#i could go on for hours about the original fantasy life. none of you would want to see me do that though.

[kira-moonrabbit]

None of you people were talking about Fantasy Life i. it's all magolor epilogue this, splatoon 3 that, pikmin 4 whateverest. no rep for the sequel to my favoritest game of all time that I have sunk collectively over a thousand hours into?!

(...well, i'm happy for professor layton and pikmin 4 looks cute and magolor mode looks good as well, I'm joking about being mad. But also what a bombshell???)

[mariacallous]

The original version of this story appeared in Quanta Magazine.

Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?

Those aren’t just lyrics from the Queen song “Bohemian Rhapsody.” They’re also the questions that the brain must constantly answer while processing streams of visual signals from the eyes and purely mental pictures bubbling out of the imagination. Brain scan studies have repeatedly found that seeing something and imagining it evoke highly similar patterns of neural activity. Yet for most of us, the subjective experiences they produce are very different.

“I can look outside my window right now, and if I want to, I can imagine a unicorn walking down the street,” said Thomas Naselaris, an associate professor at the University of Minnesota. The street would seem real and the unicorn would not. “It’s very clear to me,” he said. The knowledge that unicorns are mythical barely plays into that: A simple imaginary white horse would seem just as unreal.

So “why are we not constantly hallucinating?” asked Nadine Dijkstra, a postdoctoral fellow at University College London. A study she led, recently published in Nature Communications, provides an intriguing answer: The brain evaluates the images it is processing against a “reality threshold.” If the signal passes the threshold, the brain thinks it’s real; if it doesn’t, the brain thinks it’s imagined.

Such a system works well most of the time because imagined signals are typically weak. But if an imagined signal is strong enough to cross the threshold, the brain takes it for reality.

Although the brain is very competent at assessing the images in our minds, it appears that “this kind of reality checking is a serious struggle,” said Lars Muckli, a professor of visual and cognitive neurosciences at the University of Glasgow. The new findings raise questions about whether variations or alterations in this system could lead to hallucinations, invasive thoughts, or even dreaming.

“They’ve done a great job, in my opinion, of taking an issue that philosophers have been debating about for centuries and defining models with predictable outcomes and testing them,” Naselaris said.

When Perceptions and Imagination Mix

Dijkstra’s study of imagined images was born in the early days of the Covid-19 pandemic, when quarantines and lockdowns interrupted her scheduled work. Bored, she started going through the scientific literature on imagination—and then spent hours combing papers for historical accounts of how scientists tested such an abstract concept. That’s how she came upon a 1910 study conducted by the psychologist Mary Cheves West Perky.

Perky asked participants to picture fruits while staring at a blank wall. As they did so, she secretly projected extremely faint images of those fruits—so faint as to be barely visible—on the wall and asked the participants if they saw anything. None of them thought they saw anything real, although they commented on how vivid their imagined image seemed. “If I hadn’t known I was imagining, I would have thought it real,” one participant said.

A 1910 study by the psychologist Mary Cheves West Perky found that when our perceptions match what we are imagining, we assume that their inputs are imaginary.Photograph: DOI/Quanta Magazine

Perky’s conclusion was that when our perception of something matches what we know we are imagining, we will assume it is imaginary. It eventually came to be known in psychology as the Perky effect. “It’s a huge classic,” said Bence Nanay, a professor of philosophical psychology at the University of Antwerp. It became kind of a “compulsory thing when you write about imagery to say your two cents about the Perky experiment.”

In the 1970s, the psychology researcher Sydney Joelson Segal revived interest in Perky’s work by updating and modifying the experiment. In one follow-up study, Segal asked participants to imagine something, such as the New York City skyline, while he projected something else faintly onto the wall—such as a tomato. What the participants saw was a mix of the imagined image and the real one, such as the New York City skyline at sunset. Segal’s findings suggested that perception and imagination can sometimes “quite literally mix,” Nanay said.

Not all studies that aimed to replicate Perky’s findings succeeded. Some of them involved repeated trials for the participants, which muddied the results: Once people know what you’re trying to test, they tend to change their answers to what they think is correct, Naselaris said.

So Dijkstra, under the direction of Steve Fleming, a metacognition expert at University College London, set up a modern version of the experiment that avoided the problem. In their study, participants never had a chance to edit their answers because they were tested only once. The work modeled and examined the Perky effect and two other competing hypotheses for how the brain tells reality and imagination apart.

Evaluation Networks

One of those alternative hypotheses says that the brain uses the same networks for reality and imagination, but that functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) brain scans don’t have high enough resolution for neuroscientists to discern the differences in how the networks are used. One of Muckli’s studies, for example, suggests that in the brain’s visual cortex, which processes images, imaginary experiences are coded in a more superficial layer than real experiences are.

With functional brain imaging, “we’re squinting our eyes,” Muckli said. Within each equivalent of a pixel in a brain scan, there are about 1,000 neurons, and we can’t see what each one is doing.

The other hypothesis, suggested by studies led by Joel Pearson at the University of New South Wales, is that the same pathways in the brain code for both imagination and perception, but imagination is just a weaker form of perception.

During the pandemic lockdown, Dijkstra and Fleming recruited for an online study. Four hundred participants were told to look at a series of static-filled images and imagine diagonal lines tilting through them to the right or left. Between each trial, they were asked to rate how vivid the imagery was on a scale of 1 to 5. What the participants did not know was that in the last trial, the researchers slowly raised the intensity of a faint projected image of diagonal lines—tilted either in the direction the participants were told to imagine or in the opposite direction. The researchers then asked the participants if what they saw was real or imagined.

Dijkstra expected that she would find the Perky effect—that when the imagined image matched the projected one, the participants would see the projection as the product of their imagination. Instead, the participants were much more likely to think the image was really there.

Yet there was at least an echo of the Perky effect in those results: Participants who thought the image was there saw it more vividly than the participants who thought it was all their imagination.

In a second experiment, Dijkstra and her team didn’t present an image during the last trial. But the result was the same: The people who rated what they were seeing as more vivid were also more likely to rate it as real.

The observations suggest that imagery in our mind’s eye and real perceived images in the world do get mixed together, Dijkstra said. “When this mixed signal is strong or vivid enough, we think it reflects reality.” It’s likely that there’s some threshold above which visual signals feel real to the brain and below which they feel imagined, she thinks. But there could also be a more gradual continuum.

To learn what’s happening within a brain trying to distinguish reality from imagination, the researchers reanalyzed brain scans from a previous study in which 35 participants vividly imagined and perceived various images, from watering cans to roosters.

In keeping with other studies, they found that the activity patterns in the visual cortex in the two scenarios were very similar. “Vivid imagery is more like perception, but whether faint perception is more like imagery is less clear,” Dijkstra said. There were hints that looking at a faint image could produce a pattern similar to that of imagination, but the differences weren’t significant and need to be examined further.

Scans of brain function show that imagined and perceived images trigger similar patterns of activity, but the signals are weaker for the imagined ones (at left).Courtesy of Nadine Dijkstra/Quanta Magazine

What is clear is that the brain must be able to accurately regulate how strong a mental image is to avoid confusion between fantasy and reality. “The brain has this really careful balancing act that it has to perform,” Naselaris said. “In some sense it is going to interpret mental imagery as literally as it does visual imagery.”

They found that the strength of the signal might be read or regulated in the frontal cortex, which analyzes emotions and memories (among its other duties). But it’s not yet clear what determines the vividness of a mental image or the difference between the strength of the imagery signal and the reality threshold. It could be a neurotransmitter, changes to neuronal connections or something totally different, Naselaris said.

It could even be a different, unidentified subset of neurons that sets the reality threshold and dictates whether a signal should be diverted into a pathway for imagined images or a pathway for genuinely perceived ones—a finding that would tie the first and third hypotheses together neatly, Muckli said.

Even though the findings are different from his own results, which support the first hypothesis, Muckli likes their line of reasoning. It’s an “exciting paper,” he said. It’s an “intriguing conclusion.”

But imagination is a process that involves much more than just looking at a few lines on a noisy background, said Peter Tse, a professor of cognitive neuroscience at Dartmouth College. Imagination, he said, is the capacity to look at what’s in your cupboard and decide what to make for dinner, or (if you’re the Wright brothers) to take a propeller, stick it on a wing and imagine it flying.

The differences between Perky’s findings and Dijkstra’s could be entirely due to differences in their procedures. But they also hint at another possibility: that we could be perceiving the world differently than our ancestors did.

Her study didn’t focus on belief in an image’s reality but was more about the “feeling” of reality, Dijkstra said. The authors speculate that because projected images, video, and other representations of reality are commonplace in the 21st century, our brains may have learned to evaluate reality slightly differently than people did just a century ago.

Even though participants in this experiment “were not expecting to see something, it’s still more expected than if you’re in 1910 and you’ve never seen a projector in your life,” Dijkstra said. The reality threshold today is therefore likely much lower than in the past, so it may take an imagined image that’s much more vivid to pass the threshold and confuse the brain.

A Basis for Hallucinations

The findings open up questions about whether the mechanism could be relevant to a wide range of conditions in which the distinction between imagination and perception dissolves. Dijkstra speculates, for example, that when people start to drift off to sleep and reality begins blending with the dream world, their reality threshold might be dipping. In conditions like schizophrenia, where there is a “general breakdown of reality,” there could be a calibration issue, Dijkstra said.

“In psychosis, it could be either that their imagery is so good that it just hits that threshold, or it could be that their threshold is off,” said Karolina Lempert, an assistant professor of psychology at Adelphi University who was not involved in the study. Some studies have found that in people who hallucinate, there’s a sort of sensory hyperactivity, which suggests that the image signal is increased. But more research is needed to establish the mechanism by which hallucinations emerge, she added. “After all, most people who experience vivid imagery do not hallucinate.”

Nanay thinks it would be interesting to study the reality thresholds of people who have hyperphantasia, an extremely vivid imagination that they often confuse with reality. Similarly, there are situations in which people suffer from very strong imagined experiences that they know are not real, as when hallucinating on drugs or in lucid dreams. In conditions such as post-traumatic stress disorder, people often “start seeing things that they didn’t want to,” and it feels more real than it should, Dijkstra said.

Some of these problems may involve failures in brain mechanisms that normally help make these distinctions. Dijkstra thinks it might be fruitful to look at the reality thresholds of people who have aphantasia, the inability to consciously imagine mental images.

The mechanisms by which the brain distinguishes what’s real from what’s imaginary could also be related to how it distinguishes between real and fake (inauthentic) images. In a world where simulations are getting closer to reality, distinguishing between real and fake images is going to get increasingly challenging, Lempert said. “I think that maybe it’s a more important question than ever.”

Dijkstra and her team are now working to adapt their experiment to work in a brain scanner. “Now that lockdown is over, I want to look at brains again,” she said.

She eventually hopes to figure out if they can manipulate this system to make imagination feel more real. For example, virtual reality and neural implants are now being investigated for medical treatments, such as to help blind people see again. The ability to make experiences feel more or less real, she said, could be really important for such applications.

It’s not outlandish, given that reality is a construct of the brain.

“Underneath our skull, everything is made up,” Muckli said. “We entirely construct the world, in its richness and detail and color and sound and content and excitement. … It is created by our neurons.”

That means one person’s reality is going to be different from another person’s, Dijkstra said: “The line between imagination and reality is just not so solid.”

[orrested]

LOADING FILE . . .

ID #960213:   JAMIE DUNWOODY. EVAN RODERICK. —  GENDER: CIS MAN.    PRONOUNS: HE/HIM.    AGE: TWENTY-SEVEN.  YEAR: SOPHOMORE.    STUDYING: ARCHITECTURAL ENGINEERING.     CITY OF ORIGIN:  KELSO, SCOTLAND.

NOW PLAYING… I WANNA DANCE WITH SOMEBODY BY WHITNEY HOUSTON.  A FADED POSTER OF YOUR PERFECT BODY PINNED TO SOMEONE’S WALL, TOUSLED BROWN HAIR AND A SMILE THAT RIVALS THE SUN, COMING HOME TO WORN FLOORBOARDS AND LEARNING TO BREATHE AGAIN, BRAND NEW CLEATS TO BE JOYOUSLY BROKEN IN, THE RELIEF OF NOBODY KNOWING YOUR NAME – A BLANK SLATE.

IF THE WALLS COULD TALK, THEY’D TELL YOU HE USED TO BE A TEEN HEARTTHROB. 

CONTINUE… ?

HIMBO RUGBY FULLBACK! DEFINITELY NOT THAT ACTOR GUY!

full name james caine dunwoody alias caine kelly nicknames jamie, jim age twenty-seven date of birth february 13, 1996 hometown kelso, scotland nationality american + scottish gender identity cis man pronouns he/him sexual orientation bisexual (somewhat closeted)

height 5’11” eye color blue hair color light brown tattoos none scars none

parents annabel dunwoody (barista), gabriel kelly (film exec, retired actor) siblings chloe kelly (younger half sister) roommate tbd significant other none teams rugby

your parents meet in glasgow: your father filming, your mother reaching for a dream bigger than a small life in a small town. this isn’t love. he leaves her with a baby, and she goes back to that small town. this is love: your ma scooping you up and putting you on the counter to help her cook, your grandpa playing catch for hours in the backyard, something tiny and tight knit and warm. your father comes back when you are old enough to be interesting. when you are old enough to be marketable. jamie dunwoody is whisked off to los angeles before anyone can  do a damn thing to stop it, and caine kelly is born.

you are a charming child and you grow into a pretty teen. your father knows how to market and you learn to be marketable. to flatten that distinctive accent into a blonde all-american boy next door. bit pieces, kid shit, until you are old enough to be every high school girl’s first fantasy. movies, magazines, modeling, a song or two, rumors about you and a member of some girl group you’ve never met before in your life. hair dye, dieting, invasive questions you learn to answer with easy laughter. you’re hot shit. you’re hollywood’s boyfriend.

you grow up. this in itself isn’t the problem: your career keeps booming, parts keep coming in. you are the problem. you don’t like, so much, to be looked at, and you are not so easy to control, not as desperate for your father’s love. you miss your ma, and sitting on the counter, and racing through backyards. after a downward spiral at twenty-one you walk out of a photoshoot and you never look back.

it takes years to learn how to be a person. you find yourself in little moments: making cranachan, your first proper go at rugby, planting your ma’s favorite flowers and watching her smile. to be jamie again, the dunwoody lad, and absolutely nothing else. you decide, eventually, that university would do you some good: new location, new opportunities, new education. you’ve settled in roots and you’d like now to grow. you have the smarts and the money for daskalos, and, well – not the commonest resume. with your new old name and sharp accent and glasses and lack of bottle blonde, with your utter disappearance from pop culture and entirely new demeanor, you’ve no interest in telling anyone you were ever anything but jamie, their fullback, friendly face and warm teasing and open shoulder to lean on.

love is a cautious desire, to be handled with care. you’re pretty still, and you’ve learned to be alright with admiring eyes. the need for something deeper – the romanticism you can’t quite shake – sits quietly in your chest, in need of coaxing. you’d like to love somebody. you think you might be good at it, if you can trust you’ll be wanted as more than another fuck.

MARILYN: DO YOU WANT TO SEE ME BECOME HER?

[pretense-pence]

Remake Platinum Run: Part 3

Me when I say I’ll post more but then disappear for 10 days. Look, I’ve had a ton of homework and midterms so life has been hectic. I swear I’ll try to post more. It’s just that college is rough. 

Trophies Achieved: 

Mercenary Endeavors

Bonds of Friendship

My First Ability

Materia for Beginners

Heavenly Dart Player

Trophies That I’m Working On:

Best in the Business

Disc Jockey

Intelligence Agent

Weapons Expert

I played Remake on October 3rd for about 2ish hours, like usual, from 9:00 pm until 11:00 pm. I managed to succeed in my last goal, which was to complete all of the trophies I can in Chapter 3. I got to Chapter 4 and then stopped. None of the Odd Job sidequests had any hard battles, which was nice. Though, I did have to look up where to go for some of them because I get easily lost in the Sector 7 Slums.

This chapter was a lot different than when I first played through it. When I first played through it, I only ever did one Odd Job sidequest, which was Lost Friends. That’s the one where you find the cats. I skipped the rest. Actually playing through all of the Odd Job sidequests was a lot of fun. And I loved seeing the awkward relationship between Cloud and Tifa. I’ll admit, I’m a multishipper and one of the ships I really like is CloTi. 

Chapter 3 is a really nice chapter. It’s simple since it’s just doing Odd Job Sidequests but it has some really nice characterizations. I have a weakness for seeing Cloud awkward around Tifa. My favorite of the sidequests was probably actually the Discovery Quest Alone at Last. Once again, I have a weakness for awkward Cloud.

Mercenary Endeavors: This is the trophy you get when you complete Chapter 3. Easy trophy, as is typical of early chapters completion trophies. 

Bonds of Friendship: This is the trophy that you get when you free a bound ally. This is an easy trophy but it can be surprisingly hard. Mostly due to the fact that I kept killing things before anyone could be bound. It took until completing the Odd Job Sidequest Nuisance in the Factory. Tifa suddenly got attacked and was bound so I had Cloud swoop in and save the day.

My First Ability: This is the trophy that you get when you max out a weapon’s proficiency. Fun fact, I have no idea if the Buster Sword counts. So I decided it doesn’t and waited until I maxed out the Iron Blade. I’m going to be honest, I barely realized I did it. This trophy didn’t take much thought. I just kept using the Iron Blade’s ability and suddenly it was maxed out.

Materia for Beginners: This is the trophy that you get when you level up an orb of Materia. To be honest, I’m not much of a Materia spammer. I just don’t use Materia as much as I should. At least I use it more than I did in my playthrough of the original Final Fantasy VII. But, in the end, I locked in and spammed my Fire Materia. And somehow the first Materia to level up was the Chakra Materia Tifa had. All that effort for nothing.

Heavenly Dart Player: This is the trophy that you get when you rise to the top of the Seventh Heaven darts leaderboard. And this is the hardest trophy I’ve faced so far. Yet, somehow, the funnest. I sat there for about 45 minutes trying to get to the top of the leaderboard. At some point, anytime I didn’t get at least 2 hits to the center right away, I would just restart. But, for some reason, I had fun doing this. It’s probably my favorite minigame I’ve played in any Final Fantasy VII game. At least, for now.

Now, time to move on to the trophies I’m working on.

Best in the Business: This is the trophy you get when you complete all 26 of the Odd Job Sidequests. During this playthrough, I managed to finish Rat Problem, Nuisance in the Factory, Lost Friends, On the Prowl, Just Flew in from the Graveyard, and the Discovery Quest, which I do count, Alone at Last. Meaning, I completed all of the Odd Job Sidequests I can do in Chapter 3. They were all pretty simple and like I mentioned before, Alone at Last was my favorite.

Disc Jockey: This is the trophy that you get when you collect all of the Music Collection music discs. There was only 1 disc left to get in Chapter 3, which was Hip Hop de Chocobo. Also known as, my least favorite music in the entire game. So, fun fact, I got this disc during my first playthrough. And it was awful. I really hate this song. But I did use it in an attempt to annoy my friend while we were driving for a few hours. My friend said that the song was good. Fun fact, I hate my friend.

Intelligence Agent: This is the trophy that you get when you complete all of the Battle Intel reports. I didn’t complete a single one during this playthrough. It’s a mix of I couldn’t complete it due to what I had to achieve and I hate doing them. I’ll get them done eventually. I just am struggling with them currently.

Weapons Expert: This is the trophy that you learn all weapon abilities. So far, I have learned the weapon abilities of 2 of Cloud’s and 1 of Tifa’s. For Cloud, I learned the weapon abilities for the Buster Sword and the Iron Blade. For Tifa, I learned the weapon ability for the Leather Gloves. So far, this trophy hasn’t been too bad but I know it will get a bit more overwhelming later.

Next time, I’m hoping to complete all of the trophies that I can for Chapter 4 but there’s a chance I won't since I’m busy as hell during this weekend. But we’ll see.

[criminalmindzjunkie]

The More Loving One

Masterlist

Summary: Professor Reid finds himself falling for a student. 

A/N: This fic is based on this request. I changed a few things up, but I hope you like the finished product!

Long time, no see! It seems like forever since I got to sit down and just enjoy writing something. And enjoy this, I did. I approached this one a bit differently than I usually do, but I like how it turned out none the less. I hope you all enjoy my take on the Professor Reid arc. The first poem I use in this fic is titled The More Loving One by W.H. Auden, and the second is from a collection of Perry poetry.

Also, I recently hit 2k followers, which is absolutely unbelievable. I can’t even begin to explain how thankful I am for each and every one of you. This fic is my love letter to you. Thank you all so much. 

Pairing: Professor!Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Content Warnings: a few swear words maybe?, teacher x student relationship, age gap, exhibitionism (sorta?), vaginal fingering, unprotected sex

Word Count: 4k

           For as long as Spencer can remember, he’s always had a predilection for the finer things in life.

           Spencer attributes the origin of his preferences to his upbringing. In his childhood, before his mother’s disease got the better of her, she exposed him to all sorts of literature. While he ventured to read all types of writings, he’d always been partial to tales of extravagance. A young Spencer Reid sought refuge in the profligacy of it all, as it was so starkly different from his own reality. Forced to bear the burden of household and a sick mother from an early age, Spencer’s own life left little room for reckless indulgence.

           Now, as a single adult male, Spencer makes it a point to give himself up to the finer things as often as he can. Spencer isn’t a rich man, nor is he careless with what hard-earned money he does have. He simply likes to treat himself to the occasional five-star meal, and even more frequently, posh clothing and rare books. Walls lined with hundreds of antiquarian novels and a closet full of Comme Des Garçon cardigans are where the indulgence ends, however, and until recently Spencer was content with this.

           But when she strolls into his life on the very first day of his teaching career, Spencer knows that his small luxuries will no longer be enough to keep him satisfied. The part of him that longs to have only the very best roars to life as he takes in every perfect inch of her. She stands before him, the embodiment of divinity and grace, looking like every fantasy he only dares to conjure up in the late hours of the night. A litany of cliches from every piece of romantic literature he’s ever read spring to the forefront of his mind in the instant that her eyes met his, but there is nothing stereotypical about the way her gaze banishes the air from his lungs. It is as jarring as it is intoxicating. He never wants to look away.

           Unfortunately, she doesn’t feel the same. With a light flush of her cheeks, she turns away from him, and in an equally unfortunate turn of events, she proceeds to shuffle down the aisle and into the second row of seats to the right of the podium. The realization that washes over him feels like ice water in his veins.

           She’s a student. Worse even – she’s his student.

