#Testy Territorialism

[randomfoggytiger]

Mulder's Alien Baby Baby Trauma In-Depth (Part XVI): Testy Territorialism

Vienen is… quite the follow-up to Empedocles: an infinitely better MOTW (an old classic's return) meshed with the traditional X-Files episode conceits (Mulder in the basement, Scully slicing and dicing, Skinner holding back warily, Kersh barely restraining himself from beheading everyone) and a twist-- Doggett’s presence. 

However. There are also a few… issues. Namely, that the episode doesn’t do the best job explaining important character beats: we are merely left with fleeting glances and half-spoken dialogue (par for the course for Season 8, really.) But there are important details baked into the dialogue, details that are at least substantive enough to point to greater implication. Mulder and Scully’s relationship remains intact and just as in sync as the previous episode. Mulder himself is crawling back into the saddle with a vengeance.

Yet, Mulder and Doggett’s budding friendship… seems to flail. What happened to their exchange in Empedocles’s hospital hallway, when Mulder opened up in an attempt to reassure Doggett’s turbulent emotions? Why is he back to critical acrimony?

Well. We’re given brief, fleeting bits of dialogue that say a lot while showing very little-- an inevitability likely brought on by having too much to do and too little time to do it. (At least everyone had a part in the episode, I suppose.) Those dialogue pieces are vital to this discussion; and, therefore, we must begin at the very beginning.

“Betrayals” and Boys Being Boys

Vienen opens on a strikingly similar parallel to the Pilot: the skeptic making his way down the bowels of the FBI, heading towards the basement office and finding Mulder alone and entrenched in his files.

Doggett, not having expected anyone in the office, turns from wary expectation to deliberate caution: an excommunicated Mulder scurrying around the forbidden fruit could mean a myriad of things-- things Doggett doesn’t want to be tangled up in and painted as the enemy for. 

Mulder looks up, caught; but takes his sweet time pawing over the files, stacking them together, and addressing his replacement as nonchalantly as possible. His shoulders are set, his eyes are fixed, and his mouth is placed in an innocently relaxed, straight line-- he’s paying attention, playing at breezy confidence; and guarded against Doggett’s by-the-books motives and possible actions.

In short, both men are startled and aware that Mulder’s actions point to some silent message about his read on Agent Doggett’s character. Doggett, who keeps trying to get off Mulder’s bad side, sees this as a possible omen; Mulder, who took Scully’s advice in the last episode and was disappointed-- we’ll get to that-- is unrepentant and a hair shy of blatant dismissal. 

"Am I interrupting anything, Agent Mulder?"

"Nothing you'd be too terribly interested in, Agent Doggett," Mulder sloughs off, tone flat.

In the days that have followed Scully’s release from the hospital, the goodwill Mulder extended has been revoked. The olive branch still hangs between them-- an act of respect for his partner’s opinion-- but any open emotion expressed to one John Doggett has been quickly yanked back and just as quickly hidden away.

Doggett picks up on his mood; and, after dropping the office keys to the left, approaches with a straightforward, though softer, question. "Agent Mulder, what are you doing down here?"

"I'm looking into the recent death of an oil worker," Mulder responds, handing over the folder he's holding freely.

Giving it a cursory glance, Doggett affirms, "Yeah, I got a heads up on it from you a couple days ago."

Hands on his hips, Mulder reiterates, "That's what I'm doing here"-- a very telling reminder.

And there it is: a quick, there-and-gone reply that establishes Mulder’s behavior throughout the episode. Mulder went out of his way to pass along vital x-files information a few days ago; and when Doggett dismissed the black oil case, set it aside as not worth his and Scully’s time, Mulder felt the other man came up short-- that his replacement didn’t have the natural curiosity to suit the files; and that, in conclusion, he had betrayed the integrity of the work.  Worse still, this is the first time since his return that Mulder has extended his own research and efforts to someone outside the core group-- to a newcomer, to him, that arrived on the scene by happenstance and who, somehow, became enmeshed with Mulder’s friends and partner. While Scully was recovering from her abruption, he reached out to his replacement; and was met with silence and dead ends. 

Again, Doggett catches on-- the dig does not go unnoticed. Pausing, then stiffening his own stance, he attempts to assuage the grievance. "Agent Mulder, I understand you have more than a proprietary interest in these cases. But I can't help it if you're not assigned to this unit anymore."

The X-Files co-founder doesn't respond. Doesn't move an inch; doesn't so much as flinch or blink. Reading the impenetrable posture of judgment correctly, Doggett turns aside to drop the file somewhere else.

"I didn't see any reason to pursue this oil worker case."

"Ah, well, maybe you missed the fact that this victim's corpse washed ashore in Port Aransas, Texas. Massive flash burns on 90 percent of his body," Mulder reminds, inflexible.

"I read the report, Agent Mulder, if you're insinuating I didn't" Doggett smoothly bristles, turning back around in mild offense.

"Then you must also know that this man was not the only man to disappear from the Galpex-Orpheus platform that night, but one of two men." Mulder's voice begins to rise as he stresses an odd word here or there, emphasizing the key parts he believes his replacement carelessly overlooked. "The communications officer is also missing--"

"The company attributes that--" Doggett cuts in, not willing to take anymore lecturing, determined to prove he's done his research "--to an explosion on the rig. A 'blowout.' Which they say caused Simon de la Cruz's burns."

Mulder nods dismissively-- nearly rolling his eyes (which he will do later.) "Burns the M.E. said in his report were not inconsistent with exposure to high-levels of radiation."

"'Not inconsistent'," Doggett stipulates, less tense now that the facts have been established between them. "It's not what I'd call a ringing endorsement."

Working up to a paranormal explanation, Mulder's voice rises another level while he points to an arm demonstratively. "These files include the same kind of radiation phenomena. Tissue destroyed by exposure to--"

And here a magical thing happens: Doggett surprises Mulder-- takes Mulder’s profiling and personal assumptions and turns them on their head. While the VCU’s Golden Boy is correct in technicality, the motives he’d ascribed to his rival's dismissive work ethic are not. 

"--Black Oil," Doggett cuts in. He advances after Mulder's nod. "5 years ago you and Agent Scully investigated a case of a WW II plane salvaged from the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. Where a substance was brought to the surface which you describe--”

As Doggett continues to whip out factoids from the files, Mulder is pulled up short: his shuttered, protective veneer falls from his face in shock. His eyes narrow, his eyebrows lower then pitch, his body freezes, and his focus lasers in as he soaks up the other man’s prowess. He’d written off his replacement as a malevolent actor, then as a rival, then as a blind and deaf fool; now, he realizes Doggett is researched and capable.

"--as a highly contagious virus of extraterrestrial origin--"

Mulder smiles, unable to catch himself at Doggett's description. Despite the bite of cynicism lurking in its corners (similar to the one he gave Agent Reyes, here), it is a true, uncalculated grin as well-- the joy of hearing someone else, anyone else, repeat what he has been howling about for years. And respect: a tiny glimmer at the bottom reflecting his growing admiration that Doggett says what something is, and plainly.

“--that has radioactive properties and can take over a man's body. And is part of an alien conspiracy to colonize the planet, if I'm not mistaken."

"And you'd like to help, but you left your light saber at home," Mulder quips-- an acknowledgment that Doggett had read his mind like a jedi master; but that he, too, is capable of the same tricks.

Doggett responds in kind, raising his eyebrows, squeezing his eyes, and shaking his head comically. He's quite proud of himself, and he's not ashamed to be figured out quickly and easily. As long as they’re getting along and getting the job done. More importantly, as long as Agent Scully’s happy. 

In an edgier tone, Mulder asks, "How'd you end up down here, Agent Doggett?" Waiting for Doggett to look back, inquisitively open, he adds, "Kersh catch you peeing in his cornflakes?"

Doggett doesn't know what to make of this question. On the one hand, Mulder is drawing an "us versus them" line, Kersh on one side and both x-files-adjacent inmates on the other. The malevolent distrust, then, is gone at least-- a carry-over from working alongside each other in Empedocles. On the other hand, Mulder's tone is indiscernible. Is he poking and prodding; and to what end? More importantly, it betrays that Mulder is largely ignorant of how Doggett was assigned, or why-- which means Scully hasn't told her old partner about her new partner. And if Scully hasn't relayed that information to Mulder... why hasn't she, and for what purpose?

So, he keeps silent, unable to figure out where to go from here (and Mulder clocks that silence.)

At least the air is cleared between them, Doggett figures, despite their difference of opinion. 

Or so he thinks. 

ENTER SCULLY

The office phone rings. 

Mulder and Doggett lock eyes, studying each other. Both are caught in indecision, wondering if the other will make a territorial lunge to establish dominance; and what that would mean afterward.

Arm extended, Mulder inches to the jack first, looking between Doggett’s hovering, halted hand and restrained, frozen posture. With a sudden bitter twist, he dips his head to the left, looks up, and claims the phone-- acting on a thought that must have passed through his mind. 

Doggett remains still, not asserting his rights in this strange dance of seniority. When Mulder passes the phone over, turning it up with an expression of plastered invitation, he misses the latter's impossibly placid mask completely, a smile curling over what he perceives to be the former head of the files’ generous, symbolic hand-over. 

How wrong he is. 

As Doggett answers, Mulder hangs back, a more natural smile of enthusiasm slipping transiently onto his face-- a tell that he knows it's Scully on the other end, and that he can guess what conference she's currently trapped in.

It's plausible, then, that he suspected (or knew) there would be a call and hung around the office hoping to intercept it.

"John Doggett."

"Where are you?"-- it's Scully-- "The Deputy Director's waiting."

"Yeah. I'm just on my way up."

"Agent Doggett-- why didn't you tell me you were pursuing this Texas oil worker case?"

"Because I'm not."

Eyebrows raised, she explains, "Well, there's an exec from the oil company here who says he was contacted by a man in our office."

"No, that was Agent Mulder."

Looking up from his busywork pretense (fiddling with his coat pocket), Mulder slowly, subtly, unrepentantly pouts.

"What are you talking about?" Scully pushes.

Doggett, realizing that he’s been pacified and partially duped, decisively ends the charade once and for all, roping the instigator into this mess and taking an unambiguous back seat. 

"Gonna let him answer that."

Mulder isn’t bothered in the least: he’s surprised and intrigued by this turn of events. Was it more than he hoped for, or more than he expected from Doggett? Either way, there’s a puzzled emotion in his expression, something he is rapidly working out. 

Mulder’s entrance into Kersh’s office is theatrical... for him. The script describes his behavior as "enjoying his old role as agent provocateur", and it truly fits. Face aglow, smug smirk firmly in place, he advances into the room, gentling slightly after spotting Scully waiting unwittingly by the desk. 

Sliding right up in front of her, he gloats, “Just like old times."

This is a little moment that the episode half-builds on later: the knowledge that he’s open to sharing his conspiratorial meddling with Scully (e.g. breaking onto a prohibited research site in War of the Coprophages, sneaking into an autopsy bay for evidence in Fight the Future, and stealing sensitive information from the government’s archives, thrice, in Three Words) and had probably planned on roping her into this case sometime soon. He’s more openly delighted whenever their paths cross this episode (even though he is doing a lot of solo work behind her back-- a tactic Scully uses, too, throughout their career. Both are cut from the same rebellious cloth.) 

Scully, shocked, stays quiet; but she is not outwardly disapproving-- not at all to the degree she might be (or would pretend to be) if she and Mulder were alone. She remains rooted, nods, and cycles through minute alert, cautiously hesitant expressions until Kersh's patience breaks ("Now it's all making sense.")  

Mulder exaggeratedly sighs, hunching his shoulders up as if facing the big bad in a play. When Scully-- taking the opportunity to escape Kersh’s attention-- skitters off to the sofa, his eyes follow her, fondly, whispering a quiet, "Tough crowd," her way. Mulder is checking his partner's reaction to see if he's taken things too far: not that that would stop him; but he's actively clueing himself back into her moods again, publicly, and trying to alleviate her anxiety for him.

It's a tiny detail that I'm immensely thankful to David Duchovny for-- a reversal of Mulder's averted, jittery eyes in Three Words; a second act to his ease and lessening strain in Empedocles. Another small hint at his return to his former self.

