#the ritual stray gods

[that-ari-blogger]

The Ritual Breaks Story

If you hadn't guessed by the two other posts I have made on the song, The Ritual is my favourite song in Stray Gods: The Role Playing Musical. I would go as far as to argue that it is the best song in the musical as well, but that isn't the point of this post.

This post is to gush over why I love the song so much. Specifically, this post will talk about how The Ritual messes with the commonly used story structure, in its placement in the musical, and in the song's actual structure.

Let me explain.

SPOILERS AHEAD

This post will focus on three of the most common story structures, the Monomyth, the Three Act Structure, and the Freytag's Pyramid. But first, I would like to do some contextualisation.

These structures are not rules.

Anyone who tells you that a story "should" or "must" or "can't" do something is talking out of their arse. As such, these structures are to be used as analytical tools, rather than ratings. I am not going to be scoring the song as to how many points on the Hero's Journey it hits, I will be looking at how the musical as a whole uses the monomyth and how it doesn't and to what effect.

That felt like it needed to be said.

The Monomyth, or Hero's Journey, was presented in Joseph Campbell's 1949 book: The Hero With A Thousand Faces and it was, in my opinion, rather unrefined. Or more accurately, overrefined.

What do I mean by this? I mean that Campbell's monomyth was incredibly overdetailed and ridiculously prescriptive as Campbell tried to squint and put every story ever written into the same mould and make judgements about society at the same time.

It also had elements in it that haven't aged well at all. For example, one element that Campbell proposed every story had, was called the "woman as temptress" which is... not just sexist, but also inaccurate. I'm glad the modern monomyth has mostly avoided this.

As such, the monomyth concept is what I will be using, much like other modern interpretations, and either scrapping, or ignoring, certain elements. It is a medicine journey with a few more steps along the road. Ted Ed has a fantastic video on the subject, as does Overly Sarcastic Productions.

In any case, The Ritual, according to this model, fits into the "Trials" section. It's unimportant, and not typically a challenge for a character. This is the start of Empire Strikes Back, when Luke has to get out of the frozen cave. It's tangential.

But The Ritual is what several of the main characters have been leading towards. Eros and Aphrodite and to some extent Apollo have all been gearing up to this moment. You could read this as the result or crisis in their arcs, but I don't think that fits. It's its own moment, but it's its own moment in someone else's story, not Grace's.

The three act structure is the most famous, and is almost synonymous with writing as a whole, but it isn't as ubiquitous as you would think. James Cameron (who wrote The Terminator and Alien) offers this piece of advice:

"I firmly believe in the three act structure. I have just never written one."

The structure boils down to three sections of a story, each culminating in its own climactic event, that build into the third act climax. These don't have to be fast paced, but they are emotional beats. It could be a fight, or a quiet, retrospective moment.

There are then plenty of elements that are usually relegated to a specific act. For example, a villain might have a third-act breakdown, or a hero might discover their magical powers or something in the first act. And the mentour usually dies either in the first or second act climaxes, or quietly at the start of act three.

I would say that The Ritual hits the second act climax, possibly. Because Stray Gods almost intentionally avoids this structure. The closes thing it has to a first act climax is Challenging A Queen, which isn't really a climax, its more of an individual challenge that sets up something later. Similarly, Old Woulds might fit that first act climax, but it also sets up other stuff in later parts. It's deliberately unclear.

But you know what isn't unclear? The structure of The Ritual itself fits firmly into the three act structure, and so do a ton of other songs in the musical, most notably Phantom Pains. I would say the two songs are linked by grief and cycles, but the entirety of the musical is linked with that, so it's not really a unique thread.

The Ritual begins with exposition in the form of those stained glass windows about the war and the idols' place in it. Then it switches to a different location based on a choice you make.

Then there is a lull as Eros (Or whoever you choose if you get to a point where you can choose) begins to speak, before the final act gets decided, and it is here that all the decisions come to fruition. Everything up to the third act is set up, and it all pays off here.

Freytag's Pyramid is a lot less complicated than it sounds, and it is one that you have probably heard of, if not by its actual name.

This is the Freytag's Pyramid. I've heard people call this the five act structure, and I disagree with those people, but I can see where they are coming from. There are five main sections of this, but they aren't acts, they are descriptors.

The Freytag's Pyramid model is a graph. And yes, I am going to bring maths into this. (I can count to 12 and a half, so I assure you I am quite qualified)

The horizontal axis of the graph is time. As the story progresses, usually, you move from left to right on the scale. The vertical axis is tension. The more tense an event is, usually, the further up on the graph it sits.

As you can see in the diagram above, a story tends to progress towards a climax, with tension rising as the story picks up speed, until the story closes, and the stress drops to the denouement, which is just a fancy word for the finale. These lines can be a bit wavy as you see fit, but the general direction is fairly standardised.

So where does The Ritual fit into this?

Trick question, it doesn't. I would argue that The Ritual is its own climax. It should (if we were using this model) fit on the "rising action" section of this. But it doesn't, it's its own thing.

Ok, I've harped on long enough about theoretical stuff. The point I am getting at is that Stray Gods isn't Grace's story. That's a weird way of putting it but let me clarify. Stray Gods is the story of Grace convincing this messed up family to get along and get over their problems.

The Ritual feels like a climax because it is. This song is the climax of a different story that Grace stumbled into and helped change the direction of. It's the climax of a tragedy that Grace managed to avert.

Stray Gods functions like people watching and doesn't fit with the story structures because people watching is exactly what this story is. This is several different stories that have stretched and stretched until they have warped beyond comprehension and lost all meaning.

The stories you watch are trying desperately to stick to these pre-existing patterns, and they aren't working. Stray Gods is a musical about change. You don't fix these people's problems for them, but you convince them to change and to adopt a different story structure. To try things a new way. To try and fix themselves instead of running face first into each obstacle over and over again until either it crumbles, or they do. The Ritual is this concept put succinctly and powerfully.

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[dandelion-roots]

[ID: a digital drawing of chuuya and dazai from bungou stray dogs. in the main image, dazai is sitting on a metal counter in a nurse's office, his arms behind him to support him and knees spread so that chuuya can clean his wounds. he has bandages and scars on his arms and bare torso and is wearing white pants and white shoes. with a bored expression he says, hurry up. chuuya, who's opening a green bottle and is standing in front of the counter, shouts, wait a fucking minute, asshole, i'm not your damn nurse! in a smaller follow-up panel dazai shouts, you shot me! and chuuya is looking away while sweating and shouting back, you were being a shit. end ID]

the price of engaging in homoeroticism via shooting you 'old friend' THREE FUCKING TIMES more than necessary is, um... *checks notes* having to patch him up five minutes later whilst staring at his bare chest and then having to set his leg, thus literally putting him back on his feet to do his dramatic victory reveal??? this can't be right who wrote this

[fuck-off-im-ace]

No but seriously i am not over The Ritual (green version). The idea that their ego and apathy lead to their own destruction. A god answering the prayers of another god, sacrificing himself for the safety of his wife and his kind. Them just letting it happen, not lifting a finger to save him, even after the war was over. 'Now i no longer see the purpose of love, when it tears at the center of me.' I am fully lost in the moment and in the song.

[mikaila-orchard]

Which way did you go during the Aphrodite ritual in Stray Gods?

The first time I did it, I respected her wishes and let her pass on to Venus.

That is the fascinating thing about Stray Gods. Respecting a characters wishes often means not getting what you want. Respecting Aphrodite's wishes means not saving her from the ritual. Respecting Hecate's wishes means she doesn't accept Asterion's feelings.

And of course respecting Freddie's wishes means not saving her from Hades. That's the big one.

[yusuke-of-valla]

God I am so insane about Stray Gods Aphrodite

[zukoandtheoc]

the number of possible song variations in stray gods is still so nuts to me. i feel like I need to draw diagrams

[thewigglingrng]

Choosing violence ranked and tiered all the songs in Stray Gods

1. The ritual

2. Phantom pains

3. I can teach you

4. The trial

5. Adrift

6. It's time

7. Look into me

8. Old wounds

9. The Throne

10. Everything

11. Cast a spell on me

12. Challenging a queen

13. The chorus is in accord

[pixie-mask]

The alternate lyrics for Everybody featuring Grace's solo

I kind of like Grace's verse, but I'm not really a fan of Aphrodite's verse though it does a great job of showing more of her mentality.

"It's not my blood inside these veins, only human remains" seriously that line sticks with me

[that-ari-blogger]

Win, Lose, Take, Fail (Remember)

Discussion of stories and historical research are very similar practices. A ton of history is source based, and is, in a very real way, media analysis. A historian will look at a text written centuries ago and deduce not only linguistics, but also the themes prevalent in the day-to-day life.

