#and i wish to god i could cite it

[jdragsky]

turns out when you build a community around a shared response to a trauma you get a group of people absolutely horrendous at communicating

[ghoul-haunted]

anyway we've left 'inspired by dead romans territory' so joseph is hark's right hand man/yakuza wife archetype, and it's been an amount of time since the street wars broke out so a good number of new members to the cast don't remember the specifics and the general opinion is very, 'so joseph is CLEARLY just arm candy,' up until there's a dinner invitation because sometimes a dinner invitation is a very polite execution.

[catman-draws]

In regards to the Lusus ask I actually have a headcanon around that! Trolls must be really self sufficient even as grubs. Because they are the ones who design their Hives and instruct the carpenter drones. (Maybe the drones are made with low bloods who had psychic capabilities to communicate with them????) I feel like they mostly must take care of themselves when it comes to cleaning/eating/moving around and that the Lusus are actually for protecting them from the harsh environment of Alternia. They protect the trolls from other non guardian/more monstrous Lusii. The lower your blood the weaker your Lusii and chances to live and the higher your blood the crueler your Lusii is but also teaches you your place. Like Feferi has to constantly hunt and feed her lusus training her to be good Empress (except Eridan did it lol) even Terezi’s Lusus could kill off threats psychically since we know it’s aware. The only truly stupid design I believe is Sollux’s lusus. Poor fucking guy chained to the roof his whole life.

- Trash

Eh-

I dunno. Canon describes it as a mutualism where the lusus cares for the troll as a guardian while the troll cares for the lusus as a zookeeper would.

I sorta agree? Trolls do seem to be relatively self sufficient- but I doubt they come straight from the caverns Fully Ready To GO. Like I guess that makes sense for Bugs, but eh. If it was all about protection rather than care, I don't think it would be a lifelong relationship.

I think it's sorta more dependent on lusus species, rather than caste. IE, species that tend to care for their young vs species that typically don't; plus just individual personality and environment and whatnot.

And like yeah, they have to design their own hives and stuff but uh. They're aren't actually very good at it. Idr who, but someone (Vriska?) definitely says that that's stupid and they hate their design.

Plus, it's the lusus that chooses their troll. It feels kinda weird that they would choose to take care of a baby and then. Not really do much to actually care for it.

I don't really like the idea of caste deciding the inherent cruelty of a lusus, though. That just sorta leaves a bad taste. Like, The Hemospectrum 2- This Time It's Animals

Like Gl'bgolyb did demand constant feeding- but that wasn't out of cruelty? She was just enormous and needed to be fed to keep her voice down (she WAS a horrorterror) so everyone on the planet didn't die. It's just that that ended up being a very hard task for Feferi to do alone, thus why she had Eridan kill lusi for her (which is what ultimately kept her trapped in that horrible moirallegiance). (iirc, i'm pretty sure Feferi even says her lusus was very nice, just misunderstood? something like that)

And I think the most Pyralsprite could really do (pre-hatching) was communicate psychically- I don't remember her being able to do much more than that from the egg.

And I think maybe my biggest thing against this is goatdad and Gamzee. In canon (i think Karkat says this?) it says that Gamzee started eating sopor (and joined the clown cult) because goatdad wasn't around to tell him not to (or interact with him At All really. Gamzee spent most of his time waiting for him to come back.)

TLDR; Protection as a Main Thing makes sense to me- but I don't think it would be the Only Thing.

Even with the apparent self-sufficiency of trolls, lusi are still their guardians, and there's too much of an emotional connection for me to not to think there must be more. (Especially with their many comparisons to the human guardians)

But most importantly, yeah, that poor fucking bicyclops.

What was the deal with that guy?

[k-atsukibakugou]

god is a bit of a freak, why's he watching me getting railed on the couch, staying pure for a wedding, he's got fucked up priorities — aka an ancient, obsolete god of fertility hears your prayer

pairing: fertility god!katsuki bakugou x fem!reader w/c: 2.8k warning/s: voyeurism, oral (f!receiving), references to sex rituals and safe sex lmao, i think that's everything, mostly lead up notes: sorry i wrote this fucked up from a cold lmao i hope u all enjoy either way! inspo/acknowledgements: god is a freak by peach prc ty @kweenkatsuki-fics @aquadenks @peachsukii @rabbbitseason for ur interest teehee

crossposted to ao3 • masterlist • wip updates & voting • kofi • askbox

the ancient tongue was dead, dying a slow death as all languages did, evolving again and again with every civilisation that rose and fell, until it faded into obscurity. with the death of their language, their communication with their believers, the gods faded, too, their followers dwindling more and more as their names were buried along with the civilisations they led. once adored, worshipped, feared, now, their names only existed on scrolls, yellowed and deteriorated beneath layers of mortal history, unspoken in aeons.

katsuki kicked the door shut behind him, the bag of produce in his hand swinging back and forth with the movement. there was once a time where he was lavished with offerings of food he now had to purchase; countless altars he tended to piled with vegetables, wines, fire, soil, blood, accompanied with prayers to answer. he'd all but assimilated into living as a mortal; cooking (he was grateful, at least, for electric stoves, cooking lerthargically over a fire not quite how he wanted to spend eternity), showering, learning, exploring and working alongside the humans that once lived in his shadow.

he was one of the first to deflect from utopia, to abandon his temple, to give up on the belief that the gods, their language could return to how it was, and with it their followers. katsuki had simply grown bored of waiting alone in the stone temple, of wandering the perimeter hoping to find a lost mortal he could grant a miracle to, to find a mortal to bring meaning to godhood again. after all, what was a god without his believers?

he hadn't given up his blessings or miracles, albeit on a smaller scale than he once had, he still granted wishes as he had in utopia's heyday, the offerings he received now smiles across counters as people passed along paperwork, hoping to be one of the lucky ones, praying over pregnancy tests in bathrooms instead of in his altar. he gave up godhood, but he refused to give up his miracles, even if the mortals didn't know he was responsible.

the pot was finally at a rolling boil, his knife poised above the produce when he felt it, the sensation freezing his blood in his veins, the pull of a prayer in his veins, an echoing whisper of his name lighting his nerves alight. the god freezes, blond hair slipping into his eyes as his ears burnt, twitching at every noise, waiting to hear the sweet sound of the prayer once more.

"bakugou."

his face falls from shock to a scowl almost immediately, his pupils dilating, his skin itchy from adrenaline, his stomach twisting. it couldn't really be his name. this couldn't be a prayer. not after all this time.

the obsolete incantation runs off your tongue seamlessly; almost melodic, light as you cite the prayer carved into the stone at the base of his statue, your dialect nothing like what the prayer used to sound like, but the more you read, the harder he finds it to hate. your voice clouds his head, every word past your lips making the fog denser behind his eyes. there was a dull pain alongside it, an ache that pulsed with your every breath, the pain of a prayer.

the call of the prayer felt… foreign after so long (a millennium he thinks? maybe more, maybe less, years, decades, centuries and millenniums all blurred into one for immortals), katsuki was accustomed to the silence every god feared, the silence of being abandoned by your believers, of dwindling power and control. even with how it was feared, this almost felt worse; a single prayer cornering him in the kitchen after an aeon alone, a single spotlight in the darkness worse than the endless pitch black.

"told you it was bull." barefoot, he paces back and forth in the apartment, shifting uncomfortably as you traced a fingertip over the carved inscription, the touch feeling as if it was on the very nerves of his scalp, down the curve of his spine, catching on every bump of his vertebra. crimson eyes droop, a thick hand rubbing at the bridge of his nose, an attempt to soothe the pain of your voice bouncing around his head, the sensation of your touch on his effigy.

"hey, stop that," your giggle almost has his feet sliding against the tile, nearly tumbling backward as he stops in his tracks; his muscles straining to follow the magnetism of your voice, the melody of your intoxicating laugh while he rationalises your existence at all.

"is that why you brought me here, huh? you think being in some ancient sex temple means you'll get some?"

perks of being a god: immortality, immeasurable strength and influence, impenetrable skin (with maybe a couple flaws). downsides of godhood? the power of their followers over them.

it was… overwhelming, the itch beneath a gods skin when a devout believer called their name, the weight of a prayer, the unshakable desire to follow the call. thankfully, the perks also included the facilities to do so; something akin to teleportation, the voice like a blinding beacon in the night, guiding the god.

once upon a time, civilisations ago, it was a lot, too much, the night always lit like it was daylight with the light his followers cast out. his temple existed for this very reason, devout believers building the god a home, a sanctuary for the light of his followers, complete with the marble sculpture of the built god. then, it was at the centre of the village he ruled over, now, you and your lover had hiked up a mountain, and back down into the valley to find it, the stone weathered and covered in vegetation, it was a miracle you'd been able to work your way inside.

dragging his finger over cold stone, every ridge and bump as it once was, katsuki reminisced about a time before the silence, before the darkness, a time when people lined outside his temple with dreams of a child. years ago, women came alone to his temple, clad in robes they'd weaved specially for the fertility ritual (sometimes gifted at their weddings), kneeling in the altar to offer anything they had in exchange for their heir; piles of gold from queens who begged for a prince, beloved and wise to rule their kingdoms peacefully, warriors armed with iron to wish for a knight, strategic and strong enough to return home from battle again and again, farmers gripping their herbs with soil-stained hands, praying for a child born with kindness and thumbs so green the village would survive the winters once more, a marble statue of the god, towering at over 9 feet tall from a sculptor wishing for a child with as much passion for the arts as their parents.

visitors now were only accidental, stumbling upon the temple in the darkness of the valley, seeking shelter, safety, protection. never a prayer tumbling from their lips for an heir (he answered their prayers nonetheless, never allowing harm to befall anyone on his blessed grounds).

peeking from behind a pillar overtaken by the vegetation, he finally spotted you.

you sucked the breath from his lungs, walking further into the temple, a cute, mischievous grin tugging on the corners of your soft lips, chasing your lover with your eyes as he spoke, "you don't think it's romantic? fucking in an ancient sex gods temple?"

"he was the god of fertility, not sex." you step onto the age worn sigil by the base of the imposing statue, brushing layers of grey dust away.

you look so similar to the countless women before who laid on his mark, the way you studied the carved sigil carefully, curiosity and stars sparkling in your eyes, a heat burning beneath your skin, adrenaline spiking in your veins. eras ago, women were bare on the sigil, stone icy against their skin as they drew runes, marking their skin with blood, dirt or ink, in the language native to the gods.

"what's the difference?" their voice was low, lips brushing beneath your jaw, biting at the sensitive skin beneath your ear, nimble fingers sliding beneath your shirt to tug it higher, higher, on your torso, tugging the material over your head with a flick of his wrist.

the god was no stranger to topless women, probably seeing hundreds and thousands of them in his prime, but the way the man in front of you toyed with the fat on your chest nearly making his eyes meet the inside of his skull. your allure was impossible to resist when your boyfriend rolls your nipples between his forefingers and thumbs, tugging on the sensitive skin to pull a delicious whine from your throat.

the silence had made him soft.

"i've been waiting all day for this," katsuki's blood rushes in his ears when you both fall to the floor, limbs already beginning to tangle together, bodies becoming one at the mouth, at the hips, at the chest. your sweet sounds echo in the temple, increasingly breathless the longer you kissed and nipped and sucked and bit at your boyfriend.

the ancient tongue was dead, katsuki knew that, knew you had no way to know what you'd read, like some naive final girl in a cliche horror film, that the very god you were laid at the base of was real, that he could see and hear you, that his cock throbbed watching you. you had no way of knowing what you'd started. carmine eyes study the beat of your heart in your chest, the way your tits look when your breathing quickens, how irresistible you look when deft fingers trace the seam of your panties.

katsuki prays himself for the first time in his long life that he's the only god to see you right now, to watch your face change the lower your boyfriend travels, dragging his tongue over your skin as he goes (katsuki's thankful for every time the mortal man bites at your skin, for the yelp it elicits anytime his canines sink into your flesh). his fingertips twitch at his sides, itching to finalise the ritual you'd started with the single murmur of his name, the first syllable of a language foreign on your tongue but you'd recited it so naturally.

you exclaim your lovers name with another sweet giggle, his hands now gripping your ass, tugging your obstructive underwear down your pillowy thighs, tossing it as far as he can the moment the garment is free from your ankles.

the god's ears scald at the way you sound when the brunet's tongue flicks against your skin, sucking at your pussy just to draw increasingly needier sounds from your pretty mouth. he's not even watching you and he already knows your hips are jumping from the stone floor, grinding onto your lovers mouth and nose to work yourself closer to an orgasm. your moans echo in the stone temple, bouncing in every corner before travelling back to his ears, tempting his attention to you.

he stays steady, sharp carmine eyes narrowing on the altar.

more specifically, the lump of material atop the bench.

your underwear is draped across like an offering of its own to him, far more lewd than gold, iron and herbs, but it made his core ache when the moonlight caught in the centre of the fabric, a small damp spot glistening in the light.

