad had one of these when i was a kid,” lando says, still in awe at the silver lighter, “i always used to want to learn tricks,” and daniel watches the lighter twirl in lando’s palms and between his fingers before he lights it momentarily, leaving him wishing to be as pliant for his touch, as receptive to his fondling. 

he extends a hand and smirks, “come on, sweetheart, hand it over.”

he knows it’s dangerous, this game he’s playing, but he’s too satisfied with himself to stop. the nickname seems to give him an upper hand, to make lando blush more than he knows what to do with. and what’s the use of a secret weapon if he doesn’t get a bit of fun. 

“what’re we thinking as a starter?” he leans back against the island and watches lando, sat on the counter opposite him. he notices the golden edge of his tan, the way his thighs under his trunks go from gold to white in the places where he has not let the sun linger. there is something bitter about how sunkissed lando looks, something tantalising about the way he peers into daniel’s eyes and smirks before he talks.

“you’re the boss. surprise me, bartender.”

it knocks the wind out of his lungs. daniel obliges.

for himself he churns out a quick g&t, something crude and boozy which he knows will at least be halfway sippable. it doesn’t matter what he drinks, he’s there to serve, to observe. it’s lando who’s being treated to a tasting course, to a class in what’s good on the tongue, what’s pleasurable.

for him, he makes a paper plane. it’s bittersweet in the mouth, amaros and lemons sticking to the palate as you sip. he thinks of it as emblematic, a portrait in a drink. 

he sips at his own glass and watches, amused, as lando tentatively tastes, his red tongue darting out to lick his lips. daniel clears his throat. 

“your girlfriend won’t mind me stealing you, i hope?” it’s tentative, a little something to gauge how lando reacts to outward flirting, but it sends daniel’s heart flying as if he’s just finished a double marathon.

lando chuckles, and takes a slow (so slow! daniel thinks, so cruelly deliberately slow!) sip of his drink before he answers, “i don’t even think she’ll notice i left”

daniel’s eyes widen, his fingers nearly slipping off of his glass as the condensation pools beneath his fingertips, “how?” and after a sip, “i’d be glued to you if i was her.”

“god, i wish you’d let her know that.”

for a moment it’s silent, the only thing cutting through the static being the muffled noise of the music on the beach, and then lando takes another sip and smiles at daniel, “s’not bad, really, kinda sweet.”

daniel smiles with all his teeth, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he laughs, “ah, see, i knew you’d like it.”

for the second drink, daniel twists a lemon peel in a way that makes lando gasp (“you can see the spray!) and scrunch his face into a grimace (too bitter, too strong). it’s endearing how expressive he is when he lets himself unwind a bit, how eager and excited he gets watching daniel use the shaker “like a real bartender” or make up fancy descriptions for rum and cokes and vodka sodas. soon enough they’re both a little gone, the alcohol tinting their cheeks matching shades of ruby red as they giggle about incomprehensible jokes. it flows easily, the conversation, and daniel barely registers the way that he positions his body, always inching towards lando’s, or how he climbs up next to him on the counter, or how, while laughing, he sets his hand down on lando’s inexplicably bare shoulder.

the room smells sweet and earthy, the remnants of various drinks lending their aromas to the air and to lando’s scent. it’s something sandy, salty, like he’s been sweating under crystal clear waves. it shouldn’t be so wounding, daniel thinks, shouldn’t make him want to put his fist in his mouth and bite down hard. he moves his hand away from lando’s shoulder, and he’s about to jump down from the counter to start polishing glasses with his back turned again when he feels lando’s hand gently press into the top of his thigh.

it takes a minute for daniel to settle down, but when he does he notices the shift in the atmosphere, the way that everything feels hot, the way his blood feels as it rushes past his ears with every quickening beat of his heart. he marvels at how warm lando’s touch is. searing, he thinks, something like a brand he’ll wear forever on his skin. 

