#this got more florid than i like to be

[twig-tea]

Love in the Big City Part 3: Kylie Recontextualizes Everything

I have waffled all week about what to write about this chapter. There have been some great essays about HIV and the stigma in Korea by @stuffnonsenseandotherthings here, as well as how antiretrovirals and pre-exposure prophylactics work and when they were available from @wen-kexing-apologist here. This context was all critical to understand everything Young doesn’t talk about in this section of the book. 

I’ve been stuck on so many parts of this section of the book. The way stigma holds people back from care, from maintenance, from life-saving treatment and knowledge, from understanding their condition and preventing them unnecessarily from living a full life, which @doyou000me had me thinking about with their comments about Young’s coping mechanisms of minimization and emotional distance that possibly worked in conjunction with the Korean government healthcare policies and social stigma to keep Young from being informed about his own condition. The way Young holds himself back from happiness, and how it’s so heartbreaking to watch him open up to it slowly in this section and then, as @my-rose-tinted-glasses wrote , he let the shame and self-loathing take control again. The way this relationship feels so real; @lurkingshan wrote so eloquently on how this section describes the details of a relationship as it started to settle. The relationship with Hyung was entirely ephemeral, in the liminal period of time between when Young was visiting his mother in hospital and before everything opened again for the day. There is so much that Young and Hyung never talked about–more than was obvious in chapter 2, because he never told Hyung about Kylie. In contrast, as @bengiyo pointed out, his relationship with Gyu-Ho started with honesty and was rooted in the physical presence of their apartment, which as a beautiful metaphor was grounded and improved slowly over time through the work they put into it but was also too small for them. 

I keep thinking about how Part 3 is bookended by Young disappointing Gyu-Ho with his absence. How he leaves him at the airport both times, thinking he’s doing Gyu-Ho a favour actually–he characterizes Gyu-Ho’s trip to Japan without him as much more fun, and he imagines Gyu-Ho’s future in Singapore will be better. In both cases, Gyu-Ho was only going because of Young, because Young wanted to, and Young planned it. But our narrator cannot get past seeing himself as something that brings Gyu-Ho down, and so he sabotages his own future. I feel for Gyu-Ho, being shepherded onto a plane alone when he was envisioning his future with the man he loved. It must have been devastating to be pushed away. 

This is not related to anything but I just love the detail of Young’s split lip and how he tastes blood when he kisses Gyu-Ho while drunk at the club and not yet knowing his name, and then panics, and we as readers don’t yet know why. Brilliant storytelling. 

I can’t stop thinking about how this reveal recontextualizes everything in parts 1 and 2. How the “incident that earned me a medical discharge” means Kylie was already in Young’s life as he took the engineering student he was seeing with him to get an STD check; as he was screamed at by an ex who prophesied that Young would get sick from being promiscuous and called him a ‘dirty rag that could never be cleaned’, which Young took with stoicism. I loved @bengiyo ‘s observation in his post linked above that Kylie’s presence likely coloured his reaction to Jaehee outing him to her fiance. 

Kylie was present as he watched his coffee be stolen by Hyung, when he thought about introducing Hyung to his mother, while he was wrestling with how Hyung (and, I think the narration makes clear, how he) was ashamed at how Young couldn’t ‘pass’ and was ‘obviously gay’, when he choked Hyung in his mother’s kitchen and it was seeing his tears on Hyung’s face that made Young let go. Kylie was part of him when he drank pesticide and tried to die, while he sat by his mother’s sickbed and had her head in his lap in the park, when he said “disease can turn anyone into a completely different person”, when he said he would “hope that she would die without having known.” 

Mostly, my brain keeps getting stuck on how familiar Young is to me. His choices, his self-loathing, his refusal to take anything seriously because at his core he’s terrified of facing what his reality means. And that fear ironically gets in the way of him understanding that his reality is not as scary as he thinks it is. He functions like he has to be alone, and so much of that comes from his internalized homophobia and his HIV diagnosis. He’s been told he’s dirty, something to be cleaned but irreparable, by so many people in different ways through his life. The man he claims as his greatest love barely even liked him as a person, and didn’t fully know him. I think that’s why he was able to feel more fully with Hyung, because in a way that relationship felt safer..Gyu-Ho, the person who knew all of him, and who wanted to build a life together with that complete and full knowledge of him, must have been terrifying, and I’m not surprised it felt easier to push him away than to fight for their future together. But it breaks my heart. 

There’s something rattling in my head about the T-aras that I don’t really know how to get out onto the page. In this chapter it’s revealed that the T-aras have been around the whole time, but they weren’t mentioned in parts 1 and 2. I think the fact that Young’s life feels more rounded, filled in with other people, and rich, than in parts 1 and 2 speaks to his emotional state in this part, as well as to how his time with Gyu-Ho wasn’t obsession but was more grounded in the mundane and the everyday. The T-aras themselves feel like familiar friends. Like with Hyung and JaeHee (at first), Young is drawn to people who he can remain emotionally distant from and who remain emotionally distant from him. People who will buy the story of “ruptured disc” for why he left military service early. People who joke about being poz and won’t ask questions and who hear the news about his new boyfriend as an ‘in’ to their favourite club. People who don’t take things seriously (or in Hyung’s case take things so seriously that Young can’t take him seriously). I was so glad to find out they existed because up to this point Young felt so isolated most of the time, with his world circling around one obsession in each part. But he had the T-aras the whole time; I’m choosing to read this as he just didn’t hold their importance to him in the same way in parts 1 and 2. As was already clear in the narrative but this makes even more obvious, Young’s isolation is not only self-inflicted but it’s in some ways a lie he tells himself to feel safer. He has friends, he just refuses to acknowledge their presence or importance, or to let them in to be more important, because he is so braced for being rejected for core parts of him that cannot be excised.

[literallymechanical]

Just finished Empire of Silence by Christopher Ruocchio, book 1 of the Sun Eater series. Written as the autobiography of Hadrian "Half-Mortal" "Sun Eater" Marlowe, translated in-universe from Galactic Standard, an Anglo-Hindi patois.

Old-school space opera in a Dune-like distant future, but with a storytelling sensibility that owes more to Patrick Rothfuss than anybody else. Reads like epic fantasy rather than science fiction, which I think is fun.

The Sollan Empire venerates Mother Earth, slain in nuclear fire twenty thousand years ago, as the messianic god of their state religion. Ruocchio leans into the implications of that premise with a lot of fun linguistics stuff:

lol. Lmao.

The narration is florid and purple and delightful. Hadrian was an ass in his youth in the way that only the vat-born scion of a noble house can be, and his future self writes with wincing honesty while apologizing to the reader for the bad choices he keeps making.

I appreciate how the book opens by basically turning directly to the reader and saying "this is a Dune, we're doing a Dune. Here are three rapid-fire direct references to Dune. Got it? Okay, now we can move on." Highly recommend if you like door-stopper epic fantasy.

[adrienneleclerc]

Matching Costumes

Pairing: Logan Sargeant x Latina! Reader

Summary: when they attend Mickey's Not-So-Scary Halloween Party accidentally matching each other but being complete strangers

Warning: Spelling and grammatical errors, inaccuracy because of the hurricane and i never been to a Mickey Halloween party

A/N: Logan goes to Disney World with Oscar

Y/N was doing her makeup, putting the finishing touches to her Emily costume.

"Valeria, are you absolutely positive this costume looks good?" Y/N asked.

"Yes, oh my gosh, chill the fuck out. Anyone with half a brain cell can tell you're Emily from Corpse Bride. Even if they haven't seen the movie, they'd be like 'oh, you're the corpse bride', its that good. Now lets go, the party starts at 7 but i really want to go on the rides." Valeria said, she was dressed as Lydia Deetz from Beetlejuice

"Going 2 weeks before Halloween feels ridiculous." Y/N said.

"I wanted to go at Halloween but we're having a Halloween party with all los tios y primos. Are you going to make those Jack Skellington conchas you saw on TikTok?" Valeria asked.

"I mean hopefully i can make them, I have a friend that works at a Mexican bakery so hopefully she can help me make them. Mami, ya nos vamos a la fiesta, nos regresamos a medianoche!" Y/N called out before leaving the house.

Meanwhile, Logan and Oscar were in the car on their way to Disney World.

"You could have at least put on makeup." Logan said and Oscar rolled his eyes.

"Be lucky i put on the green color hairspray." Oscar commented.

"You can't even tell if you're supposed to be Betelgeuse or the Joker." Logan said, as he was dressed as Victor from Corpse Bride.

"Do you see the suit? I am obviously Betelgeuse. I just don't understand why we are going to a Halloween party if it's not Halloween yet. And at Disney World, are you serious?" Oscar asked.

"Maybe if you weren't in Brazil for the Grand Prix for Halloween, we'd actually get to spend Halloween together, but you're going to Brazil." Logan said. "Besides, you never been to Disney World, and as a Florid native and your best friend, I can't let that happen."

"You are absolutely ridiculous." Oscar said, shaking his head. Logan entered the Disney World parking lot after showing proof of tickets, once the car is parked, both men got out and readjusted their suits.

"Also, chief, the makeup was more so people don't recognize you in Disney." Logan said, as he pulled out the kit he used for himself, asking if Oscar reconsidered, he ultimately nodded and Logan fixed him up. "Now we are completely in costume, lets head inside."

"Please, I really want to show Lily everything, she's been dying to come here." Oscar said.

"Then just go to the Paris one." Logan said.

Y/N and Valeria got out of the car and started walking to the entrance of the park.

"The wig didn't move, right?" Valeria asked,

"Nope, you're good, and mine is fine, right?" Y/N asked.

"You're good. Let's go in, I am so excited." Valeria said. As they were walking and having a conversation, Y/N tripped, causing her to bump into the guy in the Victor costume.

"Oh my gosh, i am so sorry." Y/N said.

"No worries, are you okay?" Logan asked. "I like your Emily costume, did you make it yourself?"

"Oh, yes i did." Y/N said, looking down and dusting off her dress. "I tried to keep it as accurate to the movie as possible. And you're Victor, what a coincidence."

"Yeah, my name is Logan." Logan introduced himself.

"I'm Y/N, and Lydia over here is my bestie, Valeria." Y/N said, looping her arm with Valeria's.

"This is my friend Oscar." Logan introduced him and Oscar did the awkward smile and wave.

"That is a great Betelgeuse costume. Most people don't fully commit but i like that you did." Y/N complimented and Logan gave Oscar a shit-eating grin and Oscar rolled his eyes.

"You should join us! 4 is better than 2." Logan said.

"Sounds fun! A little Tim Burton group costume, love it." Y/N commented.

"It almost looks planned. Oscar, we need to go on some of the rides, they have changes because its Halloween." Logan said.

"Yeah, we need to hit the teacups." Valeria said.

"Sure, lets go, we have pver 2 hours to kill before the actual party." Oscar said.

"You're going to love it, i swear!" Y/N exclaimed before the 4 of thejm walked to get to some rides before the event started.

They saw the parade, met Jack and Sally, did some trick or treating, saw the Sanderson Sisters performance, overall enjoyed the Mickey Halloween party.

"It was awesome meeting you guys, we should hang out outside of costume tomorrow." Y/N said. Oscar looked hesitant but Logan spoke up.

"Yes, we should. Oscar is from out of town and he doesn't mingle much." Logan said,

"His accent made that very clear." Y/N said giggling.

"How about just you and Logan hang out." Valeria offered.

"If Logan doesn't mind, I am all for it." Y/N said. Logan made the first move and added his phone number to Y/N's cell, which was already unlocked. "Forward, I like it. It was nice meeting you Logan, you two Oscar, hope you're enjoying Florida, have a goodnight." The girls walked away.

"You are really going to go out with a girl you just met?" Oscar asked.

"A relationship has to start from somewhere, chief." LOgan answered and Oscar rolled his eyes.

"You're so annoyingly American." Oscar grumbled before they made their way to exit the park.

When Y/N got home, she texted Logan.

Hey Logan! It's Y/N, we should meet at The Monroe at 12pm.

It took a few minutes for Logan to respond.

Hi! Yes, the Monroe sounds great, see you then

Y/N clutched her phone to her chest and squealed because she actually set up a date with a really cute guy.

The next day, Logan was waiting outside The Monroe, fidgeting with his shirt, he hasn't felt this nervous in a while. He then saw a women his age walking towards the Monroe.

"Logan?" she asked.

"Yep, thats me. You look differet without the makeup." Logan commented.

"Yeah, Halloween things, you ready for our first date?" Y/N asked.

"This is a date?" Logan asked.

"Only if you want it to be." Y/N said.

"I definitely want it to be." Logan said and Y/N giggled at his eagerness.

"Then let's go in." Y/N said and Logan opened the door for her, placing his hand on her lower back to guide her. Going to Disney World that night was the best decision he's ever made.

The End

I hope y'all liked it! It feels good to write for our American boy again

[utilitycaster]

I was vaguely hopeful the book would address some problems I had with Laudna, but it sounds like it will not - does this book at least address why Laudna had little to no interest in getting rid of Delilah (or why it took so long for her to even engage with her in campaign?)

ok so I'm trying to write meta but I think it's got to cook, and I also need to clean my actual real-life kitchen, so I'm just going to give you a relatively quick and dirty rundown but short answer: genuinely this book detracts from the campaign. Laudna is a better character if you make up a backstory consistent with the canon of Campaign 3 than if you read this book. The stuff that Marisha probably came up with on the spot for her in episode 76-77? literally better than this entire book, Meghan Thee Paladin be damned, and uh, not to give it away but that doesn't show up in the book at all, in a direct conflict, because it's extremely apparent that literally there wasn't enough pre-planned backstory to write a decent book about.

Matilda Bradbury is in Whitestone; there are rumors about the Briarwoods but life seems kind of fine if a little austere. Her family gets invited to the fateful dinner; Delilah basically tells Matilda that her magic is mid and she'll never amount to anyone noble or fancy. During dinner, her parents are taken away, and then she is called to see a project her father helped the Briarwoods with. Surprise! It's dismemberment. Her father's body was used to help make Grog. Matilda starts screaming. Delilah rather weirdly has her beaten to death instead of like, cutting her throat or something efficient.

She wakes up in a pile of corpses. This is the part that was the preview so you can read it. Real talk I read it while in the endless line to get into the parking structures at Merriweather Post Pavilion to see Mitski and was like oh ok time to let go of my expectations now, I see how it is. This is however the most florid portion and the rest is usually if not more tolerable (see the clumsiness of register-switching - Khaw captures Laudna and Delilah's voices ok, and that of the girl Laudna befriends later, but everything else is a real crapshoot) at least less needlessly dense.

She can't really talk and doesn't remember anything due to suppressing it, which makes sense, and kind of wanders the countryside as a feral being for a year, which also makes sense. After about a year, Delilah shows up but doesn't introduce herself and simply is a voice in her head that tells her what to do sometimes, which Laudna sometimes listens to and sometimes ignores. She is in a sort of childlike state and makes Pate during this time. She watches a bunch of people and is lonely and tries to approach them, but due to the corpse-like nature and the fact that she doesn't fucking know how to act (making a cow doll with real teeth), people are understandably weirded out, and while she does do good deeds (laundry and similar) she does so anonymously in hiding. She encounters Meghan Thee Paladin (Exemplar) and hero-worships her from afar until Meghan finds her and is like there is a darkness within you, I will not hurt you now, but you must leave or die. She develops a parasocial relationship with an elderly half-orc woman who thinks she's a weird forest spirit and leaves out food; when the woman dies, Laudna buries her and then starts to go through her things but is chased out by the woman's relatives who realized she was dead when Laudna let the sheep go. All of this is like, fine, story-wise. Delilah is mostly frustrated with her for not listening and being a weird child, essentially. We're around 40% through the book btw.

She continues this stuff over the course of two decades, finding abandoned places, leaving when chased out, etc etc. Finally, she reaches Kymal. This is by far the most poorly written, stupid part of the book; unfortunately it's another 40% of the book. Basically, there's a foreman who is abusing women. This is fine as a setup but it turns into, essentially, a bad retelling of the Triangle Shirtwaist factory ft real-world early 20th century sexism in a world that's never had that. But I'm getting ahead of myself. One woman, Sybil, specifically gets attacked, takes out the foreman's eye, he starts to have people beat her to death, and Laudna rushes to her defense but also, through Delilah, is in a form of dread or similar, and infects her with possibly vampirism(?) in saving her. The other women are like "thanks, but also you are a horrible nightmare" and Laudna goes back to her hovel on the edge of town. However, urging from Delilah and her own sense of wanting to help and to connect with people lead her back into town. She meets with an older woman with hedge witch vibes named Miriam, and also meets Sybil's younger sister, Bella, who is 11. Miriam has her fucking head on straight, even if the register-switching reaches a nadir with her voice, and is like ok you do need to take responsibility for your actions, please leave, even though I'm glad you helped Sybil after also hurting her. Bella is enamored with Laudna, however.

We're still in Kymal I just felt it was time for a new bullet point. Laudna goes to the bakery to get chocolate pastries for Sybil, in the clunkiest, most poorly written, weird, maudlin, garbage passage of the book. She then finds the dormitories for the factory on fire. Sybil survives, but Kymal's poorest quarter takes damage. Laudna is mad and Delilah seizes on this as an opportunity to turn her towards the business of vengeance. Laudna finds the foreman, who is recovering in an infirmary, and terrorizes him, then kills him even when it becomes clear he didn't set the fire. The fire also causes an influx of new people into Kymal to rebuild or take up work at the mines. Laudna sort of blends in, especially after she raids a damaged clothing store! However, Meghan shows up to help out and heal people and generally be helpful. Delilah's like YOU MUST GO, but Bella finds Laudna and is like "we are besties now."

Laudna is like oh hell yes I have a friend and doesn't leave. She also gets made as the person who caused Sybil to have whatever darkness she has within her, and has to hide in Miriam's house from Meghan; Miriam realizes Laudna is why Sybil is like this and is like "leave". Laudna leaves town and tells Bella, who leaves with her. Delilah is at first not into this plan and then is like actually, a cute if weird child will be useful to us. She leaves with Bella. During this, Laudna's history starts to float to the top of her mind a bit more; earlier, in Kymal, Bella had asked about her ears, which Laudna didn't remember much about. and while telling a story with Delilah's aid around the fire that turns out to be the story of the capture of Cassandra, she suddenly has a breakdown and remembers everything. She also turns into her form of dread and Bella flees, realizing she is who hurt Sybil. Also, she realizes who Delilah is and is big mad. She finds Bella, who is in serious danger in a flooding cavern, and helps her out, mending their relationship in the process and also fighting a dryad, which probably was meant to be symbolic but sort of wasn't very interesting. Anyway, Meghan finds Laudna as she's bringing Bella back and is like you have a darkness within you and you spread it to someone else, and also you kidnapped this child. Laudna makes a poor argument against this, Bella vouches for her, and ultimately Bella goes back to Kymal with Meghan, with Laudna saying she'll come back one day if she can. We are like 80% of the way through the book.

Laudna flees to the Verdant Expanse and spends some time there, mostly being mad at Delilah, which is valid. Eventually, she realizes she needs to get further away and asks Delilah for help finding a port. They stow away to Marquet. On the ship, Delilah asks her to reassert the pact they made. Laudna does with pretty much no argument.

Laudna is doing ok in a city in Marquet for like 3 seconds before a Cobalt Soul researcher is like "hey you seem dead can you answer some of my questions of curiosity" and while he asks a bunch of questions, he does not attack her nor seem disgusted or hateful. Laudna promptly, in the funniest but also the most wtf moment, flees into the Rumedan desert for a decade. This is not elaborated upon other than that there are pink flowers there, and she is alone (and left alone).

Laudna makes her way to the edge of Gelvaan, and after she is found out and people try to drive her out, Imogen shows up and lightning bolts the shit out of them and they run off together.

The end. No, the two years of Laudna and Imogen together remain an utter mystery. No, there's nothing about Laudna apparently spending time in Whitestone Castle as a hollow one as described in episodes 77-78. While it DOES make sense why she doesn't get rid of Delilah for the first 20 years, she does straight up willingly make a pact on the ship DESPITE THINKING SHE COULD SURVIVE WITHOUT DELILAH.

