#though he’s much meeker

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Yandere! Douma General Profile

Yandere! Douma x fem! reader

Tw: kidnapping, mentions of non/dub-con, stalking, gore, breaking and entering, allusions to cannibalism/unknowing cannibalism, semi-graphic descriptions of an innocent animal being killed so fuck you Douma, mentions of physical and sexual harassment, physical violence towards reader, choking, fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!

WC: 11K

DARLING PROFILE:

Stubborn

In general, Douma needs a darling who isn’t a pushover. He’s used to his followers blindly following his orders, nodding eagerly at his words and allowing him to do whatever he pleases with them. He’s used to lesser demons being petrified of his power, either entirely avoiding him or pleading for him to spare them, something that admittedly strokes his ego but grows boring at a certain point.

And so, while Douma is pleased that the people and creatures surrounding him so obviously understand his superiority, he yearns for something different – for something new, exciting, challenging. A darling that’s more stubborn and doesn’t blindly obey him would pique his interest, his mind reeling with all the possible ways he can get them to submit to him.

He’s giddy at the prospect of breaking down his darling, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet because oh, they’re just so very contrary to what he’s used to. He likes the idea of a darling who’s easy to fluster and embarrass, and a darling that will cling onto their beliefs and opinions presents Douma with an irresistible opportunity to slowly mold his darling into the perfect, responsive, sweet little human that he can tease and study, someone he can keep by his side like some sort of loyal pet.

(Though, as Douma’s obsession festers and only grows stronger and harder to control, he finds that he no longer thinks of his darling as some sort of glorified pet – they’re his, a possession, someone he feels strangely connected to, the barest hint of emotions dancing at the edge of his subconscious. The feeling is addictive, and with every denial of his charms and scoffed, irritated roll of their eyes, he only finds himself growing more desperate to be around them, fascination and intrigue and desire in more than a carnal way spurring him to spend every waking moment with them.)

Opinionated

Similarly, Douma enjoys a darling who has strong feelings. He understands the allure of a meeker woman – they’re easy to control and even easier to manipulate, making them the perfect follower and food supply. But for his darling, the woman he thinks he feels some sort of love for, they need to be someone with a little more backbone.

It excites him when his darling stands up to him – the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, his shoulders tensing up and his breathing getting a bit heavy because yes, tell him again why he’s wrong – tell him again, now that he’s merely a foot away from you, close enough that you can feel his breath against the shell of your ear and his body – much stronger than you remember – is mere inches from yours.

He finds his darling to be an endless source of entertainment, and so they need to have strong opinions covering a wide variety of topics.

He likes surprising his darling with random questions: what are their thoughts on the afterlife and death? Should the weak have any sort of rights, and do they believe in nature’s power structure that puts demons unequivocally at the top?

Do they enjoy traditional human romantic customs, like kissing or holding hands?

Or do they prefer more intense displays of passion and devotion – would his darling enjoy it if he returned to them with the severed head of a man who’d spared them a passing glance, just as a show of how much he cares for them?

He wants to know the answers to each and every question, and one of the biggest aspects of him obsessing over his darling is the non-stop talking – always prompting them with a new question that’s almost as insane as the last, his eyes glittering and sparkling as he asks them what they think the most painful way to die is.

(If they were to answer being eaten alive, Douma would merely cock his head, blinking widely at them, before bursting into laughter, his eyes holding a glimmer of something that makes his darling freeze up in fear, a primitive instinct in them screaming to run away from this monster. Ah yes, I’d imagine it would be quite painful indeed, he’ll tell them, curling a sharp fingernail around their chin.)

Paranoid

This trait is less of a necessity and more of a perk – in general, Douma will absolutely destroy his darling. He cares for them in some twisted, strange way, but he’s not afraid to completely break his darling before rebuilding them just as he so desires.

Of course, he still wants the basic bones of their personality to remain intact, but having a darling with a propensity for anxiety and paranoia would make that job much, much simpler. He can instead divert his time and attention towards effectively corrupting them and slowly breaking them down rather than bothering with the initial stages of forcing them to doubt themselves.

The combination of his darling’s kidnapping and being held captive by a man-eating demon would force this character trait to become even more heightened, putting them in a position intensifying Douma’s poking and prodding and overwhelming them. And so, he can spend his time carefully choosing how he wants to approach them – which new insecurity should he prod at today?

He knows they’re a bit sensitive about their weight – something he doesn’t understand, really, because he absolutely loves their figure.

 He’ll lightly comment about their weight, making some remark with sugar-coated words and watching as his darling tenses up, their face twisting into that wonderful expression of hurt and sadness, the mere sight of their face changing because of him making a small, high sigh slip past his lips.

Once he thinks his darling has had enough, he’ll end the conversation with a small compliment, telling them that they’re too sensitive, we’re just having a bit of fun, aren’t we?

And really, watching the way his darling just shakily nods and tries to compose themselves leaves him feeling vindictive, satisfied, seen.

It’s selfish and horrible, but Douma is a selfish and horrible creature – so really, a paranoid darling would be absolutely perfect.

Talkative

However, despite Douma’s hobby of irritating his darling and embarrassing them, he still wants a darling who will actively engage with him. Of course, it’s very easy to force his darling into speaking with him, as just a flash of those nails, fangs, or a dismembered limb will often get them blubbering and frantically rambling and doing absolutely anything Douma requests of them.

But it’s different when his darling actively chooses to speak with him – perhaps it’s still out of fear, but at least this way Douma can indulge himself in the idea that they want to speak with him.

He can pretend that they actually enjoy hearing his voice, that they like the long, drawn-out conversations he frequently holds with them, that they actually like him – a concept that simultaneously displeases him and leaves something warm and scratchy and good settle in his chest.

Because really, while Douma’s feelings for his darling are questionable at best, he really does truly want them to like him – he craves a kind of connection that isn’t superficial and one-sided, and although it’s entirely new territory he wants them to fulfill this desire.

And so, while he annoys his darling and forces them into conversations because he likes to interact with them and study their reactions, there’s a deeper sense of desperation and neediness underlying his words and actions. A darling that is naturally more talkative will give him this desired connection, making it easier for him to feel wanted, needed, liked in a way that’s entirely foreign to him.

It’s just attractive, really, because while shy, quiet humans have their purposes, a life partner (as Douma thinks of his darling) needs to be someone who won’t shy away from his words, who will retain their voice around him. It’s just attractive, really – so please keep talking to him.

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS:

Clingy

In general, Douma is overwhelming. He’s chatty, touchy, and has absolutely no respect for your boundaries.

You’re his sweet little human – weak and naïve and perfect to play with, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t enjoy having you around. And enjoying you means teasing you, pushing your buttons, irritating you until your face twists up into that scowl or grimace that he absolutely loves to see.

He’s always doing things just to see your reaction – he’ll place things on shelves you can’t reach just to watch you bite your lip and contemplate whether you want to ask him for help, internally swooning because aw, aren’t you just the cutest when you’re embarrassed?

He’ll make you say ‘please’ in order to eat the food he’s offering you, a smirk sitting on his lips as he tells that he didn’t quite hear that, could you say that again please?

(Of course, the food isn’t the food you think it is – it’s edible, sure, and it’s high quality, but as time passes Douma finds himself toying with the idea of turning you into a demon, knowing he could probably persuade Muzan into doing this because it makes the Upper Rank Two more productive. And so, while he’d fed you mostly animal meat when he’d initially stolen you away, he very slowly begins integrating less common meats, opting to mix the smallest amount of human flesh in with the beef he serves you, just a hair of a finger or a small bit of thigh. Just to get you familiar with the taste – and to watch your face freeze up and hear you gag as he tells that you’d just eaten the man who brought you afternoon tea yesterday. He loves the way you look at him with your eyes wide and your jaw dropped, shock and disgust and fear swimming in those pretty eyes of yours and making shivers erupt over his whole body, the sight absolutely delicious.)

He’ll lay his hand on your shoulder at random times, seeing your whole body jerk and jump as you whip your head back, surprise written all over your face because you hadn’t heard him enter the room.

(Silently, he’ll marvel at the warmth of your skin through your clothing – you feel soft, too, and Douma idly wonders if the rest of you is this warm and soft. If everything is this lovely, or if certain parts of you are warmer, more sensitive, wetter -)

His favorite way to bug you, however, is to fluster you. Douma is aware that by human standards he’s very attractive – perfectly clear skin, wavy and thick hair, a sharp jawline and a smile that makes most human women – and men – crumble instantly. And while you seem to be largely immune to his charms (much to his delight and chagrin), Douma makes it his mission to get you flustered at nearly every opportunity he can. There’s something about the way your face crinkles up, your brows growing taut and your eyes looking everywhere except him that makes him only want to push further, to say more provocative things, to get closer, to hear your sharp intake of breath again and again.

He’ll have you sit near him, your thighs just barely brushing, his inhuman hearing able to pick up your slightly increased heartbeat, his own heart racing in his chest as it does every time you get so close to him. He’ll be telling you something inconsequential, narrating what he’d done that day, and nonchalantly let his hand rest on the expanse of your thigh, not even pausing his words to acknowledge his action.

And hearing your heart begin beating even faster and smell the distinct smell of fear and even just the slightest, smallest twinge of arousal gets his nostrils flaring, excitement bleeding into his voice because oh, you like this, do you?

And he’ll capitalize on your well-hidden attraction – scotting closer to you so that you can smell him better (he’d tried a new cologne that morning – one he’d seen you eyeing in a shop many months before), increasing the pressure of his fingers so that he’s gripping your thigh (and trying not to lose his composure at just how squishy you are, your human flesh so pliable and pretty and the perfect thing to feel under the pads of his fingers), and asking you with the same tease in his voice (though it’s just a tad huskier, not even intentionally) if you’re enjoying yourself, hmm? If you tell me you like this I can give you more, you know.

He’ll lean in closely to your ear, tongue lolling out to lick up the shell while he finishes with a whispered I’m no stranger to the human female body…

He’ll listen for your breath to hitch, feeling your muscles tense underneath his grip, the audible rush of blood through your veins, letting the tension build and build before laughing and leaning back. He’ll take his hand off your thigh and shoot you that same smile that his followers gush over, telling you that you’re so cute when you’re flustered, bunny, you should’ve seen your face! He likes how you try to hide your face, your fists clenched as embarrassment eats you alive because god, he’s infuriating, and god, you hate that you’d almost wanted to take him up on his offer.

And really, that’s the way Douma will slowly break you down – he’s fascinated with you, like you’re some sort of pet project of his that he wants to study and understand, and as a result he needs to spend as much time around you as possible. You’ll hardly ever get a moment to yourself as his darling – he’s always lurking, invading your personal space and inserting himself into situations where he’s not wanted.

He’ll slip under the covers of the futon right beside you, those strangely colored eyes wide and bright as he tells you that you just looked too cute for him to not want to join you – and of course he has to be laying close enough to be sharing breaths. The futon’s not that big, so what did you expect? He’ll trail behind you as you walk into the restroom, smiling brightly at you as you ask him to leave so you can bathe in peace. He has the audacity to tilt his head to the side, that same smile on his face but seeming a little wider now as he asks you why should I do that? You can shower just fine with me right here, can’t you?

(He often joins you on your trips to relieve yourself, too, standing beside you and holding full conversations with you as you hesitantly seat yourself onto the toilet, trying to avoid the eye contact he’s very, very eager to maintain. It’s quality time, he says when you bring up how uncomfortable it makes you, and you’re really just too weak and irresponsible to be trusted alone in the bathroom – what if you slip and fall? What if you accidentally rub your skin raw with your towel? Douma wouldn’t want you to be hurt, now would he? The condescending tone of his voice will often leave you angry enough to not further the conversation, making Douma smug and giddy because oh, aren’t you adorable when you’re angry!)

He’s just needy, really, because the sick, twisted version of love that he feels for you is rooted in fascination, in wanting to see how you react to the things he does to you. He wants to see every emotion you’re capable of, and he wants to be the reason for all of them. Really, he just wants you to be looking at him, paying him attention, reacting to him and the things he does – just keep your eyes on him, and let him bother you every moment of every day.

Eventually you’ll grow to tolerate the sound of his voice, the feel of his hands on your body, the embarrassment that eats you alive nearly every time you interact with him. It’ll get easier, really – or perhaps you’ll just grow more complacent, and Douma will seem less like a thorn in your side and more like the only other person you ever interact with.

Just how he wants it.

Dependent

Douma is a creature that has lived for a very long time and has known only total and utter control – serving Muzan and letting everyone else serve him. He’s used to being the one in control, needing to feel the power and sense of total dominance over others in order to function correctly, to feel good.

And in most ways this applies to his obsession with you, too – he’s very aware that he’s stronger than you. He’s both physically and mentally stronger, smarter, faster, more capable, more powerful, just generally more. And in the beginning of his obsession, noticing this obvious difference in your strength and having you blatantly ignore it was enough to pique his interest.

Too many decades had passed by with humans cowering in fear and kneeling before him (as it should be), but it’s left him bored, aching for more, wanting something new and entertaining. And so once he meets you and sees that you aren’t one to submit quite as easily, Douma is immediately hooked, wanting to push you as far as he can just to see how much you can take before you crack.