An interesting dynamic begins to unfold here-- or, more accurately, the audience becomes witness to a planned demonstration of the show’s dynamics going forward:

Scully takes a seat, bowing out from the immediate proceedings whilst lobbying questions from her perch-- a position of controlled removal, one which allows her one foot in and out of the files. Her maternity leave is coming up soon; and we know she hadn’t intended to return (Alone), not with a newborn who needed her to come home each night. (The FBI provides excellent family support; but its more mainstream work is also a lower and much safer risk, by and large, than the X-Files division.) However, that doesn’t stop the pull, the allure, of the basement-- “Get out while you still can, Agent Doggett,” she says in Alone: what she means is, before you catch it and can't leave. 

Doggett now stands off to Mulder’s side, arms crossed, lips pinched, expression serious. He has become the new skeptic, the fill-in for Scully’s old role. Not surprising, since the show needed someone to fill her shoes while she filled Mulder’s, but it's undeniably pointed. 

Mulder is the only one from the old times who hasn’t changed-- more accurately, who has but hasn’t wanted to admit it. He’s relishing in poking old hornets’ nests and brandishing forth for old truths, but he hasn’t realistically assessed whether he can, or even if he should, anymore.

Vienen, then, is a case that strips away Mulder’s last self-deception: an unrelenting reminder that life has moved on, that priorities have changed for him; and that, though he might think this unwise, unfair, or even dangerous to his old work, the truth is no longer wholly tied up in the X-Files. As he tells Scully in Essence, “This isn’t about the x-files-- this is only about you.” 

By the close of Vienen, Mulder has realized what is at stake. He is stretched too thin, and worn too weary, to juggle the world and his abduction experiences and his impending fatherhood, let alone like he used to (to be discussed.)  He takes the blame for another man and walks away-- the old self-sacrificial wound coming to the fore-- but that departure is more bitter than sweet: resignation instead of peaceful resolution. Alone prods his feelings about leaving-- his avoidance of those feelings-- and ends with his acceptance of Doggett as the new head. Essence picks up that thread and Existence weaves back through it (i.e. Mulder putting his family completely at Doggett and Reyes’s mercy once he loses faith in himself.) But it’s not until Existence’s close that Mulder fully realizes that he gambled away his last chance at happiness, and almost lost. It’s not until he holds his son in his arms and marvels at HIS and Scully’s miracle that he realizes that the decisions he and his partner were forced to do weren’t at odds with who they are and what they can still do, together. The X-Files might no longer be theirs, but the truth is out there; and they gained a truth of their own besides. 

Mulder’s demeanor switches from professionally flippant to antagonistically serious when Kersh threatens, not agrees, to order an x-files agent out to the Galpex-Orpheus. 

"We're talking about an oil rig, 150 miles at sea. You can't send a pregnant woman," he nearly spits, head twisting from his boss to his partner.

Scully doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react except for a slight eyebrow twitch acknowledging her former partner’s statement. It’s true, she can’t fly; and if Mulder weren’t there railing at Kersh for her, she’d likely be poking at the same stream of logic issuing from her superior's mouth (a behavior she, perhaps, picked up from Maggie Scully, post here.) 

Kersh cuts off all protests with a conniving, “I’m not sending Agent Scully”; and it takes only a second or two for Mulder to work out who he is sending: Agent Doggett, Kersh’s (formerly) cherished potential. The doubter. Shot down and irritated, Mulder rolls his eyes, turning to catch Doggett’s implacable, knowing look. 

We’re not shown Scully’s reaction, but it’s likely similar to her new partner’s: dogged professionalism and an intent to do things right. 

NO MORE MR. NICE GUY

Of course, Mulder completely upstages Doggett’s investigation, beating him to the rig in plainclothes and sitting down to catch an interview before the rightful man shows up. 

And, of course, Mulder, anticipates a reaction-- be it a kick back or an outright challenge-- from Kersh’s errand boy. Slickly, he brushes aside the other man’s thinly-veiled confrontation ("Agent Mulder. Can I have a word with you?") Instead, he wedges him into an impossible position: "If you give me a minute-- I'm just getting filled in on the details of this investigation. Why don't you pull up a seat and introduce yourself so Mr. Taylor won't have to repeat himself."

Doggett, rightfully frustrated, is presented with two options: either assert his authority and destroy Mulder’s credibility with the crew-- in effect, throw a fit-- or let things slide, for now, in an effort to prove he’s not here to fight a petty turf war. At the same time, he's also aware that he is being unequivocally, and unashamedly, maneuvered: treated like a second-rate follow-up to a better and cleverer act. 

And while the wheels spin donuts on the asphalt in his head, Mulder continues to pin him with a rigidly territorial stare from across the room. A warning only Doggett can see: one which states he won't go down without a very loud, very embarrassing fight. 

Professionalism and grinding, instilled respect-- for the oil worker, if nothing else-- beats pride; and John Doggett sits, tamping down his immeasurable frustration with effort. 

During the interrogation, Mulder lets Doggett lead most of the questions, observing him here or there to see how he reacts to the witness's answers. Both men know the worker is lying; but before x-files defacto agent can ask another question, Mulder suddenly wraps up the interview.

"Well, I guess that's it. In a nutshell. Thank you, Mr. Taylor."

Without another word-- and in a move that could easily be mistaken for, or coincide along with, a show of dominance-- he stands abruptly and stalks off, leaving Doggett to trail after. The latter's frustrated "Agent Mulder!" is resolutely ignored-- a silent command to keep up and play along. 

Is it fair of Mulder to act out, continually, on Scully’s new partner? No. But Mulder does have a history of poor behavior when in emotionally compromising states. He rebuffed, then toyed with, then opened up to Scully in the Pilot; and since then, he's treated her with far greater respect than anyone else he's worked with. Mulder has no tolerance for anyone who tests his patience with their blind or willful disbelief-- he won't wait on them to make sweet or kiss it better. He expects them to earn their keep: prove their place, win his respect, catch on and come along. Brush him off or lie or belittle his theories, and he will do the same in return-- pettily in two-fold. Throw in PTSD from his abduction and a sense of being disrespected and swept aside, and it makes for a nasty combo. 

Further still, Mulder is also testing how much of a pencil-pusher Doggett is. He uses irritation to reveal hidden motives: make them angry enough and you will hear how they truly feel, or what thoughts they're harboring but don't want to admit. In the script, Agent Doggett is a confrontational figure, more willing to push back against Mulder's claims on the files, more likely to remind the former head that he and Scully lead the investigations now. In short, this approach worked on paper. It plays out differently in the series, however: Robert Patrick acts the character with more circumspect politeness and awareness. John Doggett's not here to make a fuss unless you poke him about his son. But exploding over Luke is one thing, and standing up to Kersh for the x-files is another. By pushing his buttons and indirectly forcing him to keep up, Mulder is also giving Doggett the opportunity to step up (which we shall hear straight from Mulder's lips pretty soon.)

Is it fair? No. Is it Mulder? Yes.

CONCLUSION

Doggett, whether intentionally or not, shot himself in the foot by dismissing Mulder's first overture of trust. However, he is not the only one to blame for this situation-- if he even is-- because Mulder is returning that perceived wrong with a double dose. 

What will result from their upcoming confrontation: reestablished footing, or equally exchanged doubts and dismissals?

The episode’s almost a third of the way through, so I doubt it will be smooth sailing.

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!  

[phantasmique]

𝕾𝖎𝖓𝖐 𝕴𝖓 𝖄𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝕿𝖊𝖊𝖙𝖍

Summary: Sukuna's heat has finally struck, and despite having a full year to prepare as best as you could, you don't think you'll survive it.

Warnings: 18+ MDI. Sukuna has two cocks because it's canon. Overstimulation, multiple orgasms, a bit of objectification. Possessive behavior.

The entire estate is in a flutter of organized chaos. Every single individual, from the house servants, maids, cooks, and guards all rushing about to get things in order, securing the household and planning for the several weeks ahead that would require a severe sense of tact and delicacy from everyone involved.

It's an annual event. One that is anticipated to arrive in the early summer, the whole of the estate collectively holding their breath as the approximate date looms closer and closer.

Once the fickleness of the spring weather finally shifts, the tepid, pollen perfumed air adjusting to something satiny, humid and warm, you know of what's to come. It never fails to have a nervous flutter stirring in the pit of your gut; excitement and agitation thrumming through your veins.

It's nothing new to you now, having dealt with this exactly four years in a row already, but the suspense of it never truly dims. And the capricious nature of Sukuna's moods doesn't help in that aspect. He's already ornery at the best of times. Testy. Swinging back and forth between that sadistic gloating of his and a terrifying kind of aggression or indifference. But when his . . . heat (he hates when it's addressed as such) approaches, he becomes horrifically combative - even more so, if that's at all possible.

Wildly territorial. His many eyes always subtly shifting, scanning his surroundings for a possible intruder. As though anyone would be foolish enough to sneak into the dwelling of the King of Curses.

Not even his own servants are safe from his increased aggression. Many of them have fallen in the past. Cut down and dismembered for making the mistakes of treading too closely to his chambers. It costed many of them their heads and all of them their lives.

As such, they are all forbidden from entering the northern side of the estate in its entirety, lest they pass within his sight. A gruesome death would certainly befall them. And so they remain tucked within the safety of the servants' quarters, hidden away until his heat finally breaks.

The only individual offered a shred of immunity is Uraume, who is still charged with their duties of delivering breakfast and dinner to Sukuna's chambers. Staying only long enough to supply the meal and not a moment longer.

Though you can't say that everyone is banished from his presence. You wouldn't go as far as to say that you're the reason for the escalation of his hostility and possessiveness, those are all traits that have always been natural to him, but it's clear that it's all magnified because of you.

He becomes protective in a way that should be concerning. Demanding that you remain at his side through all hours, keeping you secure within his quarters and curled on the bedding, bathed in his scent.

It's a grueling two weeks for you. Your mortal body forced to withstand his ceaseless stamina and lust for long stretches, day and night bleeding into each other in a blur smeared with sweat and a torturous bliss.

You're forbidden from leaving his quarters when he's in this state. Lest he become horridly unsettled, pacing around with a snarl. Teeth glinting, pale and lethal, glimmering along with the scarlet flash of his eyes, wide and hyper-vigilant in a search for the possibility of a threat. Of a rival.

He loses himself to those baser instincts. Possessed by the primal urges to keep you hidden, tucked away and protected, pinned beneath his body while he takes you for all you're worth.

You do your best to brace for it. To mentally prepare for the weeks that you'll spend stowed away within his chambers, held to his body as he grips you close with talons and greedy fingers. But no matter how much you try, you're never truly able to poise yourself for the magnitude of his lust.

You had told yourself that this time would be different. You have years of experience under you now. You should have built up the endurance required in that time. You should be able to handle it. Handle him.

How wrong you were.

He's going to kill you.

There's no way that you'll possibly be able to survive this.

It's brutal. Ceaseless. He's using your body as though it's an object. An instrument to get himself off. The massive width of his hands clasping onto you to keep you pinned and trapped in place on his lap, two of them spanned around your hips, another keeping your wrists locked behind your back.

It renders you immobile. Not that you'd be able to move regardless. You think you've gone limp by now. Boneless as he uses the hold he has on your hips to lift you up and down on his cocks. Reducing you to little more than a doll for him to drive himself into; a lewd, wet noise sounding out each time your hips meet, the damp smack of skin on skin echoing out in your ears with every thrust.

You're so full. Both of your holes stretched wide and gaping around his girth, his cocks buried so deep inside of you that you swear you can feel him in your chest, knocking you breathless. The both of them only separated by a thin wall of muscle, and you can feel them gliding against each other.

He's stuffed you with so much cum already, filling your stomach, you swear that it's making you swollen with it. So full that it's begun to drip from your pussy and ass, smearing down your thighs and spilling as he drives himself into you. Determined to give you another load - the third? The fourth? You honestly don't know anymore.

It's impossible to keep track. The pleasure keeps rolling over you, all but clawing and tearing through your body and limbs like one singular wave. You aren't sure if your orgasms are bleeding into each other, connecting together to build into a long stretch of blinding pleasure, or if he's simply just making you cum before you can fully realize it. Playing your body like an instrument.

It's torture. It's bliss. You want it to stop. You never want it to end.

You can't tell visually that your eyes are rolling, your sight ruined by the tears blurring around the edges, but you can feel them slipping back into your skull. The massive tongue lolling out past the mouth that yawns open on his stomach is just as cruel as the rest of him, lashing and lapping at your swollen clit.

