#sometimes it’s religious but not trauma :D

[fansta]

I will never forget the time my grandparents took me to a cowboy church,

We get there, and settle in for a church service. Which is promised to be more of a live band with a hint of church than the reverse.

On this particular Sunday the Pastor (or whoever was in charge) gets a band with a REALLY good fiddle player to play throughout the service

BUT right before communion begins, everyone is stopped…

The Pastor turns to the congregation, and asks for a couple of songs that this fiddler could play during the communion procession

This is a crowd of hillbillies and tourists, and he has made the grave mistake of giving us a choice.

The crowd demands The Devil Went Down To Georgia

The Pastor gets visibly nervous and starts to turn red and sweat, than he glances at the fiddle player..

(Clearly hoping he’d bail him out)

The fiddle player does not give a single shit

he’s just here to play fiddle really good and this is not circus nor his clowns.

The Pastor tries to reason with the people, he explains that it’s not right, that this is a church and to play a song about the devil while taking a sacrament is sinful.

There is a few moments of murmuring from the crowd deciding what to do next, when one fat old man in one fat old cowboy hat stands up and yells,

“But it’s bout beatin the devil, so it’s alright!” :D

The congregation agrees, there is simply no other option, it must be TDWDTG (and it’s not like our group knew any other songs to play on the fiddle anyways)

The Pastor sputters, than whispers to fiddle player, the fiddle player whispers something back.

He turns back to the congregation.

“Alright fine….we’re gonna play The Devil Went Down to Georgia”

And it was perfect! The fiddle player knew the whole song and the words and preformed it 👌

And when you walked up to get your Slice of Christ™️ the Pastor was still seething and red as a tomato

(cause he knew that he’d been beat)

[tryingtoescapefromhereee]

Sundays are for church (my workplace) or reading the Bible (fics on ao3), there is no between I’m ever so committed to my faith 😌

[dykealloy]

Trafalgar Law and Faith

Pre-emptive warning this is going to be another LONG metapost/analysis. There’s a lot I could talk about here but for the sake of structure I’m going to split this into three sections, i.e. the main ‘faith transitions’ that Law has gone through in the narrative thus far: 1. Flevance (catalyst for loss of religious faith), 2. Corasan (martyr that figuratively and literally saves law by giving him something to live for, introducing the will of D.), and 3. Luffy (cementing faith in this new belief system and regaining trust in the goodness of humanity through the living embodiment of everything Corasan believed in).

Before we get into all that though, let’s establish that Christianity is a thing in one piece. Speedrunning through some visual examples that come to mind; the Flevance church and nun (holding a celtic cross - censored in the anime version), a nun literally praying to God right before Marineford, Vinsmoke Sora’s grave marked with a cross (is op Christianity a northern thing?), Usopp and Chopper having crucifixes and holy water whenever ghostly stuff is brought up, Kuma and his trusty bible, the religious symbols on Kikoku’s hilt (could instead be more a reference to the Red Cross/symbol of humanitarian and medical aid as a doctor) and especially in whatever Mihawk’s got going on (though this could just be a Japanese cultural thing with Christianity being a minority religion or Oda just finding that some of the iconography, y��know. looks cool). There are also many other references to other religions e.g. hinduism, shintoism, buddhism, etc. Whether op forms of religion are the same as the real-world ones is debatable, and yes, Law being canonically raised as a devout catholic schoolboy with all the religious trauma associated with that is comical, but let’s take it all unironically for a hot minute. For fun. 

1. Flevance

Law’s birthplace (Flevance) is described as being, at one point, “a very wealthy country with an unearthly beauty about it, with pure white soil and plants, like some kind of snow kingdom in a fairy tale.” The country’s wealth came from the very bedrock it sits on — white lead, which could be used to make various high quality products like tableware, cosmetics, weapons etc. When the wider world heard about this everyone wanted a piece of Flevance (the World Government also getting involved with distribution), and very quickly white lead became a “bottomless well of money”. So, hooray. Law gets to grow up in a rich city in a big house with educated doctor parents and probably gets to go to private school on weekdays and festivals with his family on weekends. One problem. In their greed, the Government and royalty have been knowingly hiding the truth about this supposed goldmine from the beginning. White lead is a toxic poison. Mining it from the ground over the last century and putting it in so many everyday products has resulted in it accumulating in the citizens’ bodies and leading to amber lead sickness, shortening their life-span with each successive generation – with the children of Law’s generation fated to die out before they reach adulthood.

In the bible (especially in the old testament), God often inflicted these insanely disastrous events upon humanity, usually as some kind of punishment for their wrongdoings or as a test of their faith. Some events of which include (but are not limited to): famine, outbreaks of disease and natural disasters (e.g. hail, wildfire, earthquakes, floods). Historically, these stories played a key role in how humanity interpreted meaning from horrible disasters (e.g. assuming bubonic plague was sent as a punishment by god). Fire imagery is very common among these disasters as a representation for hell, which is clearly reflected in the destruction of Flevance.

Sometimes these disasters had sole survivors act as messengers for God. With that context, let’s put ourselves back in the shoes of a ten-year old Law. Raised religious, freshly traumatised from losing his home, his devout family, all the comforts of his life, and having the outside world completely abandon him, this kind of event is likely going to be processed as some form of divine punishment. Law stumbles through hell, finds all his dead classmates, and the last words of sister nun echo through to him here. Merciful and salvation are huge catholic buzzwords – promises of holy compassion, deliverance and hope – and all of it fire and smoke and riddled with bullet holes before him. A genocide funded, perpetuated and covered up by the same body Law was promised was there to save them. And the only reason Law hadn’t died with them was because he wanted to stay with his little sister Lami, who was on her deathbed, and his parents, who were themselves trying to help the afflicted citizens, Law’s own father (before he was shot and killed alongside his mother) begging for more doctors, fresh blood, anything the world can offer, and asking “Why doesn’t the government announce to everyone that white lead is not infectious?”

Oftentimes (and in the case of Law), when there’s a promise of heavenly intervention or some miracle that doesn’t follow through, it results in an ultimate feeling of betrayal and anger. Unfortunately a lot of Catholic teachings also use a lot of guilt, essentially teaching people that the bad things that happen to you are your fault and there needs to be some sort of penance (queue Law’s survivor’s guilt that carries on down the road). But also, if this was supposed to be some divine punishment, for what exactly? For the town being blinded by the incredible wealth they were sitting on? Being lied to? Continuing to extract their livelihood, ignorant of its dangers? Punishment for who? His parents? His innocent little sister? For ten year-old Law? These people who believed in God, who were good people? That’s fucking stupid. None of these people suffered and died for any reason at all — certainly not for a sacred one. God hadn’t saved a single one of them. Law had to crawl out of hell himself by sneaking over the border under a mound of corpses.

Given everything that happened here, Law has every reason to fall into nihilism, and you can see how his upbringing would’ve bred a lot of the feelings of guilt, anger and resentment that you still see in Law (which would suggest that though this is where he likely cuts ties with the religious/Catholic component of his faith, growing up with these teachings in his formative years would definitely influence underlying beliefs about how the world works, and how Law behaves and subconsciously processes information), but at the same time, there’s usually some form of redemption and changes to how these patterns of behaviour can be approached later down the line.

2. Corasan

Fresh off witnessing his whole world burning down around him, Law meets Corazon at the very bottom of this pit of self-destructive rage and unprocessed grief. Rosinante himself mentions to Sengoku that the hatred in Law at this time reminded him of his brother, but beyond the anger, harsh pessimism, vengefulness, I think you have to reach to find similarities between them. You can see some fragments of Doffy in Law down the line at times, with Law seeming to enjoy violence (especially against the navy, but given what they did to Flevance, it’s some well-deserved retribution for Law imo), but I’m not so sure it’s the cruelty so much as it is the high he gets off his own flavour of justice. Doctor’s Hippocratic oath maybe, but never once does Law like seeing others die (even at this point, he’s in tears next to a dead body, even though he’s the one holding the knife), and later on in Wano he makes it explicitly clear to Zoro that he’d rather see the mission fail than have any of them end up dead.  

Little Law wanted to destroy the world and everything in it, but thinking rationally, what other choice did this kid have? He had no remaining family, was doomed to die before he hit puberty due to a terminal illness, was perceived as an infectious subhuman that most doctors would’ve sooner tried to exterminate than help. To Law, the world had turned its back on him – considering him a monster for simply surviving. He has all this hatred and pain boiling away with him with no tangible target to direct it towards. And this is the first clear cut rejection of faith that we see in Law. Any concept of a merciful God had just died. What God would allow this? Why is Law alive (a question that he repeats to himself throughout his life), why are these scumbags alive, why is the world going on spinning as if nothing has happened when his whole world had gone up in flames, why does anyone at all get to be here when everything I loved is gone? And it’s far easier to fall into a despondent nihilistic stupor than it is to work through any of that, and what’s the point in trying to process and move on from it, when there’s no hope for a future for Law anyway? When the only thing waiting ahead is more pain? What was this, if not a punishment? He’s supposed to be some messenger for God? How about fuck God, or whatever entity that exists that made him suffer this. Law’s not going to be a messenger for shit, thanks, he’d rather be their monster, he’d rather watch the world burn.

Corazon survives Law’s stabbing and doesn’t rat the little shit out (to Law’s confusion). It’s business as usual for another two years, then, one day Rosinante overhears his true name - Trafalgar “D” Water Law, and everything changes. On the back of his own beliefs, Rosinante dedicates himself to making sure Law a) lives and b) doesn’t become his brother. Law’s relatively short six month stint with Corasan forms the basis of Law’s new creed going forward, and all it took was a bit of kindness, love and humanity when the rest of the world had abandoned him. In the end Rosinante doesn’t save Law for the will of D. and the storm he’s predicted to bring in the future (as Law suspects), but he certainly believes in it, and the strength of Corasan’s conviction transfers right over to Law when he forces the ope ope fruit down the kid’s throat to heal him, tells Law he loves him, then sacrifices himself to set Law free.

Law clings to that love he was given, he takes all these fundamental teachings and ways of thinking in regards to faith that were drilled into him during his youth, rejects the religion element and applies just about everything else to Corasan. He holds onto the last shreds of what Corasan leaves him with. Corasan becomes his “benefactor” (he gave my my heart), his saviour, his martyr. 

And the crazy thing is, Rosinante was never really this saint Law makes him out to be. Law hated the clutz when they first met (mostly on account of Corazon throwing him through a glass window down at least two stories and into a pile of scrap). Corazon initially showed nothing but contempt for his presence (to ward him and the other children away from the Donquixote family, but these are still extreme measures). And it wasn’t until after learning Law’s name that Rosinante dragged him kicking, crying and screaming from hospital to burning hospital (not very saintlike in of itself), even after Law begged him to stop. Rosinante became Law’s saviour partly because of his belief in the will of D., and probably due to some guilt being a Donquixote, but mostly because he has always had a bleeding heart and he pitied (and had very quickly come to love) this angry, sick, deeply lost little kid. All this to say that Law’s faith in Corasan – this saintlike figure Law upholds him as in the future and the lengths he’s willing to go to avenge him/fulfil Rosinante’s purpose reflects the strength of the absolute beliefs Law would’ve been raised with in regards to God.  

Whether it be out of survivor’s guilt (just one more body to heap on top of the Flevance pile), his love for Corasan, or for the sake of taking vengeance on the man that took away the one good thing he’d been able to regain in his miserable life, Law adopts Corasan’s will, the will of D. (which in of itself seems divine in nature), incorporates it into his new belief system, actively takes on the role of the divine punisher/justiciar and dedicates his life to bringing down Doflamingo.

3. Luffy

Catholicism dictates that the entirety of someone’s beliefs should be dedicated to one true cause (that cause being God) and expects people to ride on that, letting it carry them through life, give them hope, purpose, etc. But a lot of former Catholics choose instead to find that through something else. Corasan ignited the spark in Law’s faith around the will of D., but it’s not until he meets Luffy that this really becomes something that feels tangible and real for Law.

When Law saved Luffy in Marineford (putting the heart crew in danger for a stranger he met once), he said he did so “on a whim”, but that seems incredibly ooc for Law — this man that pretty much planned out how the rest of his life would go after the dust of Corasan’s death settled and he came to terms with the fact he wasn’t going to die at age thirteen like he’d originally thought. Circling back to the concept of Law being a sole survivor/messenger for God, it is interesting that Law is the one to seek out Luffy (given that Luffy is usually always the one either being abandoned by people or recruiting his crewmates), and Law is ultimately the catalyst for pulling him towards Dressrosa and Wano. There must be a REASON that led to Law deciding Luffy to be the most viable option out of the Worst Generation for an alliance (beyond blind trust in an unhinged captain that just so happens to also bear the initial D, and Luffy being one of the few captains crazy enough to go along with what Law was cooking up). 

Law undoubtedly would’ve kept a peripheral eye on Luffy for some time before officially meeting him due to him being a rising competitor pirate and another “D” (I imagine the news of his utterly insane exploits would’ve made good reading material, too). The first time Law lays eyes on Luffy in Sabaody though, he still blows all expectations out of the water — crashing headfirst into the crowd of a slave auction and immediately committing a felony against a member of the most powerful upper one percent.

The world nobles are at an “untouchable God” tier in terms of class standing and believe it’s only natural for them to be entitled to whatever and whoever they want in this world that’s beneath them – the same kind of self-aggrandizing false divinity that Law has a a lot of repressed rage towards and that the will of D. is fated to oppose, so this, understandably, is a highly compelling first encounter, but it’s really only an initiating factor for what ultimately draws Law to Luffy. From their very first meeting (and probably before then, in the news stories and rumours Law likely picked up on), it’s made abundantly clear that Luffy does what he wants without a second’s hesitation, no matter the consequences, simply because he feels it is the right thing to do. Some call this an iron will, Law would be more inclined to call it willful stupidity and trouble, but time after time Luffy somehow manages to pull off what Law would best describe as “miracles”. And Law believes the straw hats just might be the ones to drum up another one for him.

Luffy’s also got a lot of passing resemblances to Corasan going for him, e.g. inherently kind, compassionate liberators with big dumb hearts and wide goofy smiles in spite of everything they’ve been through, treating Law as nakama and saving his life despite his protests etc. All of which I’m sure Law hasn’t been completely unaffected by despite the high walls he puts up. And the more Law learned about Luffy the more it probably became clear that he is the antithesis to Doflamingo, i.e. what makes Luffy so goddamn dangerous and terrifying beyond his physical power is his ability to make friends with a simple kind of unconditional love that gets reciprocated enough so that these friends are willing to die for him.

Luffy agrees to the alliance, they successfully blow up Caesar’s base, and head off to Dressrosa. Now’s the time I should bring up that it’s taught in Catholicism that self sacrifice is the ultimate heavenly deed, and here Law is undoubtedly prepared to be a martyr for his cause. Law sends away his crew to Zou before Punk Hazard with the expectations that he’d never see them. He cultivates a fierce emotional detachment against Luffy’s willingness to bring him into the fold of the straw hats, and is resolute in that when the time comes, he will handle this himself, he will carry out Corasan’s will, and if he has to die for it, he will die with Corazon’s name plastered on his back. (Note here that Christianity is contradictory in that Law being this ready to die here is a sin, because revenge and suicide are highly discouraged, so you could say that by avenging and dying for his saviour, Law would be committing both the ultimate sacrifice and the ultimate sin).  

Things get very dicey for Law in Dressrosa, to put it lightly. Doflamingo reveals that he was a celestial dragon (linking back into the will of D. “enemy of the Gods” notion), puts Law on the backfoot and gives him a thorough beating before shooting Law with a couple dozen white lead bullets in front of Luffy (because even when he’s winning Doffy loves to be a cunt about it). By the time Doflamingo is cuffing Law to the heart seat, it’s all looking pretty grim, and it’s very apparent when Luffy shows up to save him, that he is ready to die. 

Law here has given up. He spent years planning his revenge for Corasan, but he lost, and he has very little left in the tank (physically, emotionally, spiritually). But Luffy doesn’t listen. Luffy who doesn’t think, doesn’t care, who trampled all over Law’s carefully laid out plan from the get-go and who is willing to take on Doflamingo single handedly for the simple slight that he dared to harm Luffy’s friend Law. Law will never find peace in his own demise because Luffy doesn’t do peaceful. He does loud and unashamed and open with no rhyme or reason other than the excruciatingly simply fact that he loves people and he thinks the people he loves deserve to have good lives. Luffy chucks Law over his shoulder and drags an injured Law across the city despite his protests (sound familiar?) and in the process inspires the fighting spirit in Law again.

When Law confronts Doflamingo again with Luffy in tow, Law’s faith in Luffy confounds him. The last Doflamingo remembers of Law is this beautifully moldable dark pit of grief and rage who’d given up on believing, period – who wanted the world destroyed. Not so long ago, Law had been a candidate for Doflamingo’s next protégé. Now?

THIS is the action (grinning, staring down the barrel of a gun, flipping Doffy off as he tells him in not so many words that he may kill Law but he will never beat Luffy), Law’s unshakeable faith in the face of his own death is what has Doflamingo realising he will never regain control of Law again – is what incites Doflamingo to go from breaking Law down so he can build him back up again, to conceding defeat and outright killing him. 

The trust that Luffy inspires in Law and the way he talks about Luffy (Luffy being this powerful, miracle-inducing liberator that Law can’t comprehend but follows anyway, Law laying down his hopes on him, weaponizing the will of D. to try and provoke fear from Doffy), is very reminiscent of the awe and faith talked about in scripture. Law discovers the feelings of comfort and hope that Catholicism was supposed to give him in Luffy, but Law’s belief in Luffy is a direct rejection of those teachings. Rejection by believing in a real life person as opposed to the divinity he was taught about. He’s also cementing his belief in the will of D., thus rejecting Doflamingo and all the people that embody the sort of “all powerful” divinity that he abhors (i.e. celestial dragons, Kaido, the Gorōsei/five elders) for the embodiment of hope and humanity. 