[fryktheciller]

with you, though

anderperry + charlie being a slut

summary: neil freaking out at the flower shop

Wind through the hair, sunlight on the face, and sunglasses sitting proudly on the nose—that’s definitely not Neil, at least not now. That's, most definitely, Charlie Dalton, driving a car that wasn't his, without a license, and with Knox's clothes. He's so cunty one might actually think he owns both the car and the clothes and has the right to drive. 

Neil’s poor soul is tortured and has been for quite a while. He had asked Todd out, and the interaction went a little like this:

–Todd, listen… would you like...i mean, if you want to of course, to hang out- I mean, go out? Next...next week, perhaps? After the latin test?

The blonde blushed at the request and the eloquence it was made with. He replies in one breath and with anxiety:

–Yes, I mean... It would be great. Saturday's good. Sure

Neil noticed, other than the embarrassment the roommate replied with, a glint in his eyes, bright and sparkling, perhaps even more than the light that was kissing his face and brown locks. That light—that's what tortures him ever so sweetly; it has bewitched him completely. 

With Charlie, he had to get flowers—not really because he wanted to, but rather because of Charlie himself, who claims to know everything about dating. They get out of the car (alive and well, against every expectation) and get into the tiny little flower shop, filled with bright and intense-smelling blooms.

 –Whatcha getting him?

–Have no clue, honestly.

–Now that's the spirit!– and Dalton smiles, patting Neil on the shoulder. –I'll be over there with the short brunette; call me if you need anything. 

Perry nods, without even listening, and watches him leave. He had thought about everything but the flowers and blames himself for that, partially because he doesn't have a clue about what flowers Todd likes and because he doesn't really know if he wants flowers in the first place.

He starts wandering slowly between the big, black buckets filled with seasonal blossoms. Pretty much everything blooms in that period; if there were fewer flowers, it could have been easier, Neil swore. 

Asking Charlie isn't an option. "He'll make me get some roses and end it there. I adore Charlie, but for pity's sake.” He thinks, reading the Latin names written on some wooden signs inside the buckets. 

“Which nouns were irregular? Uuh… mater, matris; pater patris, and then what? The flowers, god."

Some wild roses had something mischievous in the way they stood proud, with open petals and straight stems. “It's a Goethe reference, you silly!” they looked like they were saying.

Neil falls for that a little and bends down to look at them better: florid yet so young, sweet and wild, and a rosy color that was so elegant and bright at the same time. 

“Like when he comes out of the shower and into the room, all flushed with wet hair,” and blames himself for thinking such things in a public place.

He gets up and walks away, over to a table filled with green and smaller buckets. There were tulips, standing like they were about to wither, even though sunlight was over them entirely. 

“Tulipa sylvestris… Tulipa is from the first declination; Sylvestris is from... Sylvester, perhaps?

Did he write something about them? Did I read something? 

No, no, no, he said his mother loved them.” 

And he moves on, walking over to the hyacinths, the purple ones. They stood proud, almost stern, in the shadow. 

“They mean joy... or I’m proud of you? Don't remember.It would be cute, though; I give him the flowers and go, “I got these for you because I'm proud of you,”” and he smiles stupidly, like only a fool who’s in love does.

He sees clearly now. Looks over at Charlie, who turns around and flashes one of his iconic grins. “I love Charlie; like, look at him” and smiles again.

He moves on, now with an actual idea in mind. 

“Philadelphus coronarius, both from the second declination. Oh, so pretty,” and smiles once again. “They look like orange blooms. That’s what that poem was about; where did he even see these?” and he looks at them, white and canid. Petals so thin they were almost transparent; the faintly colored pistil; the thin stems, somehow so resistant to hold 8 to even 12 buds of flowers; and then the leaves, so dark and intense, almost to compensate for the purity and innocence the petals transmitted. He moves his attention to Charlie’s coarse and vibrant laughter and the girl’s sweeter one. “He's taking her to bed tonight.”.

There was a tiny ant breaking the flower’s fairness, walking expertly between petals and blooms.

“He wanted to spend a summer in Greece or Italy; that’s what he told me. They have such a faint, bitter scent, too.” and he bent down, his gaze still following the ant. 

“The light in his eyes when he told me that...” and he smiled foolishly. 

A second later, he’s looking at a blondie, wrapping up a sprig of mock oranges and a couple of wild roses that begged him so much to choose them in a light brown paper. “How did Calvino’s story go? Je voyage en amour? Perhaps.” That’s not really his case: traveling for love, but he felt the same way. The blondie’s delicate hands were now tying a fine white lace around the small bouquet. 

Charlie reaches him, holding the flowers as Neil paid for them. Once done, he turns around and smiles faintly, to which Charlie replies with a much sweeter grin than usual. "Homosexuals,” he thought, with irony and fondness, as if he weren't bisexual himself. 

–Think he’ll like them?

–Of course, trust me. 

Neil smiles at him, a weird feeling in his stomach and dizziness seizing him again. He got in the car, followed by Charlie.

–The short brunette wanted to get to know you, told her you were taken.

Charlie blurts out with a chuckle; the other laughs heartily and smiles sarcastically, turning at him.

–Yes, Charlie. Thank you.

***

With a heavy breath and the hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, Todd wakes up abruptly and sits up on the bed. The room's dark, the air stale and hot. He takes off the light wool blanket from his knees and gets up, opening the tiny window and moving a thin curtain. April’s moonlight enters shyly into the room, lighting a messy bed with undone sheets and a perfect one: sheets tight and covers straight. 

“It was a dream; I was dreaming,” the blonde whispers to himself, in front of the window, all cold from the night's humidity. The knot in his throat tightens, his limbs are numb, and something like butterflies starts to move in his stomach. His eyes burn with tears that start to fall, hot and slowly, one by one, wetting the pajama shirt or making a slight plop on the wooden floor. 

–I did want to go to Italy or Greece. With you, though. 

The blonde goes back to bed, body heavy and mind numb. The thought of the next day’s classes makes it hard to breathe. His head hurts,his lips contort downwards, eyebrows furrowed and it hurts to keep that expression on; there’s nothing he can do anyway, tears steaming uglily and wetting the messy flannel sheets, his arms wrapped around his stomach, in a fetal position under the blanket, freezing and sweating at the same time, as the cool wind moved slightly the curtain. 

One second later, he’s awoken by the loud halls and the sun lighting up the room. His face is still sticky from the tears; a sense of tiredness in every inch of his body only made him want to cry more, but he’s just too tired of the swamp of pain he’s been in for almost 6 months. Images of spring are still running through his mind, as if nothing happened: long afternoons spent studying in the sunlight and coming back into the dorm rooms when the sun starts peaking.

Spring is when everything is reborn—everything, but Todd.

notes: hi!! i want to start by apologizing, i have no right to write such outrageous things; with that being said, this has been sitting in a corner of my google docs page for like months, and after editing for weeks it still feels really off but i cant tell if its just me or the whole idea is completely mad ok

[ryuichirou]

Since you have some headcanons on fem Floyd/Riddle, do you have any other genderswap ship headcanons for say Rook/Vil, Ace/Deuce and Idia/Azul? Sorry if that’s a bit too much

Anon, thank you for this ask! I’m always happy for the opportunity to talk about them, so I was actually excited to write this reply lol Since there are three ships there, it ended up being a bit lengthy, but I hope you enjoy the headcanons.

Just like in the FloRid post, the majority of the headcanons are more or less sexual, because the general dynamic between the characters wouldn’t change much.

Ace/Deuce:

They are pretty much “these two girls who always mess around with each other and it’s obvious that there is some sexual tension between them but they can’t acknowledge it”… yeah, just like the regular Ace and Deuce lol But with more boob grabbing… Well, usually from Ace’s side. Deuce also grabbed Ace’s boob one or two times but only as a revenge, and felt super weird about it. In general, sometimes it feels like they just try to come up with excuses to touch each other.

Which means they are also “these two girls who secretly kiss each other and say it’s some kind of practice”. This was also Ace’s initiative: Deuce only agreed because she didn’t want Ace to think that she chickened out. Or maybe there were other reasons hmmm? But yeah, they “practice” kissing every night, sometimes with Ace telling Deuce to imagine that she’s kissing her future husband or something, but it kind of makes Deuce’s kisses more stiff and awkward, which Ace finds hilarious.

Their kissing sessions would definitely lead to them touching themselves under the same blanket first, and then to them just touching each other. And they’re really a bit dumb and honestly think that their roommates don’t know what they do… but in all fairness, they really try to be secretive about it. Sometimes they even bite each other not to make any sounds.

One night they had a whole room to themselves, and got so excited that wanted to try something other than touching each other sneakily under the blankets. In short, they tried to do the scissoring thing… and didn’t really do it right, couldn’t find the balance, long story short they ended up falling off the bed.

Like I mentioned in another post, both of them wear sports bras, but own other sets too. And there’s been a couple of times when Deuce had to wear a regular bra, and just couldn’t make the little hook thingy in the back work. So yeah Ace helps her to put it on sometimes.

Rook/Vil

Like I already said in another post, Vil (just like the regular Vil) wears whatever she wants, and Rook prefers something functional (albeit stylish), so it’s not unusual to see Vil in a beautiful dress accompanied by Rook in a pantsuit. But if they were to get married, both of them would probably wear suits.

Not necessarily a headcanon, but a thought: with these two being girlies, Vil forcing Rook to take care of her hands and fingernails makes even more sense lol The first time was kind of rough for them. It wasn’t bad at all, but Rook was never allowed to touch Vil with her hands unkempt anymore.

Rook is skilled enough and knows Vil’s body well enough to make her orgasm in less than a minute, but she also likes to take her time and torment Vil a little bit. She likes it when Vil is having a hard time keeping it together and is getting impatient. Vil, however, sometimes just needs Rook to grab her, make her cum and then be free to do whatever she was doing before that. So whenever they sneak out, and instead of hitting all the right buttons at once Rook starts to tease her through her underwear, Vil gives her this very angry yet aroused look that Rook adores.

They are one of the couples who know everything about their own preferences, but also experiment from time to time. The catalogue of positions they like is quite vast, mostly due to both of them being flexible + Rook being very inventive. These are also the reasons why these two have absolutely mastered the art of scissoring lol

Rook is also very skilled with her tongue, because Vil is kiiind of hard to please, so one has to learn and improve to be able to satisfy her. One of Rook’s most absolute favourite indicators that she’s doing a good job is the fact that she can feel her head and neck being squeezed by Vil’s merciless thighs.

Azul/Idia

Azul is a bit of a touch-me-not: she likes being complimented on her looks, but is very uncomfortable with people touching her. Which is why Idia is a perfect partner for her: Idia is a bit intimidated by Azul’s natural sex appeal, so she never touches her and just lies on her back and accepts her fate.

That being said, sometimes Idia is allowed to rest her head on Azul’s lap. “No no, I’m good” Idia says at first, because this position is way too romantic and awkward, but then Azul forces her down and Idia just drowns in just how comfy Azul’s thighs are and how sweetly her perfume smells… if only Azul stopped squeezing her shoulder so hard to keep her down…

Sometimes they have sex a couple of times per day, sometimes they don’t have sex for a long period of time, and it’s because of Azul. She is a mermaid and doesn’t get human periods, but she must have some sort of cycle going on, because in general it’s like she doesn’t think about sex at all. Sometimes Idia looks at her and thinks “I wonder if Azul-shi knows how sexual this pose/gesture is”, and chances are, she doesn’t, because she’s too busy thinking about the lounge. But the next day Azul suddenly gets into the mood, tosses Idia, mounts her, kisses her, almost purring like a cat.

Azul (wo)manhandles Idia a lot in general. She tosses her, moves her around, throws Idia’s legs on her shoulders and stuff. Idia finds it both way too intense (not a bad thing lol) and a bit funny, because Azul tries so hard to look like a lady, but her actions are almost like of a hentai manga mob. Azul doesn’t fully understand what Idia means, but slaps her butt for that. It sounds offensive.

Azul is scarily good at cunnilingus for someone who doesn’t have much experience with sex. Or maybe it’s only good for Idia because she likes it when it’s strong and intense?? In any way, it doesn’t happen too often, but when it does, Idia isn’t sure if she is going to die faster because she’s overwhelmed or because she’s embarrassed.

[leliosinking]

Hot take I guess but the fandom was way too hard on this book (and still is tbh) and for what? Because it isn’t interested in fan service? If anything Anne’s writing was at its best when she ignored what fans wanted, and I think it’s time for a reevaluation of my boy Vittorio the Vampire.

I just think this was such a promising start to New Tales (more than Pandora, even) and I sort of hate all of you for boycotting it or telling new readers to skip it. (as far as i’m concerned TVA, Merrick, B&G, BF and BC are all unofficially New Tales anyway.. TVL-MtD are the only proper vampire chronicles, everything else falls into different categories, but I digress).

With regard to Vittorio, however, we were given a true blue Ricean vampire hunter novel (the only one mind you) with an actual, functioning plot and some of the best action she’s written since TVL… and you all shunned it. And I get it, we don’t read these books for conventional, commercial plot contrivances, but for the florid language and richly crafted characters; but this is the rare Anne Rice novel that’s just.. fun for the sake of fun?

And no, I’m not blind to its problems. It absolutely needed another draft or two (as do a lot of the later VC entires) and no, Vittorio is not her strongest protagonist by leagues. But what we got was still filled to the brim with good ideas?

The Court of the Ruby Grail cult, especially, is one my favorite of Anne’s inventions. Like their dynamic with the local human villages feeding them their castoffs was legitimately disturbing and IMO better executed than most of the times she retreaded the Children of Darkness post-TVL.

And while Vittorio the character might be kind of boring, Florian and Ursula carry this novel and deserved to enter the larger narrative tapestry on their strengths alone but “waaah Lestat and co. aren’t here” so “it’s bad” or whatever.. I really can’t stand some of y’all.

Anyway, this is long enough and I really didn’t set out to write an essay in defense of what is ultimately a mid-tier entry into this series. But. I still feel that much in the way that MtD and Blackwood Farm have been recently reassessed as good novels that happen to be bad VC entires I think it’s time for some of you to similarly reevaluate Vittorio the Vampire, because this is a good vampire novel, it just isn’t a good vampire chronicle (well I think it is and yet and yet and yet). But it’s still part of the series and it does fit into the larger picture despite what some will have you believe.

If this is your first time, I personally like to read VTV between Body Thief and Memnoch. I think it is better thematically situated there than between TVA and Merrick as initially published. The archangels that enter later in the story build nicely upon David’s vision of God and Satan in TTOTBT and make for a strong intermission full of angels and demons that assist in setting up the Dantean finale of MtD. (I have more suggested reading orders btw, some other time perhaps).

I dunno.. if you like this book please let me know lol like I could use the solidarity because I feel like I’m the only one (I have it ranked #6 out of 15). But yeah, I think Vittorio is probably the most underrated and most unfairly slandered entry in Anne’s entire catalogue if I’m being completely honest.

[revasserium]

Hi! It's me, I'm the problem Jazz again 🤣

Ikemen Prince ask for either Leon or Silvio with prompt number 88 please 🙏 ♥️

send me a number and a character :)

priceless (88. This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you.)

silvio; 1,374 words, fluff and... fluff LOL this is only tangentially inspired by the prompt u__u whoops

01.

when you break his heart the first time, he doesn’t really know it’s real. he presses the lips of a dozen priceless wine bottles to his mouth and imagines every one to be yours — he drinks until the world is spinning, the way it spun when he asked you to dance for the very first time.

he gets drunk on the sound of your remembered laughter.

he makes a mess of the sheets, of his silk-lined robes, of all the richest furs in the corners of his closet — he falls asleep wishing that this were all but a dream.

he wakes up and has to deal with the realization that it is not all just a dream and that for the first time in his life, this isn’t something he can buy his way out of because what is the price of heartbreak? the tag on the pieces of a shattered wish — he screams into every single pillow he owns and falls asleep at noon.

02.

the second time you break his heart, he catches your arm before you can leave.

“what d’you want?” he asks, desperate and imploring, with a shudder in his voice that he’s never truly heard there before but —

you shake your head.

“i — i don’t want anything from you.”

he feels his fingers slip from around your wrist as you purse your lips and stumble back half a step. but that’s all he needs. he’s needlessly reminded of a story he’s heard a long, long time ago — about a genie and a girl who accidentally summons him. about the genie who asked the girl what she wished for and she told him she didn’t. the genie stayed with that girl for years and years and years, and in the beginning, whenever she asked him to do anything, he’d ask if that was her wish but she’d shake her head no. she’d tell him that he didn’t have to if he didn’t want to.

and yet somehow, he always found that he wanted to.

silvio wonders what he really wants, and the answer comes — clear and quiet as a winter stream —

he wants�� you.

03.

the third time, he thinks he can get used to this.

04.

the fourth time, he’s ready for it —

“no,” you say, shaking your head, frowning at something he’s demanded of you.

“alright then,” he says, shrugging.

you blink, watching him as he turns away. watching him as he takes three steps away from you before you reach for him, tugging him back by the sleeve.

“what — that’s it? you’re… not gonna force me?”

he chuckles, “what’s the point if you’re just gonna snark at me? and anyway — i’ve got proper maids for this kind of stuff.”

“fine then,” you say, petulant, your voice sharp in a way that makes his lips twitch.

he grins, cocking his head as he watches the color wash up into your cheeks.

“fine,” he parrots back, his own voice painfully sweet and just as smug. he revels in the way your eyes flash, the way your fingers curl into fists at your side as he turns away.

so it really does take two to tango.

05.

“y’know, a million girls would kill to be in your place right now.”

“then why aren’t they?”

“hm? why aren’t they what?”

“why aren’t they here, in my place?”

silvio licks his lips, tasting salt and heat and the midnight air.

“cause… i didn’t really take to any of ‘em.”

you sigh, rolling your eyes.

“and you just so happened to take… to me. why?”

silvio shrugs, “you’re beautiful.”

“bullshit — there are plenty of girls out there prettier than me.”

“prettier, yeah. but more beautiful? no.”

your breath catches in your chest — hook, line, and sinker. you feel the tug in the base of your belly, your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

“w-what? that… that doesn’t make any sense.”

silvio only laughs, casting his eyes back out at the florid lushness of his palace gardens, teaming with the world’s rarest flowers — the night blooming cereus, the elusive ghost orchids, the fire lilies, and his prized juliet rose bushes. he leans over the thick railing to tug one from it’s bed of thorns, pressing it to his nose and taking a deep breath.

“it took my best gardener 12 years to cultivate one o’ these,” he says, twirling the peach-colored flower between his fingers.

“wow,” you say, eyeing the small, unassuming bloom, “that’s… a long time.”

“yeah, sure. but the gardener was rewarded pretty damn well for his work.”

at this, you heave another sigh, leaning up against the stone banisters.

“and i’m sure that’s the only reason he worked as hard as he did, right?”

silvio traces a finger along the edge of a velvet petal, admiring the fractal-like formation of the flower’s center.

“yeah… i’m sure it is.”

06.

the sixth time you reject him, he almost laughs out loud. it really is fun pushing all your buttons after all.

07.

the seventh time, he curls his lips around the shape of your name and dares to ask why.

you tell him, “because… it’d be nice of you to ask instead of demand for a change.”

he shivers at the gentleness of your tone, at the feather-soft of your confession, the pink that kisses your cheeks like the rosy-fingered dawn.

“but… if i ask, there’s a chance you’re gonna say no.”

you laugh and roll your eyes, “i say no anyways.”

“so why bother askin’ when i know what your answer’s gonna be?”

“because… sometimes, if you give someone the choice to stay or to go — they’ll surprise you.”

08.

“can… can y’just… stay? please?”

“...okay.”

09.

“when’d you learn how to say please?”

you twist to face him in the silver light of an encroaching dawn.

silvio groans as he buries his face in the silken pillows, his hair a hallo of lingering moonlight.

“dunno — shuttup… it’s too damn early.”

you allow yourself a smile and snuggle in before drifting back off to sleep.

10.

“kiss me.”

silvio smirks, cocking his head, “no.”

you narrow your eyes, frowning even as he chuckles, his fingers tight around your waist as the pair of you spin in ever and ever faster circles to music only the two of you can hear.

“why not?”

“cause…” he bites back, laving his tongue luxuriously across the expanse of his bottom lip before tugging it between his teeth, “y’didn’t ask nicely.”

you fight down the urge to push him away but his grip on you is tight and true, strong and steady and… so very nearly sweet.