           Spencer wrenches his gaze from her as if he’s been burned, and the fiery shame of his embarrassment makes him tug at his collar. As he struggles to stave away the lingering heat in his chest and even more embarrassingly, the tightness in his trousers, Spencer chastises himself. His own carnal urges often go ignored, a fact that is glaringly obvious as he cowers behind his podium in an attempt to hide his arousal. He feels more than a little bit pathetic. No self-respecting thirty-five-year-old man gets hard just from gazing upon a beautiful young woman.

           When Spencer pulls himself together enough to start his lecture, he positively forbids himself to look her way. It is hard to fight the urge, but every time he catches his eyes wandering to her, he reminds himself that she is an indulgence he simply cannot partake in. No matter how badly he wants to.

--

           It doesn’t take long for her to notice him noticing her.

           In the early days of the semester, she manages to convince herself that the stolen glances are but a figment of her overactive imagination. That, or an unhealthy dose of wishful thinking. But as the semester stretches on and the professor’s eyes linger more and more, wishful thinking gives way to a startling realization that she isn’t alone in her attraction. Professor Reid is, to her complete and utter astonishment, just as taken with her as she is with him.

           This is all but confirmed when a slight brushing of the hands during an exchange of papers leaves them both with flushed cheeks and pounding hearts. Both of their heads snap up, two sets of eyes meeting in a prolonged stare that results in an understanding of sorts. It’s mutual, this thing blossoming between them. She can see her own hopes reflected in two velvet pools of brown – can see the longing, the desire that burns within them. Her heart soars, as she imagines his does, and she accepts the papers with a smile.

           She also imagines that, if he could, he would tell her to wait for him. He would tell her that, for now, their relationship must stay strictly professional.

           This doesn’t stop them from sating their cravings in other ways.

           She makes it a point to stop by during office hours at least twice a week. Her visits always fall under the guise of her studies, but within minutes their hushed conversations stray from the professional and towards a more personal nature. She learns of Spencer’s mother and her condition, of his unusual job and his coworkers that were more like family. In return, she tells him about her upbringing in southern California, as well as her dreams of becoming a criminal psychologist. They never go as far as to discuss what will happen when the semester comes to a close. It is an unspoken agreement that the end of the semester will find them in each other’s arms. All they have to do is wait.

           Spencer can’t voice his affections with words, but he more than makes up for this with his actions. Without fail, every Monday following the very first clandestine brushing of hands, lavish bouquets of flowers arrive at her workplace. Each bouquet is always paired with a notecard inscribed with a brief explanation of the meaning behind that week’s flower of choice. Cherry blossoms to pay homage to her beauty, plumeria to symbolize their new beginning, agrimony to convey his thankfulness that she is willing to wait for him.

           Her favorite bouquet arrives four weeks before the end of the semester. As she steps through the doors of the bakery, a vase full of nine red roses sits atop the counter. The sight of them nearly takes her breath away. She pauses for a moment and runs her fingertips across the velveteen petals before plucking the notecard from its place.

           This week, Spencer chooses to forgo the explanation in favor of a messily scrawled poem;

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well

that, for all they care, I can go to hell,

But on earth indifference is the least

we have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn 

with a passion for us we could not return?

If equal affection cannot be,

let the more loving one be me. 

           That evening, Spencer receives his first bouquet from her. On his desk sits an arrangement of pale pink ambrosia.

           The meaning isn’t lost on him, but if it were, the note that sits next to the vase makes her intentions clear.

We never had to force love.

We were drowning in it from the moment we met.

--

           Spencer is horribly frustrated.

           A mere twenty feet away from where he stands, the notoriously garish and wholly unprofessional PhD program director is gesticulating wildly to the young woman that stands trapped between him and the hors d’oeuvre table. To find Professor Van Wesep in such a position is not uncommon, due to his penchant for trying to charm (terrorize) the prospective female doctoral candidates. The man is practically a walking harassment complaint waiting to happen. Spencer would abhor Van Wesep even if he weren’t the only thing standing in the way of him and his lover.

           At long last, the semester has drawn to a close. The lonely nights spent longing to hold her in his arms are a thing of the past. By the time the sun rises again, Spencer will no longer have to wonder what her body will feel like pressed against his. He’ll be thoroughly acquainted with every inch of her, and she with him. The thought sends a thrilled chill down his spine.

           The torturous foreplay they’ve been engaging in for the last four months would have surely broken a lesser man. Spencer would be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted on more than one occasion to have her during one of her frequent visits to his office. Some days, when her visits came later in the evenings, just as the sun began to dip low in the sky, her eyes would glisten in such a way that told Spencer her thoughts were none dissimilar to his own. That glimmer of lust had him holding on to his restraint by the skin of his teeth.

           And here they were, on the last evening of the semester. Final grades had been submitted and were released hours prior. Spencer would have been content to skip this event altogether, in favor of more… recreational activities, but his lover insisted on attending.

           Initially, Spencer assumed her insistence lay in her desire to mingle with her future peers and mentors. Her true intentions come to light when she breezes into the room clad in a pair of sleek, designer pumps. Her lips, painted fire engine red, curl up into a playful smile at the sight of a slack-jawed Spencer Reid. The devious glint in her eye twinkles sinfully in the light.

           Tonight isn’t a social call at all. Tonight, she wants to play with him.

           And play she has.

           From the second she arrives all eyes are fixating on her celestial beauty. Peers and mentors alike trip over themselves in their haste to capture her attention, if only for a fleeting moment. She works the room flawlessly, leaving a trail of smitten men of all ages in her wake.

           The most smitten is Spencer himself, because he’s the lone recipient of countless heated glances, as well as more than a few knowing smirks. She well aware of what she’s doing to him, and she takes pleasure in watching him squirm.

          Spencer intervenes when Van Wesep makes the ill-advised decision to reach a hand up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. He barely has the time to withdraw his hand before Spencer is upon them.

          “I apologize for the interruption,” Spencer casts a faux apologetic glance at his colleague, before settling his gaze on his target. “Ms. Y/L/N, may I speak to you for a moment?”

           She looks positively gleeful. Perhaps Spencer should have intervened hours ago.

           “Absolutely, Professor Reid.”

           The honorific sends a jolt of heat straight to his groin. He definitely should have stolen her away earlier.

           The two of them say their goodbyes to a confused Professor Van Wesep, whose imploring eyes follow them as they hurriedly slip from the party and down the hallway.

--

           “Where are we going?”

           Spencer leads her down a long corridor, far beyond earshot of the other guests. Pushing her into a dark corner, he positions her between himself and the cold wooden door of an unoccupied office. The only sounds that can be heard are the distant thrum of the music and the eager pants falling from his lover’s lips.

           Spencer pulls her into a searing kiss, one hand tangling in her hair and the other finding purchase on her waist. He worries for a moment that he’s being too rough with her, that he should have taken a more careful approach to their first kiss, but she assuages those worries when she kisses him back with equal enthusiasm. Her hand reaches between them and clutches his tie, then she’s pulling him closer and whining wantonly against his lips. Spencer takes this as an invitation to slip his tongue inside and he finds himself letting out a low groan when he tastes a hint of strawberry.

           Spencer pulls away to catch his breath. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

           “Oh, I think I do, Professor,” she laughs, breathless. “Probably just as long as I’ve wanted to do this.”

           Spencer jolts forward when her hand slides down to cup him over his trousers.

           “Could’ve done that a lot earlier if you hadn’t insisted on teasing me for the entire night,” Spencer growls through gritted teeth. He’s more than a little proud of his ability to string together a sentence with her hand working him over with slow, steady strokes.

           He trails a line of kisses across the underside of her jaw, before taking her earlobe and nipping it lightly with his canine. Spencer’s actions are rewarded with a full body shudder. He dips his tongue in the hollow at the base of her throat and her hands ball into fists against his dress shirt.

           “Spencer, please.”

           Spencer hums and pulls back to look at her. The hand in her hair lowers, and he trails a thumb across where her nipples are hard against the fabric of her dress.

           “Yes, my love?”

           Her eyes flutter against the weight of her arousal, and Spencer twitches in his pants. The sight of her with her hair disheveled and her lipstick smeared on account of him is a heavenly thing. He doesn’t know how he ever deprived himself of such a splendor.

           “I want you. Right now.” She punctuates her words by pulling him down into a frenzied kiss. One of her hands tangles itself in the hair at the nape of his neck while the other busies with tugging his shirt out of his pants.

           “Right now?” Spencer taunts, mouth against mouth. His hand trails down the side of her breast, caressing her rib cage and her hip before stopping at her upper thigh. Spencer’s fingertips toy with the tops of her lace thigh highs. “But anyone could walk by and see us.”

           “I don’t care,” she argues, fumbling clumsily as she struggles to undo his belt buckle.

           Spencer’s wandering hand dips below the hem of her dress to explore the silky-smooth skin of her inner thigh. She’s soft here, too, he thinks to himself as his hand travels up, up, up. He stops just short of where she wants him most and she lets out a despairing cry.

           “You wouldn’t mind someone walking by and seeing you with your pretty legs spread wide for your professor?”

           Spencer brings life to his words by lifting her leg up, hitching her thigh around his hip and pressing into her. The silk fabric of her dress rustles as he pushes it up and out of the way.

           A breathy moan tumbles from her lips as he rocks against her, dragging his arousal up and down the front of her lace panties. The friction is maddening in that it provides only the smallest bit of relief. It’s not enough for Spencer, and judging by the way she desperately pushes down the fabric of his pants, it’s not enough for his partner, either.

           “Need to get these off now,” she murmurs against Spencer’s mouth. An eager hand tugs at the elastic band of his underwear.

           Spencer places his hand on hers, stilling her movements. “Not so fast, baby. Gotta make sure you’re ready for me first.”

           Her fingers clamp down on Spencer’s wrist, guiding him to the sodden lace between her thighs.

           “Don’t think that’s gonna be a problem,” she whimpers as Spencer’s fingers take appraisal of the drenched cloth. “In fact, I think four months of foreplay is sufficient enough. Wouldn’t you say?”

           “Maybe so,” Spencer muses, voice muffled as he sucks at the skin of her neck. “But I’m not willing to chance hurting you our first time together. You’re entirely too precious to me.”

           Spencer captures her lips in a kiss so sweet it has her sighing into his mouth. When he pulls away, he fixes her with a smile.

           “You’re not particularly fond of these panties, are you?”

           Her eyebrows pull together. “No, why?”

           Spencer pulls at the flimsy fabric harshly and it gives way under the force of it. He reaches back to stuff the thong in his back pocket.

           “That’s why.”

           Spencer’s lips come down against hers at the same time his middle and index fingers drag across her slickness. His foresight pays off when his mouth muffles the sound of her cries. As confident he is that they won’t be found, a cry like that would certainly have drawn unwanted attention.

           The swipe of his thumb across her crest paired with the gentle pressure of his fingers dipping into her heat is enough to make her legs buckle. Had it not been for Spencer pressing her against the wall, she surely would have fallen to the ground in a trembling heap.

           “I could get lost in you for hours,” Spencer groans, curling his fingers inside her in such a way that makes her clutch desperately to his shirt.

           “Spencer, oh my God,” she keens. “I need you, please.”

           “You have me, my love,” Spencer whispers the promise against her parted lips. “You’ve had me since the first moment I laid eyes on you.”

           Spencer speeds up the onslaught of his fingers until the telltale tightening of her heat warns him of her impending climax. He has to bite down on his lower lip to regain his own composure. The feeling of her tight and wet around his fingers is almost too good.

           “Spencer, I’m getting close,” she whimpers.

           Spencer continues until she’s on the cusp of tumbling over the edge, until one more pass of his fingers against her crest would surely seal the deal, and then he’s removing his hand and taking a step back.

           “Spencer, what the fu-,” she pauses when he promptly shoves his pants and underwear just enough to free himself from their painful confines. “Oh.”

           A dazed smile makes its way to her face as Spencer presses himself against her once more. He sweeps her up into a kiss comprised of pure, unadulterated desire, before pulling away and smirking deviously at her.

           “Jump.”

           It takes a moment for her pleasure fogged brain to make sense of the request, but as soon as it does, she complies without question.

           Spencer’s hands grip her thighs firmly and in one swift thrust he sheaths himself into her fully – an indulgence so grand that all others dull in comparison. Now that he’s had the finest, felt it wrapped around him like warm velvet, he can’t imagine a world in which he must live without it.

           “Spencer!”

           Spencer swears he’s never heard a sweeter sound than her crying out his name as their bodies come together for the first time. It’s synonymous with a siren call, he thinks, because in that moment she could lure him to certain death and he knows he would go with a smile.

           His lips seek purchase on the exposed skin of her chest as he buries himself in her paradise again and again. The sharp sting of her heels digging into his back with every thrust brings out a sort of primal urge in him, spurring him to rut up into her like a man possessed.

           “You feel perfect,” Spencer groans out against the flushed skin of her neck. He presses a soft kiss to where her pulse bounds just beneath the skin before pulling away and locking eyes with her. “When I’m old and gray and can remember nothing else, I’ll remember this. I’ll remember how it felt to kiss you for the first time – how it felt to touch you. How it felt to worship you and make love to your body.”

           Spencer’s voices catches, thick and overwhelmed with emotion.

           “I’ll remember how it feels to love you.”

           Her breath catches in her throat and sharp pang of panic burns hot in his chest. Had he misinterpreted her affections? Did she not burn for him in the same way? Perhaps the ambrosia meant nothing. Spencer’s movements falter, and for several torturous seconds he’s nearly paralyzed with fear.

            She silences those fears with a kiss.

           “Oh, Spencer,” she sighs as she presses her forehead against his. “I love you, too. More than you could ever comprehend.”

           Spencer resumes moving in and out of her, but the frenzied feeling from before is replaced with something else now. Something softer, but no less passionate.

           “Yeah?” he inquires, searching her eyes for any trace of insincerity. He finds none, and it’s a relief. Any hint of falseness in her claim would surely lead to a heartbreak he could never recover from.

           “Yes.” The word trails off into a moan. “I love you, Spencer Reid. I don’t imagine I’ll ever stop.”

           Spencer’s heart jolts and he whines pathetically against her mouth. “I’m counting on that.”

           “I’m close, Spencer,” she pants, her breath hitting his face in warm puffs. “Don’t think I can last much longer.”

           “Me, too.” Spencer nudges her nose with his own. “Reach between us and touch yourself, my love. I want us to cum together. Can you do that for me?”

           She nods, and the hand that clung to his right shoulder dips in between them to rub tight circles against her crest. Spencer doubles his efforts when he sees her eyelids flutter closed, and the resulting tightening of her core leaves him panting hard.

           “Spencer, I-” her breath catches in her throat as Spencer delivers a particularly strong thrust. Her head falls against his shoulder, her soft moans of his name like heaven to his ears.

           “Cum with me, baby,” Spencer grunts out desperately. He needs it like he needs air to breath and water to drink. And once he has it, he knows he’ll need it again and again.

           She gives it to him with a muffled cry of his name and he’s instantly swept away, drowning in the blissful way her body sings for him. His body follows her lead, shattering completely under her fingertips.

           While he’s been through similar acts with previous partners, those instances always felt impersonal and clinical. The caresses and whispered words were all a means to an end, an end that usually left him feeling lonelier and emptier than when he started. But right now, as he feels the beat of her heart pressed against his own, he swears he couldn’t feel fuller - full of adoration, full of affection, full of love. It’s beautiful and overwhelming and everything Spencer didn’t know he was looking for.

           A raucous round of applause erupts from the direction of the party, startling the two of them. Spencer feels her laugh against his neck.

           “It’s almost as if they were applauding us for a job well done.”

           Spencer presses a chaste kiss to the crown of her head.

           “As they should. That was sensational.”

           Spencer carefully pulls out and lowers her to the floor. He wastes no time in tilting her chin up and capturing her lips in a reverent kiss. Spencer hopes his lips convey his gratitude.

           The two of them pull apart and set to making themselves presentable. Their efforts prove to be in vain when Spencer points out a dark purple love bite nestled into the crook of her neck. She counters this by taking note of the smudge of red lipstick on his collar.

           “What an adulterous pair we make, Professor.”

           Spencer rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “I’m not your professor anymore.” He bends down and places a kiss to her lips before taking her hand in his.

           “I suppose you’re not,” she muses as they meander down the corridor. “Whatever shall we do now?”

           As the two of them step out of the dark hallway and reenter the party, Spencer smiles to himself. Visions of wedding rings flit through his mind. Spencer supposes he’ll have to take a break from the posh clothing and rare books in favor of saving his money. He’ll buy only the finest ring for his future wife, after all.

           “I have a few ideas.”

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[obae-me]

Hi I love your blog and your writing. I don't know if your doing request or not, so if you aren't just ignore me. But could you possibly have a hc where MC breaks a body part and had to be in a cast how would the brothers (+undateables if you have time) would react?

Oh but this is soft tho, I love writing fluff, thank you so much for the request! 💜

Lucifer

MC had been with him when it happened, and it’s something he’ll never forgive himself for. He forgets how fragile humans are and how anything can hurt them. Anything! He had prepared for monsters, demons, curses, spells, poisons, but he never thought he needed to protect them from stairs!

He was walking beside them as they both started to walk home from RAD, talking to them about an upcoming project. It was dark and rainy, and it bothered him none as he started to descend the slick stone steps. He was just about to warn them about their step when they stumbled down the stairs, hands extended to try to catch themselves, hitting each step with an awful sound before resting on even flooring with a groan.

He freaked out so badly, he called MC by five different wrong names before he finally got it right just as he reached their side. They were alive. Great. They were breathing. Fantastic. They...they had their right wrist bent in the wrong direction.

MC was fairly certain he didn’t even breathe or blink at all as he flew them towards the Devildom’s version of a hospital. He kicked the doors open, demanding MC got looked at, ignoring all of MC’s pleas to wait like everyone else. The poor doctor was not prepared for all of Lucifer’s commands and questions.

MC is not allowed to walk, not allowed to go to class, not even allowed to leave their room for a while. He’s so worried something will happen. He doesn’t even want them to sleep without him there first. His brothers are only allowed to come see MC one by one, following a strict schedule he posted outside MC’s door. Anyone found breaking the schedule will be severely punished. 

Is he overreacting severely? Yes. But does MC appreciate his affection? Yes. He’ll hold them close whenever their wrist hurts, petting their head and shushing them if they ever cry. He’ll do all his work for Diavolo in their bedroom, making sure to glance up in frequent intervals and check how they’re doing. He’ll watch over them so intently he’ll end up accidentally falling asleep in the chair by their bed, head resting on his folded arms.

Even after it’s healed, he insists on holding MC’s hand whenever they walk to make sure it won’t happen again. He’ll also pick them up now whenever it rains. He can’t afford anymore unnecessary risks. 

Mammon

He brought MC along on another one of his poor-planned money making schemes. He wanted to show off and impress them, and MC only agreed to go along to try to make sure he didn’t get himself in too much trouble. Try being the key word here. 

It ended up being super sketchy, causing both MC and Mammon to run away from angry demons. Since Mammon is impossibly fast, he held onto MC’s hand to try to keep them together. However, even if MC ended up being an Olympic runner, they still wouldn’t have been able to keep up with his speed. So, they lost their footing and fell hard against the ground. There was a rough popping noise, but Mammon got them right back on their feet. It wasn’t until they finally got home before Mammon realized that not only were they scratched up, but their shoulder...didn’t look right.

He thought maybe he could fix it himself, which was the opposite of what he should’ve done. Now, not only did it look even worse, but MC’s expression of pain caused Mammon to panic like he never had before. He held onto them tight, much too tight, and MC was almost certain he’d end up passing out before they did.

He got a doctor right away, and while they were getting checked, Lucifer and Mammon were fighting worse than they had in a long time. Mammon had hardly fought this much for anything-or anyone-before. The only reason why Lucifer let him off the hook for something this severe is because it’s been too long since he’s seen Mammon so serious.

Mammon won't leave their side, but he doesn’t feel like he deserves to be near them either, so he’ll spend time pacing by their door for hours before MC tells him to quit. They tell him he doesn’t need to feel so guilty, it was an accident, stupid stuff like this happens to humans all the time. He’ll kneel on the floor by their bed, head against their leg, looking like a scolded puppy. It’s the first time they’ve seen him cry.

It’s not everyday Mammon will do whatever they want. Even if it’s not perfect, even if he messes up, he wants to get MC whatever they want or need.

After they’re fully healed, Mammon will still check their shoulder every day, and Lucifer doesn’t complain when Mammon tones down some of his schemes for the sake of MC’s safety.

Levi

He signed both himself and MC up for this awesome parkour class. He had seen an ad for it and wanted to go, only because he wanted to learn some cool moves that he had seen in an anime. Of course, this was a demon class, so already they had the students doing crazy things like jumping roof to roof and doing flips that would take years for MC to do properly. Unfortunately, they tried it out anyway, not wanting to wimp out of it.

Next thing they knew, they heard Levi scream as one of their legs gave out on them, unable to support their landing. He was by their side, already in tears, shouting incomprehensible words as he called for help on his D.D.D. Not only did one of the brothers have to carry MC home, they had to carry out Levi as well, his brain fried at the sight of their broken leg.

He blames himself hard, having to catch his breath anytime he sees MC in their cast. He had no idea human’s bodies were so brittle, they never seemed so weak in anime. They were always fighting, overcoming impossible feats. He was so lost in the world of fantasy he didn’t know real life was so...frightening. It was a reality check he really needed, he appears to treat MC more authentically now.

He’ll make sure MC is fully entertained while they’re on the mend, it's the least he can do. Most of his setup is now in their room so they can play games with him and watch shows together. He’ll talk their ear off about his favorite plots, and promise to MC that they’d get better and he would protect them, just like his precious characters. 

MC now has little drawings on their cast thanks to him, to liven it up a bit. Covered in chibis and little hearts.

He’s used to not getting much sleep, so he’ll watch MC as they rest, watching their chest rise and fall, making sure he keeps an eye on their leg. They’re not allowed to move it much, so he keeps tabs on how much they toss and turn, sometimes holding MC in his arms while they sleep to make sure they don’t move.

Even when they’re better he is always wary about them leaving the house. He should’ve never broken his rule, home is always safe, and now he can’t relax until he knows MC is safely home.

Satan

He was always afraid of hurting MC due to his wrath, but he never knew that they could so easily be broken. He hadn’t even intended to hurt them, he didn’t! He just...he was angry, he didn’t want them to come into his room, but they insisted, they wouldn’t listen! Now look what he had done to them...

He had slammed the door on them while their finger still lingered in the door-frame, he had no idea...he didn’t know something as simple as shutting a door would hurt them so. They both heard a sharp crack, Satan originally believed it had been part of the door, the wood breaking. Until he heard MC’s shriek of pain. He opened the door back up to see their finger bent backwards where the door had shut on it.