And really, this is how the majority of his infatuation is presented to you – he’s an annoying, terrifying creature who metaphorically clings onto your every word and action, those colorful eyes of his always watching and staring and wanting.

You think he wants to kill you, really, and you’ll be left constantly on edge around him, terrified that he’ll hurt you or your loved ones for even a single step out of line. And in the beginning, Douma does nothing to dissolve this perception you have of him simply because it’s true. He doesn’t know if he wants to hurt you or not, if he wants to kill you, what he wants with you. You’re an enigma to him, and he’d kept you around because you intrigued him.

With every passing day, this interest and intrigue only seems to grow deeper, stronger, more difficult to disentangle himself out of. But his pride and staunch view that he’s better than all humans bars him from really realizing this early into his infatuation, firmly telling himself that it’s just curiosity that compels him to not sink his teeth into the fleshy expanse of your thigh. It’s just innocent fun that’s stopping him from ripping you apart limb by limb, feasting on what he’s absolutely sure is soft, supple flesh that would have the sweetest taste.

Though, as time passes, even Douma must admit that his feelings for his darling begin venturing into unknown, dangerous territory – no longer is it simply amusement, entertainment, and mild physical attraction that draws him to you. Instead, there’s something more – he’s desperate to see you at all times, growing addicted to having your attention, his body yearning for you in a way that simply fucking another female follower can’t satisfy.

He needs you – he’s grown too charmed by your stubbornness, your continued resistance to simply appeasing him making him more desperate to crush you and have you under his thumb. No longer is his obsession simply a desire to have you around to mess with and satisfy his boredom – no, now it’s about you and your place at his side. You’re certainly not his equal, but he sees you as a companion, a partner not in equalness but in terms of needing you.

Because really, as soon as Douma realizes that he’s toeing the line between mild interest and honest desperation, he panics a bit. This is totally new – something unknown and scary and something he can’t control, so he tries to pull back, forcing himself to give you distance because he simply can’t be allowing you to have such control over him.

You plague his every thought – when you’re apart, he’s imagining what you’re doing. Are you relaxing, enjoying the serenity that being away from your kidnapper brings you?

Are you lonely, wishing he was there to keep you company, even if the way he touches you makes your skin crawl?

Are you sleeping, hopefully dreaming about people with his face and eyes and hair?

Or perhaps you’re eating, maybe even finding yourself wishing that Douma was there to sit beside you, that sick grin on his face while he lifts the chopsticks, tells you to say ‘ah’ and places the sushi delicately on your tongue, something dark in his expression as he tells you to chew and swallow, don’t let it go to waste.

He’d only fed you once, and you’d fought it the whole time, trying to squirm away from him and being thoroughly difficult. It’d entertained Douma in the moment, the way you were so desperate to get away from him, but now, thinking back on it as he patiently waits for Gyokko to get to the meeting site for the joint mission Muzan had assigned them, he’s starting to wonder if perhaps the experience would be even more enjoyable if you obediently let him feed you, looking at him with those pretty eyes of yours and even thanking him, telling him how delicious the food is, how nice his company is, how you’re so very glad that he’s returned to you…

It’s sappy and stupid and ridiculous, and it makes Douma scowl to know that you’ve managed to snag such a hold on him, but every time he considers killing you, something sharp wedges its way into his heart and he finds himself dismissing the thought.

Because really, as pathetic as being obsessed with a weak human female like you is, the alternative is worse – returning to a life of monotony and apathy, seeking his thrills through the momentary high of a slaughter, desperately chasing after more power and more entertainment, trying to fill in the empty void in his chest where his heart should be.

You fix all of that – and so he decides to embrace these new feelings, deciding that if he feels so strongly for you, then he must keep you by his side. You aren’t allowed to ever leave – he would be a shell of a demon if you did, every ounce of joy and happiness stolen from him, and he’s simply too selfish to allow that to happen.

So you’d better prepare for Douma’s constant attention, the frantic way he looks to you, the way his fingers always grip onto you, his voice ringing in your ears over and over and over. He’s overwhelming you, his presence and the constant demands of your attention draining you and leaving you attached to him in a way that makes him sick, but Douma frankly doesn’t care.

How can he? Every moment he spends with you not only quells the constant ache to be around you and feel your eyes on him, but it also deepens your dependence on him, too. Because really, Douma is the only person you ever see with any real consistency – he’s incredibly strict on allowing his followers to come into contact with you, only allowing a small handful of his most devoted servants to drop off meals or change your bath water when he can’t be there to do it himself.

(Both of these activities he loathes missing, if only because you’re so cute when you’re eating, and bathing you? God, Douma likes to think he has decent self-control, but the way he pounces at you and bares his teeth, his eyes darkening and his voice getting noticeably deeper makes it obvious that his hold on himself is slipping, the sight of your nude body with water only barely covering your nipples and below your torso making him genuinely feral.)

 It’s in moments like these that Douma can only laugh at himself, embarrassed for having allowed himself to fall so strongly for a weak, pathetic thing like you. And yet, as time passes he finds himself not caring – after all, when he forces you to turn into a demon, some of that self-loathing will disappear, and then he can be as rough as he wants with you – an idea that makes him literally tremble with anticipation.

Possessive

Unlike his fellow demons, Douma is actually a bit sneaky with this aspect of his obsession – at least, in the beginning.

He’s not obviously possessive or territorial of you, or at least not more so than you’d expect. Frankly, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s kidnapped you and flirts with you just to fluster you, you’d have no idea that Douma is interested in you romantically. He’s touchy and pushy, sure, but he never showcases any traits of the traditional jealous partner. He doesn’t rant and rave about how you’re his, nor does he leave possessive bites or marks along your body to physically mark you as his.

He’s not that uncivilized – at least, he likes to think so. He’s not that terribly obsessed with you, he likes to believe, and by not being verbally territorial over your time, space, and attention, he feels that he’s maintaining this boundary between you where you can’t see just how truly dependent on you he’s become.

But the issue, really, is that while Douma thinks he isn’t easily jealous or possessive over you, it couldn’t be further from the truth. Really, he absolutely needs you to be looking at him and only him – he’s used to being revered and worshipped, both by his followers and many of his fellow demons, but there’s just something different about your attention.

There’s something warmer, something better, something that makes his fingers twitch and his neck feel hot because god, you look good when you’re looking at him, and when you say his name with that slight tremble of fear in your voice he wants to press you so tightly against him that you can’t breath.

You’re just different, really, and so Douma struggles with this internal dilemma. Particularly in the beginning of his obsession and your captivity, he doesn’t allow any signs of his true feelings to be seen – sure he’s flirting with you and teasing you just to see you squirm and get all embarrassed, but it’s just for fun. It’s all a big game, of course – you’re just so weak and endearing and strangely cute that Douma can’t help but belittle you and see that flustered, embarrassed expression on that pretty face of yours.

But then he notices you smiling and laughing at something else one day – something small, something stupid.

A small squirrel had managed to weasel its through the high window into the room he keeps you locked away in, the little brown animal curiously staring at you. On its hind legs, dark, beady eyes fixed on you while you lightly giggle and marvel at the bushiness of its tail, the liveliness of its presence – suddenly not feeling so horribly, horribly lonely.

And Douma’s immediately seeing red – your pretty face is all twisted up in a smile and your eyes are fucking sparkling – why the hell don’t you look like that when he’s talking to you? You’ve never looked this happy with him even once – you flustered and embarrassed is great, but this?

His hands are shaking, an ugly snarl ripping across his face, blond hair bristling as he sprints to grab the squirrel. Everything happens too fast for you to really comprehend – the squirrel is a few feet away from you one second, squeezed between his pale finger the next, something maniacal and scary and horrifying flicking through those rainbow eyes of his as he stares down at the small creature.

You’re immediately scrambling to your feet, begging him to not hurt the animal, and his head snaps to yours almost robotically, that look morphing into some deranged excuse of a smile as he tells you that you’re not allowed to be making friends, remember? I told you what would happen if you did. Do you remember what I told you?

And as you start sobbing, begging him to not kill the animal, Douma will only sigh wistfully, deciding that although he wants to see you smiling and laughing and loving him like the way you loved this squirrel, this is nice too. You, with tears streaming down your cheeks, snot dribbling from your nose, your eyes all glassy and red – you’re cute like this, really, and it makes him smile gleefully, squeezing at the squirrel just a hair tighter and oh god –

You’re still crying when he has the follower on their hands and knees scrubbing the blood from the pretty white flooring, your body wrapped in Douma’s arms while he coos at you and plays with your hair.

It’s only then that you’ll really begin to see just how truly devoted Douma is to you – his hands are all over you, those eyes staring holes through you, arms tugging you closer and closer to him, not leaving an inch of space between your bodies. He’ll grab your chin and force you to look at him, that same sick smile on his face while he tells you that you’re very pretty, you know, I like when you look like this. Now won’t you smile for me? C’mon, I deserve a smile, don’t I?

If you don’t, his grip tightens, surely leaving bruises against your dainty skin, pressing tighter until you shakily quirk up your lips, the smile pained and strained and absolutely divine in his eyes. It’s then that the possessiveness will start to rear its ugly head – he’s telling you in that same sing-song, fake voice that you’re so much better when you’re smiling… Hey, you know to only smile at me, right? You know what’ll happen to anyone or anything else you smile at and talk to. I’m the only one you need to look at – I’ll slaughter anything that dares to steal your attention from me, do you understand?

Meanwhile, he’s stroking your cheek, unblinking as he stares, his breath ice cold and making you shiver. After that incident, Douma doesn’t hold back on making it absolutely clear that you are not to speak with anyone else in the compound – you’d already been studiously avoided by all his followers, only coming into contact with someone when they were forced to bring you food or attend to your washroom needs. But now, everyone was actively afraid of you – running at the sight of you, one poor girl even shaking and breathing so heavily as she heated your bathwater that it hurt just to look at her.

And you know it’s all Douma’s doing, too – you’ve heard him telling his followers that you’re strictly off-limits, that you’re something that isn’t to be touched or looked at, that you’re a sin, that to interact with you without just cause would be an irrevocable offense worthy of death. And there’s something about his voice when he says it that makes you bite your lip, fear dancing through your chest because you’ve never heard him be so serious before, the rumble of his words and the way you can practically see the dead-eyed, apathetic face making something in your gut twist.

From then on, he’s even more clingy – constantly demanding your attention, touching you seemingly without restraint, his voice constantly ringing in your head as he bothers you day and night, never letting you go more than a few minutes without his presence at your side and rudely commanding your attention and time.

Really, he’s just awfully needy – you’re his. His favorite human, toy, thing, and he'll be damned if he lets anyone – or any thing – take that away from him. He’s a powerful demon, and you’re nothing compared to him. So just accept your place as his personal whore, really – because there’s nothing you can do about it. He’s needy and jealous and will become the only person you’ll see with any sort of remote consistency, and it’s all by design.

You’re not to speak with, look at, or think of anyone else – you really, really wouldn’t to see anyone get hurt over that rule, now would you?

Because as much as he likes your positive attention, seeing you scream and cry and hate him is almost as good – delicious in a way that makes him lick his teeth and giggle because ah, you’re just so adorable.

DEALING WITH RIVALS:

Quite honestly, despite Douma’s more possessive feelings over you, he doesn’t get jealous that often.

This is mostly due to the fact that he severely limits who he allows to interact with you – all your attendants must be female, and ideally rather weak-willed and soft-spoken. He wants you to be interacting with the most mild people he can, just so that you don’t grow too attached to anyone.

He’ll keep the attendants rotating, just so that you don’t develop any sort of comradery with anyone, and so that no one becomes hopelessly enthralled by you or becomes inspired to set you free from your obvious captivity. It’s all selfish and very, very purposefully orchestrated, because while Douma may be occasionally relaxed and not as rigid with his followers, anything involving you is meticulously thought out, planned with such a degree of obsessiveness that it nearly drives him crazy.

And so, you hardly ever get the chance to interact with a man, much less glance at him – which is very, very good news for the people of the compound, because otherwise all of their blood would be spilled and he’d  be touching your sweet body over their corpses.

Douma simply doesn’t get the opportunity to become jealous often – and even before all of his obsession has fully festered and established itself, this stands true. He kidnaps you very early on, and fully with the intention of killing you once his interest in you dries up.

As a result, there’s simply not much time between the formation of his obsession and your eventual relocation to his temple, seriously limiting his opportunities to grow jealous over you. And this pleases Douma – once he decides that he wants to keep you, the thought of you being unable to interact with anyone significant aside from himself is calming, a sense of possessiveness and ownership over you swimming through him that makes his smile almost real.

And so, for the first few weeks of your captivity, you’ll genuinely think that Douma won’t grow jealous over you, simply because the very, very few people you meet are nearly silent, only interacting with you when absolutely necessary and practically running out of the room before you even finish talking.

 But of course, not everything goes to plan – it only takes a single encounter for you to realize that your previous assumptions about him not growing jealous were painfully mistaken.

The new attendant is more talkative than the previous one. The last one had been mousy, a quiet little creature of a girl who couldn’t be older than fourteen, setting down your meal tray and immediately darting out of the room, the lock clicking loudly behind her. You hadn’t gotten much of a chance to speak with her, let alone ask her name or details about your location.

