#i wrote this while stoned

[karvroom]

BLACK MEMORIES

Bakugo x reader

⟢ In which you’re left to reflect on the negative memories of your past relationship with the blonde who stole your heart (and won’t give it back).

- based off the song ‘Black Memories’ by the Growlers

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You laid sprawled across your mattress in your dorm room. You melted into the multitude blankets covering your body, imagining the warmth of being cradled by your mother. The indescribable feeling of emptiness occupied your soul. You had tried everything in the past week to make the feeling go away; listening to music, hanging out with your friends, reading, even going as far as buying a coloring book. By no means, it was all hopeless. You were a mess.

Your room represented the state of mind you were currently in. Clothes littered throughout the carpeted flooring, homework papers left scattered across your desk, your dead laptop that remained open. Your curtains hadn’t been opened during the past three days. Your room was a cave. You chose to lock yourself away from the outside world and it was all over a failed relationship.

No matter what, you couldn’t get him out of your head. The hot-headed, arrogant, self-loathing excuse of a man.

You and Bakugo had been together for just about a year prior to your break up as of last week. You recounted the fond memories you had of the beginning of the relationship. The blonde had a soft spot for you to say the least. You were the only person he willingly talked to—even before you started dating. Bakugo told you it was because “you were the most tolerable”, but you begged to differ when you caught him staring at you in math class on numerous occasions.

Bakugo used to always find a way to make time for you in his overwhelming schedule. He may have been a busy guy, but nothing stopped him from seeing your pretty face in between his workouts and study time. You appreciated every second spent with him, loving him as much as you possibly could.

All that ran through your head was the blissful moments you had with Bakugo. You reminisced the good times. The high of sneaking around the dorm building together after hours creeping back into your depressive mind. The way Bakugo would always have his hands on you in some way. His arm slung over your shoulders as you laid your head against his shoulder. His thumb would glide over the skin of your arm, making you feel at ease. You loved how touchy he was. You missed it. Now all you could do was hold yourself and try to mimic the way he made you feel.

To everyone’s surprise, it was you who broke up with him. Your mutual classmates never would’ve guessed the hardships you faced throughout your time with Bakugo. You never complained, never visually showed any signs of not being okay, you were always upbeat and gleeful. That’s only because your friends were your distraction.

When you and Bakugo would have disputes or he was in a troubled mood, you would resort to going to your friends. You tried. You tried so hard to be there for him, to always check up on how he was doing. It just never seemed to be enough. He wouldn’t tell you how he was feeling or why he was acting the way he was. Bakugo was closed off to the world—and you weren’t an exception.

In the aftermath of it all, you were the one stuck at a standstill. You couldn’t function properly. This was the lowest you had ever been and it was all because of a stupid guy who could give less of a fuck about you and your well being.

You racked your brain, trying to recollect the truth behind the break up. All the arguments you had with each other, all the times he stood you up, every time he would lie to your face. You tried to come to terms with the broken promises and shattered chances that you endured. Yet, you would forgive him after it all. You were a pushover and you hated that.

You wanted to move on. You couldn’t stand to be stuck because of Bakugo. No matter how much you searched for the bad memories, there would always be a mirthful one resurfacing behind it all. You wanted to understand how it got this bad—how you allowed it to. Nothing put you at ease.

A knock came from your door. You hesitated before dryly shouting at the person on the other side, questioning who it was. When you received no response, you groaned, reluctantly pushing yourself up from the pile of blankets and stuffed animals.

You huffed, opening the door only to be met with the crimson gaze of your ex-lover. You could see the hurt in his eyes; the redness and glossy finish. Your eyes traveled his face, then the rest of his body. He carried a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a basket in the other.

“Hey.” Bakugo spoke after a moment of silence between you two.

“Hey.” You shamefully replied. You mentally face palmed, knowing you shouldn’t be talking to him. Instead, you should’ve slammed the door in his face, refusing any kind gesture he had to offer to you.

Who were you kidding? You couldn’t bring yourself to hate him.

═════════════

[girlgerard]

i’ve been thinking a lot about gerard’s character they developed in the last leg of this tour and the way i believe it really solidified what we might have coming for us in the future.

it’s really sweet, if you look in the comments of some of the videos from brisbane and osaka, you can see people who’ve obviously been my chem fans for at least 15 years saying things like ‘i’ve watched every video from this tour and this is the first show where i really saw the spark come back’ and ‘that’s the gerard way i remember’ and other cheesy shit like that. and the thing is they’re totally right!

this whole tour developed more fluidly in intensity and meaning than in any of their previous gigs. mcr has always been a band to change with their time and creative drive, but this was a different type of transition to me. you could see as characters started to be built, from gerard DIY’ing his own costumes in europe to increasingly meaningful outfits with whole backstories in the USA all the way to one consistent character with a uniquely terrifying stage presence in the last leg.

that last character, at least to me, is totally gripping. she’s unexplained, she’s scary as hell, she’s near-undead, she has this commanding presence gerard hasn’t really done since early-mid black parade. in every single performance they’re so in-character and it’s such a BLAST

importantly, this character also showed up in the shortest, least-publicized part of the tour. imo she wasn’t meant for cameras, really.

to me it’s so clear that she’s a result of gerard earnestly solidifying where they might want their next artistic endeavors to go - that kind of serious direction, maybe even that character specifically.

he’s talked about how he always has stage characters that reflect his music and, broadly, things they’re working through in their life. the revenge stage character was a mix of both demo lovers which can have a ton of different interpretations, the patient was a joan-esque personification of grief and existentialism, party poison was a pop-art way of dealing with your own artistic/literal death. it makes me wonder why this character, the only truly consistent character this whole tour, came about, and if it’s related to gerard’s nightly diatribes on war and later-tour statements on (presumably) queer/trans rights.

it also makes me think that we have a lot coming in the future. a character that solid and a direction so suddenly bottlenecked into such a specific concept, such a mychemicalromance concept, especially out of a tour that was originally supposed to be a casual celebration of music, i think points towards something new.