When Law survives (again), he expresses he’d rather see Luffy beat Doflamingo with his own eyes or die with Luffy if he loses than leave. Then he watches, after all this talk of miracles, looking up in reverence as Luffy delivers, bright as the sun, haloed by the bars of a cage that’s haunted him for over a decade, Corasan’s words echoing at the back of his mind. God had never saved or freed Law, but Corasan was there for him, the heart crew was there, Luffy was there. And this is Law’s biggest, clearest rejection of religion – this newfound faith in humanity. 

This faith in Luffy is put to the test again in Wano when Luffy is struck down by Kaido, but Law never truly stops believing that he’ll make a comeback. Even when the straw hats doubt whether he’s alive or not, something tells him Luffy’s not dead, and he holds onto that hope. 

We also have the whole nika/joyboy backstory which really only reinforces all of this imagery/god-fearing looks of awe from Law and this idea of Luffy who is this perfect juxtaposition of empathetic and kind to incredibly fearsome fire and brimstone fighter. And regardless of whether you’re into the ship or not this is the impetus of Law’s relationship with Luffy for me, because here’s Luffy who has every right to have a chip on his shoulder and be downtrodden about all the injustices against him, here’s this little guy who against all odds, in the darkest of places, embodies light and hope and kindness and proves to Law that there will be hard times but there IS a happy ending at the end of the tunnel, despite it all. And everytime Luffy rises to the insurmountable challenge and wins, it just further cements that the will of D. is alive, that Corasan was right, that there's something redeemable in Law, a reason why he was worth saving, even if Law doesn’t understand it quite yet. 

[nicodisigma]

since im bored in hospital bed and also im an adult with free will here are my solangelo headcanons that are living in my mind 24/7 and are canon to me:

Will is a very stable vocalist, talented with high notes especially. But a bit lacks music creativity, which is why he was never serious about music career.

He likes doing Linkin Park covers with Austin who is more of a producer + Mike Shinoda here, while Will covers Chester Bennington.

I believe that at some point small baby Will went viral with Country Girl cover (wasn’t hard to accomplish, his mom is famous after all).

Will is into cunty k-pop mainly 2nd and 3rd gen ggs, and likes shinee.

Nico simps for Taemin on Twitter.

Twitter and Pinterest are the only social media Nico knows how to use in 100%.

Every time microwave or toaster do bip bip Nico has a small heart attack.

Sometimes even shouts “Mamamia” out loud.

And orders Will to turn it off.

Chiron, Mr D and cabin 7 are totally okay with Will sleeping in cabin 13 almost everyday, or with Nico sleeping in cabin 7. Mostly because Nico has healthier sleeping schedule when he’s looked after.

Both of them enjoy Maneskin but are also bitter about lack of italian songs in recent years.

Will is often being teasingly asked by other campers if he had already done his duolingo today. Italian duolingo obviously.

Nico bears very unhealthy amount of religious trauma, because of growing up in catholic country in 1920/30s.

Solangelo both join New Rome University at some point, Will is studying medicine and eventually wants to become trauma surgeon. Nico probably chooses some interdisciplinary major connected with latin, history, philosophy and literature.

They share very cool apartment there (their friends are jealous). They also have a black cat which cocoa puffs eventually formed into.

Nico kinda read all Dante Alighieri’s works for fun (in original). And has big classics collection.

Nico is a very fast runner and awesome fighter in evening and at night, since he’s doing small shadow jumps that are so small that no one is really able to spot them. And he doesn’t controll them.

It was hard for Nico to believe that Will really finds him attractive. He gave up with this “he’s faking” allegations, only when he realized Will used(?) to have a celebrity crush on Avril Lavinge, Andy Black and generally tons of emo edgy people and characters.

That’s not everything for sure 🤙🏻

[sarafinamk]

Fallen Angel (Smiling Critters Space Riders AU Reader Insert) Part 2

Summary: The riders know you're addicted to the red smoke. Certain members thought they could help you during that point of your recovery, but that proves to be more difficult than they anticipated.

(This is the OFFICIAL continuation of Part 1. Please check out the talented @onyxonline for more context. Since this chapter contains a lot of sensitive topics, I will try my hardest to be respectful about this. The next chapter will be a little more light-hearted, I promise.)

TW: Blood, Injury, Near Death, Imprisonment, Trauma, Death mentions, Demon Mentions, Hallucinations, Religious Trauma, Religious Imagery and Symbolism, Religious Cults, Drug Withdrawal, Drug Addiction, Self harm, Accidental Suicide Attempt, Mental Health Issues, Slight cursing

-----------

The next few days after your operation pass in a blur. Everyone has been trying to keep themselves occupied, holding on to what little air of normalcy still hung in the air. None of the riders have been able to fully process what could only be described as the biggest turn of events in their time fighting the war. It’s not the first time a member of the cult has had to undergo treatment. Victims that got converted due to planet invasion and nonconsensual exposure to the red smoke are rescued all the time. It is basic protocol for Space Riders. Sometimes a priest would be rescued. The story of how those members came to be priests varies. Some joined of their own free will, while others fought before the addiction made them lose the will to fight.

But you?

Archangels are infamous for their unwavering loyalty to the Prototype. They are the Prototype’s right-hand man, their council, and their second in command. Archangels eat, sleep, and breathe the Prototype and expect others to do the same. There are only a few known attempts to rescue archangels in history. The stories ended in one of three ways: they go back to the Prototype, (sometimes with a new band of “loyal” followers), they slaughter their rescuers, or they take their own life as a last resort.

Knowing that has made most of the Space Riders tense, Bubba included. The elephant has arguably been the tensest. Not even the sight of you resting in a cell with power mufflers on your wrists is enough to put him slightly at ease. He wasn’t a complete stranger to Aether magic (what others refer to as Divinity powers.) Granted, he only ever got to study this powerful and unique kind of sorcery through the catalogs, a few ancient ruins, and his team’s battles with you. Even then, doubt swarmed him with questions concerning how effective the cell, let alone the power mufflers will be in the long run.

Bubba sighs, pinching the bridge of his trunk as the signs of yet another headache emerge. That was one long argument with the Commander and council he would rather not revisit. Not that there are any that Bubba would like to recall. Dogday, despite all his good intentions, didn’t make it any easier for anyone. The two riders may have convinced the higher-ups, but the elephant knows that this is not the last time they will have this conversation with the Commander and council. The thought of that makes him take a swig from his coffee mug.

Problem number one may have been resolved for now, but now there’s problem number two: your red smoke addiction. With no red smoke to give you, it didn't take long for the symptoms to show up. Your feverish face contorts into a grimace yet again. Bubba glances at the vital charts. Of course, none of the numbers look any better than they did 10 minutes ago. He doesn't know why he hoped for expected anything different. Hopefully, the pain medication will do its job soon.

Bobby rushes back to your bedside with a cold, wet towel placed on your head. It's been a common occurrence with her ever since your operation. The "around the clock" care increased tenfold after the first signs of your red smoke withdrawal emerged. She even has the dark circles and bags under her eyes to prove it. Even when she's running on nothing more than fumes (and a few cups of coffee), she still runs around like she has had a good night's worth of sleep. Bubba can't help but sigh to himself.

The two medics are doing what they can to keep you comfortable and stable, but Bubba knows that the two of them will not be enough to help you right now. Hell, even Catnap's powers, despite helping you settle down and sleep, isn't a miracle cure for stabilizing your vitals in the long run. If Bubba wasn't tied up with diplomatic matters, he would take over more shifts for Bobby so that she could get some rest. Unfortunately, the others don't have the medical training so tasking them with watching over you is out of the question. Bubba insists on taking you to the HQ’s treatment center. Bobby refuses every time the idea is mentioned, insisting that the two of them are able to look after you themselves. That led to a few strong disagreements. Bubba may be miffed but can't say he blames Bobby for being concerned about the possibility of (1) another potential massacre on your end and (2) you being mistreated by those you’ve wronged. Unlike the two riders, however, the people at the center have the resources and training to help you.

----------

*MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING, PROCEED AHEAD WITH CAUTION*

You don't know how long you've been here. You can't remember. You just remember waking up to bright lights and a figure or two... maybe a few... standing over you. But then you went back into the world of darkness. Did you really wake up or was it one nonsensical dream?

You don't know.

You REALLY don't know.

It doesn't matter right now. All you know is that you're stuck in hell, and this is worse than what you grew up hearing about. Your powers stopped working, so you can’t escape. There was nowhere to run where those… things won’t find you and bring you back to your prison and torture you. Sometimes you can see the faces of your enemies before those things morphed into… something sinister. Your stomach was doing summersaults. There was a pounding in your head and chest that just won't stop. A burning tightness spread from your chest to your throat, leading you to choking and gasping at this point. This fire smoldering inside you just won’t die. All you want right now is to drop to the floor, close your eyes, and sleep. Your heavy, aching limbs beg for it, but no matter how hard you try, your head buzzes in protest.  

All you need is some red smoke. Just a whiff. Hell, just a tiny little sniff. You don't care. You just need it coursing through you right now. It'll make all the agony stop. You keep praying, BEGGING, to the Prototype to forgive you, to save you from this damnation.

Yet he never answers…

Why won't he hear you?

You know you failed him, but you didn't mean to. You would never disobey him. Not after everything he did for you. You did everything right your whole life to show your gratitude and love for him and you still ended up here-

A searing sensation from your wrist pulls you away from your thoughts. You turn it over and you see... red...

It’s so bright...

So beautiful...

And it's spreading to the white decorating your arms. Your fingers, looming above your forearm are also decorated with red. For the first time, you deliberately take in slow, deep breaths. You take in the red now seeping through the white. With shaky fingers, you slowly unwrap the soaking red barrier on your forearm. To your joy, the red spread rapidly from your bare forearm all the way down to your fingertips. Your red-stained fingers brush over your forearm, painting it with more red. At that moment, you smile, knowing your prayers had been answered. It doesn’t have that sweet aroma as usual, but it will once you allow more to spread around you. Without hesitation, you got to work on the other parts of you that were wrapped in white. Thankfully, there were plenty. You've been wrapped up in white for so long. It would look SO MUCH BETTER in red. You will do ANYTHING just to see red.

You also did have to rip out some stubborn black stringy parasites from your torso in the process. Once you managed to get every single one out, though, there was so much more red embracing you in a warm hug. It was just like all the other times. It was like the Prototype was with you again. It burned so much at first, but after some time, a cold wave of euphoria washes over your entire body. You breathe out a sigh of relief because for the first time in a long time, you can’t feel any pain. Now that there's red around you, you can finally sleep peacefully.

Much better...

Darkness begins enveloping your vision, before being dragged back by... screaming and something shattering? It's hard to tell. All you can make out are a pair of red paws being wrapped around you and lowering you to the ground. A red figure pulls you close to it, but you didn’t mind. Everything about the red figure is so warm you just want to snuggle next to it for eternity. You close your eyes, taking in that warmth. It feels so good to sleep again.

-----

The Space Riders decided to have dinner at Kissy’s Diner. Unfortunately, nothing on the table looks appealing enough to eat. They either stared blankly or picked at their food and drinks mindlessly. No words were exchanged amongst the seven of them, not even one of Kickin’s and/or Hoppy’s stupid jokes to lighten the mood. But what was there to joke about right now? What was there to even talk about?

Picky sighs, noticing one particular member still missing. She wishes she could say she was surprised, but that doesn’t mean a perfectly good meal should go to waste (even if everyone else’s meals have long since gone cold). The pig stands up, exchanges quick goodbyes with the six present members, asks Kissy for take-out boxes for the entire table, and rushes out of the diner. She makes a beeline the one place their missing member could be considering recent events.

It was just supposed to be a quick trip to your cell to deliver dinner for both you and Bobby. If you were going to stay here, you needed some nourishment to help recover. And Bobby, (bless the kind-hearted bear), has been so busy helping you through your withdrawal that she hasn’t had a lot of time to rest let alone take a break. She can’t remember the last time she saw Bobby leave your side for reasons that didn’t include retrieving medication and other things meant for your comfort. Not even Dogday was able to convince her to rest for a while. (Pretty rich coming from HIM if you ask the pig.)

Bobby only left for a few minutes for some water and more medication. Apparently, you were having a hard time breathing. Picky follows Bobby to your cell and when they got there, there you were with scratch marks and aggravated open wounds. Not only were there now bloody bandages laying sprawled on the floor, but you went as far as to rip out your stitches. The pig shudders remembering all that blood on you while you stand there muttering things like, “More red. Not enough. Need more.”

For as long as she lives, Picky doesn’t think she’ll ever forget that scream from Bobby before she ran to catch you. Not even the shattering of glass and ceramics can drown out the bear’s screams and pleas for you to stay awake. Picky remembers rushing for Bubba which ended up with her alerting the entire team. Dogday raced to the cockpit immediately to notify the Commander about the emergency. The others followed Picky down to your cell. When they reached you two, they find Bobby’s trembling hands pressing a bloody rag against your bleeding torso. Poor girl was barely able to keep the rag steady. Bubba, Picky, and Crafty rush to your unconscious figure while Catnap and Kickin gently lead Bobby out the cell. She protested but couldn’t escape the boys’ grasps. All she could do was watch Bubba bark out orders to the other girls, including Hoppy who oddly had been standing frozen in place, staring the whole time. Picky and Hoppy ran to and fro with whatever Bubba demanded while he and Crafty worked together to keep you alive long enough for Dogday to get you to the station.

After 11 minutes, the crew finally made it to the space station. Dogday leads a team of medics to you and… well the rest is history.

*END OF TRIGGERING PASSAGE*

All the riders quickly exited their spacecraft shortly after the medics took you away. None of them wanted to stay on the ship right now. After some time, Bobby said that she was just going to get some “fresh air.” But just as Picky predicted, Bobby is, instead, sitting outside your blood-stained prison cell, curled in on herself with her head buried in her knees.

“Bobby?” Picky settles down next to her, gently placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder. Bobby slowly raises her head. Her muzzle is wet and the cascade of tears soaking into her fur isn’t helping.

“It’s all my fault.” Bobby takes a deep, shaky breath. “I shouldn’t have left (Y/n) alone…”

Picky opens her arms and Bobby leans into the pig’s embrace without a second thought. “No, it’s not your fault. No one could have known this would happen.”

That was met with more shaking, hiccupping, and whimpering as the tears began seeping onto Picky’s sleeve. She didn’t mind at all. The pig just whispers more soothing words and assurances while rubbing circles around the other girl’s back. They stayed like that for who knows how long. (Now Picky wishes they’d invested in a clock for the cells). Eventually, Bobby ran out of tears, but she remains curled up in Picky’s arms. She hasn’t bothered moving from her spot, instead opting to stare at the metal floor. Picky can hear her occasionally let out a heavy sigh. How this girl has not fallen asleep yet despite pulling frequent all-nighters for the last few weeks is beyond the pig.

“You know… It’s not forever,” Picky began gently. “It’s just until they get better. We can always contact the facility about their progress. We can even schedule visits with them.” Picky didn’t miss the way Bobby’s frown deepened nor the way her gaze remained hardened on the cold metal floor. “Hey, they’re going to be okay.”

The only response Picky gets is a brief nod. It seems to be the only thing Bobby has the energy to do right now.

-----

Quick note - I can't believe this story got this much attention! Thank you everybody for your support. And again, sorry for the confusion yesterday. I didn't meant to post the draft. I was not paying attention to what I was pressing when I was editing. Sometimes I hate writing on mobile phones. 😆

[skuttlesstrawberry]

Sometimes Brennan’s degree in religious studies shines through in an awe-inspiring way. Take, for example, the Temple of the Fallen Sun from episode 17 of Fantasy High Junior Year: it is explicitly an imperial temple. Now, the obvious level is that its symbols are all about conquest, but on a deeper level, its very nature is an imperial conquest.

The reveal, towards the end of the Bad Kids’ time in the temple, that the Sunstone Empire did not originally build this place is also a reflection of the imperial project. It took a faith that was life-giving for its people and twisted it into something foul, something that in D&D was explicitly infernal, but it could not completely erase the underlying divinity. At the end, they could not remove the underlying uncorrupted temple infrastructure; at the end, they could not twist Ankarna’s core nature so much that she would be willing to kill her sister or her spouse. The imperial faith of conquest can take over a religion, Brennan seems to be telling us, but it cannot fully transform the spark of divinity at the core of the original faith.

So let’s now talk about Spyre’s Church of Sol.

Maybe it wasn’t planned that way, but the longer the Fantasy High saga goes on, the more clear it seems to me that the Church of Sol is in many ways the greater scope villain of the Bad Kids’ tale. For Junior Year, it’s not just that complete slimebag Bobby Dawn, the Church of Sol’s resident celebrity cleric, is actively onside with Porter’s plan to ascend to godhood; it’s also that in the Temple of the Fallen Sun, the Legend Lore spell told us that it was the Church of Sol who planted the idea with the Sunstones of transforming their god from a sun god to a god of war and conquest!

Note, importantly, that it is the Church of Sol and not Sol himself who planted this idea. Legend Lore told us that, actually, Sol himself was HAPPY with (re)uniting the various groups of Spyre’s gods into one community. Rather, it was Sol’s church that noticed their God’s domain was divided and decided to do something about it. Recall, also, that it was the Church of Sol that innovated Devil’s Nectar; it’s entirely possible that Sol was deliberately kept out of the loop when it came to the church’s plans to make him into the One True Sun God.