It has the breath in your lungs snagging, your voice breaking as he continues to wring your body of every ounce of pleasure it might have; thighs shaking from the onslaught.

"Sukuna - fuck-"

"What a good little pet you are," he praises. His free hand lifts, fingers grasping your chin to keep your head from falling back uselessly on its neck, forcing you to make eye contact. It's difficult to through the tears, and the pleasure licking up your spine, eating at your bones and turning your mind into something blank threatens to have them rolling back again, but you will yourself to keep them open.

"So well behaved and useless. It makes me wonder what your fellow sorcerers would think if they could see you now, all pliant and obedient on my lap. But you don't even care about that anymore, do you?"

Truthfully, you don't. Your sense of pride has long since dissolved in that regard. It was broken down by him, by your own twisted fascination and attraction for him. You can't find it in yourself to be bothered by all of those old ideals and constructs that had held you back before, keeping you from admitting such a truth to yourself.

You don't care if it makes you weak, or foolish, you'd gladly admit your devotion to him, to sorcerers, and to the entirety of humanity.

You know that it pleases him to see you so willing and docile under his control, a talented sorcerer in your own right turning you back on your heritage in favor of him.

Always eager to satisfy him, you find yourself nodding your head as best as you can, fighting against the slack muscles in your neck and the firm grip he has on your jaw; the points of his talons dragging along your flesh.

His grin is more of a snarl, all teeth and arrogance. Combined with the fervent want in his eyes, he looks feral. His pupils are blown wide, black pits swallowing up rings of burning, violent red; the dark of it reflecting the dim lighting like an animal's. It makes you feel like prey. Wounded and vulnerable, pinned between rows of honed teeth.

It should be embarrassing - demeaning how your body flushes with warmth in response, holes clenching tightly around his cocks as though they mean to trap him inside.

He notices of course. You can tell by the way that his grin somehow stretches even wider, further exposing those sharp fangs that you love so much. There's blood tainted between his teeth, a reminder of the marks that he had previously carved along your neck and shoulders, branding himself in your skin.

It's going to take you weeks to recover, for the inevitable soreness in your muscles to finally fade, for the wounds scattered along your neck and thighs to seal over, but you can't be bothered to be worried about it. A part of you relishes the sting of it. The fire that's settled into your sinew and bones. You want it.

"Mmm, you smell like me." He muses, leaning his head down just enough to lick the length of your throat, leaving a trail of scorching heat behind. The wounds along the junction of your neck ache when his tongue lashes over them, making your eyelashes flutter, a soft moan spilling past your lips.

He groans. A low, guttural sound that echoes heavily in his chest and skirts over your own body. It's a pleased noise, as though he's satisfied by the taste of your blood in his mouth; his scent smeared over your heated flesh as though it's your own.

A buried, distant half of you fleetingly worries that he might actually take a real bite out of you. That he might unhinge his jaw and swallow you whole. More concerning is that you'd let him.

The mouth parting his stomach open acts as though it certainly might do just that, the long length of it scaling down your abdomen, tasting the salt on your skin. The tip of it taking greedy swipes at your clit, trailing down to worm itself between where your hips join to trace where his cock stretches your pussy open around its length.

His rhythm hasn't faltered in the slightest. Hasn't stuttered or slowed. A testament to his abnormal stamina as he continues to work you closer and closer to that inevitable high.

You don't know if you can handle another one. Every facet of you already feels as though it's been lit alight, nerves searing and tender from the other highs that he's already pulled from your body. But you know that there's no chance that he's going to stop now.

He's already avaricious when it comes to dealing out pleasure, often not for your benefit, but because he's such a sadist when it comes to it. Finding a twisted sort of delight when he sees tears crystalizing in your eyes; your voice hitching into breathless whines and moans.

And now that he's in this state, driven mad and hedonistic by the instinctual urge to breed you and leave you plugged full and wet with his cum, you know that he isn't going to stop until you're damn near catatonic. Gone dumb and limp.

And you can already feel your mind slipping. Glazing over, turning cloudy and dim. You feel split. Somehow distant, floating away from yourself and yet completely grounded. Encased in your muscle and the ecstasy ravaging your nerves, consuming you entirely. Somehow outside of yourself and smothered all at once.

It's all him now. The warmth radiating off of him and melting into you; the scent of him lacing the air, all dark and musk; the shape of his cock driving through your cunt, splitting you open and carving a place for himself. Repeatedly hammering against the spot inside of you that has your spine bowing and your voice falling silent in the base of your throat.

"So pretty and dumb, and all mine. Isn't that right?"

In any other context, that old sense of frustration and anger that you had once felt might have risen up, stirred deep in your stomach, playing along the fringes of your mind like an old phantom. But now, such a response seems impossible now. It is impossible.

It takes all of your strength to properly respond. Battling to form a coherent thought as he continues to roll his hips up into you. As though he's intentionally trying to make you struggle.

"I think I'll keep you like this." He grins wide, baring his teeth with a crazed glimmer burning fiercely in his eyes. "Stuffed full of my cock and dripping. I won't stop until it's pouring out of you. You'll give me an heir, won't you?"

You find yourself nodding again. Too fucked out to complain that you're already filled to the brim. His previous loads smearing down your thighs and gushing with each heavy thrust. Spilling out of you and staining the bedding.

But his enthusiasm hasn't wavered in the slightest. If anything, it's increased. His lust blazing through him white hot; both of his cocks still rigid, stretching you out to your limits. Bullying you open. You can feel the veins that trail down the length of both his cocks stroking along the walls of your cunt and ass.

It's all so much. Searing and blurring, weightless, filthy, euphoric.

You hardly have time to register that your eyes are rolling. That your body is seizing up tight, and then you're cumming. It lashes through you like a bolt of lightning streaking through the night sky, scorching. Crackling and wild.

You think you're screaming but you aren't sure. It's too difficult to tell past the blood roaring in your ears. Your heartbeat thrumming like a war drum as you gasp and jerk on his lap. But he's ruthless. He doesn't give you a break, doesn't let you breathe.

His grip on your body is firm. Clutching your hips as he continues to spear you on his cocks. Using you to tip him closer towards his own release.

His chest shudders with a heavy groan, his fingers flexing in a bruising grip on your skin and then you feel it - a liquid heat spreading through your stomach, filling you up and you swear that your abdomen stretches from it. The abnormal amount of his cum and the width of his cocks filling your body up its limit.

Twin tears slip down your cheeks when you realize that his pace hasn't faltered. He's still humping his cocks into you. Rolling himself to the hilt, as deeply as he can possibly go like he's trying to force his cum in as far as it'll go.

Your back arches almost painfully. Your body flinching as he grinds his hips into yours, trapping the tongue spilling from that inhuman mouth between your pelvises where it rubs cruelly on your clit. You're split down the middle, torn between the desire to jerk away and to shift closer to the feel of it - electric and bliss.

You want to cry out. A scream lodged in your throat, but you can't force it out. All you can do is take it.

"You didn't think that I'd be satisfied just by that, did you?" He grins down at you again with something malicious burning in his eyes. He leans towards you then, opening his mouth to let his tongue spill past his fangs. It's wet and hot as it trails up the side of your face, licking up the salt from your tears. He purrs like it satisfies him.

It's merciless, the pleasure coiling through your body, slicing up your muscles like molten bands. It's like he's devouring you from the inside out. Hollowing out your insides and replacing it with himself.

You're floating miles above your body, losing sight of the world around you. All you can focus on is him. His scent, his taste, the feel of his skin, the tongue still ravaging your clit, the cocks stuffing you full.

And then he's speaking in your ear in a husky tone that settles in the air like smoke. "We're only getting started."

[gretavanlace]

Breña

Jake Kiszka x reader

18+ only! Minors do not interact!

Warnings: graphic sexual content, unprotected sex, alcohol consumption, mentions of cheating, oral sex (m rec), illusions to oral sex (fem rec), fingering, etc.

Inspired by this delicious ask and blurb that was sent to me ages ago. I promised I’d get to this one, and I did, I’m just sorry it took me so long. Forgive me 💕

Loosely edited, but what else is new?

“Get fucked, Josh.” Jake barks with such venom your head snaps in his direction. He rarely speaks unkindly, even if it is only his twin brother, who will love him anyway, on the receiving end.

For his part in the exchange, Josh merely smooths a nonexistent wrinkle in his shirt with an airy chuckle. “Maybe you should take your own advice, brother. Seems like you need to get laid. Awful testy, darling.”

He means it as a joke. A laugh to lighten the mood. Unfortunately, it doesn’t land and you watch on in shocked silence as Jake slaps his glass of whiskey down on the coffee table before him, and then stalks from the room without a word - his absence solidified by the sharp slam of his bedroom door.

”You shouldn’t have said that,” your admonishment is quiet, issued tepidly while you stare down into your glass of wine. You feel intrusive, yes, but you feel worse for Jake, and that wins out.

”I know,” he agrees with the decency to at least sound repentant, “But I didn’t mean it that way. And besides, it's been months. He just needs to get on with it.”

”He loved her.” Your standpoint certainly doesn’t come from a place of loyalty to Jake’s ex - you loathed her, but instead, for Jake and his clearly wounded heart.

”He didn’t love her,” Josh corrects, and likely rightly so “He loved the idea of her. There’s a big fucking difference.”

Perhaps you shouldn’t insert yourself, but you’ve never been great about biting your tongue. ”Maybe give him some time to figure that out for himself, then.”

Josh rises with a smile that tells you your candor hasn’t ruffled his feathers. It’s so difficult to rile him up that it often feels like some twisted challenge, “Don’t you ever get tired of being right all the time? Seems exhausting to me. You should try being a fuck up…I could give you lessons.”

He drops a kiss upon the crown of your head and trips off to place his glass in the sink. “I seem to have worn out my welcome here at Jacob’s Tavern on the Green. You want a ride? I only had the one.”

”No,” you wave him off and nip at your glass, “I might just crash on the couch. The A/C’s out at my place again.”

”Alright, then,” he shrugs on his jacket and pats at his hair as if he’s prepping for a night out rather than the quick drive home, “Don’t poke the bear though, doll face. I’d like to keep you unscathed. Kinda like you.”

”That’s funny,” you deadpan, “Because I can’t stand you.”

He wrinkles his nose, offers a quick wink, and then out the front door he slips.

The couch remains your lighthouse for a time, but everyone knows Josh gives terrible advice, so if he has warned against poking the bear, that’s obviously exactly what you should do.

That’s what you tell yourself, at least, just before knocking softly on his bedroom door. “Jake?”

Your call is met with silence, but just before you turn to leave, feeling dejected and meddlesome, the door cracks open to reveal him, now barefoot and shirtless…a pair of sweats resting so low on his hips your mind wanders into dangerous territory “What’s up? Bored of my idiot brother already?”

He’s presenting a brave face, but you can see the anguish in his eyes, and also, something else that you can’t quite place.

”He left, actually.” Why do you suddenly feel so stupid? “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You seem…I don’t know, on edge?”

He reaches out and gives your arm a friendly squeeze, “I’m alright, sweetheart. He just dances on my last nerve, that’s all.”

And while that’s not a total lie, you also know there’s a lot more to it, so you gently push him along. “You sure, Jake? You can talk to me, you know? I’ve been there, I understand how hard it is to miss someone you shouldn’t.”

Searching your face for something you can’t identify, he lets a stretch of quiet carry on a beat too long, before finally shaking his head, holding the door open a little wider in wordless invitation.

Once you’re perched awkwardly at the foot of his bed, hands clasped and ankles crossed, he speaks up “I don’t miss her, necessarily. It’s just hard. Especially the way it ended. I just…”

God, he looks so small and walled off. “You just what?”

Slumping onto the bed beside you, he sighs “I just wish it had ended differently.”

”It never ends well,” you flop down as well, and stare up at the ceiling as though constellations might appear to dazzle you. “Everyone always hates the ending. Doesn’t make it any easier, though.”

”Do you miss her?” He asks, staring up at that bright, blank white just as you are.

What an absurd question. Why should he care? And were you really that great at pretending to like her to spare his feelings?

The moment seems to scream for honesty, so you hand it over. “No, I don’t. I never cared much for her to begin with, and then she…” you falter and search for a kind way to describe it, “and then she did what she did to you, and I— no, I don’t miss her at all.”

”It’s alright to just say it. She cheated on me.” He laughs a little. “Fuck, how pathetic does that sound?”