“fuck off.”

he grins a foxhole grin and you feel yourself sinking into it’s depths, deeper and deeper as he spins you beneath his arm and dips you low, low, low.

“nope — pretty sure y’didn’t ask there either. and… that ain’t proper language for a lady, now is it?”

you roll your eyes as he pulls you back up and the dance begins again.

“fine,” you bite out, sparing him a half-hearted glare, “can i please have a kiss?” you ground out the words, even as the heat crests up your chest and bubbles over into your cheeks, burning all the way to the tips of your ears.

“hm… now that wasn’t so hard, now was it?”

he leans in and you let your eyes flutter shut.

when he breaks the kiss, he is smiling.

“kiss me again,” he says.

you smirk, “what happened to asking nicely?”

“hn. don’t feel like it — too much trou—”

but you cut him off with another kiss, and briefly, silvio considers the merits of tugging away if only to tease you about the impropriety of interrupting a prince’s speech before he’s finished. and then the next moment, he decides that, really, he prefers just kissing you instead.

[emmg]

I beg of thee Raphael nonconning virgin tav as dominance because normal sex isn't going to put them in their place...........

(if you do this, please don't do anal or blowjobs, nonnie is a wimp with icks they/them for said nonnie too!! ) -🍄⭐

Aw shit I'm sorry Anon, I got lik 5 or 6 asks for the same thing so I forgot about the them/they, though I did edit this version specifically for you. Big sorry!

Everyone else, I'm gonna be posting the link to the unabridged ao3 version in another ask.

Mind euh the tags: non-con, rough sex, just overall dead dove behavior

"You contemptuous creature."  

At first, the words draw laughter from her. It’s impossible not to find some twisted humor in watching Raphael—normally so poised and in control—lose his composure. Throw a bitch fit over trash talk. His nose wrinkles, his hands twitch involuntarily, fingers all but convulsing, the mask of benevolence slipping just enough for her to glimpse the arrogance beneath. All because she dared to strike at his most fragile point—his virility, or the lack thereof, if Haarlep’s scathing whispers were to be believed.  

But when he repeats those words a second time, after the carnage has taken its toll—after she’s been shattered and broken, her companions tossed from the House of Hope like discarded dolls—everything changes. She's wiped the floor with him, he's done the same to her, and now it’s just her and Raphael, both battered and bloodied. The echo of those words fills the suffocating silence between them, and suddenly, the laughter dies in her throat.  

The dread that follows is cold and visceral, sinking into her like a slow-acting poison, curdling in her stomach. Every instinct screams at her that something is deeply, horribly wrong. Laughter feels obscene now, swallowed by the growing horror that tightens like a vice around her chest.  

Raphael loves words. He worships them. He uses them like a sculptor uses clay, crafting elaborate threats, intricate insults, always searching for a new way to twist the knife. He doesn’t repeat himself.  

But now, with his face slashed and eyes wide, those same three words fall from his lips again, unchanged, unembellished. They land with the weight of something inevitable, something final.  

You. Contemptuous. Creature.

That’s when she knows. There are no other words left. No florid insults or twisted poetry. Only these, spat with venom, because they are all that remain. He’s beyond anger now.  

He catches her by the scruff of her neck, like someone handling a disobedient dog, but curses under his breath when his fingers slip against her skin. Frustrated, he switches to her shirt collar, yanking her through the halls with such force that the fabric tears. Her hair tangles in the cloth, pulling painfully at her scalp. By the time they reach the boudoir, he hurls her to the ground with such violent strength that her chin smashes against the floor, the impact echoing through her skull.  

Haarlep, lounging languidly on the bed, arches a single eyebrow in response.  

"Feast," Raphael hisses. "Ruin her. Fuck her senseless, devour her soul, keep her as your twisted plaything—I don’t care. I want her hollowed out, destroyed from the inside."  

She can barely breathe through the pain, through the burning humiliation, but she watches him with half-lidded eyes, sees him wipe a smear of blood from his lips with the back of his sleeve before spitting a thick, crimson glob onto the carpet.  

He turns on his heel, leaving without another glance, as Haarlep slowly slithers off the bed, moving toward her like a serpent closing in on its prey.  

She glances down at her left leg, wondering why it feels so numb, spotting a wound, high on her thigh, peeking out through shredded cloth. A jagged tear, deep and vicious, splits the skin open. Ah, well, this isn't ideal... She presses her hand against it instinctively, feeling the viscous flow slip between her fingers. It's more than a simple cut. This is bad, dangerously so. An artery, maybe, nicked and bleeding out fast. Her head feels light, the edges of her vision wavering, as each heartbeat sends another rush of red gushing from the wound.

She wonders if she can ask her heart to take it easy for a little while lest she leaks out entirely.

"Little thief," she hears a murmur, the voice a soft purr in her ear. "You didn’t want to play before, but now... now we can have some fun." Haarlep's breath is hot against her skin, followed by the slow, sinful drag of his tongue along her cheek, leaving her shuddering. He sighs, a heavy, almost disappointed sound. "But I do not like bedraggled things. No, I do not like them at all..."  

He carries her to the restoration pool, cradling her as though she were something fragile, something broken but fixable. The water is hot, healing, immediately soothing the raw pain seared into her body. She sighs, her head rolling back, slipping in and out of consciousness. The agony begins to blur into something distant, almost abstract. She feels Haarlep’s claws gently tearing through her clothes, cutting away the blood-soaked fabric, disposing of it. He washes her, erasing the bruises, the cuts, the aches from her skin with every pass of his hands.  

Then, something shifts inside her, a sudden, sharp realignment. The sound is loud, wet, and jarring, startling her awake with a yelp. Her ribcage snaps painfully back into place, the broken bones knitting themselves together in an instant.  

"Much, much better," Haarlep croons. His hand slides beneath her back, and she lets him guide her deeper into the water, submerging her until her hair is fully wet, the tension from where it had been yanked from her scalp melting away. The pounding headache that had been beating at her skull vanishes, leaving only a strange, heavy calm.  

"You're wonderful," she tells him. She doesn't know why. It just feels right.

She sighs again, feeling as if she’s on the edge of sleep. Everything feels so distant, so unreal, as if she’s drifting between worlds. Maybe it’s the blood loss, or maybe it’s the aftershock, the body’s surrender after the adrenaline burns out. She feels soft, weightless, like she could slip away at any moment. The only thing anchoring her is him. Maybe that’s just what incubi do, she thinks. Maybe this is their power.  

Her arms fall loosely around Haarlep, not quite an embrace, but enough to steady herself. His hands roam her back, exploring her skin, and though she’s dimly aware that both of them are naked, it hardly seems to matter. She’s too tired, too numb to care. Every time her eyelids flutter shut, it feels like centuries pass in the darkness.  

She blinks, and Haarlep’s lips are on her throat.  

She blinks again, and his mouth is on hers, soft but hungry. She kisses him back, caresses his face, sighs into his mouth.  

Another blink, and his hands are moving, trailing down her waist, her hips, slowly rising higher.  

Blink. Blink. Blink. And suddenly she’s no longer in the bath. The water, the heat—it’s all gone, replaced by the too-big bed beneath her, soft and engulfing. Haarlep is above her now, murmuring something low and indistinct, his words blurring into the haze of her mind. She doesn’t try to understand. It doesn’t matter. Reaching out, she cups his cheek, marveling at how lovely he is, how perfect his skin feels under her palm. He’s warm—so very warm—and the weight of him on top of her is comforting, almost intoxicating. His tongue flicks at her lips, glides down her throat, then traces a path lower, dipping into her navel. She sighs softly, her body heavy with a strange, dreamlike contentment.  

When he parts her thighs, there’s no fear, no hesitation. Just more warmth. His tongue teases at her knees, tracing slow lines upward. Higher. Higher. Higher. But just when she expects him to reach the spot where her body craves his touch, he stops. He doesn’t kiss her there, doesn’t satisfy that illogical, sleepy longing she feels despite her exhaustion. Instead, he hums softly, the sound vibrating through her.  

Another blink. When she looks down, she sees him resting his head on her stomach, hands folded beneath his chin like a bored child. His sigh is deep, drawn out.  

"Oh, little thief," he deplores, voice coated in mock lament. "Perhaps I shall feast later." His hand lazily pets her side. "No, no… this he’ll want to know." Another heavy sigh. "Well, let's keep you warm for now."  

He disappears for only a heartbeat, returning with a nightgown in hand. "Up, up," he says playfully, and she sluggishly lifts her arms, just enough for him to slip the gown over her head. The soft fabric slides down her skin as he tugs it into place before gently pushing her back onto the bed and pulling the covers over her.  

"Don't leave," she mumbles, her thoughts scattering like a half-remembered dream.  

"I suppose I can stay until you fall asleep," he purrs, slipping in behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her tight against his chest. His warmth seeps into her, enveloping her in a cocoon of safety. "It’s not the same, but... it is something."  

His voice fades as she drifts, barely registering the quiet words he whispers into her hair. All she knows is how warm, how soft, how utterly good he feels beside her. She sighs, utterly content, lacing her fingers with his as she falls into the deepest, dreamless sleep, sinking into the darkness as if she belongs there.  

When she wakes, she blinks up at the ceiling, utterly bewildered, staring blankly as her mind pieces itself back together. She lies there for what feels like an eternity, her thoughts floating in fragments, trying to remember where she is, why she’s here, and—oh, right. What happened.  

Then, she catches a whiff of coffee. And food. She rolls over to find a silver tray perched on a table in the center of the room, piled high with pastries, fruit, and other delicacies. She shuffles off the bed, fingers brushing over the nightgown she now wears—right, Haarlep must have put it on her. She lifts the coffee to her lips, expecting bitterness, but lets out a surprised sound as warmth spreads through her. It’s not simple coffee. It’s sweet, strong, with an unexpected aftertaste of lavender. It jolts her mind awake, yet oddly soothes her frazzled nerves.

Cup in hand, she takes a lazy lap around the room, finally stopping before a mirror. She’s paler than she’s ever seen herself, her skin nearly ashen, a shade of grey close to her hair. She lifts the nightgown, glancing down at her thigh—there’s a scar, raised but fully healed. She hums to herself, covers the scar again, and polishes off the coffee.  

What follows is a solid hour of her fiddling with the locked door, yanking at the handle, trying to shoulder it open—until frustration boils over, and she finally hurls the silver tray at it with a loud clang that does precisely nothing.  

Eventually, the door opens without a whisper of sound, nearly colliding with her nose. She jerks back, barely managing to avoid falling flat on her face. And in walks Raphael, gliding right past her without so much as a glance, settling himself into the plush armchair in the center of the room. He reclines, crossing his legs as if he hasn’t left her stewing for hours, and she just stares, somewhere between apprehension and disbelief.  

She sits on the bed, legs crossed underneath her, watching him.

She notices it immediately: he’s wearing a robe. Just a robe. And she hates it. She doesn't know why, but something about the sight gnaws at her, sets her teeth on edge. She wants him back in his usual finery, draped in layer upon layer of silk and brocade, in ruffles and velvets that bury him beneath his own pretensions. Not this casual, almost informal display, where she can see far too much of his chest, tan and exposed under the loose folds of cloth.  

Maybe he’s getting ready for bed. Maybe it’s not morning at all, and she’s slept through to the next night. Or the one after that.  

The thought makes her nervous, a creeping sense of time slipping sideways.

He makes wine appear and serves himself, offering her none of it.

"Haarlep shared the most fascinating insight with me," Raphael begins, his voice a slow, silken drawl. He swirls the wine in his glass, watching it spin, letting the scent rise before drawing it in deeply, savoring the moment. His nose lingers near the rim as he speaks again. "It appears, you see," he continues, "that the little mouse is all bluster, nothing but air, whispering baseless barbs into the dark."  

Her heart stammers, skipping a beat, and she can’t tear her eyes away from his robe—the dark silk, intricate golden arabesques snaking across the fabric, too beautiful and too rich at once.  

Raphael takes a single, languid sip. When he sets the glass down, it is with a soft, almost poetic clink.

"That one who dares to weave such lurid taunts," he muses, "could not possibly know what it is to be taken, to be undone by another’s touch."  

So, Haarlep’s a bloodhound now? Of the particularly unhinged variety, apparently, sniffing out virginity instead of anything remotely useful.  

She shakes her head, though she knows not why. Maybe from sheer incredulity. At least it explains why Haarlep had suddenly decided to leave her alone.

"Ah, but," Raphael sighs, his tone shifting, now lilting with a mockery that is almost whimsical, "despite it all, I find myself graced with a peculiar mercy." His teeth flash behind his lips. "Yes, even where you are concerned."  

She narrows her eyes, resisting the temptation to tell him to go take a long walk off a short pier. Or to go fuck himself, preferably somewhere far, far away from her.  

"Why not enlighten this brazen rodent?" he carries on, the words rolling from his tongue like a threat, each one drawing her deeper into the quiet terror of his intent. "Why not teach her the true meaning of being speared apart, to feel the depth of what she mocks so thoughtlessly?"  

Raphael raises his glass in a half-hearted toast. "What it is to be fucked, little thief," he whispers. "So that she might finally understand, and learn the wisdom not to speak of that which she has never known."  

Oh, so he's still angry.

There’s a glass of water waiting on the nightstand. She picks it up, wishing it were something stronger. A brief, delirious urge flickers—maybe she could ask him for liquor, just to see if he’d indulge her. But before the thought solidifies, she sets the glass back down, noticing how her hand trembles too much to trust it.  

Raphael, in contrast, drains his wine with a single gulp, tipping the glass back high enough for the liquid to rush down his throat. There's nothing refined about the way he drinks, she notices, a strange detachment creeping in as her mind scrambles to find any distraction. His throat works, swallowing the last of the alcohol, and for a fleeting moment, he looks more beast than noble.  

"So," Raphael begins, his voice songlike, his lips still glistening with the wine he’s just swallowed. "Why don’t you be a very, very good little mouse and lie down for me? Spread your legs nice and wide."  

He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees as he watches her, waiting.

She changes her mind. Takes the glass again. Drinks until it is empty, but still her throat feels parched, her tongue heavy.

"Oh, make no mistake," he continues, his tone dropping lower, "it will not be good for you, no... the first time is never good, I hear. But why let it be a scream when it can be a soft gasp? A quiet ruin instead of a brutal one. It’s your choice, really, but I must admit... I do prefer to break things slowly."  

He can't be serious.

Raphael shifts and she tenses immediately, almost scurrying back on the bed, but somehow remaining prone.

"Hold on," she says. "I have something for you."

She’s feeling suicidal.

Raphael arches an eyebrow.

With an exaggerated sigh, she makes a show of rummaging through the sheets, her hand shuffling to-and-fro before pulling free, her middle finger raised high and proud. She flips him off, her expression utterly deadpan.  

Raphael makes a pensive sound. "For your sake," he says, "I will pretend I did not see that. But tempt fate again and I will take that wrist of yours and, with my own teeth, carve it down to the bone.”

Point taken.

Sure, she’d love to skewer him like a devilish kebab, but she’s also got a strong preference for survival, and the chance of limping back to Gale, Karlach, and Shadowheart to lick their wounds together, preferably with all limbs still attached. Maybe she won’t even have to tell them what it cost to walk out with the Orphic Hammer, if he still lets her keep it after all of this. Just a simple transaction: a little charm, a little sacrifice. No one ever needs to know she had to play the whore to buy herself a ticket back to camp.  

She rises, slipping into the oversized robe Haarlep left behind. It’s much too big, but that feels like a comfort. Wrapping it tightly around herself, she picks up her glass and walks across the room to sit in the chair opposite Raphael, silently thankful for the little table acting as a barrier between them.  

"May I?" she asks, gesturing toward the wine.  

There’s a brief pause before he cocks his head and smiles. "Partake," he grants.  

She pours the glass to the brim, taking slow sips until it’s halfway gone, letting the silence linger. Raphael doesn’t rush to fill it either, simply sitting back with his legs crossed, watching her idly.  

"Can we negotiate, perhaps?" she offers, her voice tinged with hope.  

"Which part?"  

She hesitates, then swallows her nerves. "All of it," she blurts out. "You caught us. In the end, we didn’t take anything. No real harm was done."  

"No harm done?" he repeats, dragging out each word. "You believe attempted theft, rummaging through my possessions, damaging my property, and desecrating my secrets amounts to no harm done?"  

"How about an act of service?" she proposes. "Whatever you wish."

"So glad we’re on the same page," he replies, his tone dry and mocking. "Go lie down on the bed."  

"Aside from that."

Raphael props his head on a closed fist, looking at her in a manner so mockingly playful it’s almost insulting. "Did you know," he says, "that I was planning to court you, little mouse? Don’t look so surprised—yes, even I can be swayed by softness on occasion, though those moments are rare indeed." He shifts, reaching across the table to trace a finger along the rim of her glass, circling it slowly, never stopping.  

"Oh, we would have made such a fetching pair, indulging one another until the excitement faded." He punctuates this with a loud, theatrical sigh that might have rivaled a tragedy actor’s. “But alas, you’ve chosen to squander my generous inclinations. You rob me, you insult me...” He clicks his tongue in disapproval, the act so exaggerated it’s almost a parody of itself.  

"Yet call it fate," he says, suddenly clapping his hands together with a sharp sound that makes her jump. "I have decided to let you walk away."  

"Amazing," she says. "I'll be on my way then."

Raphael, predictably, pretends not to hear her.  

“Now, here’s how this will unfold,” he continues, rising gracefully and swiping her glass, taking a greedy sip. “You’ll strip out of those clothes—they were never yours to keep—and for the second time tonight, though I despise redundancy, you’ll climb onto that bed, spread yourself open, and lie still, like the obedient little mouse you were always meant to be.” He mimics the motion of holding a brush, his hand floating in the air as if he’s painting some delicate masterpiece. "One way or another, you will bleed on my cock tonight, dearest dear."  

She lets him carry on, watching as he moves through his little soliloquy, complete with sweeping arm gestures and fingers dancing through the air. Even his hands, it seems, cannot shut up, punctuating each of his words with dramatic flourishes.  

Whatever beauty she once saw in him, whatever thrill she felt at his thespian mannerisms—the polite, practiced excess, the smug smiles, the honeyed words, and rhymes tailored just for her—all of it now festers, turning sour and crude in her mind. The girlish infatuation is gone, withered in an instant. Now, all she sees are too-long claws, too-sharp teeth, and a too-fragile ego.  

Raphael stands before her, head tilted, smile stretched wide. He clearly means to shock her. But she’s still a little dizzy from the blood loss, and besides, she’s heard far worse. Growing up near the docks, you learn early that promises of every kind, coarse and lewd, will be thrown at you the moment you start looking less like a child and more like a whisper of a woman.  

Careful, girlie, or the rats’ll drag you off and make a wife of you.

Come over here, pretty—I’ll give you coin to scrub more than my floors, eh?

Just say the word, darling, I’ll teach you why sailors call it the dockyard grind.

The memories are both unsettling and, oddly enough, almost comical now. Raphael’s polished menace is nothing compared to the raw filth of dockhands and street scum.  

After a while, she just sort of... nods. Shakes her head. "And you care about this... why?" She waves a hand around aimlessly. Moving it just to move it. "Haarlep’s probably far more fun in bed anyway."  

"But I cannot exactly corrupt Haarlep, can I?" he replies, one finger rising in emphasis. "There’s a particular charm in setting... let’s say, a precedent. To be the first brushstroke on a blank canvas. To set the bar against which all future experiences will be measured. Corruption," he concludes with a slow smile, "is delectable."  

She can’t help it; she snorts, even laughs a little. "What corruption?" she scoffs, her mouth twisting into a smirk. "It’s just a physical reality, like eating a plum. Either you’ve done it or you haven’t. You’re not corrupting"—she throws in air quotes—"an Aasimar, luring them away from their godly parent. Just sticking your prick in someone."

"Why deny yourself, dear one?" He doesn't circle her, not exactly, but he does walk once around her chair before stilling, hands resting lightly on the backrest. Tap, tap, tap they go against the wood before jumping to her shoulders. "If it is but the equivalent of biting into a fruit."

She considers, just for a split second, letting a barb fly. Something about whether he even lasted long enough to count his first time, or if it was as pitiful as whatever performance Haarlep has to suffer through whenever he gets the itch. Or, better yet, if he just bent over and let whatever fiendish partner he had at the time, ahem, take the reins. Odds are that such a question would end with all her teeth on the floor, painstakingly knocked out, one by one, knowing him.