After he had tore the door off its hinges and resolved it to splinters, he ushered MC quickly out of the house to get their finger checked. His other brothers had to quickly come at MC’s request to keep Satan from harming the medical staff when told they had to wait to get checked. It took him far too long to calm down, having to be physically restrained by Lucifer and Mammon until he cooled off. 

MC’s broken finger had been on their dominant hand, so Satan did all the writing for them. MC never asked him to, he did it anyway. He felt like it was the bare minimum of redemption. He made sure to read up more on the skeletal structure humans possessed, and MC is pleased to find that they had never seen Satan be so gentle with them. He softly strokes their hand, has a hard time now raising his voice above a whisper around them, and MC swears he now has painkillers in his pocket at all times for whenever they need it. 

Satan takes after Lucifer in being much too prideful for simple apologies, he’s hardly wrong in the first place, but he said it to them once they drifted off to sleep, head in his lap. He didn’t move from his spot all night.

Healed wounds meant nothing, Satan refused to treat MC any differently from his delicate and precious books.

Asmo

Trust him, he would have never given MC those ridiculously high heeled shoes had he known that humans were so clumsy and fragile. The heel of the shoe was so tall, whoever wore them might as well be walking on the very tips of their toes. They were a new fashion, and since he adored his adorable MC so much, he got them a pair.

The last thing he expected was to have them fall so dramatically after a single step. At first he planned on giving them props for their fall, it was like a movie scene, but then he saw how their ankle looked. Twisted and limp, MC started to hyperventilate.

He had seen some pretty disgusting positions the human body could get into, but this was wrong, it shouldn’t be like that. He had never been so serious or flown so fast before. He didn’t even say a word until they were in bed, getting some medication for the pain. He grasped onto MC’s hand and apologized repeatedly until MC was convinced he had lost his voice.

After they’ve been taken care of, he refuses to let go of them, cuddling them pampering them. He didn’t know just a simple misstep in the wrong shoes and they could just hurt themselves like that! He thought himself a master of the body, but he still had much to learn about humans, it seemed.

He calls himself Nurse Asmo for weeks, not leaving MC’s side, carting them around in a wheelchair even if they insist on using crutches or moving around themselves. He’ll have none of it. He feels responsible and so MC is under his constant care until their body is just as beautiful and whole as he remembers. He’ll want to make sure he takes care of them so well, their body will have no choice but to heal faster.

He’ll not forgive himself for allowing MC’s perfect body to get like that again. He’ll never let MC even look at high heel shoes, he knows plenty of adorable flats that would look great on them.

Beel

He’s always extra careful around MC, he knows they’re fragile, he’s well aware of the difference between strengths. Anytime he’s around them, he does whatever is necessary to make sure they’re safe at all times. Unfortunately, no matter how protective he is, sometimes accidents happen, especially when humans and demons mix.

He and Mammon were fighting over food, special food, limited edition flavor chips, and Mammon had stolen it. He didn’t even eat it, he sold it. It was an insult. They both were in demon form, battling it out, Lucifer trying to stop it, by force it would seem. They were all so consumed in combat, power flinging, furniture flying, they had no idea MC had walked in the room to check on the chaos, only to get caught up in it. A large cabinet headed in their direction, and if they hadn’t stepped back, they might have gotten fully crushed. Unfortunately, their foot ended up being crushed in their place.

Beel felt sick to his stomach, hearing the sound of the bone crack made his insides feel all twisted in a way he and his iron stomach hadn’t felt in centuries. The fighting immediately came to a close, the food they were fighting over seemed worthless to him now, for once he couldn’t care less. He refused to let any of his other brothers touch MC. In fact he almost didn’t want to touch them himself. He had such a hard time holding them, he ended up physically shaking, worried that he’d hurt MC even further. He doesn’t want to let them go, though, he holds onto them for an entire day, acting like MC’s personal shield. 

Beel skips classes, workouts, even his team practices to be with MC. MC is absolutely not allowed to move by themselves, he’s going to carry them wherever they need to go if they must go somewhere. Until they’re fully healed, all the meals are going to be MC’s favorite foods. None of the brothers get a say otherwise, but no one is going to defy Beel over this anyway.

MC never sees him fight with any of his brothers again, not with them around anyway, and if they thought Beel was already super protective, they weren’t ready for their new unofficial bodyguard.

Belphie

Honestly, he was bewildered how MC hadn’t died yet--well, other than that--in the Devildom. Lilith had loved humans, and, he in the past, had loved them too, so he knew how weak they could be. However, MC had just...tripped...on their own feet, falling right onto their own face. He laughed at first, he will admit, he had no idea how hurt MC was. When they stumbled back onto their own feet, their face and chest was covered in blood.

He was frozen for a good few minutes, his mind buzzing, his heart pounding out of his chest. He kept getting flashbacks of that terrible moment in the attic, and it was only until MC grabbed his arm, disoriented and in pain, that he was able to move again. They gasped his name to snap him out of it. They weren’t flinching away from him, they didn’t look afraid of him, in fact they were leaning into him, looking for his comfort. 

He got them home as quick as he could, making sure MC didn’t have any more fumbles on the way. Obviously once they saw the state MC was in, all the other brothers were freaking out as well. Mammon accused Belphie of doing something to them again--it was taking Mammon the longest to forgive him-- which didn’t make Belphie feel better about it. Normally he would’ve just fought Mammon then and there for such an accusation, after all the things his older brother had dragged MC into, but he didn’t have the energy. MC needed to be taken care of now. 

He did feel guilty, even if he didn’t want to admit it. Once the doctor came, he left the room, getting some air. He would wait until after MC was asleep to come check on them and make sure they were okay. He would make sure that MC’s pillow was fluffed, that they were comfortable, and then he’d fall asleep at MC’s feet at the end of their bed. He’d wake up at the slightest movement, checking over their body and face for who knows how many times now. 

While they were deep in a dream, he took a permanent marker and drew little cow spots on their bandage. It was a silly gesture, he was well aware, but even having a small piece of matching patterns made his heart happy. 

He won’t say it but he’s so glad when they’re finally healed. MC notices a sharp increase in his energy levels as he asks them to do plenty of activities together. He hardly ever wants to do something with them besides nap. 

He’ll be prepared to catch MC if they ever trip again. He won’t let them be hurt ever again. Period. 

Diavolo

He wasn’t there when it happened to MC, but Lucifer relayed the information to him as soon as possible. He didn’t freak out, at least, not in the way people would expect. It is rather unlike the Lord of the Devildom, however, to drop all his work, cancel all his meetings, and quickly make his way over to the House of Lamentation.

He excuses MC from classes immediately, making sure staying safe and healthy was their first and only priority. Not just for the sake of the program, but something in him stirred violently at the sight of seeing them pale, in pain, their forearm in a cast. He asked Lucifer for details. 

Upon hearing that it was due to some lesser demon, he laughed, but it was a terrible laugh. He calmly stated that he would handle it, but every member of the household could feel the house rumble. Not even Diavolo could stay completely tranquil, it seemed.

He knew the consequences of having a human in the Devildom, he knew the risks. He knew about the dirt in his kingdom that called themselves demons. He just didn’t realize how it would make him feel . Not only did MC have classes off, he allowed all the brothers to stay home for a while as well to make sure they were well taken care of. He had Lucifer give him daily updates on their progress.

MC is now curious why there are new changes to not only RAD but the House of Lamentation, Purgatory Hall, and even Diavolo’s castle. Simple things like ramps, elevators, railings, anything as a means of injury prevention. None of the demons need to use it, it’s all for MC, but everyone acts like it’s completely normal. All due to Diavolo’s ‘modern design’.

None of the brothers dare say anything about the Demon Lord’s frequent visits to their home, or to MC’s room. Not even Lucifer had him come over this often.

MC is thankful they never have to see the demon that resulted in their arm breaking again, but they didn’t know where they possibly could've gone. 

Barbatos

It’s safe to assume he knew about this. Except, there were plenty of timelines where something like this had happened, so he didn’t know the details of which unfortunate accident would come about. Whatever the case, he was prepared to assist and serve MC in whatever way he could.

He always thinks he’s seen everything and is well prepared for it, but it still doesn’t prevent him from having his chest hurt and his nerves shudder at seeing MC like this. On the outside, he’ll always appear neutral, so no one knows just how much he’s feeling for this human. He’s so much softer with them than anyone else.

MC doesn’t know how this demon keeps getting into their room without coming through the door, it freaks them out a bit, to be honest. They don’t complain about their room being so pristine you could brush over it with a white glove, though. 

MC thought that maybe, maybe, just once they could get away with getting up and doing things on their own. The brothers kept on fussing over them non-stop, but at one point they got called away to a meeting, leaving MC alone at home.

They got up out of bed, ready to stretch their legs and get some fresh air, trying to get some sort of normalcy back. They did all this not knowing that Barbatos was keeping a close eye on them from the shadows the entire time. 

Whether it was by Diavolo’s orders or Barbatos’ own volition, MC will never know, but they did find their little excursion to the outside quickly brought to a halt by some form of magic that transported them back to their room. Barbatos had them back in bed before MC could even reach the front gates. 

No matter how they tried, they were forced to stay safe, now even unable to get out from their bed. No matter how much they struggled, their own sheets betrayed them. The silent butler only showed up once MC gave up. He strutted over putting a soft but surprisingly stern hand over their shoulder as he went about taking care of them. Any words of protest fell on deaf ears. It was his duty to protect him, and not even MC could stop him. 

Simeon

He had no idea till he noticed that MC hadn’t been to school for a few days now. When he brought it up to the brothers, they explained how MC had staggered back home one night, hand completely busted, and they wouldn’t tell anyone why. For MC’s safety, and just for the brother’s peace of mind, MC was to stay home until further notice.

Simeon’s an angel, so peaceful, anger isn’t something he fully understands, but he felt a burning pain in his chest. Why didn’t anyone tell him immediately? Was he just supposed to figure this out himself? It had been quite a long time since Lucifer had seen Simeon frown so deeply before, eyes cloudy with distress.

Simeon had never missed classes ever. He was always much too early, much too eager to stick to regulations. So when he ended up skipping class, it shocked Luke to his core and caused Diavolo to make a note that an angel had broken the rules to go check on a human. This program was turning up all sorts of surprises.

MC was pleasantly surprised to hear the soft knocks on their door, vastly different than any of the ways the demons announced themselves. Simeon strode in, radiating warmth, carefully grasping their hand in his, and gave it a gentle kiss. The pain MC had felt no longer existed. Simeon explained that it was still best if they heal on their own, but at the very least, they wouldn’t feel pain. He would be there to make it all go away. 

He’s around MC now much more frequently, guarding them, keeping them from harm. From that point on he urges MC to let him know when things happen.

Solomon

He had been teaching MC more about magic. Not only did he think it would be beneficial for his human companion, but it would sate some of his curiosity. He wanted to learn more about MC, about their capabilities, testing to see in what ways their previous angel ancestor had changed them.

He knew they had a hard time driving out their power, so he tried different methods to assist them, methods they could use on their own. Magic rings, chants, wands. Unfortunately, once something worked, all their built up power flooded out of them at once, their temporary wand exploding into shards, and the bones in their hand following suit.

He used some of his magic to heal up what he could, being careful not to go too far or he’d overwhelm MC’s already weakened body. MC couldn't tell what was running through his head as he had them supported and cradled with one of his arms, the other one hovered over their hand. Magical circles and sigils running over their skin as it rushed to heal them. While his face seemed calm, his eyes looked a bit darker, missing the mischievous glint in them. They were tighter, laser focused, serious.

After he did what he could, both of them promised not to mention it to anyone, for fear both of them would never hear the end of it, or worse. While MC walked themselves home, Simeon used magic to keep an eye on them from his room, taking note what happened with him today. His mouth tight, arms folded across his chest, watching as the remnants from MC’s faulty makeshift wand burned rapidly in the fireplace. 

Luke

He has absolutely no idea how humans work or how weak they are. So when he heard MC had a broken bone, he didn’t even fully understand what that meant. Broke...a bone? He knew the word broke didn’t sound pleasant, and when he finally went to go see MC, his little head almost exploded.

Their body broke?? Human’s bodies could break like that?? And they couldn't just have it healed immediately??

He blamed the demons most definitely, but MC had never ever been so entertained when the little angel pointed at each and every one of the brothers--Lucifer included--and chewed them out. Each of them had different expressions. Belphie looked exhausted, Beel looked downtrodden, Asmo didn’t even seem to be paying attention. Satan looked like he was only focusing on not destroying Luke right then and there, Levi looked mortified, Mammon was the only one arguing back, and Lucifer was stunned speechless that a creature barely higher than his waist was giving him a lecture.

Until MC is fully healed, Luke makes sure to bring plenty of freshly baked sweets right to their door, not noticing seven pairs of glowing glares while he lingers in the house of demons.

[bee-cried]

SoRRY I JUST WANNA FANGIRL ABOUT THE BLUES REAL QUICK

This ship is my HEART

I love them so much omg. I just wanna talk about them in the mth universe real quick okay? Okay.

I love how SBJ wrote Boomer.

I SINCERELY LOVE THE WAY SHE WROTE HIM.

Oh god. Im going back to my early 2012 days when i was obsessed with fanimations of the Powerpuff girls and i would legit sit around and watch hours of the same animated stuff (im looking at you rrb x ppnkg Katy Perry ET fan music video)

But because we were all pretty young at the time and not really that creatively original, we all sort of just made Boomer some innocent, soft boy in the fanfics who instantly fell for Bubbles and they would just be a couple.

BUT GAH DAMN DID SBJ SUBVERT MY EXPECTATIONS.

Being a kiddo at the time, and assuming that only people around my age were writing ppg fanfics, I was like "TCH, why is everyone on Deviant art obsessing over this More Than Human cRAp. I caN wRiTE a BeTTeR fAnFIc."

But then I read it.

And it was more than grammar/spelling errorless, unlike most fics I read.

the characters had DIMENSION.

I didn't expect to see

Blossom as a dancer

Butch into Blossom (i was a big cry baby over color crack ships, but her fic became the exception.)

Brick being mature and scary

BOOMER AS A GOOFBALL

AND BUBBLES LITERALLY DENYING HIM OF HIS AFFECTION

Talk about a full 180.

And I know, I KNOW THAT DOESN'T SEEM LIKE A BIG DEAL. BUT OMG WHEN I TELL YOU THEIR EARLY INTERACTIONS ARE SO FUCKIN-

AHHHHHHHHH

Its the way Boomer tries to pin her for me.

It's the way he's literally obsessed for me.

It's the Bubbles seeing right through him for me.

IT'S THE "MR. STEAL YO GIRL" ATTITUDE FOR ME.

Boomer has literally worked so MOTHA FUKN hard to get this ONE GIRL'S ATTENTION who , as Brick clearly puts it, "IS THE ENEMY"

And he falls for her over a Mariah Carey song. HE KNEW IF YOU COULD SING LIKE MIMI... BITCH THERE IS NO COMPETITION.

Omg i feel bad for Hailey.

Oh yeah and, he and Hailey... Bruh. This guy gets his ex to agree to play an Avril song with him just so he can serenade BUBBLES.

THAT IS SO

Boomer. Omg that is so Boomer cause it's like his thought process>> "I know we broke up, but your guitar skills are awesome and I really need you blessing.... Yes by your blessings im referring to your guitar playing...Yes this is for another girl"

" ...Yes it's for Bubbles... Please don't hate me."

And just the fact that Bubbles is like, "Hun, I don't care if you're up there singing "I will Always Love you" to me. If the name ain't Will, you can gon' 'head and chill. "

But Boomer is so determined.

Everytime he gets the chance to impress her, he doesn't hesitate. He's sung to her in the rain (sort of). He picked up on joining the school musical just to have the slim opportunity of kissing her. Can you imagine him , up at like 1 a.m on a school night watching a bunch of musicals foR BUBBLES.

And their banter is so cute! Bubbles knows Boomer's game and she likes to play it just enough to keep HERSELF entertained. She is fully aware she's tempering with a ROWDYRUFF BOY. She see's his tricks from a mile away.

So they just go back and forth and back and forth because really, even though Boomer says he doesn't take his shenanigans with Bubbles seriously...

This is the only thing he's had to work for. Like legit, everything else he's got was because of a hand out or advantages.

His musical talent: a handout from HIM

His first girlfriend: The advantages of his good looks

JS Inc: An advantage from being Bricks brother and being a rowdyruff boy

No neck joe: His advantage of playing instruments (and because he was a ruff boy)

Him becoming popular: his advantages of, music, rrb background and good looks BOOM

BUT DON'T NONE OF THAT SHIT IMPRESS BUBBLES ENOUGH TO GIVE HIM THE TIME OF DAY 😭

She doesn't care that he's hot, that he's popular, that he can literally play her anything ahe wants, just how she likes it. She doesn't care that he says "he'll be nice" or "play fair" or whatever, or that he's literally so charming, so smooth, he treats her as if she's the only girl to exist in his world. He's tried to amplify that he cares about her by hurting other people- BUT IT'S IN HER NAME.

No. What Bubbles want is simple...

It's commitment.

If he can't be committed to love her (I mean look at how easily he threw Hailey aside), or be there when she needs him, or simply BE COMMITTED TO BEING A GOOD PERSON.

Then she can not date him.

Because she doesn't just want to date a cute guy, she wants to be in love with someone she trusts...

And at first it seems like Boomer just wants to have her as an accessory to his life, and he DOES. The guy literally expects her to drop her relationship with Will just so they can live out his five minute fantasy.

But slowly he realizes, it's more than that magnificent voice. He likes to see her flustered and he doesn't like seeing her upset because of what people say about her. He doesn't want her to be annoyed by him, or to just brush off his advances.

He starts to really want her.

Like REALLY want her, because whatever they've built, that's the only thing he's had to work for in his life, and he loves her for that. He loves her even more when she implies that he is just as important as his brothers and that it's okay to be just a teenager in love. He loves her and his music, she doesn't ask for more from him. She wants him to be happy, and he wants to just be happy with her.

AHH FUCK I CAN TALK FOREVER ABOUT THESE TWO OKAY??

FOREVER

THEY ARE MY OTP

But dear lord, I've been typing for some time

Anyway, YES. I adore their dynamic. Boomer may be more of a douche than he realizes but he's never had to work for anything. He's never really been challenged. Bubbles is his only challenge EVEN WHEN THEY GET TOGETHER, he begins questioning the longevity of what they have because he's reminded that he's not the first and Bubbles has a heart of her own. No matter what he does, because of who she is (not just to him, but in general) he cannot manipulate that. He can not force Bubbles to love him if she falls out of love with him. And that's so world shattering for him because the girl is literally his WORLD. Like no other person could replace her because Bubbles is literally all of who he is. He feels like, if he loses her, what is he? What's his purpose? This is the only thing he's ever built.

Which is really, incredibly sad because he shouldn't think of their relationship like that, but he's so deeply in love with her, for him there really is no other. You could try to hand him "the girl of his dreams" and he'd just... Sort of laugh and turn right to Bubbles because everyone knows, THAT'S the girl of his dreams. It's the only girl he'd want to be with.

A lot of people probably won't believe me if I said I'm also a big boomercup shipper, because their dynamic just works so well.

Okay, i am done FANGIRLING. Thanks for reading my long ass post.

[jackoshadows]

Sorry for the confusion, according to Preston Jacobs Bloodraven has no idea who the Three Eyed Crow is and he really does seem confused when Bran asks. It's because Bran himself is, from the future. Bloodraven also says you can't influence the past but Bran clearly can re: Hodor. And this isn't from Preston Jacobs but we do know a future Bran because in the original outline Bran sits on the throne and he has a bitter enemy, Jon. Not connected to this but Bloodraven has a bitter enemy, a brother.

You made me listen to Preston Jacobs for an hour to answer this ask! The mental pain! Hey, at least listening to him made me chop up my onions and veggies faster to prepare lunch 🤣.

The stuff about GRRM's earlier time travel novels and GRRM's take on time travel is interesting. He seems to be basing his theory on GRRM's approach to time travel being time travel by consciousness - like Bran and Hodor - instead of the physical body traveling, which would seem to not have the problems with causal loops and temporal paradoxes like the grandfather paradox.

Consciousness cannot be separated from the physical but GRRM is writing magical fantasy so anything's possible. I also noted his Tyrion like character in the siege story is similar to Abner Marsh in Fevre Dream. Tyrion has always reminded me of Sydney Carton in the Tale of Two Cities, but GRRM seems to be going for a different ending for his Tyrion like characters in these books.

Ultimately time travel is complicated and also introduces myriad possibilities of where the story can go. A time traveler who can just inject his consciousness into anyone is god like and could explain Bran on the Iron throne. Bran changed Hodor's life and the direction it took. How many other lives can he change?

Maybe it's not even Bran on the Iron Throne but a character with Bran's consciousness and Benioff and Weiss overly simplified it and just put Bran there? It's clear D&D didn't understand anything in the slightest about Bran.

However, too much time travel will also take away the agency of other characters and dilute their actions. Considering that GRRM prides himself on his books not using too much magic and being about 'the human heart in conflict with itself' and the very hard and the very real human choices that these characters make, Bran going back and influencing these characters to do things would pretty much rubbish all that. It then becomes all about Bran, it's Bran story - his decisions, his human heart in conflict with itself. Which is possible. But it would certainly take away from my enjoyment of the story if that's the case

Jon's choice to save Arya wouldn't matter - it was Bran manipulating events to get Jon dead. See how unsatisfying that would be? Imagine such changes for the whole story. Free will incredibly diluted by magical time traveling Bran. It would be as unsatisfactory as the show where none of the character choices mattered to the ending.

I also disagree with there being a time traveling Bran different from our regular Bran - it conflicts with Preston's own theory about time traveling Bran being a greenseer/genetically able to time travel and therefore regular Bran is the one who has the ability to time travel and not some time traveler consciousness in regular Bran. In which case regular Bran and time traveling Bran existing in the same timeline would be a paradox - which is what GRRM is trying to circumvent with consciousness.

I still think there will be some sort of disagreement between Jon and Bran. I just don't see it the way Preston does. I disagree that Bran/Bloodraven is sending Ned and Catelyn visions to Jon to make him refuse WF. This is what I mean by too much magic taking away character agencies and taking away from the story.

So no, I don't agree with Bloodraven and Bran being the same person and I think despite BR not explicitly calling himself 3ER, the text makes it clear that it's him. Plus, in the appendix:

THE THREE-EYED CROW, also called THE LAST GREENSEER, sorcerer and dreamwalker, once a man of the Night’s Watch named BRYNDEN, now more tree than man.