Rolling to your side to face him, you blink away his self deprecation, “It isn’t pathetic, Jake. Not on your end, anyway.”

“I suppose I just wonder what I did or didn’t do, you know?” He chuckles quietly to mask his vulnerability, “What did he do that I didn’t? Why wasn’t I enough?”

“I don’t think that’s really how it works,” you assure him, turning to stare up at his ceiling once again, but now reaching for his hand. “Besides, I can’t imagine you not being enough.”

He returns your encouraging squeeze and makes a half-whispered joke, a verbal mask to hide behind. “Maybe I just wasn’t good enough in bed. I swear I know where everything is, and where things go…mostly.”

”Shut up,” you laugh softly so as not to disturb the calm that has settled. “I have zero doubts about your abilities, Jake Kiszka, in bed or otherwise.”

Now, he is the one rolling to his side to face you. “And what does that mean?”

”I don’t know,” you shrug, suddenly feeling extremely on display. “It’s just…well, in my experience, men like you don’t often disappoint in that department.”

”Men like me?” You have perked his interest and plucked at that mildly conceited chord that lives within him. “And what type of man am I exactly, sweetheart?”

”I’m not going to stroke your ego, Jacob. Though if you’d like to do it yourself, I’d be happy to leave the room.”

He laughs at that, “If I planned on stroking something you’d leave the room? Another devastating blow to my pride.”

You groan in mock exasperation at his tactless humor, earning another chuckle from him. You love the sound of his laugh, and you love being the one to make him laugh even more.

”It’s not like it would matter anyway.” He sighs, nuzzling against his duvet to get comfortable. “Stroking something, I mean.”

”Jake!” Your head whips to meet his scandalous gaze.

”Oh, grow up.” He grins, eyes flashing with mischief, but still something else that you can’t place.

He’s right. You promised him he could talk to you, so you shake it off and start anew. “What do you mean?”

”I just…can’t…” he pauses, searching for his resolve. “Not since she left.”

You’re shocked, and unfortunately, not hiding it well. “You haven’t had sex since then?”

It doesn’t seem possible. He’s gorgeous and charming, charismatic and dripping sex. Women crawl for him everywhere you go.

“I haven’t done anything since she left.” He corrects, dodging your stare. “I can’t. No matter what I do. I feel like I’m losing my mind. Every time I get anywhere near I—“

He abruptly cuts himself off, “I’m sorry. This isn’t cool. I shouldn’t be telling you this. I don’t know what I was thinking. Let’s just pretend it never happened.”

“No,” the last thing you want him to do is shut down. “It’s okay. Talk to me.”

He closes himself off again with a clipped shake of his head ”You don’t want to hear this shit.”

Alright, that’s it, he can’t have it his way. He can fight you tooth and nail, but you’re going to march on anyway and drag him along, kicking and screaming.

“So you haven't gotten off since the split?” You ask as if it’s no big deal…and maybe it isn’t.

“Jesus, babe…” he teases, “such a mouth on you.”

Interesting choice of words, Jacob.

”It’s just surprising to me, that’s all.” It’s a leading comment, and you damn well know it.

”Why?”

”Because you’re you, Jake.” Now you’ve spun to face him again as well. “You just walk around like living, breathing sex all the time. And you’re also a liar with your ‘mostly’ bullshit. You know where everything goes and then some. I can tell.”

”You sound terribly sure of your analysis, sweetheart.” His voice has grown quiet and it makes you long to squeeze your thighs together.

“Am I wrong?” Oh, you seem to have grown quiet as well. When did that happen? “Because I don’t think I am.”

He ignores your question, “Living, breathing sex, huh?”

”Again, I can leave the room if you’d like to sing your own praises.”

His fingers reach up to smooth an errant lock of hair away from your forehead, “You are the one singing my praises. I’m simply enjoying the attention.”

You’re further hushed at his touch ”You’re a smug little shit, you know that?”

“Yes,” he nods, “I do know that…it’s just been a bit since I could remember why.”

You want this. You want this so badly you might even be inclined to beg for it. Instead, you seize the opportunity with feigned confidence. “I could help you. If you wanted.”

His fingers are still caressing your forehead, lulling you so softly, “Help me how?”

”I don’t know,” you’re toying with the chain around his neck now, avoiding his eyes, “I could…try.”

”Try what?” There’s a smirk ghosting at the corner of his beautiful mouth, and it betrays his intentions. He knows exactly what you mean. He just wants you to say it.

Now or never. “I could get you off. If it would help. I mean, I’d like to…I want to help.”

The strong column of his throat bobs as he swallows hard, and then there is his nose, nuzzling against yours, the closest to his kiss that you have ever been ”You want to make me cum?”

The way he speaks of it, as if you two have been here a thousand times together before, is so sexy your head is suddenly spinning.

You offer a tiny nod and then hurry on before you lose your nerve, “You could just lie here and I could…”

Every ounce of confidence seeps from your bones when his eyes, cinnamon sugar and blown wild with lust, catch your own.

”You could what?” He presses the gentlest kiss against your cheek.

”I could use my mouth…I…” fuck, you can hardly breathe, and the room feels too small, crowded up with tension and long repressed desire.

A needy, hungry groan rumbles out of his chest as he pulls you a little closer. “You would do that for me?”

”Of course I would.”

His eyes are on your lips now, agonized and desperate. “Have you thought about it before, or do you just feel sorry for me?”

He knows the answer. There’s that smugness you spoke of.

”I think about it all the time.” You whisper honestly. “Do you?”

”No.” his hands fist into your hair. “I don’t think about my cock in your mouth,” oh god, the way those words tumble off of his pretty tongue, dripping saccharine but so dark “but I do think about my face between your thighs…how you’d sound. How you would taste. How you might rock your hips against me when I got you close.”

In response, you’re on your knees before him in a breath, fingers curled into the waistband of his sweats, imploring him with your gaze for permission.

He nods with a hitching inhale and that’s all the confirmation you need. Pulling them down, there it is. Stunning and achingly hard, thick and pulsing for you. As breathtaking as an obscene symphony. He looks so ready, leaking opalescent droplets into the soft dusting of hair below his belly button. You doubt you’ve ever wanted anything more.

The flat of your tongue runs warm and wet from base to tip, nudging harder at that special spot just below his velvety head. How did you know? He wonders as he twitches against your kiss.

After such a long stretch of fighting to get off, he’s now frightened he just might embarrass himself and cover your lovely face before you’ve even had a chance to suck him in.

But suck him in you do, without warning, and so deeply he can feel the silken back of your throat. Lurching forward, curling in on himself against the pleasure, he chokes out a humiliating sound and grabs at you…one hand tangled in your hair, the other clutched around the nape of your neck. “Oh my god, baby, please…”

You nod your understanding and swallow around him, sweeping your tongue back and forth. He sounds blissful but pushes you away without warning. “M’gonna cum,” he murmurs through his panting breaths, “just give me a second.”

How has he gotten here so quickly? It’s horribly humbling, but he wants it so badly his heart is resting in his throat, thrumming savagely, pulse-points pounding a fierce and uncontrollable beat.

”That’s the fucking point, Jake,” you fist at his wet cock and drink him back down once before pulling back, “You need it, I can feel it. Cum in my mouth. Please?”

Your please, so sweet and innocent while asking for something so filthy, snatches a growl out of him that flushes you with unbearable heat.

Both of his palms find either side of your head tentatively, “Can I stand?”

You nod eagerly around him, and then gaze up at his face once he is hovered above you like a deity soaked in depravity. There is a pink blush painted across the bridge of his nose and cheeks that makes you feel as soft as warm cotton.

“I want to use your mouth,” he hushes, “Is that alright?”

Again, you merely nod with your mouth stuffed full of him.

”You give me a little shove if you want to stop…” he coddles your cheek, and speaks like a lullaby as you blink up at him in consent.

When he drives inside of you, it is a vicious invasion, but one that you’d plead for over and over again. He is buried so deeply inside your throat you can scarcely breathe, but the threading of his brow and the steady moans dripping from his lips are all you’ve ever wanted.

He’s twitching already against your tongue, slipping deeper into you until you’re fighting a gag that only wrecks him further.

One, two, three, thrusts and he is reduced to whimpers, “Shit, oh god, please, I need it. I need it so bad. I need to—“ a pained grunt, through gritted teeth, interrupts his babbling, “I’m cumming, sweetheart…”

The taste of his release dances across your taste buds as you struggle to swallow him down.

He is shuddering and cursing above you, holding you still as he shakes his head violently in apology, “I’m sorry…” his voice is but a phantom of itself, “It’s too much, I shouldn’t have…not in your mouth…oh fuck, fuck…”

And you’d tell him if you could, that it is a privilege…his offering, a gift. Instead, you allow every drop to roll down your throat as you suckle gently for more until he is shivering in overstimulation.

Finally, you allow his cock to slip from your mouth as his thumbs sweep over your cheekbones. “I— goddamn…thank you, sweetheart. I feel like I can’t breathe.”

”You’re welcome, Jake…” your thumbs find their own place to sweep against - his thighs. “Thank you.”

His lips part to protest, but pull back into a snarling hiss when you wrap your hand around his length “You’re still hard.”

He looks half-bashful, “I’d say it’s been a while, but I think it’s just you.”

”Yeah?” You rise from your knees and nip at his chin, “Have I made you hard before?”

”Does someone have a bit of a praise kink?” His grip sinks into the dips of your hips beneath your shirt, “Do you like knowing you’ve made my dick ache?”

”Maybe,” you shimmy your shoulders nonchalantly, “or maybe I’m just a cock tease.”

”Get on the bed.” He demands, in lieu of an actual retort, while tugging at the button and zipper of your jeans. “Everything off. You may lay however you���d like, but I want that pussy on display for me…let me see her.”

You may? Well…there’s that bit of dominance you had imagined hidden away inside of him more times than you care to admit

Dropping down on the bed, completely bared to him for the first time, you close your eyes against his appreciative scrutiny, “You’re fucking perfect,” his words are nearly vibrating, “Stay just like that and let me look at you.”

Demurely, you do as he says.

”Legs a little wider, babe…lemme see that sugary little cunt,” oh, he’s deliciously dirty.

”Hi, pretty girl,” he coos when your knees press against the sheets.

”Hi.” You murmur back softly.

He ever so gently waves you off, “Not talking to you, sweetheart. Mind your own business.”

Your cheek kisses linen as you nestle your face into the bed, content to allow him to have his private moment with your pussy. If that’s what he wants, that’s what he gets

His fingertips are there now, curling so lightly over your swollen clit, pretending like they just might nudge inside you now and then, until you’re writhing with want. “Please, Jake…” a tremulous, tiny mewl escapes you. A vexing little sound that heats your face and betrays your need.

His eyebrows quirk upward, “Inside?”

”Inside.” You nod earnestly.

Without warning, you’re filled with his middle and ring fingers. They search along your walls as his gaze clocks your expression until you cry out. “Right there, baby?” He pouts, mocking your whine. “Is that the spot?”

”Faster,” the blood in your veins is rushing at a feverish pitch, the taste of his cum still lingering on your tongue has broken you wide open.

“No,” he shushes, the soft pad of his thumb nudging at your clit “Nice and slow, sweetheart. Relax for me.”

You do your best and fill your lungs to the brim with air that smells of sex and him before releasing it slowly.

“Good girl, baby.” He praises, fucking you gingerly with his hand as if this is all either of you will ever do for the rest of your days…no rush. “When you cum, can this pretty princess make a mess?”

”Hmm?” You’re a million miles away, drifting through his sea, you’ve barely registered him speaking to you.

“If I make you cum,” he clarifies, pressing up into that place that makes you whimper and half-squirm away. He holds you down firmly, but with such tenderness. “Stay still, for me. If I make you cum just right will you soak my hand all sweet and warm?”

”I can’t…” you flush with inexplicable shame, “I don’t do that.”

”That’s alright…you just let me take care of you.” He sounds like he’s coddling a wounded bird just before he begins curling and massaging inside you with a tiny smirk on his face that seems to claim he knows something you don’t.

Never before has anyone’s touch dismantled you so perfectly, and you’re soaked and dripping; wet, heavenly sounds filling the room to mark your pleasure.