I will eternally be impressed by some of the ideas that people find written between the lines of even the most well known about pieces, and its humbling to know that the stories that we tell in the modern day might be time capsules in their own right.

If you’d indulge me for a moment, I would like to briefly address those future historians who may be reading this: Coral reefs are magical, you guys really missed out on that, sorry.

Anyway, this is a post about She-Ra and the Princesses of Power, so what am I going on about?

Well, there are a few sources in both media analysis and historical reconstruction that are more valuable than an almost objective source. I say almost, because every narrator is biased, and that impacts even what they decide to include. No source is perfect.

So what about a think piece that lays out its biases for your convenience? How about a look directly into the mind of your characters to see what they perceive about the world and what they wish it could be? How interesting would that be?

This intro is getting a bit long.

Let me explain.

SPOILERS AHEAD (She-Ra and the Princesses of Power, Stray Gods: The Role Playing Musical)

My analysis of this episode can be summed up in one sentence. Catra’s worldview and desires are fundamentally opposed to her reality, and so when she forces the real world to fit it, things fall apart.

This is nice and all, but it fails to take into account the nuance of her perspective, and the fallacies inherent in this desire. But its also important to understand that this is where Catra’s redemption arc fails, or… where this redemption arc fails.

In my eyes, Catra has two main redemption arcs, one that stops in this episode, and one that starts up at the start of the next season. If you want to be granular, she has about a hundred different attempts, but that’s needlessly specific and way to close to exactly what I do on this blog for comfort.

But I think its easier for the purposes of analysis to divide Catra’s journey in two and discuss why the first fails and what the second would have to do to succeed.

Starting with something that threw me for a while. Catra isn’t conscious of this different world, at least not until the end of the episode. Which is a brutal trauma response. Catra doesn’t want to succeed in the life that gets better, she doesn’t care for healing, she wants to forget. Catra will burn the world down to keep a blindfold on and leave her memories behind. Blissful ignorance.

Let’s talk about Stray Gods: The Role Playing Musical.

Stray Gods is a Greek mythology, murder mystery, musical, video game, and conveniently, I have a series about it on this blog. (Link)

A slight quirk of Stray Gods is that the online argument I have seen about it has mostly focused on picking the second best song in the set list, because the most powerful is so obvious its almost funny.

Read my analysis of The Ritual for more information, but briefly, Aphrodite is a trauma survivor who repeatedly subjects herself to a form of amnesia in order to forget the horror she has experienced. Ring any bells?

Instead of trying to get better, Aphrodite slaps a band aid on the wound and tries to ignore it. This might help her eventually, but it directly harms those closest to her.

“Mother, I’ve stood by your side, now I no longer see, the purpose of love, when it tears at the centre of me. My arrows are rusty, forget the bow, and I won’t be begging you not to go, but when you’re away, you leave us a broken home, and you leave me alone. Lost in a moment, lost in a song.”

That was Eros singing. Cupid, the one with the arrows of love. This is someone who’s life has been wrecked by his mother’s trauma. Not in the same way as Catra lashing out at Adora, but with similar effects.

Both characters have tried to apply a quick and easy solution to a more difficult to solve problem, and the side effects of that are what perpetuate this cycle of trauma.

Hey, look at that, it’s the theme of cycles again. It’s almost as if I have a point here.

I could go on for hours about this one song, and I have, three times on this blog for a start, but I know I’ve annoyed people in my life with this obsession. But, I want this post to be vaguely on time, so I have to move on.

Before I do, though, the trauma in the idols (gods but fancier) of this story has a little quirk in its realisation that matches with Catra, linguistics of trust.

None of the idols in this musical use the word “friend” at all. Well, that’s not true, Pan says it once in a mocking way, but nobody uses in earnest. This exhibits itself more noticeably in The Ritual, where Aphrodite specifically says the following:

“He struck a deal with our enemy’s enemy.”

These characters can only conceptualise the world in terms of give and take, and of relationships in terms of allies or enemies.

Catra, meanwhile, can’t conceptualise the world in anything other than win, lose, take, and fail. Her ability to trust has been eroded so much that she will destroy the world to obtain something that has been attributed value for her.

That’s why she willingly forgets things, and its why her revelation is heartbreaking. Catra thinks the only way she can trust again is if she loses the memory of betrayal, but that’s not exactly how it works.

The moment in which Shadow Weaver is nice to Catra is a demonstration of why I don’t think genre exists. This is a comedic moment, right? It’s got the build-up, you think it’s going one way, then it undercuts itself with the unexpected. So why is it so devoid of humour?

Because the reaction of everyone in this, including the audience, is one of fear, and serves to validate the fact that Shadow Weaver is abusive. Even if someone is being kind in the moment, if you automatically flinch in their presence, there is a history there that you can’t escape from.

Catra doesn’t know why she is scared of Shadow Weaver here, she can only remember the good times, but the PTSD from her mother figure’s actions runs deeper than surface memory. It’s a wound that still hurts, even if you look away from it or cover it up.

This is actually why things keep breaking in this reality. The whole thing is based off people ignoring specific details. It’s centred on complacency, but it doesn’t understand its characters.

Which is where the hamartia and all of those complicated terms come in. Essentially, Catra wants to keep Adora with her, but part of Adora is the strengths and flaws that lead to her leaving Catra.

Adora is fundamentally kind, but she’s also an incredibly quick thinker. This doesn’t always lead her to the most reasonable solutions, but it means she can almost immediately recognise that things are wrong. In this case, the fact that people keep saying everything is perfect, and nobody says that this much unless they are hiding something. So, Adora looks inwards, and notices holes in her memory, glimpsing beyond and getting those flashes.

The world reacts in a similar way, things exist contrary to their nature, and collapse in on themselves. This world is a paradox, the story has turned cannibalistic and is eating itself alive. It can’t be supported by the fallacies that hold it together.

Those fallacies in question, are Catra’s desires, and now I get to talk about how the first arc ended up here. Because we can all agree, if a character’s developmental trajectory ends up with them willingly destroying the world out of spite, things haven’t gone so well.

Catra has been trying to achieve her own autonomy from the trauma and abuse that coloured her upbringing and guided her actions in the Horde. But she hasn’t been confronting how this has actually affected her biases. The band aid solution comes back, but here it takes the form of those four words. Win, lose, take, fail.

“I won’t let you win. I’d rather see the whole world end than let that happen.”

Things can only be one of these four things, everything is exclusionary. Catra either loses or wins, she either takes or is taken from. She can’t fail or bad things will happen.

But let me let you in on a secret. I don’t know why I’m talking directly to a fictional character here, but oh well. Life is about the moment, rather than the value you put on it. You don’t have to take, you can share, or be given. You don’t have to fear failure, because there are people in your life who care about you no matter what.

Also, this is entirely my opinion speaking, but I think I’m right here. You’re in a war story, there are no winners or losers in war. There are just survivors, profiteers, and poets.

Back to the line above, in searching through the transcript, I found that the word “won’t” is used thrice in this episode. It’s a word of commitment and resolution. It’s not vague, or noncommittal, it’s a promise, and it's used in the above line, but also earlier on, once by Scorpia, and once by Adora.

“If you get us out of this, I promise I won’t hate you. I will just dislike you a reasonable amount.” “I won’t leave you behind again.”

Characters resolving to be better. Scorpia deciding to improve upon a relationship, and Adora making it abundantly clear that she has no intention of repeating her mistake.

But Catra is falling back, she won’t lose, she can’t fail, att least in her mind. And its that promise that destroys the world that she wants. Catra wants happiness, but its her own need for the four words above that break it. Catra is self-destructive, not necessarily in a direct way, but in a sense that she is sabotaging her own happiness.

So, what would a redemption arc for Catra have to look like?

Well, she would have to learn to shift up her values a lot. She would have to be in a place where she can accept friendship in a controlled environment. Maybe just a friend who is willing to offer a hand of kindness.

She might also need a way to let out her emotions in a healthy way. Maybe a declaration of love, but that would be a little too on the nose for this story’s patterns. So I’m picturing a creature with some kind of emotional connection to her. Maybe it changes colour or something.

Also, Shadow Weaver needs to exit the story permanently. I don’t think she needs to die, I don’t believe in retributive justice, but she needs to be banished in some capacity. Shadow Weaver needs to go.

Now, I know how much of what I have said will come true, and if you have seen this show to the end, you probably do as well. But if you haven’t, leave your thoughts in the replies. How do you see a redemption arc for Catra working?

Ok, before I go, I need to discuss Madam Razz, because there is so much going on in her scenes.

Starting with, why is she here?

I don’t actually know the answer to that, and its one of my problems with the episode. She’s there because Adora needed a mentour and because the episode needed some levity, but why is she there in story?

“It’s been such a long time since we last saw each other, hasn’t it? That or it hasn’t happened yet. I always get those two things mixed up.”