Now, we also know that there’s a kind of henotheistic trinity-like thing going on with Sol, Gallicaea, and Helio. There’s some sort of family thing going on with Sol as the top Father God and Helio as the Crystal Dragon Jesus son with the serial numbers filed off; witness the decidedly evangelical Christianity flavor of their related churches. There’s also the whole vibe from both the Church of Sol and Helio’s followers that their gods are the only correct deities to follow and any other faith (or way of life) is Dangerously Wrong. This plays directly into the way that they really kicked off the chaos of Freshman Year and therefore the Bad Kids saga.

Yeah, Kalvaxus was the big bad of Freshman Year, but he and his direct minions weren’t the first enemies that the Bad Kids fought. That would be Doreen and the Corn Cuties, who were themselves borne of the attempt by Coach Daybreak and the Harvestmen cult to corrupt their own faith’s chosen and break the world.

This is actually deeply important: while Kristen’s parents are assholes and directly tied to a doomsday cult version of Helioic faith, there’s always been an implication that beyond the Harvestmen there’s a healthier version of the church of Helio that we haven’t really been able to interact with. And that’s okay: even a healthier version of Helio probably wouldn’t have been healthy for Kristen, given the extent of religious trauma she’s had to deal with, so it makes sense that even in Freshman year Kristen was being offered by Heaven itself alternate ways to have faith.

In Sophomore Year, we got a glimpse of the conflict within Gallican faith, with Tracker discovering in Fallinel a more oppressive and passive version of her faith, and choosing essentially to stay behind to try and breathe new life into it. Importantly, we learned Fallinel Gallicaea has a relationship with Sol, and so their churches are intertwined; Brennan even talked in Sophomore Year about how Gallicaea in Fallinel was being shaped by her State Church followers there. It was that twisted Gallican church that duped Cassandra’s original followers into forcing her transformation into the Nightmare King, you may recall.

What this all seems to be pointing to is the existence of an organization entwined with the Church of Sol that discovered Devil’s Nectar and a way to twist divinity to their ends by manipulating followers into the shapes most suiting their ends. We know from Pok Gukgak’s cautious statements that even the celestial-level actors have some side eye for Sol’s supposed followers. We know from Bakur that there’s an open question as to whether Sol or his followers are REALLY calling the shots. So: if Sol’s followers have their own plans, what’s their goal in all this corruptive influence that they’ve been spreading around?

Now, here’s where we circle back around to Brennan’s knowledge of how real world religions and real world people work: the goal may simply be power and domination. In the real world, the connection between the State and some sort of organized Church power has always been a place where power and control could be minted. A cornerstone of the Roman Empire’s system of control was the idea of the Imperial Cult: you can absolutely continue worshipping your personal god as long as you also acknowledge that god’s place is subservient in the larger Roman order to Rome’s chosen divinity. On the other side of the world, China’s system emphasized having the Mandate of Heaven in order to rule; even their top divinity the August Personage of Jade would lose his job if he did not stay within the rules of the system.

In short: a group of folks who’ve figured out how to manipulate faith to make their positions indisputably Right are very dangerous in any world, and Brennan is absolutely correct to cast them as the villains behind the scenes manipulating everything.

[piratecaptainscaptainpirates]

So you want to write about a Jewish Ed Teach - a quick guide to writing a Jewish man of color, by a Jewish moc

Given Taika Waititi is Jewish, I am always so happy when I see fanfic authors writing about Ed being Jewish! We need more Jewish poc rep and I'm always happy to see it. That being said, I've also seen a lot of misunderstandings, so I wanted to to write up a few quick guidelines.

Disclaimer: I'm just one Jew with an opinion, and this is based on my own experiences! I'd love if other Jews, especially other Jews of color, in the fandom would like to chime in with their thoughts as well!

It is possible to be a Jewish athiest! Judaism is membership in a people, and belief in g-d is not required (and, in my community, it's even considered a very personal question!). Some of the most observant Jews I know are athiests; belief in g-d and level of Jewish observance are not directly correlated. Cannot overstate how common it is for Jews to not believe in g-d or go back and forth on the question.

On that note, there are different levels of Jewish observance. Every individual is different, but in general there's Orthodox (very strict), and then, way on the other side, there's Reform and Conservative (Conservative does not equal politically Conservative). Conservative and Reform are very similar, except the Conservative movement tends to be more observant of traditional Jewish law and uses a lot more Hebrew. If you live in an area without a lot of Jews (like where I live!), it's very common for Reform and Conservative movements to have a lot of overlap and collaborate on a lot of stuff together.

Not every Jew keeps Kosher, or keeps Kosher to the same level of strictness.

Synagogue services are not like Christian services, especially outside of holiday services. Ordinary Saturday morning services are often more like a group conversation as we try to work new meaning out of the Torah. The B'Nei Mitzvah, the big ceremony that marks a kid being old enough to participate fully in Jewish life, is more like "baby's first thesis defense" than anything else! There have literally been pauses in services I've attended before as someone ran to the temple library to check their sources.

Not all Jews speak Hebrew. Some Jews might not know any, some might be able to stumble through the more important prayers, some might be able to sight-read okay, some might only know religious words but not modern words, some might be fluent! Just about any level of proficiency is believable.

Ed's got a lot of tattoos! Tattoos are a big traditional Jewish no-no, but (again!) different movements and different Jews have their own opinions. I know a Conservative tattoo artist! It's not something that other Jews would comment on (unless they're just assholes) and it wouldn't make anyone kick him out of synagogue services (no joke, I read that in a fic once).

Hannukah is not the only (or even the most important) Jewish holiday; it's just the one most non-Jews know about. The two biggest holidays are Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur. I think Ed's favorite holidays would be Purim (you get to wear costumes and put on plays!) and Passover (retelling of a story along with a big meal!).

Depending on the area and the Jewish demographic, Jews of color can sometimes feel uncomfortable in our own community, especially when other Jews automatically assume we must be converts. While this is a real issue, it is not something I want to read authors who aren't themselves Jews of color write about because it is a deeply inter-Jewish issue.

Depending on the community you grow up in, religious trauma isn't as common with queer Jews as it is with queer Christians. The Reform movement has been advocating for queer Jews since the 1960s (you read that right, yes). I'm not saying there are no queer Jews who have religious trauma, I'm just saing it's a lot less common, and I have always felt immediately accepted as queer in Jewish spaces.

The inverse is not true. Queer spaces are not always accepting of Jews (or of people of color, a double whammy!).

A few stereotypes to avoid: Jews are often stereotyped as being greedy and corrupt. Jewish kids are bullied by Christian kids because "we killed Jesus," when I was ten I had another kid ask to "see my horns." Always avoid comparing Ed directly to animals, especially rodents.

If you're a non-Jew looking to write about a Jewish Ed, I recommend doing some research. MyJewishLearning is a great website that's very accessible.

Every Jew interacts with our Judaism differently, so if you're writing a Jewish Ed, please take a moment to think about what it means for him! Membership in a community? Calming traditions that remind him of home, family, and community? A point of pride - we're a resilient lot! Even just a note in his background that he's not as connected to as he might like to be?

[astarionposting]

tell us more about ren she’s so pretty i need lore

Hello anon!! I am so flattered u want to know more about her! Ren is an alternate universe version of my usual Tav. I’m much better at storytelling visually, so I’ll explain some of my visual choices I’ve made for her character, which contains a bit of the lore I have created thus far. (also thank u for the excuse to just create a character dump post for her lol - i spent way too much time on this)

content warnings: mentions of dissection, scarring one's own face, unhealthy obsessions, stalking, religious trauma... just general fucked up Bhaalist things. + spoilers for BG3

EYES

A keypoint in her design are her eyes; Ren has the same eyes as The Dark Urge's Fiend butler, Sceleritas Fel, reflecting her origin as a creation of Bhaal Himself. Similar to other creations like her and Sceleritas, she was made with the purpose of serving and assisting Bhaal's Chosen.

SCARS

The right side of her face is deliberate scarring of her own doing during her priestess "training". Her body scars, however, are the result of the experimentation performed on her in her early training days. These experiments are often done with the purpose of making unnatural "improvements".

HANDS

I really love how Scarlet Witch's fingertips will stain black as a result of her use of the Darkhold's chaos magic spells, so I took that inspiration and headcannon that Ren's hands/arms do something similar from her "training" as a priestess of Bhaal and her use of necromancy/shadow magic and rituals.

For her general aesthetic, I was mainly inspired by the concept art for Bhaal for BG3 and this art of a priestess of Bhaal. She often wears a large dusty cloak over her usual gown. Placed on the top of her cloak, she will also sometimes wear a crown of thorns, mimicking the "spiky" style of common Bhaalist attire. During their time in the temple, before the events of BG3, she often adorned her face with a broken piece of a human skull. Since her coat is quite heavy, she walks a little hunched over… kind of like a creepy gremlin. Additionally, she will wear a small Bhaalist charm at the collar of her cloak.

Underneath, she wears her typical black gown; the top half resembles Orin’s carapace and blends into her skirt, with leg slits for better mobility, of course! When she isn’t wearing her cloak, her hair is loosely tied back and styled into a collection of braids, accessorized with Bhaalist jewelry.

*Keep in mind I am not a lore expert in terms of D&D deities or Bhaalist lore in general. I took some stuff from the forgotten realms wiki but also just made some stuff up lol, so this NOT D&D or BG3 lore accurate.

Also, again, warnings for unhealthy relationships/obsessions, as well as brief mentions of torture but not in detail.

THEY ARE BHAALISTS THEY HAVE ISSUES!!!!

Similarly to Sceleritas Fel, Ren has a lot of "care" for The Dark Urge. She favours him over Orin, and often clashed heads with her... but of course I have to have some doomed yuri content too!!!!!! so maybe they kissed once or twice >:) (but waaay before the events of BG3) Her "training" as a priestess of Bhaal consisted of torture, religious indoctrination, and extreme mental corruption/manipulation, especially by Orin. As implied before, she faced experiments in order to "improve" her usefulness to Bhaal and His Chosen. As a result, she is not the most stable person you'll meet. She is mainly chaotic evil aligned, however, her final loyalties will always lie with The Dark Urge, and she is accepting of his resistance/redemption path, as well as his acceptance/murder hobo path. She is essentially a certified Real One (also doesn't rlly vibe with Bhaal after he kills her evil Dragon boyfriend yk). The tadpole in someway also helped "release" her mind of Bhaal's influence, and while she is still an obsessive and violent girlie, she can be persuaded to not be a total murder hobo and sometimes even decides on her own to go against Bhaal's wishes (she still cool with murder though). As I previously mentioned, Ren was created by Bhaal to assist His Chosen in his duties and leading the temple, as most priestesses/priests of Bhaal do. She is more of a companion and advisor to The Dark Urge, rather than a servant like Sceleritas Fel. She is deeply (obsessed) "in-love" with The Dark Urge, and supports him over Orin. A while before the whole tadpoles, absolute, blah blah blah stuff, her and Orin had a brief history, but it was moreso Orin's jealousy of what Durge had. Her in-game class is a Bhaalist class mod! It is very fun so far, and she just levelled up to level 3 and can now has the ability Verminous Metamorphosis, so she can turn into a… RAAAAT!! 🐀 sorry, Astarion :( However, I see her as a combo of this and a death cleric of Bhaal. In terms of how her story is going in the BG3 campaign, i still haven't fully fleshed anything out yet! I would assume she would have a large impact on Durge's memory loss. Maybe she will have her own gaps in memory, but knows they have a reason to go to Baldur's Gate. As for other durge events, I believe she would be proud of The Dark Urge for such a "beautiful display of gore!" after Alfira night lol. I'm still undecided if I want to do redemption or murder hobo durge... I don't want to kill Isobel so I'm probably going to headcannon that Bhaal tasks The Dark Urge with killing her, as a way to test if he is "losing his way", or if he cares more about the life of a "mere servant of Bhaal" than his own "birthright" as Bhaal's Chosen.

For now I am just going with the flow of the game and doing some fun photo and gif series of Ren and Durge's adventure in my Durgetav playthrough!

Face preset | hair | scar | eyes | makeup + bloody lips | body tattoo & autopsy scar Orin top, arms + legs | dress + accessories | cloak | hood + crown/mask | lingerie

♡ PLAYLIST

dividers made by me with canva; graphics by @/brand314195326 and @/dhtgip. screenshots by me ♡

[aziraphales-library]

Hi!

Do you have some South downs cottage fics? Smut is not really preferred. Hurt/comfort is preferred.

Thanks, have a nice day ^^

Hello! We have #south downs cottage and #hurt/comfort tags. Here are some sumt-free ones for you...

Strawberries by IneffableDoll (G)

Aziraphale was worried about Crowley. This was not an unusual state for Aziraphale to be in. It could be reasonably argued that he had worried about his demonic counterpart since the moment he met him and had never really stopped. However, today was different. ~ Something triggers old memories for Crowley. Aziraphale helps him through the fallout.

It isn't logical by cosmic_mess (T)

Crowley is still rubbing his back, soothing him, trying to make him feel better. So he leans more fully into Crowley’s chest, burying his face in his neck. “I’m sorry.” He mumbles. “Don’t–” Crowley starts abruptly. “Don’t apologize, Aziraphale.” or Aziraphale has religious trauma and Crowley is trying to make it all better

To Protect That Which You Hold Most Dear by Bazzpop (T)

Enraged at the poor treatment of his love, Aziraphale thrust himself forward and attacked Michael with all his might. As expected, she put up more of a fight than Gabriel had—granted, she was the savviest fighter amongst her ranks—but Aziraphale fought with such protective ferocity that she didn’t stand much of a chance. Aziraphale had been made as a guardian, after all, and it was in his nature to do anything within his power to protect the one he loved: Crowley. — Crowley gets ambushed by archangels looking to bring Aziraphale back to Heaven. But lucky for him, he has a guardian angel to protect him from those that wish to do him harm.

Discharge by Melime (T)

Sometime after the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, Aziraphale receives an official discharge from his functions as an angel. He doesn't know why it bothers him as much as it does.

Malaise by EdosianOrchids901 (T)

Aziraphale isn’t feeling well, and just keeps feeling worse until he finally collapses. Something is clearly making him sick, but what? Can Crowley find the cause of his angel’s illness?

Insomnia by theriverspath (T)

Crowley struggles with insomnia after he and Aziraphale move into their South Downs cottage. The purchase of new bed sheets leads to Crowley finally opening up to his angel about why. Set post-season three. Written after the release of season two. (Disclaimer: Crowley's eyes function like human eyes in this story. It would break my heart too much if he couldn't see the stars.)

- Mod D

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

Part 32

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Part 31 🟣 Part 33

A reverse harem vampire AU ft. Mikey, Marshall, August, Sherlock, Charles, Melot and Napoleon

Series summary: Somehow, you've managed to live with your boyfriend and his roommates for months before finding out they're vampires, but the real shock first comes when they find out you have a special quality. A quality the guys would love to make use of...

Warnings: ongoing vampire shenanigans, Melot's ongoing identity crisis, purple (or at the very least lavender) prose, angst, mentions of: child marriage, cheating, (internalized) homophobia, religious trauma, abuse, SA. Mentions of grey sweatpants, inappropriate anger at the inventor of jeans, Awkward Virgin trope, blood, biting, bruising, praise kink, the untimely demise of a shirt, awkward groping, (awkward everything), handjob, blowjob, premature-ish ejaculation, wasting water by taking a shower that later proves to have been absolutely fucking useless, Frotting/rubbing/dry humping (not sure what to call this, tbh. A butt-job?), rimming (eating ass, analingus, pick your fave), light D/s dynamic, light brat behavior, hair pulling, more praise (possibly slight feminisation? Depending on how youd define that?), masturbation, deepthroating, throatfucking, oral creampie, cumswapping/cumkissing, elements of subspace + subdrop, aftercare.

Word count: 14.004 (Yes. 14k. You read that correctly.)

A/N: Well, well, well, what here we have? It started with this sweet ask from @geralts-yenn, and... what can I say? Things got out of hand? (Understatement.)

It quickly became clear to me that there was a lot more to unpack than I had originally counted on, and then the boys turned out to be... well, dirty little whores. So...

I considered making this a bonus-chapter because this is written from Melot's POV, but since it slots into the timeline, I decided against that. I will, however be changing the tense and POV (from past tense to present, and from 2nd person to 1st person POV) from here on out, because over time I've simply come to prefer writing that way. I'll also be writing more chapters from the boys' perspectives—I'm working on one from Leon's POV that isn't too far off in the future (storyline-wise... actual real-life time-wise, one can never know.)

Also: I'm literally begging everyone to come into my comments (or DMs, or asks) to talk about these boys because... Well, I just love them so much. I already did, but it's literally so much worse now, lol.

@geralts-yenn @deandoesthingstome @ellethespaceunicorn @summersong69 @mis-lil-red

@sillyrabbit81 @livisss @itsrubberbisquit @ktficworld @proud-aroace-beastie

@plaidcat4815 @wa-ni @lovemusicpart2 @lizzystuffsthings @manysecrets2020

@sarcasmoverlordxo @mysweetlittledesire

I’m afraid to open my eyes, knowing that if I do, I’ll be staring right back into the reflection of my own soul.

There’s no hiding from him—not that I want to. At least, I think I don’t.

I sit still, counting the seconds as they tick away on the clock in the living room. I’m the only one who can hear it from anywhere in the house—anywhere on the property, even. If I try hard enough, that is.

The sound has been my anchor for centuries. Sometimes, it feels more familiar to me than the beating of my own heart. Unsurprisingly, I might add. How could it not be, when everything about me exists for the sole purpose of looking outward.

Oftentimes, my visions have prevented me from gaining a more intimate knowledge of myself, and they continue to do so to this day. It’s been this way throughout my entire existence.

Fourteen hundred years. Fourteen centuries.