fuck, it hurts, every nerve aching, screaming to finally put an end his celibacy, unbroken for far too long. he hadn't felt a need for a mortal like this since the beginning of his existence, the pure want filling his head with fog. this is a duty, this power he has, it is what he was made for, there was never this heavy, dense fog filling his head before, no follower making his blood burn like you were. and you didn't even know what you'd done.

bakugou's gaze is finally drawn back to you, your spine arching away from the stone, fingers tangling at the base of your boyfriends skull, tugging the hair harshly as you chanted his name, your hips stuttering, grinding messily back and forth on his face, until you stopped. you were still wound tight, your thighs clamped tight around his ears while you recovered, a dopey, lovesick smile planted firm on your cheeks.

your squeal makes his dick twitch, one last flick of his tongue over your overstimulated clit, blond eyebrows furrowing so hard at the centre it makes his head pound, you were making his head hurt. a desperation to finish the ritual filled his lungs, every breath a reminder of his name on your lips, of your panties across the altar, of your naked body atop his mark.

he needed this, needed to bury his cock in a pretty cunt, to fill you until you were a babbling mess, needed you.

sitting back on his knees, your lover wiped your creamy cum from his chin with the back of his hand, spreading it from his face to his fingers, hardly doing anything to clean the mess you'd made of his mouth.

your boyfriend finally moves out of the way, giving katsuki the front row seat he deserves, your thighs shining with slick the masterpiece he'd come to see. unblinking, he thinks he's squeezing his cock through his pants, he's not sure, too hypnotised by the way your hips still twitched, chasing your boyfriends warmth. onyx and ruby eyes alike study your face, glued to the way your eyes roll into your skull when his fingers, still wet with your cum, trace your clit once more, teasing the entrance of your pussy before circling your sensitive nerves once more.

katsuki knows he's stroking his cock now, frantically tugging at the zipper still preventing him from relief, his fist moving at the same pace you grind your hips down to your lovers hand, sucking his fingers into you, squeezing your cunt around them until your thighs shook. his hips rock into his hands when your tongue lolls from your mouth, your moans getting faster and faster once more.

he has to bite his lip to stifle a groan of his own, his fist pumping faster and faster again, squeezing the base of his cock when you press a kiss as soft as silk to his lips, looping your hips around his, tugging him closer when you came again.

"fuck, baby, next time you cum, it's with my cock inside you." dark hair shields your face from katsuki's vision momentarily, your boyfriend leaning over you, searching his discarded coat for something, tugging it closer and pulling each pocket inside out.

your thighs slip from his hips as he moves, wincing as your thighs made contact with the icy stone instead of his warm skin.

"shit, i think i left the condoms in the backpack," sliding the empty jacket over your chest, you tuck it beneath your arms, clutching it close to you with one hand, the other waving your boyfriend off as he ventured back toward the entrance of the temple, your gaze lingering on his ass until he was out of sight.

another perk of godhood: the blessed ground was subject to the chosen gods whims. some gods had their temples in the centre of labyrinthian mazes, others had their temples impossible to find, buried beneath the earth or deep in the ocean, hidden between mountains, camouflaged in vegetation, some invisible until the winter solstice, or until the new moon. katsuki never quite cared for that, leaving his temple as his followers built it for him, not implementing challenges for believers to prove their dedication like others had, only protecting his hallowed ground. until now.

stone scrapes against stone harshly, the coarse sound painfully invading your ears as the temple entrance seals. you drop the jacket into your lap, rushing to shield your ears from the sound with your palms pressed hard to your ears, searching around the room for your boyfriend, for his protection, katsuki supposes, like a mortal man could save you from the god you summoned, from what you started.

stepping out from the dark corner, his figure casts a sharp, long shadow as he stands to his full height in front of the statue. like this, you look identical to the women he used to bestow his miracles on; splayed on his sigil, staring up at him with dewy eyes (your blown pupils imperceptibly widening when your gaze rakes over his large form, taking everything in; blond mess of hair, darting crimson eyes, ruffled shirt as he rushed to hold it in his mouth watching you get your cunt eaten, his still-unzipped pants and finally the impressive bulge of his cock), your lips parting when he finally relaxes his shoulders, now standing easily at the shoulder of his statue.

"you-re—" your eyes dart between the imposing statue and his steely face, your voice airy, wobbling slightly as you continued, "you're real?"

© all works belong to @k-atsukibakugou, @gwen0m, and dlirious on archive of our own, do not plagiarise, translate, repost, feed my works into ai or recommend my work on other platforms, or bind my fanworks for sale.

[abbyslev]

papamin finding out you and yuuji are dating

a/n: THIS WAS SO CITE TO WRITE MY HEART

nanamis first time dressing you up was for a corporate christmas party.

he called his mother, asking for advice. eventually, his neighbor who so happened to be a kind lady with kids around your age helped you. after a few lessons, he learned. from them on, he dressed you up, doing your hair.

nanami didnt believe in leaving you behind, bringing you to every party and event he possibly could. something about you having him by his side, plus you kept everyone entertained, always telling them about how your daddy was a superhero and that he’s a hard worker.

-

nanami’s last time dressing you up was your formal dance.

he zipped your black dress up, moving your hair back into place. you turned around, waddling in front of your mirror. “what do you think?” you place your hands on your hips, cheesing. “i think you look beautiful, hun. as always.” he smiled at you. three quick knocks echoed through your home. “i’ll get it.” nanami left the room quickly before he started tearing up.

it long after, itadori bursted into your room, flowers in his hand. pink, the same shade as his hair. “these are for you!” he handed them to you, politely bowing. “thank you.” you hug him. “hey, you got a haircut!” you run your hands through his somewhat combed through hair.

god, you two were not beating the dating allegations. (that were very true, but you were terrified of your father finding out you were dating itadori.)

“do you like it?” “love it.” “i love your dress, black is your color.” “thanks!” you blushed. nanami cleared his throat. “sorry, nanamin!” itadori turned red, facing him. “photos?” nanami pulled out his phone. “you know it!” you grinned. itadori placed his hand in a respectable place, his grin wide and cheese flushed.

nanami took a couple, before turning around and taking a surprise selfie. “beat you to it.” he chuckled. “it’s okay, i got you earlier and you didn’t even know it.” you stuck your tongue out.

“alright. let’s get going, you two. be back before curfew and have lots of fun, okay?” nanami waved the both of you off. “yes, dad. i love you!” “love you, hun.” he watched as your and itadori made it down the stairs.

-

“that was a lot of fun. i wish jujustu had more dances.”

“oh, for sure. i didn’t even get to show you all of mine!” itadori laughed. “thanks for walking me back.” you leaned against his shoulder. “not a problem.” he blushed. the boys dorm wasn’t far from the mentors homes, anyway.

“i’ll see you tomorrow at training. and thanks for the shoes by the way.” you scratch your neck. itadori had taken his shoes off and tried his best to tie them tight after your heels had given you blisters. “no problem, anything for you.” he took the key to your house, opening the door.

“i love you.” itadori leaned down, giving you a quick kiss. “you be safe. don’t be late, i love you.” you waved him off, grinning from ear to ear.

“well, you certainly didn’t tell me you had a lover.” “dad!” you jumped up high, hand over your chest. there you stood, lipstick smudged and itadori’s suit jacket over you, with his huge shoes on your feet. nanami stared in confusion. “my feet hurt. and i got cold.”

nanami pointed at his lips, eyebrows furrowed. “oh.” you covered your lips. “im just messing with you. you two aren’t so secretive as you think.” nanami laughed. that was the day nanami realized you weren’t his little girl anymore.

[indigovigilance]

Bullet Theory

Thesis: Crowley passed Aziraphale a bullet during the Final Fifteen kiss. This bullet contains his memories. He tucked it under his tongue, then began to access the memories during the ride up the elevator.

Edit: debunked by God himself, in response to this post. As a reminder, please don’t send fan theories to NG.

Proof:

Glint in the mouth

Inspo credit to this post by @somehow-a-human

Yeah so we were already paying way too much attention to that very special four-letter word we thought Aziraphale was going to say, but it so happens that during that cut-off phoneme is the only time you can see this shiny object in his mouth. (catching this on the right frame was emotionally painful and I’m sending Gavin Finney my therapy bills (actually no I’m not I love you very much sir)).

So that’s the basis of this theory. Crowley passed Aziraphale a bullet that he then tucks under his tongue.

Add’l Evidence Post-Kiss

Aziraphale works his jaw after raising his fingers to his lips: [gif]

Then when the Metatron comes in, he turns his back on the Metatron and raises his hand. I originally thought he was wiping his eyes. Now I think he’s raising his hand to his mouth, maybe to spit out the bullet, maybe to make sure it’s secured under his tongue.

Credits Scene

Aziraphale has the craziest fucking look on his face through the credits, we can all agree. But towards the end, his eyes flicker back and forth, as if he is watching or reading something. Then he smiles. I hypothesize that he is still accessing his memories during this time, and getting the information he needs to [redacted].

Thematic Justification: The Bullet Catch

Aziraphale having a bullet in his mouth as part of a two-man act of deception is not a fresh concept by the time we get to The Final Fifteen.

Additionally, the use of surreptitious modes of communication, where messages are passed from person to person inaudabily, is introduced in this same magic trick. 

NB1: I wish I could credit the person who I first saw point this out (relatively recently). It wasn’t even tagged as meta, I don’t think. But the gist was there’s some parallelism between “aim for my mouth but shoot past my ear” and the “pin the lips on the lips” move that Crowley pulls in the Final Fifteen. If I find it I will properly cite.

NB2: One hypothesis that has circulated around, I think creditable to @sendarya, is that Aziraphale mouths “trust me” to Crowley just before he gets on the elevator. This isn’t necessary to the Bullet Theory but it would be thematically consistent.

Small objects carry memories

Why a bullet? Well, it’s a small object that has meaningful significance between the pair of people involved, much like:

Beelzebub introduces us to the idea that a small object like a fly can be used as a storage container for memories. We also see that the object entering the body of the person is a viable way for the memories to be delivered.

(btw Jon Hamm if you’re reading this, you have very pretty eyes)

“I keep a derringer in a hollowed out book”

K, so it’s not like Crowley is just carrying a bullet loaded with Aziraphale’s memories around with him at all times, is it? (I mean, it could be, but probably not. I’ll just point you to this meta for my theories on why, if Crowley had anything that needed to be kept safe, he would keep it in the bookshop.)

We learn in S2E4 that Aziraphale keeps a gun in a hollowed out book somewhere in the shop. A gun wouldn’t be any good without bullets, right? This may not be the reason the derringer was left as a Chekhov’s Gun for S3, but it’s a possibility. If Crowley wasn’t already in possession of a bullet, he knew that he could find one in the shop. Even more likely, the exact bullet used in the 1941 magic trick is a precious keepsake being kept somewhere in the bookshop, and Crowley chose to use that exact bullet because of the memories already directly attached to the object.

Why Aziraphale even has memories to be returned to him

We know that Aziraphale could have had his mind wiped because Heaven has done it before. Certainly once. Probably twice. We know this because when Metatron is announcing that Gabriel, alongside having his memories erased, is being demoted to 38th class, Muriel pipes up and reminds us that they are 37th class:

So this wasn’t a “just Gabriel” thing. Mind-wiping is a routine form of personnel management in Heaven. There is NO reason for us to believe that it didn’t happen to Aziraphale. But in case you need a reason to believe it, here goes:

We know from our interactions with Jim that the person whose memories are missing (1) doesn’t necessarily know and (2) isn’t necessarily distressed by that fact, even if they do. Muriel also fits this “cheerful empty shell” archetype. You know who else does? Ding ding ding. The one and only A. Z. “wiggles with delight” Fell.

I can already hear your very valid counter-argument. This guy is actually terrified out of his mind on any given day that his romance with a demon will be discovered. Yes. Because he’s involved in a romance with a demon. The other two angels we’ve met don’t have this issue. Beyond that, though, these three characters share more in common with each other disposition-wise than any of them do with the other angels we’ve met (Uriel, Michael, Sandolphon, etc.).

We also know that Aziraphale has been [demoted] at some point from Cherub to Principality. This is book canon: 

"Technically Aziraphale was a Principality, but people made jokes about that these days."

This has also been confirmed (insofar as Neil Gaiman ever confirms anything) by Word of God:

(marketing video screengrab clipped for brevity)

We don’t know for sure it was a demotion, but I think we have enough evidence to infer that with a high degree of confidence.

Anyways.

Summary: Aziraphale is a cheerful angel who was demoted and has a name that is not biblical canon. This evidence indicates that was probably mind-wiped. This is not the first time I’m proposing this. It won’t be the last.

How Crowley Did It

My meta on Continuity Errors gives the complete proof for why I believe that Crowley is able to stop time without Aziraphale knowing, and I propose in that meta that the kiss was a cover-up for the exertion of effort necessary to pull that off. I further proposed that during the pause, he retrieved something from the bookshop. At the time of writing, I didn’t know what. Now, I have an inkling that it was a bullet.