You wanna say that again? Time is funky in this world, I guess So maybe she’s being generic?

“Because this has all happened before! I remember it like it was yesterday. For Madame Razz, it was yesterday.”

Nope, Razz is just displaced from time. That’s fun, but there is more to this line.

Madam Razz is a phenomenally well written character, purely because of the masterclass of tone. At no point is Razz either serious or humorous, she is both always. Razz is approachable morality, a la Philosophy Tube, but I’m sorry @theabigailthorn, you ain’t got nothing on Razz.

In one interaction, Razz explains the thesis of the entire show. That abuse and trauma are cycles, and that the only way to stop them is by confronting the trauma itself. Start at the beginning.

She-Ra and the Princesses of Power has some of the best single lines ever written for television, and Madam Razz gets them all.

There is one moment in the finale of the series that is a perfect example of what I mean. I’m avoiding spoilers for too far ahead, but if you know, you know.

Final Thoughts

This episode is such a well-made examination of Catra’s psychology and her lack of sanity. Catra doesn’t see the world the way it is, and what she wants is incompatible with how she wants it. She needs to work out what she needs and then go from there.

I actually think that this episode does something interesting by making Catra unredeemable. She fails, she had her chance, and she didn’t take it. Her attempt to connect with Adora involves physical abuse. Catra is irredeemable.

But this isn’t the last of the redemption arc, is it? Catra will try again and again, chance after chance, and gradually improve. The failures only serve to make the success hit harder. Catra’s life is a Dark Souls boss, essentially.

I often feel like the people who declare Catra's redemption as unsalvageable haven't got past this season, and don't take into account that she gets better, and I don't fault them for that. No show is for everyone, and what you do or don't find interesting in media says a lot less about you than how you express your like or dislike.

Anyway, next week, I will be examining The Portal and my thoughts on this season as a whole. So, stick around if that interests you.

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[lucabyte]

screenshotting my own tags since i probably shouldn't have left them trapped in there tbf but. making an addendum since im remembering that the *first half* of the sisyphus myth is like... less well known. And also there's a couple variations on it as always with greek myth so i feel like i should point out a bonus vis a vis "he's just like me fr"

[^ wikipedia screenshot]

Something about not only cheating death but in doing so, making everyone else unable to die for the duration. Sounds familiar.

Veering even further into unbased-speculation here but mmm. viewing the universe as a prescriptive and punishing of free will (at least in Sif's eyes). I wonder if they would view this as brought unto themselves. A form of nominative determinism-- Careful what you wish for.

Hmmm just gonna spit this headcanon out in text post form since A. I don't think I could exposit it well enough in image form and B. It's not actually textually/thematically substantiated and I don't like actually staking my stuff on just vibes alone*

But anyway. I'd say it's pretty evident that all the islanders forgot their names, right? King obviously. Because why the hell else would he do that, but also Siffrin No Middle Names No Last Name.

They're 'pretty sure' they've 'always' been 'Just Siffrin' 'as long as they can remember'. It's a pretty cruel twist of the knife to say that they don't even get to keep their birth name as a memento, which is why I'm saying as such.

My utterly unsubstantiated claim is I think it'd be cute to say that Sisyphus *is* the name Siffrin initially picked, assuming the myth of King Sisyphus is recontextualised as idk, just a play or something in the setting. But I like the idea of Siffrin going 'oh shit 🫵 he's just like me fr' at a tortured fictional character long before the irony kicks in.

As for how Sisyphus -> Siffrin. I think that chronic mumbler and emotional doormat Sif just did not correct people who misheard the name during their time travelling, and went through enough places with incompatible phonologies (pronounceable sounds in the language) without ever really writing it down that it just got kinda. Changed until it was unrecognisable, and Siffrin just went with it until the earlier pronunciations slipped out of their swiss-cheese brain. And they just kinda don't remember any of that.

Also, something something the horrid realisation that Siffrin also named themselves after a King. Just not as blatantly.

*(though I think there's something here about Siffrin, a guy from a belief system that seems to thoroughly disincentivise autonomy and self-motivated choice continuously having their hand forced to make changes/choices they don't want but have no choice but to... It's not solid enough to really back this up tbh, but it informs it.)

Anyway.

[werecreature-addicted]

Sacrificial Lamb reader/vampire priest.

Just consider— a cute little lamb reader lying on the altar, begging not to be slaughtered, the tears their crying making the vampires heart flutter. All the cult members are confused why the ritual keeps getting pushed back- meanwhile the vampire is spoiling his little lamb rotten.

ohioohooohiohoo

His hands are gentle, stroking your cheek as you wake slowly, your eyes flutter open slowly to the morning light, and there he is, your keeper.

"Morning," you yawn sleepily,

"Good morning, little one,"

"is it a good morning? I thought my execution was scheduled for today." you huff, you should be more scared but the soft look on his face can only mean one thing. you get out of bed and change idly, not minding the priest as he watches you, he's a man of god after all, there's no way he'd be looking at you in lust.

"ah well, we thought so but some knew doctrine has come to light, now is not the time for sacrifices. we'll have to wait for next winter, at the very least," he says. You hum thoughtfully turning back to face him, his hungry red eyes fixed on your body, flicking up to meet your face as you turn around.

"Well, I'll make myself useful until winter then." When you were born, it had been prophecized that you would be sacrificed to the gods and your death would bring about a new golden age for your homeland. Then, on your eighteenth birthday, you'd been handed over to the church, to live out your final days in the temple, under the watchful gaze of the father and his dedicated cult. Your execution has been postponed four times now.

You wondered if the cultists even bothered setting up the altar this time. it was always something, the stars weren't aligned properly, the materials were all wrong, you fell ill and couldn't be slaughtered while sick, and now, Spring was a time for rebirth, you'd have to wait for winter for the ritual. which winter? who's to say? it might be another few years before he tries to start your sacrifice again.

He comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist. he puts his nose to your throat and kisses your skin. "You could be useful to me now," he breathes, his voice strained, tight with hunger. You had been so scared the first time you'd almost been killed, you remembered sobbing and pleading for your life, his knife poised above your throat, He told you that you could live, for now, if you served the cult and him. Of course, you agreed, that was the first time he bit you, spilling your blood on the altar in a different way.

You lean your neck to the side and sigh as you feel his fangs pierce your skin. you have to lean back against him for support as he drinks your blood and you grow weaker.

"so perfect, so delicious," he murmurs to himself as he drinks your blood, licking at your throat, catching any stray drops of blood. His hands slide down your body feeling up your hips and thighs. You can feel his hard cock pressing against your back as he slowly grinds against you. The priest is chaste, a man of god, but he's also a vampire, as he's explained he can't help but get erect when he feeds it's a natural side effect and completely nonsexual.

He pins you down on the bed and pushes your legs apart, grinding against you, fully clothed, as he bites your neck again. you feel dizzy, a mix of feelings as your blood is drained and as you buck and grind against the vampire on top of you. you try to keep quiet, but you can't help but moan as he takes full advantage of you. You feel dirty, the man who's saved your life so many times now is just trying to eat and here you are getting off, practically masturbating right in front of him with his cock.

You can feel how large his dick is as you grind together, you can't help but wonder what it would feel like if he pulled your underwear aside and fucked you properly while he drained your blood, the thought alone makes you shudder and press up against him as he continues to dry hump you. although with the sticky feeling between your legs and his wet mouth sucking on your neck, "dry" might be the wrong word.

you bite down on your own hand to muffle the sounds of your pleasure as you cum, still trying to hide your own lust, what would the priest think if he found out you were so lustful? if you were lucky he'd bend you over and spank you for being so sinful, at worst he might chain you down to the sacrificial altar and leave you there.

The priest pulls away, breathless, your blood smeared messily around his mouth "What a mess we've made," he huffs, looking down at your neck, and then his eyes drop further to the place where your bodies meet.

"I can clean it-" you offer weakly,

"no, no little thing, rest, you need to let your body heal, close your eyes, I'll take care of all this," he coos reassuringly, you nod obediently and close your eyes.

You look so venerable like this, he could do almost anything he wanted with you in this weakened state. the prophecy said it had to be a virginal sacrifice, maybe he could halt the ritual permanently if he just took what he'd wanted from the beginning.

[chuunai]

Dazai kisses you with the reverence of a worshipper. He’s eternally grateful that such a filthy, lowly demon such as himself received the affections of such an angel. His morning and nighty rituals begin and end with the same event—kisses all over your holy body, from the tips of your toes to the top of your head. They’re chaste and fleeting in the beginning, afraid to defile and corrupt you. But oh, he craves to hear the delicacies of your gentle hums and moans when he gets too messy later on and leaves a pretty mark. He knows mere mortals shouldn’t get too close to goddesses, but he can’t help but follow icarus’s steps and hope to touch the sun, you.