It’s tempting, though. Her tongue almost tingles to let loose the quip, but she's been called a contemptuous creature twice already and this is where it landed her. If he says it a third time… well, she’s not exactly eager to find out what fresh hell he might unleash.  

"I was waiting for you, O Raphael,” she says instead, rolling her eyes.

"How providential, then, that I am all too willing to fulfill that desire."  

His hands drifts lower, fingers pressing into her upper arms as he urges her to stand, walks back around, and returns his touch to her waist.  

"Perhaps," he suggests, leaning close, "your acting talents might shine here as they never have before. Better to use your gifts in this intimate stage than waste them on tavern fools and poker-faced games, wouldn’t you agree?"  

"There's nothing here worth winning."

Raphael tuts softly. "Oh, but there is. Scratch my back, and I shall scratch yours—is that not how the saying goes? Be a delight and I will be generous in return."

She stares him down. Haarlep did warn that he was more bark than bite, and truly, what difference does it make if it’s him or another? After all, she did once fantasize about him, didn’t she? Those late nights at camp, when he was still more enigma than letdown, before he dangled the hammer, before he demanded the crown.  

How could she not? He’s a devil, a godsdamned devil, draped in silks and brocade, spewing prose so sweet it's sticky, all poise and grandeur, acting as if she were a rare treasure, his favorite client. That was, of course, before she went and tore her way into his House.

She gives him a curt, acquiescing nod, quick and distant.  

"Marvelous," he murmurs. But then, just as she’s bracing for what’s next, he draws back, snaps his fingers, and a contract materializes in the air, unfurling like a smug declaration of bureaucratic triumph. "But first— formalities."  

"Seriously?" she says.  

"I am a man of principles," Raphael replies, arms parting. "Consider it a force of habit. A legal contingency. You have, after all, proven yourself somewhat unreliable. I must ensure that what I am so generously offering is appropriately compensated."  

"And what exactly are you giving up here?" she asks, barely containing an eye twitch. He’s the one getting his cock wet; what could he possibly be sacrificing?

Raphael places a hand on his chest with a small, clearly rehearsed nod. "My time," he says, like he’s imparting some profound revelation. "It is infinitely more valuable than you can comprehend—unlike your fleeting hours, which you squander on petty distractions."  

Unbelievable.

Resigned, she reaches for the contract and he immediately produces a quill, offering it with far too much glee.  

"May I read it first?" she asks, lifting an eyebrow.  

"Naturally," he concedes.  

It’s in Infernal, of course. She stares him down in silence until he relents, a chuckle leaving his lips as he waves a hand, and the letters bleed into Common. She sighs, her eyes scanning the lines, feeling the absurdity of it all settle in once more.  

As soon as she starts reading, she thinks she will have an aneurysm.

INFERNAL CONTRACT OF BODILY RECOMPENSE AND SERVICES RENDERED IN FAVOR OF RAPHAEL, MASTER OF THE HOUSE OF HOPE

WHEREAS the undersigned mortal, hereinafter referred to as "The Mortal," having knowingly and with ill intent, trespassed upon the domicile, personal chambers, and associated property of His Eminence Raphael, herein referred to as "The Master"; and...

...in his boundless beneficence, has resolved to defer immediate damnation, punishment, or otherworldly torture, contingent upon receipt of fair and equal recompense in the form hereinafter detailed...

"The Mortal's Body": Defined as the entirety of the Mortal’s physical form, inclusive of but not limited to flesh, bone, sinew, spirit, voice, and all sensory faculties...

"Night of Compensatory Access": A single period from the hour of dusk until the subsequent hour of dawn in the realm of Avernus, whereby The Master is granted uninterrupted, unhindered, and unequivocal access to The Mortal’s Body...

...by affixing her signature below, The Mortal concedes to offer herself wholly, without protest, evasion, or mental reservation, to The Master for the duration of the Night of Compensatory Access...

Exclusivity Clause: The Mortal shall refrain from, resist, or otherwise prevent any attempt to evade, diminish, or reduce The Master's designated rights and privileges as defined herein...

Her head spins. She swears this would be hilarious if it weren’t so harrowingly detailed. She presses on.  

ARTICLE III: CONDITIONS OF REPRIEVE

Forgiveness of Transgressions: In consideration of the services to be rendered by The Mortal, The Master shall, upon satisfactory completion of the Night of Compensatory Access, forgive, expunge, and render void all actions pertaining to the trespass...

...renounces all claims, pleas, or requests for mercy, leniency, or cessation of services during the duration of the Night of Compensatory Access....

ARTICLE IV: LIABILITY WAIVER

The Mortal indemnifies and holds harmless The Master from any and all claims, damages, injuries, or torts resultant from the execution of the contract...

...acknowledges that the nature of the acts herein may include, but are not limited to, discomfort, pain, debilitation, or mystical exhaustion...

“This all seems… rather extreme for…” She trails off, not quite able to say it aloud.“Well, you know. Is this really worth my soul if I don’t…” She pauses, frustrated with herself.  

“Perish the thought,” Raphael exclaims, clutching his chest in mock offense. “That would be far too dramatic. No, dear, only your ability to wander.”  

“My what now?”  

“Oh, you’ll still be able to walk around,” he clarifies. “But stray from your promise, and let’s just say you won’t be getting much farther than the hallway that led you here. A bit of an elegant leash, if you will.”  

The first pang of fear sinks in. She hadn’t even bothered reading the initial contract—the one he so pompously presented back at Sharess’ Caress—because she never intended to sign it, much less honor it. But this one... this one is personal, intimate, implicating her and only her, like he’d siphoned her very blood to craft it.  

She feels Raphael’s fingers at her throat, walking along her skin until they reach the ties of her nightgown, just barely peeking out from beneath her robe. He tugs at them, exposing more of her throat but luckily nothing else.  

“From dusk until dawn,” she reads, her gaze fixed on the parchment as all other words blur away. Those are the only ones that matter.  

"And only that."

Before she can talk herself out of it, she signs, feeling a searing heat at her fingertips as the contract vanishes in a flurry of embers.  

His hands immediately move to clasp her face, pulling her gaze up to meet his. He watches her, never blinking—how are his eyes not dried out?— his mouth stretched into that too-wide, lopsided smile, looking so pleased with himself, practically soaked in smarm.  

"Now that that’s settled…” he drawls, his thumbs carving circular paths into her cheeks. “We have the entire night stretched out before us and I intend to savor it. No need to rush through." The way he lingers over night unnerves her, stoking a wild urge to claw at his throat, to demand what makes him so damn giddy, but she stays quiet. "I could start with a simple indulgence… come on that pretty face of yours, paint you just the way I like, or…" He tilts his head, smiling as he watches her reaction. “Perhaps you would prefer to kneel, lips parted, tongue out, waiting like a good girl to taste every bit of me. Ready to earn your keep, so to say.”

Her stomach twists, a hot flush creeping up her neck as each filthy word drips from his mouth, every one lewder than the last, practically daring her to bolt. Great. Just fantastic. Maybe hanging herself would be faster. Or maybe she should just waltz out and take her chances with whatever Avernus has to offer in the way of “not Raphael.” Better still, she could track down Yurgir, sweet-talk him into offing himself again right in the middle of the room. She’d pay good coin to see Raphael’s face as he’s left scrubbing entrails off his floors. Anything—anything—to spare her one more second of his insufferable gloating, let alone his plans for the evening.

"Oh, don’t tell me you’re nervous now," he admonishes, punctuating it with an obnoxious little tsk-tsk-tsk. She watches, horrified, as his tongue clicks against his teeth. "I would have thought you’d be a bit more ardent. After all, debts do demand their due."

“What is wrong with you?” she blurts out, fully aware this could very well get her voice box ripped out on the spot. “Who talks like that?”  

Raphael doesn’t answer; instead, he steps closer, well within her space, until she’s enveloped by his scent, a potent mix of cherries, smoke, and musk, so thick she can practically taste it. There’s even a faint note of soap somewhere, though she suspects it might be from her, from whatever Haarlep scrubbed into her hair while washing away the blood and bruises. Not that it matters much now, with Raphael in her face, clearly reveling in her discomfort.  

For a moment, she thinks he’ll kiss her—he’s close enough—but instead, he presses his nose to her cheek, trailing up her skin like a hound catching a scent. Then, just as animalistic, he follows with his tongue, dragging it slowly along the same path. He breathes against her ear, tracing its curve, then moves to her neck, his mouth seeking out the web of veins as though drawing the salt from her skin. She winces, brow furrowing, and he feels it, gripping her hair and yanking her head back.  

"Be good," comes the reminder. "Be lovely." He angles her head back further.  

She parts her lips for him, and his tongue slips inside, invasive. It doesn't feel like a kiss; it likely isn't. He traces the inside of her cheek, pressing firmly, as though tasting her from the inside out. She lets her hands rest on his shoulders, fisting the material of his robe because she needs to hold something, even if that something is Raphael.  

He licks along her teeth, the wet drag of his tongue sending an unpleasant thrill down her spine. Then he slides lower, running along the thin strip of flesh beneath her tongue, a place she barely even thinks about, until now. He explores it thoroughly, pressing against it, making her jaw ache under the intensity. His tongue flicks up to her palate, crawling over the ribbed ridges in slow strokes, feeling each bump, each rise and fall of texture as if cataloguing the shape of her, how she feels on the inside, on the outside, where the two connect.  

He pulls back, and a thin strand of saliva clings between their mouths, stretching before it snaps, leaving a cold, wet trace along her lips. He undoes the tie holding her robe, humming a light tune while doing so, before pushing it off her shoulders.  

His fingers spread over her breasts, pressing them, molding them beneath his hands before moving down, taking his time as he gathers the nightgown between his fingers, dragging it upward. She feels it slide along her skin, brushing over her thighs, creeping higher with each tug until it sits just high enough for him to slip a hand underneath. His fingers find her, cupping her intimately, the heat of his hand burning through her. She tenses, the urge to recoil flickering back to life.  

In response, his arm winds around her waist, confining, not comforting.  

"Do you even know," he murmurs, his tone conversational, almost amused, as though discussing something mundane, as though he isn't trying to fuck her with his fingers, "what I will become once the Crown of Karsus rests upon my brow?"  

She feels his hand slip away only for him to turn her around, pressing her back against his chest. She hears the parting of his lips, the wet slide of his tongue as he licks his fingers with a lewd thoroughness before they return, slick, insistent, pressing between her legs. One pushes into her without warning, making her grimace, her body clenching involuntarily around the intrusion, her heart racing, breaths coming in stilted, uneven bursts.  

"No, of course you don’t," he whispers, voice heavy with mock pity. "You are far too bound by mortal limitations, too small of mind and soul to truly grasp it."  

She feels the press of his cock against her lower back, a hardness she hadn’t noticed before, his hips beginning a slow roll that matches the rhythm of his finger thrusting inside her. The friction against her skin, the firm grind of him behind her, sends a jolt of anxiety through her, her pulse pounding in her ears as he speaks.  

"The Hells themselves will bend to my will, like clockwork, finely tuned, all gears and wheels whirring for me alone. I will make them anew, forged in my vision—a perfect, boundless empire." His tone thickens, growing feverish. She can feel the heat radiating from him, the way he savors the vision of his own ascension. She wonders if it’s his vision of power, of domination, that excites him more than the act itself. "And you..." he trails off, "you will have the distinct privilege of saying you were taken to bed by the Archdevil Supreme."  

Yippity-fucking-yay. What joy.

Briefly, she wonders if all Archdevils, supreme or not, are windbags or if it’s just Raphael who inherited the verbose gene.

She honestly hopes that if he ever manages to get his greedy paws on the crown, he’ll shrink it down, lube it up nice and slick, and fuck it to high heaven. Frankly, nobody loves Raphael like Raphael does, but if she were a betting woman—and she certainly is—she’d put her money on the Crown of Karsus giving him a pretty decent orgasm.  

He interrupts her thoughts with the sudden press of a second finger, sliding inside with an erratic kind of slowness that makes her wince. His only response is a soft, indulgent sigh, his mouth lowering to her neck as he breathes hot, damp breaths that leave her skin prickling. His hips roll against her with more force, uncontrolled, irregular, now forceful, then barely a graze, only to be followed by an almost shove, an awkward rhythm that nearly unbalances her, only for his hand to tighten around her waist and pull her back.  

Soon it's deserting, however, and she feels it snake around her, fingers searching for hers, guiding her arm behind until her palm rests over the growing hardness of his cock. He presses against her hand, grinding into her, a low, satisfied hum escaping him as he urges her to feel him, to hold him there. The angle is awkward—her wrist twisted, his height towering over her—and she can’t quite stroke him properly, the stiffness in her limbs robbing her of fluidity.  

But every hesitant motion, every slight shift of her hand against him seems to draw an eager response. He groans, rocking harder into her palm, and his fingers inside her thrust deeper, their tips dragging against her sensitive walls, the scrape of his nails almost making her rise on her toes to avoid it.  

At last, she feels him exhale, his hand retreating from inside her, and her eyes flutter shut in exhausted relief.  

"On the bed," he orders, punctuating it with a shove to the small of her back, coping a feel of her ass in the process.  

She doesn’t wait. She pulls the nightgown off over her head, tossing it carelessly aside before sitting down, gaze fixed ahead as she braces herself. Raphael’s expression shifts, a glint of displeasure crossing his features—not anger, exactly, but an unmistakable dissatisfaction.  

"Well?" she says dryly. "Get it over with."  

His face hardens. "I told you to be pleasant," he snaps.  

"Find me one person who can manage that when they're about to be raped."  

His eyes narrow, a frown of distaste tugging at his mouth. "Such an ugly word," he mutters dismissively as he pinches the bridge of his nose. "Rape is the behavior of beasts, of creatures without refinement or restraint. This is an exchange—a consenting, fair exchange. I provided the parchment, the ink, and the clauses. You, my little mouse, provided the signature." He looks her over. “Among other things that are to follow.”  

He doesn't join her on the bed. Instead, he cups her face, tilting it up so she has no choice but to look at him. His thumb drags slowly over her bottom lip, pressing until it parts, then tracing the same path with the other.

She realizes that, though she’s not exactly crying, her eyes feel just a bit too heavy, a bit too wet. 

His nails sweep along the cracked skin of her lips, grazing the split corners, drawing a wince from her that only seems to encourage his smile. She feels the flush that’s crept over her cheeks, wishing she could wipe it away. And then his eyes meet hers. Instinctively, she shuts them, the feeling of those sharp nails—just a little too long, almost claw-like—sends a quiver of apprehension through her. It’s as though his infernal side has slipped out without him fully shifting. Feeling them like that, without seeing, she thinks it has.  

He traces the line of her left eye, pressing lightly against the delicate space where her lashes meet. She freezes entirely as the claw moves, pulling at the tears that have gathered there, dragging them out. She sniffles, a fresh surge of tears welling up, unbidden, caught between panic and dread.  

Suddenly, Raphael presses her down into the bed, and she freezes, expecting pain. But instead, the claw is replaced by the heat of his mouth, his lips pressing along the trail of tears, his tongue gliding along her closed eye, hot and damp. It laps up the moisture, running so close to her lashes that it’s almost unbearable. For a second, she feels it along the lash line, a hairbreadth from her eyeball, before the tip touches it, seeking the salt at its source. Her breath falters, her hands twitch in the air, fingers furling and unfurling. The heat from his tongue is so intense she wonders, half-delirious, if it could melt the surface of her eye, or if he’ll sink his teeth into her next.  

He licks the length of her closed eyes, chasing the tears as they stream down. The sensation is almost too much; she can't stop imagining his teeth ripping through the eyelids, sinking into the eyeballs, turning them into mush, blinding her, and then slurping up the bloody pulp. She stays like that, almost hyperventilating beneath him, until finally, the tears dry up and she wills herself into stillness.  

"I expect a little more enthusiasm from here on out," Raphael says, brushing her hair away from her face before his hands go to her waist, flipping her.

She finds herself face-down, her body sprawled out beneath him as he presses his knee between her legs, forcing them open. His fingers move over her back, following the curve and contours, cataloguing every tremor that runs through her.  

His hand slides lower, fingers crawling between her thighs before plunging into her without warning. A sharp gasp escapes her, twisting into a curse she barely registers, something raw and furious that spills out as her body reacts, trying to wriggle free from his grip. But his other hand comes down hard against the small of her back, almost enough to make her spine bow under the pressure.  

"Now, you can carry on as you have, useless and limp, like nothing more than an insentient sack of flesh," Raphael drawls, his tone maddeningly casual, even as he forces a third digit inside her, stretching her painfully. His fingers thrust in and out, curling and scraping, and she feels the burn of it, the relentless stretch drawing a whimper out of her, muffled into the pillow as she mindlessly tries to squirm away. But it only seems to spur him on, his fingers sinking even deeper.  

"If that’s your choice," he continues, "then I’ll simply treat you like one. Like a bitch, if you will—hold you down, fuck you until you’re raw and weeping, until you can’t even stand." The hand pressing into her back finally relents, only to creep upward, fingers tangling in her hair, winding it around his palm. "I will break in that cunt of yours, make you lick the blood from my cock, and then take the exploration further still"—a punctuating tug follows—"to make sure no part of you remains untouched. I am nothing if not thorough." He yanks her up, pulling her flush against his chest, her back arched, her scalp burning, like every strand is trying to individually break away. His fingers pick up speed, pumping in and out with wet, slick sounds, not from pleasure but from how deep he drives them, dragging every bit of wetness out of her.  

"Or," he whispers, his voice dropping to a taunting murmur, "put in the slightest effort, impale yourself on me with a smile, and perhaps—just perhaps—you’ll find something in this for yourself." His tongue flicks against her ear, running along the curve before slipping inside. "I shall enjoy myself either way, make no mistake. How you experience this... well, that is entirely up to you."  

Dignity falls to the wayside, overruled by self-preservation slithering its way to the forefront of her mind. She’s certain that there are countless ways she could be torn apart in the days to come—and frankly, she’d rather face ceremorphosis with tentacles bursting out of her chest than suffer that fate at the mercy of Raphael’s cock.  

“Yes, yes,” she gasps, arching back against him because, at this point, it’s all she can manage. She hopes it’s enough, that this small gesture of compliance will satisfy him, even if only temporarily.  

He hums and his fingers inside her slow to a less painful pace. “Yes, what?” he asks, his tongue darting out to taste the sweat gathering behind her ear.  

“I’ll… I’ll be good,” she whines, forcing the words out, barely keeping her composure.  

“Wonderful,” he breathes, sounding pleased. “That is all I wished to hear. After all, such endeavors are always far more enjoyable when both parties are in agreement, wouldn’t you say?” Self-satisfaction all but drips from him. “Ah, but my apologies—you wouldn’t know.”  

When his fingers finally pull out, relief floods through her so heavily that it nearly takes her breath away. She chooses to ignore the wet sound of him licking each finger clean, the way his tongue swirls around them. A little push from him sends her forward, collapsing onto the bed once more, her face pressed into the sheets. But it doesn’t last. She feels his weight shift off the bed, and when she brushes her hair back to look, she sees him adjusting his robe, his cock still hot and hard, as if she's never sucked him off, flashing briefly before he ties it closed and steps away.  

He returns to the armchair, pulling it closer to the bed, and sits with an air of casual indifference.  

"I suppose you’ve earned a small reward,” he says, eyes crinkling in a way that’s almost affectionate, as if he’s actually capable of generosity.  

“A... reward?” she repeats, her throat dry, disbelief settling in. Raphael doesn’t do rewards. Raphael barely registers the concept of fairness. Despite her earlier promises to play along, a healthy dose of wariness prickles through her, but he just waves a dismissive hand, chuckling at her suspicion.

She doesn't believe him.

He's a con. She knows he's a con.

No, no, more than that. He’s the walking embodiment of a con. If a con could strut up uninvited, spout a pompous monologue no one wants to hear, and poof out of nowhere just as she’s elbow-deep in dirt prying a chest loose, declaring himself her savior... If a con could drench itself in cologne so thick it practically slaps you, with an incubus ready to drop to its knees at a whistle to suck him off, well—that con would be Raphael. That con is Raphael.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he chides, conjuring a glass of wine in one hand and raising it in a toast. “Trust me—you will enjoy this.”  