[lvyu]

pairing ➞ smp, dreamwastaken x reader

note ➞ re.. repost because old blog went poof and i need to link the full to the original, so if you saw this twice then that’s why (this is an incomplete version and more of a brainstorm)

imagine being his partner during the events of the dream smp, helping him build up his little kingdom. it starts out wonderful, relationship wise, though there are difficult nights where he comes home exhausted and just needy for your touch.

he wasn’t too keen on being affectionate in public, but the stress of meeting new people and building up a community definitely lowered his dislike for it— or at least made him more willing.

once he came back from building this new place with sapnap and george, bad and you were left at the community home to do some chores. it was well into the night when they returned, sapnap and george immediately collapsing on the nearby beds (which you really should move soon), whilst dream made his way over to you, immediately wrapping his arms around you once close enough.

the gesture was unexpected, but appreciated and reciprocated regardless.

and eventually, new people started to appear and of course, dream welcomes them– they don’t pose a threat. until they do.

the people of l’manberg, as they call themselves, start to go against rules and soon a war erupts. you were never really a person for violence, so naturally you offered to try to reason with them. yet, they stood their ground, they demanded freedom and independence.

“should we just ... let them have it? dream, it’s only a small piece of land and technically they’d still be under our rule...”

oh, of course, the first mistake.

dream didn’t see it the same way you did, causing the first real arguement between the two of you. the others had been just joking or about a petty matter, but that... that one felt different, almost as if it was sealing a promise. the next night he came to your room and laid next to you, hoping you were asleep, though you weren’t.

“this isn’t easy” he spoke. you shifted onto your side to face him, bringing your hand up to cradle his cheek. he so rarely took off his mask when not in private, though he was so beautiful, really.

“..‘m sorry” he hummed in response.

the rest of the war was... a complicated time.

you didn’t bring up a possible compromise with l’manberg again, instead having to sit back and watch as one of their own betrayed them. though eret was a kind man, power was more valuable in this world than any amount of kindness.

out of pity, you visited the citizens of l’manberg. tommy’s immediate reaction was to yell at you, saying how you were a spy and a wronging. wilbur calmed him down and welcomed you, though keeping you out of the walls.

“i’m not one for wars, wilbur. surely you know that.” you tried to explain.

“they’re with dream! fucking dream—”

wilbur held up a hand, sending tommy into an abrupt stop.

“i know you’re not.”

they still weren’t very trusting, but wilbur, against tommy’s wishes, showed you the places near l’manberg. more specifically, niki and jack’s place, which they still considered l’manberg though technically outside of the walls. niki and you got along quite well, both a little hesitant about the war, though her a little less than you.

the day of eret’s betrayal was difficult for them, four of them losing a life. four of which you considered to be good friends by then. tubbo and tommy being so young too... they shouldn’t have had to suffer that, they shouldn’t have to go through any of this. none of them should have to.

it wouldn’t hurt to question him about it, you thought. it’d only been a couple hours since the incident and your heart still ached a little. “hey dream?”

“m, yeah, my love?” he was happy, you could tell he was happy– after murder.

you took a deep breath, getting his attention. “you okay? i know you’re not one to condone... violence, but i thought you’d be happier that we’ve won this battle.”

“dream...” you grabbed one of his hands he‘d laid the table, squeezing tightly.

“what... why... who was it?”

he paused. “who was what?”

“who did you kill? sapnap told me earlier each one of you took on one– and don’t get mad at him, i bugged him about for a while. he was pretty resilient.” a small laugh left his lips.

a few seconds passed before he spoke up. “it was tommy.”

he felt you squeeze tighter, almost feeling guilty for doing this to you. “i’m—”

“i love you, so, so much. d’you know that, dream?” you whispered, any louder and you felt you would have lost yourself. he nodded, mumbling a me too. there was a hint of sadness to your tone, and if he didn’t know you he’d think you were just being a loving partner. “and i think it’s my bedtime, so goodnight.”

a feeling of loneliness creeped on him, growing the quieter your footsteps got until they simply stopped. he brushed his right hand over his left, trying to feel whatever warmth you had left behind. so warm, he thought to himself, closing his eyes and letting himself get lost in a fantasy.

a fantasy including you happily standing by his side looking over a beautiful world you’ve built, and he promised himself he’d make that fantasy a reality someday.

you struggled to make amends with the citizens of l’manberg after the final control room. the look on tubbo’s face when he first saw you again would forever haunt you. he wasn’t a fragile porcelain doll to be taken care of, only making his reaction even more concerning. almost immediately he froze, tightening his hold on the documents he was carrying.

“y-you... um...” he was keeping himself close and far from you. it was subtle, but you noticed it nonetheless.

“tubbo! have you seen wilbur?”

he looked at the documents and back to you. “caravan...”

you offered a smile to ease his worries and thanked him. the moment you lifted your hand to wave goodbye, he flinched and backed away, hiding his face. your smile quickly turned into a look of worry.

... he didn’t deserve to feel like that.

“hey, i didn’t mean to– i’m sorry, hey, you okay?” he nodded, making a joke about it and walking off before you could stop him, still holding the documents close.

tommy was a different situation, he reverted back to his loud and aggressive self. fundy didn’t know you as well, but his actions and feelings were heavily influenced by those of his friends and father. niki and jack, not being the ones to suffer most the day, still remained friendly with you, but more cautious.

and wilbur... wilbur thought it’d be best for everyone if you were cut off from him— the leading man of l’manberg.

he wasn’t to blame, none of them were, and you knew that, but you couldn’t help but feel alone when they rejected you. they were just trying to protect themselves.

dream was a smart man, but not one known to be truthful, not even to himself.

[previousloversandmuses]

Slow Burn - Prologue

Part I | masterlist

A/N: This is a “must read” precursor to the whole series. Please read it to know what the origin story is. 

Pairing: Y/N x Obi Wan Kenobi

Words: 2048

Warnings: None. Brief mentions of violence. Low self esteem.

I am always one to experience emotions at a heightened frequency. Dangerous for a Jedi in training I know, but the council never took it as a sign of caution, just a minor set back. Happiness is bright, and beaming, even painful. My cheeks hurt for days after, smile lines sculpting my skin too early in life. Anger is powerful, my skin becoming vicious, and hot. Ripping through me like a silver bullet, and tearing my already unrelenting gut apart. I am loud, I am violent, and most of all, passionate. I would later become grateful of this curse, turning it into a blessing. Sadness is so deep. Tears crash like an ocean, and my heart would ache in my chest. The physical symptoms of my despair become overwhelming, and make me sick.

A fresh eighteen myself, my graduation is only a year or so away. Compared to other padawans, ones that don’t deal with the same struggles as myself, have already been graced with knighthood. They make their masters proud, and have already completed more missions at sixteen than I think I ever will in my entire career. 

I had the choice to become independent, to take my morals by the throat, and shove them deep down inside me, never to be seen again- but it really just isn’t that easy. See, I’m taking this time for meditation, or even a “behavioral therapy” of sorts. I have meetings with other council members, more powerful, and more prominent than my own master, who is often off tending to matters elsewhere. A mighty general he is, but they see me as someone who would cause more of a distraction, so I stay here at the temple left to my own devices. Sometimes I think it may be because I’m a woman, and other times I just take a good look in the mirror and recall the outburst that has stained my face only minutes before. 

Today was like any other; wake up, meditate, exercise, study, combat training, study, try and find time to eat something, and study. I walked down the main hallway with Master Yoda. He spoke to me about how he once struggled with his emotions as well, but with enough meditation, learned how to keep them at bay. Looking down at him and his vacant expression, I was surprised he had ever even felt an emotion a day in his life. That was until seconds later…

Stopping in my tracks, my hand flew over my heart. I recalled feeling out of breath, like my heart had physically stopped beating in my chest, or at least was trying to catch up with the rest of my body. I was shaky, yet somehow managed to take a knee. Something was off, that feeling in my chest grew and grew until I was faced with the blackest black I had ever felt. The darkest emotion to ever run through my body, as cold as ice, and heart stopping. It was deep, I felt it within the darkest abyss in my soul. It wrapped around my insides and nestled itself a home deep within the most shielded corners of my subconscious. That’s when Master Yoda felt it too. His hand flying over his heart, and steadying himself on my own shoulder. His face morphed into a snarl, gasping at the sudden pain that now infected his unwavering calm aura. 

...

After a painstakingly slow recovery, I sat on the edge of my bed. My quarters were neat and tidy. My bed, usually made up in the morning, because I have always been one for a routine. My walls weren’t bare, in fact they were almost completely covered in photographs I have taken from my travels as a Padawan. I'd go to the library, and butcher borrowed books, clipping photos of different words, and alien fauna. But today, those bright colors capable of producing fantasies for hours and hours, seemed black and white. 

I had been staring at the floor for sometime, desperate in trying to heal the ache in my chest. It felt as if I had a cold, like the burn after a deep cough. I felt so tight, so tense, an actual living embodiment of rigor mortis. Yet, at the same time, I hardly felt all there. It was as if my existence was floating all around me, and my shell was sitting vacant on an uncomfortable mattress. The knock on my door was enough for me to engulf myself again. 

“Y/N, are you decent?” The voice asks. 

“Yes,” I reply, rolling my shoulders back. 

“The council has requested an audience. Please report downstairs within the next few minutes.”

I nod my head, as if whoever was behind the door could see me. 

“An audience,”  I think. “Let’s add another year to that training plan, shall we?”

...

Walking downstairs to the council room, I can’t help but feel that all eyes are on me. They cut through me like a hot knife, slicing me thin. I feel so vulnerable. Like everyone around me can feel what I feel, and if I’m being honest, they probably do. A good Jedi who is in tune with the force, and especially in tune with others, can sense an intense emotion from a mile away. I’m sure at this moment I pretty much equate to an open book. No reason to try and hide it, force knows I struggle with concealing even an inkling of agitation. 

Seeing the council room in sight, I take a deep breath. This is it. I’m done for. This reaction was way too over the top. I’ve scared people, I’ve scared Master Yoda. Might as well just turn in my saber now and call it a day.

I walk into the door. Only a few masters sit scattered around. Master Yoda of course perched dead center, Master Windu waiting patiently to his right. But my master was nowhere in sight. You’d think if they were going to terminate me, that maybe my own mentor would be among them? Shaking his head, sending me glares that one could only compare to fucking daggers. He was tough on me for sure, maybe he was too ashamed of what I’d done to even bear to see me in this moment. 

“Coming here so quickly you did,” Starts Master Yoda. “Grateful we all are.”

I smile and bow my head. 

“Y/N,” Master Windu starts. “We’re here to discuss the events that happened earlier.” 

Oh god here it comes. This is it. I’m totally done for. I can’t even keep myself calm now. My face, getting hotter and more red by the second, is going to be the biggest tell. At least let me go out with some dignity. 

“Your reaction, what you felt at least, was not just brought on out of the blue. Master Yoda had the same experience, as did all of us on the council, and most Jedi and padawans in the temple.”

“I don’t understand.” I say. 

“At around 1 Coruscant time, an enemy bomb was detonated on Nal Hutta.”

Then it hit me. My heart sinking, I began to shake my head. 

“Unfortunately, Unit 505, and Master Cato were all killed on impact.”

My ears ring. Slowly, I move over to a chair, bracing myself. 

“That’s,” I start, trying to find the words to say. “He would’ve felt it, all of them would, I don’t understand.”

“We have a feeling it was planted by a Sith. That’s the only way it would’ve clouded any judgement.”

I slump into it, my vision going black, my head spinning. 

Master Cato has been with me since I was a very little girl. Although rough, tough, and brutally honest, he has done nothing but be a father to me time and time again. Everything I do is a reflection of him. He had been so busy at war, fighting day in and day out, I caught myself missing the commands, and demands I once so passionately despised. I took our whole relationship for granted, and now, is this the price I have to pay? The last time we spoke he told me how disappointed he was in my outburst in my Alien Fauna lab. I was being stubborn, I was bratty, and rolled my eyes. We had argued that entire call. He didn’t even attempt to say goodbye. Now, for an eternity, I will have to face the catastrophic guilt of my actions. Live with the fact that I never, ever told him how much I appreciated him. And even, how much I loved him so. The closest thing to family in my life, gone, in the snap of a finger. 

Both Master Yoda and Master Windu continued to talk but it all felt like empty words. I couldn’t hear them anyway. 

“Although this situation isn't ideal, we and the rest of the council applaud you for being able to feel something most of us haven’t been able to experience yet.” Claimed Master Windu.

I don’t listen. I stand up again. 

“What am I going to do? I don’t feel comfortable with being knighted yet. I had- we were working on so many things I-,” I stumbled on my words. 

“You’ll get placed with a new master.”

“There are no new masters. And even if I had been trained a certain way, I don’t know how to learn otherwise.” 

There is silence. 

“The force works in mysterious ways. Meant to happen, I feel.” 

I scoff. “Meant to happen,” what an evil thing to say.

I begin to walk off, stopping of course, only to get in the last word. 

“Not only have you told me that my master has been killed, but you lack any empathy. There is no emotion in your eyes. Nothing.”

“We mourn your master y/n, just as much as you do. You know what we stand for. You know our view on attachments.”

“He's like-,” I choke. “He was like my father.”

I can’t even begin to explain the pain I feel. Disgust in myself, I should’ve been better. I could’ve been better. The last few years of our relationship I’ve just been behaving poorly and rebelling, and then getting angry at him when he made me face the consequences. Like I wasn’t aware of the job I was made to do. I should’ve been nicer, I could’ve been nicer. It’s all going in a circle, all the things I should’ve done just morphed into things I couldn’t do. Maybe I was too emotional. Maybe my tears that fell leading up to this moment was all part of the plan, the final kicker to show that I wasn’t apathetic enough for this job. My empathy, my burning passion will always be my biggest flaw. This hole that gapes inside of me will never be filled, and now it grows bigger. It’s like a disease. Am I enough? Will I ever be enough?

“Put you with Master Kenobi, we will.” States Master Yoda. 

Master Windu is quick in turning his head. He glares at him. 

“Master Yoda, General Kenobi has just finished his training with Anakin. It is far too early to give him a new Padawan, if at all.”

Yoda nods, almost giggling. 

“Yet so freshly knighted, a Padawan Anakin already has. Obi Wan will have no problem with taking on a student. Graduates soon, she will.”

“But General Kenobi and I have two completely different methods of combat, let alone ideals.” I scoff. 

“All Jedi have the same ideals.” Adds Windu. 

“He is a Jedi guardian, I am a Jedi sentinel-“

“Train with General Kenobi you will. Not long ago he also lost his master too soon.”

Master Yoda nods to me. He stands up and walks over to the large windows behind him. Looking out over Coruscant, he takes a deep sigh of relief. 

“Master Windu,” says Yoda. “Get in contact with the 212th battalion.” 

I watch on as my fate now rests in a stranger's hands.

[wendimydarling]

Cover the Mirrors

Summary: Amber is earning a masters degree in mythology and folklore; when a handsome stranger sweeps her off her feet, she’s left wondering how, and struggles to keep up with his lifestyle.

Pairing: Vampire!August Walker x OFC (first person reader)

Word Count: 6826

Warnings: Alright, we ready to get into the menu of delights we will be reading today? Okay but seriously, if you are triggered by anything on this list, it is your responsibility to not read this work of fiction. The warnings are as follows: manipulation, subtle exhibitionism, fingering, penetrative sex, mention of oral (male receiving), biting, clawing, choking, blood, male violence, gore, non-con, rape, spitting, fear play, primal play, breeding, mention of death, torture, and potentially cannibalism, if you squint.

A/N: Okay so this story is based off of this thread where @killjoy-assbutt-1112​ gave me a fic title, but I added another twist to it that I’d been brewing for months; I was excited about it but now I’m not. Whatever, I’ll give it to you anyway. Sources for my vampire lore came from here and here. Cover art was made by me; August was drawn by the amazingly talented @cheyentjj​ and has been used with her permission. Thank you so much to everyone who brainstormed with me, and a special thanks to @agniavateira​ for betaing! 

“If you look at the Slavic region, vampire folklore runs rampant. One especially interesting specimen is the Pijavica. The Pijavica (translated “leech”, or “drinker”) was a rare species of vampire— traditionally male, and a powerfully strong, cold-blooded killer. The potential for conception is most commonly believed to be through the incest of the deceased with his mother during his life, though some believe that one can be created through the exceptionally malicious and evil acts of the deceased before his death. 

The birth of a Pijavica is attributed to many different causes, including suffering an “unnatural” or untimely death such as suicide, excommunication, improper burial rituals, or even simple causes such as an animal jumping or bird flying over either the corpse or the empty grave, being conceived on certain days, or being born with a caul, teeth, or tail.” 

I paused my typing, fingers leaving the keyboard in order to brush loose strands of hair from my face. Around me, the baristas of my favorite coffee shop were buzzing like worker bees in an old hive; they were gearing up for the lunch rush, and I realized I’d been here four hours already. 

This place had long been my go-to study zone. It was small; there was just enough hustle and bustle to keep me from descending too deep into the abyss of studying and yet, it had the respect of the patrons that a library does. The owner, Fred, made sure that conversations were kept in hushed tones, courteous to those of us who needed to work in noise instead of quiet. 

“If ya wanna be loud, go sit at a Starbucks!” He’d huff at those who didn’t heed his warning.

My eyes took in the familiar surroundings as I stretched. An oversized wood-burning fireplace filled the wall next to the vintage cash register; it was sandwiched between two built-in bookcases housing stories of all kinds that were meant to be read and enjoyed. The old stone clackling ran all the way up the wall, and a custom mantle made from an old oak tree that had fallen in Fred’s backyard sat delicately above the firebox. Yes, this shop was magical. It held a special place in my heart, and I’d visited so often that old Fred had deemed the table I sat at as “my table”. It was always kept reserved for me. 

I reached for my coffee without looking; my brain needed more caffeine. I’d spent months on this master thesis, and yet for some reason, the notion of vampires was such a struggle. I didn’t understand the fear of those who lived back then. The origins of bloodsuckers were chaotic, the “treatments” laughable and still, people were willing to kill their own offspring over such nonsensical superstitions. Cold drops of stale roast hit my lips in a harsh reminder that I’d finished my previous dose. I sighed heavily and dropped the cup to the wooden surface of my table. Eyes closed, I laced my fingers around my neck and drew my elbows together to stretch my spine. Coffee. I need more coffee.

“Having trouble?”

A man’s baritone, smooth as whiskey interrupted my thoughts. My body jolted at his leisurely tone, and I nearly tumbled off the chair as my eyes snapped open to view the intruder. Sitting across from me was anything but a man; I was in the presence of divine artistry, two breathtaking orbs of gray-washed sky centered below auburn curls that adorned his perfectly symmetrical face. A sharp nose pointed to his strong jaw, while an amused smirk tugged at the corner of lips that I’m certain could send even a nun to her bedroom for self-maintenance. He wore a crisp, pinstripe suit, the buttons of his dress shirt undone sinfully low, revealing a smattering of additional curls. 

My oversized turtleneck sweater and leggings suddenly felt subpar.

“The name’s Walker,” he mused further, gesturing a large hand toward the empty paper tumbler that was now lying on its side. “What were you drinking?”

“I--I um,” I fumbled with my words, embarrassed by my sudden inability to form a proper sentence. “I had a flat white? With two extra shots of espresso.”

The man named Walker had the cup in his hand and was out of his chair before I could blink; he was already ordering another coffee by the time I managed to process his intentions. I watched him hand the barista a bill I couldn’t see, but by the shocked expression on her face at the man’s declination of the change, it must have been a sizable amount. He sat down at the table again and stared at my chest unabashedly, making it clear he wasn’t just looking but imagining as well.

I should have been offended or felt objectified, but instead I felt drawn into his gaze.

“Having trouble?” He asked again, gesturing this time at my laptop.

“How long were you sitting there?” I blurted out, still too flummoxed to answer his question. Walker laughed and I swear, time stood still. Never in my life had I heard something so beautiful.

“Long enough.”

His reply was short and cryptic, a dismissal of my burgeoning curiosity. The barista chose that moment to bring two orders of coffee to the table, offering both of them to Walker by mistake. I took in her awestruck countenance, and there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that if my face matched hers I’d sink to the floor and die of shame. That notion shook me from my stupor and I was finally able to address his question.

“It’s my master thesis,” I explained, taking a sip of the scalding liquid he handed me. “I’m a History major, with an emphasis in mythology and folklore.”

I took another sip and tapped my phone, large numbers greeting me on the screen. Numbers that told me I was extremely late.

“Oh my god I have to go, I’m so sorry!” I apologized, scrambling to pack my things. In my haste I knocked my drink off the table. Resignation sunk in deep, submission to the knowledge of further humiliation at the impending spill. None came however, as Walker caught the drink in his hand before it crashed to the dark tiles.

“Thank you,” I murmured, gawking at him in bewilderment. Who was this man?

“It’s my pleasure,” he said, standing to help me collect the remainder of my books. “I’m interested in your thesis, could we perhaps discuss it over dinner? I don’t want to keep you from your next engagement.”

“I—” I stared at him, his face open and inviting. I’d been asked out before, but never this abruptly, and never by someone who looked and behaved like him. It sounded like an adventure…or a good story to tell on girls’ night at least.

“You know what, sure. Why not?”

I scribbled my number onto a napkin and slid it his way, grabbing the rest of my gear and heading toward the door. As I pushed against the hard metal, Walker’s large fingers caught my wrist, wrapping around it like ivy wraps around a lamppost. They were cool to the touch and yet somehow, my entire body immediately felt heated.

“We forgot first names,” he chuckled, “I’m August.”

I grinned sheepishly, pulling my arm from his surprisingly firm grip. The clank of the metal door handle resonated with the introduction I threw over my shoulder as I left the warmth of the shop and the handsome man behind.

“Amber.”

It took August a full week to call me. I felt like a fool; Did I leave on a poor note? Had I offended him somehow? Did he simply decide to change his fucking mind? I was kicking myself for saying yes; how could I have agreed to go on a date with a complete stranger? Now that I was no longer in his flustering presence, I began to see reason again. I knew nothing more than this man’s name, and the fact that he was more than likely rich. He could be a cold-blooded killer for all I knew, and I had every intention of telling him off.

I was in my apartment when he called. Still stuck on my thesis, I was currently unable to determine how best to explain the theory behind the sexual appeal of vampires. In my frustration, I hung upside down over the side of my bed, reading a book that discussed the many different works of literature revolving around vampirical romanticism and hoping the blood rushing to my brain would help me ascertain how to go about my explanation. The book was written by two authors who essentially argue the whole time, one of them convinced that the human fascination with vampires stems from the cannibalistic nature of bloodsucking or that it alluded to other bodily fluids such as semen, whereas the other stood firm in his belief that it held a much simpler cause; it was nothing more than the presence of oral fixation and sadism that caused the fantasy to plant its seed.