Chuuya kisses you like a man drunk in love. Your lips replace the bottle he used to seek comfort so often from, and the taste of red wine could never hold a candle to the taste of you. And not unlike the glasses full of alcohol, he finds himself asking for just one more kiss. They’re bold and clear to the point that he has given himself to you. He’ll proudly kiss the ground you walk on with the same energy he kisses you. He’s lost so many people in his life, and the one thing he wants is to keep you and your kisses all to himself. The finest wine deserves a knowledgeable man who won’t break the bottle.

Fyodor kisses you with the delicate touch of an artist. Every imprint of his lips on your skin is carefully arranged in an ethereal collage of devotion and intimacy. There’s no overdoing it or under-doing it, it’s the perfect amount. His words are always coated in sugary lies and webbed subsidiary secrets, and he opts to express his love through affectionate gestures such as a mere kiss. Being a man of God, naturally he strays away from anything too provocative and heated. Except sometimes in the dead of night, he thinks of Eve and the apple. He shouldn’t have you, no, but he can’t resist forever.

Sigma kisses you like he’ll lose you. The three years he has known this world has only taught him pain, anguish and anxiety. He’s so inexperienced, and he’s afraid that inexperience will frustrate you to the point of leaving him. There’s a bit of everything in a kiss with him, some tongue (he read about it online on a WikiHow article of how to kiss), the shaky hand on your cheek and hip and so much idolization. You lead most of the kisses by proxy, and he lets you. It’s okay if you use him like a toy. He’ll gladly be used as long as you don’t leave.

Nikolai kisses you with all the wild passion he can muster. The lipstick he wears smears across your skin, painting your Cupid’s bow red. Mutters of ‘pretty thing’ and ‘fucking delicious’ leave him with each deepening kiss. It’s a pity he’s thought about setting you free from this world during such a moment. Your heart bleeding around the knife, wails and whimpers of pain muffled by his lips while he guides you through the end of life. The last remnant of the chains holding him down would be gone if your kisses weren’t so hammering onto his soul. Every peck and smooch only solidifies his connection to you and this universe.

Tags: @twst-om-lover, @briars-castle, @little-miss-chaoss, @sinfulthoughtsposts @starrs20

[prael]

Perks

Kinktember Day 10: Mirror

Twice Mina x male reader smut

words: 4,108 Kinktember Masterlist

Do you ever look in the mirror and see someone who isn't you?

It was a simple question—if a rather loaded one.

"No," said Mina. "No, I don't think so. Not in a bad way, but maybe in disbelief of who I've become. Sometimes I expect to see the same person I was almost ten years ago. A simpler me. Maybe a more nervous and afraid version of me. That sort of thing."

"My therapist told me that was imposter syndrome," you said. "It's common, but it's pretty fucked up, the way we act like we're lying to ourselves."

"Have you thought of seeing her again?" Mina asked.

"God, that'd be awkward, don't you think?" you responded.

Mina paused, holding a glass midway to her mouth as if thinking, 'Between you and her or you and me?' Then she seemed to decide and smiled to herself, "Right."

Mina never erred into the intrusive or tactless. It's why you never have the impression that she is nosing around your life, because she gives you all the leeway to share only what you wish to share. And maybe that's why the both of you have lasted this long; in this arrangement, you found this unique level of trust, and you dare say it makes you damn good together.

"Our friend over there at the end of the bar looks like he can't take his eyes off you," you told her without looking up from your drink, not to draw attention. Mina chanced a discreet glance from the corner of her eye.

She quirked an eyebrow at you, "So? Feel threatened?"

You laughed into your drink before taking a mouthful of it, and then you told her, "I was about to get up, but you know that as soon as I do, he's going to come over."

"Of course, he will," Mina grinned into her own glass, then tipped her chin back to get at the last of it. "You go ahead to the room, I'll let him down gently." She patted at the front of your suit coat, above your breast pocket. It was a playful gesture. She had barely touched you all night until then.

"Early morning tomorrow, Mina, don't waste too much time now."

Mina smiled her "oh-shut-the-fuck-up" smile, before tucking a strand of stray hair behind her ear and running her fingers through the thick long black strands. You smiled to yourself and signalled to the bartender.

It's been a long day, and tomorrow will be longer still. Hotel bars had become a sort of ritual for you and Mina, you share a drink the day before you close a deal, half in premature celebration and half as a good luck charm.

And the thing is, Mina is a flirt. Through and through. Charm and wit. It works on clients, and it's an asset. The only problem is, it worked on you. It wasn't difficult to recognise your attraction for what it was, and she obviously took notice of it too. And you, well...

You're a professional, so you would never, ever let yourself act on it. This is why you returned to your room, alone, and why ten minutes later you heard the door open to her (conveniently joined) room. You're professionals, if you're going to fuck, at least you try to hide it.

The adjoining door opens. Oops, did you leave that unlocked? How silly of you.

"Sorry about the wait. Didn't want to seem rude, you know." She leans against the doorframe.

"How long after I left?"

"Barely a minute, he did the whole 'You-look-familiar' bit, so I humoured him..." Mina cocks a smile of arrogance. "For a minute. Before, you know... Letting him down gently."

"Did he go quietly, then?"

"He tried to ask me if I was sure I wanted to be alone." She shakes her head slowly as she saunters forward. "I was sure. Sure about coming up here and riding you senseless. Didn't tell him that, of course, just up and left. Anyway, for tomorrow, I was thinking—"

"Let's rewind to that part about riding me senseless, shall we?"

A playful smile takes to the corners of her mouth. "Let's."

You climb up from the bed, your shirt hangs loosely from your body, no tie at the neck and untucked from your trousers. "So, would you say it's going to be more of a—"

"If you are going to finish that with some terrible sex metaphor, I will kick your ass so hard." She kicks off her heels at the door. That long black dress she wore earlier is long gone, replaced by the lightest of sheer black chemises and a pair of little lacy black underwear.

"Kick my ass," you tell her, placing a hand on each of her hips. "Sure."

"Be quiet." She whispers it before she kisses you, deeply and softly. The sort of kiss that makes you forget yourself. Your arms circle her waist, and her arms rest on your shoulders. You savour it, the smell of her perfume, the taste of her tongue, the feeling of her hands trailing across the skin at the nape of your neck.

But in due time, that kiss breaks apart. Her hand trails down the front of your dress shirt, button by button, she has undressed you so many times now that the motion seems so familiar, and practised, but she still takes her time in doing it, as though with every undone button her anticipation is built upon.

You place your hand against the curve of her hip, thumbing gently, with feather-light touches along the black fabric, her small waist and wide hips, firm and round and so shapely in just her lingerie—your hands could have found no better resting place.

As you slip out of your shirt, Mina slips the delicate straps off her shoulders and the skimpy piece falls away from her body like petals around her feet. Mina is bare for you, save for her panties. Her tits might not be as big as her ass but your mouth still waters at the sight of them.

"Look at me." You love it when Mina demands that, love how she smiles with smug confidence when you have nothing to do but oblige her. Mina turns herself around, and your hands slide down, down the generous arch of her back and cups around her round, firm ass.

"Oh, come now," you can't help but tease her, "How very complacent of you, to think my eyes would look at nothing else but you. You know that I am a man of refined culture." You knead at the ample flesh in each palm, so soft. "I am very clearly an admirer of the finer things in life."

"How very romantic," she laughs, sliding down her underwear with a shimmy of her hips before placing her palms flat against the wall. "Go on then. Enjoy the art, like the cultured man you are."

There is something intoxicating about watching her there, propped against the wall, naked for you, your cock uncomfortable in your trousers. You unbuckle the clasp of the belt, then, in the pause, you approach, letting a single finger trace up the arch of her spine, leaning closer to her neck to whisper, "Not right here. Look over there, the mirror."

A floor-to-ceiling mirror, to be specific. She smiles a devilish little smirk. "And what of it?"

"Mina," you tell her, pressing the front of your trousers against the curves of her body, against the supple flesh of her ass. "I want to see all of you when we fuck. Every beautiful detail."

Mina purred, content. "Spoken like a poet..."

You land a solid and deliberate smack against that big ass of hers, and she lets out a groan. "Don't let it go to your head."

Mina let out an effectual moan, knowing fully how it tempts you. You roughly press your body against hers as she does it. Hooking both your arms around her naked form, you pull her to where you want her, right over to the mirror.

"That's it, take me like you want to." She presses her hand flat against the mirror, pushing back those delicious curves against your body once more. You force down your slacks and underwear until the cool air envelops you, at least until you push against her body once more. You cup both your hands at her full ass, slipping your stiffness between the cheeks and rocking back and forth. Mina is biting her bottom lip as she looks back at you in the mirror, and you look at nothing else but her deep dark eyes, her face framed by that long, dark, glorious hair.