But this newer girl was a little bolder. Her gaze, while still averted, would occasionally dart back to you. And while the pity in her eyes made something ugly simmer in your chest, the acknowledgement of your poor situation by anyone other than him was still welcome.

She was still rather quiet, but you noticed that she stayed just a hair longer, and would even manage to crack the smallest of smiles in your presence.

But during one sunny afternoon, while Douma longues on your bed with an arm propped under his head and those eyes of his stuck on your figure, she comes by to drop off the food.

It’s a familiar knock at your door, and you perk up at the sound, something that Douma notices with a slight twitch of his eyebrow.

Come in, you call, watching as the locks click and the wooden door creaks open. The girl is there, and you watch as her eyes meet yours and she gives you a small nod of recognition. You smile ever so slightly back, on edge with Douma’s hawk eyes monitoring the entire interaction.

The girl sets the tray onto the ground before shuffling away, glancing up one more time only to suddenly notice Douma’s presence on the bed. She gasps, eyes blowing wide, before bowing her head against the ground, stuttering out a M-Master Douma!

He’s quiet, his gaze narrowing ever so slightly, before an easy smile settles onto his lips. Slowly he gets up, steps light and airy as he approaches the doorway. You’re still standing on the other side of the room, watching the interaction with every hair on your body standing at attention. There’s something about the way he feels, the predatory sense of dread hanging in the air that makes your every muscle desperate to run away, to get out before something terrible happens.

He squats down to her kneeling height once he reaches her, his eyes closing as he keeps up that smile. Do you know her?

The girl shakes her head quickly, her voice merely a whisper as she tells him no, I only serve her meals occasionally.

He nods, humming. So why are you looking at her then?

The girl parts her lips slightly, gaze wide as she stares at him. I – um, I don’t what you mean, Master. I’m sorry.

His eyes open, lids closing half-way and pupils fixed on her. Why are you staring at her so familiarly? Did I not explicitly tell you to avoid looking at what’s mine?

She gulps, her hands starting to shake. I – I’m  terribly sorry, I did not mean to –

Douma sighs, but his shoulders stay tight and tensed, the muscles in his arm visibly flexing underneath his shirt as he clenches his fist. Ah-ah-ah, don’t you know? I don’t care what you have to say. No one is to look at or speak to her. You knew this. And yet you went and did it anyways. Do you know what that makes you?

She’s crying now, tears slipping down her cheeks and her lip wobbling. You’re too frozen with fear to move, but you can hardly breath.

Douma smiles, tilting her chin up ever so slightly. He leans in closer, bunch hunched in a way that doesn’t look human.

Dead. He breathes out.

It happens too quickly for you to follow – his fist is plunging into her chest, her scream cut short by him ripping his hand back out, something red and wet and moving clutched in his palm. The sight makes you sick, bile rising up in the back of your throat and making you heave, forcing you to the ground.

Her body goes limp and slumps to the side, blood pouring around her body and leaving the pretty, wooden floors stained red.

Douma’s giggling, you hear, as he squeezes at her dismembered heart, clutching down tighter and tighter and tighter – until it explodes in a spray of red, getting all over his face and chest, staining the floor even more and making a fresh wave of nausea pass through you.

Your entire body is shaking, gaze unable to stop staring at her lifeless body, terror coursing through you and making it impossible to breath, to move, to think.

All too soon Douma’s standing up, wiping the blood staining his hand onto the already ruined white fabric of his pants, gaze settling on you and sighing once more. What a mess, he laments, but your gaze is still stuck on the girl.

He pouts at that, moving forward and physically blocking your view, getting close enough to you that you can smell the blood on him, see the little bits of tissue and muscle decorating the tight fabric of his shirt.

He’s smiling again, and you flinch as he clasps a strand of your hair between two fingers, rubbing it between them and smearing red all over.

Did you like that? His question makes your lips part, your gaze slowly moving to meet his, something in your gut screaming at you to hurt him, to hurt this creature that so cruelly ruins and steals the lives of others.

But as Douma presses in further, his Adam’s Apple bobbing as his eyes get wider, his voice a bit higher, excitement oozing off of him in waves, he only asks again did you like seeing that? Doesn’t it feel good to see her get what she deserves?

You have nothing to say to that, so you only stare, your own tears pooling down your cheeks.

Douma’s eyes sparkle at that, and he leans forward, tongue lolling out and licking a long strike up your cheek, the salty taste making him shiver.

He rests his forehead against yours, licking his lips and pressing wet, bloody hands against your arms. Hey, let’s go to bed. You’ll be good for me, right? You wouldn’t want to anger me, you know.

And really, what other choice do you have but to say yes, to let him drag you to the mattress and hold you, all the while you stare at the girl’s body? There’s blood staining every inch of your skin and smearing across the sheets, but you try to ignore the now cold, viscous feeling.

And does it make you a bad person for being grateful that it’s not you laying lifeless on the cold, hard ground?

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:

It’s inevitable, and it happens fast. Douma is simply a stranger to you at first – a friend of yours had been converted into the Paradise Cult, and at Douma’s urging, each follower had been required to drag in a new member.

You weren’t especially receptive to the idea, but your friend had tricked you into visiting the compound by telling you it was simply an alternative living community, leaving you unsure and suspicious but not wanting to doubt the friend who’d suddenly re-emerged into your life.

And after stepping foot into the compound, you immediately had a sense of what was happening – something was very, very wrong, and your friend seemed entirely dismissive and unaware of it. You’d stayed out of politeness (and your friend’s very thinly veiled threats of what would happen if you were to run), promising to meet the Master as your friend had begged, and upon meeting Douma (alongside a large group of people who seemed to be in varying states of fear and confusion, like yourself), you’d immediately wanted to turn-tail and leave.

He’d gone through each individual recruit, shaking their hand and whispering sweet words to them, and when he’d approached you, expecting the same kindness and reverence that all the other recruits were told to exhibit, he was sorely mistaken. After grabbing your hands (his hands were ice cold, freezing, and perfectly smooth), you’d smiled at him, trying to mirror the expression on his face.

Welcome to Paradise, won’t you join us? His voice had been smooth, calming, and layered with a sense of confidence that had your smile turning sour.

No, thank you, I’ll be leaving now. You’d ripped your hands out of his grasp and promptly turned on your heel, not sparing Douma a glance as he gaped at you, genuinely too stunned to make a move and follow you.

He’d meant to follow after you, anger at your disrespect making his eye twitch, but the other recruits had to be brought in before he could bother with a single disgruntled woman. You’d managed to leave the compound, ignoring your friend’s hysteria and desperate pleas to apologize to the Master, instead storming all the way back to your own home and vowing to never set foot on that property again. There was just something unnerving about the place, and that man – he’d made some primal sense of fear edge up into your throat, your body feeling feather light and your reflexes heightened.

But as you tried to adjust back into your life and essentially mourn the loss of your friend, Douma hadn’t forgotten about you. He’d tried to – you were inconsequential, a dirty, lowly human woman, utterly nothing. And yet, the days began to blend together, images of your naively brave face dancing behind his eyelids, thinking of the absolute gall you had to blatantly disrespect what your body could clearly sense was an apex predator.

(He’d been able to smell the fear wafting off of you in waves, hear the rapid pounding of your heart, see the tremor of your hands. You’d been petrified, truly, and yet you’d still been stupid enough to run away. It would be impressive, if it didn’t leave such a sour taste in his mouth.)

The anger prompted him to call in your friend, asking with a sickly sweet smile what your name was, where you lived, and to tell him a bit about you. Your friend was more than happy to oblige his request, apologizing profusely on your behalf and spilling every detail about you that they could. Douma had nodded at the end, flashing them one last smile before slicing their head off, licking a bloody finger afterwards and humming.

Immediately heading off towards the location of your home, Douma ran through all the possible ways he could punish you for your blatant disrespect – perhaps rip your toes and fingers off one by one, then devour you, or maybe even slice open your belly and let you suffer before death?

Deeply pondering, he’d stopped outside your home, staring into the windows and feeling his eyes brighten at the sight of you simply seated in your living area, reading out of a book. You were nothing special, truly – no particularly beautiful features, nothing that would catch his eye out of the hundreds of humans he’s met and devoured. You were utterly unremarkable, and weak, too; unable to fight, unable to defend yourself, just utterly, utterly pathetic.

And as he slips into your home, internally scoffing at how you don’t even notice his presence, Douma suddenly stops. You’re looking at him now, panic eating away at your features as you cling to the wall behind you, your voice shaking and rather thin as you scream at him that you’ll hurt you, don’t – don’t come any closer!

And really, it almost makes him laugh when you grab at the candlestick on the nearby table, pointing the stubby, wax bar at him with eyes wide enough to make him giggle.

It’s quiet for a long moment, before Douma’s lips quirk up into something vaguely resembling a smile, something in his eyes growing brighter as he realizes that oh, you might be a bit of fun.

And as he moves forward and has a hand striking against the pressure point in your neck before you can even blink, Douma finds himself nonchalantly leaning down to smell along the curve of your jaw.

You’re not wholly unappealing, now that he looks at you up close. You smell nice enough – a bit floral, a bit earthy, and he can hear the beating of your heart from this close. That same twisted smile sits on his lips as he brings you back to the compound, rainbow eyes dull as he unceremoniously drops you onto the rackety, spare mattress of a fellow cult member, ignoring their questions as he slices at their throat and hums.

You could be entertaining enough, at least for a day or two – it’s not often that people resist him, and he wants to know how long it’ll take before you break.

Despite Douma’s rather spontaneous kidnapping of you, it doesn’t take him long to fall into a rhythm with you. What he feels for you at first is slow-going and barely even there, but it’s something – and as time passes and he becomes aware that you’re inspiring an unknown emotion – any emotion, aside from a dull pleasure in seeing others suffering - inside of his chest, he becomes more and more attached.

And this is obvious in the way that he treats you – he’s absolutely suffocating, choosing to take up your every moment of the day because absolutely nothing compares to the sight of you scowling at him, or the way you flinch and scramble to get away from him every time he reaches out to touch you. It’s cute, even, the way you ardently try to escape him when you’re both painfully aware that it isn’t possible. It’s endearing, but even with your stubborn nature, you’ll eventually grow complacent in the lifestyle he’s forced upon you.

You’re kept in a set of bedchambers that very clearly belonged to another person before you – the bed is larger than you’d expected, with crisp white sheets and red silks hanging from the frame on all sides. The dark, mahogany wood is engraved with all sorts of geometric and floral patterns, and during the rare stretches of solitude that you’re afforded, you find yourself running your fingers over the shapes and committing them to memory.

The bed had actually not belonged to the room’s previous occupant – instead, the bed had been the one Douma designated as his own, before your arrival. It’d been the bed he’d lounge about in during the day, bedding nearly every woman and man in the compound between those very sheets. He’d had it moved into the room he keeps you in a week or so after your arrival, deciding that if he was to spend so much time in your space, he might as well be comfortable while doing so.

(And though it hadn’t been his intention, there’s something oddly pleasing about seeing the way you visibly sink into the mattress most evenings, your constant fearful expression and scowl slowly melting away at the sheer luxury of the bed. Pleasing, and satisfying, really, because something that almost resembles pride eats away at him when he thinks of how he’s the one providing you with such comforts, and is thus the reason for your joy.)

The room itself is rather small, with four plain white walls and a few decorations and trinkets left behind by the previous occupant. A select few photographs and letters had been left behind, and you’d placed them all in a small corner of the room, taking care to not damage them but unable to look at them without feeling ill.

You hardly ever leave the room – Douma doesn’t allow you to freely roam the compound, and you are strictly forbidden from having any visitors aside from himself and a select few trust cultists that he keeps very, very careful tabs on.

(There’s the small, ever-present sense of worry that you’ll find comradery or friendship among one of the attendees, so he’s careful to keep them uncomfortably aware of their purpose, of how they aren’t to speak to you unless absolutely necessary, how they aren’t to spend any time at all in your space unless ordered by Douma himself, how your life is much, much more precious than theirs.)

But truth be told, you’ll be grateful for any and every attendant that spends even a few seconds with you – because Douma will be an always present, unwavering presence in your life once you’re stolen away. He finds you fascinating, and there’s something addicting about the responses you give to him. It’s addictive enough that he finds himself by your side every moment he can spare, always staring at you with that odd, small smile that never seems to reach his eyes, his voice always chipper and cheery even as he tells you the most gut-wrenching, revolting things.

And as time passes, Douma becomes not only clingy, but touchy. His hands are freezing cold when they touch you, skin like ice as he cups your cheek or grasps your wrist or places his hand on the small of your back.

He has no concept of personal space; his breath (cold just like his fingers) fans against your skin as he stands behind you, your back pressed snugly against his chest as he murmurs in your ear that you’re shaking, are you afraid? Probably a good choice, considering how weak you are.

He’s making you sit in his lap as he forces you to tell him about your old life, listening to the shaky intake and exhale of your breath and tut-tutting at you, telling you to stop lying, pretty thing, I can hear your heartbeat soaring. We wouldn’t want poor Mimiko outside to pay for your deceptions, would we?