“god, you make this so difficult,” daniel says. it’s barely above a whisper, the words sticking to the back of his throat even as he says them. all possibilities now feel too distant yet too near. if daniel wanted to, he could bend down and place a kiss in the crook of lando’s ear, or where a mole adorns his sweaty collarbone, or… daniel realizes the options are endless, that he knows precisely what he’s feeling, and for fear of calling the feeling lust he’d rather not name it at all

“do i?” and lando’s fingers start tracing the outlines of daniel’s tattoos, inching delicately towards the flower on his inner thigh. “don’t you?”

both are looking down at daniel’s thighs now, lando’s pale fingernails tracing circles across his skin, stopping only to tug at the hem of his black shorts.

“i just do what you’re thinking,” and pressing his hand flat against daniel’s skin he smiles, the tips of his fingers just barely beneath the black fabric, “no one else is home, you know? they’re all down at the beach.”

daniel inches closer, now looking deep into lando’s eyes. he’s breathless, wordless, unable to think critically about the fact that the door is unlocked, that the others could come home at any time. he’s focused, mostly, on the rich pink of lando’s lips, on the way that his lashes gently flutter as he blinks slow, his pupils dilated wide. lando’s gaze is innocent now, almost reverent, as if he’s asking daniel to show him something good, something holy.

so daniel obliges and leans in.

[ask-the-scout-siblings]

To all: What are your thoughts about Mortimer, Riley, Nick, and Daisy? Anything that you like and dislike about them?

"Aha! I told you we'd get an ask!

"Wait- We actually did?!-"

"Anyways! To answer your question;"

"Mortimer is a manipulative asshole, the very opposite of his show counterpart. None of us really like him that much, he's way too controlling"

"But, he is good fellow to chat to, sometimes..."

"You CHAT WITH HIM?!?!"

"Mostly during tea time, he offered to have a talk with me in his office, a few minutes after I failed my first test run"

"..So that explains why we cant find you during those times..."

"Dude, you gotta have balls of steel to that-"

"W-What do you guys chat...chat about?"

"...Bri'ish stuff-"

"Moving on!"

"Riley is an obvious one, she's a bitch and a huge jerk, aswell as a very strict teacher. Most of us arent really well liked by her, except for Bonnie"

"She's sort of a me-mentor figure to me, a sadistic and...and twisted one to be exact-"

"Its probably because Im the only one who obeys her co-commands withought protest...and also because Im not...not stupid-"

"What did you say?"

"Nothing!-"

"Tho I will say, she's fun to annoy and pull pranks on"

"Now that I agree"

"Nick is a cold blooded maniac, aswell as an overly dramatic theater kid, probably the least threatening of the Handeemen-"

"He's a pathetic, shitty person, who cant seem to know what true talent is, even if it was displayed RIGHT infront of him!"

"Are you still salty about him ca-calling your...your design utter trash?"

"NO!"

"...maybe-"

"Same thing with Riley, tho, we once teamed up with eachother to pull a big prank on his rival as somekind of revenge shit. But then, he betrayed us right after we get caught. He did let me have some of his stolen spray paint, so I guess he's sort of a cool??"

"I heard a rumor that he was hidding secret portraits in his room, not sure what they are but its apparently something very embarrasing"

"Im hoping its just poorly drawn stickfigure shits or something-"

"What else could it be?"

"You dont want to know"

*Ehem*

"Moving on!"

"Daisy is probably the only Handeemen we like the most, although, her danger mode is also the scariest.."

"Pro tip; Do Not swear anywhere near her, Radley learned the hard way-"

"I can still taste the soap in my mouth..."

*Shudders*

"She's re-real nice, abit...abit of a mother hen, but nice!"

"She taught us how to bake a pie once, but, we were shortly banned from the kitchen when the stove caught on fire-"

"Not my fault no one told me shit about greese fire and water not mixing well!"

"Didnt...didnt Riley taught us about that during one of her ca-classes?"

"Not my fault her classes were too fucking boring for me to give a fuck!"

"And you wonder why she hates you so...so much.."