My phone vibrated but I ignored it, too engrossed in my book to be bothered with answering. I was so close… the answer was right there, it just continued to escape me. It wasn’t until my phone vibrated a second time to notify me of a voicemail that I put the pages down and picked up the electronic device.

The moment I heard August excusing his delay in calling to a work emergency, I immediately sat up and hit redial. There was something in his voice that made my heart quicken and my pulse race; it made the hair on my arms stand on end. I regretted sitting up so fast as it rang, the blood surrounding my brain draining quickly into the rest of my body. August answered on the second ring.

“Hi, Amber.”

“I—hi.”

I rolled my eyes then flinched in pain, congratulating myself sarcastically on how pathetic that response sounded with a slap of my palm to my forehead.

“Please, allow me to apologize again for waiting so long to call,” August insisted, seemingly unphased by my lack of vocabulary. “I still intend to take you to dinner, that is if you haven’t written me off completely.”

“No it’s fine, I totally get it,” I assured him. I had completely forgotten my earlier annoyance. He had explained it after all, and it could happen to anyone.

“Perfect. I’ll send a car tonight then, at seven. Wear something revealing please, I wasn’t able to see that pretty little neck of yours last time.”

My insides shook with an unexpected pang of shocked arousal at August’s request. The sexual confidence saturating his tone had me instantly reduced to nothing more than a deep desire for him to drag me to my knees by my hair. Why I wasn’t offended by the dominantly abrupt way this man spoke to me, I’ll never know. I put on the best flirty air I could manage in my stupor.

“I think I can manage that. Might have to charge you though.”

August laughed for the second time since I’d known him and I smiled, proud that I’d caused such a melodious sound to grace this earth.

“I like your spirit; you’re gonna be fun. I’ll see you tonight.”

“I—okay bye,” I managed to say before he hung up. I stared at my phone stupidly, as though I thought he was going to call again. Instead, the large clock face glared up at me like it always does, an ever present reminder that I live on a different plane of time than the rest of the world. I fell back on the bed, thinking about the man named August.

He likes my spirit? I hadn’t really shown him much, I’d been unable to do anything but stammer and trip over my words like a schoolgirl would when confronted by the cutest jock at school. What could he possibly see in me? The woman I truly was, the one I knew was underneath the bumbling idiot finally answered me. You’ve got three hours, Amber. Show him what you’re made of.

Resolve set in, and I bounced off the bed and walked toward my closet. For whatever reason, he’d chosen me, so I was going to let my confidence in that thought override all the self-doubt that was threatening to surface. I pulled my favorite dress from the hanger and set out to work. He wanted revealing? Then revealing is what he’d get, but I was going to do it my way.

The car was punctual, though I was less so. I scrambled to put diamond studs in my ears while being driven to some unknown location, my nerves making my hands shake. Once again, the notion that I could be driving to my death crept up my spine, but I brushed it off. Rich men send cars, it’s what they do. And I am an intelligent woman, I wouldn’t let myself be put in that situation.

Would I?

Touching the final stroke of Red Wine lipstick on my lips, I pulled my loose curls over my shoulder to expose my neck and put my things in my vintage black clutch, staring out the window at the ancient building that housed the most expensive club in town. I was suddenly grateful I’d chosen such a fancy dress. I fidgeted with the soft hem of the sleeve at my wrist, drawing it back and forth between my fingers while I waited for the driver to come to a stop.

I saw August there waiting, looking sharp as ever in another expensive three-piece suit, buttons undone just as low as the first time. This time however, I felt much better matched to his attire, and my confidence rose right next to my excitement. August came down the steps to open the door and I took his hand, hiking the burgundy velvet up to my thigh so that I could exit the car smoothly. The heavy fabric dropped to the ground the moment I freed it from my grasp, allowing August to study how I’d chosen to honor his request.

August drank in my covered form, taking in the way my dress hugged my curves and accentuated what it needed to. His eyes darkened as they lingered on the single large triangular section of bare skin that started at my shoulders and came to a point between my breasts, and I watched his tongue dart out of his mouth softly. He looked downright hungry. August stepped closer, fingertips grazing the flesh on my collarbone before he fastened his grip onto my nape and inhaled the hair at my temple deeply, pressing his lips to my ear.

“You are simply mouthwatering,” he growled, low and possessive. His hand released my neck and slid down to the small of my back, sending a shiver down my spine. My insides quivered at his touch, fragrant drops of dew pooling rapidly in the flimsy lace that guarded my mound from potential intruders.

“You wanted to see my ‘pretty little neck’,” I teased his earlier arrogance, lifting my skirt to traverse the steps leading inside, “I thought I’d frame her for you, give her the spotlight.”

August cocked an eyebrow at me in amusement, sensing my challenge. His fingers dug into my hip a little harder than necessary as he guided me through the establishment with nothing more than a nod to the hostesses. Apparent jealousy marred the face of one, and I thought I saw a hint of worry on the other. We were gone before the emotion could register in my mind.

I was escorted to a private booth in the upstairs of the establishment. While the first floor was crowded and full of people, the second floor was empty; August had requested it for our use alone. I could hear the hum of nightlife below, the haunting, non-lyrical melody of a soft alto wafting over the balcony as we walked past, the whispered promise of an enchanting night. A few tables and chairs were strategically placed on the floor, hugged by back-to-back rounded booths on either wall. Light ethereal curtains hung on either side of them, offering privacy from the guests who would typically sit in the next box over. August led me to the corner booth nearest the balcony so that we could look upon the stage if we chose.

“Our table, milady,” he joked, leaving a wet kiss on the back of my hand. Though the charade was seemingly in jest, it could not have been farther from it. His piercing eyes never left mine and I gasped at the feel of his brazen tongue on my skin. The suggestion of what he could do with it hung thick in his gaze, lacing the air with the succulent first tendrils of decadent tension. Playing along, I took a sharp breath and curtsied. I stayed low as August stood to show him the appeal of my figure at this angle, tilting just my head to look up at him. He stood there, head held high like a king, and the smile I received at my display was downright sinful.

“What a treat you are,” he murmured, cupping my chin briefly. My breasts swelled as I stood, consenting August the claim to chivalry by way of settling me into the alcove. He swept my hair over my shoulder again, trailing a single finger down my neck in admiration before taking his own seat. My insides were nothing but a pile of kindling, and every touch he gave was a spark that threatened to ignite the dry leaves into a burning flame of need.

The courses came and went just like those moments, every phrase emphasized with physical intimacy of some kind, whether it be just a gossamer brush of his fingers on my ear or an intentional grasping of my hand. He went as far as to boldly stroke the back of his knuckle along my cleavage, making me dizzy with desire. Each touch was avaricious—like he owned me—and I had zero qualms about letting him.

We ate our fill, but August made no move to leave the comfort of our small corner. With the noise of people below dulled by the far reaches of our seclusion, it was easy to converse. I told him more about my master thesis and the Pijavica, how they could read minds and enjoyed the power of persuasion, how they were impervious to all but decapitation, and how only their offspring could kill them. He listened intently, sharing tales of his own career. It was how I discovered that he was a doctor.

“I don’t practice anymore though, I prefer to study and learn. Specifically, I’m attracted to tears.”

“Tears?” That struck me as odd; it wasn’t often you came across someone who had such a unique field of study. “Why tears?”

August swirled the whiskey in his glass and downed it abruptly. He subtly indicated to our attendant for another before continuing his explanation.

“I’ve always had a fascination for the small things, things that people don’t seem to think matter; the mind-body connection, you know? For example,” he brushed a thumb over my cheekbone, “Did you know that the cellular structure of tears looks different based on the type of tear?”

August cupped my neck with both of his hands, tilting my head this way and that, his calm features set in measured focus as he spoke.

“Basal, reflexive, emotional... they all look different.”

I closed my eyes, letting him caress my skin. August’s touch was intoxicating, addicting. Even his scent was an aphrodisiac to my senses. I couldn’t get enough of it, lured ever closer to his sturdy frame, letting him manipulate my body how he saw fit. He nuzzled my hair, his soft spoken words dripping with lust into my ear.

“In fact,” he went on, “Even among those categories they differ, dependent on the stimuli.”

I could feel his breath on my neck, his lips surrounding the pulsepoint in my veins as he spoke, my jaw his destination. A hand snuck under my skirt, skimming along my trembling skin toward the seeping treasure that awaited him at the end of his journey. I spread my legs willingly, inviting him into my deepest of secrets. August hummed as he went on, sending spirals of tingling vibrations through my chest.

“The sting of onions, the sadness of grief… the satisfaction of overwhelming pleasure.”

“August…” I breathed, but my voice was severed as August simultaneously laid claim to my mouth and my womb. Thick fingers penetrated me in the same moment as his probing tongue, and it was in that moment I knew I was lost; August Walker could pull everything from me and I wouldn’t care; I’d want it, need it. He had spent all night teasing me, testing me, manipulating me and filling me with nothing but a desire for more, leaving me empty and wanting. He had succeeded, I now craved him above all else in this world.

August lifted my skirts, hoisting me with little effort to straddle his lap and I cried out in shock. The sound of my sudden impalement on the thick steel of his manhood was camouflaged by the crowd of people below; no one heard the echo of carnal awakening that sang through the air. When had he undressed? I bit my lip as he sank deeper into my core until the salty bitterness of copper and iron stung my chin. August’s eyes fell to the red droplet, darkening until the only color left in his pale irises was the very absence of light. With a hideous growl he ravaged my mouth, tasting every inch of my bruised lips with the hunger of an animal that’s been caged for far too long.

Thrill and terror tangled themselves in my mind, weaving an intricate web of wanton desire inside of me as August took me right there in the booth. Time itself seemed to halt, the room disappeared. Were we still in the club? Was it still the dead of night? Did I still require oxygen to breathe? Or was my life source now August’s touch, the light in my very soul dependent upon his kiss?

I didn’t notice when we left, nor when we arrived at a house that overlooked the city. I didn’t notice the lock on the basement door, or the fresh garden in the yard. I didn’t notice the continual rising and setting of the sun. I didn’t notice when I grew hungry, nor when I grew tired. I didn’t notice, not anything but passion, need, and desperation.

I didn’t notice.

Sleep drained from my limbs slowly. I awoke to black silk caressing my skin, dim sunlight shining through the wall, diffused by a covering of clouds that hung in the sky. It confused me that it was coming through the entire wall, until I realized that said wall was simply one large window, and the room I found myself in was built into the rock of an obsidian cliff overlooking the city. The room was minimally decorated in dark tones that coordinated with the nature outside, save for a striking, golden painting of a woman crying on the far wall. I clearly wasn’t home, and last night’s events slowly returned to the forefront of my mind.

August.

August was, without a doubt, the most attentive lover I’d ever had. Memories of his lips, his scent, his god-like physique that was surely carved from marble entertained my thoughts, returning my mind to the pleasure I’d never experienced in my life. Chills ran up and down my skin, alighting in wonder as my hand drifted to my sex. My fingers found my petals, swollen from overuse, aching in the dull agony of satisfaction. I stroked them gently, soothing the pleasant tenderness, moaning softly as the blood rushed to swell my clit once more, my other hand slipping beneath the silk to join in the heavenly edging torment.

A sharp, sudden sting at the brush of my inner thigh caused me to cry out, my hands snatching away from their play. I sat up, peering beneath the sheets to discover a semi-circle of divots cut into my leg. Is that a… a bite mark? I pulled at the skin and felt the dried blood crack, a small pinprick of new red seeping through the scab. I lunged from the bed to stand in front of the full-length mirror in the corner and look for other signs or markings, but what I found made me gasp.

Bruises peppered my neck, chest, hips and thighs. A few other crescents were scattered amongst them, standing out against the dark patches that shaded my skin. I took a physical inventory then, feeling the soreness in my jaw from being stretched by his cock, the ache of my neck from having my hair pulled, the shaky feeling of muscular fatigue in my legs from being tensed by orgasm after orgasm. I thought I detected a slight sheen on my skin, but I couldn’t tell if that was from the tremulous bliss of a satisfying fuck, or if it was the sweat and oil caused by said satisfying fuck. Either way, I looked happy and content. I grabbed August’s dress shirt from the floor and threw it on as I left the room to explore.

The bedroom led to a hallway, the wall to my left still nothing but expansive glass that showed off the impressive view. On the other side were large, black and white abstract prints, hung evenly spaced against dark panels. To the left of each was a shadow box with an ornate glass vial inside; each bottle was thin, no longer than my palm and differing in design from the others. Tiny, intricate patterns were painted on the outsides in white, blue, and gold, and gold stoppers sealed each one. When I entered the main room, I discovered a curio cabinet that housed at least a hundred of them, and I leaned in to look at how varied each one was.

“Victorian tear catchers,” August’s voice was suddenly behind me and I whirled sharply, startled. He chuckled at my alarm and I laughed with him, enjoying that glorious sound.

“They’re beautiful,” I murmured, turning back to look at the delicate glass. August pulled me against his naked chest, nosing my hair and kissing my neck.

“Yes you are,” he whispered, earning an eye roll from me. August chuckled and opened the cabinet.

“Would you like one?”

“Really?”

I looked at him, stunned. He simply nodded his head in the direction of the vials and I examined them, selecting one that had a white pattern on it that looked like lace.

“Mmm, a good choice. Perhaps I can collect tears of ecstasy for you,” August whispered. The thrill of what he was implying awakened my senses, and I let him lead us slowly back toward the bedroom. I felt like teasing him, so I delayed a bit by asking about the art on the wall.

“What are those?” I pointed to the first print, a cross-hatching pattern that looked like it was made of sewing pins.

“Those are tears of grief,” he stated, stopping in front of each as he walked me gradually down the hall.

“A yawn,” he said of the next, a white background with dark, fern-looking splatters. August traced his mouth along my jaw, his hand dipping beneath the button of his shirt to play with the sensitive nipples he had rediscovered. I keened as he continued shifting us toward the kitchen, struggling to keep my composure. The next print was a much darker gray, and it looked like it was covered in snowflakes.

“Any guesses?” August asked, mouthing my earlobe in tandem with the flick of his thumbs over my hardened nubs. I whimpered, my knees weak in his lustful embrace.

“Uhm… cold air?” I rasped as he sucked on my neck. August chuckled through his nose, the vibrations of his voice rippling through my chest to connect with his teasing fingers.

“Onions.”

“Yeah okay.”

I tilted my head so that I could kiss him, but suddenly the thought of onions turned my stomach. I lurched, pulling away and gagging slightly. Instead of concern, August smiled knowingly, seemingly unbothered by my retching.

“I see morning sickness has set in. It’s a little early and I had hoped you’d be able to avoid it, but alas, that’s not the case.”

My head swam suddenly, confusion mutilating all thought. I backed away from him.

“Morning what? What are you talking about?”

August took a step toward me, placing a hand on my belly and lacing his fingers in the hair at my nape.

“Women always taste better after they’ve conceived. And I can keep them longer; they make much more blood when they’re host to a fetus.”

I pushed against him, turning away and vainly attempting to process his words. Pregnant? Taste better? Blood? My eyes focused on a card I hadn’t noticed earlier in the shadow box, a single word printed on it.

Bridgette

“Isn’t it ironic,” August mused, tracing my collarbone with a thick finger, “That five weeks ago, you had a chance encounter with the very thing you’ve been studying for months, and now you carry his child.”

The room spun. I couldn’t think; my brain refused to process the nonsense he spoke.

“Five—five weeks?! No that’s not possible, our date was last night!”

“It’s more than possible, sweet morsel. Think about it.”

Bile rose thick and acrid in my throat then, threatening to spill. Memories and time started filtering into my mind, replacing the fog with everything I’d lost. The last puzzle piece clicked into place, confusion all but disappeared and I was left with nothing but the cold, terrifying truth. Pijavica. Vampire. Monster.

I’d fallen into the clutches of a monster.

I did the only thing I could think of; I slapped him as hard as I could and took off through the house, ignoring the sharp pain of a chunk of hair remaining in his hand. My heart pounded in my chest, desperate to be free of this sudden nightmare. I slammed into the front door and grabbed the handle, a strangled sob catching in my throat when it wouldn’t open.

I rattled the door knob, panic consuming every fiber of my being. Suddenly, it wasn’t just my life I was fighting for; apparently there was a life inside of me that needed protecting. The child of a Pijavica that was depending on me to escape, so that he could come back and kill his father. I have to get out. I gave up on the door in anger, spinning around and looking for another way.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

I heard August’s voice again, but he was nowhere to be seen. His voice came louder, penetrating my mind. I have to keep moving.

“It was because of your name; they match your eyes.”

I whimpered at his words, sneaking my head around a corner to survey the living space for some form of an exit.

“Amber has a historical application, you see,” he went on, louder. I dashed over the floor, desperate to be gone from him. Door after door remained locked, and my terror grew with each attempt. Every now and then I could hear August, whether it be a rustle of fabric or the knock of his foot on the wooden floor. The scholar in me knew that it was on purpose, that he was luring his prey, giving chase to his food, and yet my rational mind refused to take charge. I was being led by my flight response, and his jarring monologue wasn’t helping.

“Throughout history, whenever a goddess cried it was typically tears of amber, save for the goddess Freya, who cried gold. You met her in the bedroom.”

His laughter echoed through the dark walls of his lair, and chilled me to my core. It was no longer a beautiful sound, but grating and horrible. I was nothing but a petty human to play with, some toy that he could eat when he tired of me. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I came to the last door. Dear God, please let this one open. To my utter relief, the door swung wide and I was met with stairs. Stairs went down, and we were on a cliff. Down was good. Down meant freedom.

I clambered down the steps and flung open the door at the bottom, stumbling into the room and falling to the floor in horror and fear. There in front of me, was nothing but mirrors. A maze of mirrors, each one showing me my trembling features, mocking me, letting me know just how fucked I was. I turned back, intending to go back up the stairs and try another way, but August’s silhouette stood at the top, preventing me from going back into the house. I heard a scream and realized it was my own.

Scrambling off the floor, I took off into the maze, blinded by my tears.

“Each of those girls made it this far you know,” August taunted. I heard the slam of the door and nearly choked as I ran. “You’ll die in this room, just like they did.”

His nonchalance, his continual unconcern about chasing me, his arrogance that he would no doubt catch me made me so angry. I raced from path to path, growing ever more frantic every time I reached a dead end. I didn’t even know if this room had an exit, I just knew I had to keep moving. I tripped over something as I rounded a corner, screaming when I saw what it was.

“I see you found Bridgette,” August chuckled, and I looked up from the skeleton to see his hideous face marred with a sinful sneer. I gasped and took off again, turning this way and that. Hitting another dead end, I doubled back and ran smack into August’s broad torso. He caught me and held me close as I screamed, ripping his shirt from my body. He spun me around, pinning my wrists between my back and his belly, trailing his fingers languidly over my naked frame in an inspection of his handiwork. My jaw was gripped in an iron vice and August forced my gaze to the mirror.

“Do you see what I see?” he mocked. I could only stare in horror, for nothing but my own terrified expression stared back at me.

August had no reflection.

“Out of all the patterns in the world, do you know which tears are my favorite?” August continued to torment. He inhaled my hair deeply, snaking his tongue along the length of my cheek, tasting the stains my tears had left in their wake.

“Fear.”

I heard August growl as I fought against him, his iron grasp caging me against his cool skin, more of the cursed moisture pooling in my eyes. Glassy drops fell, retracing a new path toward my chin but August just kissed them away, shoving me to the floor when my knees buckled of their own accord. He let go of my hands to fidget with his slacks, pulling me back toward him every time I tried to crawl away as a parent would to a petulant child. On the third attempt he snapped my knee, a scream tearing from my throat in my woeful submission to his desire.

Finally free of his clothes, August lifted my hips, lining his rigid cock up against my sweat-soaked folds. He dove into my treasure without care, forcing his way into the depths of my belly, stretching and tearing my walls until he was fully sheathed. Strong arms wrapped around me again, and I felt two sharp points prick the junction of my neck and shoulder. I cried out and thrashed in fierce protest, knowing that small pinch was just a warning of oncoming pain.

August’s teeth punctured my skin easily, shredding muscle and sinew until they hit bone. I howled in pain as I watched blood drip from the wound, a familiar crescent shape joining its brothers on my body. Searing heat shot through my neck with his first draw of thick plasma; the violent removal of blood causing an intense burn that I felt all the way down to my injured leg. August released my neck and I clapped a hand over the fresh wound.

I looked over my shoulder at him; his head was tilted down, mouth still full of my blood; the lack of a reflection behind him unsettling to my senses. August opened his wicked maw slowly, dark scarlet trickling from his lips onto the junction where my hips met his, run through by his sword. He looked up at me with a nasty grin, bloodstained fangs curdling my stomach. I closed my eyes and turned away as he swiped a hand through the mess. His fingers penetrated my core alongside his cock, deaf to my sobbing objections.

“You’d better open your eyes, pet… This needy little cunt is dripping, I’d hate for you to miss it.”

August emphasized his sick joke by grasping my hair, shoving my head to the floor, forcing me to look once more into the polished glass. My desperate wails for mercy were all that kept me grounded as I watched him thrust, my battered hole be stretched beyond capacity. Nothing but empty space plundered my core, crimson air bruising the very place within me that only just last night had been treated with such tenderness and care. Not last night. His slick fingers found my mouth and violated it effortlessly; no amount of pressure I could apply would break through his tough skin.

“God, you look so beautiful.”

August pulled me up and took to my neck with fervor, latching onto the broken sliver of skin like a leech. The more he drank, the weaker I became, until there was no resistance left within me. I could see the color drain from my bloody face, I could see black slowly creep into my vision, but I was powerless to stop it. August was in charge, he held my entire existence in his hands, and he intended to extinguish it. I closed my eyes again, accepting my fate.

I was going to die.

One of my favorite places to visit is a small outdoor cafe, very near the coffee shop where I met Amber. Mmmm. Amber. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of that tantalizing woman.

She lasted so much longer than all the others, you know. I was able to feed off of her nearly three full months as she hung there in my basement, until the last drop of her tantalizing nectar was finally extracted. She smelled of carraway and saffron, tasted of sweet mulled wine, and with the rich, heady, piquancy of her fertile womb seasoning each sinew, every inch of her opulent flesh begged to be consumed. I must admit, I should have dispatched of her sooner, but fascination overtook my curious mind as her own was consumed by insanity.

First it was freedom she asked for, and then death. Sometimes she would beg to speak to her mother one last time. But by the end, she only asked for one thing.

“Please,” she would whisper, “Please… Cover the mirrors. Just cover the mirrors.”