If you need a refresher on Clock Theory, here’s one. The idea is that the clock behind Aziraphale shifts by fifteen minutes from before the kiss to after the kiss. This is consistent with a theory that Crowley paused time (but the clock kept running) in order to retrieve the bullet, dump Aziraphale’s memories into it if he hadn’t already, and then return to transfer the bullet to Aziraphale.

Why Crowley Kept the Secret So Long

As with Continuity Errors, I am ending this meta with a very unsatisfactory “I don’t know.” The motivation for Crowley to keep Aziraphale’s memories from him until the very moment he’s about to leave must have been a strong one. I think it has something to do with why Crowley was so insistent on trying to get Aziraphale to run away with him, instead of dealing with whatever’s coming. But as with Continuity Errors, I suspect that the good omens meta hivemind (and the vast collection of people who are posting clues, you have no idea how important you are) will assemble yet more breadcrumbs that we can follow to some sort of hypothesis.

Until then,

iv

(here's my meta index if you would like to read more stuff like this)

[genderkoolaid]

Hi :3

Regarding your post on transmasculine cross dressing and prostitution, do you have anymore sources on specifically the Italian instances?

Also I'd love to hear more of your thoughts on it, both in general or in any specific part :3

Here's the source the paper cites (Venice: A Documentary History 1450-1630):

Sexual dissimulation condemned, 1480 From the Latin. Decree of the Council of Ten, 15 March 1480 The coiffure [habitus capitis] which Venetian women have recently taken to wearing could not be more indecent in the sight of God and men, since by means of this coiffure women conceal their sex and strive to please men by pretending to be men, which is a form of sodomy; and therefore be it determined that by the authority of this Council the Heads of the Ten or at least two of them shall go to our Lord Patriarch and persuade him, by means of the confessors and also through an edict to be published in all the parishes, to prohibit the hairstyle [gestamen capillorum] which women adopt, and which they call a 'mushroom' [fungus], and which hides the forehead; and to order the hair to be drawn and tied back behind the head, and the forehead and face to be made free of it, that they may be seen as women, just as God made them, and as was their custom before the presented corrupted age: all of this upon pain of excommunication.

Also the art of a cross-dressing sex worker used in the paper:

Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, I haven't been able to find anything else discussing this.

Its honestly wild to me that in all the discussions of transness and sex work, even specifically historical sex work, I haven't heard anything about this. People seem so uncurious about transmasc history? Its the same thing with the pilipili of Inanna. Like, I've heard so much about the gala as the transfem priestesses of Inanna, but I can barely find anything on the pilipili.

I just wish people would be more self-critical about the absence of both information on transmasculinity, and the lack of interest in analyzing things from that perspective. Stop viewing transmasc absence as natural! People need to start feeling the hole where transmasc stories should be in our cultural and realize how purposeful this exclusion is.

[lurkinglurkerwholurks]

I'm not into Batman or comics at all, but I feel like there's a real and tangible difference between saying you have to engage with The Hunger Games to get Katniss Everdeen and saying you have to engage with comics to get a comic book character. The Hunger Games is a completed series of books that can be read in an attainable amount of time, and the characterization is easy to understand and consistent because it was all written by one person. Most media was written by one person or team of people and therefore has a certain level of consistency. Even if there was a reboot of The Hunger Games, it would either be characterized very similarly to the first one in which case the distinction would be irrelevant or the fans of the original and the fans of the reboot would be totally distinct fandoms and bodies.

Comics are almost completely unique in that any given run could have been written by almost anyone and characterization fluctuates wildly between runs. That person cited a specific run to read to understand Cassandra Cain, but there are probably dozens, maybe even hundreds of other series that deal with the character very differently and all of them have the same authority as canon. Saying that one is the best one is just another type of fanon, where the fans decide what the best representation of the character is -- or maybe that's the first one she appeared in (?) in which case there's some merit to adhering to the original version of the character, but it's still a community choosing to ignore a lot of canon material in favor of a preferred interpretation.

The closest equivalent to the way comics are produced today is, like, Arthurian legend and ancient Greek tales of the gods and heroes. These stories were made up by hundreds, maybe thousands of people over the years -- are still being made up in some cases -- and any individual's characterization fluctuates wildly between them. There are preferred versions and compilations of these old stories, but people aren't generally judged for liking to talk about the widespread cultural understanding of them, rather than citing a specific ancient Greek playwright or Shakespeare adaptation that they're adhering to and basing all their headcanons off of.

I wish you'd put your name to this, because it's a good take.

[piratefishmama]

Crashed the wedding, Part 7

Eddie had no grand speech prepared, he had nothing, his whole job was to wing it, which was probably a good thing because anything he’d have prepared to say, would have flown right out of the metaphorical window when he saw Steve.

He’d only just managed that witty quip as he Aragon’d his way through those doors, all the breath just taken right out of him god he was still as beautiful as the day Eddie left, nine years hadn’t touched him at all. His hair still impossibly perfect, even though he’d clearly not put much effort into it for the day, his glasses still made him look like the cutest pre-school teacher ever, and the moles.

Lord have mercy on his poor soul, the moles. He was too gay for this. He just wanted to skip everything, get directly to wrapping Steve up in the cosiest of sweaters, and handing him the tastiest mug of hot cocoa like he deserved, and just cuddling him for the rest of his life.

“E-Excuse me sir, we hadn’t actually gotten to that part yet” The reverend’s voice hesitantly cut through the silence that seemed to carry on for way longer than intended. The man choosing not to mention that the senior Harringtons had instructed him to remove the offer to the guests to object from the ceremony speech citing that they wouldn’t need it.

“Yeah well, it’s not like I had a damn invitation to sit in and wait, did I?” Eddie snapped right back, shaking himself up. He had a job to do, a love of his life to rescue, and no goddamn idea as to how he was supposed to do that if Steve wasn’t reacting in any way other than just staring at him with wide-eyed, open-mouthed surprise.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Steve heard from his left, turning to find his father’s face had turned a curious shade of red in apparent anger. The man quickly turning his eye onto his son hissing “did you have something to do with this?” At him. God Steve wished. He’d have given anything to have had the courage to just pick up the damn phone and call Eddie before all this shit went down.

Nine goddamn years, he wished he’d have picked up the phone each and every single day, but he hadn’t, too many missed calls, too many excuses for him to keep trying, he’d been so sure that Eddie had just… moved on, convincing himself more and more with each failed attempt to stay in touch that maybe… maybe it was just for the best.

Eddie was famous, for something good… besides the shit that happened during Vecna’s little bitch fit, Eddie hadn’t stepped a toe out of line in nine whole years, no scandals, no drug addiction stories, no compromising paparazzi shots in the papers, he sang his songs, played his nerd games, he showed up as ‘Metal Santa’ at Children’s hospitals with the other bandmates dressed as goofy elves, giving out toys all out of his own pocket, he helped out at soup kitchens on the weekends when he wasn’t busy, did charity auctions of random shit for troubled youth charities, he was good. The only time he’d had an issue was early ’88 with a mild drinking problem but Dustin knocked some sense into him on that one and he’d cleaned up his act by September the same year.

He looked mean and scary sometimes, but nobody, not a single person could ever accuse him of being anything but good. Steve was just… Steve.

A man going nowhere, stuck in his hometown with nothing to offer him. It’d been so easy to convince himself to just stop trying. Eddie didn’t need him, Eddie probably didn’t want him, he could have anyone, why would he want him?

Steve didn’t answer his father, instead turned back to the intruder, a smile fighting at the corner of his lips as he witnessed the man telling one of the bride’s huffy aunts to pipe the fuck down. “Eddie? The hell are you doing here?” How could he let his mind force him to doubt when Eddie was right there as if he’d heard that one wish Steve had spoken only in his mind.

“Rescuing you, sweetheart, can’t say I’m the most impressive of cavalry but at least I look good, which is more than I can say for your bride, yikes ma’am you just faceplant into a cake made up entirely of makeup this morning? Not a good look, I can see where the foundation meets the rest of your neck. One word, blend.” Liar, she looked flawless, but the outraged gasp of an offended bride was worth it. The shit stirring little fucker. “It will change your life.”

“Steven—” Harriet huffed, turning to her groom expectantly “aren’t you even going to—”

“No.” Steve immediately cut her off with a short, snort of a laugh, eyes still on Eddie as the man approached, his bride immediately turning to her parents to loudly complain about the interruption, Steve tuned her out completely, he’d tuned everything out, focusing entirely on Eddie “you could have worn a shirt, man.”

“And miss the warm Indiana breeze on my nip? I think not Steven.” Steve scrunched up his nose in distaste “Stevie? Steve-o, Ooh, ooh… Estebe?”

“That means Stebe and you know it means Stebe.”

“I know but you always thought it was cute.” He was within reaching distance now, so close he could touch him, could touch him to ensure he was real, that he hadn’t just hallucinated his way through his forced vows.

“I only thought it was cute cause you actually thought it meant Steve.” He reached, Eddie’s smile widening, only for it to drop, his eyes sharpening in barely concealed rage as Harrington Sr. grabbed the arm reaching out toward Eddie.

“Don’t even think about it, Steven. You will inform your brief, and unfortunate lapse in judgement that you were mistaken, that it meant nothing, and you’re marrying Miss Reid, do not make me remind you—”

“Sit the fuck down Harrington, nobody pulled your string.” Eddie snarled leaning in close enough for the man to release his grip in surprise.

“Eddie… he’s right, I—I have to.”

“No, no you don’t, I see nobody we know here Steve, your friends, your family they’re not here… why? Why aren’t they here Steve… on what should be the happiest day of your life, why did Nancy have to shoot a security guard in the arm just to get me in?”

“Nance did what?” Was that what that noise was?

“Surprised you didn’t hear the gunshot. Karen wheeler practically shoved this monkey suit on me and shoved me out the damn door in hopes I could get you out of this, the only reason the others aren’t here is because these assholes did well enough to have it clash with everything going on in their lives.” Not him though, Eddie would have abandoned a whole damn tour, he’d have cancelled mid-gig, if necessary, Steve needed him. He needed them. “What’s stopping you from walking out of that door right now, baby? What’s doing that?”

He saw that crack in Steve’s already crumbling resolve at the soft use of an old pet name, such a simple, generic little name but it always made Steve just a little weak hearing it from Eddie. “Eddie—Eddie I’m… I can’t…”

There were whispers, people had stood up to get a closer look, nobody in that church recognised Eddie, as famous as he was, he wasn’t their kind of famous. Eddie paid them no mind, taking those last few steps, using what little courage he had left to reach up and skim his calloused fingers along that perfect jawline, thumb caressing the soft cushion of his cheek just below where his glasses perched. “You can, baby boy… my sweet little prince, you can walk right out of here with me… whatever it is Steve, we can deal with it, money? Baby I have more in pocket change than your family’s entire net worth combined, including the shit in those offshore accounts ol John here doesn’t think anyone knows about it.” Steve’s father leaned a fraction backwards in surprise, how the fuck did Munson know about that? He could move all he wanted, Eddie wasn’t paying attention to him, his soft eyes were on Steve, watching as the man let his own drift shut, leaning into the palm cupping his cheek. “Hawkins? Sweetheart… I got here in a day, I flew first class, very fancy, if anything happens, we’ve got it, we can be back here so fast whatever that freaky-ass place throws at us, we’ll be ready for it same as always… so what is it, big boy, what’s stopping you?”

Steve let his eyes open halfway, taking in the man in front of him “I’m not worth it Eddie… just… just go, it’s okay… I’ll be fine, m’always fine” so why did that smile look so sad “…I’m not worth what you’d lose if I were to leave.”

Part 9

[spikesbicth]

Your Whole World

Astarion x Reader!Female!DarkUrge One shot

approx 3.2k words.

CW: 18+, minors DNI, face fucking, oral sex, fingering, PiV, smut, choking, bleeding, biting. rough sex, creampie, blood play

cross posted on ao3

A/N: oh hi everyone… I couldn’t resist adding an Astarion smut to my repertoire. Besides, he has such a chokehold on me right now. A few things; if you have read my other posted one shot, you make notice a few similarities. I’m very proud of that fic and this being my first time writing in over a year, I borrowed a few elements from it to inspire me and get ideas flowing. It’s minor, but just FYI. also, sorry if there are any glaring grammatical mistakes/typos/tense errors. also i barely proofread. the majority of this was written in the middle of the night so I could give all of you sadistic fucks the most heinous christmas gift ever. So enjoy some sex and a dash of fluff. please don’t hesitate to give me feedback :)

Nothing sparked a glow in Astarion’s eyes like watching you standing over your most recent kill; bloodied and battered beneath you moments after landing your final strike. Lowering your hands and brushing loose hair from out of your face, you lift your gaze to meet his.

“Gods, it never gets old watching you work” he purrs, stepping towards you to further relish the moment now that the enjoyment of the bloodbath you created could begin.