My senses are honed to perfection. Beyond it, even—although many would argue the impossibility of the proposition, but it’s exactly what a millennium and a half will do to you.

I know that better than anyone. How could anyone know better? For all we know, I might very well be the oldest vampire on the planet.

The scoff I attempt to choke back finds its way to freedom as a nigh imperceptible faltering in my otherwise steady breathing.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he whispers softly. I feel his fingertips creep closer to mine before they actually do, yet I am startled by the sensation of him touching me.

I resist the urge to pull my hand back, just as I’ve been resisting the urge to flee the room and never return. A part of me, I am most unwilling to admit, even wants to attack.

He wouldn’t stand a chance.

He’d be dead before he even realized I’d moved.

Oh, to become something you’ve been taught to fear—and to think this is hardly my first battle of the sort. I’d give up the hope that they ever get easier, if I hadn’t known for a fact they don’t for the longest time.

‘You like boys.’

These words have haunted my dreams for the past two days. Left me alone for nary a second since the moment they fell freely and innocently from Mike’s beautiful lips.

Spoken with no ill intent, they wrapped themselves around every inch of every branch of my consciousness, constricting it more and more with every last breath I took, their truth so immediately undeniable that I was forced to admit to it.

And that means there is no way back for me now.

When Mike told me that I’d have time for an identity crisis later, I don’t think he realized just how right he was, and I can’t blame him for his ignorance. I don’t doubt for a second that it was completely unintentional.

As much as he hates it when we say it, he is just a baby, born into a fairly secular household in the sixties, but more importantly; involved in all kinds of generally more accepting subcultures from a relatively young age…

He’s had his struggles, of course. But as strange as it is to say, because one has to admit they were significant, they are irrelevant at this current time.

On the other side, we have… well, me.

Forced into a political marriage at fourteen in early medieval Cornwall, to a girl even younger than I was, our wedding night consisting of nothing but a tear-filled pact made between two terrified children under the cover of darkness, to forego the consummation of our marriage.

Instilled in me, a fierce loyalty and the staunch belief that a man lay with no one but his own wife, and a wife with no other person than her husband, I devoted myself to her as best I could, given our circumstances.

That there was no love between us mattered not, for we had been united before God.

Not unlike today, however, inappropriately crude and explicit conversations with my peers had made me far more knowledgeable on the subject of reproduction than I otherwise would have been, given my lacking experience.

For years, I slept by her side, riddled with guilt over our failure to fulfil our marital duties toward one another, praying every waking minute for the ability to be a better husband.

I shed my tears over her betrayal in private as I prepared to welcome a child into my life—a child I knew couldn’t possibly be mine.

Every day of my life, I am grateful for the existence of specialized historical trauma psychologists: They were of indescribable and immeasurable value when I was struggling to unite the unpleasant aspects of my upbringing and ‘early’ non-human life—the first thousand years, give or take���with the modern world I somehow found myself in rather more suddenly than I had ever expected.

The past certainly has a way of sneaking up on you, but I wouldn’t dream of underestimating the present in that particular respect.

Alas, as helpful as my therapists have been, their efforts feel wasted in this moment, because Mike dragged me onto a new road of self-discovery that appears to contain several unexpected challenges.

Challenges I am afraid of.

Challenges I am ashamed of.

As mentioned before: for the second time in my fourteen hundred years, I have become something I was taught to fear, and despite my convictions that I had overcome my prejudices, that I had moved past this darkness of fear and hatred, it seems to be the case that nothing could be further from the truth.

A shocking revelation. Truly.

I find no solace in the fact that I was never taught to hate, though it is true. One is almost never directly taught to hate, for the simple reason that it is far easier to teach fear than hatred.

But fear breeds hatred.

I learned to fear the sin, which led me to hate the sinner, and there is no excuse for that.

This, I have always known.

Over time—more time than I care to admit—my hatred disappeared, and I took pride in that, for I had shown growth, and an ability to learn and adapt.

I had evolved.

How upsetting it is, then, to be forced to come to the realization that somewhere along the line, I seem to have come to the conclusion that to cease fearing for others’ condemnation would suffice in terms of accepting them.

In other words: If they want to go to hell, let them!

And now that it’s me, I find that I suffer still from that very same fear of a god I have long since stopped believing in.

The line between truly knowing that something isn’t sinful, and simply not caring when others sin, is remarkably thin.

And I am standing right on top of it.

“It wouldn’t help,” Mike whispers, just as my desire to ask him what I want surges, threatening to wash me away.

Two lonely tears escape my still closed eyes, allowing me to focus on their path down my cheeks as they fight the resistance my skin provides.

I thank them silently.

“Why not?” There is no point in trying to keep the defeat from shining through in my voice.

“Because you want it all,” he replies. I expect to hear pity in his voice, and its absence surprises me nearly as much as his answer. No matter how much I want to ask him, my voice refuses to lend me its cooperation.

Not that it matters. After all, Mike knows.

“There is no ‘one desire’, Melot,” he continues, making me shiver as he drags a single finger down the back of my hand. “In the past thirty seconds alone, you’ve cycled through ‘fight, flight, freeze’ more times than I can count. You want to jump me—either to kiss me or kill me. You want to run, hide, talk, think, cry, scream, punch something—not me, please. You want answers, and to desperately not need answers because you want there to not be a question that needs answering to begin with.”

“I never wanted to kill you,” I mumble, the characteristic heat of embarrassment creeping up to my cheeks in a staggering tempo.

Mike chuckles. I’m not proud of what the sound does to me, but good Lord it feels amazing. “That’s the thing, Melmel,” he muses quietly, “the fact that I felt it, means it was a genuine desire. Granted, it didn’t last long, but it was there. And I get it.”

“I was never going—” More tears tread in their predecessors’ footsteps, their heat blending in nicely with the scorching glow of embarrassment that plagues my skin.

“I know,” he reassures me. “You have a whole rational brain I don’t have access to—that’s Marshall’s territory, not mine. My point is: you can’t ‘sorta’ want something. Okay, you can, in the sense that there’s a scale to how much you want something—a range from ‘want’ to ‘need’—but there’s no such thing as a half-desire. A desire is a desire.”

I wince at the implication of his words as guilt washes over me like a tidal wave, while Mike continues: “Your tiny little—but genuine—want to brutally murder me was immediately overshadowed by a very strong need for me to be… not dead.”

“Was there anything useful in the entire list?” I’m surprised by my ability to squeeze out an entire sentence, if I’m being honest.

Mike chuckles again, and my whole body feels like it’s made of carbonated liquid. “The desire to call your therapist is probably a good one,”—he pauses for a moment, letting out a cheeky chuckle—“and I would selfishly vote in favor of any of the many more eh… carnal ones.”

I scoff. He speaks in jest, at least partially, and I refuse to dignify his nonsense with a response, so I move on. “Which is the most, eh… potent?”

“That’s a great way to phrase it, yeah,” Mike confirms. “And it’s definitely your overwhelming—and permanent, by the way—desire to be held by someone.”

I finally open my eyes, staring at Mike wide-eyed in nothing short of pure horror. How disappointing that the floor doesn’t melt away from under me right this second to spare me the mortification…

“Get your priorities straight, Melmel,” Mike admonishes me, a sweet smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You should be way more embarrassed about wanting to kill me than wanting to snuggle up to someone.” He scooches closer to me, quickly adjusting the mountain of pillows as he moves, and puts an arm around my shoulders. “Especially since we share that particular need.”

We sit in silence for a while, Mikey’s head on my shoulder, his arm around me. It triggers my visions, which isn’t at all surprising. In them, I feel none of the shame and guilt I do now—or did, moments ago—which is very reassuring, but as much as I would like to luxuriate in that feeling after my meltdown, Mikey’s much stronger reaction forces me to let them pass, acknowledged but without much further investigation.

He struggles to keep his fingers still, and I am facing similar difficulties in strangling whatever sound I feel I can’t afford to make freely.

“What do you need from me?” I practically have to force the words out of my mouth. “In this… courtship?”

Mike laughs. “As far as definitions go, that’s fair, but do you know a twenty-first-century word?”

“To describe you?” I elbow him in the ribs and roll my eyes. “I know several, and I doubt you’d be happy with any of them.”

“Jerk,” he huffs.

“That was one of them, yes.” I struggle not to laugh when Mike pouts and nudges me, failing miserably, and before I know it, I’m on my back with him hovering over me. My gaze is pulled towards his lips through no fault of my own. In my fourteen hundred years, I have never known anyone who scowls as adorably as Mikey does, and every corner of my thoughts occupied by the sight of his bottom lip sticking out slightly.

Completely involuntarily, my eyes follow the contours of that lip, and my mind gravitates towards images of us. Together.

I—

I bite back the moan that threatens to escape, and fight to regain control of my teeth. “We should talk first,” I manage, my words punctuated by labored breaths.

Mike nods, dropping onto his side next to me and propping himself up on one elbow. “It’s really simple,” he says plainly. Clearly, the past thirty seconds have been less taxing on his self-restraint than they were on mine… “We can take this as slowly as you need, obviously. But I need you to know the difference between what you’re ready for now, and what you know you’ll be ready for in the future.”

I nod. That’s the easy part of the equation.

Unfortunately, Mike may be a clown at times, but he wasn’t born yesterday. “And I need you to stick with the now-boundaries.”

I nod again, much less sure of myself this time, but I promise him to give it my very best effort.

“Of course, I’ll help. If necessary,” he continues. “But I refuse to rely on my gift to guard your limits. I need to know you feel comfortable, and safe, and confident enough to communicate your needs, okay?”

His concern for my safety and wellbeing is almost enough to bring me to tears all over again. If I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s that time does, in fact, not heal all wounds, and although I have come a long way, I cannot deny the lasting—possibly permanent—damage inflicted upon me by the coldest, darkest days of my past.

The times without love.

The times when I had no one but myself to care about me.

I sob my agreement to his terms, rather than say it. The sound of my breaking voice draws his brows together in a pitiful frown.

He bites his lower lip as he contemplates his next words, and I struggle to keep my head clear as his lips once again draw my attention away from the conversation, while the sorrow in his expression has me teetering on the edge of panic.

His expression hardens as he breathes in deeply before looking at me very directly. His eyes are cold, and my heart rate quickens at the sight.

“And,” he says softly but with unmistakable determination, “I’m not doing this behind closed doors.” He looks down, fidgeting with the duvet covers as he continues: “I’m not saying you have to come out to the entire world tomorrow—or explicitly to anyone at all, unless you want to, of course—”

“I wouldn’t even know what to come out as,” I admit almost reluctantly. At this point, I haven’t even begun to think about labels and definitions and whatnot.

“I mean… If we’re going to be dating, then one label that definitely applies is ‘the guy who’s dating Mikey’,” he says matter-of-factly. I have to admit he has a point. “I’m kinda big on PDA—I promise I won’t suck your face off in public, but hugs, or a kiss here and there… Like, I’m not going to let some guy who can’t even hold my hand at the movies, dick me down when we get home.”

He laughs at my expression, and I can’t blame him. I, myself, imagine it to be quite the sight; wide-eyed, mouth opening and closing like a fish on dry land while my entire vocabulary seems to have vacated the premises…

“I’m sorry,” he snickers, “I didn’t mean to scare you. My point is: If you can’t love me in public, you don’t get to love me in private, that’s all.”

“Mikey…” I hesitate, attempting at the same time to swallow away the lump in my throat. It doesn’t work. “I promise—swear, even—that I will try, but I might need some time.”

“Progress, not perfection, Melmel,” Mike says as he leans forward to rest his forehead against mine for a moment. “I just want you to make an effort, okay?”

I nod furiously. Of course, I never truly expected him to toss me aside because I can’t adjust to all of this in a matter of days, but it’s a relief, nonetheless.

Now that my fears have been taken away, more visions come to me. The doom scenarios are entirely of my own making—I learned to tell the difference several centuries ago, but I can’t say that that knowledge has been in any way facilitative to my ability to disregard them.

However, I cannot deny that it is comforting that the majority of them are overwhelmingly positive, setting my body alight with a warm, soothing glow.

It makes me calm.

Happy.

It also makes me…

“For someone who’s struggling to come to terms with all of this,”—Mike’s voice is strained, the sound of it more of a moan than regular speech—“you are incredibly horny.”

My lips tremble as his hand cups the side of my face, his thumb gently trailing over my cheekbone.

I have to swallow before I can even speak. “I’m coming off a fourteen-hundred-year dry spell, Mikey.”

Mike’s eyes go wide with shock, perhaps even terror. “Fourt— w-what?” He looks adorable, his mouth slightly open, brows drawn together in disbelief. “Two days ago… That wasn’t your first kiss, right?”

I chuckle, but not from the heart. “It was certainly the first one I was a willing participant in,” I admit bitterly. The realization bites, digging its filthy, razor-sharp claws deep into my soul. “Not that the collection of instances of the other sort is by any means impressive.”

“Every last one of those is one too many, Melot,” Mike sighs.

I can’t stand to see the pity in his eyes, so I close mine again, focusing on his scent instead.

Every member of my coven—past or present—has an odor so unique to their person that I would happily wager that I’d be able to identify them from a mile away.

With everyone else, smell certainly serves as quite the handy tool when it comes to ascertaining their intentions—hostility, for instance, reveals itself quite readily by means of a distinct and exceptionally foul sour note—or their species—vampires in this day and age always smell faintly of blood and garlic, and however cliché one might deem it, werewolves reek perpetually of wet dog.

And then there’s my own family, blood and garlic aside.

I may have known Sherlock the longest, but I know Charles the best, which is why I can say with absolute confidence that I’d recognize the dark, brooding combination of leather and smoke in my sleep. It’s luxurious and alluring, its complex sophistication undeniable, but at the same time, it’s cold, distant and uninviting. It used to be different, but what little remains of the welcoming seduction of the past, is now dull and faded.

Sherlock, on the other hand—although every bit as strong and refined—smells warm, approachable and comforting, with a very pronounced overtone of sweet vanilla—which Mike, should I ever decide to discuss this particular subject with him, would probably find very typical and likely even funny. At some point in my life, I developed the strange habit of sitting outside Sherlock’s bedroom door when I miss him, just so his scent can comfort me—he has a way of showing up whenever I do.

August and Leon share the dark, bold and spicy edge to their scents. They’re matched for sensual promiscuity, but Leon leans further into the direction of exotic rebelliousness and playful deviance. August smells… calmer. More grounded.

Marshall smells remarkably similar to Sherlock, in a way. Only he trades the sweetness for something crisper and fresher, reminiscent of pine and fresh herbs. It feels almost strangely grounded and familiar, with a quiet strength and weight to it that borders on intimidating.

And then there’s Mike. It should surprise no one that he’s the odd one out, and although I wouldn’t describe the scent as that of bubblegum and jellybeans, I wouldn’t necessarily not describe it as such. It’s a rather untidy fragrance, that has an energetic flamboyance to its almost cacophonous complexity. Touches of woods and herbs ground the otherwise discordant bouquet of lush, tropical fruits and crisp, fresh citrus, combined with a selection of floral aromas that expresses something of a delicate… femininity. It’s youthful, vibrant, playful and mischievous, and more importantly, it’s the best damned thing I’ve ever had the pleasure to smell.

 Unthinkingly, I pull Mike closer, the tip of my nose tracing a gentle path up the side of his neck as I inhale deeply, savoring not only the scent, but also his warmth, pulse, and the feeling of his skin against mine as it transitions from the smoothness down by his shoulder to the scratchy stubble of the five o’ clock shadow on his jaw I’m embarrassed to admit I find quite attractive.

My senses are so thoroughly occupied with the attempt to soak up every crumb of these new, delightful experiences that I completely forget to care even the slightest bit about the quiet moan that slips past my lips.

Mike whines impatiently in reply, and when he suddenly moves, I struggle to keep up with the innumerable sensations that wash over me in rapid succession.

His breath on my ear, the delectable feeling of his weight on top of me, the tangling of our legs, his hand at the back of my neck, and its long, slender fingers traveling over my scalp… But much more pressing—and more annoying, I might add—is my acute and absolutely insufferable awareness of the suddenly too thick, coarse and rigid denim of my jeans as it moves over my skin in all the wrong ways while we adjust our position on the bed.

Not to mention that these godforsaken trousers, which fit me perfectly and comfortably less than half an hour ago, suddenly seem too tight—an experience that wouldn’t be unique to my person in the least, if Mike wasn’t very likely completely unbothered by such atrocities sensations due to the fact that he is wearing sweatpants.

Sweatpants which, much to my dismay, contribute to my own discomfort far more than I care to admit.

That is not to say Mike is unaffected by this situation. In fact, the evidence heavily favors the contrary, and the fact that I can feel his pulse… there, in combination with the thought that that means he can probably feel mine in approximately the same location, keeps distracting me from mentally drafting the letter of complaint I wish I had sent to Levi Strauss & Co. back in the 1870s.

I have never wanted out of a pair of trousers—or any other type of garment, for that matter—this badly in my entire existence. And for all the wrong reasons, too, for crying out loud!

A displeased whimper hits my ear, and by the time it dawns on me that I was the one who made it because Mikey suddenly disappeared, an unidentifiable pile of dark grey fabric lands on my stomach.

The person who put it there is standing next to the bed, towering over me with his arms folded across his chest. It would have been intimidating, if not for the hint of a smile that peeks through the stern mask on his face.

Mike points to the bathroom. “They’re sweatpants,” he says impatiently, “go put them on. Now. Please.”

My brain cycles through countless motives and explanations, but I’m so hopelessly behind on processing the events of the past minute, that it comes up completely empty.