She asked so nicely, but how on earth could I hide such beauty? Her tears were just as rare, you see. They hold a beauty unmatched by any of the others that hang on my walls. I’ve never seen such a fear pattern like hers; it is more exquisite than the dawn of a misty spring day in the countryside, more beautiful than a woman at the height of euphoria. And they way they sparkled against her skin, lustrous tracks that wound down her temples and through her hair, glinting in the mirrors with each slow rotation of her inverted body... well, it was as if I was living among the stars. Adding her ashes to my garden was such a shame.

I sat at that little cafe, eyes closed, viewing the world through my enhanced scent. Each drop of bitter coffee, the pollen of a nearby bee, the oil in the bike chains of two clumsy humans as they rolled past; each note and fragrance alerting me to its owner. A familiar scent reached my nose and I turned my head sharply, focusing on it.

Carraway… Saffron.

I smiled softly, opening my eyes to greet the woman that now sat at my table. The honey irises that had intrigued me all those months ago met mine and I chuckled low.

“Amber.”

Read on AO3.

[hoodoo12]

Doll (1/2)

More Robo Fizz s-m-u-t you thirsty, thirsty people.

NSFW

@go-commander-kim @monsterlovinghours @mimiscappinisideblog @jester-junk @jesterfestivle @beetlebitchywitch @realmonsterboyhours @yankyo

Enjoy!`

You didn’t show it to anybody, and you definitely didn’t keep it out for anyone to see if they ever came over to your tiny one room flat, but you had an old Robo Fizz doll. It was a hold over from your imphood, and it had been your favorite toy. A constant companion when you were young, the doll was now ragged and worn; not only was the colorful costume discolored and his face a grimy grey, but Robo Fizz had had multiple repairs in uneven stitching, and his left shoulder cap no longer had a frowning face. You’d rubbed it off with your thumb because you wanted him to always be happy. 

Now his plush limbs were lumpy from where the stuffing had clumped and flaccid in spots where the stuffing had settled elsewhere. Any original texture was threadbare. You didn’t care, you still occasionally cuddled it when sleep didn’t come easily. 

None of the hundreds of Robo Fizz dolls in the window of the souvenir shop looked anything like your old doll. These were all bright and shiny and brand-spankin’ new. 

Jostled repeatedly by a seemingly never ending string of the implings and their either exasperated or also overly excited parents, you finally just went along with the crowd and entered the store.

Inside was a marketing director’s wet dream. If the Robotic Fizzarolli himself had come in and vomited, it would probably look like this place. Robo Fizz merchandise was everywhere, and if it wasn’t his exact likeness, it was the colors that made up his outfit. Everything from breakfast cereal to pencils to kid’s outfits to hats to water filled globes with glitter and a tiny Robo Fizz inside to keychains to posters to . . . there was so much you could barely take it all in. You decided to stick close to the display of dolls. 

They were of varying quality. The smallest were vague and minimalistic in their likeness of the star of the carnival. The larger ones had much better workmanship and one, in a glass display case, purported to be wearing a vintage costume the Robotic Fizzarolli had worn in one of his shows. The dolls that were the same as the one you had loved through your imphood were somewhere in the middle, towards the lower end. 

You picked one up out of the pile. This pristine doll in your hands had pom-poms on his collar that weren’t compacted balls of felt, like yours. You’d forgotten that originally your doll had had metallic fabric edging the costume; this one’s fabric was uncracked and gleamed in the overhead lights. All of his limbs were properly stuffed. It was tempting to buy a new one. You did love your doll, and were still a fan of the Robotic Fizzarolli. But all these shiny, mass produced dolls didn’t have the personality of your well-worn and well-loved Fizzy, and it felt a little like a betrayal to buy another. 

Just as you were setting the doll back on the pile, a impling shoved between you and the display. You stumbled back. The doll flew out of your hands. It landed almost back where it belonged, and you managed to keep your feet under you. No one apologized: not the impling, not his parents who were now also crowding you out as if they hadn’t seen you or, more likely, didn’t care. 

You should’ve put up a fuss but it wasn’t worth it. You wandered away from the large display of toys to look at the other bobbles. Just like the dolls, some had cheap and shoddy quality, while higher end products were better made. Their price tags reflected it.

At the back of the store, near a wall rack of shirts emblazoned with his face, a doorway with a beaded curtain caught your eye. 

You’d been in this gift shop at Loo Loo Land before and had never seen that door. Granted, it was when you were a young imp, and your brain had been overloaded with sugar and the joy of getting your very own Robo Fizz doll. It was partially behind the cashier’s counter, but there was no sign that indicated it wasn’t for the public.

The imp in a smock at the register looked a combination of bored to tears and annoyed at her situation, so you didn’t feel comfortable asking about it. Out of the corner of your eye you watched two imps disappear through the door, and feeling bold, you followed. 

The beaded curtain parted and one strand trailed along your horn as you went into the back room. There was a very short hallway, and a turn to the right into another room, which was why you couldn’t see anything past the initial doorway. 

Inside the room was another plethora of Robo Fizz merchandise. 

However, there were no implings, only adults, and the few customers there, although excited, all seemed to keep their glee subdued. 

Looking to your right, your eyes widened at the wall display of dildos in various shapes and sizes, all their packaging proclaiming they all were authentic Robo Fizz replicas, exactly like the original Robo Fizz’s assortment of phalluses. Past that display was a large selection of bdsm products, including handcuffs that mimicked Robo Fizz’s cuffs, and whips that looked segmented, possibly to look like tentacles? You weren’t exactly sure. 

In front of you were standing racks of clothing again, but these were lingerie, all designed as riffs  his jester’s outfit. A couple was looking through them; one skimpy bra and panty set was held up and they both seemed pleased it was in her size. 

There were piles of lollipops molded like his tongue, tentacles, and again, various cocks. A huge shelf of DVDs all had Robo Fizz on the cover, each touting to provide a different sexual fantasy. 

Along the far wall, there was another large display of dolls. 

Like in the front of the store, you were drawn to them.

Although there was still a wide assortment of size and quality, none were smaller than the one you had at home and all promised a more intimate encounter. The top of the line was a Personal Companion Robo Fizz, which you’d heard about but never had the chance to see one in person. It towered over you, looking vaguely menacing standing so still and lifeless compared to its manically boisterous original. 

“It comes with a free gallon of lube. You can get a subscription to have a gallon shipped to you on a monthly basis,” someone said behind you. “Uh--what?!” 

An employee in a smock like the imp’s out front stepped up beside you. Nodding towards the Personal Companion, she said, “You buy it, it comes with the first gallon of lube. You might need more, if he’s receiving, but even if you use if more for giving, you still need some to make his tongue more pleasant. No one likes getting eaten out by a cold mechanical mouth with zero lube!”

She shuddered dramatically. You weren’t quite sure what to say. Luckily--you guessed--she continued. “He’s top of the line, of course. Everything you’ve heard on the commercial is here. He’s got the BDSM feature, has two tentacles that you can attach so you can be double penetrated and spit-roasted at the same time, has so many speeds and patterns for vibration, and is super easy to clean! There’s a standard set of phrases he can say, but he can also be programmed to call you whatever you’d prefer, like Mistress or sweetie pie, and you can add a few other personal words too. And if you upgrade to the semi-AI package, he learns your preferences and his interactions with you can be even more life-like!”

You blinked up at the Personal Companion, overwhelmed by the enthusiastic sales pitch. Even if you were interested, there was no way you could afford it. Maybe, if they offered rental of him, you could swing half an hour, but more likely only fifteen minutes. 

You thanked her and told her it was out of your price range and made to move away. She grabbed your arm and pulled you down the line of dolls. “I get it. A Personal Companion is expensive. But there are lots of other options!”

The grip she had on your arm was relentless, just like her sales talk. She gave you the specs and features of each type of doll available. They all had different attributes, some only vibrated, some had interchangeable cocks, some were designed for imps who preferred to penetrate. Several of the middle to high end dolls had a ‘sparking’ feature for a more authentic experience. All of them were machine washable. 

Despite yourself, you began to think maybe you did want a new doll. 

You still couldn’t afford something fancy. There was one type that was similar in shape and size to your old Fizzy, but came with a single cock folded up under his costume. It had a bit of a heft to him, and the sales clerk told you it was because of the motor--it didn’t have thrusting gears, but did have three different vibration settings. The price was slightly higher than you expected so you hemmed and hawed, but with the sales clerk smiling encouragingly, you decided to buy it. 

“Excellent! Listen, since you’re a first time customer I’ll throw in a voice chip for you. Free of charge.”

You nodded your thanks, and followed her to the register to ring it up. She made sure the “adult” attributes of the doll were tucked away and the button was off, and it looked like any other innocuous Robo Fizz doll in the gift shop’s bag. She also tucked a tiny bottle of lube into the bag for you too, another free gift. 

She thanked you for your purchase and you went back out into the main room of the shop, clutching your special Loo Loo Land souvenir to your chest. 

tbc . . .

[drabbles-of-writing]

Reverse Au! Dump

Don’t mind my idea dumping here. Brain decided to have fun while I was at work and I have too many wips as it is, so… Thought I’d ask before I dumped, experience. Used morningmark’s comics as a base, so if you want reference. Now this isn’t all that well compiled, but here it goes.

~

Magic in the Other World is varied as it is crazy. So many styles over the generations and not a lot of organization. There are some that try to categorize it all, but that works as well as you’d expect. Some were lost, some erased, some weren’t passed down/recorded because “the power is all mine! Ahahaha!” It took a lot of time and collaboration, but eventually a sort of system was installed to help out. Still a lot of work to do, but its a step forward. Nowadays the term Wild Magic is generally reserved for those that aren’t all that well documented and understood.

Some Magics are very powerful and desirable, but also tend to be very high risk/high reward, kinda pass/fail, pretty literally Do or Die most times. So not a lot of people can use those or are even willing to. Story says this one guy named Odin hung himself on a massive tree by his own spear for nine days, no food water or rest in constant pain before he could unlock the secret of Runes. But it’s also said he gouged out his own eye to drink from the Well of Wisdom so… 

There are lots of different ways to channel magic too: wands, staves, jewelry, certain gems, familiars, potions, enchanted armaments, chants, scripts, etc. Each tool has its own advantages and disadvantages and play into a Witches’ style. Every Witch has at least two methods of spellcasting. Only children have one. Haven’t thought of how Luz gets her Palisman though. Maybe its one of those magic Artifacts like Dr. Strange’s cloak, Elder Wand, Thor’s hammer, or a Green Lantern’s Ring. Something that can’t be recreated because the secret is lost, materials no longer exist, too hard/dangerous to make, accident that can’t be recreated, etc. Happens more often than people like.

Camilla is sometimes called the Blue Witch. She’s a healer by heart and trade, but push her and she will become a one Witch Battleship. Bismark who? Aaaaand she just deleted a whole battalion. And the fortress behind them. Hide me. There are the very rare occasions, like count on one hand rare, when someone near and dear to her heart is in trouble that she takes up her other job. She’s especially terrifying when she decides to torture, those who know how to heal the body know best how to break it. Many shades of Blue, some are very close to Black. She doesn’t necessarily hate Humans exactly, but doesn’t have the highest of regard from past experiences.

Luz has training and is a proficient Witch for her age. Camilla and her father were adamant about having a general knowledge/skillset alongside her specialized skill. Jack of all trades and a master of none, still better than a master of one. She has gone through the system for her magic with varying success. Oracle magic? Zero talent. Bard classes? She can play an instrument, but can’t sing at the same time. When she does sing she tires too hard and messes up. It’s only when she doesn’t try, like absently singing along with a song or playing by her heart, that she’s good at it. Beasts? Can use them, but would rather play with them. Bleeding heart and all that. She does have a good handle on healing magic partly due to Camilla drilling necessary skills into her and partly osmosis. Her father arranged for some CQC lessons from an old friend of his which the girl loved. You get the idea. It wasn’t until she discovered Glyphs that she found her niche and her skills took off. Glyphs are one of those ‘eccentric’ or 'archaic’ styles since they haven’t been used in so long after being lost and are barely understood. She still has a long way to go, but she is on her way.

Luz never really had much in the way of friends, partly cuz of high profile parents which leads to certain pressures and a target on her head, partly because of her magic style and personality, and partly because of the trouble been going on. Luz grew up her whole life with this tension of a group of anarchists trying to burn society that’s just trying to do the right thing. The anarchists started small, but have been a growing problem the past few decades with talk how to 'reshape the world’ in not a good way. Anyone with critical thinking skills can tell this is a bad idea, but they are too brainwashed to notice. They harass anyone who doesn’t follow their rhetoric and attack anyone who even questions them. Luz’s parents put a real kink in a lot of their plans for years, which makes Luz guilty by association. 

Luz got caught in one of those sudden larger scuffles and was accidentally chucked/blown through a portal created by an attempted tactical retreat that went off course. Hence why she can’t go home because she hasn’t learned how to do portals yet. Those are high level anyway so how did these guys pull it off so easily? Luz has a hard time blending in obviously. Learning how to use a phone was a fun endeavor. Internet was a trip. Luz is amazed how these people can do all this cool stuff without magic. Keep a low profile sure, she can pass off as a weird out of town kid. Keep the beanie on, underperform in gym and stuff because some things don’t change, like genetics. Someone sharp eyed will see discrepancies. The Beanie has a small Glamor spell built in that covers her witchy traits but she forgot the ears which is why it sits like it does. Luz can erase memories in case she has an accident, but it’s less of a 'remove my face from this picture with a scalpel’, and more of a 'lemme just hack off the past hour or three from your brain with an axe.’ If she tries to take any more then she starts burning into some more dangerous territory and those Wiped are groggy and disoriented for a while after already. Then the magic attacks start happening and her heroic instinct/anti-bystander complex kicks in and there goes that. It runs in the family so Camilla isn’t surprised in the slightest when she finds out.

“Oh titan, why did you curse me with another me?” “I’m right here Mami!”

Eda has a shack very akin to Grunkle Stan. Lots of junk that Lilith can’t believe that people are dumb enough to buy. She’s also involved in some not so legal dealings on the side. Well, Eda isn’t actually hurting anybody and the tax dollars she should be paying would only go towards some politicians’ next yacht or another pointless overseas 'investment’ instead of where it’s supposed to go so. Eda does give some good intel on occasion and a place to vent so Lillith overlooks her. Lil’s more of the secret police for witches and a petty crook isn’t part of her job anyway. Eda understands Luz’s predicament and is willing to help. The cover story is that Camilla work in hospitals and has to work crazy hours while her dad passed away so is living with Eda for a while. King is that kind of critter that grew up weird and acts like ten different animals all the time.

Gus is the nerdy kid who infodumps on everybody, even if they’re not listening. Loves anything fantasy/sci-fi related and plays Minecraft too. A good kid at heart, but needs some social skills. Keep him away from anything more sugary than tea. Luz learned a lot listening to him. Not all of it is entirely useful, but still. Some of his ramblings give her some good ideas for magic and stuff, like putting Glyphs on cards.

The Blights are the cool rich kids obviously, and have some discipline and social issues. Big family name makes them intimidating for normies and a meal ticket for the unsavory. These kids need real friends. They decided to act out to get some attention from the parents who then decided to ignore them. “If you’re going to act like a child tantrum, get treated like one.” Ed is perfect for Drama classes, if he were allowed to partake. Can’t decide what Em is great at, hacking perhaps? Amity’s car is an inheritance from the only family to treat her as such Twins aside, even if she’s too young to remember it. She only remembers that she has feelings surrounding the car. All three of them were pretty impressed with Luz for standing up to them, calling them out on their shit, and not giving a crap about their family name. Being treated like a normal person is pretty weird. Can we get her to do that again?

Amity tried dating Boscha once, didn’t work out very well. Boscha is still hurting over Amity’s comment of “I’d rather go date the new weird kid (Luz) than go back to you.” It’s one of the reasons she goes after Luz. She has that kind of Bud personality from Spider Man, feels lesser and so acts out so much. 

“Wow, this new Witch is amazing. Not as cool as the original Witch.”

“What is it with the Witch with you?”

“Oh, she’s a hero. Looks out for the city and the little guy. She inspires me. Makes me want to be a bigger person. *sees Luz* What’s up Luz-er?”

~

And that’s what I got right now. I know there was more, but it’s lost to the void right now. Might come back later, maybe not. Lemme know what you think.

............

DAMN you weren’t lying when you said you had an info-dump this is *chefs kiss* you got me intrigued now

[slutsofren]

Danger Days Chapter 5: Skylines and Turnstiles

summary:  arriving at the University of Eastern Colorado, things start pointing to an unwanted direction

warnings: little allusions to anxiety and awkardness, everybody is finally getting along (kinda), mild sexual tension,  reader is fucking horny

word count: 3,116

read on ao3 here / danger days masterlist

You had been zoning out for about the last hour, only starting to pay attention as you saw the familiar red brick walls of the university. Joel had been droning on and on and on about football and the rules of the game, teaching it to Ellie and she lapped it all up excitedly. If there was one thing you had grown to love about the girl, it was her passion for knowledge, especially of the old world.

As they talked, you recalled your adventures the past month, thanking the stars it was a rather smooth journey to get here. The three of you only encountered one group of hunters that weren’t much trouble and they were rather well stocked on supplies and food, keeping you all fed for a few days longer.

The two horses were doing well too, the long trek didn’t seem to bother them as much as you originally worried. Made the journey much smoother and shorter than you accounted for. When you all left Jackson, it was only October, now it was maybe halfway through November. You were making pretty good time on your schedule. 

“I don’t see a glass building,” Ellie told you, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“We’ll need to get to the center courtyard of the campus. You’ll see it from there, it’ll look like a mirror made of glass.” You raised a hand and pointed through some buildings, vaguely gesturing the way.

You led them into an area of the campus that led to the science center. But Joel stopped you and dismounted, giving Ellie the reins, “Stay, Callus.” After a couple feet of walking away Joel asked her, “What kind of a name is Callus, anyways?”

He goes around, searching the area for either troubles or supplies, grumbling about the name Ellie gave the horse.

“Not my fault you forgot to ask Tommy his name,” Ellie jokes and jerks her thumb at you, “Or that she didn’t know it either.”

“Hey, don’t bring me into this, kiddo. I’m just buddies with my dear Whiskey here,” you pat the neck of the black horse. He gave a little huff beneath your fingers and shook his head, enjoying the attention. “Besides, Cherry is the only one able to tell the difference between all of them.”

Joel gives you a faint smile as he reaches for the bit on Callus, guiding him through a gate into the middle of the campus that you waited by.

After being in such close proximity to each other, the two of you began warming up to the other. Of course, you still chucked snide comments at him, often calling him an old bastard when he’d piss you off or do something snide. He would reply in kind, calling you a brat and threatening you to behave.

Needless to say, that awakened a little fantasy you totally didn’t need of the man, eliciting some rather vivid dreams when you slept. Hinting that maybe you were unfortunately in need of a good orgasm to get it all out of your system once and for all. Being out in the middle of fuck-all nowhere made that kind of difficult.The mental imagery alone kept you up most nights on your watch while you kept an eye out as the two rested. Regardless, Joel had been a gentleman towards you, apparently all that southern charm was genuine but he was still a broody asshole most days, never once hinting he saw you in such a way despite how often you’d catch him staring.

Ellie on the other hand, took to you rather quickly. She would ask you question after question about California, FEDRA, what to expect with the Fireflies at the lab, what you were like before the outbreak. She was intrigued about life pre-cordyceps virus, it was as if it was a fantasy to her.

Well, you admit, you supposed it was. She was born after the virus took hold, she never got to experience the things you and Joel did in the world before.To go to a zoo, a concert, gossip with friends about who likes who in school. The only thing she knew was to keep fighting, surviving, and running. Despite how cheerful and passionate she could be about her comic books or absorbing as much knowledge as she could, you were saddened that she never got the chance to be normal.

As much as you tried to keep some things private during her lengthy questionings, you knew her curiosity was blinding. She meant no harm, likely going to you for these questions seeing as Joel was completely shut off from his past, not that you blame him. You couldn’t imagine what he experienced from what Tommy had told you before.

Ellie looked around on the horse, “So, these places… people would live here and just study? Even though they were all grown up?”

“Yeah, study, party, and find themselves. Figure out what they wanted to do with their lives,” Joel replied. He let go of the leather strap and motioned for you and Ellie to stay where you were as he walked towards what looked to be like a loading dock and began searching.

She repeated Joel’s last sentence about finding themselves, possibly turning over the idea in her mind, after a few moments of silence of both of you watching Joel she turned to you, “Did you ever go to college?”

You shook your head, silently telling her no. “I was too young when shit hit the fan, but I would explore these buildings and take the books that were salvageable. Read them when I had the time. Tried to educate myself however I could.”

“What would you have studied if you went?”

“I don’t know,” you think. Suddenly you remembered some of your favorite books that you had stolen from these very buildings. “I really liked reading the history books that I found here. Maybe I would have done something with that. Or maybe,” you ponder, “maybe I wouldn’t have liked history if not for the whole world fucking ending.”

Ellie considers this for a moment. Then, from the corner of your eye, you watch Joel disappear behind a corner and you turn towards her, “What about you?”

Ellie scrunches her face in thought. “Art. Or maybe music. I like being creative.”

You smiled at the idea, “Ellie Williams: Comedian, Artist, Rock Star.”

Ellie smiles widely and the moment is cut short by Joel announcing somewhere above you. “There was a look-out here,” his voice calls down.

Both of you look up and see Joel leaning over a concrete railing on the second floor. “That’s a good sign,” Ellie says to him, then she looks at you and asks quietly, “Right?”

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. You furrow your brows and begin to bite on your bottom lip, unsure of what to make of things. It’s unlike them to leave a look-out abandoned. Now that you’re thinking about it, you’re pretty damn positive you’d have come across somebody by now.

You try to get your facial expressions back in check, not wanting to worry Ellie or even Joel by making them feel like something is vastly wrong with how this looks. Before, when you were with the militia group, there were armed guards practically on every roof of this campus. They were always checking in with each other, making sure none of the infected or even hunters penetrated the walls. It wasn’t always secure or even practical, more lives were lost that way but it helped protect the lab.

You’re pulled away from your anxious thoughts as you spot Joel. He takes one last look around then comes down from the loading dock and gets back on the horse he’s sharing with Ellie and looks to you, gesturing his hand out in front of him. “Lead the way.”

You give Whiskey a little kick and he takes off, jumping over a concrete barricade then leading them up some stairs and under some ornate arches and pulling the reins to the left. With a motion of your hand you point to the science building in the distance, “There it is. The one with glass walls.”

Ellie looks over his shoulder and huffs a surprise, “It really does look like a glass mirror.”

Unfortunately there was a locked gate between the group and your destination. “Question is, how are we gonna get through here,” Joel thinks out loud.

After looking around it seems the only way forward is through the crumbling buildings. Joel dismounts from Callus once again and led you both through a broken wall on the left that led to the inside of the old library.