Months had passed since you freed yourselves of your pasts. Astarion, exacting revenge against Cazador and ascending to his present form. Yourself through your rejection of Bhaal. Together you destroyed the Elder Brain, banishing any doubt that either of you would be puppeted by anyone, ever again. You remembered the night it all ended fondly, Astarion pressing you to accept his gift of immortality. Though you declined at the time, citing your desire to experience the rush of near death but a few more times, you assured you always planned to accept and commit to an eternity with him. You also remembered the way he fucked you that night, bringing you to the brink of ecstasy and back. How he promised to make you edge for every so-called “rush-of-near-death” you wished to experience before entering immortality with him. How he fed on you until you were nearly drained, exacting his dominance over your life. How much you

fucking.

loved it.

In the time since that night, you had parted ways with your companions and set forth on your journey together. Time was spent ravaging the nobles estates, killing off anyone who threatened you, giving in to every sadistic whim and desire. Nothing but the exacting of pure chaos as a victory lap before getting down to the real business. Power was still to be exacted.

“My Queen of the Hells…” He breathes, stepping towards you across the white tiled floor of the home belonging to whatever Mage of High Sorcery you had just butchered. Still meeting his gaze, you watch his pupils dilate as the scent of your own blood from the oozing gash on your cheek overcomes him.

You smile, extending your hand for him to take. His hand meets yours for a brief moment, before tracing his fingers up your forearm across to your waist and holding you firmly against his body. The both of you take a moment to admire the bodies that dotted the main floor of the ornate home, and the blood that so starkly contrasted the white decor.

“Shall we explore?” You ask, a cunning smile spreading across your lips. Astarion nods, his face dotted with specks of blood and his pupils so black they eclipsed his crimson irises.

“My love, you know I want to.” He affirms, his voice liquid velvet echoing the grand hall you stood in. After all this time, even his smallest endearments still fill your abdomen with warmth.

Together, you proceed up the opulent white tile staircase to the second level. There is no secret as to what you were looking for. Nothing filled you with lust and desire the way watching Astarion dominate his opponents in battle did. His most malicious attacks read like a dance, it seemed even his enemies were not immune to melting in his striking gaze. Though you promised to yourself that you would never be a servant to anyone again, the rules were much more malleable when it came to Astarion. You adored being under him, subject to his control and desires, the feeling of existing to pleasure him. Property he cherished, though still his property, he once declared.

At the end of the hallway at the top of the stairs, the former tenants bedroom lay vacant and freshly tidied. You watch as his graceful hand turns the doorknob and unlatches the door. On the other side was an appropriately opulent bed chamber dimly lit by fading mage light, now that the magic of the previous owner had begun to dispel. Upon entering the room, Astarion’s focus intensifies on you.

“Gods… you’re so beautiful…” He turns to you, his eyes examining your face, one of his fangs caught on the outside of his slightly parted lips. He brings his free hand to your bloodied cheek, pressing his thumb into it. You welcome the wince of pain at his hand and lingering for a moment. You could see the lust in his darkened eyes, hear the desire in his gruff voice.

You bring your hand to meet his on your face, and press his thumb deeper into your wound. The pain elicits a sharp exhale, and you watch Astarions eyes flicker to yours then back to your wound. Every sensation he imparts upon you was a taste of bliss. He slips his hand out from under yours, and brings his thumb to his mouth, gently licking it before closing his lips around it. A soft moan escapes him. He wants all of you.

The moment he removes his thumb from his mouth, you move to meet his lips with yours, entering a forceful and hungry kiss. You taste the slight sour of your blood in his mouth as he teases your lips with his tongue. You press your body against his, feeling a growing bulge in his pants.

“May I, darling?” He asks as his hands find the bottom of your shirt . You nod, and he tugs it over your arms and head. Your freed breasts bounce gently from the movement, and Astarion quickly brings his fingers to your erecting nipples. You press yourself further into him, kissing him hard. He hadn’t yet removed his light armour, and the coolness of the metal tingles your nipples and hardens them even further. He kneels, trailing kisses down your chest as you stand, and makes quick work of the tie holding up your trousers. He slides them off you with your undergarments and aided you in removing your shoes. He rises to standing again, gently nibbling at you on the way up to meet your lips again.

You pull away from the kiss for a moment, bringing a hand down to the base of his top, awaiting him to assist you in the removal of his layers.

“Mmmm..” He moans in anticipation, “Not this time my pet.” A sultry growl in his voice. He places his hands on your shoulders, and slowly presses you down. “On your knees, my precious thing.” He orders.

You obey, lowering to the floor. The cold hard tile digging into your kneecaps as you look up to Astarion from the ground.

You are his precious thing.

He takes a step back to remove his own armor and clothing as you watch, kneeling naked on the floor in front of him. Your heart quickened and you felt your folds dampen with arousal as Astarion removed his pants, freeing his erect cock that had been buldging for freedom just moments prior. His tip already slick with precum, glistening in the dusky room. Your mouth waters in anticipation. He indulges in a few strokes of his length before stepping closer to you, your eyes level with his muscular lower abdomen. There you sat beneath him, eyes wide with admiration and chilled from the cool tile floor, dripping in your own arousal, waiting.

“My love, do open your mouth for me.” He asks, his voice a breathy hush.

You obey, parting your lips and letting your tongue slide out. You knew how he wanted to use you, how you wanted to worship him. With your hands clasped behind your back, you welcomed his cock into your mouth. Your mouth waters at the saltiness of his precum and Astarion’s composure falters as a moan escapes him. He adored fucking you this way.

His cock quickly met the back of your throat, and you began to salivate fiercely to welcome it. You try to swallow but your throat closes around Astarion’s cock, and saliva begins to pool in your lower jaw. He slowly fucks your mouth, pulling out so that his tip met your lips, then thrusting hard to push his cock further and further down your throat, digging for your gag reflex. You cough, and your vision blurs as tears well up in your eyes.

“Oh, that’s it pet,” He moans, pushing deeper into your throat. Tears spill over, running down your cheeks and you blink to clear your vision as well as you can. He feels the flood of saliva building in your mouth and withdraws, then cocks his head to one side in admiration of you. Saliva flows down your chin and neck, dripping on the floor between you. You gasp for air, then open your mouth once again. He smirks, and runs his hand through your hair. He aligns his cock with your mouth again once more, you allow him to enter but not before teasing the spot below his glans that you know will send thunder through him.

The delicate moment is lost upon an abrupt thrust of Astarion’s hips, forcing his cock as far down your throat as he could. He continues to fuck your face with concentrated thrusts at the back of your throat, blocking any air from entering your lungs. A burning sensation grows in your chest as you try and fail gasp for air. Your vision grows fuzzy as a dark veil begins to shroud the corners of your vision, and you begin to choke. He takes a fistful of your hair and pulls you off of your cock, leaving a string of saliva pulling from your mouth to the tip of his throbbing length. Tears trail down your cheeks and you quietly gasp for air. Seconds after you inhale he shoves his cock back into you, fucking even harder than before.

“That's it my love, I know you yearn for breathlessness, I could give you this forever.” He praises, tightening his grip on your hair and humming with pleasure. You catch him with his gaze towards the ceiling, enjoying the filthy sounds. Beginning to feel the fire in your chest building again, Astarion pulls himself out and you gasp for breath, this time with enough time to notice the tears and saliva mixing with the blood from your face flowing down your bare chest.

Nearly as exerted as yourself, Astarion comes to his knees to greet you, meeting your slick and swollen lips with his own.

“Look what you’ve done to me…” you whispered between kisses, reaching up to feel the wetness on your face.

“I am not nearly done with you yet,” Astarion growls, pulling away from your lips then tonguing over his own, relishing the taste of your blood. He placed one hand on your mid back, and another to guide you down to lay gently on the floor. The chill of the tile on your warmed skin sent a shiver through your body, causing your nipples to erect once again and goosebumps to cover your body. Astarion smirks, admiring your body and the arousal leaking from between your legs. He works his way down your neck placing loose, open mouth kisses down your neck and chest, allowing his fangs to catch on your skin as he moves. He finds your left nipple and began to trace his tongue around the hardened sphere of flesh, sucking and flicking.

“Astar…ion….” you moan, fluttering your eyes. Now he was just teasing you, waiting for your patience to wane. “A..Ast..star..ion” you moan again, your clit swelling and throbbing between your legs. “P…p..please… Ast..star..ion” you beg, undulating your hips to touch his, attempting to alert him of your desires.

“Impatient tonight are we, my dear?” He coos, looking up to your eyes from where his face rested on your breast.

“P..please… touch me..” you beg, and you see a grin spread across his face, his two fangs glinting in the light.

“Now am I supposed to say no to that?” he asserts, not breaking his gaze as he begins kissing and lightly biting down your abdomen. Your stomach fluttered as you watched him move towards your pelvis. You admire his beautiful silver curls shift on his head while he moves his hands to your thighs to signal you to spread them, and you obey.

He traces circles with his fingers on your thighs, sending shivers through your body. Slick fluid drips through your folds and you feel your walls pulsating with the beat of your heart, you are desperate for him. You are certain you have never wanted anyone more than you have ever wanted Astarion, beautiful, powerful, Astarion. His aspirations, his ascension, and your mutual freedom, his unwavering devotion to you and only you. Gods, was there anything else you truly needed besides him?

You are snapped back to reality when he licks his cunning tongue up your folds, circling quickly around your clit. You take a sharp breath in and wrap your legs over his muscular shoulders, taking a fistful of his curls in your right hand. He wraps an arm around one leg and pressed down on your lower abdomen a few finger widths above your pelvic bone, not breaking the contact between his tongue and your clit. His ascendant strength holds you down as you adjust your hips, begging for him to indulge you. He teases your entrance with an icy finger, and you clench around nothing. A moment later, he slowly pushes two fingers inside of you, hooking them rhythmically to catch your G-spot. Your back arches and waves of warmth course through your body, reveling in the pleasure he was bestowing upon you. He drags you up to the “Darling, I thought you’d never ask” he responds coyley. It was often routine for him to feed on you while he fucked you, elevating his own ecstasy and you enjoying the way he held your delicious little life in his hands.

He kisses his way to your left inner thigh, and without warning, pierces his fangs into your tender skin, and blood begins to spill. You breathe out slowly, enjoying the pain he inflicts on you and the pleasure from the fingers still toying with your clit. You feel him drinking from you and your blood pressure dropping, sending a shockwave of dizziness to your head. This was pleasure like you had never experienced before him.

Astarion rises from his feed at your thigh, and slinks his way back to meet your mouth with his. Once again you taste your own blood in his mouth as he kisses you with such urgency and near corporeal desire.

“I need you… to be inside you..” he desperately speaks between kisses, and you feel him shift his weight to fumble with his throbbing cock. His facade has cracked, palpable, burning eagerness leaking through. He parts your folds and drags his cock against his bite, still exuding blood. For a moment he teases your entrance with his tip, but you know his grip on his composure was slipping. Carnal. Insatiable, it was coming.

He thrusts inside of you, and you moan with adjuration. Your walls expand for him, and you spread your legs, bending your knees to allow him the deepest thrusts he could muster. Your breasts bouncing in rhythm with him, and you reach your arms around his shoulders to pull him nearer to you. You moan hungrily in his ear, knowing this and the filthy noises of your fucking would drive him duly mad. He moans, breathing heavily and kissing you hard, enjoying every sensation of you around his cock. It was clear that he was edging to his finale, but it was now your turn.

You untangle your arms from him and press your hands on the front of your chest, and gain enough leverage to roll him off you and onto his back, you, only an instant behind him. You slide him back inside of you, then bring your hand to his mouth for another taste of your wetness and blood. He closes his eyes and licks your fingers, preparing himself for your turn of the fun.

His cock flexes inside of you and you find his wrists and guide his arms above his head, gripping them tightly to the floor. Your extended position leaves your breasts hanging just above his mouth, and he lifts his head to lick and suck. Slowly at first, you lift your hips so only the tip of his length remains inside of you, linger for a moment, only to come crashing down to him. His eyes widened and mouth opened, an aching moan coming from within him. You repeated the motion, watching him gasp and moan, withholding and flooding him with pleasure. The stickiness of your arousal, his precum, and your blood mixing on his thighs, squelching with each of your movements. After demonstrating your control over him, you release your grip from his wrists above his head, and lean back, forcing his cock to press into your walls. His hands find your hips, and he digs his fingers into you as you rhythmically fuck him. You push him closer and closer as slowly as you can handle. You push him to the edge, so, so close.

You find your swollen clit with your free hand, and begin rubbing in heavy circles. Astarion loves watching you pleasure yourself on him, using him to reach your own peak before allowing him his own. As you rub yourself and ride him, you feel intense pleasure rising within you.

“I- I’m going to come,” you moan, moving your hips faster and faster on his cock while applying more pressure on your throbbing clit.

Astarion opens his mouth to speak, but no words arrive, only fast, broken breaths.

You sing his name while you squeeze him with your thighs, gushing over his cock. Finally, you are over the edge. An intense euphoria floods through you as your walls contract around his cock. Your heart races and you gasp for breath, reveling in the pure pleasure you were experiencing. Astarion bucks his hips into you, desperate to spill himself inside. His silver curls now clung to his sweat-dampened forehead.