"Your ass. This. This beautiful, beautiful thing of yours, drives men wild, drives me wild," you breathe out as she rocks herself back into your groping hands and your hard cock grinds between her cheeks, slow and methodic. "Drives me a little bit insane."

She deepens her bend, lowering her shoulders level to her ass, and her face presses against the glass. She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip again, peering over her shoulder, a shameless erotic, willing for you to take her in the most raw and depraved way. You can't deny the effect it has on you, and it has you raising your right arm, palm poised to land another satisfying spanking to her ass.

The crack rings out through the room, and she lets out a soft, sweet little, "Oh!"

You wrap a hand around her, over her stomach and down between her legs, reaching for her sweet, slick cunt, and find her soaked, wet with arousal. Wet for you.

"Fuck, you're so horny," you utter hoarsely. You drag your fingers through her juices as you drive your stiff cock over her tight asshole, so much teasing, maybe too much, perhaps too tortuous. You groan into the shell of her ear. "You get so wet for me. So wet. You need it so badly."

She moans, grinding back against you and circling her hips as if it could ease her pain. Half teasing, half goading, she says, "Maybe you should stop fucking playing around and do something about it."

She hisses when you drive your two slick fingers inside her without warning, pushing deeper in one smooth motion, as you mutter into the crook of her neck, "Impatient, aren't we, Mina?"

"Just fuck me."

In response, you slowly withdraw your fingers. She gasps against the mirror, the palm of her hand curling flat into a fist. Her words get you harder as she tries to wiggle her ass and spread herself, desperately trying to draw your dick to the slick pink centre of her sex for you. She doesn't care anymore what this does to your discipline, doesn't care at the prospect of you breaking, turning this into a savage, ravaging of her body; what matters only, at this very instant, is that she gets filled and fucked, fast and hard.

Finally, you give her that. Draw your cock out from between her cheeks, sliding the tip down between her legs, feeling the moisture that glistens on the swollen lips. You don't bother to strap up, or even ask, it's long since established that raw is how she likes it.

Slowly, you push forward. Mina sucks in a breath through her teeth. You know by the arch in the small of her back, the little trembles, that it is taking all her concentration and willpower not to throw her hips back, to force you to the hilt.

You bite the edge of her shoulder, and a shiver travels down Mina's entire body. You pull out, a little, before driving forward a little further.

"You feel..." you groan, your cock feeling like it was engulfed by satin. You sink a little further. "Fuck."

"Mhm, go on," her eyelashes flutter as you begin to take her, in this raw, animalistic way. "Tell me how it feels."

"Every time is like the first time," you continue, sliding in slow, then deeper, bit by bit, until you're all the way in and her big, round ass is pressing hard against your abdomen and her thick thighs against your legs. "You feel warm and slick and tight and wet, and oh, God..."

A sudden thrust forward as her greedy cunt squeezes the length of your shaft. A delicious whimper that sends blood to your head. A long, shaky groan slips from the both of your lips. You buck hard into her ass and watch as it ripples at the contact. "Ah! There, yes. Fuck," Mina moans.

There are two of her, perfect reflections, two Minas taking a rough pounding from behind. Each little expression on her face, each beautiful feature is visible in the reflection. And behind that her body ripples just like the one below you, and she whimpers, helpless as you penetrate her over and over.

"F-faster." She whines. "Harder. God, fuck, fuck me harder."

Mina has always liked it a little on the rough side, so you grab a handful of her hair, ball it in your fist, and pull. "Tell me, how does it feel?" You rear her head back so she has to look at herself in the reflection and tell it to herself. You pick up the pace, beginning to relentlessly pummel her from behind as you bury yourself into her tight heat as deep and hard as you can.

"So... Ah! So good." You yank her hair again, making her ass tense, making her gasp. She pants hard, short and fast as the force and strength of each thrust get stronger. "I love it when you... fuck me like this." Her chest begins to heave up and down. She raises her ass even higher for you. "When you—God, ah! Ah!—make me want to scream..."

You feel that incredible warmth building and swelling in your abdomen as her sex drips around your shaft, and it is so hard to slow yourself down when her ass slaps against you in perfect sync with your every motion, when Mina's knees shake, when her desperate moans urge you to never, ever stop. Still, you would like to do a little something before she orgasms all over your cock.

You roughly jerk out of Mina, pulling away abruptly with no warning.

"No, no! Don't stop!" She cries out immediately, her greedy body already missing yours. The flush at her neck spreading, blossoming down—her shoulders pink. "No!" She whimpers as she tries to throw her pussy back against you.

She cries out so pathetically that she doesn't protest when you roughly turn her around and lift her by her thighs, allowing her to wrap her legs around your hips and sink her to the hilt onto you. You sink her down and up and down again and again, bouncing her on and off of your aching cock in front of the mirror, gritting your teeth to keep yourself from finishing the moment her tightness wraps and flexes around you.

"I'm gonna cum so hard, I swear, I can feel it," she gasps in time with your rough pounding, arms holding onto your neck tightly, fingernails digging into your shoulders. "So close, don't you dare stop."

The harder and faster you go, the louder and harder she screams, eyes rolling back and mouth falling open. She digs her heels into your back, pushing down against you so there's nothing left for either of you but pleasure. You pound hard and heavy into her, chasing her orgasm, and when that perfect heat grips all around you and consumes you entirely, there is nothing in the entire world that compares to it—to this. The thought that very soon you will be cumming inside Myoui Mina.

It is that pure bliss, that power and sense of total control, of giving her such pleasure that you're left moaning along with her, revelling in this wonderful mess. Your bodies are sticky and tangled and you just start to let it go. Filling her pretty cunt as you have so many times before.

You grit your teeth and struggle through the overstimulation, taking satisfaction in how the trembling in her legs persists, her breathing ragged and body shaking. Doing your best to fuck your load into her—she's just so into that sort of thing—you don't think that there's anything, truly, that is better than this.

Not when Mina whimpers as she weakly presses her nails into the skin of your shoulders and when she knows not how to stop trembling. Your limits are worth pushing for a woman like her.

But even then, limits are ultimately undeniable. Her full weight in your arms, your knees weak, your legs tire beneath you and finally, as you plant a series of gentle kisses along her neck and shoulder, her mouth gasping, her nose against your cheek, you give in and fall to your knees. Mina's back leaves a mark of where it was once imprinted against the glass.

"So..." she laughs breathlessly into your ear as you sit with her on you. "Do you think management has any idea how often we fuck during these trips?"

"I imagine that if they found out it would be both of our jobs on the line." You hold a hand on her lower back, keeping her upright and then place your mouth on one of her breasts. Her nipple is firm, you suck on it and run your teeth over its delicate surface. Mina keens with her mouth falling open and her lashes fluttering, a small quiet "ah" escaping from the back of her throat.

"Guess we better stop," she jokes, breathing out in a chuckle and gently, pushing your forehead away from her chest.

You chuckle dryly into her neck, wrapping both arms fully around her naked body to pull her closer. "Something tells me you won't really be able to help yourself."

"Punishingly handsome, smart, a sense of humour—" She reaches down to where your half-soft cock is planted within her cunt. "—Great cock, excellent fuck" As though it were some sort of sales pitch. "No. No, I can't help myself."

"Is this about next week?" you ask.

"They never split us up, we're a team, so why would they send you with her instead?" Mina rocks her hips slowly on your lap. You groan into the crook of her neck.

"It's a one-off, Mina. In two weeks we'll be travelling together again." You wrap your arms around her soft, warm skin and run them down her back. "Another hotel, another set of adjoining rooms."

"Yeah," she sighs as she lazily continues her grinding. "Or, we could... See each other outside of work, you know. Like normal people do."

"We're far from normal, Mina." You let out a soft sigh as you start to harden inside her again. You pull at the small of her back, urging her on. "We're having our fun, right? It works. What reason is there to rock the boat?"

Her arms move up your chest and onto your shoulders. With that same teasing voice of hers, "There's always room for more fun. More sex." Mina pushes hard on your shoulders, and you fall back into the soft carpet. Mina is above you—over you—all-powerful beauty and you want nothing more than to grab her hips and drive up, and into her. Her hair falls over her shoulders and down her arms. Her pert little tits beg to be held. Her face, with flawless skin and those few prominent freckles, is decorated with a filthy smile.

"Two weeks, Mina, two weeks and we'll be back to doing this." You caress the silky soft curves of her sides. "Two more weeks, and then it's a real long trip. Just me and you."

She's visibly more excited, and she rides you harder now than just a gentle grinding and you hear the little wet sounds of your cock plunging into her cum-filled pussy over and over again. Her breasts bounce beautifully, and finally, you do cup one in a hand. A playful glimmer dances in her eyes, along with the lust haze. Mina's wet thighs slap against your hips, the sounds are vulgar in the best way.