[chai-berries]

thinking..thinking about napping with abby..

OOOOOOF one of my favorite topics <333

now i don’t know if abby is a nap girlie but she’s gonna have to learn to be!! whether she’s coming home to you, already asleep, warm and waiting for her to cuddle up against you, under your (very specific) napping blankets. all the tension leaves her shoulders when you unconsciously tuck yourself into her :(

or maybe she’s the one taking a midday nap on the couch. she sleeps like the dead, her arms crossed and tucked into her armpits even in sleep. the hood of her sweatshirt is synched up to block out the light from her eyes. when you get home, the door wakes her up, a sleepy “baby?” calls to you from the hallway. and there she is looking ooey gooey and sooo fucking cute you could EAT! HER! UP! but you would never do that so you just lay on top of her for twenty minutes getting a mini post-work nap in before dinner. don’t forget to kiss her all over her face!!!!

abby’s favorite is when you guys are watching tv or reading in the living room, limbs tossed over each other. you’re both straining against that sleepy phase that hits at 3pm but it’s just soooo cozy!!! you have a good book in your hands, one of abby’s hands is softly massaging your calf muscles. the other hand is holding her book open (which is one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen). and you’re so warm, like you can’t help it!!! you fall asleep. it takes abby two minutes to realize you’re asleep, when your book drops to your chest. she gathers both the books and puts them on the coffee table. rearranging a little to put her feet up and sink into the couch more. she keeps massaging your legs until sleep takes her.

…, sooo idk if you can tell but sleep is my love language. thank you for listening 🫶

more abby napping content below!

sharing a bed

midday nap

morning kisses

[castlebyersafterdark]

yes mikes an ass guy, but he's also very much a thigh guy

(A day at the lake. And later that night.)

Mike can't believe his luck sometimes, as he watches Will from across the grass. That's his best friend, the love of his life. Sweet. With the capacity to snap a cutting remark, to tease and twist words with an ease, an art. He always says Mike's the one good with words, but so often Will leaves him speechless, breathless. Now is one of those moments. He can't get over it. Will's standing by the picnic table, leaned over the old wood as he flips through his sketch book, glancing through his work from the morning so far. The pages are full of interesting trees along the lake and some sketches of the old abandoned dock, but mostly Mike. All of his sketchbooks are littered with Mike. He's wearing his green shorts. Tight, lined with yellow piping. Barely covering the curve of his ass. Showing off the thickness of his tanned thighs. They're a little shorter than he'd normally wear, but this section of the lake is isolated. They're alone. That's the point. And Will likes to tease. He knows Mike loves to watch him.

He's well aware that he's being observed as Mike struggles to set up their tent for their impromptu camping trip. It's nice to sneak away, find time for themselves. A little hidden slice of the world, away from crowded houses and an escape from basements and bedrooms and the cramped backseat of Mike's car. None without merit, but none provide freedom. It'll be different when they leave for college at the end of the summer. For now, the lake. Will leans further against the slightly broken wood of the picnic table and imagines the eyes that are burning into the back of his legs. He shifts his hips. He never used to feel this confident. Everything about being with Mike leaves little room for anything else lately. It's addicting. Will hums and chuckles to himself, not having heard the hammer against tent peg for a while now. How long until Mike snaps?

Not long.

Mike's on him moments later, arms around his waist, lifting Will off the ground breifly in a somewhat possessive hug before dropping him back down. Will adores when he does that, makes him feel wanted and loved. Mike laughs into his neck and presses kisses where the sound touches first. Firm, but soft. Humming into his slightly sweaty skin from the summer heat. It's the reason why he's wearing so very little to begin with. Mike lost his shirt first, and his bare chest presses against Will's own slick back as wandering hands trail from hips up his sides, fingers gentle before they fall dramatically to his ass, giving him a rough squeeze as he bites at the back of his neck. Will involuntarily squeaks from the sudden motion and spins around, pinching Mike in the side in retaliation. Mike squirms but then brackets Will against the table once more, hips pinned to hips.

"You are ridiculous," Will chides with a fondness so deep from within, and leans up to steal a kiss. Can't really steal what's freely given, but he steals another, too.

"Hmm, title belongs to you. These shorts, Will. I swear you do this on purpose."

"Of course, I do. What am I doing, though?"

Mike hopes he doesn't fuck this up, and take the risk. He scoops Will up, arms under his legs, and deposits him on the table. The old table groans under his added weight. Will immediately winds his arms around Mike's neck, legs around his body, and draws him back in, mouth hot against his own.

"Distracting me," Mike says into his mouth, kissing him open and biting, bottom lip between his teeth, pulling away to press several small kisses to his upper lip and the mole that resides right above it. "Tent's never gonna get built at this rate."

"We have time."

Will wraps his legs around Mike's hips tighter and traps him close. Not needed. In no world would Mike try to get away. He places his hands on those thighs and feels the smooth skin under his palms, drags his fingers through downy hair and teases along that yellow edge of the flimsy fabric.

"Maybe if you'd help me," he squeezes the supple flesh, like his large hands are mapping and molding it to his satisfaction, "it would get done quicker."

"I wouldn't really know what I'm doing," Will adds with a flirtatious lilt, and scoots closer, barely contained on the edge of the table.

Mike's weight keeps him sitting, pressed together from chest to groin. His feet are crossed at the ankle, behind Mike's own legs. His thighs clench around Mike's body and he gets another deep, lingering kiss for his efforts. Sitting like that, Will still has to look up a few inches to see Mike eye to eye. They pull apart with a wet noise, and Will beams, chin on Mike's chest as he squints up. The sun is behind Mike's head. It's hard to look at him directly. Will nuzzles into his chest, kisses a slow line down the center of his pecs until he can't lower his head further. His mouth drags lightly up the path in reverse. Mike's breath catches. Will's thighs tense again as Mike slips his hands briefly down the back of his shorts, kneading once and bring him closer still.