I must look at least half as confused as I feel, because Mike can no longer fight back his smile. “Hey, normally I’d tell you to just take the jeans off, but I don’t want us to get ahead of ourselves,” he chuckles. “If this is what it takes to keep you from violently longing to invent time travel so you can smack Jacob W. Davis and Levi Strauss over the head with a comically large wooden mallet, then…”

He makes a series of vague, impatient gestures at me, the sweatpants and in the general direction of the bathroom, all accompanied by an equally impatient and exquisitely adorable whine.

When I laugh, after deciding against telling him how cute he looks, Mike frowns, and his eyes narrow. “Mel, please,” he whines, “I really, really, really want to kiss you.”

Nervous as that makes me, I can’t deny that it’s exactly what I want too, and despite my legs feeling exceptionally uncooperative, I manage to make it to the bathroom in one piece.

I lean my shoulders against the wall, steadying myself as I attempt to regain control over myself, my chest heaving with every new breath.

The cold of the tile creeps through the fabric of my shirt with ease, grounding me.

Soothing me.

My thoughts, which are normally fairly organized, are a mess—an un-unravelable heap of pure chaos.

It’s anarchy!

Mike somehow manages to match the energy of an eight-week-old puppy attempting to herd sheep, with the exact same, very predictable and equally—if not more so—undesirable result.

And I’m the sheep.

I clamp my teeth down on my bottom lip with force until I taste blood, but the visions keep coming.

My fingers—are they mine? If they were, one would assume I would know how to get them to fucking work, correct? When I put these jeans on this morning, this wasn’t the world’s most challenging button, so why won’t it open, for God’s sake?

I swear under my breath, screwing my eyes shut as if to squeeze the last bit of focus out of my brain that way. I must, however, come to the unfortunate conclusion that I am not a tube of toothpaste.

“You’re impossible.” Mike’s voice is hoarse, his chest moves rapidly in time with his equally erratic breathing, and his long fingers close effortlessly around my wrists with punishing force. “Get these hands out of the damn way and let me help you with that.”

Apparently, his wish is my command. Or perhaps, his command is my command. Either way, my hands are out of his way in a flash.

Barely a second later, the button and zipper of this treacherous denim contraption are no longer an obstacle, and I struggle to breathe as Mike leans his forehead against mine, dipping his fingertips tentatively into the now-loosened waistband of my trousers.

He holds me firmly in place as he steps closer, grinding his hips into mine. Out of reflex, I bite down on my lip again, piercing my skin, which lures a soft whine from my throat.

Before I can do anything, Mike passes his tongue over the wound before sucking my bottom lip into his mouth, and I seem to have suddenly forgotten how to breathe altogether.

“Now,” Mike says—‘growls’ would be a more apt description, perhaps, “take these off, put the sweatpants on—or don’t. Strip completely bare-ass naked for all I care, but get in my damn bed, please.”

 Hearing my own desperate need echoed in his voice makes my heart stutter—the cruel cold or Mikey’s sudden absence makes me restless.

I rid myself of my jeans as quickly as I can, and as I exchange them for the much more comfortable sweatpants, I can’t resist the urge to squeeze my throbbing erection through the fabric, desperately attempting to fight the thought of how much I need that hand to be his instead of mine.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Mikey snarls, his voice close to my ear and the scorching heat of his body comforting me once again. “I should drag you to bed by your balls, you little tease. Why are you out here wanting all these things, when we can be doing them in there?”

I want to say something, but even if my voice were cooperating, my vocabulary certainly wouldn’t be. In the end, nothing but a pathetic whine escapes me, making Mike chuckle.

He hooks two fingers in the waistband of the sweatpants, no doubt with the intention to tug me along towards the bed, but one catches behind the band of my underwear as well, putting more of me on display than I anticipated. I know Mike well enough to expect him to take a peek—and the urgency with which he does so immediately—and I find myself thoroughly enjoying the look of utter desperation and pure carnal need on his face as he fails to fight off a crooked smile, dragging his tongue along his upper lip.

I struggle to identify the feeling that washes over me, wringing out my insides as Mike’s playful smile widens, his gaze still locked on my groin. There is a strange sense of pride to it. At the same time, waves of anticipation struggle for power against nervousness.

The longer I look at his face, the stronger the anticipation becomes. He’s cute, with his mischievous smile, fangs out as he fights off the ragged corners of the desires he knows would likely push me a tad too far at this time.

But Mike can think of six things either simultaneously or in awe-inspiringly quick succession.

“Why does it happen? The fangs?” he asks quietly, amusement poorly concealed in his tone.

My laughter rings involuntarily, the sound bouncing off the tiles, echoing in my own mind as it once again struggles to keep up with everything that’s happening. “You’ve clearly never lived in a large coven,” I chuckle. “One so powerful that hiding your nature—and teeth—becomes completely unnecessary. Our natural instinct is to have them out. Even after centuries, one must have his wits about him in order to control them, and I don’t know about yours, but mine are halfway to Argentina by now.”

Mike’s grin widens as he takes a step back, finally guiding me back to his bedroom.

When the back of my legs meet the edge of the bed, his eyes darken. “I really want to do some dirty things to you, Melmel,” he whispers. The high-pitched whine that meets my ear must be mine, and unthinkingly I chase the pathetic sound away with a scornful chuckle which, most unfortunately, is followed by a sharp gasp as Mike pulls me closer by my hips until my body is flush against his. “Will you let me?”

The art of speech eludes me still, so I nod.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Mike says as he gently places a hand on either side of my face.

To be overcome with desire does not mean what I thought it did until now in the slightest. As soon as Mike’s lips touch mine, true desperate need comes crashing down on me, drowning out everything else.

His mouth is soft, but firm. His hands gentle as they move from my face, down my chest and stomach, to the sides of my hips, until they reach the back of my thighs. He picks me up effortlessly, of course, wrapping my legs around him before laying me down in the middle of the mattress.

Our moans effortlessly overshadow everything else that attempts to occupy my thoughts, only leaving room to experience pleasure. It’s all-consuming.

Powerful.

Cathartic, even.

Mike’s tongue licks gently at the seam of my lips, which part as if by magic to grant him entrance.

His enthusiasm is infectious, and I greedily reciprocate until…

“Fuck!” Mike pulls back, still laughing when he sticks out his tongue. It’s bleeding. “I forgot you have spare teeth.”

“I’m sorry.” I can’t bear to look at him as guilt washes over me, drowning out all the wonderful feelings from before.

“Don’t be,” he says softly, giving me a reassuring peck on the tip of my nose. “You can poke as many holes in me as you want, this just took me by surprise, that’s all.”

He presses his lips to mine again, this time with significantly more restraint—to start with, that is. Every time he rolls his hips, grinding them into mine, he loses a bit of that control.

I could say the same does not apply to me, but it would be such a blatant lie that it would be laughable at best.

When he bites my lip, he is careful not to break the skin, but the force is still enough to bruise me.

Whatever mark he leaves on me, with very few exceptions, will be gone before we’re even done here. Why does that strike me as such a tragedy?

The last remnants of Mikey’s gentle touch have disappeared now, as his fingertips dig into my shoulders, my hips, my thighs, with brutal force. It would certainly be enough to cause serious harm to someone less sturdy than either of us…

“God, I haven’t done this with another vampire in years,” Mike groans. The sound, deep, dark and dripping with lust, vibrates throughout my entire body.

I know he’s been with nymphs, shifters—were- or otherwise—and demons, and I don’t doubt that there have been many more rendezvous with many more species I haven’t the faintest clue about, but that knowledge proves to be of surprisingly little impact on this moment. “Tell me if I’m too rough with you, Mel. Please.”

Not at all, I wish to scream. I’ll take everything he’s willing to give me and more. So much more.

But I can’t seem to find my voice. Instead, I slide my hands into his shirt on a whim, dragging my nails down his back, reveling in the sense of pride and sensuality I feel as he arches to my… well, ‘touch’ would be quite the understatement, I suppose.

“Guess not, then,” he says with a devious grin as he grabs the hem of the t-shirt I just decided to ignore and pulls it over his head.

I’ve seen him without a shirt, of course. Goodness, I’ve seen him damn near naked on several occasions, but this time…

As he sits there, straddling my thighs, towering over me, my eyes wander down, taking in his broad shoulders, chest and abs. He’s lean, toned, but I wouldn’t describe him as particularly muscular. His pale skin is smooth all the way down to his navel, where my attention is captured by the thin line of dark hair that leads… down.

My hands make their way up his thighs until they rest on his hips, and without realizing, I speak. “You are so beautiful.”

I realize my error instantly, an overpowering sense of confusion surging through me as I watch Mike’s face light up.

“Yeah?” he asks excitedly as I continue my attempt to grasp why he sounds so pleased. My confusion must be apparent, because Mike laughs sweetly. “It’s okay, baby, you can call me beautiful all day, every day. Can I see if you’re pretty too?”

It clicks as soon as the word ‘pretty’ leaves his mouth, and I am suddenly overcome with the fear that he won’t see me that way while Mike fusses with the top button of my shirt.

He groans out of frustration. “Do you have any emotional attachment to this thing?” he growls almost aggressively as he grabs me by the collar of my shirt. I shake my head, once again unable to speak. “Good.”

The fabric tears almost too easily, and several buttons—four, to be exact—find their way onto the floor.

A long, desperate whine meets my ear as Mike rakes his fingers over my chest, down to my stomach, where he traces the faint line of hair with a single finger, all the way down to the waistband of my trousers, while I dig my fingers into his hips with more force than I intended. It makes Mike’s cock twitch, causing it to bump against my thumb, which lures a sharp gasp from me.

Mike reacts to it and the expression that has appeared on my face in the meantime without my knowledge, and certainly without my consent.

“Okay,” he taunts, “my pretty boy wants to play in the big leagues then?”

Despite my nerves, I find myself nodding in reply to his question, attempting once again to swallow the tightness in my throat away.

Mike kisses me, softly but enthusiastically—and most importantly: repeatedly—as he lies down next to me. Heat rises to my cheeks as he flashes me that goofy smile of his.

I was always under the impression that I found that smile particularly annoying. I guess I was wrong.

The one hand that is still on his hip relentlessly attempts to capture my attention, begging me to acknowledge its proximity to the part of Mike that currently has my imagination spinning completely out of control, but I can’t allow myself to comply with its demands just yet. Lord knows I’ll be swiftly rid of any ability to speak, which would be… unfortunate, to say the least.

Not that that particular ability isn’t greatly impaired to begin with, but we needn’t tempt fate further, I would say.

“I’ll be happy to tell you anything you want to know, Melot,” Mike whispers softly as he moves closer to me. It’s the strange fish-on-dry-land-esque performance attached to it that makes me laugh—and much louder than I had intended, too. In fact, I had no intention to laugh at all…

I snap my mouth shut and look away. Surely, my cheeks must be so red they are in fact aglow right now, mustn’t they?

Mike groans loudly, which twists the uncomfortable knot in my stomach, greatly worsening the unwelcome tightness I was already feeling.

To say I am in no way prepared for his words, would be an understatement.

“Mel, dude, Melmel, babe, Melly, my good sir,” he sighs, “where were you when they sent out the memo that this”—he gestures wildly at the both of us—“all of this, like… sex, is supposed to be fun?”

“Well, I—” Just hearing him describe what we’re doing as ‘sex’ brings forward a host of emotions I can either not identify or desperately wish I couldn’t, and it certainly helps my nerves in no imaginable way.

“Like, babygirl, I get it,” he continues, as I try to prevent having to invent a new shade of red to describe the color my cheeks will turn after this one, “you’re nervous. You’ve never done this. You’ve been told not to do this, with… well, pretty much anyone but definitely not another dude—which I’m sure will come back to bite you in that sweet little butt of yours, and we’ll deal with that fall-out together. But if we’re doing this, I need you to lighten up, okay?”

“But… How?” In my entire existence, I have never struggled to speak two simple words the way I did just now.

“For starters, there are two people here who I’m going to need you to not take too seriously,” he says matter-of-factly. “The first one is me, which is already true for… most scenarios outside of this one, I’d say. And the second one is you. You’re allowed to laugh, okay?”

The way he nips at the tip of my nose makes it impossible not to laugh. “Good boy,” Mike muses as I struggle to figure out why it feels so good to hear him say those words.

Without thinking about it, mostly for fear of discouraging myself, I wrap my free arm around him, pulling him tightly against me as I kiss him.

The added pressure of my arm against the small of his back is not enough to satisfy my need, so I boldly and unthinkingly lower my hand until it cups half of Mike’s backside.

Despite my lacking intentions to lose control of myself like this, I find myself feverishly grasping him, pulling him even closer as I dig my fingers into the flesh of his rear.

It’s surprisingly soft, yet surprisingly firm, and I find myself surprisingly eager to explore it further—the whole situation would best be described as, well… surprising, really, and Mike’s ardent whimpering tells me that he is not at all inclined to put an end to my endeavors.

Due to my sudden preoccupation with Mikey’s lovely behind, I am almost robbed of awareness of the fantastic experience of Mike, gently but greedily sliding his hands into my pants as he gently sucks my bottom lip into his mouth.

My grip around his waist slacks as he pulls his face back, still holding my lip firmly between his teeth, and he cocks an eyebrow at me, giving me the courage to mimic his movements.

For a moment, I am surprised to find that Mike is not wearing underwear, and then I remember who I’m in bed with. I’m not saying I should have expected this, but to pretend it’s in any way uncharacteristic, would be a lie.

His skin is smooth and warm, and the salacious moan he lets out catches in his throat, where it morphs into a gasp as my lips seek out his neck.

The urge to bite is strong, and I already know he wouldn’t mind, so…

“Fuck, Mel,” he moans sweetly as I bite down, effortlessly piercing his skin again and again, until his neck and shoulders are littered with marks.

Mike reaches behind his back, grabbing my wrist in order to drag my hand away from his ass, and towards the front of his sweatpants, where his erection strains against the fabric.

He presses my palm against the sizeable bulge while he begs me to bite him again, and I find myself more than happy to oblige.

A chuckle rolls off my tongue as soon as my teeth connect with his skin, and I softly squeeze his twitching cock, which draws the sweetest whimpers from Mike’s gorgeous lips.

“Mel, please,” he whispers, barely managing to squeeze the words out in between soft swearing and labored breaths as he puts his hand over mine and slowly slides it down his hip, into the front of his sweatpants. “I… I need you to…”

 My voice is barely more than a breath as I stammer my concerns about my nerves, lack of experience and the fact that I haven’t a clue what to do.

“Doesn’t matter,” Mikey whispers in reply, “just touch me. Please.”

 Heat rises to my cheeks again as I desperately attempt to resist the urge to pull my hand back and flee the room. “I-I really don’t know what… how…”

Mike lets out a whine that is a mix between impatience and complete and utter frustration. “What do you mean you don’t know? You have one of these, what do you do with that one?”

Lying to him now would probably not be in my best interest, so I ignore the ever-increasing temperature of my face when I tell him: “I, eh… I don’t really, ehh…”

“Mas-tur-bate,” Mike says with a smile. “Jack off. Jerk off. Beat your meat. Tickle your pickle. Flog your log. I can come up with dozens of these, but I think you got the point. But, like… ever?”

I shrug, fighting the resistance of Mike’s hand against my shoulder as I try to hide my face from him. “Not never, but…”

 “We can stop, if you want?” Mike says carefully, even though we both know that’s the very last thing I desire right now. “Or take a little step back?”

I shake my head surprisingly decisively. “I want to try,” I whisper. “I want to make you feel good.”

Mike leans closer to me, bringing his lips up to my ear. “Try again,” he says, the amusement in his voice clear as day, because once again he knows as well as I do that I’m not voicing my true desire.

In truth, I’m burning with violent need, and I am utterly bewildered that it’s even possible to feel nervous enough to overshadow that feeling. Yet here we are…

A low growl escapes me completely involuntarily. “I want to hear you moan and feel you squirm in my arms,” I snarl with more vigor than I originally intended. “And I want it to be because of me.”

His sweet moan, right in my ear, makes me tingle all over, and I barely manage to choke back a whimper of my own.

“Mel, please,” Mikey pleads with me again, “stop overthinking and just grab my d—”

He’s forced to end his sentence with a strangled, high-pitched noise that makes me chuckle as I wrap my fingers around his length.

He presses his forehead against mine as I cup the side of his face with my free hand, trailing my thumb lightly over his cheekbone.

The softest whimper stumbles past his slightly parted lips, and I gladly give in to the urge to touch them as well, savoring the feeling of Mikey’s hot breath against my fingertip.

When his tongue darts out, I take my own lip between my teeth, biting down as he sensually sucks my thumb into his mouth. I admire his confidence as he stares straight into my eyes—into my soul—as he does so.

Slowly, he rolls his hips, thrusting carefully into my hand.

His jaw tightens, and every sound he makes, escapes from behind gritted teeth—the way he’s grinding them almost makes more noise than he does, which I have to admit I find quite bothersome.

“Why are you holding back?” I ask quietly, as I attempt to silence the part of my mind that tells me I must be doing something wrong.

“Because I still can,” he admits reluctantly.

So I am doing s—

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” he says, smiling devilishly as he shimmies out of his sweatpants a bit further. “But truth be told, it’s missing something, eh…”

I patiently wait for him to continue, listening to the whiny noises he makes in protest as I don’t do him the courtesy of pausing the apparently good-but-missing-something handjob I was giving him. Mike is adorable when he gets flustered, and I am more than happy to be responsible for the rosy color on his cheeks.

“Fine,” he grumbles, giving in to his desires at last. “Top drawer of the nightstand. There’s a bottle, you really can’t miss it.”

I venture to retrieve the bottle. It’s… A chuckle escapes without warning as I read the label. “Mikey, why do you own cotton candy flavored lubricant?”