Then, he lazily snaps his fingers. She stares, waiting for something to happen, the anticipation thickening in the air. But the room remains silent, still, until he gives a subtle nod, signaling her to turn around.  

“Oh,” is all she manages, a single word tumbling out as she takes in the sight.  

Haarlep sits on the edge of the bed, a smile stretched wide across his face, all sharp teeth and, as always, very little clothing. Waiting. Watching. She hadn’t even felt the bed dip beneath him, but there he is, perched like he’s always been there, lounging like a spoiled cat.  

Her head snaps back to Raphael as he resumes talking.

“What sounds do mice make?” he poners, pausing to take another leisurely sip of wine. “They squeak, don’t they? But that is not quite what I’m in the mood for today.” He lifts a finger, pointing it directly at her. “Let us give you some metaphorical whiskers for a change.”  

And then, almost casually, he gestures to Haarlep. “Make her mewl.”  

Haarlep comes alive as if clockwork, arms winding around her waist as he pulls her into his lap, the sudden strength of his grip taking her by surprise. She lets out a small yelp, startled at the sheer intensity radiating from him. He’s like Raphael but… more. Larger, warmer, every part of him thrumming with a raw energy that feels almost feral. The familiar warmth starts pooling low in her belly, the same heat she felt when he’d fondled her in the bath, setting off that slow burn inside her that fogs up every logical thought.  

Before she even realizes, her legs have wrapped around his hips, arms loosely circling his neck as she settles against him.  

Fuck it. Just… fuck it. She doesn’t actually want Haarlep—not really, incubus magic or no, no matter how pleasantly dizzy he’s making her feel. But she wants Raphael even less. If this whole mess of a situation forces her to pick one, she’ll take the incubus. Better him, whose very nature feeds off pleasure, than Raphael and his… well, whatever that is. And if it pleases Raphael to see her comply, well, maybe she can live with that.

“Little thief,” Haarlep coos, his voice so soft, so sweet. His tongue darts out, long and pointed, flicking over her lips. She exhales in anticipation, wanting to drink the air he breathes out, draw it as deep into her lungs as possible, drown in it. The most delicious of suffocations. He presses his tongue to hers, a brief, electrifying touch that makes her stutter a moan.  

She frowns, the sensation almost too much, but she fights against the lightheadedness, tearing her gaze away to glance back at Raphael.  

“Indulge,” Raphael intones, his voice smooth but hollow, his face devoid of expression. Yet his fingers tap impatiently against his thigh.  

That’s all she needs to hear. Given the choice between Haarlep and Raphael, she knows where her inclination lies. Turning back to Haarlep, she lets her hands wander up to his face, feeling the curve of his smile form under her fingertips, his grin widening as she presses closer. A soft, breathy giggle slips from her as she feels his teeth, sharp and pearly-white. She traces one of his canines, feeling its fine point, laughing again as his tongue swirls around her fingertip, teasing, playful, yet also predatory.  

Her fingers trail up further, brushing aside his hair, feeling along his horns, exploring each ridge and groove, mapping the texture with a mix of fascination and reverence. It's hard, reminding her of thicker nails, but also polished, as if he took a file to it. “Thank you for washing me,” she murmurs, lifting herself just a little to reach the sharp ends, pressing her fingertip to the edge, letting it prick her skin lightly.  

Haarlep tilts his head up, studying her. He leans in, pressing a brief, lingering kiss to the spot between her breasts. "I will lick you clean before the night is over, sweetling," he promises.  

Her breath catches, jaw slack, and before her mind has fully caught up, his mouth finds her breast, lips closing over her nipple with a fierce, greedy hunger. He sucks, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak, lapping and teasing, only to pull back and blow warm air, waiting just long enough for her skin to prickle before diving back in. His hand kneads her other breast, fingers splayed wide as he cups her fully, and in that moment, she wishes there were simply more of her—more for him to take, to devour, to savor.  

Her head tips back, a sigh slipping from her as she pulls him closer, pressing his mouth to her. He lets her nipple go with a wet pop, leaving a glistening trail of saliva as he drags his tongue over to the other breast, his mouth resuming its ministrations, tongue and teeth teasing as he works her slowly.  

Then, his other hand begins to drift lower, sliding down her stomach, fingers tracing an idle path until they sneak between her thighs. Her body tenses, still tender, her mind flashing back to the earlier painful stretch. But Haarlep murmurs soft, indecipherable words against her, his breath warm and soothing, his tone coaxing. His touch is feather-light, a gentle stroke up and down, not pressing too deeply, not forcing. Just the barest graze of his fingers as they move in time with his mouth.  

She hums, lulled into the haze, as she feels herself growing wet. He notices, and his fingers move with purpose now, gathering that slickness, using it to circle her clit in slow circles, just enough pressure to make her tremble, to make her body arch against him.  

Her hands clutch at his shoulders, fingers digging in as she steadies herself, barely able to breathe beneath the sheer intensity of him. Incubi are supposed to be the ones devouring, draining, but right now, she feels like she might just consume him entirely, every last part of him, until there's nothing left but that raw, pulsing need. And even then it won't be enough.  

Without warning, he pushes her back, and she falls, laughter spilling out of her, head spinning with a strange, weightless sensation. Her vision blurs at the edges, the world fading away until only he remains—his face so close, achingly lovely, all wicked smiles and piercing eyes that seem to pull her deeper with every look. The scent of him fills her senses, thick and heady, intoxicating in a way that makes her dizzy, lightheaded, and if she could dissolve from it, melt away entirely, she would almost welcome it.  

Haarlep braces himself on his forearms, grinning down at her, and before she can even catch her breath, he leans in, his mouth crashing against hers. His teeth graze her lips, a quick bite, and she reacts immediately, her nails raking down his back, pulling him closer as if she could meld into him, as if her body wants to fuse with his. She clings to him, her whole being drawn toward him, desperate for every touch, every taste he offers.  

The kiss leaves her gasping, her thighs instinctively pressing together, a throbbing need building deep inside her, making her body come alive in a way it never has. Every taste of him is potent, unbelievable, more satisfying than anything she's ever known, more intense than any pleasure she’s ever tried to give herself. Her hands drift down, gripping him as if she can’t bear to let go, as if every nerve is open, raw, and starved for more of him.  

Haarlep pulls back, and she watches the way his lips shine. "Not a thought in that head," he croons, petting her sides. The words aren't meant for her, she knows that, knows she should be frowning, should be offended.  

It should sting, the way he speaks about her, should spark some hint of defiance, make her want to hit him. It’s as though he’s reaching into her, pulling free every ounce of strength she has, every bit of herself, leaving her hollow but strangely content. The thought crosses her mind, dimly, that he might be feeding on her, whittling her down to nothing, and yet, fading into him feels inevitable, and she can’t bring herself to actually care.  

Maybe it's better this way.

"Come here, little thief."

She lets Haarlep move her, his hands gripping her ankles as he drags her down, positioning her so her legs dangle off the edge, making sure they are parted wide. She feels him draw back, the absence of his touch stark against her skin, and almost protests—until his mouth presses against her, and every thought vanishes, every half-formed complaint dissolving into a needy whine.  

Her hands move to his head, fingers threading through his hair, wrapping around his horns as she steadies herself. His long tongue traces a slow line up her slit, taking his time, savoring every inch before flattening against her clit. A sharp, intoxicating shock rolls through her, and just as quickly, he pulls back, letting the heat simmer, only to circle her sensitive spot and then plunge his tongue deep inside her.  

A choked sound, ugly and short, leaves her as she presses herself against his mouth, feeling his nose nudge against her clit, his fingers finding it as well, massaging in rhythm. His tongue twists, flicks, pressing further, devouring her as he sucks and licks with a singular, consuming focus that leaves her mind blank. He sucks her clit between his teeth, the brief graze of sharpness making her body arch before he laughs and eases up, his breath hot against her as he continues.  

Her grip tightens around his horns, hands trembling as she ruts shamelessly against his face, chasing each wave of pleasure he draws out of her. The tightness low in her belly builds, her thighs quivering, anticipation coiling with each flick of his tongue.  

An idle thought flits through her mind: all those dire warnings about devils… really, they missed the mark. Should have focused more on demons. Surely a king or two—maybe even a whole council of dukes—gave up fortunes just for the dubious honor of being fucked silly by an incubus with more charm than scruples.  

All those bleak winters she'd spent at the temple of Ilmater as a child, because her mother was too sad, too tired, and honestly, asleep for so long she practically fused with the bed... The priests, ever eager, handed out bread along with endless sermons on “righteous living” and the “virtues of a humble life.” A life of penitence, they’d said. A life of humility…  

Well, so much for that. Apparently, all that virtue-training went flying right out the window the moment Haarlep decided to get creative with his tongue, because she can’t think of a single reason why she should care anymore.  

The tension in her belly coils tighter and tighter, her muscles wound with a fierce, electric energy as each pass of his tongue, each press of his fingers, pushes her closer to the edge. She gasps, breathless, feeling sweat bead on her skin, slicking her brow and the small of her back.  

Her fingers tangle in his hair, drawing his head closer, and she arches toward him. She can feel her own slickness pooling, mixing with the damp heat of his mouth, her skin flushed and trembling as her release hits. It crashes over her in pulsing waves, making her thighs quiver, her legs tightening as she presses herself against him, letting out a shuddering moan as he doesn’t relent, all but licking her orgasm out of her.  

She pants, then laughs, a soft, breathless sound that bubbles up as giddiness fills her, a heady lightness leaving her almost dizzy. Her body feels weightless, her vision dotted with stars, colors swirling at the edges, vivid and strange. As she stares at the ceiling, tasting sensations she can’t explain, the faint awareness creeps back in—he hasn’t moved away. Haarlep still kneels at her feet, his hands roaming up her legs, fingers tracing the sensitive skin beneath her knees, slowly spreading her open again.  

She props herself up, just a little, resting on her elbows, a lazy smile animating her lips, her hair plastered to her forehead. Her muscles still feel loose, relaxed, the aftershocks of pleasure lingering in every inch of her.  

“Loud enough?” she hears Haarlep ask as he drags a finger along the slickness pooling from her, tracing the line of her thigh, pushing her knee open a bit wider, exposing just how thoroughly he’s worked her. He tilts her leg, angling her just so, to better display the wet sheen of her cunt to Raphael.  

The rush of realization hits hard, snapping her back as her body stiffens, her hands flying to pull her legs together, shuffling herself back on the bed as a deep, burning shame blooms in her chest. Haarlep laughs, high and mocking, and the sound grates through her.

She's no longer drunk on him, no longer under his influence, and she is going to kill the fucker.

Fucking fiend. No, fucking fiends. Both of them. She should have driven a butter knife straight through his skull the moment she saw him lounging in Raphael's stupid boudoir. Or better yet, one of his infernal "accessories." She distinctly remembers spotting a few fiendish dildos tucked around the room during their little chat. Yes, that’s the move—a truly monstrous, comically oversized, and inexplicably barbed devil’s dong, jammed right through his eye socket and deep into that smug brain of his. Scramble his skull with a novelty-sized hellish dick.

What a shame she missed the opportunity.  

"Begone," Raphael’s voice cuts through, followed by a flourish of his hand. Haarlep barely manages a scoff before vanishing into thin air. When she looks up again, he’s gone, leaving only Raphael’s gaze pressing down on her.  

Good.

Fucking good.

For once, she’s grateful for Raphael’s over-the-top theatrics. Another second of Haarlep smirking up at her, and she’d have gladly spat in his face.  

He finishes his wine, and she wonders—absurdly—if he’s drunk, if somehow that would make this whole situation easier. Can he even get drunk, with that Infernal constitution of his? She doubts it. But then he moves to join her, and she finds herself reaching out thoughtlessly, her fingers moving to his shoulder, then his chest, trailing lower to undo the tie of his robe. This is what he wants, isn’t it? Raphael demands to be worshipped, to be desired, even as he savors the bruises he leaves behind, the tears he causes. And she’s still lightheaded, still dizzy from Haarlep, enough to follow along without questioning it too deeply.  

“Good girl,” he praises, as she finishes baring him.  

There are details she likes about him; things she can appreciate without attaching them to the creature he is. It’s why she flirted with him in that carefree way before all of this, isn't it? She likes the way his hair curls just so behind his ears, how unassumingly brown it is, his lips that are a touch too thin, the sharpness of his nose, though she can’t explain why, the extravagance of his clothes—even his unbearable smugness had its charm once. 

He’s a caricature of an aristocrat, the kind who’d trick you out of your last coin and enjoy every second of it, yet also the type straight out of a cheap romance novel: the noble who buys a girl for a night, only to bring her into a life of wealth and comfort when he inexplicably grows fond of her.  

But she knows better now. Beneath all that elegance lies the tormentor of Hope, the schemer who’d prey on children like Mol without a flicker of remorse. He’s lived lifetimes, long enough to have seen the scurrying about of so many like her, long enough that some semblance of mercy should have crept in by now. One would think that even Raphael, having watched enough fragile lives flail and fail, might one day feel the faintest pity, like gently ushering a trapped fly out a window instead of crushing it beneath his heel.  

But Raphael? He steps on that fly, over and over, century after century, just because he can.  

And suddenly, she is afraid, and not even the aftertaste of Haarlep is enough to dull that.  

Raphael presses on her shoulder, and she sinks down onto the bed without protest. He hovers above her, watching in that way of his—intense, calculating, oddly detached—before taking her hand with almost ceremonious politeness. “Now, if you would be so kind,” he murmurs, guiding it to wrap around his cock, shaping her fingers to his liking as he coaxes her into a rhythm.  

Her hand shakes, struggling to follow the pace he sets, each stroke clumsy, uneven, her breath hitching as the weight of his flesh under her fingers sharpens the reality of the moment. His grip tightens, keeping her hand in place, urging it faster, forcing her into a tempo she can’t seem to match. The thickness of him feels unsettling, wrong, the shape foreign beneath her touch, and panic churns in her chest, turning her breaths into shallow, stifled puffs.  

She’s done worse tonight—had him at her lips, tangled with his incubus, even lay still as he tasted her tears, and yet somehow, this is what unravels her. How utterly stupid. Everything suddenly feels far too real, too stark.

"Whatever is the matter, little mouse?" His voice drips with counterfeit sweetness. He leans in, his tongue dragging a slow, wet trail up her cheek, the sensation making her shudder in disgust. "Do you not want to feel what you do to me? It’s a compliment, really."  

Despite herself, her hand goes still, but Raphael hardly seems to mind. He disentangles himself from her, reclining back to watch her as he takes over. He pumps himself with a rhythm he couldn't get her to follow, alternating between squeezing and dragging, and her gaze unwillingly falls to the veins she’d traced earlier with her tongue, now standing out, bulging under the pressure of his hand. A bead of moisture forms at the tip, catching the light before he drags it down his shaft. She turns her head, forcing her focus elsewhere, her eyes tracing the intricate patterns of the golden wallpaper. She counts each delicate swirl, following every looping detail, willing herself to find fascination in the ornate designs and drown out the scene unfolding before her.  

But she can’t shut out the sounds—the wet, obscene rhythm of his hand on his cock, the heavy breaths, the occasional groan as he takes his pleasure from the mere sight of her. The tension coils tighter and tighter in her chest, suffocating her.  

Then he’s on top of her again, his teeth grazing her throat, biting down with just enough pressure to make her gasp. His cock presses hot and hard against her thigh.  

"Don’t," she says, surprised by how steady her voice is, how calm it sounds despite the anxiety inside her.  

Raphael heaves a great, melodramatic sigh. "But how else will you learn your lesson, little mouse?" His hand moves lower, taking hold of himself, pressing the blunt, too-hard tip of his cock against her entrance.  

She stiffens, her hands flying to his shoulders, pushing weakly at him, but the motion only makes things worse. His cock slips lower, finding the right angle, and before she can even prepare herself, he thrusts forward, forcing himself inside of her.  

The pain is sharp and tearing, a searing agony that makes her bite down hard on her lip, her teeth sinking into the flesh to stifle the cry that wants to flee. She hears herself mumbling something, but the words don’t make sense. He sheathes himself fully inside her, and it isn’t the dramatic scream she expected to tear from her throat—no, it’s a hollow, soundless exhale, her body too shocked to react the way she imagined it would in the stupid, smutty, sordid stories she’d once read. Her eyes sting, open too wide for too long, and her lower belly cramps violently.  

Instinct drives her to push deeper into the mattress, as if she could somehow melt through it, but Raphael’s hands clamp down on her hips, holding her in place. He pulls out just enough to make her wince, his cock scraping against her raw insides, before he slams back into her, harder this time.  

Feeling a little deranged, she reaches up to touch his face, an impulse she’d buried before... well, before all of this. And he is beautiful, isn’t he? She can admit to it, even if a very insistent part of her would gladly stab him through the eye if she could get away with it. Her fingers trace his cheekbones, his jaw, his temples, the waves of his hair, and she’s oddly relieved that he looks like this, that he’s chosen this form and not the other, no horns, no towering, imposing fiendish presence. Just this face—human, sharp, and eerily simple.  

She’s had plenty of faces in her fantasies over the years, ever since she was old enough to understand the appeal; his just happened to be the latest one to drift behind her closed eyes as she rutted against a pillow or came on her fingers. But unlike all those harmless daydreams, now, he is real, tangible, and she hates him in every way imaginable. She knows, almost certainly, that he’s already made her bleed, and with each rough movement, that stickiness between her thighs grows, a physical reminder that unlike her idiotic fantasies, this one comes with bruises and a contract attached.  

He begins to fuck her, his hips snapping forward with each thrust, his breath coming in ragged bursts. She can feel him, deep inside, deeper than she ever thought possible, and each thrust feels like a fresh tear, splitting her open. For a brief moment, he pauses, and she dares to hope that it’s over, that maybe, somehow, this is it.  

He holds himself above her, his face tense with concentration, a thin sheen of sweat beading along his brow. His mouth goes to her jaw, undecided, alternating between a firm press, a sharp nip of his teeth, and the hot, damp glide of his tongue.  

And, predictably, he starts to talk. Raphael always needs to talk. He simply can't seem to shut up, his words half-muffled against her skin. "I would have taken you to Calimport," he laments, moving in a slow rhythm, never quite bottoming out. "There is a... venue there... The House of Desires, they call it." She wraps her arms around him, more to keep them from flailing than anything else, but he seems pleased, sighing contentedly. "A foolish name," he sneers, "but an intriguing place… A theater and pleasure palace combined. We could have watched The Tragedy of the Mad Mage while you writhed in my lap… or simply listened to the monologues as I took you on the floor of the box… But no, you had to go and ruin our partnership...”

What is even going on?

She knows he likes the sound of his own voice—yapping like some pedigreed lapdog who’s learned to wax poetic. But she didn’t expect him to keep it up now, right in the middle of this, while taking something from her she hadn’t even cared about that much, but still feels downright wrong to hand over to him of all people.

She stares at the ceiling, bewildered, but something else is stirring inside her. It’s that lingering warmth, that hint of something left behind by Haarlep—carried in his breath, his saliva, his touch. The scraping discomfort remains, but Raphael’s slow, labored movements, the unhurried thrusts, almost feel good. Like the teasing tension when she clenches her thighs without touching herself.  

His body presses so tightly against hers that every shift brushes against her clit, his chest dragging over her nipples, the scratch of his pubic hair rubbing between her legs and slightly up her stomach. She finds herself breathing harder, mouth opening just a bit, the low, lazy drag of his cock against her drawing out a shy, unintentional moan. Even her toes curl a little.  

Raphael reacts immediately, tilting her head back, scrambling for her mouth. It’s hardly a kiss; it feels more like he’s greedily scavenging for scraps, but even that has its own strange pull.  

"I knew you would like this," he speaks straight into her mouth and she physically feels his lips stretch, the smirk forming, even as he strains to breathe properly. She must utter something, some kind of protest, though she doesn't really register it, because her head turns and his hand clamps on her jaw, dragging her back, all while insisting, "No, you do, you do... such vulgar words…” He emphasizes it with a sluggish thrust. “So much posturing…” Two more thrusts, and her eyes squeeze shut. “And for what…” Another thrust, and she shivers, feeling a new rush of wetness between her legs.  