“O-oh f.. oh fuck…” He speaks, now fully lost his control and desperate only to join you in your pleasure. The contractions of your walls on him are sending him over. A powerful moan rises from his chest and with a few beastly thrusts inside of you, he spills. When he comes, he throws his head back and moans your name so it echoes within the tiled bed chambers.

His thrusts mellow, and eventually his twitching cock inside you calms. You lay forward on him,

His breath slows, and he wraps his arms around you, welcoming his coolness. He kisses your temple, then begins to rise. He helps you to the freshly made bed, and rests beside you.

“I love you, Astarion.” you say quietly, delighting in his arms woven around you.

There you lay together in your nakedness, the sweetness of your undying love cleansing all desire for anything more. No promise of power could be worth the sacrifice of losing each other. Despite both your aspirations and contributions to chaos, the constant of having each other for eternity was an invaluable prize to you both. You turn and delicately kiss his neck, breathing in and savouring his scent garnished with the metallic of your blood that was beginning to dry and crack on your skin. You feel his embrace tighten around you and you close your eyes, listening to his beating heart and melting into the arms of your little star. And he loves you too.

[midnightsun-if]

God now I'm picturing child!MC seeing Saraya pull Helena away from her work while saying something like, "I'm here to rescue you my love!" and then trying to pull something similar on Cienna the next time she has to pull double duty as family heir and babysitter. Like MC starts to tug on her hand and when she asks what they want, MC just looks up at her and says, "I'm here to rescue you 🥺"

Saraya does do that. Or she’ll do something worse (in Helena’s eyes)… she’ll begin to pout. So, it’s completely possible that the MC would have seen Saraya “rescue” Helena from her busy work schedule… especially if she wanted her wife’s attention.

“I’m here to rescue you.”

A statement uttered with the epitome of innocence, wide eyes staring up at her with an expression that only a child could create. One that hasn’t been marred by the world, that hasn’t been sullied by the darkness that it brings. An open honesty that would tug at any heartstring, even her long dead ones.

“You’re here to rescue me, huh?” Her lips curl upward, trying to ignore the way her emotions bubble within her chest at the sight of your enthusiastic node in response. “May I ask what I’m being rescued from?”

You giggle, pointing at the desk she had been hunched over the last four hours. “That.”

Electric blue eyes glance towards the scattered paperwork, ruminating on her next actions. Two paths stretch out before her… The path of a responsible heir, sending you on your way, citing that there was no rescue needed. Or, she muses, looking into your innocent eyes. The path that makes me the responsible sister.

To Cienna there was no contest.

“Truly?” She tilts her head, slowly rising from her high-back seat. “You wish to rescue me from those papers?” At your nod, her smile begins to grow into a grin. “That’s odd.” Cienna tilts her head, tapping her chin with a single finger. “Do you know why?”

You shake your head, watching her with rapt attention… Exactly what she wants, because, quicker than your eyes could catch, she quickly snatches you into her arms and twirls you around.

“Because there’s been reports of a little Beastie running about.” She spins around again, the sounds of your laughter ambrosia to her soul. “Know anything about that, my little protector?”

[huramuna]

wine red, tears gold - chapter 3.

king aegon II x baratheon ofc

previous chapter | next

a 'what if aegon didn't get poisoned and the greens technically won the dance but at what cost' au. basically aegon, alicent, otto and jaehaera are the only greens alive. and larys i guess. someone get rid of this guy.

word count: 3.8k

no more taglists unfortunately (i always forget and then feel bad) so please follow & turn on notifs for @huramuna-fics

content: smut (specifics below cut), canon typical misogyny, canon typical violence, angst, fluff, arranged marriage, touch-staved aegon, aegon isn't a r*pist in this au but he is still a bad person and has his vices, ofc and aegon need to go to therapy together, justice for jaehaera, awkward sex, kind of a slow burn, infidelity

jealous sea - meg myers • drinking lightning - AWOLNATION

warnings: oral (f receiving)

Waves upon a placid sea, bobbing with the tide. The warmth of the water enveloped her and was something akin to comfort— something she was severely lacking these days.

Lyanna imagined herself as a piece of driftwood lost in the ocean, strewn back and forth with the motion of the swells, wishing and hoping to wash ashore, but not actually moving.

Opening her eyes, she sat up in the tub, filling her lungs with air. Her maids gasped and fretted over her, citing that she could drown doing such things. Mayhaps she could, but it was unlikely. If the Gods were to strike her down and have her drown in a bathtub after being the queen for approximately a fortnight, then so be it. She would be of a similar laughing stock as Rhaenyra was around the Keep. The two of them would be dubbed ‘The Half-year Queen’ and ‘The Drowned Queen’. The jest almost brought a smile to her face– almost.

It had been a half-month since she had moved to her own chambers, since Aegon had dubbed her hideous and unworthy of his time. She fell into a deep depression for about three days, only allowing Alicent in her chambers. Tears weren’t shed, no– she was too numb for it. She felt as if she was living outside of her body, chained to her husk like a ghost.

On the fourth day, something in her snapped. Mayhaps it was the last of her innocence, of her girlish and naive view of the world finally shriveling up and dying– but the numbness didn’t hurt any longer. It was just there, an ever present reminder that this was her life now. As melancholy as she was, she felt it a duty to herself to atleast make an effort. So, on that fourth day, she picked herself up and requested a golden and green dress to wear, having her hair up in a half-do with intricate braids. Her posture was set rigid, her hands clasped over one another, now adorned in rings. She walked the gardens with Alicent and some other ladies, visited the Sept, and read in the library.

Aegon was nowhere to be found during those times and she wondered if he was avoiding her– it would be good, if so. Let him.

She decided to make a statement– to attend the Small Council meeting, another one of Alicent’s suggestions. Lyanna wished to be taken seriously, and should have her hand in many pots, so to speak, at the Keep and in King’s Landing. The Small council was one of those.

This morn, a half-month since her wedding, it was particularly dreary. Storm clouds hung above King’s Landing like an oppressing force, hiding away the sun and churning up the seas. Instead of indulging in the gloomy weather, she had her maids dress her brightly– a dress yellow like the sun, embroidered with gleaming jewels and a sweeping decollage to match, leading to an ornate depiction of a golden stag. Her hair was braided into two buns, fixated to her head with interweaving golden accents and pearls.

As she entered the council chamber, which was already in session, the heads at the tables turned to her. All of the men at the table stood up and bowed their heads except for one.

Aegon sat across the table, leaned back in the chair like a sloven cad, looking less than enthused at Lyanna’s presence. “My dear wife, dressed so brightly,” he mused, his fingers grasping around the marble ball at the table– his was golden and pink, an homage to Sunfyre– “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Husband,” she greeted back in a similar temperature, her facade warm. She looked at him head on, unwavering in her stance. Outwardly, she was the symbol of stalwart, a small smile gracing her lips. On the inside, she was remembering everything he had said, what he had done– she wanted to run away, to cower like a little girl. Lyanna smoothed down her skirt, “I simply wished to sit in on the meeting. Forgive me for my absence these past two weeks, my lords. I’ve needed much time to adjust to the capitol– but I am ready now to attend each meeting going forward.” she spoke evenly, moving towards an empty seat. It was across from Aegon’s. She pulled her own marble out from her pocket and put it in the circular ramekin– hers was colored gold and green.

“Each meeting?” Aegon drawled. “Certainly there is no need for that– mayhaps your time would be better spent with the court ladies, organizing luncheons and the like.”

Lyanna seethed beneath the surface, resisting the urge to pick at her cuticles. She took a deep breath. “Yes, each meeting. I don’t see why I cannot attend each small council meeting and organize luncheons with my courtiers, husband. Now, what is the topic of discussion?”

One of the lords spoke up, she recognized him as Ser Wylde, “Ah– yes, your grace,” he bumbled slightly, trying to remember the subject of conversation before she had come in, “There are… some emissaries from Dorne arriving on the morrow. We are ascertaining what sort of welcome they should receive.”

Otto Hightower was sitting near Aegon, his eyes not leaving Lyanna since she had arrived in the chamber. He seemed amused. “We were speaking of the cost it would be to give them a warm welcome. A feast, a celebration and the like– the coffers won’t support such an event.”

Lyanna perked a brow, her thumb and forefinger rimming around the marble idly, not dissimilar to how Aegon had been fiddling with his before– this was by coincidence, however– “Well, if I may be so bold as to put myself in their shoes,” she began, “It is quite a long and tenuous journey from here to Dorne, if I recall correctly. If I were a diplomat from Dorne getting off the boat after such a dreary travel, the last thing I would want is an extravagant party and hundreds of people to meet and entertain. What if we gave them a warm, intimate welcome? Mayhaps dinner with the King and I, some food and music, wine and a bit of dancing. Nothing overly… pompous.”

“They are from Dorne. They are overly pompous. Surely they would be bored of a small gathering and take it as an insult?” Aegon countered.

“What would you suggest then, my king?” Lyanna quipped back, leaning forward in her seat. Her leg was bouncing under the table errantly as she tried to contain her anxious energy.

Aegon stared blankly at Lyanna, the marble still rolling between his fingers. Then, he slammed it back down onto the wooden placing. “It is the best idea we have had. Very well. Small and intimate. Grandsire, you and mother shall attend as well. You’re much better at… diplomacy than I. Mayhaps we shall see how my dear Lyanna fares at her first taste of it, hm?”

After about thirty more minutes of back and forth about other subjects, the meeting was adjourned. The Lords left, leaving Lyanna and Aegon alone in the chamber.

She picked up her marble and placed it back in her pocket, straightening her skirts as she got up.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Aegon spoke then, having come up behind her quicker than she could register.

“I don���t know what you’re talking about.”

“You haven’t spoken to me in over a ten-day and you show up to the council meeting looking like… a beacon of the sun– and challenging me in front of the council. That is what I am speaking about.” Aegon’s hand grabbed her wrist as it came back out from her pocket, looking over it.

Lyanna glowered at him. “I am simply doing my duty as Queen. A good queen is informed about the going-ons of her small council, is she not?”

Aegon snorted. “Oh, yes– another page out of my mother’s book. Arriving somewhere you weren’t invited to fashionably late wearing the loudest outfit possible with the subtext of wanting attention. Do you even have an original thought in your head, wife? First, you could only parrot your oaf of a father’s words, and now my mother is trickling her spew down your ear. Truly, you’re like a fucking puppet. Where are you strings, puppet?” he sneered, pinching at her bare collarbone.

She let out the tiniest of whimpers at his pinch, doubling down and smacking Aegon right across his face.

He answered with a whimper of his own, his bottom lip pouting out for a moment. “Still not original, little rabbit.” he growled, squeezing her wrist tightly.

Over her stint locked away in her room, she thought of many things she wished to do to Aegon– anything to make him feel a semblance of the pain he had put unto her. Her knee came up, knocking him straight in his balls.

“Fucking, fuck,” he groaned, releasing her wrist and doubling over.

She expected him to explode at her, unsheathe his sword and cut her down for raising a hand– and knee– to him. But, when he looked up, he was smiling. “T-that… was original,” he croaked out, chuckling. “I kind of enjoyed that.”

Lyanna’s lip curled up. “You’re a pig.” she promptly picked up her skirts and left the room, not entirely sure what had just happened.

–

Up until that moment, Aegon hadn’t felt anything but mostly indifference to Lyanna. She was boring, plain featured and nothing to write home about.

Still, even after all he had said to her– he had meant it– he still felt… odd that she hadn’t spoken to him since then. Being married to Helaena was a hell in itself, but even hell can become familiar. Aegon was a creature in need of affection, of touch. Even when it was his mother slapping him or his grandsire pushing him– that meant that they loved him, in some way, right? With Helaena, she didn’t like touch like he did, shying away usually. They came to a middle ground during some point in their marriage that when Aegon needed touch, he could lay his head in Helaena’s lap while she embroidered or talked to bugs. They wouldn’t speak to one another– they just knew, and so it was.

Helaena was gone now, though. And now it felt that the only physical contact he got from others was those that he paid for and those that he earned from his mother and grandsire. And now, Lyanna, apparently. Her hand was warm when it came across his face and her lip quivered like she was on the verge of tears again. He couldn’t resist getting another jab in– and neither could she, apparently, as she kneed him in the balls. That was a new one for him and it fucking hurt– but it sent an electric shock to the fucked up part of his brain– wasn’t that all of it? – and he somewhat liked it. Not in a sexual way, contrary to what one might think, but in a way that he needed… contact.

He mulled it over for hours after it happened, deep into the night. He wanted to knock at her doors and explain the entirety of his fucked up life and his previous fucked up marriage to his sister and how she used to let him lay his head on her lap– and if he could do it with her.

But he would be an idiot if he thought that would work.

The following day, into the feast welcoming the Dornish emissary, an unfamiliar feeling bubbled up in his chest as he sat at the table.