“How many people you think are there? Fireflies, I mean,” Ellie wondered.

“Reckon it takes quite a crew to run that operation,” Joel looks at you.

You nodded at both of them idly, “Yeah, when I was here we had at least a few dozen, maybe more. I kind of kept to myself.” 

“You think there’ll be other people my age,” she asked, not letting her eyes look up towards you.

“I do.”

The three of you approached another locked gate inside the building, essentially cutting off both the library and the rest of the hall you were in from each other. Joel pulled on the handle and it creaked open, Callus and Whiskey both shuffled and whined, making you and Ellie shift on them.

“Woah, woah, woah, what is it boys,” Joel tried to calm down the horses.

Your attention got pulled away when you heard a shriek and Ellie said, “Sounds like runners.”

Joel looked back behind him then forward at you, “Stay together. I’ll go check it out.”

“Joel, no wait,” you try to argue as you dismount but he closes the gate behind him.

“Stay with her,” he tells you. “I don’t want the horses or her runnin’ off again.”

You give him a hard look that he mirrors, neither one of you wants to budge but the look in his brown eyes make you waver, finally caving into his demand. “Stay alive, you stubborn old bastard.”

His lips twitch, hints of a tense smile wishing to creep on his face. He puts his hands up on a calm gesture as he removes his backpack, removing the shotgun from it and pocketing a couple extra rounds as he stands back up. “I’ll be right back,” he says your name softly, his voice deep and rich, “I promise.”

As he walks away, you inhale a deep breath and your heart is beating. You’ve come to hate it when this happens, not that it did much. Whenever the three of you found yourselves in a tight situation with the infected, you each carried on with taking them down. You hated this, hated that he felt the need to do this on his own.

It fuckin’ sucked waiting.

Just as you were working yourself up more, you heard five consecutive shotgun blasts. Then silence. Ellie must have noticed your worry because she announced loud enough for Joel to hear, “Hey, I was thinking… I would’ve wanted to be an astronaut.”

“That a fact,” his voice rang out in the distance, echoing off the library walls.

“Yeah, can you imagine being up there all by yourself? Would’ve been cool. I’m just sayin’.”

You opened up the gate, leading Whiskey inside the library, still simmering with whatever the hell you were feeling. Ellie trotted her horse past you to another gate, this one opening with a panel and leading back outside to the courtyard on the right.

Faintly you could hear presumably Joel starting up a generator three times and then panel next to the gate lit up. You pressed the button, opening it up then went back to Whiskey, jumping up into his saddle.

Joel came back down the steps and grabbed the reins to Callus and his eyes fell on you, “Told you I’d be right back.”

“What about you? What’d you want to be,” Ellie asked him.

Joel looked away, focusing on something in the distance as you all walked out the opened gate. He scratched at his beard and admitted, “Oh… well, when I was a kid I used to want to be a… a singer.”

You raised your eyebrows and gave a small laugh, Ellie did too. “Shut up,” she said jokingly.

“I’m serious.”

“Sing something”

“Ah, no.”

“Come on, I won’t laugh,” she begged.

“I don’t think so.”

You watched as they both bickered over this, Ellie even tried to pull you into the conversation, saying your name, “Come on, tell him we won’t laugh!”

“Maybe he can treat us after a successful creation of the cure,” you compromise. Joel turns to you and ponders.

“We’ll see.”

The three of you make your way down the steps, then turning to the left, continuing your trek to the science center. Ellie gets Joel's attention, “She said she wasn’t sure what she would have done.”

“Is that so?”

You shift your weight on Whiskey, “Yeah. I mean, I like history now but back then? I didn’t really have a plan after graduating high school. I didn’t really click with anything, y’know?”

He absorbs that information and ponders. “Yeah, I get it.”

The silence took over and whatever anxiety you had was lessening yet amplifying the closer you got to the building, still wary of the fact you hadn’t seen any sign of the Fireflies aside from the abandoned look-out. Joel got back up on Callus as you approached the center of the school and together with Whiskey, jumped over another barricade.

The view in front of you was a much larger campus courtyard, with a giant fountain in the center decorated with a statue in the middle of it. Ellie was the first to notice a small group of bright orange monkeys and cooed at them as they chattered and swung around the clearing.

“That was kinda awesome,” she said as they swung away into a nearby building.

You smiled at her reaction and asked, “First time seeing a monkey?”

She nodded and repeated, “First time seeing a monkey!”

Atop the two horses, you all keep looking around searching for a sign of life but finding nothing. Leading you all down another outside corridor. Joel offers, “Maybe these guys like to keep a low profile.”

Ellie, now sounding less energetic, half-heartedly agrees.You bank right, vaguely remembering where to go when she points to a wall to the left. “Hey, look. Fireflies.” When you turned to look, you noticed the old wall tag.

“Yeah, it was to help point the way to the building we were in, in case new recruits got lost or something like that,” you tell her.

You pull into another corridor that is also blocked with a gate. To the right of the wall is a painted sign, saying ‘disconnect generator when not on duty’ in bold white letters.

Together, each of you gets off Whiskey and Callus and attempts to lift the gate to find it won’t work. The damned thing wouldn’t budge. Joel grumbles, “Probably have to find the generator.” He walks to a barricaded doorway to the right and peers around it then kneels. “It’s gotta be through here.”

“Joel, you are not going by yourself again,” you tell him.

He looks over his shoulder at you and cocks an eyebrow at you. The two of you, once again, locked in this damned game. He sizes you up with an intense stare and he already knows he’s won. You groan loudly, “If you die in there, just remember I told you so, old man.”

“Watch Ellie, you damned brat.”

He turns and crawls under the barricade, giving you a bit of a nice show of his ass before entirely disappearing. You roll your eyes to yourself as you turn back around, standing near Ellie and the two horses.

“So,” she starts.

“So?”

“What’s going on between you and Joel?”

It was so unbelievably hard to keep your face in check, to keep your internal screaming from etching your facial expression. “I don’t know what you’re talking about Ellie.”

“You both look like you want to fucking kill the other in their sleep.”

“That’s because I do.” Amongst other things.

You cross your arms in front of you, mindlessly showing your defensiveness on the topic and definitely not trying to tell the obviously fourteen-year-old who has never had the sex talk about how your body is screaming with alarms to get dicked down by the first person you see. Mentally scolding yourself for your predicament. How dare he.

“That’s just Joel,” she says. “He’s always like that.”

“He needs to learn how to work as a team or else we’re all going to end up dead, or worse.”

Gunshots cut the conversation short, the two of you ducking close to the ground, both pulling out weapons. It was difficult to tell where the shots came from because the two of you were still in a tunnel but you whisper-shouted, “Joel!”

Nothing but eerie silence responded to your call, settling in your bones. It took everything you had in you to not bolt and look for the man but both you and Ellie looking around for any sign of him. “Son of a bitch, this is exactly what I was talking about,” you groan frustrated.

Seconds ticked by that dragged into forever-long minutes. You weren’t a nervous person on missions, always trying to stay hyper-focused but truthfully, you don’t know how you’d handle the return journey with just Ellie.

Before you could work the nerve to go search through the maze of dorms, Ellie notices him before you, “Joel! Are you okay? What happened in there?”

“More infected, I’m fine,” he shouts, exiting a door from the far left, as he runs over to where you and Ellie were standing still, waiting for him.

“Here - come open the gate!”

As Joel pulls the generator to the wall to plug it in, Ellie tells him, “Holy shit you’re lucky you came out of there alive. She almost ran in after you.”

Suddenly you felt like you couldn’t breath under your coat as you gave Joel a sheepish look. “I didn’t want to have to explain to Tommy that I got his brother killed, alright? Don’t let it get to your big head, cowboy.”

Joel raised a brow at you then grunted, resuming to kickstart the generator to power the gate. It came alive kind of loudly but you resigned, only to mount your horse again choosing to ignore whatever Joel or Ellie could be thinking.

[killjoyhistoryarchive]

Mike Milligram: The Lost Killjoy

Edit: On July 21st 2020, a Mike Milligram comic by Gerard Way and Shaun Simon was officially announced. However, I’ll leave this post as it is for future reference.

—

In 2009, while My Chemical Romance fans were eagerly awaiting news on their upcoming album, Gerard Way had another surprise in store: the announcement of a new comic series called “Killjoys.”

Co-written by Shaun Simon and illustrated by Becky Cloonan, Gerard told CBR that the series would “deal with much more mature and controversial themes, such as hate crimes and homophobia, the homogenization of American culture and American life.” Unlike “The Umbrella Academy,” which was set in a fantasy world, “Killjoys” was set in modern-day America.

But what nobody realized was that even after an album, two music videos, and a six-issue comic series, Gerard’s original conception would never see the light of day.

In 2008, Gerard Way and Shaun Simon developed the Killjoys universe in a frenzy of inspiration. Gerard’s original sketch features Mike Milligram on the left–named after Gerard’s brother Mikey Way–with a host of other characters that accompanied Mike on his journey. The comic was announced a year later at San Diego Comic Con, with a release planned in 2010.

With My Chemical Romance wrapping up their fourth album, Gerard and Shaun were ready to start writing. Becky Cloonan drew concept art for Mike Milligram, as well as promotional artwork that they planned to use at the Comic Con announcement. However, the Mike Milligram art was scrapped and replaced with a simple image of the Killjoy spider–a move that could later be seen as prophetic.

In 2009, “Killjoys” was an entirely different concept. There was no Party Poison, no Dr. Death Defying, no Battery City, no girl with special powers. The original comic involved a surreal road trip through America that reunited offbeat characters and confronted harsh realities along the way. In 2013, Shaun Simon offered this description in the introduction to the special hardcover edition of the comics:

The old version of the story focused on Mike Milligram, a late-twenty-something living in a desert trailer park and working a crappy job at a supermarket. Mike’s teenage years were a blur. He couldn’t tell if the things he remembered had actually happened or not. Part of him believed he was part of a gang called the Killjoys who fought fictional things in the real world. The other part of him believed it was all just a dream. Music was the only thing that kept Mike going, so when the music was erased from his Ramones tape, it sent him over the edge. He went out and got his old teenage gang, who were now living normal lives, back together because, yes, it was all real. Other members of his gang included Ani-Max, now a high school history teacher; Code Blue, a rabble-rouser who was a working girl in Vegas; Monster, a new young member they met on the road; and Kyle 100%, who was a B-list actor now. They all had strange powers based on objects. Halloween masks and costume accessories, puffy jackets, toy ray guns. It was a story about a group of old friends getting together and discovering what America really was. Reaching deep inside its pretty facade and pulling out the ugly guts. (It was semiautobiographical. I toured with Gerard and his band for a couple of years before realizing I needed to find my own path.) The gang would have found out that another former gang had now become the largest health care corporation in the country and were hell bent on making the world a safe and clean place by removing all that was dirty, like the Ramones. It would have been a great story, and I’m sure parts will end up in Gerard’s and my’s future work.

Of course, we all know what happened after that announcement. After Gerard took a fateful week-long trip to the desert, MCR decided to scrap “Conventional Weapons” and fueled their energy into writing “Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys.” But even as Gerard delved into this new post-apocalyptic version of the Killjoy universe, the comics remained the same. As late as 2011, Gerard claimed in an interview with Artrocker that the comics hadn’t changed at all:

No, none of the characters, even our characters, are in it. It is a completely separate thing, even almost a separate setting. It shares all the ideals behind the record and the theories and the commentary but it is nothing like the videos you have seen. I think the car is probably the only thing that’s the same!

But as the band took on more responsibilities–filming music videos, promoting the album, going on tour–the comics kept getting pushed back. First the release planned for 2010; then it was pushed back to 2011. And while the era had kicked off without a hitch, MCR eventually hit one of the first of many roadblocks: they didn’t have enough money to film the third video. So as Shaun Simon told CBR, the original story featuring Mike Milligram was scrapped, and replaced with the story of the girl and the Ultra Vs:

[A]fter the record, Gerard had built this whole world around the Killjoys. When it came time for the comic, Gerard called me up and said, “We ran out of money. We wanted to make the third video, but we don’t have the money. So do you want to make the idea for that video into a comic?” We started talking about ideas, and we had so many that it turned into this whole series.

In an interview with Paste (2013), Gerard went into more detail about the process:

The deal is that I had written three videos (“Na Na Na,” “Sing,” and “The Only Hope For Me Is You”), and the third video had never gotten made. By the time we had completed the second video, we just ran out of budget money. At the time, somebody was managing us and not keeping an eye on this stuff. Long story short, there was no budget. So I wrote a video, and of course it ends up being the most expensive one, as the last part would usually be. But we couldn’t make it! Killjoys started its life as a very different comic. It was heavily-rooted in nineties Vertigo post-modernism. There’s a lot of very cool, abstract ideas in it; I wouldn’t even call it a superhero book. That (comic) was a visual and thematic inspiration on what would become the album Danger Days. It was pretty loose, though. This was going to be my interpretation of the story, so there’s way more science fiction involved. And what I need to say to the world needed to be a little more direct, so I boiled it down to something that’s still very smart and challenging, but I thought was definitely easier to understand through song or visual. Then (Killjoys artist) Becky Cloonan drew a 7-inch for “The Only Hope For Me Is You,” which was going to be the last video single. I realized I was out of budget, so I said ‘just make this the girl from the first and second video at 15. And have her shave her head or chop her hair off like in The Legend of Billie Jean, because that’s how the video was supposed to start.’ So (Cloonan) sends this drawing over and I’m on tour with Blink 182 in a hotel on an off day. I get this drawing and I’m so immediately blown away by it. I call Shaun, my co-writer and co-creator, and I say ‘open your email, I’m going to send you something.’ I ask him ‘how does this image make you feel?’ We talked for two hours. By the end of the conversation we both realized that that image was the comic, and the third video was basically the comic. So we figured how we were going to make this interesting and exciting for six issues and complete the story. And that was the final direction. It was pretty obvious to us.

In a way, Mike Milligram’s spirit lived on, as fans noticed the similarities between Mike Milligram and Party Poison. But it’s inaccurate to say that Mike Milligram became Party Poison, though “Party Poison’s real name is Mike Milligram” became a persistent rumor in the fandom. Mike’s story was not Poison’s; he wasn’t a post-apocalyptic rebel, but a teenager searching for his identity in modern America.

Will Mike Milligram’s story ever be told? At this point, it’s not likely. But his tale offers a glimpse into the creative minds of Gerard Way and Shaun Simon, and makes us ponder the fact that with a few changes–the comics being released earlier, for instance, or MCR having the money to fund the third video–the comics could have been entirely different.

[waywardwrestlewritingwaif]

Whisky Secrets (sequel)

Here's something different. Before I ever thought about posting fanfic here, I used to write things inspired by fanfic I found by some of the incredible writers I found on tumblr. I've never posted any of them but I've really felt like writing something for Aleister Black/ Tommy End lately.

So I reached out to one of my original favourites on this site, @ghostofviperwrites and asked her if she'd mind if I published this sequel I wrote to her story Whisky Secrets. She gave me the ok (for which I thank her very much).

You absolutely have to read her piece first or this won't make any sense. It picks up literally at the point where hers leaves off and the entire premise is based on what she wrote. I think this goes in a very different direction than what she had in mind, though.

Since this is an old story, some of the characters are very different than they are now. It was set at around the time I wrote it. Based on events in the story, it's pretty clear when that was.

It's a bit dated but I hope you enjoy.

Pairing: Aleister Black x OFC (hints of Roman Reigns x OFC)

Word count: 7,031

Content advisory: graphic sexual content, language, incidental roughness that some might find stressful

You rested on the sofa for too long, knowing that you had to get to work, that you were already behind on an assignment that was due that afternoon. As much as you desperately wanted to cling to the scent and the feeling of him being there with you and the idea that he might someday want to be there with you for longer, you knew that you were only wasting time by indulging in a fantasy. Once again, you reminded yourself, he saw you as a friend, a landing pad after he was finished his adventures. And so you dragged yourself to the computer and tried to focus.

It was a fluff piece you’d been hired to write: places for new residents of Orlando to meet people. You’d accepted it because the pay was good and it had seemed easy. But what the hell did you know about meeting people? You’d barely met anyone and the only ones that you’d call friends were the ones you met when you’d done an in-depth profile on the WWE and their development territory NXT. Of those, only Aleister had remained close and even then, you couldn’t say that the two of you had ever properly opened up to each other. Nevertheless, you’d stayed in touch with a number of them, occasionally meeting for coffee or drinks. None of this was in any way useful when it came to recommending locations to connect with strangers.

You’d tried to start the article the day before but now when you opened the file, you discovered that you’d only come up with a half a dozen corny titles and one word of text:

When?

The word was too painfully appropriate.

When were you going to run out of luck and be unable to find further work as a journalist?

When were you going to admit that what kept you here, rather than moving to another state and pursuing more secure work, was the fact that you were in love with a man who was only interested in your capacity as a friend and caregiver?

When was your hopeless love going to break you beyond repair?

Annoyed with yourself, you deleted the word and tried to start again. You could meet people at the gym classes that were ubiquitous in this city. You could meet people at get-togethers for shared hobbies like hiking or pottery or basically anything. No one had to meet people by getting thrown into their orbit and being unable to extricate themselves.

About half an hour into your resentful hammering on the keyboard, you were startled by your doorbell. For one sweet instant, you imagined that it was Aleister dropping by to pass some time with you. Then you realized that he never came to you without an invitation unless it was dead drunk in the middle of the night. Even when you invited him, it was only every fourth or fifth time that you asked that he agreed to come over and watch a movie or go for a walk in the nearby park. There was no way it was him at your door at eleven o’clock in the morning.

In fact, the person at your door was Bayley, chipper and warm as always, returning the spare laptop you’d lent her a few weeks before.

“Thank you so much,” she beamed, thrusting the computer into your hands. “You are a lifesaver. I’d have lost my goddamn mind if I hadn’t had this while mine was in the shop.”

“It was nothing,” you insist, smiling at her unconstrained warmth even though you didn’t feel very positive about your life at that moment. “Do you want to come in for a minute?”

She nodded cheerily and stepped across the foyer. You never really knew how you fit in with the women of WWE, even though you’d spoken to many of them in depth. Bayley stood out because she was determined to be your friend despite your introvert’s reluctance. And, indeed, she was irresistible. Much like her in-ring character, she cast sunshine wherever she went and her glow was contagious, even in your darkest and lowest moments.

You motioned her into the kitchen, offering her a choice of lemonade, iced tea or water. Her eyes immediately fell on the empty whiskey bottle you’d left on the counter, her expression growing more serious as she focused on it.

“Getting started early?” she cajoled.

“A friend left that here,” you replied guiltily.

She narrowed her dark eyes as she looked at you. Sweet and optimistic as she was, Bayley was not naïve. She knew exactly what friend had left the bottle behind and she knew how you felt about him.

“I’ll have a glass of lemonade,” she said, the smile slowly returning to her face.

You joined her and the two of you jokingly touched glasses before drinking.

“So, a few of us are getting together tonight,” she said hesitantly. “I thought you might like to join us.”

Your first instinct was to ask if Aleister would be there, but you thought better of it. Instead, you responded, “Well, I have an article I need to finish.”

Of course, your article was due by the end of the afternoon, which meant that your evening was free regardless, but part of you wanted to be at home in case Aleister came staggering over again.

Bayley’s jaw set in a determined expression you’d only seen from her in the ring. “We’re having a party for Roman, to celebrate him going into remission.”

Well now you felt like a bit of a bitch for making excuses and didn’t know what to say.

“It won’t just be wrestlers there. Some other journalists are even coming. And I know that it would mean a lot to him if you were there.”

When you’d done your article on the WWE, you’d interviewed Roman Reigns and he’d been incredibly generous with his time. He’d even contacted you after your interviews to confirm that you had all the detail you needed. He was the face of the company and had done everything possible to make sure that the company had provided what you required. He’d clearly wanted to make sure they’d left a good impression and you couldn’t help but be impressed by his PR skills. Although you knew it wasn’t true that it “would mean a lot to him”, you were touched by the idea that he remembered you and might like you to be there to celebrate his great news. At the same time… you needed to be there for Aleister.

“Look,” Bayley insisted, “I’m going to text you the details for the bar where we’ll be. It’s not a big deal, just a bunch of us getting together to be happy for our friend.”

There was no way that you could refuse that, so you shyly thanked her as she gulped the rest of her lemonade and made for the door.

“I’m serious,” she said as she departed. “You work so damn hard you deserve a night off. Finish what you’re doing and come have fun with us.”

As soon as she’d left, you once again sat down at your computer. Before you could return your attention to your work, however, you couldn’t resist checking Instagram.

Someone had tagged Aleister in a photo on Instagram.

Yes, you were that pathetic that you always checked.

With trepidation, you clicked the link to look at what was there. As it too often did, the notification came from an airbrushed-looking woman, her collagen-enhanced lips pressed against his. She looked arrogant and proud, while he looked smug and inebriated.

“Guess who I got to hang with last night?” the caption gloated.

You knew damn well what “hang” was a euphemism for. He never cared that the Barbie dolls he hooked up with advertised their conquest on social media. He was single and hot. Why should he care if people knew that he always scored with the sort of women other men lusted after? Why should he care that it ripped your heart to shreds every time you saw him with another woman so unlike you in every way?

The woman had posted a few other photos of the two of them together, embracing. Every part of her magazine-ready body was on display, save those parts that would have gotten her in trouble. Her artificially perfect breasts were spilling out of a tiny tube top while her endless legs were shown in their full glory between the edge of a skirt that likely required her to trim her pubic hair and the sky high heels that raised her enough to press her lips to his without having to stretch herself awkwardly. She was nothing like you, with your unkempt hair and loose, bohemian dresses, your comfortable ballet flats and blandly natural face. She had all the glamour that you lacked and he ate it up.

The images of the two of them cut into you like a laser and, for once, all you desired was to break free from the pain of feeling. A few minutes later, when Bayley sent the text she’d promised with the details of where you could find the party tonight, you immediately responded.

“I’ll be there. I promise.”

To hell with Aleister and the designer women he adored, you told yourself as you returned to your article with a vengeance. Tonight you were going to do whatever it took to break the spell he had cast over you.

*

It was just after nine when you found yourself teetering to the entrance of the bar where the party was taking place. It was marked only by a subtle sign, no words, just a stylized anchor, and it was hidden away on a tiny street that was hardly more than an alley. In your fit of pique, you’d finished your article two hours before your deadline and then, having examined the options in your closet and found them wanting, headed out and spent entirely too much money on a new dress that clung perfectly to your breasts before flaring out to highlight the movements of your body, while covering just the bare minimum to maintain decency. You’d also picked up a stylish pair of ankle boots with heels higher than you were used to and that posed a legitimate threat as you made your way down the roughly paved road to the speakeasy-style bar.