A tremor travels down his spine, something she can almost trace, snapping him out of whatever trance he was in. He’s no longer slow, and she feels every jarring push as he resumes pounding into her, his cock bruising her from the inside.  

When he pulls out, a small gasp of pain escapes her. It somehow hurts more to feel him leave than it did to take each thrust. His hand presses firmly on her hip, pushing or pulling, she can’t quite tell, before he sighs, exasperated.  

"On all fours," Raphael demands, turning her around.  

Her chin hits the mattress, neck twisted at an awkward angle, but she quickly braces herself, pushing up, determined not to let him grind her face into the sheets, even if he intends to take her like an animal.  

He presses up behind her, his hand slipping between them as he aligns himself, slicking the head of his cock between her folds before he drives forward. She yelps before she can stop herself, making her feel every inch the bitch he’d called her. Each noise she lets out only seems to reinforce it, her own voice betraying her, ringing out like the helpless whine of an animal forced to submit.  

The echo of Haarlep is still there, however, just like before, and she thinks that under different circumstances, she might actually find pleasure in this. There's a spark of it, sometimes igniting, sometimes being snuffed out, and sometimes threatening to grow into a blaze. When his hips stutter, when he presses in deep and moves shallowly, his cock twitching within her, she almost feels it—almost leans back to meet his rhythm. She almost feels herself clench around him, hating that she's craving the warmth, that flicker of desire, the urge to reach down and rub her clit until she shudders around him.  

“You are,” she hears Raphael’s voice, hoarse above her, “not a complete disappointment, little mouse.” He barely finishes the words before he’s slamming into her again. Air whistles through her gritted teeth as he hits something deep, almost unbearably intense—a spot that sends an aching, twisting cramp pulsing through her core. She cries out and watches her hand grip the sheets, fingers digging in so hard her knuckles turn white.  

She hears every wet, filthy slide of his cock, each stroke accompanied by the slap of his flesh against hers. His sweat drips onto her skin, mingling with hers, salty on her lips as he presses her down, pinning her flat against the bed, his chest flush against her back. She can barely breathe, whimpering as his teeth sink into the spot between her neck and shoulder. Raphael shushes her, his hands roaming down her ribs, even as he keeps moving inside her, his ragged exhales wafting against her ear.  

“Tonight,” he grits out, “tonight isn’t about you… but if you behave…” His thrusts are wild now, lacking control, as if he’s barely holding onto himself, each movement sharp, utterly graceless. He tries to stay punishing, driving deep, but his cadence fails, and his cock slips free, leaving him cursing, frustrated. She lets out a shuddering sigh of relief, and he swears again, his knee parting her legs wider, forcing himself back inside her. “If you’re good,” he mutters, “I’ll let you ride me, take your pleasure... like the needy little thing you are…”  

She finally feels his orgasm when he pushes three more times into her, harder than before, so hard she thinks he spine will snap, before resting his weight atop her.

She feels drunk, though she’s barely touched the wine. It’s that bone-deep weariness that sets in after a burst of misplaced excitement, when every limb feels leaden, her mouth parched, her eyes strained. She listens to Raphael's breathing, his chest pressing into her back, his heartbeat thundering and then gradually slowing. The sweat between them begins to cool, skin sticking together uncomfortably. Almost absentmindedly, he runs his nose along her cheek; not a tender gesture, just an unconscious brush, a reflex without thought.  

She feels him soften inside her, his grip shifting as he braces himself, then finally pulls out, a rush of warmth spilling between her thighs. A part of her wants to reach down, stuff something between her legs, stop the flow, wipe it all away—anything to avoid the reminder of what just happened. But another part of her simply doesn’t care anymore. She just wants sleep. Turning over, she settles onto her back, eyes half-closed, only to find Raphael sitting up, watching her with an expression she can’t quite read.  

"This suits you," he remarks, his fingers brushing over the reddened skin between her breasts, trailing up her throat and across her stomach where the sheets have rubbed her raw. His touch follows each mark, each flush with the kind of attention one might reserve for a prized possession. His fingers dip lower, tracing a path through the mess between her legs, but she feels too exhausted to react.  

She glances at the door, vaguely hopeful the night might be ending soon, though, of course, there’s no window here, no way to know.  

“I’m going to sleep for a bit,” she murmurs, barely registering her own voice. “Then I’ll go. That was the deal, right?” Because with him, she’s learned, there’s always a twist, and she wouldn’t put it past him to drag things out until the very last second.  

He only hums, now absentmindedly drawing circles along her knee. She notices his robe is back in place, immaculate as always. When had he managed that?  

“From dusk till dawn,” he replies, sounding far away.  

She nods, relieved.  

He continues, voice softer, “At first, when I handed you over to Haarlep, I thought, ‘Why not let her vanish? Let him devour her whole, and be done with it.’” His fingers trail to her other knee, as though lost in the rhythm of his own touch. “Your companions are, after all, quite capable. They don’t really need you, do they? The githyanki, for instance—so eager to free her darling prince. I imagine I could command her to scrub my dungeons with her tongue, and she’d do it without question."  

Raphael laughs to himself. “Although… you do seem to inspire a peculiar resilience in them, though for the life of me, I can’t fathom why. It’s not as if you possess a shred of righteousness.” Another low chuckle, his gaze holding hers. “So, yes,” he finishes, “you shall go.”  

“Perfect,” she mutters, the sarcasm slipping out unbidden. She doesn't know why he's monologuing—again—but won't interrupt him further.  

“Trouble is, little mouse,” he murmurs, leaning in until his hand rests firmly against her stomach, “Avernus has no true dawn, no natural end to night.” Shit-eating, smug delight flickers in his eyes as he watches her face fall. “So, it would seem you’re here to stay—until I am satisfied. Until I, and I alone, decide this night is over.” His smirk sharpens, his palm pressing slightly harder as if to make a point. “And only then will you return to your merry little band, hammer in hand. Yes, I will give it to you; it’s in the contract, after all. Just as the clause which specifies that you will bring me the crown in exchange for it.”  

He pauses, an exaggerated look of innocence crossing his face. “Oh, what, did that little detail slip past you?” He shrugs, thoroughly enjoying himself. “No matter. Until then…” His fingers trail up her body, resting lightly at her throat. “Consider yourself my guest.”  

It takes her a moment to comprehend, a slow horror crawling over her as she watches him stand, brushing the fabric of his robe back into place. He adjusts his sleeves with a lazy stretch, his gaze half-lidded, catlike, savoring her realization.  

“Raphael,” she whispers, her voice barely there. As he turns toward the door, still smiling, she repeats, louder, “Raphael,” scrambling upright, nearly stumbling over herself to follow him.  

“Perhaps we’ll make it to the theater after all,” he muses, voice drifting into a dreamy lilt. “Picture it—a night at the House of Desires, you displayed in something far more fitting than those ragged leathers.” His hands move in the air, drawing patterns as if sculpting an attire she cannot see, an outfit that exists only in his mind and one he fully intends to see her in.  

“No, no,” he sighs, eyes squinting thoughtfully. “We’ll have to make you presentable first, won’t we? A creature worthy of the occasion.” His lips curve into a small, satisfied smile, as though he’s already dressing her in each imagined layer, savoring the thought of his vision realized.  

“Raphael,” she tries again. She reaches out, but he’s already turning away, still speaking as though she were little more than an afterthought.  

“Really,” he sighs, pressing his fingers to his temples, massaging, as though dealing with an unruly and particularly loud child. “Must you make such a show of things? Gather your wits; get some rest.”  

“You—” Her voice chokes as rage, horror, and helplessness knot inside her, words tangling on her tongue. The room spins, colors swimming as her pulse races. She almost doubles over, the urge to retch nearly overtaking her. “You bastard, you absolute piece of shit, you—”  

“Oh,” he continues casually, glancing at his fingernails as though oblivious to her rage, “Haarlep is surprisingly skilled at lanceboard, if you ever fancy a game to kill the time. An underrated talent, I must admit.” He reaches out to tap her chin, casting her a final, mocking smile. “Well, ta-ta for now. As much as I adore your company, you are far from my only client.”  

Her hands slap to her face, nails digging into her skin as her thoughts tumble, spiraling faster than she can hold them. She’s going to kill him. No—she’s going to rip her own face off first, claw her way out of her own skull if that’s what it takes. She’ll tear out his vocal cords, braid them into a rope, and hang him from his own goddamn chandelier. Then maybe she’ll bash her head against the floor until there’s nothing left inside. That bastard. That perfume-slicked, smug, over-dressed rat.

She’ll drink his tears, gouge his eyes out, chew them up, and spit them back in his face—see if he enjoys the sensation. She’ll dig her way out of this golden trap he calls a boudoir, storm outside, and throw both middle fingers high at the burning skies of Avernus. She’ll curse at them until the flames twist into stars, mortal stars, ones she can reach, ones she can latch onto, anything to get out. She'll force the night that doesn't exist to end.

And when she does, she’ll double back. Ransack his fucking home one last time, maybe haul Haarlep out with her for good measure—knock him out cold and drag him along if she has to, just to make sure Raphael’s left to stew alone and has no choice but to romance his own hand next time he feels a stirring.  

Her breaths come too fast, panic clamping her chest, her body aching, bruises flaring with every heartbeat. The walls press in on her, the gaudy wallpaper spinning, her skin too tight, everything stifling. She’s going to scream, she’s going to combust, she’s going to pass out right here, naked, furious, wanting nothing more than to scrape every memory of him from her mind, to tear every inch of this night away until there’s nothing left but silence—  

Her frustration boils over, and she seizes the nearest object—a heavy candelabra—hurling it with all her strength. But the door slams shut just as it crashes into the wall, leaving her alone.  

Haarlep saunters in after a while, casting a casual, bemused glance around at the aftermath of her fury.  

“I am, in fact, quite skilled,” he says, surveying the chaos. “And you, evidently, are not, because this little scene? Hardly a queen’s gambit.” He shakes his head with faux disappointment, then perks up, tail swishing like an overexcited cat. “But don’t worry, dear. If you’re interested, I could teach you a few strategies. Ooooh, just think of all the fun we’ll have together!”  

With a gleeful grin, he starts ticking off ideas on his clawed fingers, ethusiasm brimming over. “We could attend one of Zariel’s insufferable banquets together. Raphael won’t mind, trust me; he's an absolute bore.” He rolls his eyes, leaning in as if sharing a treasured secret. “Or we could burn your dreadful little clothes, make a nice bonfire, and find you something prettier to wear. Velvet, perhaps? And have you seen the dungeons? Admittedly lacking in scenic charm, but for those who enjoy a touch of pain with their pleasure, the ambiance is, mmm, well, perfect." His voice drops to a purr. “Cherry tarts or strawberry, darling? Important to know for, you know, aftercare. Just curious—what’s your stance on flaying? Only the teensiest bit, of course. Adds a little flair, don’t you think?”

Haarlep clasps his hands together, practically vibrating with excitement, bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyes wide and gleaming. She lets out a long, silent sigh, picks up the second candelabra—because everything in this ostentatious hellhole is symmetrically placed—and proceeds to whack him with it.  

[chameleonspell]

HTDC commentary - 1: numb

[Looking back at HTDC after nearly ten years: comments on lore, character notes, influences, art, whatever. May contain spoilers for later chapters.]

chapter text: 1: numb

This chapter has had the most edits over time, as my writing skills increased, and I got ever more annoyed at the state of the opening, which ought not to be the worst writing in the fic, if I wanted anyone to stick around. It still needs work, but I was not made of infinite energy. I largely just tried to improve what was already there, rather than do what I really ought to have done, which is do some proper scene-setting. None of the early chapters have much in the way of description, especially of places. I was very much working on the principle that it was fanfic, and the whole point of fanfic was that I didn't need to do that. My assumed reader was intimately familiar with Seyda Neen, because my assumed reader was myself. I was absolutely writing only the bits I enjoyed writing, which was dialogue.

I'm still torn on the first paragraph, because in trying to make it more interesting, I mostly only succeeded in making it florid and purple. The reason I let it stand is because of a favourite excuse of mine for slightly ridiculous writing - it accurately reflects the mental state of the protagonist, i.e. tangled and confused. I will use this excuse again.

(See, maybe there's no description because Iriel's really out of it, and can't register anything! Bad writing is diegetic if the characters are having a bad time!)

Iriel was dragged

Not the exact wording of the original first-draft opening line, but I edited it in for symmetry, after I wrote the last words of the last chapter ("Iriel moved forwards").  Which was, according to an email I sent at the time, in June 2015, so less than three months after I wrote the first words? That seems crazy. I do remember writing a first draft of the ending chapter quite early on, but... that early? Gosh.

When I say I wrote the ending three months after the beginning, I mean that I ONLY wrote the ending. I then spent two more years, filling in the 198 chapters in between.

The contrasting significance of the beginning and ending lines was expanded from something Philip Pullman said about making sure the first and last words of His Dark Materials were both "Lyra", because it's her story, and she encompasses it.

the guard had seized the elf by his bony wrist

A running theme of Iriel's physical trauma triggers: grab him by the wrist and he's liable to shut down completely. A jail thing, of course - make sure the magic user can't cast spells.

His bare toes snagged between the planks of the jetty

Every time I read this, I flinch, and feel the exact sensation, because it is such a terrible, terrible sensation. I know I do worse things to Iriel later, but I might hate this one the most.

Oh gods. Come on, Ire.

Many people have told me they found they were pronouncing Iriel wrong, when they read him sound it phonetically in chapter 90: "Iriel. Eye-ree-el." I can see their point, but in that case, I want to know how they were pronouncing "Ire", the shortening he gives, right at the start! Which is an English word, pronounced like the Ire in Ireland, so I hoped that implied the pronunciation of Iriel

Regarding Iriel's name: I chose it because it was visually short, having a lot of long, thin letters in it, and I liked the symmetry of the capital I and the lower-case L at the end. The shortened version, Ire, is even more featherweight, barely more than a pronoun. This is a real boon for a protagonist name that's gonna turn up in almost every sentence - you can throw it in a lot, for clarity, and it doesn't look awkward. 

I think I found it in a name list on uesp.net, and I don't think it was specifically feminine-coded at the time? ESO was only just out, so I refuse to be blamed for things it added to canon, such as two female NPCs called Iriel. My personal headcanon is that it's a unisex Altmeri name and the first i is pronounced short when it's feminine, and long when it's masculine. In his not-strictly-canon tumblr bookclub with @quickchangeartist's OC Moraelyn, Iriel says of his name:

P.S. i rolled my eyes gently at your “dear little bird” bit, but did you actually know my name is avian-derived, or was that an adorable accident? an iriel is a very pretty but sadly extinct type of finch (I am less pretty, but also less dead, a condition with which i am (on good days) content.) My mother selected the name in order to make me more matrimoniably palatable to her bird-mad noble friend. So mercenary

Iriel’s eyes jittered from surface to surface. “I was in the hold! I didn’t see anything! I don’t know anything about boats! I mean, the sail’s clearly square-rigged, but a brig should have at least two masts, I really have no idea what you’d call it, I didn’t get a chance to examine, I… I was in the hold. I don’t know anything.

In draft one, all Ire said was that he didn't know anything about boats. Then I reread it later, when it had been established that Iriel's dad was a fisherman, Iriel knows how to sail a simple boat, has absorbed a fair amount of nautical terminology, and, in general, KNOWS ABOUT BOATS! Which, I have to warn you, from a writer's perspective, is a fucking terrible thing to have your character know about. The research is a nightmare. Never have a character know anything about boats!

Anyway, I decided it was much funnier if he reeled off a bunch of technical stuff about boats, while still claiming he didn't know anything about them, because... he's just that confused? His reflexive paranoid guilt makes him deny knowledge under questioning on general principle? He doesn't think of himself as someone who knows about boats, in comparison to his dad? Yes.

someone a head taller than he was

I forget at what point I established Iriel's precise height. He's 6'4", which is below average, for an Altmer, but tall for Morrowind, a shift of identity and perspective he never quite adjusts to.

“Oh. Well… my name is Iriel of Lillandril. Which is far too many Is and Ls in one name, and really, you’d think my parents would’ve known better. We Altmer use loconymics, as I’m sure you know, so–”

Again, I chose Lillandril more or less at random from the Summerset map, based on it having a lot of Is and Ls, which felt right, all tall and Altmery, and a little bit ridiculous. Say it three times fast and you're basically yodelling. Later, I established Lillandril as Fantasy Wales, accent-wise, which made it even better.

ESO might have since established something different with Altmer surnames, lore-wise, but I don't know or care. Loconymics (being named for the place you come from) seem the norm for Altmer in Morrowind, and I like that.

I made up "loconymic", though googling now, there are other uses. I probably should have used toponym, as loconym is a greek-latin mix, which is bad practice. But I wanted a word for "named after a place" where the meaning was easily inferrable, without knowing either Greek or Latin, and "locus" is more familiar from words like "location" than "topos" is. I was trying to keep my linguistic technobabble vaguely intelligible!

In the very first draft, Iriel claimed he was a foundling in this line mentioning his parents, which was my attempt to stick to the exact terms of the whole Morrowind "uncertain parentage" thing. But I very quickly retconned it, realising there was far more mileage in having Iriel know he was connected by blood to his parents, and all the Altmeri angst he has over that. Only the first of many, many in-game "facts" I decided to bend or outright contradict! But it took me a while to realise I was allowed to do that, now, that I didn't have to keep to canon, as long as everything hangs together. In this case, I justified it later, by saying that the Empire had recorded Iriel as having unknown parents, because that's what he told them when he was arrested, in a futile attempt to prevent his family finding out.

pale-gold Altmer face, amber eyes and soft brown hair.

I had read something that advised writers to give hot, fiery angry characters warm colouration, and cold, reserved characters cool colouration, and I thought that was stupid. Iriel's not exactly cold (just numb), but Altmer in general are seen as cold, especially in contrast to fire-themed Dunmer, and... anyway, I wanted a warm-toned Altmer, because why not? Amber eyes is pretty, but not extravagantly so. I didn't want him to be exceptional, in any way - he's someone who can easily vanish from sight and memory, after all. So, he gets the most "boring" hair colour, mouse brown, which I have a soft spot for.

@Sinilakki sent me a picture very soon after I posted this chapter, and I was delighted, because clearly my limited physical description had worked - it was perfect. My first ever picture of Iriel, and it's still one of my absolute favourites.

“You are male, aren’t you? Hard to tell with you elves.” Ire racked his addled brain for the sort of lacerating response he would have given to that, in better days, but failed miserably.

The first thing to produce an actual spark of defiance in Iriel, even if he doesn't manage to act on it. Ire's experiences of Imperials having offensive ideas about elven gender will reoccur, once he's in a fit state to lecture about it.

Ire squeaked, and shifted as best he could, stumbling towards the door and struggling with the handle until it finally obeyed him.

All this is so early Pratchett, isn't it? Rincewind, but younger and gayer. Make a wet, nervous wizard and give him problems.

previous: 0: intro next: 2: labels

[twistedminutia]

Are there any ships from Twisted Wonderland you like or dislike?

So, I’ll confess here, I’m not much of a shipper in Twisted Wonderland. I’ve read a couple of ship fics I think are cute, but I’m not very deep into shipping myself. But! I do have some ships I think are cute or don’t go as hard for:

Like

- I think EpelDeuce (also known as AppleJuice) is really cute! I dunno, seeing Deuce help out Epel was really nice, and I think they’d be cute together. Give me delinquents supporting delinquents!

- Jamizul is a ship I like mostly bc I think it’s funny. But I also think Jamil deserves to have a partner who can be as scheming as he can and also gives him freedom to explore himself. Azul and Jamil going traveling together seems like it would be pretty nice for them!

- Silidia, I guess? This one’s not a strong ship for me, but I like the idea of Idia having a massive crush on Silver. Idk if this would work out long-term, they’re very different people with very different lives, but I think they’d make cute first relationships for each other.

-This one’s so unpopular I don’t think it even has a ship name, but Sebek and Jack is cute to me for some reason? I just like the idea of two tsunderes falling for each other. Both of them REFUSE to admit they’re crushing but they’re together all the time. They train together. Do people see my vision???

- RookVil, maybe? I like this one all right. Epel’s got two dads now, and both of them are going to lecture him about his skincare (Rook’s like the cool dad though so Epel can go play in the garden after lunch as long as Vil doesn’t find out).