Lyanna, dressed in sunflower yellow, looking as radiant as the sun, was dancing with one of the Dornish men. Prince Qyle, he remembered. His hands were grasped firmly around Lyanna’s waist– she was corseted tighter than normal today, he noted– as they danced.

He tried to pinpoint the feeling– it was a warmth simmering in his gut, threatening to boil over at any moment if this man didn’t get his hands off of his wife. Aegon’s pulse thrummed in his neck, his blood searing hot in his veins.

She laughed– Lyanna laughed. Aegon didn’t think he had ever heard that noise before but he longed to hear it again. He bit down on his lip, drawing blood. Why did he care if she was dancing with him? Aegon didn’t even really like her– she… she wasn’t hideous, of course, and in the right light and colors, she was pretty but– she was boring! A boring woman with nothing to offer him, when he could easily procure any woman of his choice just outside the castle walls. A boring woman who… he had made cry. Who he had said horrible things to– who was now dancing with a fucking Dornish prince and laughing. A Dornish prince who had his hands on his wife, the fucking queen– he was jealous.

Jealous? Jealousy never really permeated him until he was intertwined with Lyanna. At their wedding, with the men pawing at her– and now.

His blood was on fire and he needed to quell it. Immediately.

Hours passed during the feast and Aegon didn’t make a move– until he saw Lyanna leave the hall and go back to her chambers. It was a horrible idea, in truth, to follow her– but he couldn’t help it. As she went to close the door behind her, Aegon stopped her hand, slipping in and closing it.

“Hello, wife,” he murmured, trying not to sound as if he was in pain– which he was, the blood of the dragon running through him like sweltering lava. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

Lyanna looked surprised to see him, her big brown eyes glazing over once more like they had when they first met– like a rabbit in the snare of a predator. “Husband,” she responded slowly, her hands reaching up to pull the pins from her hair. “Yes, I enjoyed myself quite thoroughly. Prince Qyle is a fantastic dancer.”

“Oh– I’m sure. You let him put his hands all over you like you’re some sort of commodity.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tell me, did you like him touching you? Holding you close and no doubt whispering sweet nothings in your ear?”

Lyanna simmered for a moment, plopping down the pearl pins onto her boudoir. “Are you quite finished yet?”

Aegon bit the inside of his cheek, his blood still stoked to a flame. “No, the opposite in fact. It’s hilarious, really— how I was so ready to grovel at your feet last night, offer an olive branch to you,” he paced back and forth, twisting his rings, “But then you just have to throw it back in my face, hm? Parade yourself like a whore with a fucking Dornish prince of all things. Is this your idea of getting back at me? Hm? Notching your corset tighter and… looking like the sun itself and letting another man put his hands on you?”

She stopped fiddling with her hair as the last pin came loose, letting it fall down her back in dark brown waves. “You really have the audacity to call me a whore, Aegon?” she murmured, fingers gripped on the wooden edge of her vanity. “You are a whore, Aegon. As much as any of the ones you pay to sleep with you.”

The king scoffed, an unbelieving chuckle coming from his throat. “A whore. You call me a whore?” he glanced at her with red rimmed eyes, brow furrowed.

“Yes, you’re a whore. Mayhaps I should treat you like one. If I threw you some coin, would you grovel at my feet as you were so ready to do so last night, apparently?”

His mouth went slightly dry at the notion, his clothes feeling a bit tighter than before. Clearing his throat, he adjusted the collar of his doublet. “I have no need for your coin,” he retorted, “I’d do it for free.”

This caught her off guard and she turned to him. “… what?”

“I’ll grovel. I’ll prostrate myself for you like a whore— if,” his voice changed tone, something akin to uncertainty. It reminded Lyanna of their wedding night. “If you… will indulge me for the evening.”

Lyanna looked dumbfounded, her abashed confidence melting away. “You want to… couple with me?” she murmured with confusion.

“I can make you feel good if you just… let me sleep here tonight.”

She blinked profusely at his seemingly timid offer. She didn’t exactly know what he meant by it, but it made a warmth tingle within her at the thought. “… okay.”

Aegon’s eyes flicked up to her in disbelief, he didn’t expect her to say yes. He resisted the urge to smile smugly, as not to irritate her further. “Can I touch you?”

Lyanna nodded slowly.

He came before her as she sat at her vanity, very much still dressed from the feast. Kneeling down, he rucked up her skirts and dragged a testing finger near her inner thigh.

“… tickles.” she mewled, twitching slightly. They both must’ve indulged too much in wine this eve, or else this may not be happening.

“Damned skirts,” he growled, flitting through layers of tulle and silk. Throwing caution to the wind, he unsheathed the Valyrian Steel dagger at his hip, “Stay still.” he started at her chest, bringing the blade downward to slice the fabric apart like butter, effectively cutting her out of her outfit. She was left in her underclothes and corset.

Her face went beet red at the gesture, the unexpected precision of Aegon made that heat within her continue to build. “Y-you could’ve taken it off like normal, Aegon— this was Myrish lace!”

“Too much time and effort. I think you quite liked it as well,” he hummed, bringing the pad of his thumb to the apex of her thighs, feeling a growing wet spot. “Seems I was right.”

“… hmm,” she murmured, hiding her face behind her hands.

He pressed a hand to her corseted chest, leaning her back against the desk, his other hand prying open her legs further, to where she was positioned exactly how he wanted her. He hooked his arms under her thighs, effectively throwing both of her legs over his shoulders. Peering up at her from below, the way she hid her face, the edges of red blush eking out from her parted fingers, her now tousled hair falling over her like a curtain— it made something deep within him stir, something he couldn’t quite name yet.

Sliding the soft cotton of her panties to the side, he observed her form. He had been up close and personal with his fair share of cunt, but not usually in clear lighting and not black-out drunk. Her folds were a lovely shade of pink, curtained by dark brown curls. Parting them with his fore and middle finger, he found what he was looking for. His tongue prodded at her pearl experimentally, testing her reaction.

Her fingers opened slightly, the deep color of her eyes staring at him hazily. “W-wh— what was that?”

Aegon almost felt bad for her, poor thing had likely never touched herself before— surely this had to be an act of kindness and service that he was introducing this to her. “Your clit, dear,” he spoke before rasping at it again with his tongue, extracting a surprisingly delightful little whimper from her. “Feels good?”

Lyanna’s fingers were closed once more as she hid. “Mmhm…”

Wishing to hear her little noises again, he pulled her closer to his face, his hands gripping her bottom like a lifeline. He started slow, licking up and down her folds, savoring and enjoying her taste. Then, he decided he was done being merciful. His mouth latched onto her clit, suckling at it like he was a man starved. Her whimpers of pleasure turned into a siren’s song, breathy moans, broken strings of his name— she didn’t even know what she was asking for, but she wanted more.

“A-Aeg— w—,” Lyanna cried, the coil of warmth within her coming to a searing height, “S-some… something—,” her hand had autonomously threaded into his hair, pulling on his strands. He had seen the expression of bliss and ecstasy on her face, with the light of the candles illuminating the delicate planes of her face as she came and he thought she looked… beautiful. Her climax hit her hard and fast, her legs shaking as she unraveled completely, thighs snapping close around Aegon’s face.

He didn’t mind, of course— if he was to suffocate between a woman’s thighs after making her come, so be it. As a bonus, he kept up his ministrations on her pearl, not letting go until she pulled him off like a leech.

“S’too much— t-too much,” she heaved. Lyanna’s skin was pinkened, legs shaky still like a newborn fawn. “W-what was that? That wasn’t coupling— it wouldn’t result in a child.”

Aegon wiped his face with the back of his hand. “No, it wasn’t. It’s called pleasure, Lyanna. You surely have a lot to learn about it, it seems.”

“… I don’t understand.”

“That’s what whores do, they are experienced in the art of pleasure. It all isn’t just to make children— that isn’t the end all be all of it— sometimes, you can do it just for fun, for release, for pleasure— and also for love and romance and all that.”

“Hm.” she huffed, “So you aren’t… going to fornicate with me?���

Aegon smirked. “You put it so delicately, my queen,” his grin was toothy and made Lyanna feel faint, “No. Not right now at least— although, I am not opposed to it in the future. It is expected to conceive an heir but we have time for that.”

“Oh. Well… what about your… pleasure? Your release?”

His brow furrowed for a moment. This was the part where he’d have a whore ride him to completion or take him in her mouth— but he didn’t exactly feel the need to do it now. He was aroused, to be sure, but it wasn’t an overwhelming need like usual. He felt… satiated by satiating her. “No need.”

He helped her out of her corset and into her nightgown, relishing in how she subtly leaned into his touch.

“So, you just wish to sleep here tonight?” she asked as she climbed into bed.

“Yes— and I have… a request,” he climbed in after her, discarding everything but his small clothes on the floor. “Can I rest my head… here?” he pointed to her lap.

He fully expected her to laugh at him, to berate him— even if, deep down, he knew she wouldn’t— but she just nodded. “Just… lay?”

“Just lay.”

She pat her lap and he slowly descended, putting his head down. It felt… good. She was soft in all of the right places and she smelled… pleasant. And she was warm. He curled up next to her, bringing his body into itself and closing his eyes.

Sometime during the night, he felt her fingers glide through his hair, drawing soothing circles on his scalp as he slept.

He hadn’t slept better since he was a child.

this is what lyanna's 'revenge' outfit looked like.

[sushiwriterhere]

open note

summary: your shoulders won't stop aching and Nanami sits across from you at the cafe | 3.1k warnings: nanami x reader 18+, reader is (lightly) cursed, PiV (unprotected), nanami follows reader around sorta (for protection purposes), oral (f receiving) notes: this is my first jjk fic, pls let me know what u think <3 (to all my tg fans.. hope u can forgive me). not sure who to tag but i hope if u read u enjoy!

It’s late. The letters on the screen blur as you try to keep reading–you’ve lost track of how long you’ve been sitting here, trying to slog through your latest assigned reading. It’s not usually like this for you, like pulling teeth or climbing up ten flights of stairs, usually law school feels like a blessing. 

Everyone warned you about competitive peers and cutthroat curves, but instead you found a community of people who shared your passion for the law and didn’t find it odd that you could launch into a twenty-minute rant about the poorly designed logic of originalism at any moment. It was comforting to feel like you’d found your place in the world, to feel like you’d found your path. Was, being the operative word here. 

Lately everything felt heavy, felt, off balance. Some days, you stayed in bed until you were sure you would miss the bus to your lecture hall, only to make it by some grace of god, half disheveled and not sure you’d brought everything you needed. Some days, your apartment was too quiet, the one-bedroom you’d always longed for feeling more suffocating than the freeing space you’d needed it to be. You’d smile at your peers but gently reject invites for drinks or group study at the law library, citing your internship or a family call, but really, you just couldn’t bring yourself to spend more time than you already were in other peoples’ presence. 

Your only bright spot is Nanami. Every week, without fail, at least three times a week, you find yourself sitting across from him at the cafe down the street from your apartment complex. It’s an odd, unspoken arrangement. The cafe had been crowded one Thursday morning and he’d wordlessly stood behind the chair across from you before sitting after you’d nodded once. He always orders the same thing, a hot Americano–though he’s taken to sliding a muffin across to you ever so often. 

Sometimes you think that when he looks at you, he’s the only person who can really see you. Other times it feels like he’s almost looking right past you, like he’s trying to make out the face of someone far over your shoulder.

Even so, it is a tender set of interactions that buoys you throughout the week, until you find yourself sitting in front of Nanami at a quiet restaurant. Whatever you’ve ordered at random is savory and tender, and pairs beautifully with the wine he chose. It’s also exactly what you would’ve picked. 

The candlelight illuminates his face in a way that throws his features into stark relief, masculine, chiseled, and so beautiful. He’s saying something, and you wish you could put your hand on his chest to feel the rumble of the baritone you know is there. You think it might ground you in a way you haven’t felt in a while. You feel like you’re watching the entire interaction outside yourself. 

Then he’s paying the bill and pulling out your chair, taking you by the hand as he walks you to the coat check. You let him slip your jacket over your bare shoulders, missing the way the way he stiffens when his fingers brush your bare skin. Everything feels so far away then, and you almost stumble out the door. 

You move your lips to form words, to thank him for the meal, the company, the kindness, but you can’t. The world is foggy and somewhere between your shoulder blades is a deep, aching sort of pain. 

I should see a chiropractor, you think to yourself, wondering if all your time laying on your side looking out your apartment windows has finally caught up to you. 

Standing in front of you, Nanami considers you. But he’s not looking at you, instead he’s looking at the curse curled across your shoulders. It’s small, but that doesn’t matter–he sees the way it pulses with a dense cursed energy. If he strains his senses, he can pick up on its scent, the almost acrid stench. 

It’s been feeding on you for a while now–he first spotted you from across the crowded cafe you both frequent–a small thing at first. He hadn’t wanted to startle you by trying to exorcize it in the middle of that crowded room. Instead, he sat across from you, made friends, even? 