"You know what you're doing. You absolutely know what you're doing."

"Fine. Have it your way." Will pushes forwards suddenly and lands on the grass, bare feet hitting the ground. "Let's build it."

He trots over to the half dilapidated tent and shoots a look over his shoulder to Mike, left standing with whiplash.

---

An hour or so later, full of bickering and little arguments laced with laughter, and more distracted bouts of handsy grab-ass and traded kisses - the tent was secure along the tree line. One less thing to worry about. Mike's next worry is finding the self control to not immediately pounce on his tempting, unfairly hot boyfriend currently tanning by the water's edge. He's laying on his towel, fresh from a quick dip in the lake. He'd neglected to change into swimwear and the green shorts are dark with water and cling to every curve, leaving nothing to the imagination, basically painted onto his skin. Will's head is pillowed on his arms and his satisfied grin rivals the laziest cat, stretched along a cherished sun spot. Mike shakes his head. Ridiculous. Genuinely ridiculous. How is this his life?

He's recruited to help apply sunscreen as Will tans and the game continues. Doesn't know what he's doing, psssh. He knows. He's cruel. He's so fucking sweet. Mike gets to run his hands freely over Will's body and he wants nothing more to pull the shorts off entirely, press him into the grass and dirt and embrace the primal side that flares up from deep within from time to time. Take what he wants, given willingly. Will feigns innocence but he shifts against the ground and spreads his legs just enough to make Mike's voice catch in his throat at the sight. When Mike's finished with his back, he turns to Will's legs. Traces the toned length of them with his hands again, rubbing in the white lotion until it blends into his skin, leaving them shiny and smooth and so nice to map, again and again. He doesn't need that much sunscreen, the sun's on the descent anyway. Doesn't stop Mike from applying more lotion to his hands and passing across the smooth backs of Will's thighs again, tracing the soft inner portions that the sun wouldn't even hit, carding up the flesh that's slightly clammy from the cool lake water, ass perky and softer still under the edges of those shorts. Will adjusts yet again and dips his back slightly, an exaggerated curve as he lifts back against Mike's wandering hands. Will moans into his arms and Mike flops down next to him.

"Mmmm, Mike. Why'd you stop? Felt really nice." His gentle complaint is borderline a whine.

"Because I don't think I could stop myself if I kept going." Mike stretches out, and mimics his position. "Rain check for later."

"What happens later?" Will teased. He loved riling Mike up. It was so easy. He faked a yawn, not his best performance but it did the trick. "Feeling kinda sleepy. Might turn in early tonight."

"Are you kidding!? That's the whole reason we came out here!"

Will let out a laugh at Mike's gentle outrage. Like he genuinely could resist him, either.

"The whole reason? Maybe I just wanted to work on my tan. Mission accomplished."

"Oh, that's right. Of course. And having me put the tent up was just for your sick amusement to watch me struggle."

"I needed something to entertain me."

"I love you but I'll throw you back in the lake. No hesitation."

Will cracks an eye open and smiles, expression a challenge, a dare. It's not taken. Mike moves close, sides pressed together as he inches across the edge of the towel that Will's hogging. Their feet kick together as they lay on their stomachs next to the lake, soaking up the remaining sun rays in late afternoon. Will pouts, not unhappy, but willing Mike to read his mind instead of genuinely asking for a kiss. He's too content to make the effort to move and strain his neck. Mike complies immediately and cranes over, gives him a wet peck before falling back onto his own arms.

They tease each other and lay close until the cicadas start singing, having talked through the early stages of sunset. Times like that, they forget how easy it is to lose track of time and get lost in one other, conversation flowing as easy as the summer breeze. There was no rush. Not for the moment.

---

Will's back arches as Mike touches him again, hand dipped under the hem of his shorts, slightly uncoordinated as he groped at his clothed cock while he mouths hungrily and presses kisses to the inside of his thighs. Theyre spread out inside the tent, sprawled over sleeping bags and illuminated by lantern light. Will gasps as Mike's teeth graze his skin again, biting and kissing and biting again, sucking bruises into the soft, pale parts of Will's inner thighs. He loves marking him up, seeing the reminders bloomed under his skin the next time he buries his face between Will's thighs. Hickies rarely have enough time to fade before Mike revisits them. Will's the artist out of the two of them but Mike takes pride in the colors he paints on such beautiful skin.

"Mike, Mike. Please. Here," Will begs and guides Mike's hand from out of the bottom of his shorts to where he's shoved them slightly down and pulled himself out, hot and hard and leaking with needy attention.

He loves the teasing, the harsh kisses and teeth embedded in his skin, but he's been pent up since the picnic table. Worse off than Mike's desperation. Mike needs no further instruction and seals his lips around Will's exposed length and sucks him down, bobbing and moaning as Will whines high and breathy underneath him. He slides his hands under Will's shorts again, both palms splayed wide against his cheeks, tugging his body closer as he sucks him. Will's thighs tighten as he feels the pleasure building, pressure threatening sooner than he'd like. It had been a long, teasing day. And Mike was relentless. Will comes down his throat, thighs so tight around Mike's head at the peak that the sounds he makes are muffled as plush muscles hold tight to his ears. Mike loves how Will sounds lost in pleasure and misses them. But, the night's still young.

"Holy shit, Mike. Get up here."

Mike crawls over his body, hovering above as they exchange a kiss, sloppy presses of tongue and lips as they share the taste of Will's release. Will inclines on his elbows and pulls away, smirking as he reaches a hand down to palm at the pronounced bulge in Mike's underwear.

"Loved that, but I meant bring me this," he teases, stroking the shape of him through the fabric, fingers lingering on the outline of the head where he's so wet and sensitive. Mike groans, mouth falling open at the feeling, eyes fluttering shut as Will tries to work down the boxer briefs one handed.

"Will. God, hmm, fuck. Ok." He takes a breath, takes the plunge, and asks, "Can I try something else?"

"What do you want to do?"