“No messes for my sweetheart? Just a neat and tidy little baby?” He taunts as your thighs begin to tremble, “I think you’re lying. maybe not with someone else, but I know you’ve worked this pretty, wet cunt just right…ruined your sheets, had to fight to stay quiet so no one would hear—“

With a cry that could be mistaken for agonized, you let go…barely there-tiny bursts of slick sprinkling across his palm like a spring mist. Were he a garden, he would bloom so beautifully under the kiss of your meager shower.

“There we go, sweetheart,” your eyes are locked in on his arm, watching the muscles turn and twist as if you’ve been hypnotized. “C’mon, just a little longer, relax, sweet girl, relax…”

It’s like lying in too-tall grass on a breezy day. Warm and gentle like an embrace, and his voice is ferrying you through it all so sweetly. How could she have ever given this up?

When you begin to tense against his ministrations, he pulls back delicately and pats the inside of your thigh, huffing the softest sigh of a laugh, “And you said no messes.”

“Jake,” your hands are instantly hiding your eyes, face sparking heat with a euphoric fluster.

“You did good, baby.” He whispers, kissing a path along your shoulder. “I’ve been thinking about that for a very long time.”

“Please,” your entire body is still inwardly writhing and you can’t manage much more.

“Please what?” His hand, so gentle and soft, drags yours downward to wrap your fingers around himself. He is thick, throbbing rhythmically, and so hard, “You want that?”

He sounds in control, but it’s all there for you in his eyes, he wants this badly. He needs this. He needs you…and not simply because it’s been months.

Grabbing his free hand from where it is resting beside your head against the mattress, you guide it down until his fingers are stroking delicately across you, wetting his touch, warm and silken, “You want that?”

He visibly falters, face ducking to find solace in the crook of your neck, “I want you,” he whispers so airily you aren’t even sure you’ve heard him, “I want you so fucking badly. Please, baby…”

His voice is hushed, dragging across your skin hot and wet, desperate and hungry, you couldn’t deny him even if you were crazy enough to want to.

“You don’t have to beg,” you promise, hands now petting through his hair. “You take what you need, Jake…it’s all for you.”

”I need to get off again first,” the words sigh warm against the shell of your ear, “I’m too close. You’re so pretty and warm, and you smell so good. My sweetheart.”

”Well, look who gets soft when he’s this hard.” You tease, gently stroking the cashmere tip of his cock against your clit. “You cum as fast as you need to, let me do this for you.”

Again, his beautiful face drops to hide away, mouth sucking chills into your throat.

“I don’t want to be that guy.” He confesses, sounding shy in a way you’ve never heard before. “I want to get you there, too.”

You reach down deep and find your nerve, “Is this a one time thing? It’s okay to say yes.”

At last, his stare finds yours, “I certainly fucking hope not.”

”So, you’ll owe me one.” You shrug with a cheeky smile to soothe his nerves.

”No.” he shocks you with a fervent shake of his head as he lines himself up, nudging in gently with his pillowy soft tip, “I’m gonna get you off, baby…right on my cock.”

Dirty fuck, who would’ve thought?

”Deeper, Jake,” you’re whining already, fingernails sinking into his shoulders to pull him in closer. “Fuck me.”

”Say it again.” He orders, kissing a path along your jaw.

”Fuck me,” you repeat as though you know nothing but how to follow him into the woods, “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, please…”

His cock is right there teasing at you, barely inside, working your entire body into a frenzy, you want it so badly.

”Please?” His nose Eskimo kisses yours, “You’re begging very sweetly. You sound like an angel.”

“Haven’t I begged enough?” The words pant out of you warm against his lips and that - the taste of your aching need, shoves him over the edge.

Hips rolling, he slides into you like he was made to fit. The stretch is a lovely, stinging heat that claws a blissful cry from deep within your lungs. It's his favorite sound, he decides in an instant, and he wants to listen to it for the rest of his life.

As if the two of your were created simply to share this together, he fits inside of you perfectly, nestling against that sweet, hidden spot over and over until your back has arched away from the sheets and your nails scratch at him for purchase.

”So soft and tight,” his praise is but a breath, “You feel so fucking good.”

”I’m close,” you whisper back, cunt gripping at him violently, “don’t stop.”

”Wait for me, sweetheart…” he sounds filthy and angelic all at once. “I’m almost there, just…fuck, just wait for me.”

”Inside,” have you even made a sound? “Do it inside, Jake.”

”Are you sure?” He slurs, drunk off of you and ready to melt.

”Yes,” you nod frantically against the pillow, knotting your hair, “Do it. Fucking do it.”

Lost for words, he replies with a growl that takes that tightened coil deep in your belly and snaps it into pieces.

”Oh fuck,” his body tenses against you, thrust losing rythym as you flutter and clench around his twitching cock. “Gonna cum, baby, yes…you feel so…fuck…”

You watch in awe as his face twists gorgeously, eyes rolling back before squeezing closed, lip curled into a delicious snarl - and then, with a drawn out groan of your name, he collapses against you, kissing gratitude and love against your throat until the tickle of his hair makes you giggle.

”Get off me,” you laugh, shoving at his shoulders tenderly as he rolls to his side, smiling prettily at you like a kid in a candy store.

”You have magic between those pretty thighs.” He sighs, smoothing your hair. “I’m gonna tear solos up about it. Write the dirtiest riffs and licks all about that perfect pussy.”

”You’re fucking disgusting,” you sigh back, attempting to chase down your breath, “and such a guy.”

He pulls you in close, tucking his body, slick and hot, into your own, “Shh, you love me.”

Maybe he doesn’t mean it that way, and maybe you don’t either, just yet…

…but maybe you will.

Taglist: @gretasintrees @greta-van-chaos @celestialfauna @s0livagant @groggyvanfleet @kiszkathecook @brokenbellz @llightmyllovee @doodle417 @seventieswhore @jake-kiszkas-smirk @weightofdreams-gvf @imdepressedaf1996 @alisonwonderland29 @gretavanfleas @gretavangroove @sparrowofthedawn @xserenax-13 @tbagggvf @obetrolncocktails @tripthelightfandomtastic @jakeslovehandles @poofyloofy @70sgroupielovr @heatmyfleet @sammiboo162 @spicedandicedtea @jakekiszkasleftnutsack @saoirsemaeve @mywickeddivinity @lvnterninthenight @paintmyhouse @tripthelightfanfic @mckenna4 @sarakay-gvf @theweightofjake @thewritingbeforesunrise @joshsmama @sammysvanfeet @rhythm-of-space @highladyofasgard @calumspretty @sad1lynn @demolitionndann @gvfpal @starcatcher-jake @gretavangroupie @hugorobinson @jaketlove @josh-iamyour-mama

[nightlyrequiem]

headcanons about jealous, slightly controlling valeria? your writing eats everytime

I love jealous and slightly controlling Valeria...

also thank you :3

Jealous Valeria Headcanons

It doesn't take much for Valeria to feel jealous. She's territorial over everything. Including you. She tries not to make it your problem. She's self-aware enough to recognize that she probably shouldn't be.

But she is. If you're the type of person to wear skimpy or more revealing clothes, she hates it. I mean, she loved it before you started dating because she loves looking at you, but she hates it because other people will look. One of her biggest fears is someone taking that as an invitation to approach you, and you playing into it. Valeria loves you and trusts you to an extent, but she just can't help but worry about you flirting with other people behind her back.

You two have fought over that a few times. when Valeria was feeling particularly testy about an outfit. You're in a relationship, why do you still want to dress like a slut? Valeria knows you're attractive, who else are you trying to impress? By the end you're upset and possibly crying. She feels bad but she doesn't retract her statements. She doesn't stop you from throwing out the outfit she had an issue with.

Valeria also has an issue with your friends. Men? No. Women? Absolutely not. Nonbinary? No. Mostly if they're attractive. If they're people she deems ugly then she's less inclined to be an issue about it. Regardless, she doesn't like it when you hang out with them. If you make plans, she'll try to make you change them. Guilt trip you into staying home. What, do you like them better than her? You got the hots for one of them? Why are you fighting so hard to go be with them?

Valeria has to have the passwords to your phone and social media. She gave you hers so it's only fair. (Except it kind of isn't because she doesn't use social media. she only has the apps you have so she can monitor you.) If you like something or post something she doesn't like she gets all moody. And God forbid you get a random DM. Your account has to be on private. Sometimes, when you're asleep she'll log into your account and go through your followers and who you're following. Removing whoever she sees fit.

You aren't the only one who has to deal with it though. You've lost a few friendships because Valeria went to them without you knowing and threatened them into leaving you. She gets incredibly agitated when you bring it up.

Breaking up doesn't get rid of her either. Break ups are really only temporary breaks in her eyes. If you try to date it won't go over well. She'll do whatever she can to sabotage you. Harming the other girl or threatening to, spreading lies about you, whatever she can to keep you single. If you can't be happy with her you aren't allowed to be happy with anyone else.

And if you somehow manage to get another girlfriend? Oh, Valeria is livid. Valeria will try to charm you back into her life. She doesn't care if you're in a relationship, she had you first. (She is definitely not a girl's girl...) She'll try her hand at emotional manipulation if that doesn't work. "I'm so miserable without you mi Vida..." "I can't sleep knowing you aren't mine anymore..." and the worst "If you don't talk to me I'll hurt myself." She won't. But she's trying to take advantage of that softness in you.

I think some of this is more than slightly controlling but oh well.

[serpentface]

Traditional women's dress in Bylaea. Left to right: Rodi-Byla, Saloche, Varkhata-Byla, Uswa-Byla, and Ugarre-Byla

Bylaea is a large island to the north, predominantly inhabited by humans and elowey organized into five major nations. Four speak a shared Bylaean language and share a close degree of cultural ancestry (those who use the '-Byla' suffix, meaning 'folk'). The Saloche are the only exception, who are not originally from this land and have gradually immigrated over a period of centuries.

Bylaeans are heavily interspecies peoples. Varkhata-Byla kin structure is unique in its fundamental dependency on having both human and elowey members in a clan, but all Bylaeans draw little to no fundamental distinction between the species, and share a belief that humans and elowey were once the same.

----

A rough map of Bylaea showing the approximate territories of each people

Varkhata-Byla: A human and elowey people who occupy the northern coasts and the surrounding lands, and depend heavily on the sea for sustenance. They are the most prolific sailors and traders of all Bylaeans, and have the largest population outside of their homeland. They believe themselves to be the first people of Bylaea, and that all others (aside from the Saloche) are their descendants. This has historically manifested in various degrees of territorial paternalism and aggression, as some believe that Bylaea should belong to the Varkhata entirely. Their relation with all other nations tends to be testy and Varkhata clans rarely marry outside of their people.

(Design notes- this is a bridal dress. It contains gold and silver, precious metals mostly acquired in trade from off the island)

Rodi-Byla: A human people. The Rodi are the most populous Bylaeans, occupying the rainforests and mountains of the south-southeast. The Rodi credit themselves as the inventors and masters of the ski, which is vital to hunting efforts in the winter. The Rodi are also the most intensive agriculturalists, and have cleared away large swaths of rainforest for crops. They have been introduced to the domestic moose of Ursval in recent history, and are its most enthusiastic adopters in Bylaea. 

(Design notes- Braiding and tying one's hair into a mock beard is a common hairstyle for Rodi women. She also wears a moose and boar tooth necklace, and a jacket depicting geese- all culturally significant animals to the Rodi)

Ugarre-Byla: A predominantly human people who claim most of the coastline of the Goosefeather Gulf and the Gulf's waters. They have a testy history with the Varkhata and have fought multiple wars over the north coast of the Goosefeather, but have a generally positive trade relation with the Rodi and frequently intermarry.

(Design notes- this necklace is made of polished coral. Ugarre women of marriageable age shave their eyebrows )

Uswa-Byla: An elowey people who live mostly along the Great Salmon River, with populations scattered sparsely across the marshy southwest of Bylaea. The Uswa rely heavily on the rivers, lakes, and swamps in their territory for sustenance, and are uniquely poised to exploit it given the physiological adaptation to water found in northern elowey populations. They have historically skirmished with the Varkhata, and have positioned themselves as allies to the Saloche in recent centuries.

(Design notes- This woman wears paint to emphasize bare areas of facial skin, which is considered attractive. Mother of pearl beads and buttons are sewn into her clothing. This headdress is particularly elaborate and would likely be worn at a wedding or festival.)