- RidTrey (is that the name? Idk) is also kind of sweet to me. I’m not super into it, but I like the idea of Riddle being a powerful lawyer whose husband runs a little bakery and always slips sweets into his lunch.

Dislike

- Unfortunately, I really don’t like FloRid. I know a lot of people ship it, and I can see where they’re coming from, but ‘one half of the ship constantly bothers the other half who actively does not like it’ is not a ship dynamic that appeals to me personally. I can read Floyd as having a weird crush on Riddle, but I just can’t read Riddle reciprocating in any way.

- LeoVil is, again, a ship where I can see where people are coming from, but it doesn’t do anything for me because I’m not a personal fan of the dynamic. ‘Couple who argues all the time and probably gets off on being mean to each other’ is just not a dynamic I personally find interesting. But I DO see where people are coming from, I’m just over here like, Godspeed you crazy kids, canon is feeding you today.

- Any ships involving a student and Lilia. Yes, even the adults and Lilia. Sorry, but this man is 600 and has a son, my personal opinion is that is he all but physically incapable of seeing anyone around Silver’s age as anything more than a little baby. (And I kinda headcanon him as aroace anyway, so.)

- In a similar vein, shipping Malleus with any of the Diasomnia boys. Lilia, obviously, that’s his fucking dad, but I also feel like Silver and Sebek are kind of his brothers, in a sense? Silver moreso than Sebek, but I feel like Malleus watching them grow up kinda kills off the romance vibes there.

Also, as a bonus, a couple romance headcanons about some of the characters:

- Epel has a massive, unrealized crush on Leona for a while. He’s just like ‘wow, Leona’s so cool! And beautiful! This is a normal platonic thing I am experiencing!’ Vil recognizes the crush pretty quick and immediately gets pissed off. ‘Out of all the people on campus, you have to admire HIM?’

-Riddle’s never been on a date, and has old-fashioned ideas of romance. Part of this is because his mother expects him to marry into one of several selected families, so he’s never considered dating. Post-overblot, he’s open to the possibility of dating, but also kind of overwhelmed by it.

-Sebek has a bit of a hero-worship crush on Malleus. It’s completely unreciprocated and neither person involved actually realizes it’s a crush. (Lilia knows, but he’s not telling.)

[dustedmagazine]

Antenna — S-T (Urge)

Royal Headache had a close to decade-long run, but it was never easy. They went from dive bar shows to opening for the Black Keys within only a few years and flamed out finally in 2017, as substance abuse and interpersonal disputes took their toll. And yet, if you like your punk rock spiked with romantic tunefulness, if you harbor affection for the Buzzcocks, the Jam or, further back, the Small Faces, there just weren’t any other bands like Royal Headache. A lot of that was due to one Tim “Shogun” Wall, vocally a dead ringer for a young Rod Stewart, but scrawny, amped to the gills, grappling with the mic and stalking the stage floor, making an anthemic, super-charged racket.

Interviews suggest that Royal Headache’s rapid rise and fall left Shogun in a pretty nasty place, but now, half a decade later with Antenna, he’s back at it, making music again. We covered Finnogun’s Wake, his duo with Finn Berzin in the first Dust of 2024. Andrew Forell placed it, “somewhere between the concise attack of Shogun’s former band Royal Headache and the anthemic end of Britpop.” This five-song EP from Antenna runs faster and more punk than the last Royal Headache album, and it’s, thankfully, not as indebted to Blur/Oasis and their ilk. It’s better than Finnoguns Wake then, and as good or maybe even better than the two Royal Headache records.

“Cube,” for instance, rages headlong, double-time, in a fury of drum-bass-guitar flailing. It’s fast but precise—Shogun has put together a very capable band here—and it feels like it might fly apart at any moment but doesn’t. But where most bands operating at this pace and volume might content themselves with shouted lyrics, Shogun puts frill and ornament into the singing, nailing the tune and ending phrases in lavish, multi-toned flourishes. It’s like Tom Jones finding himself in front of Bad Brains, and it’s fun.

“English Three” bangs just as hard, slamming the one-two beat with a jackhammer intensity. Musically, it’s got an antsy, carnival glee vibe, which contrasts with the lyrics, which deal with mid-life alienation and isolation. “Don’t own me, touch me, I don’t need anybody, until the ending of the day,” declares Shogun. By the sound, you’d think it’s a stirring manifesto, but the words are more like a suicide note.

The EP ends in glory, with the seething, soaring, blue-eyed soul anthem “Antenna State,” hemmed in by with flaring guitars and Motown-style backing “oohs and ohs.” “Don’t smoke god, don’t smoke god, love should be all that you need,” wails the singer, in fluid, florid dramatics that would carry to the back rows of even the largest venues Royal Headache used to play. Maybe we don’t need religion or drugs to feel this good, but we sure do require quality rock and roll.

Jennifer Kelly

[electricbloodflow]

r/DID toxicity

A post of mine on r/DID got removed for "spreading misinformation." The misinformation? Someone asked what polyfragmentation was and I summarized the information on traumaanddissociation.net, meanwhile someone kept yelling at me that I was wrong because you can only be PF if you have their specific presentation with like ten different obscure things they have that are only seen in programming (which our system coincidentally had but I know many PF systems that don't,) which goes against the clinical literature wherein PF systems have been documented from cases without programming or OA and their structure is a bit different AND EQUALLY VALID, plus not everyone with an RAMCOA background splits and responds the same way even if they are PF.

I'm done. I'm not putting up with this "your system has to be exactly like mine or you're faking" mentality. Half the threads on that sub complain about people who have a different presentation than them and how that's faking.

Things that people on r/DID think mean someone is faking:

Having any fictive alters (uhm, Dr. Kluft has some published research that disagrees with you - fictive and factive alters are well documented!)

Blogging about intimate system details or alter lists. Because apparently having system pride and wanting to allow all of your alters to self-express is faking???

Anyone who overshares instead of being secretive about their disorder is faking, as if oversharing AND undersharing aren't both common trauma responses. People with florid presentations of DID are "role playing." Again, DID is secretive in many people, but in some it is not as well hidden, and in even more people - they feel safe at a certain point and start allowing themselves to openly represent themselves in some spaces - which is a part of their healing process. This is faking according to r/DID apparently.

Don't question fusion - anyone who sees their alters as more than just parts of a whole but as their own person or having their own soul is faking. You are not allowed to form your own opinions on your disorder and discuss them and how others see things. You have to have the exact same opinion as the majority of posters on the sub. Personally, I know the common clinical psychology line on it is that we are fragmented parts of one whole, but I question that because of the finding that alters have different default mode networks and can persist after memories have been shared. It's unclear by what neural mechanism they operate on in the first place. It's unclear what a "personality" is even in singlets. Maybe it is the default mode network, and people with DID according to studies do have more than one. I also have been in treatment for almost 10 years and have never had fusions outside of less than distinct parts and fragments integrating so fuck fusion, we (my system) work better as functional multiples anyway. Also my alters don't really make one whole and continuous person if you added them together, they have mutually exclusive or just different preferences and views that have nothing to do with trauma. It doesn't make sense for us to fuse because we see things in such different but valid and insightful ways, and we coexist wonderfully and sharpen our perspective by sharing things one alter might notice but another didn't. Systems that see themselves as parts of one whole are valid. Systems that want to fuse are valid. Systems that question this are just as valid as well.

Users insulting people who step in and speak up for systems who are invalidated by such posts, even if research is provided showing the thing people are fake claiming is a documented phenomenon. And honestly, you don't need research to back up your existence - it is nice to have, and I'm so glad there is research validating things like fictive-heavy systems because people are so nasty to them when all they're doing is trying to express who they are, but clinical research has not yet investigated so many things about DID and never will fully document what it means to be multiple because research is more focused on symptoms and treatment and not on documenting individual perspectives.

It feels like everyone there has an axe to grind and very few people are there to help others and commiserate.

[callmearcturus]

DVD Commentary KTOWL Chapter Six, The Sex Scene

Pursuant to discussion of Ace People Writing Sex Scenes, I thought I'd do a DVD Commentary for one of my own sex scenes. This is the sex scene in so we don't kill the ones we love, chapter six, "The Black Keys 'Turn Blue' (2014) Side A"

Yes, that is the chapter title.

This is fairly dense scene with a lot of deliberate choices. If I pointed out every single one, we'd be here all day, but I'll point out a lot of things and talk about the things I think about when I write something like this.

[Let me set the scene a bit for people who might not have read so we don't kill the ones we love. This is a full setting AU detached from the canon material. Our principle characters here are Karkat (an alien immigrant who is basically an indentured servant stuck working for a hotel for assassins) and Dave (a human who is, unbeknownst to Karkat, stuck working for the same hotel for the rest of his natural life and cannot hope to escape his contract). 

I am going to explain stuff that might feel very obvious, but this is a learning exercise.]

Wisely keeping his mouth shut and accepting the mercy offered, Karkat followed Dave up into the loft.

There was, as he expected, a bed. It was however dismantled. The mattress was on the floor, shoved flush to the corner. The support structure was against the wall, and Dave had repurposed the wooden slats to hold his music albums. They were spaced and arranged in a way that was pleasing to the eyes, very deliberate.

Below them was the turntable, spinning a blue and pink vinyl.

[This is my favorite expedient trick to use when describing a space is to give the reader just enough context to build a space in their mind but, unless there is something truly important and relevant about placement, not handing the reader blueprints. 

I recently got into a snag with Punct about Benji's apartment in our AU because they had envisioned something completely different than I had for the space, and it did become plot-relevant. But outside special cases like that, I think less is more. Do just enough description, so that when you stop to do florid, expanded description, the audience notices. And isn't mentally tired by the time you get there.]

Karkat reached out and turned the volume dial down about a third, until the sound wasn't liable to give him a fucking migraine.

"Square," Dave accused, and dropped himself unceremoniously onto his bed.

"Better than prematurely fucking deaf."

Dave cupped a hand around his ear. "Sorry, what?" Dave asked loudly, then snickered. "So I was thinkin'."

[This patter is very naturalistic, the way that— when we talk to people online, we can often maintain multiple threads of conversation. If I send you a paragraph block about what I had for lunch, asking you where you got those shoes, and asking how your day went, that's very difficult to navigate verbally. Something is going to get pinned or dropped in favor of something else.

So I frequently and pointedly have my characters swerve like this, where Dave consciously takes the reins of the convo to prevent lingering on the joke. There is an agenda here, and he wants to keep things moving. 

It is also one of the MANY times in this scene and other sex scenes were its reinforced that Dave is the guy getting fucked but he is completely in control. I think "topping from the bottom" is reductive, so I just like to talk about who is controlling the encounter the most.]

Feeling overdressed, Karkat started taking off his shoes.

"I was thinking this time, you can probably introduce your prehensile dick to my—" He tipped his head to the side with a hum. "You know, I kind of dig 'nook.' Not the worse terminology available by far."

[I've written a lot of trans characters but Dave is my favorite. I don't personally think I am equipped to write a story about The Trans Experience, but I think about gender and about bodies and identity a lot, and I poured a lot of that into specifically Dave and Jake in this story. 

Dave does not dig the terms "cunt" and "pussy" nor any of the more clinical terms nor the more euphemistic options. Like many people, there just doesn't seem to be a good neutral option to his tastes. So meeting an alien with their own term, a term that by the nature of being alien completely lacks humanocentric baggage, finally gives him an out: "nook." He even uses "nook" in his personal narration, it's such a relief to have it.

I just did an Entire Work search, and the only occurrence of "pussy" is Jake using "Pussyfooting" which feels right.

Worth noting: I think Rose would use "cunt" under the right circumstances. Different characters have different levels of comfort with terms, and you shouldn't assume that Dave's take is the author's take, if that makes sense.

But that's a discussion about Close Third Person Perspective for later.]

"Along with 'magic button?'" Karkat asked.

"Eh, I guess 'clit' doesn't sound as stupid as the other one. But I was just trying to help you along, give you some indicative nomenclature, I know trolls are huge on that, and no joke I think it's a cool thing. It's like y'all are constantly havin' a brainfart and forgetting the words for things. Like, damn, what's that thing in my chest, it's a— a chest throbber, right?'

"Pump biscuit," Karkat said.

"Whatever. The fuck was I saying, I had a point." He watched Karkat take off his jacket and fold it, draping it over the edge of the loft. "Tentacle on nook action, let's do that."

"Oh." Karkat liked that idea. A lot. "I thought you didn't want to do that."

[Boom, immediate characterization point. Karkat is turned on by the idea of putting his bulge in Dave's nook, but he immediately sidelines the idea to check on Dave's comfort level. He has already done this before with Dave and thus has pieces of information about what Dave likes and where he's comfortable.

Karkat prioritizes physical comfort in sex and he will communicate shit, even if it taps the breaks on his own progress to getting an orgasm.

ON TOP OF THAT: This is a 252,409 word long epic and I'd estimate at least 200,000 of those words are about how people in this story don't tell the truth. Sometimes because they are lying, sometimes because the truth is painful, sometimes because they're too busy being charming to be upfront, sometimes because their truth is different than someone else's truth.

Act One is a lot about Karkat figuring out that everyone's perspective on the world is Very Different, so he overcommunicates. This is that.]

"That was the first time, now I've gotten a taste of that thang, and I wanna feel it all the way up in me."

Karkat pulled his shirt off over his head. "I feel like I'm missing some… really stupid human-centric cultural context here."

Dave smirked at him. "You kind of are? But… I sorta dig that too. I don't have to explain shit to you or— it's good, it's a bonus in your column, okay?" He sat up, arms hanging over his knees as he watched Karkat undress with absolute focus.

[See, here Dave literally confirms that Karkat is lacking information. Reinforcement of the themes, even in the patter leading up to sex.

Dave is Karkat's closest ally in the Umbra and even he will not give Karkat the full picture.]

Karkat got down to his briefs before realizing he'd just been on autopilot, stripping efficiently. Dave seemed to have no problem with this, taking in the sight and swaying to his music. Reaching over, he picked up another bottle of cider beer and took a big swallow, waggling his eyebrows at Karkat over the bottle.

Leaning down, Karkat stole it and lifted it to his our lips. He was fucking parched, and it was crisp across his tongue.

[Phy! Si! Cal! Ity! Karkat is from a background that makes him point A to point B in his movement, and sometimes he just falls into locomotive routines.

Dave's locomotive routine is to be constantly attuned to his surroundings and reacting to them. When he's working around the Umbra, his entire presentation changes to match the environment. When he's in his loft, he reverberates with the music.

Karkat's recurring motif in the story is being out of synch with the world. Dave is almost agonizingly in-synch with the world.

Also Karkat steals the sip of beer. It's an acceptance of the invitation Dave is giving him.]

"Rude as hell," Dave said, but allowed it nonetheless. "Come on, what happened to my show?"

Glaring at him did nothing, as Dave was immune. Still, Karkat dispensed with the last of his clothes.

The way Dave smiled and ducked his head was worth it. "I'd stick a dollar bill in your belt, but whoops."

[Oh, so, I love the fact that Karkat is canonically Fucking Hot in this story. This fic is written in Extremely Close Perspective Third Person, meaning it's a re-skin of First Person with "he" instead of "I". Karkat only notices things he would, only uses phrases and terms he would. If you read KTOWL, you will notice that his POV sounds different from Dirk's and from Rose's and from Dave's and from Jake's. 

The law of this specific perspective is that the audience should learn things that the character does not. Now there is a lot of Very Serious Examples of that in KTOWL, when you the reader should glean something even if Karkat does not.

But a cute jokey one is the Karkat Is Hot thing. Karkat does not know he's hot except that he has to navigate humans hitting on him all the time.

What I like about this is that you learn Karkat is hot from other people. Here, let's look at the next bit, it's related.]

"I don't get out of bed for a dollar anymore," Karkat groused, and lowered himself down to the mattress, knees landing and bouncing a bit. On a guess, Karkat curled a hand around Dave's bare ankle and dragged him closer, claws going for the snap of his cutoffs.

A flush of pink spread over him in three seconds flat. "Oh, shit, Karkat gettin' hands-on. Someone's learned a thing or two." He settled his arms behind his head. "If you're volunteering, have at."

[So I am very very very Weird about character description in fic. I wildly prefer to have a POV character noticing someone else than to have a POV character describe themselves to the audience.

So Karkat is very specific about the physical attributes he notices about himself. These do not overlap with what other people notice about him. As each person meets Karkat and remarks on him, the audience gets more information about Karkat's actual body, since Karkat doesn't… think about his body as much.

In comparison, Dirk and Dave both think about their own bodies more, but for very different reasons. 

Anyway, this moment shows us that Karkat has some fucking muscles and can easily move people.]

Karkat hadn't realized he was such a contrarian until he met Dave Strider, who said everything like it was a dare. It was impossible not to push back, to respond, even if Karkat knew it was exactly what Dave wanted. Glaring at Dave's flushed, smirking face, he unzipped the shorts and pulled them down, catching the boxers underneath with his claws to haul them off as well. It was worth it for Dave's little gasp.

Karkat was no longer sure his subvocal noises were being drowned out by the music. He could feel a bone-deep satisfaction humming through his bones. Giving into the greedy thing in his thorax, Karkat pushed his hands up under Dave's shirt, claws dragging lightly, palms firm against the soft give of human skin.

[Lets get into sexy stuff. 

I'm very specific about what characters like about sex. I am very ace, so the idea that people Just Like Sex is sort of odd to me. I guess it'd be like someone who enjoys running marathons. Sounds fake, what's the part of that you like?

For Karkat, he hones in species differences between himself and humans. He has a lot of trauma regarding being hunted by his own people and how his destiny was to be culled as a mutant who needed to die. So one of the many manifestations of that trauma is a curiosity and interest in human bodies.

He really really likes that Dave is soft. He hones in on the soft parts of Dave's body, since alternians don't have as many.

When you write a sex scene, I think it'd very powerful to have the POV focus on the points that the character would. This is how, as an ace person, you can lockpick the backdoor to understanding attraction. When you are deep in another person's POV, then you can make their attraction more tangible to you by knowing these anchor points.]

The hitch in Dave's breath only made Karkat want more, now. When he pulled, Dave lifted his arms, bending his head to help Karkat peel the shirt off him, leaving him in nothing but the bold stamp of his armband. The warm flush in Dave's skin deepened and spread down his chest. Karkat touched him there, cupping the softer flesh and squeezing.

"Um!" Dave said in a higher voice than Karkat had ever heard from him.

"What?" Karkat asked, his own voice lowering, his worried tone starting to fragment and hum with the chirring in his thorax. There was no way it wasn't obvious now.

[Even though we're not in Dave's POV, I also heighten the parts of Karkat I know he likes: the sonic.

This is also a tacit reminder to the audience that Karkat super isn't a human. I never want them to forget it, so I will keep his alien oddities present on a regular basis.]

"Nothing!" His ears were red, and he puffed out a breath. "Initiative, I like it. Great job." When Karkat remained still, concerned, he rolled his eyes. "I swear to god I'm fine, you just— surprised me."

"I can slow down—"

Dave dug his knees into Karkat's sides.

[Dave is in control of the scene.]

Fine. Easing in closer, Karkat rubbed his thumbs over the nipples and squeezed more firmly, kneading with his fingers, careful to keep the points of his claws from pressing too hard against soft skin.

["the nipples" makes me laugh every time.]

Dave's mouth opened into a little 'o', his body slumping against the bed, his throat working as he swallowed thickly. "'Kay. God, those are— are pretty sharp, huh?"

"I won't hurt you," Karkat told him.

A sound equidistant between a laugh and a moan answered him. "Good with your hands, Karkat?"

"I mean, you try growing up on a planet where it's real fucking useful to have knives on your hands." He dragged his clawtips down Dave's ribcage, stroking his sides.

"I like 'em." Dave pressed his head back, back arching a bit as he sighed, lazily enjoying being touched.

Karkat crawled further up onto the bed, trying to bite back his smile as Dave eagerly sat up with him. He hesitated, unsure what to do next.

[How do you show a person is aroused? How do you portray desire?

A lot of thinking, mostly. 

I think my sex scenes tend to buck some sequencing tropes (kissing then clothes off then prep then sex then clean up) and its because I think about blocking constantly.