"I'm going to fuck you every single morning and night for the whole trip," you tell her, and her grin widens. "Then you won't want for a thing."

Your words only seem to encourage her more, to fuck you harder and harder. She's riding your cock wildly but never has her eyes left yours. She fucks like she does everything else; with every fibre of her being, her passion is unbridled and intense. And oh, when she whimpers, it makes a hot current run straight to the end of your spine, it gets the heat in your head pulsating. That's just what Mina does to you.

"Two weeks without me. You're going to be so frustrated, Mina, so needy. You're gonna make me a promise."

"Mhm?" she gasps.

"You're going to wait for me," you say. "After tonight, for whole two weeks, no cumming."

"No," she says through clenched teeth. "Absolutely not."

"Yes, Mina, absolutely."

You clasp your hands on her hips, slowing down her speed. "Promise me."

She almost struggles to find her voice. "No way. I can't!" Her hips fight against your hold, she fights to drag her cunt over your cock and just feel the pleasure you're denying her. Mina grits her teeth, and the pain is evident on her face. "Okay! Just please fuck me now." She twists her body, trying to release from your hold.

"Promise."

"I promise. I promise. I promise!" Mina squeals, nearly shrieking as you soften your grip and thrust up into her quivering, wet heat. You let her fuck you again and she picks up right where she left off—frantic and wild. She leans in to kiss you deeply, and a little whimper spills from the corner of her lips. "Fuck. Cum inside me again."

The eagerness with which Mina rises and falls on your cock, her pussy taking in all of you, demands only one thing. Cum—the mess of you both—spilling over and running out, all over you and the floor and ruining the hotel's carpet.

"Yes," her voice cracks, high and soft, "Oh fuck. Fuck. God, I'm gonna cum."

It's good, your hands gripping her body firmly, matching her pace, and taking the chance to look behind her, at the mirror, where you can see your cock bury in and out of her again and again. Slipping up below her ass that ripples beautifully every time your hips meet.

Mina cums not even ten seconds later. With an eruption of screams louder than you've ever heard, shudders all over, and more fluid spilling between you both. She's struggling and you feel it. You slap her ass and follow with a groan of words halfway between an instruction and a plea. "Don't stop."

She doesn't stop. She sits up and throws herself back, reaching for something to balance on. A hand against the mirror, her legs spread and her body present to you, she fucks that pretty pussy down onto you so fast, she's struggling to maintain the rhythm but her nails are curling against the glass, her brows are pressed so tense together, her body shakes all over and a cry comes again from that lovely mouth.

She cums again like this as if it's a show for you and what a fucking show it is. Her legs tremble so hard they lose purchase and you begin lifting yourself up into her and the sight, the sound—her sounds—and her perfect body is making you buck and press harder into her. You've become so mindless, so desperate and hungry for her body. You can hardly keep yourself from spilling into her for a second time. But not yet, you think. Not yet and not there.

Mina's leg buckles. She fights for air. "Can't," she chokes out, breathless and shallow. Nothing left to give you. She slips from her perch, collapsing to the floor, leaning against the mirror. Her dark hair matted with sweat, her pale skin gleaming. Her expression is dreamy. "On me. Just finish on me."

On Mina, a work of art. Over her pretty face, or those luscious tits, or that soft tummy. Over that thick, firm and oh-so-perfect ass, or those equally tasty thighs. Maybe even just glaze over her messy cunt. Her eyes flicker as she looks up at you, and you have a decision to make.

"Anywhere. Cum wherever you want."

[remotewatch]

some call it arrogance

Jack Schlossberg x reader | 2.5k wc

summary: Let’s face it: you kind of suck at paddleboarding. Thankfully, your boyfriend is an eager instructor with a trick up his sleeve!

cw: shameless smut, outdoor recreation, questionable teaching, peppy upbeat softdom jack (good lord), fingering, unprotected sex, if you want to keep your plan b go VOTE ‼️‼️, play fighting, jd is catching strays, this is somewhat a comedy

minors dni and stay out!!!!

Time and time again, you realize that you and Jack have very different definitions of what constitutes a short paddle. You could pass out right here on your little break, sun hat plopped over your face and one leg dangling in the pleasantly cool water. He tugs you closer to his board to drum a few fingers on your knee and ask “You asleep?” just as you’re drifting off.

A barely audible “mhm” is all you care to let out. Jack’s hand slides to your inner thigh, a polite veneer of concern slapped onto his more crude interests.

“Do you need something?” When you lift your hat to squint over at him for being so euphemistic, he’s already zapping you with those doe eyes you struggle to resist.

“Diva, the telephotos,” you mumble as you flop back down. There’s almost certainly no one hiding out in the mangroves waiting to catch you two, but the press had noted the extension of your Japan trip to stop at Iriomote. Your growing collection of condemning paparazzi pics is already nudging at the edge of your mind, and you have no desire to add to it today.

“They can’t get a good shot this far out.” His hand stills when you don’t murmur back how much of a whore he’d have to be to know that so definitively.

“Here, let’s get out of the sun for a bit. Get you a honey stick or something.” A grateful thumbs up is the most movement you care to make.

As much as you like getting into Jack’s hobbies with him, it’s undeniably more fun to have him tow you around whistling Elvis tunes like your little chauffeur. It would be so easy to fall asleep to the sound of it paired with the waves crashing in the distance; maybe you do; it’s really none of your business.

The temperature suddenly drops, and you briefly tilt your hat up to see he’s steered you into a particularly thick mangle. It’s a straight, narrow shot from it up to the shore; exactly the type of hidden launch he’d know about.

He turns around from rooting in the supply bag and waggles a fanned out selection of power bars, honey straws, and glucose gels at you.

“What’re we having today, huh?” Still hiding under your hat, you grasp blindly until you find a few straws and tear one open with your teeth, shoving your dentist’s exasperation to the back of your mind. Jack knows better than to pester you until your temperature and blood sugar level out a bit. Eventually, you rise from the dead and get a better look at your spot.

The mangrove roots here are as thick as you’ve ever seen and rise far enough out of the water that you could set up a hammock under them. Schools of diminutive silver fish swirl beneath the surface, bouncing light back up to paint the underside of the overhead foliage. The two of you are technically visible from open water, but a pap would have to drop anchor at the perfect angle to get more than a glimpse. You remind yourself that you’re on the west side of the island anyway; surely there’s more exciting things to report on than America’s most notorious SUP proficiency gap relationship.

“You’re getting better, you know.” You gnaw at a second honey straw and scrunch up your nose.

“Am I?”

“For sure. Remember Lake Superior?”

“God, must I?” you groan, wincing at the mere thought.

“Gotta appreciate where you started!” Jack is laid out on his board doing alternate toe touches, and the fact that it’s more of an unconscious ritual than a way of showing off his balance makes it all the more annoying.

He’s truly so pretty, even after putting your legs through hell on the way out. The little gaps in the mangrove canopy cover him in spots of sunlight, and he still refuses to buy a smaller pair of shorts, just rolling down the hem of those ratty old ones until they’re shorter than any of yours. You’re too busy watching them fall further down his thighs with every leg raise to notice he’s still talking.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said-,” Jack finishes the last of his coconut water and smacks his lips. “Why don’t you stretch a bit before we head back?” You press your hands flat as if to push yourself up, and he notes your hesitation.

“What is it?”

“…Can you spot me?” His smile cracks his whole face open like a fresh daffodil, clearly thrilled to be needed.

“Why, certainly.”

You brace yourself as he slides onto your board as easily as scooting closer on the couch, quads flexing delectably while he helps you stand up.

“Do a forward bend for me,” Jack effortlessly slips back into his instructor cadence, to the point that you could forget he’s your boyfriend aside from his hands feeling far more than professionally comfortable on your hips. He leans up against your backside to peer over you as you place your palms flat on the deck, not bothering to conceal how much it excites him. After the tension of the paddle out and stiffening up during your nap, the stretch in your hamstrings is virtually orgasmic. Jack doesn’t miss the little sigh of relief you let out, nor do you the the smugness that spills into his voice.

“And walk it out, just like that,” you can feel him staring at your ass and can’t even kick his shin without knocking you both over.

“Can you at least pretend to enjoy this a little less?” it doesn’t sound very commanding with his dick pressed right up against you before you shift into downward dog. Even less so when he knows how much you love a good calf stretch, knows exactly how far to push you into it to make you melt in his hands.

“If I’m not happy to be here, how can I expect you to have any fun?” There’s a brief wobble as he reaches to grab your ankles and help you move to a headstand, but one shift of his heel and you might as well be back on dry land.

“That’s why I said pretend.”

“That’s why I’m not an actor. And, push yourself up!” If nothing else, you’re decent at handstands, at least with Jack ready to catch your legs. Decent on a good day, that is, when the humidity isn’t bleeding your energy like a stuck pig. Your right palm slips into the water, and you screw your eyes shut in anticipation of a face full of board and a few tree bark scrapes.