Blushing in the low light, he asks Will to turn over. He complies, allows himself to be moved and positioned how Mike wants him. Face pillowed on elbows, chest flat, ass raised. It's still a little weird, still a little vulnerable when Mike asks him to turn over like this, but he trusts him. He always makes him feel good, feel wanted. They've been trying a few things, explored with tongue and fingers a few times. He's still so shy, almost embarrassed by his pleasure. But Mike gets him through it. Mike always takes care of him.

Mike's got his hands on him again, always grabbing him like he doesn't quite know what to do with all that skin, with the permission to feel up all that pliable flesh. Will's heart races as he let's himself be played with, still finding it thrilling that Mike desires his body in such a way that he doesn't even know where to start with him. He jolts as a hand comes down hard on him, palm loud against his right cheek. The sting is lessened by the fabric, but with little recovery as Mike follows with his mouth, delovering a moan and a bite. Will can't help but giggle into his arms as Mike traces down the seam of the shorts, dragging his finger over his approximation of his hole, lingering a moment. He's correct and Will whimpers. Mike doesnt know what he wants, but he wants. They haven't done that yet but he wants to. They haven't really talked about it yet. Not in detail.

"You look so good like this, baby. So good. Don't even know," Mike begins to ramble as he gets up on his knees and presses his aching cock to the clothed swell of Will's ass, sliding fabric to fabric.

The friction is nice. Skin would be better. Being inside would be otherworldly, he knows it. Not yet. Not tonight. His mind swirls with ideas, though. He works them down and pulls off his briefs, completely bare while Will remains in those tight green shorts. Mike pushes at the fabric, watches as it clings to skin as he moves it higher and exposes the bottom curves of Will's ass, so incredibly soft. He presses forward, cock hard and hot against the inside of Will's bare thighs. Will doesn’t know if he wants to close his thighs or spread them. He doesn't know what Mike's thinking.

"Wanna fuck you. So bad, baby." Will's voice catches in his throat at the deep reverb of the statement, unsure how to respond. There's the clarification. He doesn't know what to say. It's the first time he's heard it so blatantly from Mike. "Can I? You can keep these on."

He snaps the elastic band of the shorts against Will's waist, where he's pushed them to ride up in want of exposing more ass and thigh. Will groans in confused arousal as Mike's cock slips against him again, barely more than a passing caress against his own trapped dick, rapidly filling up again under the intense attention.

"Mike? What? I don't... I'm not sure I'm ready to, you know. Go all the way right now?"

He feels embarrassed as he says it, red faced buried in his own arms. Mike leans over his back, presses reassuring kisses to his heated face and neck, the parts he can reach, and wraps his arms around him in a soothing, grounding embrace.

"I know. Me either. I kinda want to try something. I don't even know if it'll work." He kisses Will on parted lips once he turns his head to the side. The angle's awkward but he can't move away until he really kissed him. "Do you trust me?"

"I do."

"Cool. Here." He hold his hand out, under Will's mouth. "Spit."

Will does it without really questioning it, something deep within him churning with strange arousal at complying immediately to the odd request. Mike does the same, lets his saliva join before wrapping his wet hand around his cock, spreading his palm along his length. It's all he's got to ease the way, but he doesn't think he'll need much.

He presses forward, cock sliding between the channel of Will's thighs. As he moves, he pushes them closer together, trapping his cock between the supple skin, thrusting slowly to test, in and out. He moans low in his throat. It's so fucking good. Oh. Will understands with a thrill, and instinctively closes his thighs tighter, muscles tense as Mike fucks him, clock slipping hot between his skin slick with sweat and spit. Not what he was expecting. But he likes this. A lot. Mike's hands seem enormous as they grip his hips and alternate between holding him firm and steady, or slamming him back harder to meet careful thrusts.

"You could have taken my shorts off. I'm ok with it," Will says as Mike holds his hips even tighter. The band is digging in his skin, sure to leave a deep impression from the sheer strength of the grip Mike has on him. He hopes it bruises.

"That's okay. Like them on you."

"What is it with you and these shorts?"

"You've seen yourself. No way you're this clueless. Haunted me for years, ohhh."

The word years rattles around in his brain as Mike falters in rhythm, barely registering as he's pushed further into the sleeping bags, shoved flat as Mike pulls out of his thighs and finishes hot against his back with a strained, stuttering moan. Another first. Will liked that, too.

Mike flops down beside him, a repeat of their positions earlier by the lake. Out of breath and feeling a little awkward, Mike watches Will's expression, unsure what to say after his little adventure.

"Was that ok? I don't know what came over me. Kinda weird, I guess."

"Well," Will started with a light sigh, mirth quirking the corner of his lips. He brushes the sweaty strings of hair from Mike's forehead. "At least I know who came over me, though."

Mike stared at him, mouth agape, as Will turned his face into his arm and laughed quietly with embarrassed glee.

"Holy shit, Will. Wow. Wow." Will continued to laugh, but turned in his arms, exposing one eye to take in Mike's expression, full of fond disbelief. "Uncalled for, hate you so much."

"No you don't," Will sing-songed.

Mike leaned in and pressed a loud, smacking kiss to his equally sweaty forehead. "Yup. Guilty. Huuuuge liar. I fucking love you. You're incredible. Are you... sure that was ok? I mean -"

"Mike. It was great. Kinda loved it, to be honest. And I love you, too. We should lose the shorts next time, though."

"Fine. I guess."

"Can you maybe take them off me now? You didn't, um, didn't get it all on me."

"Yeah. I know," Mike admitted with the audacity to appear bashful at the admittance.

"Gross."

"Yeah well, you liked it."

"True." He sat up, grimacing at the feeling of cooled, drying come on his back, and was struck with an idea. "Hey. The lake's right there. If you want to..."

"Yes. Hell yes. Bucket list item!"

"Skinny dipping is a bucket list item?"

"Totally. Let's go."

He was out of tent and half way to the lake before Will could even ditch the shorts quickly enough for him to finally see him out of them.