Saloche: A human people from across the northern sea. The Saloche homeland was a relatively small island to the north, which has been slowly swallowed by the sea over the past millenia. They started migrating a few centuries back, and settled primarily into mountainous regions that were not heavily occupied, though land conflicts are frequent with the Varkhata-Byla in particular. They do not share a common language with other Bylaeans and do not refer to themselves with the -Byla ('folk') suffix. Saloche migrants also reached the Moorlands (island chain southwest of Bylaea) and parts of the northern Dainlands.

(Design notes- This woman wears a traditional feathered hood made from crow and flightless grouse feathers. Saloche women shave their heads.)

[wishing-stones]

Monster Sexuality and Gender Views, and Humans in the Underground

Anyway time for more LGBTQ+ positive content!

So I touched on this a little bit before, but I figured I'd detail my headcanons a little more in light of recent events.

Monsters are born with gender-neutral terms. Until they are old enough to communicate what they would prefer to be called, they are referred to with they/them pronouns. Sometimes they can communicate this fairly shortly after birth, other times, it takes until they're a little older and can properly communicate their feelings on the matter. Pronoun changes throughout childhood are common as monsters discover who they truly are, and most of the time, they have it largely figured out by the time they leave their stripes (become and adult: all kids wear stripes after all!) Sometimes, it takes them a little longer to figure out, but it's incredibly easy for monsters to adjust to new names and pronouns (Mettaton; Alphys immediately uses the right names and pronouns once she makes him his body, or presumably before, when he told her.)

Humans who fall into the underground are no exception to this rule. If they vocalize their pronoun preference, those will be used. Until then, they are referred to in the gender-neutral. This sometimes takes the younger humans by shock, but it's historically gone over pretty well.

Entering very large headcanon territory: Chara and Frisk are both AFAB, but greatly enjoyed gender-neutral pronouns. For Chara, it became an instant preference because they liked it so much. Frisk was a little more chill about it, but never correcting people spoke louder than they could. (Further headcanons have Chara falling into the realm of demigirl, while Frisk is non-binary through and through. Chara tolerates she/her sometimes, and Frisk doesn't really care all that much, but might get a little testy if someone tries to shove them into a gender role. These are just personal takes on them and not supported by canon.)

This applies to all humans in the underground, from children to adults. This also applies to any humans encountering monsters in other spaces, either on the surface or even in the greater UTMV at large.

Regarding sexuality, I've said that most monsters are Pansexual, because monsters as a whole species are incredibly diverse, but can all interbreed. Some monsters develop more specific sexualities and attractions (Undyne) while others might drift towards Asexuality. All of this is commonly accepted, because monsters are made partially of compassion. (Another smaller headcanon here is that this large acceptance may have played a role in the war, because humans are, on the whole, stupid flighty creatures of habit and aggression. What they shunned, monsters accepted.)

I think that about covers it. So, yeah. You can't be transphobic or homophobic in this fandom, the canon literally goes against it, and my headcanons are that you and your bigotry can suck big fat eggs and kick rocks monsters are very 'come as you are' to everyone.

[searenbound]

In my defense, I’m gay and ovulating don’t look at me. Had to cut this short because I have to get ready for work

Warnings: afab reader with fem pronouns, genderbending, I used the name Katsumi for fem!Bakugou, pussy play, cliffhanger ending

Pairing: Fem!Katsuki (aka Katsumi for this piece) Bakugou x reader

It’s late, much later than either woman would usually be up by and the day had been long and difficult with a larger than average workload. So one might think that the usually testy woman knelt between two plush thighs would have some form of haste in her actions.

This was to just blow off some steam after all, however fast and quick wasn’t her goal here, no she needed to feel in control here.

“K-katsu, you’re being too mean!”

(Yn) whines at her lover who was taking her time exploring what was long since memorized territory. Dragging out every touch with an agonizing slowness that was deliberate and painfully measured.

A patience that the blond only seemed to be capable of when torturing her darling girlfriend. And one that came with a sickly sweet smile and a teasing voice.

“Am I? If I’m so mean to ya, then why are you so damn wet huh? I can feel it through these pretty little panties and I’ve barely touched you Princess” she purrs dragging her fingers along the damp fabric, tracing the slit hidden beneath it.

“T-that’s no fair! You keep teasing me and—”

“Oh? So it’s my fault you forgot how to use your fucking manners?”

She interrupts, pressing her thumb deeper into the fabric and gently rubbing against her clothed clit.

“P-please, touch me”

“Huh? Thought I was, you wanna be more specific with me?”

She hummed, glancing up to take in their appearance a faux bored expression.

Big glassy wet eyes looked back with desperation, glossy lips puffy from anxious teeth chewing at them and parted in slight pant. A beautifully wrecked woman trembling on the edge of their shared bed, still so shy to speak her mind after the years they’ve spent together.

“Katsumi, please don’t make say it out loud! It’s embarrassing!”

She whines, barely above a whisper in tone. And her sweet loving, cruel and sadistic girlfriend, only huffs a laugh and pulls away altogether.

“If you’re not going to say anything, then I don’t think I should do anything to you. That’s how this works right? I’d be a fucking monster if—”

“Fine! You win! I-I want you to…” she pauses for a moment to steel her nerves “I want you to play with it”

“Play with what? You gotta say it Baby”

“M-my pussy, I want you to—”

She’s cut off with a kiss, messy and wet and filled with every ounce of passion her love has for her before she’s gently pushed onto her back.

“See? That wasn’t hard now was it?” Katsumi teases as she finally pulls the drenched fabric off her lover’s body “Made me wait for what?”.

(Yn) wants to huff and complain that she was the one to keep them waiting, but her complaints die on parted lips that can only moan when that devilish pink tongue drags against her aching sex.

[bisexual-thoughtss]

hi! i love your work and was just wondering if you’d be able to do more art student!reader x tim laflour :)

Absolutely, I love Tim with art student reader!!

Tim is always ready and willing to help you with anything. You need someone to draw? Just tell him how to pose. You need to take a trip to some obscure store to get something? He’s coming too and you’ll make a day of it

He loves watching you create. He knows you get a little testy about it, never wanting anyone to see your work until it’s finished, so he’s perfected watching you while pretending to do something else.

If you’re working on a piece and he’s got his head buried in a book? That boy is not reading. He’s watching you work, admiring how your pencil scratches over the paper, or how your brushstrokes flow or whatever else you may be doing.

He loves to watch something come to life in your hands, and getting to see the idea you’re excited about come to fruition.

He’s always there to lend an ear or a shoulder to lean on when something isn’t going quite right. You can bounce ideas to fix it off him and he’ll do his best to help. Or if you just need to rant about it he’ll be there to listen and talk you off the metaphorical edge.

Tim especially loves when you draw him. Not in a vain way, all of your art is beautiful, but the way you draw him is not how he sees himself. You draw him like he’s really a work of art, and he’s amazed that you see him like that.

Whenever he catches you working on something he loves to wrap his arms around you from behind so he can peek around and see what you’re doing. Your hands are always covered in something, so all you can do (while avoiding making a mess) as he presses kisses to your neck is giggle and squirm under him. He’s always careful to let you know he’s coming, never wanting to surprise you and risk messing you up.

One of these times, after he’s turned you into a giggling mess you can’t help but pull him into a kiss. Forgetting all about your messy hands, and leaving charcoal smeared across his cheeks. Once you pull away, you can’t help but laugh at the mess you’ve made. You apologize, but every time it happens after this you manage to leave something on his face. Some color along his jaw, a little boop of charcoal powder on the tip of his nose, a smear of paint on his neck, just something to leave a little mark on him. You start to enjoy marking your territory, and even though he acts like he doesn’t like it, he secretly loves that you want to mark him so people know he’s yours.

[radioiaci]

Alastor harbors two shadow gators in his bayou by the names of Jean and Baptiste. There used to be a third by the name of Lamarck but misbehavior has relegated the third to being held within the skeletal remains that are on the wall above his writing desk. They live off of both real and manifested foods and do not leave the bayou. Jean is the more jolly of the two - though that does not make him friendly. He is eager to eat, enjoys basking in the non-existent sun, and is very attached to his 'brother'. Baptiste is the more aggressive and territorial, greedy and testy. He often starts tiffs with his brother and is the reasoning for the 'third' brother being relegated to a wall decoration. Alastor is fond of them, but they are not tame by any means. He will get bitten by the creatures if he forgets that they are truly wild in nature.

[blackjackkent]

All right, no more putting it off. Time for Mizora's visit.

Somewhat amusingly, the scene starts out with Wyll and Rakha just sort of standing awkwardly near each other and Wyll has the goofiest smile on his face which is not really apropos to the situation, but it's still kind of cute to think that maybe he just looks like that sometimes when he looks at her, even in bad situations:

(Rakha, of course, is completely distracted from the cute smile and looks preoccupied as hell, which is apropos.)

Whatever Wyll might have in mind to say at this moment, however, is interrupted by the sudden opening of a hell-portal, for the second time, in the middle of their camp:

Mizora does not waste time in greetings, but lifts a hand flaring with hellfire in her palm.

"Sorores surge. Testis esto pacti mei!" she cries.

More portals burst open around the camp, disgorging forth a handful of other devils - women in silk dresses with wide, leathery wings and bright, glowing eyes.

"Come, sisters!" Mizora cries. "Be my testament! Notum sit in Baator!"

Around the camp, echoes of the words roll back from the mouths of the assembled devils. Mizora smiles in satisfaction.

"Holy hells," Wyll whispers unsteadily.

Every muscle in Rakha's body is drawn tight, every sense on alert. She feels acutely aware of the number of strangers in the camp at present, their malicious intent, and Mizora at their head. The beast in her head growls like a beaten dog backed into a corner; it wants to rip and rend and tear at these interlopers into their territory, and at Mizora most of all, who has called that frightened and weary look into Wyll's face.

But she holds herself back with every ounce of control she possesses, because to attack Mizora would be to doom Wyll. The pact is not yet broken. When it is... when Wyll is finally free... she and Mizora will have a final reckoning, and it will not go well for the devil. But until then... she waits, and watches Wyll out of the corner of her eye, ready to act as he sees fit.

"Just what are you up to?" she asks, very carefully, as if afraid to jar herself loose from her own control.

"I come to bargain," Mizora says with a casual smirk. "The Hells demand witness."

"Enough, Mizora," Wyll snaps. "Where is my father? How do I save him?"

Mizora's smirk deepens, utterly untroubled by Wyll's anger. "How else?" she purrs. "We bargain. Sisters...?"

She gestures with one hand, and the summoned devils begin to intone a chant in Infernal. In her other hand, Rakha watches the Weave give a shuddering jerk as if ripped apart by gripping hands, and from within the wound in the fabric comes forth an enormous piece of parchment inscribed with glowing letters.

She can see the magic dancing on its surface, over every word. It doesn't take much effort for her to guess what this is, even before Mizora explains it.

"Your contract, Wyll," the cambion says, mocking laughter in each word. "Signed in blood, forged in fire, bound in bone - but not unbreakable."

Then break it! Rakha wants to scream, to demand, to rip Wyll away from Mizora's control for good. She can already guess where this conversation is heading, and the dark certainty of it makes her tremble with rage.

But she says nothing. She waits. She waits... and the hammer falls.

"But no contract is ended without sacrifice, Wyll. The cost must be paid."

Fire bursts up around her, around all the devils in the camp, sending weird flickering shadows across the scene, lighting Mizora's face ominously from below. She raises her hands and her voice booms out across them, raising the hair on the back of Rakha's neck.

"WYLL RAVENGARD!" she booms. "A choice is before you! Option one - I show you the way to your father. I guarantee him no harm except that from you and your allies. And you pledge your soul to me and the archdevil Zariel in a pact eternal. Option two - I break your pact, and you are freed from your duty. Your father dies by his enemy's hand, and Baldur's Gate loses its greatest champion."

She smiles; her eyes glow like burning coals in the hellfire light. "Name your sacrifice!"

"Bloody Zariel!" Rakha hears Karlach shout from beyond the fire. "I won't let her take Wyll!"

"SILENCE, KARLACH!" Mizora barks.

Wyll's shoulders have hunched up as if defending him from a physical blow. "Mizora, you arsehole--" he growls.

"CHOOSE!" she snaps, and laughs.

Rakha's blood runs cold. I knew it, she thinks bitterly.

Kill her... growls the beast. Take the choice away and punish her for giving it. Rip out her guts and see what a devil looks like from the inside...