“Because it doesn’t come in jelly bean flavor,” Mike says casually before bringing my attention back to the—pardon me—task at hand. “Don’t be stingy with the stuff, I like it wet.”

Rather than simply not being quite sure what to do—or how much lubricant is an appropriate amount, since I’ve never used anything like it before—I am suddenly overcome with anxiety over the fact that I am now forced to look what I’m doing.

Slowly, I lower my gaze, taking in all of Mike’s body I can along the way. I barely notice how my fangs pierce my lip again when I bite down as my eyes reach their destination.

Mike snatches the bottle from my hand and kindly helps me out by pouring some of the liquid in my hand. My curiosity gets the better of me, and I bring my hand to my mouth, quickly dipping my tongue in the small pool of fluid in my palm.

Unsurprisingly, it’s extremely sweet.

Mike spends this time glaring at me, impatiently squirming and making his displeasure known through a series of whimpers, not stopping until I wrap my hand around his cock again.

As soon as I do, a serene smile spreads across his face, and he sighs while I proceed to coat his member with the slippery substance on my hand.

“Better?” I ask him.

He nods, resting his forehead against mine again. “Fuck yes.”

Apparently, the only thing Mike thinks will stop him from becoming excessively loud now, is crushing his mouth to mine and kissing me like his life depends on it.

His hips move erratically as he thrusts almost frantically into my hand while moans, grunts and desperate whimpers stumble from his mouth into mine.

After some time, I feel his hand close around mine, guiding my grip and the rhythm of my strokes while the fingers of his other hand dig into my back nearly hard enough to draw blood.

He swears, softly at first, but becoming louder as he loses more and more of his restraint.

Even with a vision providing me with advance knowledge of what is going to happen—which is technically so predictable that I should have been able to come up with it myself—I am unprepared for the moment his orgasm arrives.

In hindsight, aiming might have been a good idea, but I honestly couldn’t think of a better place for his release than my stomach.

“Sorry for the mess,” Mike pants against my lips. I can feel the lazy smile on his face in the way his mouth moves against my skin. “Can I help you clean that up?”

The implication in the devilish question sends a jolt of electricity down my spine, and before I can answer, Mike has pressed his lips to my neck, marking the beginning of a slow, teasing descent downward with a playful bite.

As he moves down my body, he turns me onto my back, leaving me helplessly mesmerized by the sight of this gorgeous man making his way down my chest, licking and sucking at my skin every chance he gets.

The feeling is absolutely unmatched by anything I have ever felt before in my life, and I can’t hold back any of the sounds that well up in my throat of their own volition.

The enthusiasm with which Mike licks his own semen off my abdomen is almost awe inspiring, and I watch him closely, barely aware of the fact that my mouth hangs open, which I’m sure must make me look like a complete and utter fool.

When he finishes his task, he shoots a glance up at me in which lies a burning question, and without thinking, I nod in reply.

Eager hands drag down my trousers and pants until my cock springs free, and for a moment, panic takes hold of me. With some effort, I remember the look on Mike’s face when he was ‘accidentally’—if one chooses to believe it was an accident, which I can’t bring myself to do—presented with an opportunity to look at my erection.

The image manages to calm me down fairly effectively.

My reaction when Mike carefully drags the tip of his tongue along the full length of my cock is admittedly quite embarrassing, but I try not to dwell on that thought, electing instead to enjoy the incredible new sensations brought to me by Mike’s mouth.

“So sensitive,” he muses quietly, trailing a teasing finger lightly down the same trajectory as his tongue. “And so pretty.”

I barely manage to resist the urge to cry out in frustration as Mike abandons my member and instead kisses my stomach, hips and thighs, putting his lips absolutely everywhere but where I so desperately want them.

His hands tease me: playful, eager fingers travel up and down my sides with the lightest touch, threatening to drive me completely beside myself with lustful yearning.

“Please!” The word barely makes it out, my voice so strangled I momentarily wonder if Mike even understood me—his devious chuckle confirming that he did.

In the pit of my stomach, pressure simmers. A pressure I probably should have familiarized myself with a lot more over the past fourteen centuries, but it’s recognizable enough as is.

There is no doubt in my mind that Mikey would succeed in bringing me to orgasm without laying another finger—or any other part of his body—directly on my cock.

Shame heats up my cheeks once again as I am forced to admit that, quite frankly, I’m about to burst.

And it is precisely this moment in which Mike decides that the best course of action is to swallow my whole length down to the root.

It's the hideously arrogant raising of that miserable eyebrow of his that ends up dragging me over the edge, and without any warning, I spill my seed into his mouth.

If dying of embarrassment was a possibility, I would have done it dozens, if not hundreds of times over the course of my existence, but none of those instances could hold a candle to what I’m feeling in this moment.

I could positively die of shame.

Mike, however, seems to be completely unfazed by the circumstances. It’s typical, of course, but it’s also infuriating.

“Hey,” he whispers softly, smoothing a hand over my hair. “Don’t feel bad. Come on…”

The next moment, he’s next to the bed, holding out a hand.

“Shower time, Melmel,” he muses happily.

I follow him in silence. Even as he strips me of the pants I put back on before making my way over to the bathroom, or when he ushers me into the shower stall, or when he sweetly and gently caresses me all over to rinse off the remnants of our relations, I remain quiet.

Until we are back in the room, and Mike dives under the covers, leaving me standing there…

“I… Mike, I think I should g—”

“Yeah, that is, like, so not happening,” Mike says, rushing towards me with alarming speed. “You are staying, and that’s an order. Besides, we’re just getting to my favorite part.”

“Didn’t we just do your favorite part?” I ask, my voice thick with bewilderment.

“Ask our girl,” Mike chuckles. “I’m a little cuddle monster.”

He takes both of my hands in his and gently attempts to pull me along. “Back to bed, now.”

I can’t seem to move, other than the involuntary shiver that travels through my body when Mike suddenly appears behind me, pressing his smiling lips to my neck and grabbing my behind. “Are you going to listen to me, or do I have to spank my pretty boy?”

I’m not proud of the way his words bring my cock back to life, but I can’t bring myself to be embarrassed about it, either, even when Mike chuckles devilishly in my ear.

“Was it ‘pretty boy’ or ‘spank’ that’s making this happen?” he asks as he gently palms my stiffening cock.

“Both,” I admit surprisingly willingly. “And ‘my’ might have had something to do with it as well.”

“Do you want to go another round?” Mike asks carefully, no doubt to attempt to hide the heady edge to his voice, as if his growing desire isn’t literally poking me in the back right now.

“I thought you wanted to cuddle,” I whisper, gritting my teeth so as not to moan loudly as my erection pushes more and more firmly against Mike’s hand. Thank God, he’s keeping it still, otherwise I would be completely lost.

 “I do,” he whines. “But look what you did to me!” He grinds his cock against my ass. It feels heavenly, as does the feeling of Mike’s breath on my neck as he chuckles when my cock twitches against his palm.

This time, I allow him to push me towards the bed again, and when we reach it, I don’t protest when he bends me over—at first.

Panic briefly washes over me as I think about what he might do to me, but I trust him. I know he would never attempt anything beyond my boundaries, so I relax again, leaning into his touch as his fingers close around my length again.

He strokes me in time with the movement of his hips against my ass as he thrusts slowly between my cheeks, pushing his cock down with his other hand.

When Mike disappears, I whine at the loss, and I try to right myself to see where he’s gone, but his hand, firmly pressing down on the small of my back, stops me. The drawer of the bedside table opens and closes, and the top of a bottle clicks. Moments later, Mikey’s hand, now slick with lubricant, closes around my cock again.

His other hand—now also quite sticky—hooks around my thigh, pulling me back a few steps to give him more space to work with, and I moan in delight as I feel my ass hit his hips again.

Mike gently shushes me, squeezing my ass in a strangely reassuring way when the feeling of his hands running down between my cheeks has me worried for a second. “Don’t worry,” he says calmly. “Just wanted a little less friction.”

I must admit, it feels even better this way. For him, too, if the higher speed of his thrusts and increasing volume of his moans are any indication.

When Mike plants a firm kiss on my spine, between my shoulder blades, I can’t fight back a loud moan as I relish the feeling of his weight on top of me. At the same time, I am terribly disappointed when he stops moving his hips.

“I want to try something, okay?” Mike says. His hand stops moving too, and much to my displeasure, it disappears altogether barely a second later. The only redeeming aspect to this unwelcome behavior, is the trail of sloppy, wet kisses Mike leaves down my back.

I resist the urge to swat him in the head when he sinks his teeth into my rear, and I heal the wound immediately in protest.

Mike, in all his silly, playful Mike-ness, retaliates by making another mark, which I treat in the same manner.

We go back and forth like that for a minute, until Mike growls in frustration. “You’re so fucking lucky you’re cute, Melmel.”

I can hear the pout in his voice, and a grin appears on my face as I spread my legs for Mike without thinking when he moves to grab my cock again, this time by reaching between my legs.

His arm hooks around my hips, holding me in place, and I barely get a second to wonder why.

Mike was more than right to hold me down, because when the tip of his warm, wet tongue touches the tight ring of muscle—

“Mike!” I hiss angrily while I squirm against his solid grasp. That… place has been an exit only for fourteen hundred years, and if he thinks—

A soft kiss on my bottom eases my surging anger. “Put down the pitchfork,” Mike muses, “I just want to touch you. Well… eat you. Give it an honest chance, please? If you don’t like it, you don’t like it, but I think you should try it.”

Mike certainly has a way of inciting one’s curiosity… I take a deep breath before nodding decisively, accompanying the gesture—which Mike can’t see—with an affirmative hum.

Mike continues to stroke me while his tongue gently laps at my puckered hole.

When Mike made his plea, I never pictured a scenario in which I would enjoy this, but to my shame, I must admit that the sensation is quite pleasant. Perhaps a bit more than ‘quite’.

Alright, it feels nothing short of absolutely heavenly! That doesn’t mean I am quite ready to admit that, thank you very much.

Unfortunately, Mike seems to get plenty of confirmation from the way my hips involuntarily move in time with his tongue, rather than his hand.

In fact, after a while, he abandons stroking my cock altogether, using both hands to spread my ass cheeks so he can gain better access to my hole.

I occupy my own hands by pressing a pillow firmly against my face, while crying a continues stream of moans and the occasional expletive into it, and when Mike tentatively passes a fingertip over the tight ring of muscle, I find myself begging him to continue.

“Is this something you want now, or something you know you’ll want in the future?” His tone lets me know there is only one answer he will accept, and it’s not the one I think I want it to be now.

I desperately cry out into the pillow, wanting to voice my protest but finding no words, and I turn onto my back rather dramatically while Mike skillfully dodges my legs.

He remains where he is, raising himself up on his knees so he can lay his head on my hip. The sweet smile on his face as he looks up at me annoys me greatly, and I put the pillow over my face again and scream, before glaring down at him as I prop myself up on my elbows.

“If you’re not going to do to me what you know I think I want you to do to me but don’t yet, then at the very least do to me what we both know I’m incredibly amenable to you doing to me,” I growl.

Mike chuckles. “That almost sounds like you’re asking me to blow you,” he teases.

On a whim, I sit up. With the fingers of one hand twisted into his curls, I pull his head off my thigh.

Mike’s swallows audibly, his eyes wide as he stares up at me. My jaw tightens as he bites his lip, and I cock an eyebrow at him, silently asking my question.

He responds by nodding furiously, and when I attempt to pull my hand back, he grabs my wrist.

With unwavering enthusiasm, he pours some more lubricant on me before getting to work, coating my whole length using both of his hands.

It feels divine, and without thinking I ball my hands into fists to prevent myself from swearing.

Mike lets out a long, sweet moan, leaning into my touch as I unintentionally pull his hair, the noise making me all the more disinclined to relax my grip.

He looks up at me, that godforsaken eyebrow taunting me, and the rest of his face guilty of the exact same thing. He’s clearly testing my patience—and to my surprise, I find that I quite like that.

Stil, no matter how much I enjoy his defiance, my annoyance is real and intense enough to be a leading factor in my behavior.

“You know what I want,” I groan, putting pressure on the back of Mikey’s head, urging his mouth closer to its desired location.

His eyes narrow, and his lips pull into an insufferable smirk as he continues to work my length with both hands, and I attempt to keep my composure while the urge to smack that grin off his face surges to previously undiscovered heights.

 Mike’s reaction has me staring at him in shock, his yearnful moan dying down as soon as he sees my face, and his expression morphing into something completely different that has his ears and cheeks turning red in a staggering tempo. It’s…

“So sweet,” I mutter as I loosen my grip on his hair and run my fingers over his scalp in circles. “Be good for me, my love. Let me feel that beautiful mouth.”

When he looks up at me again after pressing a sweet, brief kiss to the underside of my tip, the color on his cheeks has deepened.

I am unsure of the reasons behind the effect it has on me, and right now, I could frankly not care even a hair less.

He’s still challenging me, but the shy approach makes it endearing rather than infuriating. I can’t even convince myself fully that he’s putting on an act: He’s never been particularly good at hiding his true feelings.

Before we started this—all of it, from the very first kiss onward—I never would have imagined that I’d see myself in control of any of this. I pictured myself, completely at the mercy of Mike and his fickle whims. No vision I had could have prepared me for this.

For this sense of agency, and of… dominance.

For the overwhelming sense of pride, and the much more intense yearning for this sweet, eager boy between my knees than I had ever imagined possible.

“Sweet, precious Mikey,” I sigh as he delivers the smallest lick to the tip of my cock. A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth as I watch him squirm beneath me. My best guess is that I’m not the only one who enjoys being called sweet things.

Where I find the words, and how on Earth I suddenly manage to not only use my voice but also seem to accurately remember fourteen centuries worth of English—though it would be remiss not to acknowledge that I never really caught on to the last two centuries or so—is beyond me, but the fact of the matter is that I do.

Words of encouragement flow freely from my lips as I gently nudge Mike’s head forward. “Wrap those pretty lips around me, sweetheart. I know you want to,” I say softly. “I’ll be so proud of you.” Mike whines, staring up at me with big, innocent eyes. “Be a good boy for me, Mikey. You’d make me so happy.”

Strangely, though the only thing missing from my words are the ones that would make this an outright plea, I don’t feel like I’m begging whatsoever, nor do I feel like I’m somehow pressuring Mike into doing something he doesn’t want to do.

Due to my lacking experience, I should be lacking every shred of confidence I feel, shouldn’t I? I shouldn’t feel so at peace with this, I—

My doubts die a swift, magnificent death the second Mike wraps his lips around my throbbing erection, and I soon find myself completely bewitched by the sight of him as he works more of my length into his mouth.

He’s dropped one hand into his own lap, and the other soon moves to my thigh, where his fingers dig into my flesh every time he goes down. With every stroke, he takes me deeper, until I’m fully seated in his mouth.

When his throat tightens around me briefly, it startles me, and I involuntarily move my hips, forcing Mike to withdraw, sputtering and struggling to breathe.

I, in turn, gasp for air when he spits on my cock. There’s something wildly erotic to it, and to the thin thread of saliva that runs from my tip to the center of his bottom lip.

“Keep going, beautiful,” I gasp. In no way am I too proud to admit that I’m positively aching to feel his lips around me again. “You’re doing so well. You’re such a good boy.”

Mike whimpers, briefly moving the hand with which he’s pleasuring himself quicker, before leaning forward again.

Emboldened by his enthusiasm, I put light pressure on the back of his head and gently thrust my hips forward.

His eyes open wide, and he moans desperately. The vibration created by the sound feels heavenly around my cock, and I push my hips forward again, luring another moan from Mike’s throat.

“Do you… like that?” I ask hesitantly. Surely, it’s better to be safe than sorry in these situations?

Mike hums a vigorous confirmation, his brows drawing together in a deep frown when I ask him—superfluously, apparently—if he wants me to stop.

On instinct, I move closer to the edge of the bed, tightening my grip on Mike’s hair as I thrust forward again—and again… and again.

Soon, there are tears in Mikey’s eyes, and instead of being overwhelmed by guilt, I simply can’t stop thinking about how beautiful he looks—and how incredibly impressed I am with his achievements.

Now, I am hardly under the impression that I have a particularly intimidating manhood where size is concerned, but I would happily place myself somewhat above average without adding any inches for vanity, and on top of that, I’m hardly being as gentle with Mike as I probably should be, thus, I consider my amazement justified.

Mike announces his approaching climax through a series of delectable moans and an increase in the pace at which he sucks me off, his movements stopping exactly when I’m teetering on the edge of orgasm myself.

He pulls back, until the tip of my cock rests on his tongue, and with a few strokes, he seals the deal.

I bite down on my lip while I watch as several thick ropes of my release coat his tongue, the visual so wildly arousing that I briefly worry I will never find anything else even remotely enticing ever again.

“Show me.” I mouth the words, unable to find my voice, as I trail my thumb lightly along Mike’s bottom lip. Audible or not, my words seem to light a devious little fire under him, and after heeding my request, he promptly raises himself up, supporting himself with his hands on my thighs.

My breath catches in my throat, and I swallow hard as Mike leans forward, pressing his lips to mine with vigor.

I’m sure I’ll have plenty of time to be disgusted with myself and my behavior later, but right now I want nothing more than to taste myself on Mike’s tongue—I get slightly more than I bargained for when I open my mouth and feel my thick salty seed flow from Mike’s mouth into mine.

At first, I can’t bring myself to swallow, resisting the urge to spit until an idea takes root in my brain.

I can see the apology on Mike’s lips, but before he speaks, I put him on his back on the mattress, taking a moment to rake my eyes over his chest and abs.

Without wasting any time, I lick the evidence of his orgasm off his stomach, and straddle his hips, bringing my nose to his.

There’s no need for further provocation: Mike opens his mouth, sticking out his tongue so I can deliver on my silent promise.