Despite the curse, he enjoyed your presence. You had gentle features, smelled nice, and your brow furrowed whenever you were thinking particularly hard about something until you would reach up to smooth a few fingers over your brow as if push the wrinkle away. The feelings were on accident, really. He’d just wanted to keep an eye on you, make sure the curse wasn’t giving you too much trouble. 

After that he’d learned too much about you in his effort to ‘keep you safe’–

(“Nanami, where are you off to at this hour?” Nanami ignored the other man as he pulled on his jacket. 

He’d spent a few minutes too many indulging in a hot cup of coffee, now he was going to be late if he didn’t hurry. You always got off the bus at this hour, and the curse was starting to really settle in. He didn’t like the faraway look you had in your eyes as you walked; he wasn’t sure you’d notice someone following you or coming up behind you. You hadn’t noticed him yet.

Gojo really couldn’t help himself, he was too nosy for his own good. Which was why Nanami couldn’t tell him, rather, refused to tell him about you. But he was running out of excuses and Gojo was getting particularly good at delegating, so he was spending more time than ever hanging around looking for someone to bother. 

“Lock the door behind me.” Was all he said in response, cutting off the other sorcerer’s garbled protests.)

Now, standing across from you, he sees a beautiful woman being drained of her life as a filthy curse digs its talons into you. 

Against his better judgment, Nanami steps forward towards you. In the restaurant, the candle light lit your face from below. Here, the street lights are above, emphasizing the darkness under your eyes. You haven’t been sleeping. 

Your eyes are glossed over when you look up at him, but you place your hands on his chest, his dress shirt dimpling under your fingertips. Rising on your toes, your hands smooth over his shoulders. Something curls pleasantly in his chest at the way your eyes widen when your hands find his muscles. 

His hands find their way to your hips, slipping underneath the coat that you didn’t bother to button. 

The curse thrashes angrily the closer Nanami gets. He ignores it. He can smell the perfume you put on you dotted on your wrists, the insides of your elbows, and it makes something twist in his gut. It’s a startling realization to understand that you want someone’s smell on your sheets for the rest of your life. 

You watch as Nanami turns his head, nose dragging across the sensitive inner side of your forearm to dot a kiss in the crook of your elbow. It sends a shiver down your spine at the same time as the pain intensifies in your back. Your knees buckle as he catches you. 

Nanami carries you home. He picked a place close to you just in case he needed to get you alone (not like that) to rid you of the curse. You’re lucid enough to push your purse into his chest so he can fish the keys out and unlock the front door. 

The inside of your apartment is as much the one-bedroom of a law student as he’d imagined it. There’s a desk by the window with textbooks stacked on one side, and one open in the middle. Highlighters of every color are arranged neatly next to it, a stack of cutesy sticky notes tying everything together. 

“Can you stand?” His voice rumbles in his chest next to your ear, and for a few moments you’re free of pain and that ache, like some sort of noise therapy effect. 

You let him stand you upright until, in a flash, your breath is stolen from you. 

What did he just do to me? Who did I let into my house? You think in a moment of panic until you realize your back doesn’t hurt anymore. 

Nanami’s staring at you, a tender look in his eyes. One of his large, warm, hands is gripping your shoulder over your coat, and it grounds you. 

In a moment, your lips are on his. Maybe it’s the way he carried you back to your apartment, maybe’s it’s the way he’s been sitting across from you for three months now, steadily buying you sweets and paying for your coffees and teas. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s so tall, and so broad, and he looks at you like you hung the fucking moon. 

You hang on to the lapels of his coat as his mouth works furiously against yours. Weaving one hand into his hair, you clutch with the other at his shoulders for dear life as he pulls you into him. He’s got one hand cupping your face, the other around your waist. 

Suddenly you feel so full of life and you want him, desperately. You go to throw off your coat but he pulls back for just a moment. 

“Are you sure?” The mere tone of his voice does something indescribable to you, and you nod furiously as you tear off the garment. 

He shoulders off his coat as well and toes out of his dress shoes as he walks you backwards into the nearest wall. You groan in appreciation as he noses down your jawline, behind your ear, to the dip at the base of your neck. 

A shiver tears down your back as you realize he’s smelling you, inhaling the perfume you put on earlier. You pant as he just holds you there, taking you in. The tip of his nose is slightly too cold in contrast with the warm softness of his lips that follow. 

“Nanami,” you try, gripping at his shoulders for dear life as he goes to kneel before you. You want his lips on yours, want to taste the wine you both drank earlier from his mouth. 

“Patience,” He murmurs as he takes one of your legs over his broad, broad, shoulders and you keen, high, reedy, in the back of your throat at the way his teeth scrape at your inner thigh. 

You feel more alive than you have in six months and he wants you to wait? With everything in you you want him to hurry and fuck you, to feel the weight of him in you and around you in your bed, to have him tangled in your sheets. And yet he takes his time.

Nanami is a patient man. He knows what it is to bide your time for the good things–he used to be a salaryman after all. He has waited for this moment. The part of him that sympathizes with what you must be feeling right now, the surge of energy after the months of being drained like a maple tree. But though ever patient, Nanami knows what he wants. 

What he wants is exactly this–tugging your damp panties to the side with a crook of his fingers, tilting his head up and forward to lick up your center and to taste you. What he wants is to keep hearing the sounds you’re making, the sighs and staccato’d ah-ah-ah’s you can’t hold back as he sucks insistently on your clit. What he wants is to keep feeling the way you hug his two fingers, hot, and wet, and so tight and fluttering. 

You tremble against the way he leans against you, keeps you up against the wall. You’ve had people go down on you in your time, you’re in your late 20s not dead. But none of them have done this–have eaten you out like it’s for them, and not you. 

Nanami stays where he is til your hands twist painfully in his hair, til you’re shaking with overstimulation after cumming so hard you think you might’ve blacked out for just a moment. 

Your chest rises and falls quickly, yet in the most tantalizing way, as your nipples strain against the satin fabric stretched over your chest. Your eyes are wild and your cheeks are flushed as he leans in to kiss you ever so gently, only bothering to wipe his chin with the sleeve of his dress shirt so it doesn’t drip onto his chest. 

He has to wear that home tomorrow, you think to yourself, and something curls almost painfully in your chest from arousal. 

One by one, you open the buttons of his shirt as he kisses you intently. He runs his tongue along your teeth as you tug the bottom of it out of his slacks and his fingers tighten on your waist as you unbutton his pants and stick your hand in his briefs. God. He’s heavy and thick and hot in your hand, and you think you can feel his pulse from the way he throbs in your grip. 

He grunts softly when you slide down his length only to tighten your grip and twist your wrist. There’s not much room between the two of you, not with the way he’s pressed up against you, but you make an effort anyways. 

“Take me to bed, Nanami.”

So he does. He pulls himself away from your reach with a final peck, before grabbing your thighs and picking you up. It’s a certain sort of primal attraction you feel at the effortless way he carries your weight and sets you down ever so gently on your sheets. At this angle, you have the perfect view. 

His shirt, untucked and unbuttoned reveals a trim waist and a broad, muscular chest. The one you’d felt earlier. His slacks are tented and there’s a small damp patch just to the left of the middle seam. He flexes his hands once before kneeling before you once again. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you watch as he slides your heels off one by one, ever so gently. 

You’d forgotten you were wearing them. 

As he shrugs his shirt off, you twist yourself around so you’re sitting on your heels, so you can pull your dress up and over your shoulders. His pants are halfway down his thighs when you reemerge and then you two are frozen in a momentary staring contest.

Nanami doesn’t think he’s gawking per se, but his gaze isn’t innocent by any means. Your satin dress is pooling off one arm, no longer framing your figure just so. Your nipples are hard and he thinks your tits might be the perfect size to fit in his palms (he’ll have to find out). Your panties are lace trimmed, and although Nanami of ten years ago might’ve rolled his eyes (“I’m going to take them off anyway.”), the man before you swallows dryly. The eroticism of watching you undress cannot be overstated. 

He finishes pulling off his slacks to give himself a distraction. You’re so beautiful it makes his chest ache, especially now that you’re not weighed down by grief and anger and sadness. 

You’ve made your way to the edge of the mattress by the time he stands to his full height again. Your hands are warm and soft against his skin as you explore the planes of his chest, scratching softly at the waistband of his briefs. You press a kiss to his sternum and something terrible blooms right underneath his skin. 

He leans down to press you into the bed so he doesn’t have to dwell on that for too long. Below him you’re soft and warm and so responsive. You sigh into his mouth when he drags a fingertip over your nipples, when he rocks his hips into yours. 

Eventually he rids himself of his briefs, and you wiggle out of your panties, an excited look gracing your features. He pretends it doesn’t affect him the way it does. 

When he finally sinks into you, he thinks he can’t breathe. It’s not some overwrought metaphor about being inside you it’s about being with you. You’re here with him, after he took you to dinner, carried you home, got rid of the curse. It’s you who’s moaning his name, scraping your nails across his shoulders and back. 

You’re tilting your hips up into his, gasping in pleasure, whispering filthy sweet nothings– “Been thinking about this since I first saw you–” “Feels so good, Nanami, you feel so good–” “Only want you like this–”

He finishes with a punched out groan and he feels the way you clench around him at the sensation. A hand slips between you two and he finds your clit again with his fingers, determined to get you off again. It’s only fair. 

Your face contorts in pleasure as you finish again, and the way you bear down on him makes his head spin. He holds himself above you as you both come down, resting his forehead against yours and trying to catch his breath–certainly not from physical exertion. 

When he pulls out, when he goes to stand, to find something to clean you up, make you comfortable for sleep, you catch him by the wrist. 

“Stay.” Is all you say, smiling softly at him. It’s so much closer to how Nanami imagined you’d looked before the curse, without its weight on your shoulders that he thinks he might be sick. 

And stay he does. He cleans you up tenderly then coaxes you into the bathroom so you can wash your face and brush your teeth. He follows your instructions dutifully on where to find a clean pair of sheets and hangs your dress up back inside the first empty garment bag he spots inside your closet. 

Nanami lets you press a toothbrush into his palm, lets you peck his lips with your lip mask on, and push him toward the bathroom with a smile. He made the bed. Your dress is hanging in the closet. 

It’s painfully domestic and nurturing in a way you maybe didn’t expect from someone who bed you on the first date. But then again, you’d wanted him to. (The underwear, the perfume–men.)

When you finally watch him climb into bed next to you, you’re more than satisfied by the way he tugs you into his arms and just holds you. There’s no pretense, no motive, nothing other than wanting to hold you and feel your skin on his. You feel lighter than you have in months.

[nekropsii]

hello!I have a question about your alpha troll iceberg.

When did kurloz sexually assault meulin?I cannot find the source for it on my own.

I’m also a little skeptical since:

1.kurloz feels some form of guilt for deafening meulin.Not as much guilt as he shows,considering how he technically breaks his oath of silence by using his purpleblood magic

2.he isn’t openly sexual other than getting the codpiece,which I view as him following any orders from gamzee and/or lord English.And also his game sprite may have a bulge to it?im not sure about my second point

3.i don’t know why he would do that because he doesn’t abuse meulin that way.In openbound 2,he treats meulin more as an easy pawn to assist him in his malicious plans to help lord english & gamzee rather than sexually assaulting her to ruin her and then manipulating her.

I’m really curious to know when this happened,since it would reframe his already atrocious actions as even worse

Also I have a bias since I have a weird attachment to kurloz for no canon compliant reason.

Hopefully this isn’t too long…it probably is but I hope 8]

I applaud the thoroughness, actually, and thank you for reaching out. I love when people ask me to Cite My Sources, so to speak.

It's in one of the Signing portions of their interactions, so I do not necessarily blame you for missing it.

This is clearly non-consensual touching that is being framed as Upsetting on Meulin's end and Deliberately Creepy on Kurloz's.

I'm not really sure how I feel about it. Well, I feel bad about it, obviously, assault is literally always bad, but I really cannot decipher Kurloz as a character. Not fully, really, 'cuz he doesn't have much of one. To me, this reads as a pure, unadulterated Makara Moment, and I'm frankly just kind of tired of it. Kurloz's character is just a nebulous haze of Plot Instigation and Racism. Gamzee's character is also just a nebulous haze of Plot Instigation and Racism. These are both characters who are coded as Black, who are portrayed as being very dominating, abusive, and physically + sexually violent - especially Gamzee. Kurloz doing this is weird, but it's not... Shocking, I guess.

His relationship with Meulin is absolutely, uh... Troubled... To put it nicely... What, with him manipulating her into a cult and mind controlling her into doing his bidding all the time, on top of this assault, the Bullshit Clown Magic having the side effects of Confusion, Brain Fog, and Memory Loss, and her still seeming to have some kind of suppressed attraction to him... It's complicated. I think it could be genuinely very fascinating to explore, if one has the stomach for it. And a deft enough hand... And is capable of handling it all with maximum sensitivity. It's verging on something really good... But it falls kind of flat, and it's fucking exhausting that we're having this same damn conversation with another fucking Makara.