I'm unsure if that's a well known term. I learned it in drama class in high school, when the teacher/director talked about how it's not enough to remember your lines and say them. You have to use body language just as much, and the 'script' of that language is "blocking." It's the direction people physically follow in a scene, where they are going to move and when, what marks they have to hit, etc.

When I have a scene outlined and ready, I think ENDLESSLY about the blocking. I think about it when I'm driving, when I'm on breaks at work, when I'm making dinner. Figuring out how the characters are going to show their intentions with their bodies takes much more time than writing dialogue. At some point in the craft of writing, dialogue became the easiest part. I can do that in minutes.

The rest of the direction is the bulk of the work.

This is why I watch Mission Impossible and scream "UGH, PHYSICALITY" because this is… how I learn. This is how I work that writing muscle, I just…. find someone in a film or whatever who moves in away that catches my attention, who is saying something with their body language, and I study that shit. And I put it here.]

Dave pressed his hand flat against Karkat's thorax, his teeth against his lower lip as the subvocals immediately strengthened, modulating into a drowsy wave of noise. "God, that's so fucking cool. Don't let this go to your head, but that's pretty sexy."

[Dave is in control of the scene.]

He looked up at Karkat through his lashes, smile playful.

Karkat really want to kiss him again.

Instead, Karkat pulled one of Dave's legs to the side, stroking the hairs there. "Dude, not against the grain," Dave laughed, and redirected Karkat's hand to stroke in the right direction.

"Humans are so fucking complicated and touchy," Karkat said.

"And yet you came here for your treat," Dave reminded him. His knees pressed against Karkat's side. "Oh, shit, this song rocks, hang on—"

The guitar got noticeably crunchier, the drum thudding dull and steady. It grabbed Dave's attention, away from Karkat, and heat flared in Karkat's body.

Grabbing Dave's wrists, Karkat pushed, falling with him until he had Dave held flat to the mattress, his grip around warm skin and the cool material of the armband.

Fever got me guilty, just go ahead and kill me, Karkat heard vividly as he braced over Dave, looking at his mouth.

Dave stared up at him for a second, then lifted his head, pressing his lips firmly to Karkat's, and Karkat just fell in. He kissed Dave's mouth open, tongue exploring those strange flat teeth, tasting boozy fruit. Dave's moan vibrated through Karkat's body as he squirmed under Karkat, hips rolling, working to line their bodies up.

[So right before this scene started, Karkat unthinkingly kissed Dave and got chided lightly for it.

Here, he thinks about doing it again, then another 160 words pass before it happens. I told you directly Karkat wants to kiss Dave and then I showed you how it happens.

There's that advice, "Show don't tell" and I think it's… situational. I am of the opinion that you need a balance of both. This is about tempo and expediency. When you just Tell the audience something, it can be impactful like a punch. 

Also, when you stop to Show, the audience will notice more. If you are only doing Show Show Show and never just Telling, I personally find that kind of narrative a little exhausting and I think it lacks snap. 

So, I tell you Karkat wants to kiss Dave, and then I try to paint the moment with details about the taste and the music and the vibration in hopes you'll pay more attention to those.

I want this moment to be their Big First. So it has details that they'll remember. All the way in Act Three, Karkat puts on The Black Keys' Turn Blue, and Dave literally identifies the opening song as "their song."]

Karkat's bone sheath had been taking its sweet fucking time getting with the program until then. It parted immediately, and his bulge felt up Dave's thighs, rubbing over his nook.

Laying there and making out for a while sounded like a great idea. Karkat carded a hand into Dave's soft hair, holding his head still as he mapped out his mouth and swallowed every little groan. In perfect counterpoint, Dave grabbed Karkat, blunt nails dragging through his hair to find the bed of one of his horns. Stroking the base of it brought a thick, curling pleasure surging up Karkat body.

[Another instance of them honing in on the anchor points of their attraction. Karkat's attraction to softness and being allowed to be gentle, Dave's attraction to Karkat's anatomy and (as a beloved friend once told me) the joy of being aliens to each other.]

Eventually, Dave broke the kiss, lips wet, parted as he breathed. He kissed Karkat's jaw, his cheek, his eyelashes dark against his skin, eyes closed.

He looked so good, it almost burned to stare down at him. It made Karkat's breath catch.

Dave seemed oblivious to Karkat having a fucking moment and knocked his legs into Karkat's sides. "Come on, party hardy, is that guest of honor ready?"

[Dave is in charge of the scene and is currently not at a point where he'll let it get too tender. He is in control.]

Karkat headbutt him gently. "Don't talk about my bulge like that."

"Why not, he's my new best friend," Dave said, snickering. Blinking his eyes open dreamily, he looked down, between their bodies, and wiggled his hips again. "It's like, what's the fuckin' word, autonomous?"

"Mostly." It was currently autonomously grinding loops through the coarse hair, painting translucent red streaks over Dave's skin.

"Well, can you ask Mr. Red Joy Toy to take this bit slow? It's been a while since— actually, fuck, better idea. Flip." Planting a hand on Karkat's shoulder, Dave shoved. Tipping over, Karkat let out an offended noise that Dave completely ignored as he swung himself over, straddling Karkat's hips.

[Dave is in control— you get it. There are constant signifiers.

Also you might note I didn't give a blow by blow on Karkat's bulge coming out. I have compared my sex scenes to other people's and one of my constant notes of concern is, frankly, my overuse of blocking.

I often worry that I am explaining too much, spending too much time making sure the audience is aware of the exact positions of everyone at all times. Which can become exhausting and can kill the tempo/flow. So over the last five years or so, I've made a conscious effort to just drop unnecessary beats and trust the audience to follow along.]

Staring up at him was a little like staring into the sun. "Oh."

"Yeah, I dunno if I got the gams for a full rodeo," Dave said, his hand reaching down to grip Karkat's bulge, "but let's, uh, get it going before we turn tables."

"Whatever you want," Karkat said, because really? Honestly? Yes. He had zero complaints about the situation.

Dave laughed, tucking his hair behind his ear in a way that made Karkat's chest ache. "I don't do this part often, so just…"

[I love this moment of Dave doing a shy motion despite he is, as stated, in control. The royal flush is in his hand, but something about Karkat still makes him a little bashful, just for a moment. 

Also this is a purposeful juxtaposition: it's a cute bashful moment while Dave is straddling his hot alien coworker and working his alien dick. That kind of contrast adds texture and, in my opinion, a verisimilitude to the situation.

Because I've said this 100394823 times but while it is always okay to have a sex scene just for the fun or a sex scene, that's great, I tend to write sex scenes for a purpose. I want my sex scenes to convey something that can't be easily conveyed in another context.

This one here exists (among other reasons) to make it clear that Karkat isn't just a coworker to Dave, that he is getting something unique from Karkat, and it's something he's been lacking in his life for a long time. Which will make it harder for him to pretend this is purely fun and devoid of emotions.]

Putting his hands on Dave's hips, Karkat squeezed in what he hoped was a reassuring way.

Dave's smile was so fucking bashful, completely at odds with the way his hand worked Karkat's bulge, long wet strokes that had it curling around his wrist. Karkat groaned, hips lifting despite Dave's weight.

"Oh, huh," Dave said as he was jostled. "Looks like you got the gams. Impressive core muscle strength. Maybe test that out next time, but for now." Using both hands, he coaxed the narrow tip of Karkat's bulge up until it dragged along the slick folds of his nook. He stared down into his lap, focused, keeping a firm grip so Karkat wouldn't accidentally move too fast.

[Dave is in control and is already thinking about another round of sex with Karkat.

Also, I dunno how subtle this is, but Dave is in control in a way that speaks to the fact that the Umbra has him employed as a sex worker basically (its Complicated) and thus he has a lot of experience and instead of just lying back and letting Karkat have fun, he physically directs the action to ensure it goes correctly. He knows how much penetration he can take and at what speed, so he controls that too.]

Bit by bit, Dave loosened his grip, and Karkat sank into Dave's nook, taking gulps of air and digging his fingers into Dave's hips to keep from bulge from thrashing. God, he felt— so lush and wet, similar to working into another troll's nook, but different, more delicate, and without another bulge to tangle with. That was the best part, that nothing stopped Karkat from filling Dave up, his bulge twisting and exploring.

[Sexy advice hopefully but: I tend to focus in on the level of familiarity characters have when they fuck. Here, Karkat is fucking Dave for the second time but first time in his nook, so the narrative focuses on the differences, on what sets Dave apart from anyone else Karkat's fucked.

Later in the story, when it's established that these two fuck very very regularly, the focus shifts to what they've learned about each other. It's an aspect I think is sexy.]

Dave's expression went distant, eyes unfocused, face flushed. He bit his lip as his head lolled to the side, a soft, "Fuck," leaving his mouth as he rose up on his knees, then settled slowly back down. "Okay, okay, yeah…"

Karkat stroked his hips, his back, waiting. "Take your time."

"Don't tell me what to do," Dave said automatically, even as he slowly rocked his hips in a circle, letting Karkat's bulge go carefully. As it buried itself in him, he dug his slick hand into his hair, gripping, holding on. "Oh my god."

Because he was an idiot and his bulge had the reins of his brain, Karkat said, "You look so good."

[I'm not sure if I'm good at writing dirty talk? Like, I have no idea. But I really like writing sex talk.

Well, it's another thing that varies, I think. Sometimes it's fun to have two fucking chatty people who cannot stop talking fuck. It's also fun to have the moment when that all falls away because keeping up the patter is too difficult. And then again, sometimes a silent, intense, wordless fuck is the right choice.

It all depends on who is involved and also what the goal of the scene is. This scene is Dave and Karkat continuing to navigate their dynamic, so they can't shut up. The form fits the function in the story.]

Dave hitched a moan as Karkat stretched as far into him as he could. "I— jesus, Karkat, I—" He patted Karkat's hands on his hips. "Come on, it's time for you to do some work, let's go, babe."

[Dave. Control. Etc.]

Karkat rolled them back over, got his knees braced under him, and fucked into Dave.

Nothing about the situation felt real, and that was strangely what made Karkat feel helpless against it. The bass line that stroked down Karkat's spine as he moved and the way Dave looked at Karkat, hazey and pleasure-soaked, were so completely unbelievable… it didn't matter. There was no reason to hold back.

So he fell into it, tried to get his bulge as far into Dave as he could, kissing him just because he could, and fucked Dave in time with the music just for the way it made Dave start laughing.

Dave managed to sing a loose "Ba da dahm" before he completely lost it, laughing and moaning against Karkat's mouth.

[This is the part of the sex I always have the hardest time with. All the blocking and arranging bodies and banter and themes, that's EASY. But when someone needs to finally get off and come, it's like two to seven paragraphs that are agony to me, lmao.

For this one, I have a lodestone of the music. KTOWL is more than a bit about music, and how music is Dave's primary form of communication, so it makes its way into this moment, and that's the lifeline I need to wrap up the sex.

But if there is anything I think I need to work on in sex scenes, its orgasms themself. How do I make them a better conveyance of character? It's a point to work on.

(Ah, quick note, I phrased that as a question but I am not seeking advice on that. I don't tend to take unsolicited advice on my writing for several reasons. Thanks.)]

If coming here was a mistake, Karkat was so fucking glad he'd made it.

His bulge looped around itself in Dave, and Dave threw his head back with a shout, his legs bending.

Karkat pressed them both flat to the bed and felt how Dave shook with each stroke of his hips. He was so focused on Dave that his orgasm fucking shocked him, just there suddenly, making him thrust furiously into Dave as he just unspooled and flooded him with a heavy pulse of slurry. "Oh, shit," Karkat swore, eyes slamming shut as he tried— but nope, no, he was done for.

[I really like non-synchronized orgasms actually. Not to be gauche but sometimes you're coasting along and are turned on and think you've got a handle on it, and then the orgasm just happens! Whoops!]

"Oh, what, Karkat, hey," Dave whined as Karkat slowed. "Don't you fuckin' dare, I'm so goddamn close." He shoved a hand down between them to rub himself, groaning.

Karkat helped, folding their hands together, still pulsing drowsily in Dave's nook as they jerked him off. He felt Dave come, and thrust weakly into the clench of him, groaning.

His head rest against Dave's shoulder. He nuzzled in. It was so soft. Were all humans this soft? How was someone like Dave so soft under his clothes? It felt like privileged information he'd stumbled into bulge-first.

A hand cupped the back of Karkat's neck. That felt really nice, and he opened his mouth to exhale, layers of vibration coloring the tone into a modulation of subvocal hums.

"Fuckin' agreed," Dave sighed, deep and satisfied. "We are… real good at this. If there were awards for accomplishments in th' tantric arts, competitors would try to take out our kneecaps, we'd be such obvious front runners."

Karkat hummed an agreement to that nonsense.

Fingers gently toyed with Karkat's hair for a moment. It was so soothing. Karkat could sleep. Maybe his bulge would stay tucked up and warm in Dave for longer if he just dozed off.

"Hey, roll over." Dave nudged him.

"No," Karkat said, trying to nuzzle in more.

"Yes," Dave answered, and poked Karkat's sides, right along the grub scars.

With enormous effort and a deep groan of complaint, Karkat lifted himself up and flopped onto his back instead. It wasn't nearly as comfortable, and his bulge tucked up into his sheath again.

[Do I even need to say it?

I mean, it's important. If you read KTOWL, you know why Dave And Control is extremely important.]

Dave sat up, moving wearily. He dragged a hand through his hair. "Holy shit, I'm a mess," he laughed, and moved, legs slipping off the bed. He was shaky as he stood, holding out a hand in case he fell, but still managed to get up and pulled the sheet off the bed. "This is totally ruined." He balled up the sheet and used it to wiped himself off before… just throwing over the side of the loft, letting it fall. "Deal with that fuckin' later," he muttered, and stumbled a few feet away.

[A small note: we have all done the orgasm-then-clean-up thing. Sometimes, the scene has overstayed its welcome so you wanna just breeze over that stuff.

But sometimes, like here, it's an opportunity for a Character Moment, learning about how Dave interacts with his own space and possessions. And it's cute and funny.

I think that covers everything about This Specific Scene. I hope this is at all interesting. I think about this shit a lot.]

[captainclervals]

saw your post about reading 100 books this year, i dont mean to be presumptuous but if youre looking for suggestions at all, id recommend demian by herman hesse (and hesse's works as a whole) !!! its such a beautiful piece of gothic/classic literature that i dont think gets as much attention as it deserves :^)

aahhh late response omg i just got around to reading this one a couple weeks ago and I really enjoyed it!! definitely one that lingers after reading it, made me look up psychological concepts i haven't thought about since college lmao 😭 genuinely love books that feel like impending doom all the way thru and make you put them down intermittently to process it. kind of obsessed with the stream of consciousness style combined with very heavy(handed) symbolism and florid imagery that presents the characters more as Concepts and Feelings and Pictures than other people cuz it lends such an absorbing dream-likw sensation that i don't think would work so well elsewhere and I can appreciate a book forcing you to get absorbed enough to feel like youre waking up when you take your eyes off the page. like where am i. oh right

i plan to read more of Hesse's books, i had never actually heard of any of his titles before so thank you for the recommendation! :3

[holygroundgone]

Starting my Case Files Compendium liveblog here, starting with chapters 1-6

I'm definitely enjoying myself already, I love how immediately He Yu is revealed to be a completely sociopathic manipulative little nepo brat- it's reminiscent of the way meatbun introduced mo ran immediately establishing him as a contemptible and cruel idiot (which he isn't) so it has me wondering how meatbun will develop him from here.

I like how both male leads are absolutely immediately immensely less objectively likeable than mo ran and chu wanning (I'll be comparing bab to 2ha repeatedly btw), between being homophobe4homophobe, He Yu's demented and careless prank to Xie Qingcheng's genuinely frightening and violent raging at Xie Xue and his (horrible) date... I Love Them.

(YUWU CRIT AHEAD) I definitely like them a lot more off the bat than I did Mo Xi and Gu Mang, though I did end up really warming to Gu Mang when he WASN'T lobotomized. Mo Xi is kind of just nothing to me unfortunately, even less character and intrigue than Lan Wangji (who despite people's complaints I find very enjoyable- his silent daddyisms once he's grown up and found his man again, the way he's kind and generous and chilled out from the complete narc he used to be, the way he's overwhelmed and distressed by his own violent lust, the way he acts when he's drunk, he's a fun character) and nothing in the story really changed that for me. I understood why he was so upset with Gu Mang but the way Mo Xi treated Gu Mang when he couldn't remember anything was not charming. He lightly fits into the meatbun mold of younger gong that needs to be taken care of by his older shou but he has none of the charisma or cuteness or charming naughtiness of Mo Ran and He Yu. He provides no textural quality to the constant misery and stifling sweet potato pain of yuwu, and the most unforgivable sin? He's just not mentally ill enough. Neither is Gu Mang- they just don't have the compelling push and pull of complicated mental states that mr&cwn have nor what hy&xqc are very much evidently showing to have. The most mentally ill character I can think of in yuwu is murong lian but i find him completely contemptible for where he allowed gu mang to stay after he got wolf spirit lobotomized. Honestly the way gu mang, my favorite character among the cast gets treated is one of the biggest reasons yuwu falls flat for me. I don't want him to suffer i want him to be a fun and happy daddy and maybe he gets that by the end but wow did he get treated horribly by the two people he ends up happily living around. (YUWU CRIT END)

Back to bab, He Yu and Xie Qingcheng are both saying and doing a lot of things that make me feel like I'll get to laugh at them in the end, in particular Xie Qingcheng's inner monologue about not believing in or understanding love, that it's a disease. You're going to catch that disease eventually my brother. You're in a danmei. You're a homophobe? My dear friend, you are in a danmei. If the sirens aren't blazing for you they soon will be.

One of my biggest points of enjoyment so far with all the danmei I've read so far (mxtx, yuwu, 2ha) is the way that they're love puzzles. How will these two characters end up together with everything resolved? In what ways will they find what they need and love in each other? In bab meatbun presents quite a twisted puzzle so far it almost feels like a challenge: how are this demonic homophobic nepo baby who hates doctors and this cold paternalistic homophobic doctor going to end up together?

Well, I can already see the roots of He Yu's derangement towards xqc beginning especially most prominently in the insane words of "he basically belongs to you, so if you don't help him be successful he might take you as his wife) his mom said to him which I have to imagine warped his mind with simultaneous feelings of ownership and terror towards him- as well as the derangedly florid descriptions of xqc's cold and devastating beauty.

Anyways, Xie Qingcheng is absolutely a daddy, a fussy and mean daddy. Compared to his contemporary meatbun shou (and i do feel that gong and shou distinctions are more meaningful to the actual characters and their temperaments in meatbun's works) Chu Wanning who is a fussy and only really incidentally mean failmommy, Xie Qingcheng is by far more of a daddy (repeatedly being referred to as paternalistic)- he also seems more socially competent and outspoken about his morals but similarly just as incompetent in understanding his own feelings. He's a cute fussy princess of a daddy.

Whereas Chu Wanning's mommyisms have a counterpart in Mo Ran's (esp Mo-Zongshi) daddyisms, I can't help but suspect He Yu is just going to be Xie Qingcheng's bratty baby boy and I'm excitedly rubbing my hands together for that dynamic. I already like the intimacy of "he's seen me at my worst and already knows i suck so i'll lose my manipulative outer front in front of him and end up showing him my more authentic self". I kind of want to see He Yu calling him daddy while rearranging his guts

I don't think at this point that Xqc harbors the same feelings towards He Yu that Chu Wanning did towards Mo Ran, but I also suspect his thoughts about him are more benign than He Yu thinks. I really love the "don't bother me i'm homophobic" "OH YEAH? IF YOU'RE HOMOPHOBIC THAN I'M WAYYY MORE HOMOPHOBIC THAN YOU THAT IT BASICALLY MAKES YOU LOOK GAY" nevermind the paragraphs he yu spends thinking about xie qingcheng's urethral cold beauty and the paleness of his skin and the way his brows are so dark and his lips thin and perfect and like red blossoms frosted over-

I'm also betting against the house that Xie Xue is genuinely just a kind dummy and not a demented mastermind like the last two effeminate false romantic leads.

I'm writing this while eating fried rice because the description of Xie Qingcheng's cooking made me drool. An entire page of fried rice decadence. I like that between him and He Yu, he's the one who can cook well- He Yu, Mo Ran is going to laugh at you for having nothing to charm your ethereal and bitchy old man with