And once he begins getting truly needy for your time and attention, Douma is absolutely not afraid to escalate your relationship to something more physical, something more intimate. He absolutely will force himself onto you, that same devoid smile on his lips while his eyes shine with something that you can’t – and won’t – put a finger on.

He views you as his personal play thing, his personal human, and his clinginess and inability to leave you alone for more than an hour at a time is proof of it. And as he grows more and more attached, the desperation to be around you starting to cloud his mind and make him angry, irritable, enraged when something keeps him away from you, he’ll only become more suffocating, more desperate for your every thought, look, and feeling to revolve solely around him him him.

It’s the least you could do, really, considering he’s been kind enough to spare you.

(Though there’s always the lingering question of how sweet your blood tastes, if you’re as soft and tender as he expects, if when he sinks those teeth of his down into the sensitive flesh of your thigh you’d squeal his name like he hopes you would…)

PUNISHMENTS:

If you don’t count his constant, overwhelming presence, Douma doesn’t really punish you. He’s actually fairly lenient – he certainly doesn’t allow you to roam around the compound on your own, nor does he allow you to speak with anyone aside from himself, but you’re allowed to choose what clothing you wear, how you style your hair, when you wake up and when you go to bed.

And really, Douma likes to point out just how much freedom he gives you – when you’ve got an attitude, anger and irritation welling up in your chest and bubbling over, Douma will simply pout at you, telling you that you don’t get to be mean, you got breakfast this morning. And while he doesn’t explicitly say it, the tone of his voice and the way he’s looking at you are reminders that yes, he’s keeping you here against your wall, but he’s oh so generous and feeding you well. He’s giving you food, shelter, and attention from a being much superior to yourself – and frankly, you’re a spoiled little brat for not realizing exactly what a gift he’s giving you.

He’s not the biggest fan of actually saying those words to you though, if only because he likes to keep up the charade of being a happy-go-lucky man, wanting you to feel and acknowledge that yes, he's powerful, but he also treats you with kindness and a level of care and adoration that you should really be beyond grateful to be receiving.

It’s a matter of pride, more than anything else – and your ‘punishments’ are also a matter of pride. It takes quite a bit to anger Douma. This is because he lives for your responses – he’s teasing you and pushing you right to the edge on a constant basis, loving the way you grit your teeth or yell at him or try to ignore him. Though, he admittedly likes that last option significantly less. It’s entertaining for the first few minutes watching you clench your jaw and pretend like he’s not poking your stomach or kissing over the shell of your ear or threatening your family members, but if you hold out and remain silent and unresponsive, he’ll eventually just pout and give up, sighing dramatically and telling you fine, have it your way.

You won’t ever actually get your way, of course, but Douma will manage to finagle some variation of your request with his own touch to it.

You’re asking for your freedom? Absolutely not, but he will get you a pretty pair of binoculars so you can see outside the laughably small, iron-barred window in your room!

You want supplies for your hobbies because you’re going insane with boredom? A bit harsh considering he’s always keeping you company, but he’ll buy you whatever your little heart desires, no matter how expensive or difficult to find. You just have to teach him how to use them, okay? You’ll do your little hobbies with him, or not at all.

And so, Douma doesn’t automatically see you lashing out or being rude as a negative. Instead, it often only endears him more to you, enjoying the way you’re so very human in your inability to control your emotions.

But while he doesn’t respond negatively to your bad behavior, there are two things which truly do upset him.

The first upset is predictable – your attempts at escape. You talking about running away is one thing; lofty plans and ideals you talk about in front of him while he nods along and coos at you, pointing out each and every flaw in your thinking and explaining in detail the many ways he could stop you.

It’s mildly amusing when you’re just putting on a face and acting like you want to leave, but the moment you actually attempt it, that amusement is shifting to irritation, his eye twitching slightly because oh, how stupid could you really be? You obviously don’t realize that you’re stuck square in the center of a rather large compound filled with people who would absolutely kill for Douma, and would do anything he so desired even if it meant ignoring your screams and cries to return you back to their leader.

It’s frustrating to him, if only because it’s a mess he has to clean up, and there’s always the repercussions of having to figure out who helped you orchestrate the whole endeavor, because he knows you can’t escape out of this room on your own. And while killing the sympathizer is fun and leaves him stained in blood and shivering in delight, it’s precious time that he could be spending with you.

But really, the one thing that truly upsets him is when you hurt yourself. He can hurt you – he can drag his nails down your pretty skin and leave beads of blood in their wake. He can pull at your hair until you’re tearing up, the look on your face pained and sending blood directly between his legs, your expression delicious and oh so arousing. He can even bend you over and smack his hand against the smell of your ass over and over and over until your bruised, welts decorating the pretty skin and your eyes barely open.

He can do all that, but why the fuck do you think you can? You’re his toy – his. You aren’t your own person anymore; you’re his plaything, and as a result your body belongs to him. Injuring yourself is equivalent to damaging his personal property, and if there’s one thing Douma can’t stand, it’s others taking what’s his.

And so, to truly see him mad, you must purposefully injure yourself in some capacity – though you have to get creative, considering how little time you have for yourself.

It's late at night when you decide to do it. It’s one of the rare evenings where Douma isn’t caging you in his arms while he commands you to sleep, eyes wide open and staring straight at you as he patiently waits for you to fall into unconsciousness. He’d said he had business to attend to tonight – whatever that meant, though you had a good feeling you’d rather not know.

It’s strange without him, even as loathed as you are to admit it. The room – not your room, never your room – is oddly quiet without him, missing the ominous, overwhelming presence that he brings with him with every visit. Some part of you almost finds it lonely, though you can’t exactly say that you miss him. Just the contact with another person – if you can even call him that.

Shaking your head from the thoughts, you stand up and slowly pad your way over to the window. It’s high, too high for you to reach just on your own. Grabbing the chair sitting at the small, never-used desk in the corner of the room, you’re quick to place it under the window and climb up.

The view isn’t anything particularly special – just looking out onto the courtyard in what you’re guessing is the center of the complex, the array of traditional style houses sitting in even, neat rows along the sides. It’s pretty, in a suburban, monotonous way, and it makes you frown. This place feels like death, and the sight only resolves your desire to escape.

Sitting outside the hole cut into the wall as the window are iron bars, surely placed there to limit anything from coming inside. And, of course, to limit anything from going outside, too. With a small breath, you reached up and carefully clasped your fingers around the bar second from the right.

You’d noticed the last time you’d done this that the metal was incredibly loose – wiggling in its joint easily, and likely unsecure enough to complete pull off of its hinges. Biting your lip, you slowly increased shaking the metal, trying to dislodge it and create a space large enough for you to squeeze through.

You paused every so often, worried that the slight clanging noise would draw attention to your room and alert anyone outside of what you were doing. That wouldn’t do – this escape plan hinged entirely on your ability to get out undetected, as you had no doubts every follower would immediately report to Douma and you could kiss your chances of escape goodbye.

It’s difficult to hold back the small exclamation of relief when you finally feel the iron break free, the weight of it in your hand making you swallow thickly. Okay, now to just push myself through…

The opening looked just big enough, but it would still be a tight fit.

Pushing off with one leg, you manage to get your knee on the sill. Scrunching your brows, you shift your weight to push off the back leg, wobbling slightly as you find your balance on both knees. Now, for the difficult part.

Come on, you murmur as you inch forward, gingerly pushing your head through the opening and glancing around, eyes squinting in the darkness but not seeing anyone outside. With a deep breath, you pushed further, one hand coming up to reach through the railing, managing to get your shoulder outside, pushing yourself forward and letting the smallest smile grace your lips because oh god, you might actually make it-

You barely feel the cold hand wrapping around your ankle until it’s yanking you back. Harshly.

You fly backwards with a small scream, the iron of the next bar over scratching at your arm and warm, wet blood immediately trickling down your forearm. Your back hits the mattress and knocks the air out of you, making your vision dizzy for a moment before you see it. Him.

Normally Douma sports a small, rather nonchalant smile around you. It’s chilling because there’s so little emotion in his eyes, almost looking like two pretty voids in the center of his face. It’s disturbing, but if you don’t look at it it’s not too terrible.

This, though? The way he’s looking at you right now? It’s enough to have you scrambling to the back of the mattress, your lips parting and closing like a fish, fear and adrenaline coursing through your veins so quickly that it hurts.

He’s not smiling. No, instead his lips are completely, utterly flat – a straight line that has tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. He doesn’t even look angry, really – just utterly emotionless, not a shred of anything on his face for you to read.

What are you doing? Even his voice is eerily neutral, completely monotone.

I-I was just – I – um, you can’t even think of a plausible excuse, the situation and Douma’s reaction leaving you too fried and afraid to form a coherent thought.

He’s not having that, though. He walks closer to the bed, each step sounding like a clap of thunder. His expression is still that same flat line, even as he crawls onto the bed, that hand once again wrapping around your ankle.

What are you doing? Say it, or I’ll slit your throat.

And you believe him – enough to start stuttering out apologies and slurred, panicked admissions of trying to escape. Your voice is raising an octave, fear palpable in the air, but it doesn’t slow Douma down as he drags your body closer to him by the ankle, seeming to have absolutely no difficult even as you claw at the sheets and writhe in his grasp.

Please, ‘m sorry, I just want to go home, I can’t – You’re scaring me Douma, please stop – You’re babbling, and apparently he’s decided he’s had enough as his grip moves from your ankle to your neck faster than you can see.

You’re pressed against the wall before you know it, strong, cold fingers pressing against your windpipe as he stares at you. He’s uncomfortably close, his body only an inch or so away from yours, those damn eyes of his the only thing you can see. He’s still expressionless, even as you gasp for air and claw at his fingers. He doesn’t budge though, seeming to not even notice your attempts at escape.

You must think I’m stupid, he starts, those eyes never looking away from yours. They don’t even seem to blink, even as you wheeze out his name.

You must think I’m an imbecile if you think you can escape me. I’m insulted.

His grip tightens.

You will never escape me. There is nowhere that you can go that I cannot follow.

His grip moves higher up, cutting off even more air.

There is nowhere that you can hide that I cannot find you.

Now the left side of his lip quirks up, ever so slightly.

There is no one who can help you that I cannot kill.

Suddenly he’s leaning in, head traveling down to your right arm, his inhale audible even though you can’t see his face.

Something wet and cold pokes at the still fresh scratch on your arm, and it makes you wince. You can’t feel much of anything now, though, as small dark spots in your vision form, desperation truly starting to take over.

Something akin to a groan fills your ears as Douma’s lips latch onto your skin, tongue poking and prodding at the cut, nudging its way inside and making the last bit of your air rush out of your throat as a scream, the pain starting to register even as the dots fill your entire vision, unconsciousness taking a hold of you as you go limp under his hand.

Douma pauses at the feeling of you passing out, eyes slowly looking up to your face, before removing his hand and letting you fall to the hard floor. Your body hits the ground with a deciding slump, and Douma pokes at your shin with the tip of his shoe.

Humming, he licks the remaining blood off of your lips. You’d been stupid, really, to think that he didn’t know about this escape plan of yours. You’re not nearly as good at pretending as you think you are, nor are you as subtle at glancing at the window as you seem to think. All those nights spent with you on his chest or spooned against him, the smell of your hair filling his nostrils again and again as he rutted against your ass, his breath tickling your neck, and you still thought he couldn’t tell that you kept glancing to the window, obviously wishing to crawl out and never return.

His fists clench, and he kicks, hard. Narrowly avoiding your leg and instead decimating the wooden nightstand next to it.

Stupid human, he growls out, swallowing the last bit of your blood.

And the next morning, when you awake with a splitting headache and bruises blossoming along your neck, Douma will be right there waiting for you. That fake, plastered-on smile sits on his lips again, and the hand he rests of your arm grows tighter.

Good morning, he starts, voice the usual chipper, overly saccharine tone. Thank me for not killing you. Go on.

And as you look towards the window – with fresh, gridlocking bars newly placed on both the inside and outside, you can only feel your eyes water, lips parting into the shape of thank you.

Douma’s smile grows for just a moment, something dancing behind his eyes.

Ah, there you go.

OVERALL DANGER:

9/10

As Douma’s darling, your biggest concern is really to keep Douma entertained and appeased. His obsession hinges on his amusement surrounding you, and although something that resembles the closest thing to love he can manage does form for you, there’s something deeply wrong with him.

He views you as an object – something he can possess and own, and the idea of having you all completely to himself is something that makes him giddy, eyes closing and something settling in the base of his gut because god, he wants you.

Your time with him will be characterized by his constant presence, those eyes of his always locked on you and you only. He can’t be away from you for long periods of time – he grows restless, his knee bouncing and his fingers fidgeting as he idly thinks of seeing you, missing the way you always look so sour when he pulls on your hair, how your eyes get all big and wide when he compliments you, the bashfulness obvious on your face even as you try to hide it. You’re endearing, really, a pet project of his that he slowly begins to feel more for, a creature that he finds himself holding in disturbingly high regard, despite your lowly status as a mere human.

But really, what makes Douma so dangerous is the fact that he is so detached from normal love and affection. This leads to him having no qualms about kidnapping you, isolating you, toying with you, and even hurting you when he sees fit.