[dailyiyozane]

64 Reasons You Should Vote For Iyozane In The Next Popularity Poll

Someone on Discord said they'd vote for Iyozane if I came up with 64 reasons why they should. Naturally, as the number one Iyozane fan of the fandom, I took up that challenge. Of course, I couldn't come up with all of these reasons on my own! I also had some help from some discord buddies. Their names are BlueKirby, Tree, snaa, my man, and showtime. Now, let us begin~

They're pathetic.

They say "heek!" sometimes and I think if they had voiced lines that particular line would be cute.

They have so much audacity (based on "Well I'm related aren't I?" in response to Tsugumi's shock at them being the former crown prince).

Sometimes they say shocking things and don't elaborate (based on the entire New Emperor Brilliant Route).

They seem too stubborn to give up on things, even when they probably should (this is based on them still boating people across the strait despite the capital getting a ferryboat and sticking with Fumikado despite the plan failing).

They want to be a pirate (pirates are cool).

Despite not being a proper pirate, they have a spell card named "Great Pirate Iyozane" (it's hilarious).

They're friends with ghosts.

Their ghost friends are adorable.

In BoTC their ghost friends spin (this is FanBOX exclusive content as of now but trust me it's adorable).

They're cool.

They can play many instruments.

They carry around a flute in RMI.

They carry around a paddle in BPoHC.

They have a tragic backstory (perfect for angst).

They used to be the crown prince (come on, I know there has to be at least one monarchist in this fandom).

They used to be stuck inside all of the time (as a user of the Internet, you should be able to relate to this, no?)

They managed to recover from their tragic backstory enough to say they have a pretty good life.

They get an extra point for saying this while elbow-deep in debt with Kuroji.

Their backstory also makes their involvement in RMI so funny in retrospect.

They're pretty.

Their hair looks fluffy.

Their hair also looks like it's taken care of well.

They have a cute side ponytail.

They have a boat (boats are cool).

They probably have arm strength from paddling said boat so much.

This implied arm strength also implies that they are toned.

Their ability to cross over waves means that you probably won't get seasick on their boat.

Their smile is adorable.

Their frown is adorable.

Sometimes they open their mouth a little like :o and that's adorable.

They keep Fumikado from doing stupid things.

They think they're above getting involved in stupid things despite very often getting involved in stupid things.

They can wear a coat on their shoulders without it falling off.

This coat also stays on while they're flying.

This coat also has a special compartment for their paddle (if you check their player sprite in BPoHC).

They're good at making chilled tofu.

They're good at making chilled Chinese noodles.

Their soul is drinkable.

They have a specific portrait for getting their soul drunken (JynX is really dedicated~).

They came back to life, which if you think about it makes them kinda like Jesus.

They're siblings with Mitori and Sanra, which means you can draw cute family fanart with them.

You can ship them with many characters, such as Fumikado, Kunimitsu, Tsugumi, and maybe even Kaoru if you try hard enough.

Their design isn't too complicated, which makes them easy to draw.

Their color scheme is calming.

They look like they taste like candy.

Their last name, Fujiwara, can be translated to "Wisteria Field", and wisterias are very pretty~

Their RMI theme slaps.

Their BPoHC theme slaps.

Sometimes they say "yousoro" and I think it's cute (which is translated as "steady as she goes" within Len'en, but I like the way "yousoro" rolls off the tongue better).

According to Mitori, Iyozane is good at playing dumb (imagine the implications for their characterization).

Despite having the desire to be influential, Iyozane has no idea what they're going to do with said influence once they achieve it. (I think it's funny.)

Their spell cards are filled with cool references to boats and the afterlife and whatnot.

They throw lanterns at you in one spell card.

They also have a boat in one of their spell cards.

In a couple of their spell cards they have spirits. These spirits look like flames and it's very cool.

Their spell card background is pretty.

They have consistent safe spots.

Their bomb sounds cool.

Their clothes look soft.

Some of their clothing articles are shiny.

They have big poofy sleeves, both on their shirt and their shoulder jacket.

They don't wear shoes.

Their defeated RMI portrait makes their flute look like it has a bandage on it (I think it's funny).