“Fuck!” you hiss, but his grip instantly locks down on your ankles and lifts you out of the line of fire. Jack’s obliques ripple as he rights the board, and he’s very clearly pleased to catch your notice of it.

“That’s alright, you had a few good seconds there.” He lets you swing a few moments longer than necessary before lowering you back down and piping up again. Ever the show-off.

“It’s always…,” he hesitates as if he’s searching for the right words. “-been my understanding that if you can balance on all fours in unfavorable circumstances, you can stay standing just fine.”

“And what kind of unfavorable circumstances would you be talking about?” it’s obvious, though you’d rather hear him say it. He knows you too well to take the bait and cheekily rolls his eyes.

“You know, the favorable ones.”

“Is that what they teach you at surf instructor school?” Your hands are back on the board now, and you kick one foot free to slide it down his chest under his shorts.

“Oh yeah, the first thing,” he chuckles, fishing it out before helping you down into a plank.

Jack somehow wriggles his way under you without causing any major upheaval, claiming it’s the easiest way to check your form. He’s talking like this is your first time on a board just to wind you up and making no attempt to hide how much he enjoys doing so.

“Now, there’s nothing to it, just gotta make sure you’re not leaning too far to the left-“ he tugs at one of your bikini ties.

“Or the right,” he twists the other between his fingers, not quite loose enough to fall off, but certainly plenty of room for him to slide his fingers below your waistband. His smile grows wider when he pulls them back out to observe their newfound shine. You have a halfhearted go at defending your reactivity.

“That has nothing to do with you.”

“Oh yeah? You’re pulling a JD, getting riled up by the dolphins?” If your balance or endurance were half as good as his, you’d shove him off your board and ditch him right there. The best you can do is double down; a bit pitiful, but better than giving him any satisfaction right after that bullshit.

“And these are the unfavorable circumstances? Seriously?” It’s more the stupid fucking grin on his face than the controlled circles he’s tracing on your clit that’s disrupting your concentration. You’re hoping that focusing on the space between Jack’s eyebrows will keep your mind blank, but his fingers feel better and better the more you try to ignore them sliding around like he’s trying to memorize every cell you’ve got down there.

“It would be deeply irresponsible of me to throw you right into the deep end. Safety first, after all.”

“So irresponsible,” the mocking tone you’re going for doesn’t really work when your pitch is stuttering in perfect response to his movements.

Your eyes slip closed out of habit, but he’s right there playfully pinching your nipple to bring you back to reality.

“Hey, now! No daydreaming during your lesson! That’s not very considerate to your instructor,” he’s trying to pout up at you, hit you right in your weak spot, but he looks far too pleased with himself for the illusion to work.

“What if he deserves it for comparing me to a bloated couch fucker?” Again, the conviction isn’t really there when you’re bending your knees into terrible form trying to chase his touch every time they recede.

Jack yanks his fingers away, sucks them clean with a slippery pop, and kisses you on the point of your chin before shuffling out from under you.

“Clearly you’re not being challenged enough if you can complain like that!”

This time, you do try to kick him off the board, but you have no range at all to put some power into it. That’s what you tell yourself, at least.

“Look at you! You wouldn’t have been able to do that at Lake Superior. Told you you’re getting better!” He’s tugged his shorts down and your swimsuit to the side before you can snap at him, and he actually cackles when he sees how much your lats twitch when he first slides in.

“You’re unbelievable.” The way your voice shakes makes it sound more like a compliment than a last ditch effort to compose yourself.

“That’s what I’ve heard! There you go, arch for me.” He’s not causing much motion yet, only waves big enough to scatter the fish, but you’re wound so tight he might as well be putting you straight through the deck. Your arms are already shaking, and of course Jack notices; how could he not?

“Keep your arms steady. No, don’t lock them up, lean into it,” he’s saying like they’re not on fire, like you can’t feel yourself clamping down on him in some sort of weird unified muscular system effort to keep you from falling on your face.

“Can’t believe y-“

“How fast you’re progressing? I know, right! You must have a pretty good teacher!” He’s absolutely insufferable. You’ve been moving nonstop since dawn, he’s got your ass locking up like an NDA, and his voice is still perfectly fucking steady.

Jack’s middle finger just barely trails along your side, feather-light enough to raise goosebumps on your skin.

“You’re holding too much tension here.” Thank god, he mercifully spares you the lecture about proper abdominal engagement.

“Jack, I can’t- I’m gonna fall!” The wavering in your voice is so unbelievably humiliating when he’s barely breaking a sweat. Your arms buckle, threatening collapse, and there he is seamlessly shifting his hands from your hips to swing under your torso and support you when they finally give out, the other splaying flat across the deck.

“Noooo you’re not, you’re fine. You can have a little break, and then we’ll try again, okay?” All while his thrusts remain infuriatingly consistent. The board barely even moves when he catches you. Your nails scrabble at the deck pad, then the limb supporting you, trying to regain your balance, ground yourself, Jesus, something, but he’s got a better angle now and can haul you back onto his dick as hard as he likes without worrying about your arms giving out.

“You’re such an asshole!” you sob as you claw at his forearm.

“Tell me to stop then! Be silly and turn down a free lesson, why dontcha?” Any attempts you make to thrash your way out of Jack’s grasp just stimulate you more, and he’s suppressing a fit of laughter watching you jolt like you’re stuck in a bear trap. When all that’s left for him to knock out of you are little stilted squeals, his resolve softens, and he leans down to kiss your ear.

“I know you can do it. Push yourself up for me.”

The only way out is through. This time, your arms do lock up; blame the unfavorable circumstances. The world narrows to tunnel vision as you watch the board tilt left, then right, with the ringing in your ears making the whole spectacle feel a tinge nightmarish.

Your orgasm hits you hard enough to have Jack choking out an “oh, fuck” that sounds just as strangled as his dick must feel. You can hardly enjoy it over both of your triceps cramping terribly, though you can’t help but feel a little proud of yourself for staying dry when you slump to your elbows halfway through.

As unceremoniously as Jack thuds down at your side, he still instinctively spreads out enough to keep the board steady. He looks about ready to fall asleep, so of course you roll over to bother him.

“Is that how you taught people to surf?”

“Nah, they were way more advanced.”

“Fuck you!” He’s back on his board and paddling out of the inlet in a flash, somehow not flipping yours in the process.

“Sounds like someone doesn’t need any breaks on the return trip!” By some miracle, you manage to grab his leash before he flies past you.

“You’ll tow me back.” Jack spares you a full glance over his shoulder, and there’s an unmistakable streak of you remaining on the left side of his mouth.

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

“I’m pretty sure I’m your favorite student.”

[p0orbaby]

Make Yourself at Home

summary: all you want is a quiet night in with alessia, and tooney?

warnings: SMUT 18+, not explicit but smut adjacent, i digress, oral (alessia receiving)

a/n: our favourite grump really can’t catch a break

word count: 809

-

You’re a pretty impartial person.

You don’t really get excited about much. Ice cream flavors? Meh. Pets? Take ’em or leave ’em.

While everyone else is busy with their pre-game rituals and superstitions, and instagram and oat milk lattes, you just roll your eyes and get on with it.

But there’s one thing you’re absolutely crazy about. One thing that wipes the scowl off your face. One thing that you’ll happily clear your entire schedule for.

What is it, you ask? Football? Contractually, sure. But no. An intensive workshop on mastering the art of making artisanal cheese from scratch? You could be tempted. But still no. The chance to have your head between Alessia’s legs? Jackpot!

You’re a simple creature.

There’s just something about the way she reacts when you’re down there, the way she arches her back and moans your name like a prayer. Like you’re the only one who can unravel her, the only one who knows exactly how to make her fall apart.

It’s a real confidence booster, you know?

In those moments, you feel anything but impartial. You feel alive, electrified by the sheer intensity of the connection between you and your partner. It’s a feeling you chase, a feeling you crave with a hunger that borders on obsession.

So when you find yourselves settled on the sofa one evening, the warmth of Alessia’s thighs pressed against your cheeks, you can’t help but feel a sense of contentment wash over you. It’s a simple pleasure, but one that brings you more joy than any pre-game ritual ever could.

And as Alessia’s fingers thread through your hair, guiding you with a gentle urgency, you realise that maybe, just maybe, being practical isn’t so boring after all. Especially when it leads to-

“Oh my fucking god! My eyes!”

You freeze, the comfortable haze of contentment shattered by the sudden intrusion. You pull away from Alessia’s warmth, blinking rapidly as you try to make sense of the chaos unfolding before you.

Standing in the doorway, eyes wide with shock, is Ella. One hand clamped over her mouth in horror as she takes in the scene before her, while the other holds a Sainsbury’s Bag For Life brimming with, clothes?