Your existence becomes solely dictated by his whims – you’ll be what he wants you to be, and if you don’t, he doesn’t mind pushes and molding you into what he wants. Even if it means breaking a few bones, biting off a few chunks of flesh, or even turning you into a blood-thirsty demon, if he so desires.

Your life is no longer yours – it’s his, and the sooner you learn that, the better. After all, Douma can be almost sweet when he’s trying – so really, just let yourself be deluded into believing that this is what’s best for you.

It’ll be better for you that way, and who knows – maybe one day you’ll even find yourself grateful for his company, just as he so ardently reminds you. Just as he so frequently demands you to be.

[archieimagines]

antidote | chishiya shuntaro

Summary: A doctor is a lifeline. In the Jack of Hearts game, Chishiya strives to be yours.

yeah, i took the physician reveal and ran with it. i tried to get into his head to portray him as well as i could in writing this and accidentally fell head over heels. let me know if i did him justice? warnings: large helpings of anxiety, chishiya-esque emotional manipulation, though affectionate. mentions of sex, fwb setup, my attempt at sounding medically educated. word count: 2741 requested by: anon (thank you so much for this brilliant idea, i loved getting stuck into it. i don’t write smut, but i hope this still gets you a little riled.) written by: archie support me on ko-fi

It’s human nature to fuck up. He should’ve known to expect it from you.

It was beginning to wear him down, your constant knee bouncing and nail biting since the third hour of this game. All he needed to do was watch. He was wildly curious to see how this would all play out, and he knew he was safe. Knew you were safe.

All things considered, it was a low-risk game: only trust was required, and he’d scored that easily by taking you under his wing. However, The idea of the Jack of Hearts was a poison injected into the bloodstream of the prison’s population. The symptoms of distrust and paranoia would migrate through the ranks, and the masses would spiral and die.

It was a simple game. The key was to not let your protector get infected.

But the symptoms were visibly taking a hold of you. The cafeteria table shook with your anxious tics, the water in your bottle sloshing enough to disrupt his attention on the surrounding cafeteria. He wouldn’t complain though. You weren’t annoying, no, but you could soon put him on edge if he let you spiral like this, and then he’d be infected too.

“Chishiya,” you called softly, clearly nervous to disrupt his spectating.

He didn’t tear his eyes from the scheming girl in the dress. She was particularly interesting in this setting; and by his deductions, not likely to be the Jack. “Hm?”

Your voice came meeker than normal. “What’s my suit again?”

He turned slowly, a brow quirked over a relaxed eye as he finally gave you his attention. “You forgot?”

“No. Just tell me.”

He sighed silently through his nose, calculating your thoughts. To ask this after he’d told you twice already, you must’ve been anxious about one of two things. One, that your addled mind would fool you into speaking the wrong suit. Or two, that you couldn’t trust him.

“Heart,” was all he said.

And you nodded. Your eyes hardened, clearly visualising the shape before your eyes. ‘Heart,’ he could practically see your mind reciting. ‘Heart.’

Or… Was that a calculating look? He flexed his jaw. Were you possibly tallying up the likelihood that he’d lied to you?

He focused on the accidental downturn of his lips. He shouldn’t be double reading you like that - his own intuition was the only concrete thing he had. He’d never been wrong before. He’d kept the both of you alive for this long based on his skill alone, and he’d not let your lives slip away in a measly Jack’s game.

With a slow blink, he made the conscious choice not to chip away at his own trust in himself, as was undeniably the Jack’s aim in this game.

Chishiya’s gaze lowered to where your fingertips danced on the tabletop. A heart shape. Over and over. Frantic, disturbed. You were slipping.

Against his better judgement, he reached out a hand to clasp over your fingers, quietly amused when those sweet, round eyes fixed on his face. You were so scared, so anxious, and the part inside of him that felt for you lit a soft smile on his lips.

You’d never been good at heart games with that anxious disposition, but that was why he’d kept you by his side. You were an easy window into the minds of his surroundings with how easily he could read you. Your distress on the outside showed blatantly the fear of the people in this game. Everyone under the roof would be feeling it. Even the Jack… Especially the Jack.

Chishiya had found you early on in the games-- only the two of you had survived the Six of Hearts. You were entirely integral to his methods of survival that day, so he stole you away to the Beach and was sure to never let you have a game without him. Losing you as the key to his readings would surely damn him someday. Yet somewhere along the line, he grew… fond.

It must’ve been your consistent proximity, he’d reasoned at first. How your constant being around became a sense of ‘normal’ for both he and Kuina, how your raw, unapologetic humanity was a refreshing shift in his life, how you were a brilliant vessel in the games.

He’d protect you, and you’d provide him the opposite perspective as the control in his readings where everyone else was the variable. The perfect symbiotic relationship in this land.

And perhaps that may have been the case. Perhaps that was the foundation for which he felt appreciative of you, the foundation for a so-called friendship. But it didn’t explain how you’d developed into more for him.

His hold on your fingers tightened, gaze fixed on them as he recalled how they’d thread through his hair, night after night. How they’d unzip his hoodie at the Beach. How they’d scramble to tug the sheets over your naked body when a militant barged through the unlockable door to call him into an executive meeting. He couldn’t help the huff of amusement at the thought. Your eyes were as sweet and panicked then as they were now.

But it wasn’t the same. There, you had the safety of the blankets in his room. A sanctuary. Here, you must’ve felt so exposed to the Jack’s poison. Knee bouncing beneath the table and water bottle gripped tight in one hand, what he could swear was a thin sheen of sweat over your skin. You were really losing your nerve, and he needed to be your antidote.

“Follow me,” he murmured, his interest in the room’s population dissipated. With a gentle nod in a moment of reassurance, he let go of your fingers to let you take up your bottle of water and led you from the cafeteria.

His hands burrowed into his pockets as he walked. He took his slow time, sure to register his surroundings in his peripherals even as he gazed straight ahead, effortless as ever.

Your distinct footsteps followed close behind, audibly unsure and glancing around to the others as you tagged along. He knew you had no clue yet. You were playing it blind and suffering for it.

He took you aside into one of the prison’s meeting rooms where once upon a time, a board of directors would’ve gathered. They’d have administered handfuls of men’s fates, and they’d have considered them less than rats. Now this was where Chishiya would administer your own fate, purely because he held you dear.

He opened a palm to gesture to the end of the table. “Take a seat,” he spoke, ever relaxed, and watched you hop up onto the end of the table. It was rickety, chairs kicked and strewn about, the room only lit by the game-master’s searchlights that shone into the windows.

You looked far from comfortable perched up there, the glare lighting half of your face, and he found himself silent. He just looked at you for a moment. How beautiful you were.

He’d noticed many times, of course. The flutter of your lashes as you looked over his features in a fruitless attempt to read his face. Your parted lips channelling the oxygen that fuelled your body, though your lungs delivered it all shaky and uneven. You were stunning to him, even in the worst of times. Even when you were drenched in the crimson of lives you outlived.

But… There was something in this moment. Something about how right now, he was your lifeline. He held that beautiful existence in his hands and this time, he had the power to choose his method of helping. No supervisors to end your life with a swift letter, no list of priority to bump you down. Or at least, you were the priority.

“What is it?” You jerked him from his thoughts, your ankle bouncing once more where it swung below the table. “Chishiya?”

He gifted you a smile, but it didn’t soothe you.

Your eyes narrowed instead. “What are you hiding from me?”

A soft hum of laughter as he took slow, deliberate steps closer until he stood directly before you. A pinkness on your neck caught his eye and his head tipped in curiosity. He reached to slip a finger into your collar, lips pursed in question as he felt the irritated heat of your skin underneath. “Mm? Do you have a latex allergy?”

“Lat-? No.”

He pulled gently on the band at your neck, stepping even closer to peer at the line of irritation from the garment. It wasn’t until he finally removed his hold that he noted the moisture on his finger-- your sweat. The salt must have caught in the material and rubbed you raw, leading to irritation and the slightest blood spots beneath your skin.

“You’ve been pulling at the collar.”

“It’s tighter than when we started.”

Chishiya knew that wasn’t true. His was perfectly fine - comfortable, even - but he didn’t give a thought to argue. Your stress was having physical implications, making everything even worse for you. Anxiety really is a bitch, he mused.

“Water.” He held a hand out to the bottle and you placed it in his palm. His eyes fixed on yours as he opened it up-- and only at this point did he realise quite how close he was.

Your knees put a comfortable, familiar pressure on either side of his hips, his face uncommonly close to yours without the presence of a bed, but he had no intention of moving. He just took the space and owned it, relishing in the slightest hue of red that dusted your cheek, sure to notice it deepen as he raised your chin between his finger and thumb, guiding you to lift your face.

“This will be cold,” was all the warning he gave before trickling the water down your neck.

You hissed and jerked back, likely from the cold or the sting of the freshwater on your salted wounds. “Shit, Chishiya.”

He simply chuckled inwardly, lips hitched in a humoured smirk as he rinsed your skin. He let the little stream of water run across your throat, taking his time to work towards your other ear. His touch on your chin remained delicate as a doctor’s touch, directing you to look the other way for his ease.

This intimacy, he pondered. So rare in the home world. It was one thing to be a physician in a hospital, and another to use basic, opportunistic materials to heal someone who depended on him so wholly. A patient may fight to survive on their own accord, but here, in this game, with you… Everything rode on his word, on his actions. Everything.

A strange magnetism in his chest drew him ever closer to your skin, until his lips soon met the human warmth beneath your ear. It was a slow kiss, tender and deliberate, and he relished in how your body naturally leant into his.

His closed eyes let him hone on the quickened beat of your pulse, the ghost of a thrum against his lips. Your blood pumped the cortisol of your anxiety through the roof, and he remembered his mission to bring it back down, to calm you. He clung to this as a reason to retract from you. If this reaction was from his unsolicited affection, he should know better than to drive your adrenaline too high. 

“Don’t touch it anymore,” he prescribed, voice level and cool, giving no hint as to how hard it was to lean back from you. “The irritation will lessen and you can focus more.”

“I don’t know what the hell I’m focusing on,” you spat in a whisper, uncommonly callous with your words despite the pink to your cheeks as you watched him close the bottle cap once more. He’d seen you panic before in many a heart’s game, but not like this, not after his sparing affection. This game really was frying your nerves.

“Focus on keeping your head,” he murmured, the slightest snort slipping out after. “In every sense of the word.”

“Shut the fuck up, Chishiya.”

It was endlessly amusing to see you like this. The fire that came from your lips right now had never been rivalled before, and any regret he’d had at choosing a Heart’s game for you quickly dissipated. Fascinating to see you lose your mind.

But, he couldn’t toy with you too far. He allowed you to hear his chuckle, low and rumbling in his chest, only audible with the proximity he kept. “Sincerely. Focus on staying calm. All you need to do is trust me.”

“Not so easy in a place like this.”

He took the chance to look surprised. This was his opening to seal any of his own concerns about you. “You think I’d feed you the wrong suit?”

He paid careful attention to how you hesitated, watching the thoughts dance their patterns behind your eyes. You were looking at him without seeing him, close enough that he could see his reflection in your irises. Calculations, calculations, ones that you so visibly struggled to work out. Would he dare tell you the wrong suit? Would it be out of choice or pre-emptive, lest you try to end him first, purely because you’d worried?

Moments passed, and the longer it went on, the more his worries tugged at his thoughts. He needed to prove himself to you to save his own skin. Both of your skins.

His hands settled lightly on your lower thighs, set snug on either side of his hips, and he gave a reassuring squeeze. “You don’t need to worry,” he murmured, voice low and soothing as butter on a wound, “We’ll survive this together.”

That endearing little tug between your brows encouraged him on, and he couldn’t help but take your chin in his hold again. To hold that sweet face, so trusting, so impressionable. He watched the hope shine in your features before turning your face the slightest degree, exposing your ear once more, to which he leant in. His breath just tickled your lobe as his nose nudged on your shell, words slow and deliberate. “I know who the Jack is.”

The change in your body language was instant. You jumped back to peer at his face, brows high and eyes wide, no longer slouched and dejected. Your hand gripped at his white jacket, fisted into the fabric to keep him close as you murmured, “Really?”

A slow nod. Relaxed eyes and knowing smirk shone in the searchlight, and he planned his next words carefully. He didn’t want you to know who his suspects were, in case you gave anything away and steered the game from its natural course. “I have two suspects, it’s just down to seeing which fails first.”

The elation in his chest at seeing your relief was disorienting. The way you sighed out with almost a laugh, head thrown back to let it escape you… It was an image he wouldn’t forget for a long time. The serenity of his antidote, saving you from the Jack’s poison.

His brows shot up as you snatched his shoulders into a tight, relieved hold, thighs tight on his waist and arms looped around his neck. Your face pressed into the junction of his shoulder, nestled against his hair. “Thank fuck,” you breathed, edging on tears. “You worked it out? I should’ve known. I should’ve!”

He didn’t say anything, only astounded that you might be so liberal in your affections outside his hotel room. But then, he did bridge that gap first. And there were no regrets. He allowed himself to indulge in it, his own arms finding their home around your waist and his nose in your hair. Of course it was a trick of psychological conditioning, but if he focused just right, he could almost smell the residue of chlorine from the days at the Beach.