A little further down the alley, you see a couple leaning against a car, taking turns swigging from a liquor bottle. The woman is one of those glamorous animals that makes you so insecure, laughing in drunken delight in a way that only confident people can. In one quick movement the man spins her around and bends her over the hood of the car. He immediately takes out his cock, stroking it a couple of times before he thrusts into her, one hand on her back while the other holds the bottle that he continues drinking from. And it’s a moment before you realize that it’s Aleister, fucking away at a woman whose name he won’t remember in a few hours.

The sight makes you want to curl up and die, makes you want to say that you’ve made a mistake and run along home so you can bawl your eyes out while you wait for his inevitable drunken arrival. But, if nothing else, the damage that you’ve done to your credit card in order to make yourself look just a bit more sexy and edgy than usual, as well as the glasses of wine you had already consumed to fortify your courage, push you forward. This is a test. In order to pass, you need to be able to ignore the man whose indifference is killing you and enter the world of others, where someone who wasn’t up to the standards of the rarified model girls might be willing to give you a second look.

Aleister doesn’t even glance up as you enter the bar a few feet away from him, can’t feel the dark weight of your eyes on him or the force with which you tear them away as you step through the door.

As soon as you do, you are once again frozen with the idea that you’ve made a mistake. When Bayley characterized this as a “get-together”, you’d assumed it meant a group of people spread out around a few tables chatting away and toasting Roman’s health. Instead, what greets you is a basement club full of people with a dance floor alive with writhing bodies. You recognize a few journalists but for the most part, the space is taken up with every WWE and NXT star you’ve ever heard of. It’s a convention of beautiful people and you can’t help but feel dowdy even in your overpriced finery.

You slowly descend the stairs, fully intending to look around, say hello to a few familiar faces and then bolt for the exit, but you’re immediately greeted by a familiar voice that fairly shrieks. “Oh my god woman, just look at you!”

It’s Sasha Banks, standing at the edge of the stairs with Bayley, who gives you an exaggerated round of applause.

“Miranda, you look amazing,” Sasha continues breathlessly. “Seriously, you’re putting everyone to shame.”

You don’t feel like you’re putting anyone to shame, least of all Sasha in her body suit that hugs every curve of her perfect little hourglass, but you blush at the compliment.

“Come on,” Bayley gushes, “we need shots to celebrate your hotness!”

She pulls both of you through the crowd to the bar and somehow is able to get the bartender’s attention almost immediately, ordering two rounds of tequila shots because, she tells you and Sasha, there’s no point in getting just one round when you know you’re going back for seconds. The three of you toast and toss down the shots and then immediately do so again and you have to admit that you’re feeling the warm glow already. Sasha, apparently feeling something herself, wraps her arms around you and once again reassures you that you are devastatingly beautiful.

Another shot is thrust into your hand, this time by Dash Wilder, who’s arrived with his Revival partner Scott Dawson. Wilder has always been attractive to you, so you give him as radiant a smile as you can manage and you swear he blushes a little just before he downs his shot. Dawson is hugging Sasha and Bayley close to him, allowing Dash to edge a little closer to you and you’re feeling a little high on yourself when another voice cuts through your circle.

“Miranda? Holy fuck I can’t believe you’re here!”

Roman Reigns pushes right through the bodies close to the bar and grabs you firmly by the shoulders, his eyes gradually focusing on yours. He’s grinning with an intensity that clearly comes from his being a little past feeling no pain but it doesn’t hamper the thrill it gives you when he wraps his arms around you and nearly crushes you in a hug.

“I mean, shit, I don’t think I’ve even talked to you since you did that interview,” he pouts. “Thank you so much for coming.”

You smile as another shot is pushed into your hand, biting your lip self-consciously. You down about half the shot before Roman grabs it from you and finishes it, breaking up with laughter. He signals the bartender for another round, keeping an arm around your back until the tray of shots arrives. You’re all toasting each other and you wonder why you ever questioned yourself for coming here because this is exactly what you needed.

“Come dance with me,” Roman chuckles, grabbing your wrist and pulling you towards the dance floor. He’s clearly floating on a sea of drunken bliss, goofing around and happy to have someone to have fun with, someone he didn’t expect to be there. Even if you wanted to resist his offer, you couldn’t because, while he isn’t doing anything that might hurt you, his grip is strong enough and the rest of him powerful enough to compel you forward.

The two of you deliberately dance like complete nerds in high school, awkward movements and ironic posturing until you’re both laughing so hard you can barely stand. It’s then that you realize that you’ve become the focus of some attention; Roman goddamn Reigns, the face of the company, the locker room leader, the man who everyone has come to celebrate, is dancing with you. Most of the people here have no idea who you are but because you’re with Roman, you are somebody. Basking in the subtle attention and envy, you close your eyes and allow yourself to get lost in the music, swaying to the beat until you feel a large pair of hands on your hips.

You open your eyes to see Roman pulling you closer to him with a devilish grin before spinning you around and pulling your back against his massive chest. You continue to move but at a slower pace, your movements limited by how close he’s holding you and the sensual way in which his body moves against yours. Keeping one arm loosely around you, he lets his other hand fall against your thigh, lightly playing with the hem of your dress. It makes you gasp.

“You never responded to any of my texts,” he murmurs gruffly in your ear.

You remember at least half a dozen messages asking if he could clarify anything or if you needed any additional material for your article. You hadn’t needed anything else but you suddenly feel terribly rude for not answering.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “you were very professional and I should have at least told you that I had what I needed.”

His voice drops even lower as he speaks. “I didn’t mean to be professional about them. And I was hoping that you didn’t have everything you needed.”

He pulls you up and firmly against him and for the first time you can feel his hardening cock through his pants. You can’t help but thrust your hips into him, barely able to process what’s happening to you. The two of you are still ostensibly dancing, although it’s more like a rhythmic grinding to the music as he reaches down and pulls the hem of your dress up, rubbing your thigh and then your ass as he presses his lips into your neck. His hands are everywhere on you and you’re aware that your entire lower body is basically on display for anyone who cares to look but you don’t care because it feels like you’ve won the lottery. You moan at the feeling of his growing excitement against your flesh, both his large hands grazing up the front of your thighs and for a moment you think that you’re ready to beg him to take you right there when you’re violently spun away from your dance partner, a bruising grip on your arm.

It’s Aleister, eyes incandescent with rage as he tells Roman, “I need to speak to her for a minute.”

Roman looks confused and tries to speak to you but Aleister drags you away and a gaggle of women immediately descend on Roman, desperate to take your place.

Aleister flings you against the wall, glaring at you with an intensity that you’ve never seen outside the ring.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growls.

“I was dancing before you interfered,” you snap back at him, rubbing your arm.

“Dancing?” he repeats with derision. “That’s what you call that?”

“I was having fun.”

“What the hell are you wearing?”

For the first time since you saw him with his woman of choice outside, you feel ridiculous, like a girl trying to look glamorous by donning her mother’s clothes.

“I wanted something a little different.”

“A little?” he hisses back. “Do you realize what you look like? You’re all tarted up and letting some guy grab at you and get you half naked in front of a bar full of people.”

“What I look like?”

“Everyone could see practically your whole goddamned body. They could see what you were letting him do to you.”

“You mean to say I look like a whore.”

Aleister crosses his arms and glances away, refusing to confirm what you’ve said.

“So what, Aleister? So what if I’m letting a man touch me and show me that he wants me? Who cares who else sees? Maybe that’s what I want!”

“Are you so stupid that you think he wants you for anything other than a one night stand?”

The accusation stabs at your heart and your confidence but you’re determined not to let him see that.

“Again, so what? Maybe I’m happy to have this big, gorgeous man want me. Maybe I’m fine bringing him back to my place for a few hours of fun because at least it means someone is thinking of me as a sexual being for a change.” You pause, knowing the danger of what you’re about to say but unable to stop yourself. “Maybe I’d be fine if he just took me outside and fucked me over the hood of a car.”

For a second, you think that Aleister is going to strangle you. The look on his face is like the moment before the sky erupts in thunder and lightning. Truthfully, you expect that he’ll turn on his heel and walk away from you and never come back, and perhaps that’s what you need him to do so that you can get over him.

Instead, he grabs you, pinning you to the side of his body and pulling you towards the door. His movements make you stumble, and the more you try to resist him, the more ungainly you look.

“She’s dead drunk,” you hear him assure a few people, “I’m going to make sure she gets home.”

And while it’s true that you are drunk, you’re not nearly as drunk as he’s making you out to be. The second he has you outside, you try to twist away from him and go back, only for him to wind you closer, pulling you off balance so that you look even more inebriated.

You hear him whisper to Seth Rollins, who’s observing the spectacle through the corner of his eyes. “Look, tell Roman that she’s falling down drunk and I just had to get her home. No disrespect meant.”

Seth has a confused expression on his face but nods and tells him, “Sure thing.”

Realizing what Aleister is doing, you once again try to rush past him, but he blocks you, gripping your arm and pulling you after him so that you really do appear pathetically unable to take care of yourself.

“Why the fuck are you doing this to me?” you shout at him, figuring that there’s no reason to worry about who might hear you, there being no further you can sink in their estimation. “Why can’t you just let me enjoy myself?”

“Jesus, Miranda, you’re loaded. You can barely stand up.” He emphasizes this by jerking your arm forward, which almost causes you to keel over onto your face. “You’re just embarrassing yourself.”

“No,” you insist, pulling yourself to a halt. “I knew what I was doing. I knew what I wanted. Sure I’m a bit tipsy but-“

“You don’t want that,” Alesiter snaps, threading his arm through yours and continuing down the street. “You don’t just want to whore yourself out for a night because you think it might help your self-esteem.”

“You don’t get to decide what I want, Aleister.” You’re crushed against his side and he’s moving so quickly that your feet only graze the ground every third or fourth step. “Let me go. I’m sick of playing the surrogate mother for someone who’s incapable of seeing me as a real woman. I want to go back there. I want to have someone make a show of wanting me. I want to get fucked so hard I can’t walk tomorrow.”

Aleister shakes his head like a parent frustrated with a misbehaving child. “Stop it. You’re being ridiculous.”

“So let me be ridiculous!” you yell back, trying unsuccessfully to extricate yourself from his grip. “What the hell is it to you? Are you worried that for once I’m not going to be there when you need a place to collapse at four in the morning?”

The two of you reach the corner where the alley meets the street and he swings you to face him, glowering at you with a terrifying expression, gripping your biceps so hard you know you’ll be bruised in the morning. He says nothing but stares at you until he whips his arm out and hails a taxi seemingly out of nowhere.

He launches you, there’s no other word for it, into the back seat of the car and snarls your address to the driver as your tears start to fall. The cabbie is noticeably uncomfortable with your quiet whimpering and seems confused by the fact that Aleister does nothing to comfort or engage you. He sits with his arms folded, scowling, until you arrive at your building. Reflexively, you reach for your purse only to have Aleister swat your hand away and pay the driver himself. You try to keep pace as he yanks you towards the door, but stumble because of your unsure footing in these strange heels and because your vision is glazed by the tears you’re fighting to hold in.

When Aleister pins you against the door and rummages through your purse to find your keys, it somehow feels more invasive than Roman gripping your ass for an entire bar full of people to see. You feel, for a moment, that he is looking at you with tenderness. But when the door opens, he simply guides you through it. As you hear it click shut, the last of your strength, physical and emotional, gives out and you drop to your knees, finally allowing the tears to fall. It’s a full-on ugly cry, punctuated by guttural, anguished sounds you’d never allow anyone else to hear. Despite everything, you desperately want to hear the door open again behind you and to hear him say that he’s realized he loves you.

But no, in the end, he’s just found it gross that the woman he sees as his caregiver might have another side. He found you pathetic in your overpriced dress and shoes. He knew that you were desperately trying to act like something you could never be: like someone who could compete with the perfected Instagram beauties he fucks every night. You could never be that. He knew that you were just a sad little woman decked out in a gaudy outfit. You’d never be that sexy, desirable person who stopped men dead in their tracks, no matter what your dance with Roman had temporarily led you to believe.

You’re on your knees for what seems like hours, choking on tears and snot and trying to restrain yourself from howling. Just as the sound overpowers you and a low wail escapes your lips, you’re startled by a pair of arms, familiar, tattooed arms wrapping around your waist from behind.

“Shh. There’s no need for any of that,” he grunts into your hair.

And while you’re shocked and thrilled that he actually stayed behind to make sure that you were ok, it’s also even more humiliating that he’s seen you fall apart so spectacularly. Your body feels limp with defeat and unable to react at all as he gathers you up and carries you into your bedroom, setting you gently on the edge of the bed. He rests his hand on yours for a moment and you’re able to stem the flow of tears until he stands up and heads back towards the door. This time, you’re determined to hold in the worst of your misery until you’re sure he’s gone, even though you can’t stop the tears from running down your face.

But after a few minutes of straining to hear the door close, you see Aleister return, a damp washcloth in hand, and he sits once again beside you on the edge of the bed. He presses the cloth, cool and soothing, against your cheeks and then holds your chin as he delicately wipes it across your face. It takes you some minutes to realize that he’s removing your smeared makeup, cleaning you off so that you look good as new, so that you look more like the plain girl who lets him into her home in the middle of the night, his touch filled with a tenderness that you never imagined him capable of. When he’s satisfied with his work, he tosses the cloth aside and wraps an arm around you, pulling you close against him. The sweetness of his friendly gesture makes you want to cry all over again but you choke it back, knowing that you’ll have plenty of time for that when he’s gone.

“Can I stay here tonight?” he whispers, the sound of his voice making you feel weak.

You nod and roughly pull back from him, unsure of your ability to stop yourself from throwing yourself at him and begging him to wreck you. You fumble with the zipper of your boots until Aleister slides off the bed and onto his knees and removes it for you. He glides his hand along your calf, up to your thigh and then moves to your other boot. As he slides it off, he presses his head against the side of your knee, giving the skin a light kiss before rocking back on his haunches. You know he’s being gentle with you because he feels sorry for you. He finds you pitiful, which is even worse than finding you asexual.

The feelings are too much for you to take and all you can think of is that you want to get into bed where you’ll be safe and where you can sleep off the nightmare your evening out has become. You clumsily shed your dress, stockings, bra and panties without thinking much of the fact that you have an audience. Why should it bother him seeing you naked, after all? Normally, you put on some nightclothes but you don’t even have the strength to bother. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see that Aleister has turned his head towards the door. He’s embarrassed for you, the way you would be if a parent or sibling was undressing around you.

You crawl under the covers with a grumbled “good night” and immediately start to feel yourself drift off. You’re jolted back to wakefulness when Aleister climbs in beside you. In all the time you’ve known him, as many nights as he’s come and collapsed on your sofa, you don’t think he’s ever seen your bedroom. Now, having seen it, he’s apparently happy not to leave it, indulging in the comfort of your bed without even asking permission. It makes you a little self-conscious that you’re nude but it’s hardly the most humiliating thing to happen to you tonight, so you let yourself ignore it. If you can just fall asleep, this night will be over and you can begin the process of trying to forget it.

It’s only a matter of seconds, though, until you feel his body pressed against yours from behind, one hand coming to rest flat on your stomach and pushing you back against him so that you are acutely aware that you are not the only person naked in the bed. The hand on your stomach flutters downward until his fingers are moving lightly over your pussy, like he’s plucking the strings of a harp. His other arm wraps around your shoulders and keeps you flush against him, close enough that you can’t mistake the feeling of his erection against your back.

He presses his lips and tongue against your neck, making you whimper as you try to keep your heart rate stable. Your little noises seem to motivate him further, his touch becoming more insistent and one of his legs snaking over yours, pulling it back to give his hand greater access.

“Such a little fool,” he murmurs, his fingers stroking insistently along your fleshy folds. “Thinking I don’t see you as a sexual being.”

He sinks his teeth into your shoulder, making you cry out- more from the shock than the pain. His mouth continues to move around your neck and shoulders, nipping and sucking on the skin there, his grip on you tightening until it’s nearly painful.

“What are you doing?” you manage to ask.

“Leaving marks,” he says matter-of-factly.

You’re at a loss for what to say, but are saved from having to answer as he pushes two fingers inside you, his thumb rubbing slow circles over your clit. You’re embarrassed that he must have felt how wet you were just from being in his presence but he says nothing, quickening his pace and giving satisfied little growls when his touch elicits gasps and cries of pleasure from you.

It’s pity, you remind yourself; what he’s doing to you, he’s doing it because he feels sorry for you and because he’s drunk and horny despite his encounter earlier in the evening. But the thought gets whisked away as he brings you closer and closer to what you’ve desperately needed from him for so long. You let out a little shriek when he removes his hand, unable to believe he’s so cruel as to bring you to the precipice and then deny you. But he simply flips you onto your back before pressing his fingers inside you once more, watching your reactions to be sure he’s hitting just the right spot before burying his face between your legs. His tongue, lips and fingers work together like an orchestra. Your knuckles are white from the force of clenching on the sheets and you’re biting down so hard on your lip to muffle the sounds you’re making that you’re worried your teeth will end up permanently embedded. He unexpectedly raises his head and stills the movement of his hand inside you and the shock is almost enough to make you start crying again. You look down at him, his eyes sparkling in the low light with an expression you can’t read.

“Why won’t you let me hear you?”

Because you don’t want him to know how good his merciful little gesture is making you feel. Because you don’t want to admit to yourself that it’s better than you’d imagined. Truthfully, whenever you’ve thought about the mechanics of sex with Aleister, you imagined that it would be fast and rough and hedonistic, much like his other sexual encounters seem to be. But he’s chosen this moment to take his time, to focus on his partner, rather than go for a quick, dirty fuck in a darkened corner.

You don’t tell him any of this, instead croaking out, “I’m shy.”

He raises himself up and over your body with the effortless grace of a serpent, pressing his head close to yours and kissing along your jawline.

“What do I have to do to make you not be shy?”

“I don’t know… I just… am.” You wriggle a little under him, turning your face away when he looks directly into your eyes.

He cups your face in one hand and runs the other, still wet with your juices, over your breast, teasing the nipple and making you shudder involuntarily.

“Am I moving too fast?”

You shake your head, not quite trusting your voice.

“Is there something that you’d enjoy more? Something you want me to do for you?”

You give him another little shake of the head.

“You don’t have to be shy with me. Whatever you want, I want you to tell me so I can give it to you. Anything.”

For the first time, he kisses you on the lips, his tongue, that still tastes of you, slides against yours and the hand at the side of your face slides to hold your neck, cradling your head so that you don’t have to tense any muscles to stay in that position. Your body has nothing it needs to do but experience the sensations he’s creating. Of course, you still answer his kiss, hungrily flashing your tongue against his, reveling in the light scrape of his lip ring against your lips. His hand glides back down between your legs, and even the proximity is enough to draw a couple of little mewls of pleasure. You feel him smile a little against your lips at the noises and he pulls away from the kiss.

“Am I making you feel good?”

You nod as he starts to work his fingers around your entrance once again.

“Do you want my mouth down there again?”

You nod even more vigorously than the first time but he shakes his head.

“Tell me. Say it out loud.”

You open your mouth to do so and he immediately thrusts his long fingers into your g-spot and your clit at once, making you yelp in pleasure. It’s almost enough to make you cum on its own but he eases the pressure before you reach that peak.

“Yes?” he asks again.

“Yes, fuck, yes!”

“Then let me hear you. Please.”

He returns his attention to your core and has you making all manner of unholy noises in short order. He expertly teases you and then holds back, so many times that when he does finally take you over the edge, you feel like you might pass out from the intensity of it. Your gasps for breath sound cavernous in the quiet room.

He keeps the palm of his hand firmly against you as he leans forward and presses his lips into your neck, letting out a satisfied purr every time an aftershock rolls through your body.

When he’s satisfied that you’ve fully come down, he raises himself up on his arms, giving just the hint of a smile when you grab onto his biceps to steady yourself.

He’s so rigid that he doesn’t even need a hand to guide himself into you. He simply presses forward in one slow but sure moment, his eyes closed as if it’s a kind of religious experience, not opening them until he’s fully seated inside you. It’s been long enough since you’ve been with anyone that the feeling of being stretched draws a little whimper from your throat. He remains still, his eyes open and bearing down on you with a delirious kind of excitement, aching prick twitching inside you, desperate to proceed but waiting for a signal that he can.

And it’s at that moment that you allow yourself to think that this isn’t pity or a drunken mistake, that he’s as hungry for you as you have been for him and that what’s happened tonight has just served to connect a circuit. The fiercely possessive look in his eyes as he watches you, the fury when he thought someone else was claiming you, the need to mark you to make you his, the flush of pure lust on his face and chest… it is just a little frightening, something you suspected was in him but never that it was focused on you. But you’ve always known you could handle his darkness if he let you in. So you thrust your hips a little and wrap your legs loosely around his waist to show him that he can continue. Just as he starts to move, he cups your face and presses his mouth to your ear.

“You deserve so much better.”

“Stop trying to make those decisions for me,” you moan, feeling your insides flutter with his movements.

“I’ve never felt anything like that jealousy.” He’s staring into your eyes as he confesses. He lifts one of your legs over his shoulder pressing deeper inside you and gasping at the feeling. “Knowing that everyone could see how sexy and beautiful you are… And I’m an idiot for waiting for that to happen before I did anything, I just…”

He grimaces and slows his pace a little, obviously trying to prolong the sensation.

“You mean it?” You have to ask because you still can’t quite believe that this has been on his mind for all this time when he’s shown no sign of it to you.

“God yes,” he answers through gritted teeth, once again allowing himself to move faster and more urgently.

You can’t completely banish your fears that he’s going to regret this in the morning and just shut you out again but every second with him is pushing them further away. You lace your fingers through his hair, nipping at the shell of his ear as he lets out his own stream of desperate, lusty noises, running your nails gently down his back as he approaches his crescendo.

His head drops to your chest and he cries out as he releases inside you.

“Fuck I love you, fuck I love you, fuck I love you.” He repeats it like a mantra that brings him back down from his high, saying it a final time as he looks into your eyes.

Slowly, he rolls onto his side, gathering you close to him like he thinks an errant breeze might carry you away.

“I have…” he begins quietly, “… there’s a lot that goes on in my head… Bad things, I guess. I thought you’d run away. Or that I’d pull you down with me. I still don’t know that won’t happen.”

He looks so vulnerable that it makes your heart hurt but at the same time you have to stifle a smile.

“Well I’d rather you let me try to deal with it. I’m a lot tougher than you give me credit for being.”

His expression grows a little guilty and he nods. He wraps his arms tighter around you and you do the same until the two of you are lying in your bed, wound around each other.