✅️ ✅️ ✅️

[basil-does-arttt]

hold on wait a second i had a thought

in the DLC prolouge cutscene for DMC 5, when Vergil is in that stone passageway area, he says "its nearly time" (in reference to him splitting himself in half).

We know what day it happens, april 30th. The date is shown in Nero's flashback scene. This is of course assuming Vergil did all that on the same day, which i think is what happened. (He could open a portal to his house to travel, and why would he wait any longer and risk dying first?)

Anyway. Thats not my point, my point is: did he choose to do it on this day on purpose? Is this date special?

Im overanalyzing here so this may be a stretch, but: Could that be the day Eva died? Think about it. Him splitting himself was a "rebirth" of sorts: discarding his humanity to become a full demon in search of ultimate power.

Vergil being stabbed by those demons the day Eva died could also be counted as a kind of rebirthing for him: In the span of a few hours, he lost everything. His family, his life. And maybe even, his full humanity, as he gained his DT form in that moment too (shown by him having the same triggered-style eyes Dante uses when threatening V toward the start, also (half)triggered.) No longer was he a mere human boy, but now half a devil - the things that killed his family - too.

Knowing Vergil, it could make sense. In DMC 3 he's quite proper and a bit sentimental, much more so than Dante and i can see him caring more for these kinds of niche details in his life a lot more than Dante too. I also think he may have still been in that mindset when coming out of the Nelo Angelo body (however that happened), in a way that he hasnt really grown or matured while he was Nelo Angelo due to all the mind-fuckery performed thanks to Mundus.

(Could also be clarification for the reason Vergil still looks so young, quote "because of how much time he's spent in the underworld compared to Dante". He didnt live there, certainly not by choice. But he was captured and tortured by Mundus for 10 years. My thoughts is that he's technically still in his teenage body, as becoming Nelo Angelo and being in the underworld for so long thanks to Mundus halted (or at least very significantly slowed) the aging process. Time could move slower in hell but thats a rant for another time, ive gone off track.)

As such, him choosing such a special (traumatic) date to essential commit suicide on doesnt seem like much of a reach to me. Vergil has always been methodic. He doesn't do things hap-hazardly and never has, even as Nelo Angelo when he invites Dante outside to set up a proper fight rather than just taking the opportunity and attacking in the bedroom.

Of course you can argue it was coincidence, and he just stumbled across Nero by chance and decided to do it right then and there. He had to have found Nero first of all, figured out his plan of attack (probably so he wouldnt draw unwanted attention and possibly be stopped), then actually put it into motion. He couldnt exactly control the date Nero happened to be in the right place at the right time and gave him an opening. Im not trying to convince or anything, just sharing ideas, But wouldn't it just be so in character for april 30th to be a special date for him??

Overall i at least think the reason he chose to do it at the house was intentional for reasons stated above. If it wasnt, then why didn't he just... idk, find an alleyway or something and split himself there?

Those are my thoughts. Id love to hear other people's theories and such on this too.

(EDIT: I REALIZED THE MOMENT HE SPLITS HIMSELF ALSO PROBABLY HAPPENS AT A SPECIFIC TIME AS WELL, NAMELY 6:00 PM.

It mustve taken him some time to get back to the house. Not hours, but not seconds. 15 minutes seems like a good amount of travel time for someone who can teleport using portals alongside a bit of walking. If he got there early he could've just waited too.

A specific date, april 30th, and at (likely) exactly 6:00pm. In VOV while it is black and white, i assume the attack happened late into the evening, since the sky is dark when he gets back to the house a bit later. Idk how he would've known that it was exactly 6:00 but... anyway, Mundus also seems like the type of guy to plan shit, especially an attack like he did to Eva and the twins, if that whole "eva died on april 30th" thing was true.)

[varlaisvea]

’this one’

ok i am kind of a dork about ta’agra. i am a ~linguist by education, and in eso, ta’agra has definitely gotten the most love out of all of tamriel's languages, enough such that it has understandable grammar and root words. (enough such that you can kiiind of figure out a general idea of what zerith-var is saying a lot of the time!)( if you've read the amount about ta'agra that i have!) (a normal fanfic writer amount, which is obiously a lot but, as with all elder scrolls lore topics, is insignificant compared to the real ta'agra fans out there). (but for real imagine being a language dork and having a video game give u a lil language dork treat for being a dork about its made up language. elder scrolls babey.). i’ve always been interested in how khajiit refer to themselves, because they have multiple ways of doing so, and—this being the elder scrolls—the choices people make in this regard are culturally meaningful. someone may say “I/me” or “this one” or their name/nickname, and the choice says a lot about the character, their background, and their mindset.

"this one", as a phrase, actually has deep and nuanced historical, cultural, and linguistic lore. because this is the elder scrolls.

as far as personal pronouns, zerith-var and the characters in his flashback stories only use I/me to refer to themselves. one could simply assume that language usage changes over time (khajiit in the 4th era in skyrim, don't really use it, for example). but, this being the elder scrolls, of course this (ultimately extremely minor) lore discrepancy is explained: zerith says “this one” is a more accurate translation for the way the personal pronoun (I/me) is used in the modern day, but it’s completely absent in his time. he doesn’t like “this one” at all: he observes that while ta’agra and cyrodiilic have mixed significantly over time, in his era, they were ‘mere acquaintances.’

so, it's an effect of khajiit mixing more with the rest of tamriel after a few decent centuries without a major war or catastrophic plague, but it's also more than that. languages are frameworks that both inform and convey the speaker's cultural perspective, and using "this one" reflects a desire to express something that "I/me" does not. in terms of how the word is used grammatically, the translation of “ahziss”, the ta'agra personal pronoun, is most accurately “I/me/my." but the literal meaning of "ahziss" is more accurately "this one" or "one person [of a group]" (although canon vs fanon is murky here). so, implicit in the ta'agra personal pronoun is the fact that the speaker is part of a whole—ie, they are saying me, this particular member of the group (the khajiiti people), or this particular khajiit (me). i imagine this is why some khajiit use "khajiit" as a personal pronoun; that also seems like a pretty reasonable approximation of what it sounds like "ahziss" means. this being the elder scrolls, khajiiti mythology also reflects this concept of the individual always being a part of the whole through the lunar lattice—you can see why it might be important to someone to convey something like that in their speech, when referring to themselves.