He indulged in splaying a hand across your back, rubbing soothing circles over your form. This body… He knew the ins and outs of it. He knew where every mole dotted your skin, he could estimate the length of your lower ribs without flaw. His thumb pressed slow pulses in the flesh between the back of your ribs, imagining that he’d place his stethoscope there.

What a sound he’d hear. Each breath, the source of your survival.

Would it be too arrogant to consider himself such a thing too?

[thewertsearch]

8ut then, who 8ut royalty could have the finned cheek to show disdain for the manner in which his 8lack lover conducts her red conquests?

Who is Mindfang red for, do we think? My two best guesses are Pyrope and Nitram.

Also, it's notable that the Orphaner is described as 'royalty', even though he's only in the penultimate caste. I wondered before if the Violets could be ruling Alternia in lieu of the Fuchsias, and this seems to be more fuel for that fire.

Less has acceler8ted meeker than I to homicide, and the viol8tion would hold me aghast, again, if his misgivings did not complement his so endearing arsenal of qu8nt flaws. It is impossi8le to stifle this grin even now as I write.

Mindfang is loquacious indeed, and honestly might give Rose a run for her money. In summary:

The Orphaner is angry that Mindfang's romantically involved with lowbloods. I guess an Ampora's an Ampora, no matter the era.

Mindfang is confirmed to be telepathic, an ability that Vriska has only occasionally displayed. She can't read Dualscar's mind, though - presumably because he's a highblood.

She goes on to explain that her 'romances' are with slaves she's mind-controlling, lest we forget that this is a genuinely evil troll. Nothing the Alternian Players have done even comes close to what Mindfang gets up to. This is the shit that Vriska couldn't bring herself to pull on Tavros, and now we know where she got the idea.

Reference is made to 'The Grand Highblood', a powerful troll fond of punchlines. Now, technically this could refer to any member of the juggalo cult, but let's not fuck around here. Gamzee's ancestor has entered the story.

And there he is.

Oddly enough, I think I like Eridan's style better. The scarf really adds something, and that something's missing here.

I like how this confrontation is sharing screenspace with Mindfang's journal. It really highlights how much these highbloods have been following their ancestors' footsteps, whether they know it or not.

Seriously, viewing Vriska's treatment of Tavros through this lens is... I don't even know if there's a word for it. I'd need multiple posts to even begin to dig into the implications.

Like, there's no two ways about it - that aborted mind-control attempt was a deliberate attempt to emulate her ancestor. When Vriska stopped controlling him, she thought she was failing to live up to Mindfang's legacy.

She thought she was a failure.

For not assaulting Tavros.

[creamsickle-writes]

A Thing or Two: Ace x F!Reader x Luffy

Tags: nsfw, Luffy and Ace interact in a not safe for work context (Ace teaches Luffy how to have sex and guides him to Reader's entrance during the fic), oral sex, penetrative sex, creampies, and light dirty talk

Ace noticed how his little brother stared at you.

As you danced in the middle of the ship’s deck, Luffy had his eyes glued to you the entire time; his eyes raked over your figure, his gaze shamelessly glued to your hips as you shook them. He would occasionally reach towards the table of food behind him, eating here and there. 

Ace cracked a smile; it had been a long time since he reunited with his brother. After his two years of training, it seemed he’d certainly grown up in more ways than one. After all, he had never seen Luffy so interested in women before. 

Ace approached his brother, placing a hand on his shoulder, a grin on his face.

“She’s a looker, isn’t she?”

“Huh?” Luffy looked up at his brother.

“The girl you’ve been eyeing all night,” Ace laughed, cocking his head in your direction.

Luffy blushed slightly and turned back to the buffet table, stuffing his face with anything and everything. 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Ace.” 

“You don’t have to deny it, you know.” Ace chuckled, “Not like you to be shy.”

Luffy grumbled as he ate his meat, barely chewing before swallowing it all, “Not being shy, don’t like her like that. She’s just a friend.”

Ace raises a brow, “Then surely you don’t mind me talking to her, do you?”

Ace stiffens when Luffy looks up at him, his eyes filled with almost murderous intent. Ace laughed and raised his hands, trying to calm the younger man, “Easy, Luffy. Was only teasing.”

“Good!” Luffy pouted, “’Cause she’s mine, and you can’t have her!”

“Thought you didn’t like her like that?” Ace teased, and Luffy just crossed his arms in defiance. 

“Well, maybe I lied!” 

Ace laughed and rolled his eyes playfully, “Why don’t you talk to her? I saw her staring at you a few times tonight.”

“Really?!” Luffy bounced off the walls, looking at you as you danced amongst your crewmates. 

Luffy immediately dashed towards you, striking up conversation rather quickly. Ace only laughed. That was his brother, for sure.

He watched on, seeing you both talk happily. 

_____

A few months later, Ace reunites with his brother again, and yet again, another fantastic party is thrown. 

This crew really liked any excuse to party, Ace finds out quickly.

And this time, when he sees his brother, he’s dancing with you instead of just ogling you from afar. Ace smiles, glad he was part of why you two eventually ended up together. 

As the party goes on, you eventually leave the dance floor and make your way to Ace. To his surprise, you ask if you can speak with him in private. He gives a shrug and decides, sure, he can step away for a bit.

When you reach the kitchen, you sit down, and Ace sits beside you.

“Hey, um,” you start, nervously laughing, “I know this is weird, but… but do you know Luffy is into?”

“Into?” Ace squints, leaning back in his chair.

He doesn’t miss how your cheeks flush, “Well, it’s just that… I’ve tried dropping hints to Luffy that I want to, um, take our relationship further, but I don’t think he’s noticed?”

Ace cracks a smile.

Oh.

You wanted to know how to turn Luffy on.

“Not sure,” he shrugs, “I’d imagine you’d have to be very blunt with him, though.”

You only nod, leaning in to capture every word from Ace’s lips.

“Just don’t dance around it. Say how you feel.”

“Okay.” You then clear your throat, “And um, I just wanted to ask um….”

Ace sits up, your tone seeming to change with this new topic. You sounded meeker, even more shy, as you talked.

“I’m not very experienced, so… I-I don’t know much about pleasing others like that… do you think you could, um, give me some tips before you leave?”

Ace’s eyes widened before you quickly added, “You don’t have to, though! I’m sorry, this is probably really inappropriate!”

Ace only laughs, patting your shoulder, “It’s nothing to worry about! I can probably give you some pointers before I head off.”

Now Ace is blushing because, well, it sounded like he was going to physically show you. But he swore that wasn’t his intention; he would only verbally communicate with you.

At least, that’s what the plan was.

You sigh before brushing off your skirt, “Thanks, Ace; I’m sorry this was so terribly awkward.”

“Not at all.”

The flame man watches as you get up from your seat and make your way to the kitchen door, offering a short farewell before leaving.

At that moment, when the door closes, he notices a bit of straw peeking out from behind the kitchen counter. Ace smiles softly; looks like his interaction with you had an observer.

“Luffy,” Ace calls, and immediately the straw hat ducks under the counter, “I know you’re here.”

Ace gets up from his seat and walks behind the counter, spotting the young man crouched by the floor. 

Ace kneels beside him, “Looks like your girl wants you to make a move.”

Luffy hums, “Don’t know how.”

“What?”

“I wanna do it with her, but… I don’t know what girls like.”

Ace offers a small laugh, “Looks like you’re both too scared of being inexperienced to get the ball rolling.”

“’m not scared!” Luffy retorts, “Just… wanna make sure she feels good.”

Ace gives a smile out of pity for his brother. He had never seen him be self-conscious before. He always seemed to rush in, to charge ahead without thinking, but it seemed like you meant a lot to him, and he didn’t want to mess up.

“Want you to show us, Ace. Please?”

Ace turns beet red at that and stumbles backward, landing on his ass.

“C-Come on, Luffy, I can’t do that-“

“Why not?”

“I mean, it’d be weird. We’re brothers, you know? I don’t think-“

“Pleaseeeeeee?”

Ace sighed, “Luffy-“

“Besides, we aren’t, um,” Luffy thinks momentarily to find his words, “Blood-related! Or even married-related!”

Ace chewed the inside of his mouth. That was a fair point; there would really be nothing incestuous about this possible encounter. But still, it felt forbidden, wrong…

“Come on, Ace, you taught me how to do everything! What’s so different about this?!”

Ace is about to offer another rebuttal, but he can’t say no when he sees Luffy’s big, round doe-eyes.

Instead, Ace sighs, “Alright, how are we going to do this?”

_____

The next night comes, and Ace asks to see you in the crow’s nest. You make your way up, surprised to see Luffy is there too. Your boyfriend gives you a big smile and waves as Ace stands next to him, a slight smirk on his face.

“What’s up?” You ask, cautiously approaching the two men.

Ace starts, “I know you asked for some tips before. I think Luffy and I have come up with a more hands-on solution.”

You flush as you notice how the crow’s nest is furnished. There are piles of pillows and blankets adorning the floorboards. Everything between you three looks so cozy, so soft. Your eyes flicker from the floor back up to Ace and Luffy.

“A um, h-hands-on solution you say…”

“Only if you want to.” Ace adds, “But Luffy said that he wants me to show him how to please you, and since you asked how to please him, I figured we could kill two birds with one stone, yeah?”

You chewed at your bottom lip. You had always found Luffy’s brother attractive, and now that you were presented with the opportunity of being with the two men at once, your head spun.

“Don’t you feel weird about this?”

“I was a bit at first, but Luffy reminded me that we’re not technically brothers,” Ace laughs, and Luffy plops down on the blankets, spreading out comfortably as he stares up at you.

“Come on,” Luffy motions for you to come close, “Lay down with me!”

You timidly step onto the blankets and kneel next to Luffy. Little did you know you’d be sealing your fate.

Luffy kisses your lips as soon as you’re in the makeshift bed. It’s messy, wild, and full of so much energy. Your head spins.

You hear Ace laugh from behind Luffy, and soon your lips separate, “Easy there. Why don’t you try a different approach?”

“Like how?” Luffy tilts his head as he turns to look at the older man.

Ace makes his way between you both, cupping your cheek, “You mind if I show him?”

“U-Um, you can…”

Ace laughs lowly before leaning in, pressing a softer kiss to your lips. He’s still very much in charge, though, kissing you with a particular passion and forcefulness. You gasp when he licks your bottom lip, asking for permission.

Luffy never did that.

You timidly opened your mouth, allowing Ace to explore your cavern. When he slides his tongue against your own, you moan, enjoying the feeling.

When he parts from you, Luffy speaks: “Ew, why would you wanna kiss with your tongue? Sounds gross.”

“Just try it,” Ace chuckles, scooting away from you, “It feels good.”

“‘Kay…” Luffy mumbles before cupping your face and leaning in to press his lips against yours. He’s still more passionate than Ace and slightly clumsy, but you can tell he’s trying to mimic his bond brother. Soon enough, he’s licking at your lips, and you open your mouth, allowing him to explore. 

Luffy slides his tongue up against yours, tasting you thoroughly. A soft moan escapes your mouth as he begins fucking it with his tongue, teasing your own. 

He keeps going until you need to break for air. You’re left breathless as you pull away, your spit connecting you two.

Luffy bites his lips, “You’re right, Ace. Does feel good…”

And before you can catch your breath, Luffy is back on you, kissing you with his newly acquired skills. He drags you onto his lap, and you gasp when you already feel something hard poking you.

Meanwhile, Ace’s breath is trapped in his throat. Watching you and Luffy make out was really hot. He couldn’t help but bite his lip as his cock twitched in his pants. He wanted nothing more than to take your lips again, but he knew his place; he was just the instructor.

Luffy immediately tugs at your dress’s hem, “Take it off, please?”

You laugh at his whining and slowly remove your dress, allowing your body to be visible. Ace swallows thickly; you are such a beautiful girl. Your curves were in all the right places, your skin seemed silky smooth, and your beautiful eyes looked up at Luffy with such innocence.

He’s lost in your body as Luffy struggles with your bra clasp. His groans of frustration cause Ace to snap out of his trance.

“Stupid thing-!” Luffy growls, and Ace laughs.

“Here, it’s like this.” And Ace masterfully undoes your bra with a single hand. You feel your core clench at the action.

“Ohhhh,” Luffy muses as your bra straps fall off your shoulders, allowing your bra to hit the floor, “Thanks, Ace!” 

Luffy immediately reaches for your tits, molding them in his hands. You squeal at the touch, and Ace laughs. 

“Sensitive, aren’t you?”

You flush, your eyes looking away from both Luffy and Ace.

“What should I do with ’em, Ace?” Luffy asks, looking up at the dark-haired man.

The older man only chuckles, “You kiss on ’em… suck ’em, like this…”

Ace leans forward and captures one of your nipples in his mouth, swirling his tongue slowly over your puckering nipples. He moans against your skin and takes your torso in his hands, softly rubbing your sides. You throw your head back, letting out soft whimpers as he pleases you.

He pulls away, your nipple popping out of his mouth. Luffy practically bounces in place, eager to get started. 