This should feel disgusting. By pretty much any standard, but most of all mine—or rather; the ones that have been pounded into me over the years, either figuratively or, if I was particularly unfortunate, literally.

Instead, a serenity that borders on a sense of heavenly bliss washes over me while Mike and I go back and forth spitting a combination of our semen and saliva into each other’s mouths…

I—

Mike chuckles and falls back to the mattress, taking a moment to catch his breath before pulling me down on top of him. “If I came in while you were trying to watch a movie and I randomly spit a fat load of cum in your mouth, you probably wouldn’t appreciate that,” he says. His words seem so out of place that at first, I struggle to wrap my head around them, until I realize I must have looked… I couldn’t tell you how I looked, exactly, but my face must have expressed my thoughts in a way that prompted Mikey to launch into an explanation. “Welcome to your first ‘it seemed like a good idea at the time’-moment. It won’t be the last.”

“That doesn’t dispute the accusation that it was, in fact, disgusting. At all,” I mutter against the skin of his neck, hiding my scorching—and therefore probably beet-red—face from him.

Mike sits up again, wrapping his arms around my waist as he does, pulling me even closer. “Melmel… Sex is kinda disgusting. And embarrassing.” He punctuates his words with small kisses to my shoulder and neck. “And sticky, and sweaty, and messy.”

“You might want to put a positive spin on this,” I grumble. “Soon.”

“The point is,” he replies, pulling my head off his shoulder and holding it in both hands so that I’m forced to look at him. “When you’re with the right people, none of that matters.”

One look into his eyes, and I know…

“Well, I’m glad I’m with the right people then,” I murmur, leaning in for another kiss.

When Mike breaks away, he suggests we take another shower, and I’m hardly inclined to decline the offer. He wasn’t exactly lying about ‘sticky’ and ‘sweaty’ in his list of less-than-ideal side effects to sexual relations.

This time, Mike is the one that goes strangely quiet while we clean ourselves—and, both notably and regrettably, not each other—up.

“Mikey?” I ask carefully. “What’s wrong?”

My heart breaks when Mike drops to the floor, suddenly sobbing uncontrollably, crawling back into the corner and sitting there with his arms locked around his knees, vigorously shaking his head in reply to my question.

“Mike,” I say sternly as my attempts to pluck him off the floor fail miserably. I do, however, manage to pull him off the wall just far enough that I can sit down behind him, and when I lock my legs around him, he knows he won’t be going anywhere, so he gives in to my touch. “You will talk to me.”

When he moves again, I let him, both knowing that he might be a fool, but not such a big one that he expects to be able to run from me, and knowing—vision-wise—he won’t try. He simply wants to turn the shower head our way because he’s cold.

He sits down in my lap, and I wrap my arms tightly around him, waiting patiently until he feels ready to speak about what’s going on with him.

Another deep, shaky breath, and he starts talking: “This just took a turn… And you’re so new to all of this, I never thought… I should have… But I couldn’t have known, so… And everything was going well, and it was all good, and I was teasing you and so stoked to be showing you all these new, wonderful things and… And then things got turned around, somehow… and suddenly you were… you… And I… I…”

I let him cry for a while, just holding him, tucking him tightly against my chest as I smooth my hands over his back and sides, repeating the phrase ‘shh, it’s okay’ more times than I care to admit because I simply can’t come up with anything else.

After a while, his breathing steadies, and the sobbing comes to an end. “I’m sorry,” he says, clearing his throat. “Not in a ‘I have something to apologize for’ kind of way, but more like… ‘I feel bad for dumping this on you all of a sudden’ kind of way.”

“That’s alright,” I reply truthfully. “All I want is to take care of you and to make you feel better.”

Mike laughs through the last of his tears. “That’s great,” he says, “because you’re going to have to.”

“Just tell me how,” I say. “And, if at all possible, try to explain why?”

“Right,” Mike says on a slightly embarrassed chuckle. “First off, I shouldn’t have let this happen. Like…” He throws his head back and lets out a frustrated cry. “Okay. During that blowjob just now—I don’t blame you if you didn’t even notice, but…”

“I remember suddenly feeling far more… in charge?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

Mike nods almost enthusiastically. “I really wouldn’t have blamed you—you looked pretty overstimulated—but, damn, I’m glad you noticed. Eh, long story short, you ended up Domming me—dominating, I mean, like… the kinky kind. And you were really good at it, too! So no worries about that, okay? But I should have stopped you, because I know I’m quick to slip into subspace—I’ll explain that later—and it was stupid… well, a little naïve, I guess, of me to think it wouldn’t happen, and…” He takes a moment to catch his breath, and I rub his back while he does.

“A little longer,” I say calmly when he tries to continue his story. My visions are exceptionally helpful in this type of situation, and I don’t want Mike to start hyperventilating.

“Thanks,” he says sincerely after a few more deep breaths. “The… I just… I freaked out because I need someone to take care of me—you, to be specific—but I should be the one taking care of you after your first time… Things just got a little messy.”

“Is there any reason we can’t be taking care of each other?” I ask, taking a moment to think about my own needs at this time. The very first one is for Mikey to feel better. “I think that, after this shower, I would like to watch a movie in bed, and stay very, very close to you.”

“Yeah,” Mike sighs happily. “That works for me.”

When we finish our shower, I dry myself off quickly, only to find Mike still standing next to me, soaking wet, when I’m done. He hesitantly holds his towel out to me.

“Please take care of me,” he mumbles, his voice small and soft. He’s avoiding eye contact, biting his lip and constantly shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“I never want you to be afraid to ask me that, Mike,” I say slowly, enunciating every word carefully as I take the towel from him.

There’s something wonderful about this. I dry every part of Mike’s gorgeous body with extreme care. When I first resist the urge to press my lips to his skin, Mike laughs.

“You can still kiss me, Melot,” he muses. “Actually, I’d really like it if you did.”

At that moment, things finally connect in my head. “You need to feel loved.”

“Yeah,” Mike says, nodding slowly. “Put bluntly, I need to know you see me as more than the piece of meat you throatfucked back there.”

Before I can respond, he continues: “I know you don’t see me that way! I mean, maybe you did when you—”

“I was mostly very impressed with your skills,” I admit reluctantly. It’s my turn to blush once again. At least we’re both suffering that terrible affliction this time.

“Thanks,” he says with a smile. “Decades of practice.”

“I think you have put in more hours than most people your age,” I joke before nipping at the tip of his nose.

Mike glares at me. “Well, apparently I have put in more hours than some people your age, so…”

“Hey!” I stick my tongue out at him. “Stop bullying me, or I will—”

“Whatever you say next,” Mike interjects quickly, “never threaten to skip aftercare. Just… little PSA, I guess.”

“Oh, I was simply going to suggest we put on an episode of Downton Abbey and I point out all the historical inaccuracies,” I say plainly.

Mike shudders. “That would actually be worse…”

Mere seconds after we finally get settled in bed, there’s a knock on the door—of course, a few seconds after that, there’s an actual knock on the door. One that isn’t a figment of my… Well, I suppose both ‘figment’ and ‘imagination’ would be inaccurate.

Still, Mike and I look at each other, neither of us in any way inclined to actually see whose unfortunate timing we’re dealing with.

“Melot, can I see you for a second?” It’s Marshall.

Even though I’m wearing pants, I scramble to find the nearest pair of sweatpants and put them on—after Mike gives it a quick inspection. Quick thinking on his part, I must admit.

When I open the door, I open it wide enough to speak to Marshall, but not so wide that he can look into the room.

It makes him chuckle. “I’ve seen him in much worse states than simply naked,” he muses, but doesn’t otherwise protest the minimal state of ajar-ness of the door. “August and I thought you could use this.” He holds out a tray. One side is loaded with snacks—cheese, fruit, crackers… the lack of jellybeans might disappoint Mike—while the other side holds two bottles of water, glasses, and a pitcher of strawberry lemonade—Mike’s favorite. “Keep him warm and hydrated. And see if he wants to eat something. He’ll say he’s not hungry, but… Take care of him, okay?”

“I will,” I promise as I let go of the door to take the tray from Marshall. As soon as I do, someone—must be Mike—yanks the door open. He narrowly misses me as he practically jumps into Marshall’s arms.

“Thank you,” Mike mutters as Marshall hugs him tight to his chest, indeed  not caring that Mike is still very much completely nude. “I love you.”

“I know,” Marshall replies with a somber smile. “I love you too. Always have, always will. Go be with your… boyfriend?”

“Official status TBD,” Mike chuckles as he releases Marshall from his grasp. “But at the very least I think we can say we’re hooking up.”

“Well, whatever the case, take care of each other. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He disappears before either of us can say another word, so we take the food inside and close the door behind us again, making sure to lock it as well.

“What happened between you two?” I ask carefully as we get comfortable under the covers.

Mike shrugs. “Nothing happened. It’s like… We’re as close as we’ve always been, just in a different way. We could never be in a monogamous relationship with each other, that would be weird, for some reason, but with Sweetcheeks in the mix, some old stuff has been coming back, and we’re figuring that out. Not in a very proactive way, I have to admit.” He picks a cube of cheese off the plate.

“So I might have to share you with another person, then?” I ask, jokingly poking at his ribs. The thought should devastate me. Shred my insides like a swarm of angry wasps is wreaking havoc on them.

Instead, I feel completely calm.

“I’m a bottomless pit of love,” Mike says with his mouth already full—yet he stuffs three more cubes of cheese and a few slices of cured sausage in there.

“You know, there’s fruits and vegetables on this plate, right?” I say when he swallows the obscene amount of food—which I’m sure he considered ‘a bite’.

“Fine, you have discovered the limits of my affection,” he jokes. “Hey!”

The first grape I chuck at his face bounces off his forehead, and I catch it before it hits the plate again. On the second try, Mike catches it in his mouth.

The third lands directly in his lap—I can’t seem to come to an agreement with myself as to whether or not that happened on purpose, but I happily put the situation to good use by retrieving the rogue fruit with my mouth, not neglecting to press a teasing kiss to Mikey’s soft cock.

“No,” he warns me, drawing out the ‘o’ as he shakes his head. “I mean… Yes! But no.”

For a moment—one of the kind that sets your soul alight and seems to last forever—we just smile at each other as we stare into each other’s eyes.

In my entire existence, I have never felt as safe as I do now.

Or as loved.

Or as at home.

Or as at peace.

“You were right,” I whisper after a while, as I let go of my fears, and my doubts, and my past.

Just for now.

And for him.

Only for him.

“I’m entirely unsurprised,” he chuckles. “But, eh… what about?”

I swallow hard before looking him right in the eye.

“I like boys.”

[axelsagewrites]

hi there please can i get nsfw alphabet for aemond! Hope that’s okay and thank you!

Aemond NSFW Alphabet

Warnings: slight bit of religious trauma/guilty, smut 18+ under the cut Word count: 1693

Masterlist Here

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

He can get pretty quiet after all is done but he never leaves your side. He’ll lay on the bed, pull you into curl into his side, and just hold you as he strokes your hair. He likes to kiss the top of your head and trace shapes onto your skin and just be with you.

B = Body part (their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

This mans obsessed with your neck. He loves to kiss it, leave marks on it, hold it as he forced you to look into his eye. There’s just something about him holding your neck in his large hands that gets him.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Aemond can get a bit possessive at the best of times so when it comes to sex, he always wants to cum in you. whether that be fucking you till he spills his seed inside you or watching you swallow it, something just gets him when he sees it. it makes him know that you’re really his.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He is desperate to fuck you on the iron throne. He’s never done it, but he dreams about it, the cool metal touching his back and thighs as you climb into his lap, riding him on the throne till he cums deep inside. Its his biggest fantasy.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Aemond despite his reserved nature was a little bit of a whore before you. safe to say he got around a lot however unlike other Targaryen’s doing it with any whore or 100 different servants Aemond had a select few fuck buddies around the castle however once he met you, he stopped visiting their chambers. safe to say it has taught him a lot, and I mean a lot.

F = Favourite position (this goes without saying)

He likes missionary but its anything but boring. He wants to be able to see your face as he fucks you into the mattress, holding you by your throat and being able to lean down and whisper dirty thoughts into your ear.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Aemond is pretty serious when it comes to sex. He looks like he has a war to win as he tries to chase your orgasm. He gets very into it, and he becomes laser focused on getting what he wants.

H = Hair (how well-groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He defiantly takes great care down there. Likes to make sure its neat and trimmed at all times and always clean. This man is obsessed with good hygiene and for him he thinks hair is a part of that.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Usually, Aemond is more serious or kinky in the moment, but sex can also be romantic especially depending on the day. Your wedding day for example is filled with him praising your body, kissing every inch of skin, and intimate movements. He can be soft when he wants to be.

J = Jack off (masturbation head canon)

It’s not his favourite thing to do but he’s not opposed to it. However sometimes if he sees you in the gardens from his window, picking flowers or reading, he likes to discreetly watch you from the window as he pleasures himself with his hand, wishing it was yours.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

He is not shy to kinks at all. Loves choking, leaving marks, and restraints. Defiantly has some ropes in his chambers for certain occasions. He’s defiantly a dom and usually a firm one but he can be a soft dom when he wants to be. He also weirdly has a thing for you scratching his back till you almost draw blood. He also defiantly wants to try out knife play but doesn’t want to scare you.

L = Location (favourite places to do the do)

While he’d love to fuck in the throne room he usually sticks to his chambers. Aemond may love to fuck but he still is a bit ashamed deep down and is terrified of the idea of getting caught. However, in private he doesn’t always stick to the bed. In fact, a lot of the time he fantasies about bending you over his desk or having you sit underneath it, sucking him off under the table.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

He won’t admit it, but he loves a bratty partner. Modern Aemond would defiantly be obsessed with his academic rival and gets off on the challenge. If you back talk, correct him, or insult him just right instead of angry he just gets insanely horny.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Aemond wouldn’t sub. Its just not his still and although he acts tough and mysterious, he would just feel far too vulnerable to be able to relax enough to enjoy it.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He will stay between your legs from sunrise to set if you let him. His ego is boosted every time he managed to get you off with his tongue. Or even better if he manages to bring you to the brink over and over till you beg to be able to cum. Don’t get me wrong, Aemond will never turn down a blow job, but he also will never pass up the opportunity to fuck you with his tongue.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He likes to mix it up. He’ll either go painfully slow, teasing you till you feel like you’ll explode or go rough enough that the bed almost snaps and the headboard dents the wall. Its always one extreme or the other but no matter what you’re both exhausted at the end.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

While he loves to draw it out and tease you sometimes a quicky is all there’s time for and who is he to refuse you? modern Aemond would defiantly drag you to the corner of the library for a quickie. Prince Aemond however would make you both late to balls and dinners because he’d be fucking you against the door when you tried to leave before he got his fix.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He doesn’t usually experiment with location but will experiment inside your chambers. if you come up to him and ask to try a new position or introduce blindfolds, he is game to try. When it comes to other things, he’s more wary since he doesn’t want to hurt you, but he will study it for hours and then give it a go anyway.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

This man doesn’t last for hours; he lasts for days. Clear his calendar for the week and he’ll fuck till his cock falls off. He usually lasts for a while, something that can make quickies harder. He does need a little bit between rounds, but he will fill that time up with his mouth between your legs.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

On him, no, he’s very much sceptical of them. At first, he would be wary about his partner using them but wouldn’t tell them not to but eventually he’d wanna see what the fuss was about. He would try introducing them in the bedroom to use on you and he’d become hooked. Especially modern Aemond, that man would buy a top-quality vibe just so he could use it to tease you to tears.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

So much. Aemond never claimed to be fair though. This man loves to tease, whether in the bedroom or with words. Something about seeing you beg to cum just really does it for him. He also finds it cute to see how agitated you get.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He’s a pretty quiet guy but will let out soft grunts, groans, and moans especially if your tongues involved. He’ll also deliberately moan when he’s going down on you, so his tongue vibrates against you. however, he also loves to talk dirty so he’s always whispering something in a low husky voice in your ear.