This could be done extremely well. There's some genuinely solid grounds here for exploring a very complex, very visceral abusive relationship, kind of like what was going on with Gamzee and Terezi, but... There was both just not enough time to set that up fully, and also I am so tired of Makaras being Like That.

I wish I could say this was surprising. I really do. It's not, though. It's like... On par with Gamzee being kind of a Necrophile. I just have to sigh and throw my hands up and accept it. Like, god dammit, okay, I guess we're doing this today! Sure! Whatever! Fuck my life.

[odditycircus-2002]

Medusa!Reader and Shang Tsung in MK1 Part 8

Spoilers for story mode: Proceed with caution

Previous

NEXT

When Kuai Liang and Tomas brought you to Lord Raiden’s Fire Temple, you were pleasantly surprised to find Syzoth and vice versa. Syzoth then inquires about your health, if Shang Tsung hurt you or did anything to you. He swears that he’ll make the Sorcerer 100 times fold for everything he did, but you put a hand on his shoulder in reassurance before he could go on to plan his revenge out loud. You remind him that you don't prepare an effective murder plan out loud.

Not too long after you reunite with Syzoth, the Earthrealmers you met, Johnny Cage, Kung Lao, Kenshi, and a woman you've never met enter the courtyard to greet you. Like the Zatteran, without murder planning, they express their relief at seeing you mostly alright besides the bruises and scratches. First Cage hands you another set of sunglasses for your eyes before letting you in on how Baraka reacted when Shang Tsung kidnapped you, which is to say not well at all.

"No joke, he went full Kool-Aid man on the door and then an entire wall! I thought Baraka was gonna pop a vein, not that I blame him seeing his gal was taken from him."

You stammered to Johnny that Baraka was upset because his friend was taken. Although the way your snakes went to cover your warm cheeks said otherwise. To change the subject, please ask who the newcomer is. The woman introduces herself as Ashrah before asking if you are Zateran, the same as Syzoth. You explain that you look like a reptilian because of Shang Tsung, which causes your snakes to hiss and writhe angrily to reflect your mood.

The group eventually catches you up on everything you missed, including how they came across Ashrah, Quan-chi's involvement with Shang Tsung, creating something called "Ermac" made from the souls of the Living Forest, and their daring escape at the festival. You were surprised to hear Syzoth held his own against Tanya AND Princess Kitana. It also didn't slip your notice how flustered your reptiloid friend seemed when Ashrah praised him for his bravery. Although that was another matter for a, hopefully, better time. You, in return, also share your experience of being held captive at Ying's fortress.

You explained how you deeply regretted not splitting Shang Tsung from the groin to the gullet before Kuai Liang invited you to The Fire Temple to wait for Lord Liu Kang's return. You acquiesce, only asking for parchment and quill to pass the time. You finished tying your ribbon around your letter when Lord Liu Kang entered. When the latter explains how he must inform and prove Empress Sindel about Shang Tsung and Quan-chi's evildoings, you immediately offer to assist the Fire God. You cite that your presence with Lui Kang would provide more credibility to his claims as he tries to convince Sindel of Shang Tsung and Quan-chi's true intentions.

Your prediction is true when you and the Fire God enter through the portal gate, only to be greeted by Li Mei and the rest of Sun Do's constables. The First Constable does a double take when seeing your masked face but with your hood down. She learned from General Shao about your monstrous mutations and subsequent betrayal, but she didn't want to believe either. Li Mei knew that you were steadfast in your loyalties to Sindel and her daughters, but to see you so utterly transformed... Another problem for another time.

Li Mei, understandably, was reluctant to hear Liu Kang's claims about the Deadly Alliance and General Shao's conspiracy against the throne. However, at your insistence and reminding her how you, too, had your counsel ignored by Sindel despite your best intentions, Li Mei is quick to catch on.

"I knew he couldn't be trusted!"

"I wish I had known that sooner."

Liu Kang then explains how Shang Tsung treated Mileena's Tarkat symptoms, gaining Sindel's favor to get close to the throne. You describe to Li Mei that after Shang Tsung treated Mileena's Tarkat symptoms, you partnered with the Sorcerer to study Tarkat near the Wastes. You had hoped to finally find a cure, only for that Snake to use your research for his twisted experiments, adding how you still can taste the air of that dungeon. Li Mei, not wanting to let down the royal family again, agrees to assist the Fire God with his goal. She also agrees to have one of her constables deliver a letter you wrote for Baraka to the Wastes, which lets him in on everything that transpired and that you're well. It also lets him know you intend to save the Empire and Outworld.

P.S. I was told by Mister Cage about your concern after my kidnapping.

On the way to Sun Do's palace, you and Lord Liu Kang fill the First Constable with everything you know about General Shao's plans and his part in the conspiracy. When Reiko and some of his subordinates, including Motaro, block your path, all of you spring into action against Outworld's soldiers. You rip off your mask to turn some of the soldiers into stone before biting into one that tried to grab you from behind, who then falls to the ground, coughing blood. You duck and weave between soldiers, letting your snakes bite into exposed flesh. This turns the soldiers into what you could only describe as living blood trees. Occasionally, you would be able to help Li Mei in her fight against Reiko, mainly offering her medical aid before hopping back into the foray.

After Li Mei defeats Reiko, all of you left the site before reinforcements could arrive. Not long after entering the palace's Hanging Gardens, you and your companions are surrounded by Tanya and the Umgadi. You plead with Tanya to listen to what Li Mei has to say, reminding her that you, too, are concerned for the royal family and helped treat Mileena's condition. Yet, while Tanya hesitates briefly, it doesn't stop her from fighting Li Mei. It doesn't surprise you that the former Umgadi wins against the younger warrior priestess. You kept your mask on as more Umgadi arrived on the scene, even as they enclosed you with their spears. You're glad you did when Li Mei passionately urged the rest of her former sisters-in-arms to stand with her to save the empire.

The Umgadi heeded Li Mei's words and escorted the rest of you to Empress Sindel's throne room, with a bound Tanya walking beside you and Li Mei. You had to bite your tongue when Sindel immediately accuses her former friend of trying to destroy the rest of her family by allying herself with Earthrealm's protector. You let out a hiss and let down your hood to show your Empress your new form.

"My Empress, I implore you, for onccce, to listen to what an actual friend and ally have to say before making blind accusationsss."

When Sindel asks who are you to talk to her like that, you reveal to her that it's you, her Imperial Healer and friend. A friend who has wanted nothing more than the best for the royal house and Outworld. Who, because of Shang Tsung, you are like this, and because she was blinded by anger and grief, you feared telling her all of this sooner. The Empress was left speechless at your emboldened words and appearance. Li Mei then assures Sindel that you and her are here to help her, even if she'll never forgive Li Mei. As the Empress appears to pause to consider her friends' words, Tanya tries to strangle Li Mei with her ropes. You are forced to fight against the rest of the Umgadi, including one that could've been your sister. You'd be lying if you said you didn't get some twisted satisfaction at landing some blows on the "perfect" daughter your mother used to brag about despite never knowing.

When Mileena decided to fight against Li Mei, you felt panic grip your heart as you watched their fight get progressively more aggressive.

"Mileena! DON'T!"

You treated enough Tarkatans to know where this could lead, especially with emotions high mixed with adrenaline. In most of these sorts of instances, the afflicted would stop sparring or fighting and start brutally tearing into one another out of pure rage. You had to treat many Tarkatans because of these injuries if you didn't sedate them fast enough. However, you were out of tranquilizers at the moment, which is especially unfortunate when Mileena's symptoms manifest, and she then pounces on her mother. You quickly run over to Empress Sindel's aid, mask off, but Mileena wouldn't look you in the eye as she claws at your face, knocking you to your side. Fortunately, Li Mei rips off the feral princess and tosses her away from both of you.

While Li Mei was occupied with Mileena, you inquired about Sindel's health and if she had any injuries. Sindel replies that she's fine, more concerned about the scratches on your face. You answer that they aren't deep and you'll heal before putting your mask back on. You shout at Tanya to grab Mileena's serum and to hurry while the latter is still engaged in kombat with Li Mei. The Empress then apologizes for making you feel like you couldn't be open to her and unable to imagine what you went through. You reply to Sindel that you wish you had come to her sooner, but it wasn't all bad. You got to work with the colony out in the Wastes, where you had gathered a well of information and improved their conditions a little, but there's still a long way to go. You also found friends at the Colony, with you being closest to the leader of the said colony, who accepted you for all your new deformities. Sindel raises a brow at the fondness in your voice when mentioning Baraka but doesn't comment on it.

After Li Mei finally subdues Mileena, you and Sindel sit beside Mileena on both sides to support her as Tanya injects her with the serum. You don't miss the soft look shared between Mileena and Tanya, but you don't comment.

Finally, Liu Kang had an audience with the Empress, who is still suspicious of the Fire God for seemingly sending minions on secret missions into her Empire. After the Fire God makes his case, he offers to show Sindel proof of his claim at Shang Tsung's laboratory. You grimace at the thought of returning to that horrid place but willingly return for the sake of the royal family and your friend.

A/N: Remember to like, reblog, and or comment! I love to hear y'alls thoughts and that includes my inbox too. Thanks for being patient with me (for the most part) as I've been busy with midterms so I wasn't exactly able to take some time to write. I hope this makes up for it! Stay weird, my fellow humans.

[accirax]

initial thoughts on DCAS episode 19

Emily has really been going full villain mode these past couple of episodes, huh? while I'm overall not a huge fan of how many women have been portrayed as rude/unreasonable as compared to their male counterparts, i do love an evil queen. i support women's wrongs.

oh, Gabby. how many people wish that were true. (very cute gabellie content as usual)

i wonder if this is a soft confirmation that we'll never see Gabby or Ellie compete again.

this is so important. also, Hunter, the heart is on Ally's pajamas, not her casual look with the jacket. unless he just drew that there because he loves Ally so much :D

glad that Tom can finally admit that he is a terrible liar. truly, the person Tom and Jake should blame is the hiring manager who hired Tom in the first place.

if you loved him this whole time then why did you lie to him about having another boyfriend, Tom? ,':/ (/lh) (i know that he was explaining in this scene that it's because he was afraid, i'm just saying that the extent of his fears is something that shouldn't be swept under the rug, and that i feel it wasn't properly set up enough in s1 or DCAS as a replacement. yes it was showcased in DCAS but we never got an explanation as to Tom's thought process between seasons that would change his mind to make him more fearful.)

*several people are typing*

we NEED to see jaiden teaching Miriam a tiktok dance.

this is your daily reminder to not take anything that's said in a greeting too seriously.

c'mon, Fiore, a true gen Alpha-er would know that the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell without having to look it up. unless, oh god, is that too much of a gen-Z reference for gen Alpha to understand...?

HE'S SUCH A DAD I LOVE THEM

this was probably my favorite line of the episode.

this was a really cute detail! even though they were both the archetypal "old person" of their season, Connor is still, like, 20 years younger than Miriam. it totally make sense that she'd still call him kiddo! just, not grandkiddo.

literally even Ellie is rooting for them to finish this plotline already. or maybe she's just feeling guilty for separating them in the first place, and she's lowkey hoping that the damage wasn't that severe.

that's... that's a crime? you can't just burn people, even if they're terrible??? i guess that, given Riya attempting to kill Aiden and directly breaking Connor's leg further, the definition of what counts as a crime is pretty lax in this universe. unless it's about destroying the environment. thanks, Tom! (/j)

also, why is Yul's scar so damn low res?

MCDONALD'S ELLIE ISN'T CANON??? D:

i wonder if this season is going to end with Grett giving Ellie a job/helping Ellie get a job. i could see fitness influencer and fashion designer working together well, as long as Ellie is okay designing athleticwear.

on one hand, i don't like that we don't get to have the finalists pick the people that they're closest with help them in the finale. this feels rather random, and in terms of real-world fairness, having a finalist get stuck with terrible help isn't very fair (i cite Top Chef season 4 as my example). however, i do appreciate how Disventure Camp always mixes the endgame up. it's not very fair in a real-world perspective, but given that it isn't a real game i appreciate the variety.

i also think that this is a nice fix to really incentivize whoever is helping the finalist after (in-universe) we had two really unpopular finalists, Fiore and James, who struggled to get any help. it feels like a reasonable decision that the in-universe showrunners would make.

don't distract him during the finale, you fool!

the Romber strategy!!! wow, and it's even in the first All Stars season, too :D

THE YUL CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT IS BACK ON?!?!?!?!

FIORE FINALE CONTENT! FIORE FINALE CONTENT!

ain't no way she's actually winning and of that $100K though, lol.

y'know, this might as well happen.

Riya and Yul really are perfect for each other (platonic) because every time that either of them gets a chance to either repent and be a good person or double down and keep relentlessly chasing their goals, they both always choose the latter. they're gonna get punished in the finale big time for sure... to the extent that Yul hasn't already been punished by getting that scar(?) to the face. like, seriously, that could be even more damage to his career.

once again, i missed the real Hunter so much :,)

while i love the roast here, does Fiore actually have anyone's respect...?

that's a wrap, folks! the most important character arc of the season is over!