“I wanna try too!” And with that, your Captain lunges forward, taking your other nipple into his mouth. He sucks harshly at your breast, taking your other one into his hands. He tweaks and pulls at the nipple not in his mouth, and Ace bites his lip as he watches on, his own erection becoming unbearably painful.

He tries to touch himself sneakily, palming his erection in his shorts. You and Luffy don’t notice, though, as you’re too involved with each other. Luffy moans happily as he sucks on your nipples, nibbling them roughly as he gropes your other breast. Your eyes are shut tight, your head tossed back as you relish the feeling.

Ace sneaks behind you, abandoning his weeping erection for a moment to tug at your panties. You gasp as Ace pulls you away from Luffy, his arms holding you tight against his chest. You take off your panties, and Luffy stares, enamored by the sight of your slick folds.

Ace spreads your legs with one hand and slides his other between your legs, spreading your folds. Luffy licks his lips and immediately goes for your cunt, licking a long stripe from your hole to your clit.

“O-Oh, Luffy-!”

“Make sure you focus on that little ball at the top, Luff,” Ace instructs, his fingers still spreading you open so Luffy can enjoy his feast.

“Here?” Luffy questions innocently, flicking his tongue over your swollen clit roughly. You gasp sharply and arch your back, causing Ace to chuckle.

“Mhm, just like that,” Ace smirks before his hands find their way to your breasts, molding them and pulling at your nipples.

Okay, so he knew he was supposed to be the teacher, but he couldn’t resist you anymore. He could always excuse it as adding to your pleasure anyway.

Your eyes flutter shut as your sensitive parts are stimulated. With Ace pulling at your nipples and Luffy slobbering all over your clit, you weren’t sure if you could last long.

“Mmh,” Luffy moans, “Tastes good…”

You flush at the vulgar words that left his mouth, your legs starting to quiver.

“You okay?” 

Ace answers for you, “She’s getting close; keep going.”

Luffy dove in once again, sucking and slurping at your sensitive nub. You instinctively reach for his raven hair, pulling the young man into your cunt. Luffy groans at the action and eats you out with even more determination. 

“Fuck, Luffy-!” 

You squeal, gushing onto his tongue. The Captain moans heartily, tonguing your clit and sucking up all you had to give. 

Ace groans from behind and accidentally ruts against your ass, causing you to gasp. It was your first time noticing that he was erect as well.

But you don’t say anything about it.

Luffy sits up with a huge grin, “Was that good?”

“Of course,” you pant out, your head swimming as you attempt to ground yourself in reality. 

“Alright, let me teach you a few things, yeah?” Ace chuckles, his breath hot against your ear, 

You nod timidly, and Ace adjusts himself so he’s on his knees now, guiding you so you do the same. 

“Stand up, Luffy.” Ace commands and Luffy follows, getting the picture. The younger man starts to undo his pants and hastily removes them along with his underwear. His cock is red and throbbing, his shaft excitedly twitching in the air. You swallow and look to Ace for permission to touch.

“Go on and grab it. Not too rough, alright?”

You nod and grip Luffy from the base, making him jump. 

“Good, but more towards the tip, okay?” Ace suggests before taking your hand in his, guiding it to the flushed head, “And let’s start slow…”

Ace keeps your soft hand in his as he begins pumping Luffy’s cock. He flushes deeply as he realizes what he’s doing, but Ace swallows harshly; he was just helping, that was all.

“Y-You got it?” Ace asks, and you nod. He releases your hand, allowing you to take control now. Luffy’s thighs clench as you stroke the tip of his dick, streams of precum leaking out.

Luffy calls your name as he pants, “Feels… really good-!” 

“Why don’t you help him out?” Ace chuckles, “Look how he’s crying out for you.”

You glance between Ace and Luffy briefly before lowering your head, licking up all the precum that pooled at the top. 

Ace bit back a groan as his cock throbbed at the sight. Your blushing face and nervous tongue were too much, and the lewd sounds from Luffy’s mouth only added to the entire scene. 

“More-“ Luffy grunts, thrusting his hips impatiently, causing his slick head to rut against your cheek. 

Ace purrs, “Let’s give him more, yeah?”

You nod, and before you can say anything, Ace tucks your hair behind your ear and pushes your head forward. You moan as you take Luffy into your mouth, your tongue caressing the underside of his cock. He practically howls as you take him as deep as possible. Your eyes look up at your boyfriend, his own shut tight.

Ace moves your head back and forth, helping you bob your head on Luffy’s cock. He grunts under his breath, his own cock twitching as he wishes you were sucking him off too. But he settles for watching you.

“That’s it, make sure you drool around him too; guys like it sloppy like that…” Ace moans, pulling your hair back as he guides your head.

“Y-Yeah,” Luffy’s voice cracks, “‘Like it when it’s all wet… hnn, shit-“ 

The Captain’s hips snap forward, his cock fucking your throat with Ace still controlling your head. You felt like a toy, so easily manipulated by these two men.

“Use your hands too,” Ace suggests, and you place your hands around what you can’t fit in your mouth, “Twist your hand when you suck him in.”

Luffy’s moan catches in his throat as he throws his head back, “F-Feels so good-! I might-“

Ace pulls your head off Luffy’s cock, and you’re left panting, a singular string of spit connecting your tongue to his throbbing shaft. Luffy almost cums from your lewd face alone.

“That was close, huh?” Ace chuckles. 

Though, his erection is getting more bothersome. It throbs uselessly in his underwear as he watches on, and he’s not sure how much more he can take. 

But an idea pops into his head. 

“Alright, last lesson,” he wets his lips, “Time to show you how to fuck a girl.”

Luffy’s eyes light up, “Oooh, okay!”

You look at Ace with a dark flush on your cheeks, and he smiles that charming smile of his, “That is if your girlfriend is okay with that…”

You bite your lip, “I-If it’s to show Luffy, then… it’s okay.”

Ace smirks, “Of course.”

The older man repositions himself so he’s no longer behind you but in front of you on his knees like you are. Luffy is behind him, still standing, watching intently. 

“Here,” Ace starts, gently laying you down, “You’re gonna want to treat her like a princess. But…” 

Ace makes quick work of unbuttoning his shorts and sliding out of them and his underwear. His cock bobs excitedly in the air, the tip flushed bright red. You don’t miss how precum leaks from his frustrated cock. 

“Make sure you ask how she wants to be fucked too. Even though you’re supposed to be gentle with girls, they sometimes like to be fucked like whores.”

You gasp at his words and whimper when he slides his swollen, wet head over your folds. 

“So tell me,” he smirks, “How do you want to be fucked?”

Your lips tremble, “Hard.”

Luffy scrambles to your side, sitting beside your head, “Don’t worry, Ace will do it right! And then I’ll try to do it even better!”

Ace chuckles, “Mm, we’ll see…”

With that, Ace pushes in, and you gasp at the stretch. He’s thick, making your hole adjust to his girth. 

“Oh, she’s tight-“ he hisses, lowering his head, “Feels really good-“

He lets out a drawn-out moan as he pushes inside, your walls clenching and pulsing around him. 

“N-Now, Luffy,” Ace starts, his voice trembling as he bottoms out, “You’re gonna want to aim for her g-spot, okay? That means you have to angle your hips up.”

As if testing the waters, Ace pulls out slowly before pushing back inside. Your eyes flutter shut, and you throw your head back. Luffy looks at you in awe, watching your face scrunch and contort in pleasure. 

“Her g-spot?” Luffy questions, tilting his head. 

“M-Mhm-“Ace stutters, already lost in your wetness, “you’ll know it when you feel it. It’ll make her feel really good.”

Luffy hums before looking back at where your body and Ace’s connected. 

“And you’re gonna want to be romantic still. Hold her hand while you fuck her.” Ace says, his own hand reaching for your right one. Luffy follows suit, taking your left hand in his. 

“Alright,” Ace starts, “Just watch for a bit; you’ll pick up fast.”

The older man takes your hip in his free hand, angling your hips upward before slamming in. You sharply gasp as he hits that sensitive spot within you dead on. 

Ace felt like a piece of shit for disguising his horniness as simple instruction, but fuck, you felt so good. It had been a while since he had sex, and you were perfect. The way your pussy wrapped around his cock, how your breasts jiggled as he pounded you, your cute voice gasping as he slammed in- it was all perfect. 

“Does it feel good?” Luffy asked, his hand tightening around your own.

“Yes-!” Your eyes roll back, “Yes, he feels so good, Luffy!”

Luffy stares, watching Ace snap his hips forward as if his life depended on it. The younger man then reaches for your clit, rubbing it slowly in circles, “And it feels better when I do this, right? ’Cause I wanna help too…”

You nod dumbly, “It feels good, Luffy… K-Keep rubbing it-!”

Luffy’s fingers speed up, and you toss your head back, drool escaping your lips as Ace’s cock hammers into you, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl.

“Oh, you’re so wet-” Ace grits his teeth, “L-Luffy, make sure you… tell her how good she feels when you fuck her-“

Luffy nods eagerly, watching on.

The older man leans in close, his eyes locking with yours as his raspy voice meets your ears, “Mn, I wish I could fuck this little pussy of yours all the time. You’re so fucking wet and tight. Luffy’s really lucky…”

Your face glows with embarrassment at the man’s words, “A-Ace-”

His cock throbs inside you as his hips don’t let up, his cock’s head slamming into your most sensitive parts. Your chest rises and falls as he plunges into your pussy with great force. You cry out, legs seizing as he penetrates your depths.

“Mm, okay, I think I got it, Ace!” Luffy exclaims, and Ace’s hips stutter.

Shit, he was hoping he could cum from this, but he knew better than to push his luck.

Reluctantly, he pulls out of your heavenly pussy, leaving you to throb around nothing. You whined at the loss.

“Take a crack at it, Luff.”

Ace moves aside, releasing your hand. Luffy does the same, positioning himself between your legs. He rubs his pink tip over your slit before shoving himself inside, causing you to moan loudly.

“S-So- warm-!” He moans, tossing his head back, desperately humping your cunt, “O-Oh, it’s really wet, like your mouth was!”

Ace grabs your hand as he takes Luffy’s previous position. Luffy has his hands on your waist, his strokes pummeling your insides. 

Ace reaches between your legs with his free hand and spreads your lips, “Watch it go in and out of her…”

Luffy looks down, his eyes lidded as he watches his cock disappear inside you, “Feel the wet stuff… going down my balls- there’s so much…!”

You bit your lip at his obscene words, wet smacking sounds echoing throughout the room.

Luffy makes a lustful noise as his vision starts to grow hazy. He’s utterly pussy drunk already, fucking you recklessly. Your poor cervix would be bruised in the morning, but you didn’t care; you just wanted Luffy to fuck you.

“I-I’m gonna- “Luffy starts, “I’m gonna-!”

“Pull out- “Ace warns, and Luffy obeys, his cock angrily bouncing in the cool air. Luffy lets out a drawn-out whine.

“Aceeeee,” he pouts, “I was close! Why did I have to stop?”

“Because,” Ace smirks, “You gotta make her cum from your cock. Here…”

Ace shuffles so that he’s behind Luffy. The younger man looks behind him and blushes slightly when a large hand wraps around his base, guiding him to your folds.

“Tease her like this,” Ace bites his lip, dragging Luffy’s soaked tip over your clit, “Back and forth…”

Your legs tighten as Luffy’s head swipes over your needy clit, stimulating you slightly. You begin to squirm, and Ace laughs a bit.

“Now, let’s try it again…” Ace angles Luffy’s cock so it prods at your hole, and Luffy gets the message, taking your hips in his hands and dragging you forward, impaling you on his cock.

Luffy spreads your legs apart, allowing him to reach even deeper inside. 

“Remember, angle upwards,” Ace grabs Luffy’s hips and angles him just right, causing your eyes to roll back as Luffy resumes his hectic pace.

“So tight-!” Luffy grits his teeth as he fucks you like a wild beast, chasing his high while trying to get you off.

Luffy pants, throwing his head snack as he squeezes his eyes shut, “Can’t- Cant get enough! You feel so good! Wanna do this all the time now-“

To your surprise, Luffy pulls out, turns you around, and pushes you onto your knees before shoving your face into the pillows.

“Wanna do it like this-“ He growls, before forcing himself back inside, “Want to fuck you, just like this!”

You gasp loudly as suddenly his cock smashes your cervix. Your eyes look to the heavens as he shoves his cock inside, battering your womb.

“L-Luffy!”

“Take it all-!” He growls, slamming into you with a force you had never experienced.

Ace’s cock can’t take being neglected anymore. He sits to the side, watching you both, and doesn’t even bother hiding his newly busy hand. He bites his lip, freckled cheeks flushed as he watches Luffy fuck you from behind.

He was so jealous. He wanted to pound you with all that he had too. He wanted to ram into your deepest depths and make you squeal.

But all he could do was fuck his hand.

Ace watches on, your moans and squeals getting him riled up. His cock desperately throbbed, wanting nothing more than to be back inside your warmth. But he simply watched on, licking his lips as Luffy absolutely destroyed you.

And soon enough, your words cut through the lewd sounds.

“I-I’m cumming!” You moan out, “L-Luffy, I-I’m-!”