if this were not the elder scrolls, the lore related to this phrase might end at grammar and history (or well before that), but we are playing a game franchise whose name itself references the truly absurd amount of lore it has. so obviously we must consider the modern usage of the term, in order to really round out the lore about 'this one.'

nobles, like Khamira and Gharesh-ri, tend to speak with a distinct upper-class accent, and exclusively refer to themselves as I/me. The same is true of many scholars, mages, and wealthy people. this seems to suggest that well-educated, wealthy, and cultured khajiit are speaking a more "proper" tamrielic. southern elsweyr is more cosmopolitan (at least the parts that remain, which are largely cities), and people from the south tend to consider themselves more worldly and refined than their northern counterparts. accordingly, this 'upper class' and 'more tamrielic' manner of speech seems associated with a southern accent. this is consistent enough in the game that you can hear the torval curiata in zerith-var’s quests speaking with a southern accent, but using ‘this one’, and it’s kind of jarring.

currently elsweyr has been devastated by the knahaten flu, but historically the south was a wealthy, multicultural coastal trading economy (plus skooma and elegantly organized crime). the north has always been largely badlands inhabited only by baandari nomads, with a more modest agrarian trading economy in the two (formerly three) cities in the north, which are constantly invaded by cyrodiil over the centuries, and cut off from the rest of elsweyr by a massive canyon (and now also a condemned city). so (sorry to any non-americans but i can only make analogies referencing places i know), the north is like if vermont was an ancient desert with dragons in it, while the south is like if bethesda maryland was a post-apocalyptic jungle w/ dragons in it.

soo lower-class, rural, and less-educated khajiit, as well as khajiit from the northernmost part of elsweyr, seem more likely to use 'this one', and there's a lot of overlap in those groups. it's just part of the way people talk-- many people seem to use 'this one'/'I'/their name to convey shades of meaning. using "this one" or your name both require consequently referring to yourself in the third person, which has a much different vibe than referring to yourself in the first person. using your full name, or your name plus your title, or your nickname, or "this one" all have different vibes, and say different things about how you would like to define yourself in that moment. different people mean different things with their choices, but your choice can convey levels of intimacy, public vs private speech, formal or informal, etc.; it's all about feeling and personal preference.

razum-dar is probably the khajiit you talk to the most, and he is interesting to pay attention to--he is as calculating in his use of language as he is with everything else. to the player and to queen ayrenn, he mostly calls himself "raz" (suggesting that's what he uses with people he considers friends), and he usually only uses "I/me" when he is expressing a genuine emotion--ie, almost never. he uses "this one" to humble and formalize his speech when speaking to nobility or in an official capacity, but he also defaults to it when he's in the field. he is impressively cultured, well-read, and politically savvy, but he keeps those "this one"s generous when talking to others, especially high elves. being from merryvale, he has a fairly obvious northern accent, so he is happy to play the part of the lazy redneck sleaze he knows people will presume him to be--he counts on people underestimating his intelligence, and uses it to his advantage.

when the elder scrolls is great, it's because they don't shy away from depicting eg racism, they make their racism function accurately within the culture they have created, and the in-universe racism is fully baked right into "this one".

the cyrodiilic perspective is the in-universe cultural norm in tamriel, and the cyrodillic idea of what a khajiit is like would be informed by the khajiit they would most often interact (and racism). that would be farmers from rimmen and riverhold at a grain market, or baandari traders, who talk and act even more Like That and are even more ~exotic. so, it makes sense that an exaggerated northern accent with copious "this one"s is often used as a sign that someone is being lazy, dishonest, false, or patronizing. think of Pacrooti and Fezez; both have the obsequious khajiiti huckster manner of speaking, underscored by every over-the-top khajiiti idiom in the wiki. They never say "I" or "me", which means they are always referring to themselves in the third person, which in English implies deception. it tacitly admits you are using a persona with some separation from yourself and a good amount of falseness, especially if you let slip that you understand the concept of "I" well enough to insincerely call a stranger to whom you are trying to sell something "my friend." (Fezez even uses "khajiit" as a personal pronoun, which is part of the persona in his case, but also people still do talk that way a sometimes--it seems to be old-fashioned; mostly used by elderly folks, baandari, and people in truly remote backwaters.)

i feel like you can see what zerith var disliked about 'this one'. like, even setting aside the fact that as a person, he cannot comprehend a definition of 'I' that does not already contain within it the concept of the lunar lattice (which is azurah's love, which connects all khajiit to one another, even the ones whose souls were thought beyond saving.) like you can see where that alone would be incomprehensible to his understanding of his own existence. but even aside from that.

he is observing how people treat each other in this time, both good and bad. so he must see the ways khajiit experience racism, and how that racism differs from place to place. his life was such that he never even had to consider the unthinkable question of how to convey what 'I' means to you, let alone how to convey that in a language you now must speak for your own survival. like how do you explain 'when I am talking about myself, I mean me, this person who is honored to be part of an eternal whole, and so completely humbled to be a link in that lattice that they must speak of themself in the third person.' and like, my mans understands how they got there, but he also sees it getting mocked and associated with all the negative stereotypes of modern-day khajiit. which he also cannot help but see reflected in the actions of khajiit, both because he is now experiencing a multicultural society for the first time ever and thus seeing khajiit through an observer's eyes for the first time, and because you totally actually do meet plenty of khajiit who lean into that persona, in fact most khajiit in any type of merchant or service role, anyone who is trying to sell you something, throw some of it into their personality.

and now despite the fact that he is a two thousand year old monk with the power to resurrect the damned in order to offer them true peace, and he has been here for like twenty minutes, he's already felt the weight of 2000 years of history and 2000 years of racism by having to contend with the existence of that phrase. i get why he's like 'nah not for me'

anyway surely this is a normal amount of things to know and ways to feel about a simple phrase in a fictional language!