But she can't. She can't... because that would destroy Wyll... and yet the choice is impossible.

(A/N: I'm still salty as hell that you can't let Wyll make this choice on his own. It's the only companion decision that you can't leave to the companion themselves. I think, however, we can safely guess what his choice would be, if the option were given.)

Well, not impossible. Were it Rakha's choice alone, she would break the pact without hesitation. Wyll needs to be free. What did Ravengard do for him besides turn him out into the cold when Wyll needed him most? Wyll has trusted and loved Rakha in spite of the monster inside of her, but Ravengard did not have the strength to do the same. He does not deserve Rakha's pity, and Wyll deserves far better than either of them.

Besides... she is all too familiar with being trapped in the service of a power inside her head that she doesn't control. Hers is baked into her very blood and flesh, but Wyll, at least, has the possibility of freeing himself from his.

"The half-life of a mind-addled slave is worse than death," Astarion said, when she told him of Bhaal's taint in her blood. And she knows he was right.

The trouble is, of course, that Wyll will not see it this way. She knows all too well that he sees his father as a hero, a man to be emulated in all things. He will want to sacrifice everything to save his father, even if his father would not do the same for him.

It isn't fair! she thinks, petulant, angry, as if her rage could somehow change the truth of the situation.

There is one final thought, though, that seals things for her beyond anything else. You pledge your soul to me, Mizora said, and to the Archdevil Zariel in a pact eternal. That could mean anything - but there is the possibility that it means that once Ravengard is free, Mizora will take Wyll to the Hells. And he would be gone from her, and she would never see him again, and she would be alone with her own father's voice keening for blood in her head.

And she is not sure, without Wyll, if she can resist it.

"Break the pact, Wyll," she mutters. Shame floods her, knowing that it is selfish fear as much as love or hope that drives the words. "You deserve your freedom."

Wyll flinches, his expression twisting with agonizing pain. "You damned wretch," he snarls-- and perhaps he means Mizora, but perhaps he means Rakha, too, and the possibility stabs deep into her heart. But the words are spoken, and they can't be taken back.

His shoulders slump and his eyes close. "Do it," he mutters. "Break the pact."

Mizora tips her head to the side, visibly surprised, but her brutal smile doesn't shift. "Fiat ita," she intones, echoed by the devils surrounding them.

The Weave swirls around them in a burst of ripping, tearing energy, sloughing around Wyll's body, snapping the bonds tying him to Mizora by his hands, his eyes, his hips. The glowing contract flares up in a burst of fire, burning away into nothingness and leaving behind a singed mark in the magical fabric.

One by one, the witness devils disappear back through the portals that brought them, until only Mizora stands before them, still wreathed in the fading fire.

"Didn't think you had it in you," she says brightly, dusting her hands off with a conversational attitude, deliberately ignoring the anguish on Wyll's face as he sinks to his knees. "Seems my boy's all grown up."

She steps forward, close enough to give him a smart tap on the shoulder. "And don't go fussing about your father," she says coolly. "You made your choice; you knew the terms."

Drawing herself up to her full height, she meets Rakha's eyes and smirks. She's certainly fully aware of the fury in the half-orc's eyes - but it doesn't concern her any more than Wyll's agony does. "You know what..." she says, with mock-thoughtfulness, tapping a fingertip against her jaw. "I think I'll stick around." She snickers. "Not for the greater good, you understand... just for the entertainment."

-----

The flames fade. Mizora turns and walks away, her wings folding around her as she moves to a position at the edge of camp, casually settling herself against a tree. She catches a baleful glance from Aylin as she passes the aasimar, and grins, waggling her fingers in a playful wave.

Rakha sags, weary and angry, her eyes narrowed. She waits for Wyll to say something, anything... but he doesn't speak. He just sits on his knees in the dirt for a long, long time, then climbs to his feet and slowly trudges away towards his tent.

[bonefall]

any thoughts about Deerfoot, Patron of Rebellion? (Totally not bc I have a drawing of him in the works, and don't want to get any details wrong haha)

WELL,

Him and Pearstar tend to "compete" a bit, some patrons overlap until one beats the other out, or they settle into different, adjacent roles.

Pearstar tends to be associated more with people who HAVE power stepping up to do what's right, where Deerfoot is more of a Guerilla's Patron.

Deerfoot has been a lot more popular in the modern era because of this, with how opposition to The Kin and The Impostor are both almost entirely unapproved by the other leaders.

But on that note, both of these gods are worshiped VERY quietly. In hushed tones.

A Leader is a holy figure. To openly discuss their overthrowing could be a kind of blasphemy in and of itself.

I like to think that people carve very tiny trinkets out of deer "ivory" in Deerfoot's image.

He is a very rare exception to the "StarClan spirits are invoked; Dark Forest demons are channeled" rule. There are times where you don't want StarClan to know what you are planning...

And he is there to advise you on if he agrees with your cause or nay.

He was involved in opposing Brokenstar, Nightstar, and Tigerstar. When Nightstar tried to drive out WindClan for ShadowClan's benefit, Deerfoot turned HARD on him. He was never afraid to oppose someone doing the wrong thing.

Deerfoot famously died refusing to rat out any of his supporters, and ended up being the ONLY cat to be killed in retaliation for letting the prisoners escape.

He was beaten before that, though. When he died, he was already a bloody mess. Tigerstar learned his lesson about just starving prisoners before setting an executioner on them.

It was probably Blackfoot who did the deed. I imagine he handled every execution; THOUGH they might have forced Jaggedtooth to do it.

If it was Jaggedtooth, Deerfoot didn't fight. Jag was one of his accomplices. They both knew very well that he couldn't make a stand here-- he needed to do this, and keep himself safe.

He was eventually buried in a "Rogue's Graveyard" of sorts, a big pit where they tossed most of the TigerClan victims in RiverClan territory. For the brief period of time before the destruction of the White Hard, anyone could go there to pay their respects.

RiverClan had been pretty testy about visitation towards the end, though.

If you need a picture, here's his refresher and here's his sheet, which was one of the first reduxes I did. He's got these long, sweeping whiskers and a lanky kind of build, with his mother's lip.

[determunition]

Any plans to include Luke’s sister El in OLD_FOLKS_HOME? It makes sense if you don’t, from what I hear she’s more a part of the console ARG and doesn’t have much of a presence in the main game (plus she’s already passed on by the time the game begins, so maybe it can be said she did exist in OLD_FOLKS_HOME in the past but Luke and Poe don’t like talking about her that much because she’s dead?)

yeah, i've kind of always kept el out of OFH because she's already passed and would be a bit of a sore subject! i think in particular poe would be a bit testy about her, since he's been infamously distant with his family and probably feels remorseful that he didn't spent as much time with her as he should have before her untimely death. if you want to get really angsty you could even say that's why he's finding it more and more important to spend time with luke during the events of the story

ultimately though, OFH is primarily a silly romp of a story and as such i've purposefully kept it from going too far into angst territory! i already take it way too seriously as it is lol; though if you'd like to see how a subject like el could be handled in a retyrement-type setting, @naturallydark did a pretty bang-up job incorporating her into his Cardmas fic! honestly if anything in those scenes/moments jived with my own plot direction i'd probably find a way to do something similar in OFH

TL;DR i don't plan to add or mention her in the story proper! but she does exist on the fringes of the canon, similar to a couple other characters i've yet to do anything with lol

[diceriadelluntore]

Storia Di Musica #321 - Okkervil River, The Stage Names, 2007

Fino a 15 giorni fa non conoscevo questo gruppo, e la sua storia variegata e spassosa. Non conoscevo ovviamente nemmeno il loro modo di fare musica, che mi ha colpito davvero tanto. Will Sheff, voce e chitarra, Zach Thomas al basso e al mandolino e Seth Warren alla batteria sono tre amici sin dal tempo del liceo, e vivono nel New Hampshire. Si trasferiscono dopo il college ad Austin, in Texas, e mettono su una band: prendono nome dal titolo di un racconto di Tat'jana Nikitična Tolstaja (che discende da un ramo minore dei Tolstoj), contenuto nella raccolta Sotto Il Portico Dorato, che si intitola Sul Fiume Okkervil, che è un breve fiume che passa per San Pietroburgo: Okkervil River. Siamo a fine anni '90 del '900 e i nostri registrarono un album autoprodotto composto da sette canzoni intitolato Stars Too Small To Use. Iniziano a fare concerti, la band si allarga (Jonathan Meiburg alla fisarmonica e poi all'organo). Nel 2002 la famosa etichetta indipendente Jagjaguwar li mette sotto contratto: Seth Warren abbandona per seguire la carriera accademica a Berkely e viene sostituito da Mark Pedini alla batteria. Nello stesso anno pubblicano il loro primo LP, Don't Fall In Love With Everyone You See. Un anno dopo si spostano a San Francisco, Warren ritorna in gruppo, e pubblicano Down The River Of Golden Dreams. La band ha continui cambi di formazione, ma raggiunge una certa forma quando Travis Nelsen sostituisce Pedini alla batteria e si aggiunge un altro chitarrista, Howard Draper. Con questa formazione, nel 2005, pubblicano il loro lavoro più riuscito, che li fa conoscere in maniera decisiva anche oltre la scena indipendente: Black Sheep Boy è osannato dalla critica e vende benissimo per un disco indipendente, tanto che la band lo pubblica nel 2006 anche in Europa e ne fa uscire un mini EP in accompagnato, Black Sheep Boy Appendix. Zach Thomas esce dal gruppo e viene sostituito da Pat Pestorius. Il suono è un folk rock ricco, delicato, gioioso ma sono le idee dei testi di Sheff che stupiscono, in una sorta di costruzione di musica cabaret dove il racconto, a volte stucchevole, di ciò che succede intorno a lui è il fulcro della musica degli Okkervil River. E prova maestra è il disco di oggi, uscito nell'Agosto del 2007 e quasi da subito un classico della musica indipendente.

The Stages Names è, come suggerisce il titolo, una riflessione ironica e senza peli sulla lingua sull'essere un'artista e sulle storie che l'esserlo nasconde. Our Life Is Not A Movie Or Maybe prende in giro il già allora evidente e potente ingigantimento di qualsiasi cosa succeda nella vita di chiunque, o per meglio dire, la voglia di rendere le cose della vita molto più drammatiche o epiche di quello che sono (It's just a life story, so there's no climax\No more new territory, so pull away the IMAX). Unless It's Kicks è una analisi sul rapporto artista fan, A Hand To Take Hold Of The Scene è la prima genialata, infatti è una canzone che racconta della trama di due programmi TV, Cold Case (famoso anche in italiana, sulla squadra dell'FBI chiamata a risolvere i casi irrisolti di anni precedenti) e Breaking Bonaduce (una sorta di documentario su Danny Bonaduce, famoso attore bambino degli anni'70, che raccontava dei suoi problemi familiari da adulto) in cui furono usate canzoni della band (in Cold Case Black Sheep Boy). Savannah Smiles è la storia di Shannon Wilsey, famosa pornostar americana, che prese il suo nome d'arte da un film, Savannah Smiles del 1982: la sua è una storia tragica, poichè dopo un incidente stradale dove rimase sfregiata, decise di suicidarsi per non essere vista "brutta". Plus Ones è un piccolo capolavoro: l'espressione indica nelle liste dei concerti le aggiunte che gli ospiti dei backstage hanno per le entrate, ed è un testo quasi non sense che aggiunge uno o più unità a famosi titoli di canzoni: ? and the Mysterian che scrissero 96 Tears diventano 97, le 50 Ways To Leave Your Lover di Paul Simon diventano 51 e così via, citando anche i The Byrds di Eight Miles High, i R.E.M. di 7 Chinese Bros., David Bowie in TVC15 ed altri. You Can't Hold The Hand Of A Rock And Roll Man cita nel titolo un testo di una canzone di Joni Mitchell, Blonde In The Bleachers, e cita nel testo un quadro di Marchel Duchamp, La Sposa Messa A Nudo Dai Suoi Scapoli, Anche. John Allyn Smith Sails è dedicata alla vita e al suicidio del poeta confessionale John Berryman (originariamente John Allyn Smith). La canzone si conclude rielaborando la tradizionale canzone popolare Sloop John B (resa famosa dai Beach Boys), paragonando la morte a un viaggio di ritorno a casa. Non posso non citare anche Title Track (che cita Hollywood Babylonia di Kenneth Anger) e la toccante A Girl In Port, canzoni misteriosa e dolente. Le canzoni hanno una gioiosa musicalità e il disco va persino in classifica su Billboard. Will Sheff si mostra un cantautore davvero poliedrico e la band gira a mille, usando spesso solo strumenti acustici (tranne in Title Track e poche altre occasioni). Un piccolo gioiello scoperto in questo mese di Aprile, che con la seconda copertina capite benissimo a cosa è dedicato (almeno spero....)