W = Wild card (a random head canon for the character)

He used to be pretty sex repulsed since he grew up in a religious family with a manwhore brother, so it took him a while to work through some religious guilt. This means sometimes Aemond will withdraw from sex for a bit, and you need to comfort him to remind him that he isn’t a bad person for the things he likes.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Definitely a grower not a shower but even still its pretty long, not quite as thick, but he knows how to use it.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Its pretty high. He defiantly uses sex as a stress relief so he could go everyday if you let him. However, he can also go a couple weeks without it if he has to without complaint but it’s not something he tries to do.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Aemond struggles to sleep after sex. He can get pretty into his own head after sex and stays up all night worry if he hurt you or if he’s a bad person for it, so he also needs a bit of reassurance after. However even when he doesn’t get like that, he just doesn’t really wanna sleep after. Its as if sex wakes him up more than tires him out.

a/n: trying a slightly different layout for the posts

taglist: @clairacassidy @valeskafics @starkleila

[inamagicalhallucination]

i had the best bsd famous no powers au headcanons because i got the mental image of dazai saying he “hates” chuuya and none of his friends should listen to him because chuuya sucks and atsushi sadly putting the chuuya poster he wanted to buy back

and also “wait so dazai can sleep with chuuya but i cant listen to his music??? wtf ???”

most of them would be in the entertainment btw but a few exceptions here and there

okay first of all a lot of the ways every one met every one would be different for the sake of like creative liberty sfakdj like dazai and atsushi would have met earlier ; i would probably not put akutagawa in the music industry so his relationship with dazai would be different - but i havent actually worked any of that out yet so ignore this

anyway

first of all - a key plot point would be that chuuya and dazai had a falling out - and i mean an actual falling out like they cant stand anyone bringing the other up

which really sucks for the ada becuz like chuuya’s music >>>>>>>>>>>

anyway here are what i think some of the characters would be like

chuuya: 

- he rose to fame as a teenager - he’s wildly known for his good music and his smexy face 

- a good portion of younger artists like his music and look up to him

- he likes writing his own music but sometimes feels conscious about more dark/personal songs

- had a falling out with dazai at some point becuz of this he does not like ppl listening to the music that comes from dazai’s friends but he does secretly like a lot of their songs

- has secret social media accounts to stalk dazai

- has cried becuz he convinced himself at some point about dazai ‘being with’ almost everyone at the agency (at different time periods) and was not right even once

- every single one of his friends knows that half of his music is obviously about dazai but no one knows how to bring it up

- every one’s favorite thirst trap

- you know how a product will appear for a .000000000000000001 sec w/ a bts member and immediately get sold out ?? yeah thats how it is for him

- he’s very strict about crediting ppl - like someone will say like two words to him that’ll inspire him and he’ll credit them as co-writer

//

dazai:

- im not sure if i want him to be a singer or not but he’s definitely involved in other aspects such as writing producing etc

- HATES chuuya 

- so much that he’s constantly thinking about him like the pathetic wet cat that he is

- he has forbidden everyone in the agency from listening to chuuya’s music

- there may or may not be a secret underground community within the ada that listens to chuuya’s music and fangirls over him and it may or may not include everyone but dazai

- when someones mad at dazai they blast chuuya’s music

- *listening to chuuya’s music, secretly* wait is this fucking song about me ? ... nah

- atsushi once wrote a song about dazai and how glad that he was that he had a brother figure like dazai and dazai cried for 24 hours straight 

- atsushi is no longer allowed to casually write about him 

- he acts really playful and aloof but he streams all of his friends music religiously and is secretly their biggest fan

- has tried to convince everyone he knows that sings to sing his suicide song - no one has agreed yet

- he has trouble finding inspiration but when he does he latches on - sometimes he’ll disappear for days and then come back with the most perfect songs 

- really only openly nice and supportive to atsushi tbh 

//

atsushi

- i want him to be with dazai earlier becuz i think it would let their dynamic really settle and atsushi trauma-response personality won’t be as prominent if that makes sense

- atsushi’s favorite musician is everyone :D no im kidding thats what he says but its actually chuuya 

- yeah he’s the younger brother of dazai (not sure if their kinda like brothers or just adopted brothers or what yet) and he’s in love with chuuya it runs in the family

- he’s in a band

- it’s called snow beneath the moonlight - it’s him, naomi, and junichiro

- maybe they’ll add lucy and/or kyouka but idk

- atsushi’s the main singer - juni’s on drums - naomi’s on guitar - but they switch around for the funsies

- im gonna create a separate section for them actually and keep the focus on atsushi for now

- atsushi’s solo music is....

- the first album he released came after weeks and weeks of people spotting him going to the studio in bright fun clothes - and he posted a lot of fun things

- so everyone thought it’d be a fun, motivational bop album

- it was so fucking sad like holy shit what the fuck atsushi go to fucking therapy

- really good tho :>

- like if you could u would inject his voice into ur veins 

- ya know lyn lapid’s song detached 

- yeah

- if atsushi sang that itd be about akutagawa btw im not saying anything but i am

- a lot of his clothes are styled by rashomon - a fashion brand owned by the akutagawa siblings - half because of however celeb - brand partnerships work - half because he somehow became ryuu’s muse 

- i want him to live with dazai - which is one of the reasons why they need to meet earlier because i had the mental image of atsushi talking about moving out and “yeah so i moved out of my brother’s place and ya know it’s strange. good at times but strange. Like i can do so many things i was never allowed to - like i can get wasted, try acid, invite someone for the night, buy chuuya nakahara posters, put up my chuuya nakahara posters, listen to chuuya nakahara’s music, own chuuya nakahara’s albums”

- since i think dazai would probably let atsushi drink as long as he’s not insane about it , throw kunikida in there too

- has a lot of songs about ryuu but he’ll never tell him

- ryuu listening to any love song by atsushi “wait is this fucking song about me??? ...nah”

- he may or may not be fucking ryuunosuke akutagawa i cannot deny or confirm anything

//

akutagawa:

- he owns a fashion brand with his sister solely becuz i showed him to my friend a few months ago and i said “sorry he dresses like a sad vampire victorian orphan thing” and she said “that is the sexiest man i have ever seen” or something like that its been a hot second

- may or may not be in love with atsushi you cant prove it - well okay sure he has collection after collection inspired by atsushi but-

- okay so maybe he listens to atsushi’s music when he’s coming up with designs but-

- okay so maybe he has all of atsushi’s albums hidden where atsushi cant find them but-

- okay so maybe atsushi’s been at his place enough for akutagawa to think ‘oh no what if he finds all the albums’ but-

- anyway

- he had a lot of goth, punk, etc, vibes and stuck to a dark, muted color range

- and then one day dropped a gold-violet colored bright not-at-all-like-his-previous-stuff collection and pretended it was normal

//

snow beneath the moonlight - band

members: atsushi, junichiro, naomi

- it was started in highschool by juni going to atsushi and being like ‘wanna start a band’ and atsushi, who was sleeping a little cardboard box in the spot where the sun was, was like “hmmm? um sure zzzzzzzzz” if that makes sense 

- naomi found out about it and joined before atsushi and juni could ask her

- so typically it’s atsushi on vocals, naomi on guitar, juni on drums, but they can be pretty versatile like atsushi’s usually got a guitar on him sorry i cant think of the words rn and juni can play the piano and naomi can do all of that

- naomi and juni sing too if they want - theyre not strict about roles 

- they wrote their music together in highschool 

- they still do - but now when their stuck they dont cry they ask others for help :)

- very sweet and fun vibes

- they literally just do whatever they want - if there is a style or genre they want to try they probably will

- naomi has to do a lot of the talking becuz juni gets uncomfy and atsushi’s attention span causes him to leave ppl mid conversations becuz he saw a cool leaf

okay

//

quick notes:

- not sure if oda and his orphans will be alive but itd be weird to kill them off in this au for me but idk

- oda’s a writer

- poe is also a writer 

- idk where to stick ranpo in becuz it hard for me to imagine him being anything but the world’s best detective

- i kind of want yosano to be in the industry but i also want her to be a doctor

- the ada is just fukuzawa’s adopted children that do whatever they want career wise becuz of him - nepotism babies btu theyre all orphans 

- kyouka’s a singer and so is kenji

- katai’s a producer

- kunikida’s someones manager but who knows whose he only ever babysits dazai and the rest of hte agency

- so as you can see im still working out the kinks of this au

- if you have suggestions or comments lemme know

- this would be equal parts skk and sskk and whatever the fuck everyone else’s got going on

- kouyou would also be a singer - im thinking classical

- q is that child artist that you love but cant help but wonder fi theyre being exploited

- lucy is trained in america and started off there but has recently moved to japan idk how thatll work for her

- sigma is a big atsushi fan btw

- the ada is so chaotic and disorganized and half the ppl there arent even in the industry but it’s just a cover for fukuzawa’s children so it still works

anyway i might continue this and update as i go

feel free to ask more about this au or give ideas or whatever <33

[sleepdeprivedsimp234]

Any thoughts on the TnT ship (Texas and Tennessee), like any headcanons? I may be the only one who ships the two...

YES YES I DO

AUGH THESE GAYSSSSS

The religious trauma is strong with these ones.

AND RELIGIOUS GUILT (TENNESSEE IM LOOKING AT YOU GOOD SIR.)

smth smth friends-to-Tennessee-finding-out-that-Texas-isn’t-straight-and-that-he-actually-has-a-chance-with-him-but-he-has-to-act-like-a-good-Christian-boy-and-good-Christian-boys-aren’t-gay-

^to-sorta-enemies-to-friends-to-friends-with-benefits-to-QPR-to-lovers. If that makes sense.

They go to horse shows and stuff together

Tennessee actually doesn’t know anything about gardening/farming-in-the-crops-sense because he thought it was too feminine but then he found out that Texas has a GIANT FUCKING FARM with plants and animals of all sorts. And uh. Then he was willing to try farming/gardening. He sucks at it but it was worth a try 👍

Texas found out that Tennessee is a book nerd and now whenever he goes out for an errand, he’ll bring back a book that he thinks Tenn will enjoy.

Tennessee wears glasses sometimes. He thinks it’s stupid but Texas thinks otherwise.

Texas likes to go storm chasing, but Tennessee is an anxious bitch and always worries for him

They sing together all the time (mainly Tennessee playing guitar and Texas singing)

Texas is always so gentle with Tenn (fear of hurting him) but Tennessee is the type to literally tackle Texas onto the ground and hug him till he can’t breathe

Half of the time they’re together is spent with Texas just *smooshing* Tennessee into the couch by laying on top of Tenn and Tenn just accepting it and giving Texas love and hair pets.

Texas doesn’t really go to church anymore, he’d much rather spend his life freely and not live by the rules of Christianity (me frfr), but he’ll still go to church with Tennessee sometimes.

^at first they tried acting like they were just two friends going to church together but it very soon became clear that they weren’t just friends.

^their height comparisons. not too important buttttttttt also it is.

Tennessee is genuinely scared of Texas’s driving 😭 It’s not that Texas is a bad driver, if anything he’s one of the best out of all the states, it’s HOW FAST HE DRIVES. LIKE. SLOW DOWN BRO WE ARENT IN A RUSH.

Texas’s favorite part of Tennessee are his arms. Specifically his biceps. What can I say? The man likes muscles. He’s staring very respectfully.

^meanwhile Tennessee loves Texas’s hips and thighs. Texas is muscular (from farm work and stuff), but his hips and thighs are a little softer than the rest of him and Tennessee loves it. He’s always latched on to Texas’s hips. Unless they’re driving. Then he’ll just have one hand on Texas’s thigh.

Texas gets hurt a lot, and while Tennessee worries about him, he does love taking care of Texas.

EDIT: @flarefoxxx because I think that it was your posts that introduced me to this ship :D

[utilitycaster]

ok just a list of even more questions re: Ruidus and its creation and society and basically everything

How much of the creation myths are true? Are bormodos descended from dwarves or halflings or something, or were they drastically changed by Predathos, or something in between? Were cytaa lizardfolk once?

Similarly are Reilora entirely of Predathos or do they have an Exandrian counterpart?

Absolutely fucking wild guess here that's almost certainly wrong but also this took place in the Founding and we don't even know how long the Age of Arcanum was; are bormodos and cytaa and reilora somehow truer to what Exandria was at the time, a la how the North American English accent is arguably closer to the 1600s British English Accent than many modern British accents are?

(my planetary science knowledge is limited and I respect if Matt "oh shit forgot about the polar day/night cycle in the summer in the arctic" Mercer decides to handwave that because frankly you can just say Magic! but why does Ruidus have similar gravity to the much larger Exandria as well as a seemingly comparable atmosphere)

How much of the "design" claimed in the Imperium's religion is in fact deliberate and how much is simply claimed? Are flares purposeful or involuntary? Are they made by Predathos or by the Weave Mind or by Ludinus's bullshit at this point?

Not a question so much as an observation but given that traditionally psionics are INT based in D&D and the Vanguard is sorcerers this explains a whole lot about how dysfunctional it is as an organization: in keeping with the sorcerer theme, it's the most "dish it out but can't take it" group of people that ever existed. You could DEVASTATE these CHA-based fools with a well-placed Synaptic Static, psychic resistance or no.

Did Otohan discover the method by which one became Exaltant via her experiences in the war? This would explain a lot and be literally by far the most interesting thing about her.

Literally though how would one of the Vanguard members who joined due to religious trauma respond to being taken to The Religious Trauma Capital? Are they all going to turn around and be like "well now I'm the one in power, so it's okay" (which is not uncommon as a response irl and would be fascinating to unpack) or are some of them going to turn upon realizing they're just trading one religion for another?

How long ago did the Vanguard and Imperium begin collaborating? For that matter, when did Ludinus specifically get involved given that only Exaltants could do anything with Reilora prior to the solstice?

The most recent Reilora Imogen summoned was not of the Imperium, but Kadija noted that the kinder Reilora Exaltants met in their dreams were sometimes replaced by more aggressive Reilora. Is it a crapshoot whether she summons a Reilora friendly to her cause or unfriendly? Is this also true of the Vanguard Exaltants?

[snellyfish]

Why is Angie your favourite character?

This is really funny I just got off call with Glownary and was talking about how much I don't miss Danganronpa discourse. Anyway I hope someone finds a way to get mad at me in this post!

((Admittedly I'd probably actually place Korekiyo above her because he ACTUALLY has a relevant and specified canon story,,, but, y'kno))

Plain and simple, she just has a handful of design and character tropes I super adore in characters! As a base, I'm usually not super into,,, well-adjusted, well-liked , reasonable, and rational characters. LMAO. They're fine but I live for exaggeration. I LOVE when they're little freaks and not watered down at all for the viewers sake/comfort, I love when they (both the writers and the written) just keep twisting the knife for no good reason other than the bit despite how unconventional it may be.

One could argue that her not being watered down and being as shitty to the other players as she is is a trauma response, or just a mentally ill person being mentally ill. It can be neat to think of her that way sometimes! It's of my opinion that almost all Danganronpa characters are super open-ended lore/personality-wise and we as fans are just making up canon as we go because it's FUCKING FUN, and, as such, all the ways that Angie can be interpreted is very interesting to me-- EVEN if that's seen as "the irredeemable annoying religion-force-feeding zealot antagonist." Which is, of course, an objectively awful way to view anyone REGARDLESS of media illiteracy, but, you know! I like weird freaks so this "flaw" they see is simply more food for me. Yippee!!

Whether I think she's canonically A) genuinely malicious and sadistic, B) traumatized from an abusive religious sect, C) honestly caring about the other players, and/or D) none/all of the above? I'll never tell! Oops all bangers!

Tropes I enjoy, whether or not I found myself enjoying them BECAUSE of Angie herself;;

Religion, especially if it's horrifying and...bad! (Most of my own characters deal heavily with religion and religious trauma, I think it's cool to play with, whether or not it's a fantasy religion like I think Angie's is)

CULTS! Cult behavior! Let's live in a commune!! (GUYS I LOVE MIDSOMMAR)

Dark skin / light hair contrast color combo goes hard!!!

+ The pansexual flag palette is literally my favorite color combo ever!!!!

Manipulative little shits!!!!!

Small scary women!!!!!!

Islander stuff, it's very nostalgic to me and I just have a deep love and appreciation for the beach and ocean!!!!!!!

Piercings!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Cutesy sunshine character who could and would stab you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

BLOOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! IDK HOW THIS WASN'T MY FIRST POINT!!!!!!!!!!

AND SHE'S JUST FUCKING SILLY!!!!!!!! SHE'S GENUINELY SO FUNNY AND CUTE ESPECIALLY IN HER INTERACTIONS WITH SHUICHI!!!!!!!!!! I LOVE HER SO BAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

She was an IMMEDIATE favorite when I played V3 and when I found out that, like, everyone fucking HATED her and she's probably the least liked character in the entire class by the fans, my brain immediately went the contrarian route to find reasons to like her even MORE. I tend to do this a lot, but when it's a character I already enjoy, it's even worse, dude.

ummmmm obligatory Shinnaga mention sorry but I frequently tend to appreciate a character a lot more based on potential dynamics alone. Ships, romantic or not, have legitimately gotten me to enjoy characters I hated before, based on interesting interactions unique to them alone. So while Kiyo and Angie's (they're making out btw) ingame dynamic and dialogues aren't REALLY what my sick and twisted mind views them as, it's worth noting that my honest belief and interpretation of the two of them could even give me a sliver of that dynamic being possible .......... means she's fuckin slay ............ it means love wins..... It means Vote For Yonaga 2024

[pespillo]

pin for followers:

heres my carrd

this is a fan content blog and my main interests have been The Owl House and The Walten Files, but occasionally will pop up with UTDR and other older media im down to put here. I also put things pertaining to my original story #trashbears and sometimes will showcase other ocs ive put on my main blog.

My main TOH story is Emperor´s Acolyte AU ( #emperor acolyte au ) and you can check out the tag here in chronological order CW: themes/discussions of religious / medical / child abuse, violence n blood, this is a largely emotionally driven story dealing with trauma and grief n goth bs, feel free to blacklist if thats not ur thing !

- i hate incest/pedophilia shippers and also i hate anyone who admits to be attracted to minors in any way so get the fuck out if you identify as some “non offending” pedo or some shit, because i will absolutely report you. if you are a minor with issues like that and thinks in some way like this, get out social media n seek out some type of help, anti-anti´s also get the fuck out or ill kick you.

- if you identify with t*ruscum ideology or t*erfs in any way, get the fuck out as well.

- if you draw/look at graphic child gore or have irl pics of kids in a gore/guro/nsfw blog, GET the fuck out before i punt you.

- do not follow or interact if your interests revolve around literal rape porn or related to d*ddy/m*mmy kinks .

- dont bring ace discourse into this blog, i support ace/aro people as a grey-aro and youre welcome here to be yourselves.

- ableist/sanist bullshit will be sent to the incinerator

- i am a latino mixed man who lives in south america, if you are racist/antiblack/xenophobic ill kick you off.

- dont request fnaf content from me unprompted, much less if i havent talked about it first, i dont draw for it anymore!

- you can ask me to tag whatever you need me to tag as long as its not prejudice motivated aka: asking me to tag lesbians, pda of gay people, people of certain races,etc

- please dont flirt with me or send me invasive questions or ask me to draw content for You (requests that arent art trades or commissions) , if i dont know you personally , sorry but i am not your friend i am just a dude. 

dont reblog this since its just a post to let new followers understand how things are here. thanks!