[whisperingrockandroll]

Psychonauts are literal explorers of the mindscape, and the veil dimension that connects all minds together. The kind of freaky amazing shit that's in that dimension could probably be the type of mind-blowing secret shit that changes humanity forever.

and yet, the Psychonauts themselves have only explored it enough to build a lil fuckin walkway with some doors.

[waugh-bao]

[friendlylocalwhumper]

“Honey. Hey - hey, honey. It’s okay. You’re okay.” Emory cards steady fingers through sweat-damp, quivering curls. He leans down close enough to press his cheek to Lux’s. His breaths are rolling waves that Lux’s gasps crash against.

A shaky hand rises from the floor, leaving behind a sweaty palm-print and tangling in his shirt. “I, I, I, I ca-an’t, I can’t…”

With a sad sigh, Emory brushes dangling wet hair out of his boyfriend’s face. “I know. You don’t have to explain. I know. Just ride it out.”

The saddest little sob-sigh rattles out of Lux and he curls forward to press his forehead to the cool tiles. Tense, bunched up muscles ripple and smoothe out under the warm hand that rubs up and down his spine.

“You’re doing a good job, Curls. Keep going, you’re doing, you’re… woah…” Dark eyes widen as light spills from Lux’s curled up fists. Beads of magic float up into the air as Lux whines with focus. “You’re… are you fighting it?”

Another low, winding moan. Emory knows, he knows what it looks like when Lux’s mind is being invaded by magic. He knows how painful it is. That it’s scary and confusing. And he knows more about Lux than anyone. But he’s not sure that he knew Lux was strong enough to fight back and drive that magic back out of his head. He can tell as soon as the warlock slumps that he did it.

Emory’s face cracks into a smile. This is one of those moments where he can really see a future with Lux as his husband, as a father one day. Lux is always growing, getting braver, standing up for himself and the home he’s worked so hard to feel safe in. “Curls. Honey, I can’t believe you just did that. You’re amazing.”

“I… you know, I…?”

Fingers careful from working on age-softened books tuck a curl behind Lux’s ear. “I know you. I know you’re trying so hard, baby.”

[try-set-me-on-fire]

Stoned at 2:30 am trying to work out a post about how Buck wasn't in uniform so he wasn't ever a target. He was surrounded by firefighters and he did not look like one. "It would be better for Chris if I was the one who got shot" except that wouldn't have happened because he'd inadvertently given himself a shield, it just came at the price of being just the guy who was standing there while it happened

[curiosity-killed]

the dragon show reminded me of some very (very) old OCs so have some love + devotion~

“So, you don’t believe the prophecy?” Sadira surmised slowly. She couldn’t look away from the way Te Mait’s hands, soot- and bloodstained from their magics, so tenderly mopped at Rael’s forehead. “Of course I believe it.” They dipped the cloth back in the basin, wringing it with the brisk efficiency of a knife on a chicken’s neck. Against Rael’s skin, their touch again turned tender. “Prophecies are never wrong, and they’re rarely straightforward,” they continued. “Rael might send me into a battle from which I do not return. She might sign off on a bridge which, by poor weather or construction, collapses just as I cross it.” They continued to wipe down Rael’s arm in long, sweeping strokes as they spoke, never once looking away from them. “Or,” they said, voice gentling, “she might hold the knife herself and drive it into my heart with her own hand.”

[twpsyn-who]

Soulmates AU in which when your soulmate is in a situation that can result in their death you get to see through their eyes. Like, I don't know how to explain this- it kind of flashes between what you see and what your soulmate sees. You know those edits where there's a scene going on and there's another one faded in the background happening at the same time? Similar to that. The idea is that you get to see what your soulmate sees too, on top of what you're seeing.

Now, this AU but JeanMarco. With Marco asking the others where's Jean, just for him to start seeing a corpse right in front of his eyes not even a second after asking. Seeing through Jean's eyes as he's trying to get hold of that gear and stuff. And once Jean's safe, once it clicks that you know his best friend is his soulmate Marco can't wait for them to graduate so he can you know tell him that.

Then, you know. That happens. And Jean is so fucking confused because he keeps seeing Annie crying, looking down on him. Only when Annie starts getting off the gear, when his soulmate starts moving around trying to get away he starts panicking, starts moving around faster than before. And maybe he's too late. Or maybe he shows up in time and kills the titan. I don't know. That's not where I'm trying to get, but to the second option AKA Marco pulling an UNO reverse on Annie because he's a smart sneaky bastard like that and being like 'Hey you can't kill me, my soulmate will know it was you' which makes her stop trying to take off his gear. Reiner keeps telling her to do it, Bertholdt keeps yelling about that titan coming closer, but Annie... she has seen things, at some point. Flashes of moments that weren't hers, happening right in Trost- right in that moment. And she didn't give them too much thought until that moment, until it got confirmed that it has nothing to do with her titan powers.

'What do you mean by that?' she asks, because she needs to know more. Because she wants to know more. And Marco starts explaining how it works. Tells them that he has found his soulmate, that they will put all the blame on them for his death. Reiner doesn't believe him, keeps insisting that he's playing them around - he, and anyone born and raised on Marley, has never heard of something like that before, it doesn't exist - but Annie tells him to shut up and to let Marco go. Cue to the plot of any fic in which Marco doesn't straight up die after finding up their secret.

Anyway I don't know man, just,,, We need more soulmate aus for JeanMarco. That's an order.

[lazlolullaby]

Peter Quill with auditory hallucinations, that he "drowns out" with music. End post.

[hana-bobo-finch]

oh yeah I forgot I made this last night lmao I’m not gonna give an explanation just take it

[heavenlymusickcorporation]

Not to brag but I was kind of cooking here

[iii-days-grace]

The Father, the Bun, and the Holy Ghost

Hey! I don't have the spoons today to put this up and tag it on AO3 and/or Knotfic, but I wanted to post it anyway. I'll upload it there in a few days or whenever I have the time and energy.