Alessia looks equally startled, her cheeks flushing a deep shade of crimson as she scrambles to cover herself with a nearby throw pillow.

“Jesus Christ, Ella! Can’t you knock?” you snap, your irritation flaring up in full force. “Stop looking!”

Where the fuck is your t-shirt?

Ella stammers as she turns around, her face burning with embarrassment. “I-I did knock! And I rang Less’ phone but she didn’t answer. I thought something was wrong!”

“Something is wrong,” you mutter under your breath, shooting Alessia a pointed look.

Alessia bites her lip, clearly struggling to contain her laughter at the absurdity of the situation. “You know where the bathroom is, Ella”

You resist the urge to shout again, instead focusing on the task at hand. “Can you please just… I don’t know, leave? We were in the middle of something”

Ella nods frantically. “Right, of course. I’ll just… go. Are your towels still in the cupboard on the landing?”

What on earth is happening right now?

“Why does she have a key? When did I agree to this?” You seethe as you throw Alessia her stray clothes once Ella is finally out of sight.

“It’s for emergencies” she tells you calmly as she gets dressed.

You look around the room, arms out in confusion. “Where’s the emergency, huh?” you challenge, gesturing to the seemingly calm surroundings. “Am I completely missing something?”

“Faulty boiler” she states as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I said she could come here to shower and wash her clothes. Water?”

She hands you a bottle out the fridge while you stand slack jawed and baffled.

You take the bottle mechanically, still trying to process the sudden awful turn of events. “Wait, hang on. The machine runs on two-hour cycles”

“I’m surprised you know that including I do all your washing for you”

You let out a frustrated sigh. “Are you hearing what I’m saying? Two. Hours. Two whole hours!”

She’s not silly, she knows what you mean. But if she’s disappointed, she doesn’t show it. Is this what it’s like to be on the receiving end of a conversation with you? Perhaps you’ve rubbed off on Alessia too much.

You go to protest, stomp your feet, shake some sense into her, until you hear a voice come from upstairs.

“Guys, I'm not sure whose toothbrush is the blue one, but it may or may not have found its way into the toilet” Ella shouts through the house, and you almost collapse to your knees in defeat.

“We’re changing the locks. Tomorrow,” you declare firmly to Alessia. “And you owe me a new toothbrush”

[miguelhugger2099]

Origins

Summary: How you and Miguel came to be the Goddess of Life and God of Death/ First meeting Part 2 from Snowfall. I caved. Next Miguel x Fem!Reader, Fluff, proofread but eh, Word Count: 1,497

Trillions of years ago, when Mother Earth had come to, she decided to birth two beings of life and death.

You were born from a pearl that had washed up on shore after a tsunami, where the sun had shone directly on you upon your birth. You woke up on the beach, the waters splashing on your feet to wake you. You looked around to see no one there except the drum of life beating under your hands. You felt Mother Earth speaking to you, whispering in your ears. Conceived from the water and delivered by the sun, you began your duty as the Goddess of Life, creating new and exciting things to occupy the area.

Miguel had been born right after you, always a loyal one. Birthed from a single stray petal of a marigold flower that had died during a volcanic eruption. He rose from the ashes and obsidian around him and some of it was sticking to his skin. He groaned as he felt the cataclysmic energy burning in his palms while Mother Earth spoke to him. Deeming him the God of Death who would oversee the afterlife and send the energy back to her to be reused again.

Rather than considering the two of you as her children, she classed you as separate entities, gods on the same level as her, tied to your duties with the powers you held. While she gave energy, you would form that energy to create life and then it would eventually be passed to Miguel who would preserve that energy in death and send it back to Mother Earth. You and Miguel still found it more comfortable to praise Mother Earth as a higher being since she had given both of you life. Thus, you two lived your life as servants of her, tending to her and eventually working with humans.

For the longest time, you and Miguel had never crossed paths. For eons, you both had been harnessing and practicing your newfound power, like baby steps for humans. While you worked on creating small insects and fruits, Miguel had been turning some of your plants into poisonous ones and accidentally creating diseases amongst animals. It's not his fault everything he touches turns for the worst!

The moment you had met was the moment neither of you would ever forget.

Humans had just started to be born, a small project Mother Earth had been conjuring up with you. A family was beginning to start with two sets of grandparents, the mother and father and their newborn baby girl. You had been overseeing this family, making sure everything was in check and that the seasons were warm enough for the babe to arrive.

Finally, the baby had been born after hours of labor, the sounds of cheers across the room while the mother was handed her baby. The mother cooed at her child and you watched next to her with soft eyes, having been keeping watch over this family for generations now. You held your hands over the baby's small body and prepared yourself to send your blessings of fertility and prosperity.

Suddenly, you felt a shift in your chest like something interrupting your ritual. You looked down at the baby with worry, wondering what could've happened. The mother and father had noticed a difference in the baby's behavior. She stood still and her little body never even began breathing after just a few seconds of being born. You took a step back, nearly crumbling at the sight. What was going to happen to her now?

Before you succumbed to madness, you saw a large hand hold the baby's head from behind you. You gasped and turned your head to see the God of Death for the first time. His eyes were neutral and unwavering even as he gently helped pull her soul out her body and cradled her in his arms. You watched with a bated breath and confusion in your eyes as the baby fell asleep in his embrace. You looked back up at his face to see he was still looking down at the child.

“Stillborn. She was never going to make it,” He explained softly. His voice was mellow and calm despite how deep it was. He turned to look at you and felt your breath being taken away. His eyes were somber and not all there in the present but they held a softness to it for a grim reaper. His eyes were red. What a beautiful color. “I'm sorry.”

He apologized for ruining this even though it wasn't his fault. He was just simply the collector. The family had begun to sob, clutching their baby and weeping for the universe to bring her back. They became angry at death, questioning why she had to die.

He had heard their insults and knitted his eyebrows together with a purse of his lips. He took a small breath before walking out of the home to send the child to the afterlife. You took another look at the family, deciding you had done what you could and left to follow the God of Death.

“Wait!” You called out, stopping just a few steps behind him. His back faced you but he paused when he heard your voice. His black silk robe fluttered in the breeze as he waited for you to insult and berate him.

“Thank you.” You sighed. He turned to look at you over his shoulder with disbelief. You walked up to him and raised your hand to place it on his arm when he faced you completely. He flinched back before you could and became defensive.

“For what?” His tone was on guard, not trusting you quite yet. You approached him again regardless, placing one hand on his bicep and the other to caress the baby's cheek. You looked down at her sleeping form, peacefully resting in his arms.

“For caring about her.”

He could've very well just ripped her soul painfully out her body, dragging whatever it was to the afterlife with little regard, but he held her as if she was still alive. He continued to hold her and lead her soul somewhere with someone at her side rather than doing it alone.

His mouth had slightly parted in surprise. He had never thought that the Goddess of Life would ever appreciate his efforts. It's why he's always avoided you. He thought you would think of him soiling your creations, ruining all things good by touching them. So he just watched you create from afar, admiring your work and your smile. Doing the dirty work while you weren't looking to protect your lack of knowledge about the afterlife.

You looked up to face him with that same smile and if he had a heart, it would skip a beat. For the first time, he got to see the way your eyelashes batted up at him and that there were a few sparkles in the rim of your eye color. You were more beautiful up close than he thought. He took the time to drink in your features, darting from the dip of your nose to the shape of your eyebrows and the curve of your lips.

He felt warmer and that alone was strange. His eyes glanced down at your hand on his arm where he figured out it was you making him warmer. It was comfortable and he…liked it. He saw the sun set behind you, giving you a soft glow on the curves of your cheeks and hair, the breeze gently flowing through. He took a step back, almost fearful of the power your beauty was gaining over him. He knew he'd soon crave your warmth again but his job came first.

“You're… you're welcome,” He muttered bashfully. “I have to…take her now.” Gesturing to the baby and you nodded, looking at him with amusement.

“Okay.” You giggled and he turned and looked away to hide his cheeks despite not being able to blush.

“Take care.” He looked at you behind his shoulder. Your heart swelled at the shy look on his face and you waved goodbye, feeling good about this interaction.

“I hope to see you again, my lord.”

“…Likewise, my lady.”

That night, you could not get his charming eyes out of your mind. Your hands dug into the damp soil, humming your power into the ground to come up with a new creation.

You carefully began sculpting your project, stretching out the stem and creating a bountiful amount of petals to create a new flower.

You had the image of the petals being the same color as his eyes–a gorgeous ruby red, with the stems being covered in tiny thorns much like his guarded personality. When you were done, the piece had been turned into a proper flower brimming with life and ready to be planted into Mother Earth. You decided to call it a rose–a flower humans would eventually associate with love and romance.

A/N: im not AS proud of this as the first one but i still wanted to write this little au anyway just to post something teehee