[bones-for-sure]

Firebird's Affect on Mal

Mal with bird-like traits/animalistic behaviour.

OKAY, so Mal is the Firebird, right? And I know that the Firebird was never actually a bird, but, and hear me out here. WHAT IF, Mal had bird-like tendencies or even just more animalistic traits. Just picture Mal preening and puffing out his chest when someone compliments him, or specifically his tracking. (subtly, but noticeable if you're looking at him). Alina gets sick once when they were kids, and Mal spends a whole day running back and forth from her room gathering blankets and pillows and food and water until Alina stops him (buried in a mound of the aforementioned blankets and pillows). Or Mal in the military being oddly aggressive and territorial because of the trauma from being bullied in the orphanage, and becoming weirdly testy and hostile towards people who approach his "area".

And of course, because I am, as always, ridden with a severe case of Malkolai brainrot, so: Mal wearing bits of colour and spending ages in front of a mirror "preening" his appearance (essentially dressing up pretty and dolling himself up) before going to meet Nikolai. Mal constantly seeking Nikolai's attention by hovering (or, as Zoya and Alina dubbed it, "fluttering") about the golden King. Mal making a cooing/trilling noise when he's content, discovered when he and Nikolai were laying in bed and Nikolai started running and hand through his hair at the base of his head, which led to a very shocked silence, embarrassed blushing, frantic denials, and a fair amount of teasing (and yes, Nikolai does take full advantage of this discovery and now his hand is almost always on the back of his pet tracker's neck, much to the pleasure embarrassment of Mal). Mal extending his territorial and protective behaviour to Nikolai almost as soon as he met him, much to both parties' confusion and Alina's delight.

[002yb]

Dick isn't stupid.  He plays the part well, but the truth is that he's crafty and manipulative; willing and able to put on a show if it gets him an advantage.  At least on this front, the ends justify the means.  It's not like his pride can't take the hit of being told he's pretty but dumb.  He knows he's handsome.  He knows he's smart - quick on his feet, quicker with his wit, and quicker still with reading situations and twisting them to suit his needs.

It’s this skill set that he’s honed through years of practice alongside an inborn charisma that gets him to where he is today and for the first time in years he feels something like pride over it because Jason asks Dick to be his backup, to watch his six and keep him covered - safe.

This is a case Jason has been working for months; a matter near and dear to his heart that he can't afford to fuck up.  Hence, Dick.  The best liar that Jason knows.  The show pony, the dark horse; the will-o'-wisp lighting the way to something dangerous (himself).

The parameters of the case are simple enough - at least the portion that Jason wants Dick to involve himself in.  Charm and disarm; engage and deceive.  A high stakes night of gambling in both dirty money and subterfuge because on top of general reconnaissance on various cases, Jason needs Dick to lay the groundwork to start a civil war among the criminal underground.  So long as Dick douses everyone in gasoline, or trails gunpowder to their feet - Jason can light them up.

(‘Metaphorically, right?’ Dick asks.  Jason doesn’t actually answer him, but his pursed lips and petulant glare has Dick raising his hands in surrender, a playful smile pulling at his lips).

As it stands, Jason isn’t in a position to go around doing the dirty work himself; they don’t have the luxury of working one case at a time and Jason is up to his ears managing reconnaissance on this drug case and potential bust, tracking an increasing number of missing street kids and working girls and vagrants.  More and more because crime in Gotham never rests.

A chance like this, a gathering of some of Gotham’s worst in a generally casual environment, isn’t an opportunity that Jason can pass up on despite all he has going on.  Getting more dirt, insight; stirring up trouble to be taken advantage of then or later.  Jason needs to prioritize his time though so he painstakingly delegates.  Contrary to the goody-two-shoes front Dick puts on for everyone, Jason knows that Dick can manage something like this well enough.  A backhanded compliment, but Dick will take it.

Jason warns him that Black Mask is–but no description follows.  That Jason struggles to find the words to describe the villain says something.  That he holds himself small and defensive says even more.  Rather than try to explain, Jason brushes it off and simply tells Dick that it doesn’t matter; it’s Jason’s problem so Jason will handle it.  It’s a dismissal that raises mild concerns, but when Dick pushes it makes Jason testy so Dick respectfully backs down.  This is Jason’s case in Jason’s territory.  Dick is pretty, but he isn’t dumb (contrary to popular belief - a fault of stereotypical assumption and purposeful deception).  As much as he wants to know why Jason seems put off and uncomfortable, as much as Dick wants to help, he trusts Jason to be able to sort himself out.  Dick doesn’t want to risk being cut out of this mission entirely just because he couldn’t reel in his own feelings of overbearing territoriality when it comes to Jason.

Those are feelings Dick keeps a tight hold on.  Receptive as Jason has been to him lately, Jason is still flighty on his good days.  While Dick is always eager to give chase - he’d rather it not be because Jason feels cornered by him and needs an out.  As eager as Dick is for a fight, a challenge, a struggle - (as much as Jason seems to preen at giving him all of that and more) - nothing gives him as much of a thrill as the thought of Jason choosing to yield.

Desire and trust, both provocative and ardent.

He digresses.  The lack of insight isn’t ideal, but if Jason isn’t worried about Dick not having that bit of information then it’s fine.  Jason stresses as much, at least.  So long as Dick can be a professional they won’t have any problems.

It’s an active choice to trust Jason’s judgment.  Difficult, given Dick’s tendency to be a control freak, but manageable because it’s Jason and Dick wants to trust him and knows that he can.

Whatever Black Mask has Jason doing, or however Black Mask treats him, it’s not something Jason actively wants to share with anyone.  If it were up to Jason, no one would be involved in any of his cases at all.  Ever.  With how things are though, Jason needs the assist.

Whatever it is that causes him unease - Jason will bear it.

All Dick can do is resolve himself for whatever that might be; to be there if and as needed.

The invitation Jason gives him has Dick’s thoughts straying far though.  He’s stood at his closet for far too long as he contemplates what would be appropriate for a poker tournament with bondage chic entertainment.  If he’s honest, with every dress shirt or pair of slacks Dick considers, his mind wanders to Jason - to what that might look like.  A silly, depraved consideration given most of Jason’s time will be spent offsite snooping.  Jason did say he wanted to make an appearance at some point though, so…will he sneak in as part of the entertainment?  Or perhaps there’s a relationship between Black Mask and Jason that will give Jason an in on that front?  

For whatever reason, Jason was reticent in sharing details.  Dick can’t put it past the man just being embarrassed over having appealed to a crime lord - doesn’t matter how useful that attraction might be, Jason’s maiden heart probably withered a bit because in his darling little head, he’s a bewitcher of super villains and career criminals and no-gooders.  It’s all Jason thinks he’s worth and deserves; like attracts like.

Because fuck forbid Jason take Dick’s interest and intent seriously.  Although…maybe Dick does fall into that last category just a bit.  A little deviant, a little degenerate.  Only with Jason though.

Unable to help himself, Dick texts:  What are you wearing?

Jason’s text comes just a few seconds later:  Regret.

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[valeriefauxnom]

Crack Dragalia Theory:

...Did Midgardsormr kill the royal family's mom?

Okay, hear me out in this relatively unevidenced argument.

Here's what we know of the Queen's cause of death:

So she left to a village that had severe storms and got killed in a tornado, caused by a dragon. Ok.

Here's Mids' story.

Now, you might be saying, Mids surely isn't the only one whose presence is tied to storms. And for that, you'd be entirely correct. Dragons like Zephyr and Pazuzu are both also noted/claim to be able to summon storms in their presence.

However, Pazuzu, who would be the best counterargument, doesn't 'just' bring storms - he poisons things in his presence, poisons water, spawns miasma. He's the embodiment of calamity- a simple tornado wouldn't be the only thing he kicks up, even if he could potentially have been drawn to the previous disaster unfolding.

Most other wind dragons wouldn't likely be in Alberia. Several are on top of (or inside of) mountains, or otherwise just not noted to having a proclivity (or power) to starting tornadoes or other wind events. Others are wanderers free as the wind. Others have other environments they prefer, or in another country to begin with.

I'd also like to bring up geography, everyone's favorite subject.

Here's South Grastea:

Here's some relevant geography marked that I made a bit ago:

Here we can see that there is both a settlement close to Sol Alberia (the capital, mind you)... and one that's directly next to Mids' territory.

Mids 'marks his territory' with gales. He might have unintentionally kicked up a tornado near his forest, the boundary of his territory, and it caught Rovetelle, killing the Queen, who had simply stepped out of the capital's safety to a nearby village (see how close they are), thinking it relatively safe for a good PR move or something. Rovetelle is also called the 'City of Trees' in a weapon description, so it seems quite close to the forest.

Now, yes, there may well be undescribed dragons that could have done it, but if you are willing to entertain Rovetelle as a potential location for the demise of the Queen, I would counter that a dragon as powerful as Mids likely discourages other dragons from even daring to encroach on his territory. He's the primal embodiment of wind and revered among dragonkind, he's not just another to squabble over territory with.

In less of a logical sense, it also would add some thematic oomph to Leo's grandstand at ch.12. That battle takes place, in, you guessed it...

Rovetelle forest. And since you can see that both Chanzelia and Valkaheim both are to the north of the Halidom, they both for some reason decided to circle all the way to the southern forest to approach instead of attacking from its eastern side.

You could argue that they are to the south because Euden and co were apparently going to be making moves on the capital and that they were acting in defense, but neither Chelle nor Leo are exactly jumping for loyalty/joy in defense of Morsayati.

Leonidas is also very impulsive in this battle.

He starts the chapter off stewing about his mother, her death, and then he and Chelle decide to make a stand in the forest, where he's immediately throwing out the big guns and otherwise much more intense about crushing his opposition.

Is it so foreign to consider he might be feeling even more testy than he is usually if he knows he's fighting in the area where the Queen died, fighting against his brother who has maybe pacted with the dragon that did it, however unintentionally?

It being Mids also would reduce the likelihood that enough people would've been willing to get angry and go after the dragon for vengeance - again, he's the Windwyrm. Deeply revered on top of all the normal worship dragons get. And not easily found on top of it.

Of course, then it adds in the extra little twist of Euden and Mids' relationship as first pactwyrm. To the immediate reflexive question of 'why wouldn't Euden know that'? though, I would suggest that maybe it was just another thing Aurelius kept in the dark from him. It's sufficient that he knows his mom died in a storm in a village doing good deeds, he doesn't need to know that Aurelius is sending him out to try to pact with the dragon that potentially did it. It's exactly the kind of truth that Aurelius seems most inclined to lie for, to try to save his children some grief and complicate their lives, just as he did surrounding Euden's... 'younger years'.

As a final offhand note, I might throw out Sophie's story.

We find out there that Euden's mom might be haunting him protectively. Ghosts are a real force in Dragalia, both malevolent and benevolent, and I do believe we see some correlation for 'their place of death' and 'weird necromancy stuff in general' between zombies and ghosts. In short: where people die, ghosts and zombies are more inclined to pop up.

Is it any wonder Ghost!Mom was able to 'find' Euden to start protecting Euden again, then, when he starts wandering around the very forest she died near/in? After all, why attach to him in particular instead of any other sibling or just Aurelius if she could roam free? It's because he was the first one to start wandering in the area - Notte and Zethia followed him after he tried to make them stay home!

I'll throw in the most crackish 'evidence' to this whole thing as a final note, too:

Maybe Mids picks up on Euden's mana weirdness here because he, as a dragon, is intimately familiar with what is roaming about his forest, as is shown, and at some point passively became aware of the Queen's spirit haunting the woods (dragons are very spiritual creatures in Dragalia and sensitive to mana/this kind of stuff), and is thus attuned enough to the specific feeling to go 'hey, wait a minute, that feels familiar but from where-...' when said ~vibration~ starts coming from Euden?

So... yeah. Hopefully my argument here is at least vaguely convincing to say that there is a good chance that Midgardsormr unintentionally killed Queen Mom!