In that case, consider this a sort of open beta reading :) Summary: Shawn and Sid get the munchies one night while on tour, and explore a new city to find a restaurant with an unusual theme.

Word Count: 1076

Rating: Gen

Characters: Sid Wilson, Shawn Crahan

Pairing: 0/6

The Father, the Bun, and the Holy Ghost

‘Sorry daddy, I’ve been -’

Shawn swats Sid from across the table. ‘That’s not the words. Here.’ He shoves a fry into his hand and pops the lid from off Sid’s drink. Not technically the right ritual either, but they’ll skip the confession shit for now. The food is hot, so state of grace be damned.

As he shifts he catches a whiff of pot stink from his jacket. They shared another joint on the way over so he knows they both have to stink at this point, all the smoke and sweat and probably other things liberated by the misty spring rain they had walked through to get here. Everything in this city closed early for some reason.

But this is a burger place somewhere close to midnight, who else is it open for anyway besides the stoners?

Probably not good Christian boys, even if weed was legal in this country. He thinks. He doesn’t have time to remember such things on tour. Nobody seems to be batting an eye about the smell of the Devil’s lettuce though, so they’re probably fine.

Something about the cocktail tickles his limbic system in a way that reminds him of evenings spent loitering behind the high school, bumming smokes off each other from friends and tucking butts inside their pockets to avoid leaving evidence.

Anyway, the stench that leaches off them still doesn’t mask the hot and crispy smell from off the trays. Thick-cut golden fries with skin, the burger bleeds that weird pink juice that isn’t blood, but sure looks like it — nothing like the anaemic grey things they usually manage to grab from a drive-through between shows.

‘Earth to Shawn?’ Sid’s still holding his fry between his fingertips like a joint, waiting.

‘Alright, alright. Now eat it.’ Shawn sloshes the open drink in one hand as he gestures. A few drops — (the blood of Christ, amen) — land on the buns, fries scattered around it like manna (don’t worry, I’ll pay. Let’s go. No, it’s not too far, we’ll walk, I’m starving.) Midnight, high school, hotel. Follow the fryer and grease smell inside.

Where were they again?

He shakes his head and floats himself back down to Earth, and listens to the ice crackling in his drink as he waits for the man across the table to finish chewing. Somewhere between one and thirty minutes later, Sid conquers the solitary little fry and grins.

‘Okay, now gimme the blood,’ he says, wiggling his fingers in a lazy impression of Count Dracula.

He pauses. ‘Wait, does this make us vampires? Holy shit, is Jesus a zombie?’ Sid whispers in horror — maybe dramatic, but maybe real if his high is anything like the one smoothing out Shawn’s frontal lobes.

Grabbing Shawn’s free hand, Sid peels his sparkling, bloodshot eyes open like he’s about to spill some big secret and over the table. Sid blinks, trying and mostly failing to focus, his eyes swimming a little as he’s distracted by the neon sign over Shawn’s shoulder.

Shawn’s facing away from the wall, but he can see the logo mirrored on the window, shimmering through the glazed reflection and backlit by the city lights beyond it.

‘Sidney.’

‘Are we cannibals?’

‘You’re not even Catholic. Do you want me to do it or not?’ Shawn asks. Goddamn zombie Jesus. He sighs. An argument for when they’re more baked, perhaps.

Not that they’re being proper about the thing anyway, but this isn’t much of a church either, let alone a cathedral, so who cares. Despite the topical verses printed on the cups and the cheeky golden calf by the tip jar (’alms for the poor’). In another life he might be able to remember what the verses are about, but currently his attention is doing double duty.

Shawn holds the drink to Sid’s face and gently backhands him again when he moves to pick it up. Sid gets the idea and lets Shawn hold the cup while he takes a sip, swishing it around in his mouth. He looks at Shawn expectantly.

‘That’s it?’

‘By the power vested in me by the state of Iowa, I now pronounce you cleansed of fast food sins. Heathen. Can we eat now?’

‘Can I have your pickle?’

‘What, your thirst hasn’t been slaked yet? Spiritually speaking of course. Don’t waste the blessing, or we’ll have to do it all over again.’ He laughs and shakes his head, and peels open his sandwich, plopping the vinegary wafer onto Sid’s plate.

‘You’re gross,’ he says.

‘Hey, fuck you, it was your weed.’

Sid tucks the evil green thing into the real lettuce and folds his burger back together. Shawn methodically snaps the lid back on his drink and unwraps his straw, squinting at the verse printed on the paper, something from Ecclesiastes. One of the nicer books of the thing, if he remembers correctly. He tucks the paper his pocket to look up in the bedside Bible back at the hotel.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights and the sizzle of fries cooking. Now and then the doorbell jingles as someone enters the restaurant. Sid bums the occasional fry from his plate; Shawn lets him. The high settles into his muscles as the food sits warm in his belly.

There's no clock in here, but the sound of the remaining ice cubes rattling as Sid finishes his drink bring him back to Earth again.

Sid taps his arm.

‘Hey, I saw a fried chicken place with a sexy chicken lady logo on the way here. Do you think that one’s themed like a strip club?’

Sure, why not? If a burger could be redeemed, chicken probably could too.

‘Let’s check it out. There’s a mini-fridge in the room for leftovers.‘

They clear their table and stack the trays on top of the bin. Shawn slips his jacket back on again as they go outside. As they open the door, in the distance, he fancies he hears the ring of a church bell.

‘I’ll buy,’ Shawn says, ‘but you owe me a joint for this one.’

Sid laughs and gently shoves into Shawn with his shoulder, hands in his pockets as they head back into the night.

‘Any time, dude. Any time.’

FINI

Ecclesiastes 9:7 - Go, eat your food with gladness, and drink your wine with a joyful heart, for God has already approved what you do.