Luffy doesn’t slow down; he continues assaulting your tight folds until he bursts, filling you with a cracked moan. His warmth shooting inside triggers your orgasm, your cream coating his shaft as he thrusts in and out.

Ace grunts, his orgasm approaching quickly. He speeds up his hand so he won’t be left in the dust, and soon enough, he’s cumming after you both.

The room is silent save for your combined ragged breaths. Luffy eventually pulls out, his cum leaking out of your hole. He, with shaky hands, guides his tip back to your entrance and shallowly thrusts in and out, stuffing you full.

Ace laughs breathlessly, “Good, make sure none of it goes to waste…”

Luffy laughs gently along with him.

[doomhands-jr]

The Devil's Advocate - Chapter 5

Delinquent!Noah Sebastian X Pastor's Daughter!Reader

Summary: Noah is a delinquent with a lot of anger at the church. You're a pastor's daughter plagued by moral perfectionism, charged with overseeing the community service he's been sentenced to complete. You've never encountered true temptation before. How will you fare up against Noah, who not only isn't bound by the same rules of purity as you, but actively scoffs at them?

Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

Warnings: Rough sex, NoahxOFC, slight degradation, religious trauma Masterlist

Banner by @flowerynerds

______

Early November was among your least favorite times of the year. It wasn’t yet cold enough to snow, but the rain was frigid. Halloween excitement had worn off and there wasn’t much to look forward to until Christmas (Thanksgiving was fine, you supposed, but you were staying on campus while your parents were on a missions trip to Africa).

Your socks had gotten wet on the walk to the worship center. You loathed wet socks, even partially wet socks. They stuck to your toes in the most uncomfortable way, freezing them while the rest of your foot stayed dry. Any time your socks got wet, you’d hyper-focus on the sensation until they either dried out or you changed them, and since you were obligated to spend the morning overseeing community service, they were about to be all you could think about for the next four hours.

All you could think about, that is, until you happened to glance up and spy Noah slouched on a bench near the church entrance. You stopped short, double-checking the time on your phone. 7:46. It was unlike him to be early, let alone fourteen minutes early. 

He hadn’t noticed you approach, too busy staring at his lap. He fidgeted with an object in his hands—something you couldn’t see. You took a deep breath, squared your shoulders, and continued walking.

The day after Halloween, you made a pact with yourself: you would get over Noah Davis. It wasn’t because he was a bad guy or anything. You actually quite liked him and found him to be an overall positive influence.

The problem was that he was too much of an influence. You found yourself second-guessing your morals, wanting to agree with him before you’d fully thought everything through. You wanted to believe everything he said, regardless of whether or not it was true. And you knew it was partly because you wanted so badly to give into his temptation.

Not that giving into temptation was necessarily bad. But you’d grown up listening to and believing everything the men in your life had told you, simply because they were in positions of authority. That hadn’t exactly worked out in your best interests.

Were you going to let another man influence your beliefs just because it would justify chasing the things your body craved? And oh, did it crave.

That wasn’t to say Noah didn’t make a lot of very good points - you were inclined to agree with them, but you had to sort that out slowly and on your own. Without the influence of him or his body pulling you in any one direction.

On top of that, it was inappropriate of you to entertain feelings for him—you were in a supervisor role.

The full truth was that letting go of the idea of him? It hurt. Giving up something you really wanted for something you thought would be better for you in the long run was never easy. But you were determined to do it. God had something better in store for you, you were certain of it. And Noah’s body was simply a distraction—a pitfall for you to avoid. 

And who knew? Perhaps you were doing Noah a favor as well, not giving into him so easily.

The moment Noah noticed you, he stood up, straightening the legs of his jeans. You kept him in your periphery but didn’t look directly at him. Looking at him was too hard. You didn’t want him to know that though, so you did your best to be friendly. “Hey,” you said, greeting him with a friendly wave and glance, noticing your voice came out meeker than you intended.

“Hey,” he replied, and his voice carried a soft, hollow timbre that already had your heart squeezing. This was going to be more difficult than you thought.

You kept your eyes on the ground, allowing him to fall into step beside you, and headed straight for the church doors. Pulling out the key and unlocking them gave you something to focus on that wasn’t him, and for that you were grateful.

“How was your week?” he asked.

“Good. Boring,” you said, eyes scanning along the light blue carpet in front of you as you walked through the foyer. “Yours?”

“Enlightening.”

Enlightening. How were you supposed to ignore that?

“Oh?” you asked, curiosity getting the better of you. You still held firm in not looking at him, one glance at his soft smile and your resolve would crumble. You knew it.

And then, in an attempt to seem normal, you glanced. Not directly at him, but in his direction. Enough to catch the soft smile on his face and knowing kindness in his dark eyes. The way his long hair spilled out from underneath his hood.

You dug your nails into your fists as punishment and looked back down at the floor, where your feet guided you to the supply closet at the end of the hall.

“I think I owe you an apology for how I behaved on Saturday,” he said. He stopped in front of the closet and turned to face you head-on. It was getting harder to avoid direct eye contact.

He remained silent, providing you an opportunity to respond, but you couldn’t will your mouth to open and instead settled on offering a quick nod.

“I should have warned you about the crowds. And about the content for some of the music we play... And for agreeing to play that last song.”

“Noah, the whole crowd wanted it,” you reasoned, fiddling with the latch on the supply closet. “I’m just one person.”

“Just,” he interjected, holding a hand up, “let me at least apologize for the way it affected you.”

The tension in your shoulders slackened infinitesimally and you allowed your eyes to travel to his inked hands. His fingers were so long. It ached, how much you wanted to gravitate toward them, feel them caress your face, envelop his thumb in your mouth and have him drag it down your chin…

Catching yourself mid-thought, you looked away again. “I suppose I can allow that.”

He puffed out a short breath, relieved at your acceptance. “It wasn’t cool of me to let you go into that unprepared,” he continued, voice filled with genuine regret. “I wish I would have handled it better.”

You chewed on the outer corner of your lip. The sentiment felt too heavy for the moment, and you needed to end the conversation quickly. “Thank you for saying that.”

“I also want to apologize for what happened after.”      

Your stomach dropped. You’d really rather not talk about that. It wasn’t exactly your proudest moment. You’d fully embarrassed yourself with your overreaction to what happened at the party. But more than that, you’d experienced genuine temptation for the first time in your life, and had only barely made it out of there without completely walking back on all your scruples. Even talking about it meant risking being pulled back down the rabbit hole he was about to apologize for. Either way, you couldn’t help it when, in a moment of weakness, you glanced at his mouth. His smile faded and something more earnest took over his face. His lips parted a millimeter as he sucked a breath in through his teeth and you found yourself mimicking the movement without trying.

“If your beliefs surrounding…” he took another deep breath as he searched for the right word, “…physical intimacy are important to you, I want to do a better job of respecting that. From now on, I’ll be hands-off.” He raised his palms in surrender.

His words wrapped around your body like a rope, compressing, crushing your ribs, and holding you together.

Last summer, when Isaac had ended your kiss, it didn’t surprise you. In fact, it was something you had almost expected him to do. He performed Christianity like it was a Broadway show and he was the principal actor. It was almost a game to him, it seemed. How many points could he earn with God during his time on Earth? How big of a mansion would he be rewarded with in Heaven? How many virgin brides?

You smelled a hint of Isaac’s performance in Noah. But there was something else there underneath. An eagerness to respect you in the way that actually mattered. He wanted to get it right.

“Noah,” you sighed, feeling like he was perhaps taking this apology thing further than he needed to.

“I also want to give you this back,” he said, fishing out your silver ring from his back pocket and holding it out to you. “I’m sorry for removing it in the first place.”

You stared at the silver ring. The symbol of the promise you’d made when you were thirteen and had no idea how anything worked.

Now, for you, it symbolized a lie that had been spoon-fed to you. It symbolized blind obedience to the men in your life and a life you had no control over.

You deflated.

“Keep it.”

Noah’s eyebrows lifted, lips parting in surprise and confusion. “Why?”

You looked anywhere but the ring in front of you, settling on a speck of lint that dusted the shoulder of Noah’s zip-up.

“I just don’t want it anymore. It feels too constricting.”   

Huffing, he stepped forward and grabbed your left wrist, bringing it to his hand. His touch sent warmth cascading down your arm and into the rest of your body.

Slowly, delicately, he slid the ring back onto your finger. The cold metal contrasted starkly with the warmth of his palm. His hand lingered there for a moment, thumb swiping the length of your finger.

It felt oddly reminiscent of a proposal, but in reverse. With this ring, he promised to leave you alone.

Something harsh and sour coated the back of your throat and you swallowed bitterly.

“I want you to have it back anyway,” he said, voice gentle and kind as he let go of your wrist. “If you want to remove it again, that should be your choice.”

You rolled your eyes, twisting the ring back off your finger and holding it out to him in your palm. “I don’t want the responsibility of keeping this. Can you please take it?”

He stepped back from you, clasping his hands behind his back.

“Ugh,” you scoffed and tossed it in the empty mop bucket in the corner of the supply closet, willing it to disappear. You turned back to face him with your hands on your hips. “You know you’re being a little dramatic about this, right?”

Your eyes flicked back up to his face. He looked from you, to the bucket, and back, but stayed silent.

“I allowed you to take it off because I wanted you to, not because I was under some sort of spell. Plus, I should be apologizing for how I left.”

Noah closed his eyes and shook his head firmly. “No way, don’t ever feel bad for setting boundaries. I’m actually glad you left when you felt uncomfortable instead of letting me pressure you into something you didn’t want.”

You shifted your weight from foot to foot. This much respect was new for you—not just from Noah, but from any man in your life.

“I still feel bad,” you confessed, twisting your hands together in front of you.

“Please don’t,” he said, arm reaching out a few inches as if he intended to touch you, but then he thought better of it and pulled back. Your eyes chased his hand as it fell back to his side, wishing he would have followed through. “I was in the wrong, not you.”

“Why are you doing this?” you asked.

A smile played on the corner of his lips. “I suppose you could say I’m turning over a new leaf.”

Inside, you smiled at the throwback to the conversation last month. Outwardly you pouted, rocking on your heels. “I liked the old leaf.”

“Tough,” he said, grinning defiantly. “Get used to this one.”

You crossed your arms and nodded over to the supply closet. “Well, can the new leaf go grab the broom and dustpan so he can get to work?”

“At your service, Angel,” he said, sidestepping you to get into to the closet.

“Angel?” you asked. “What happened to Mary?”

“Mary’s too boring,” he called over his shoulder, digging around the various mops and cleaners. “I like Angel better.”

“Can’t you just use my real name?” you asked.

“No,” he said reemerging from the closet with two brooms and two dustpans in tow. He smiled his full Cheshire-cat grin, lips stretching wide over his too-big teeth in a way that let you know he already won whatever debate you were about to start.

You decided not to press the matter. You also preferred Angel to Mary. At least it didn’t have the virgin connotation.

You waved him off. “Whatever. Just get to work.”

Noah winked and did just that, keeping his head down and minding his business until Nick showed up, six minutes late.

“What are we doing today, boss?” he asked. You pointed over to where Noah was sweeping.

“Aye, aye!” he said with a salute and started toward Noah.

“Actually can you hang back a second?” you said in a low voice. He paused mid-step, turning on his heel and leaning in with his full attention. “I wanted to talk to you.”

He sighed, eyes dropping to the floor. “Look. I know it wasn’t cool of me to sleep with your friend, but you should know—,”

“—I was actually going to thank you,” you cut him off. Nick’s brows pulled together.

“What?” he asked, mouth parting stupidly.

You nodded, fidgeting with the sleeve of your sweater. “She told me about how nervous she was,      about how patient you were with her and how you walked her through the process, and that you insisted on making sure she was sober enough to give consent. Not all guys would do that for a girl they just met. Let alone someone whose first time it was.”

Nick blinked, then released the tension he’d been holding in his jaw, allowing his face to relax into a smile. “Of course. I’m not an asshole. Or, well at least not a complete asshole.”

You chuckled, signaling with your hand for him to join you while you meandered over to the other end of the foyer where Noah was working. “Ava can be pretty reckless at times,” you said, lowering your voice now that Noah was within earshot. “She gets in over her head. I appreciate that she had someone like you who prioritized her comfort and safety.”

“She’s not bad. You have good taste in friends.”

“Thanks,” you said, smiling fondly at the moment of shared appreciation for your friend.

“Now get to work,” you said, when the air got too thick. The last thing you needed was to allow Nick to burrow his way into your heart alongside his friend. 

The workday passed by relatively easy. There were no major philosophical conversations to be had, and no interruptions from unwelcome strangers. The two men worked diligently for the whole session, and when it was time to go, they put their own supplies away.

“Hey,” said Noah while you all made your way out. “I was thinking about something.” He slowed his steps and allowed Nick to pass the two of you.

“Yeah?” you said, matching his pace.

“You’ve seen me in my element. I thought it was only fair if I returned the favor.”

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“I want to hear you sing.” He said it softly, lisp coming out on the last word and oh. You paused mid-stride to turn to him.

 “Why?”

Noah looked at you as if you’d offended his bloodline, head rearing back in a scoff. “Because I’m curious? And I want to support you the way you supported me?”

“That’s not necessary,” you rushed to assure. The last thing you wanted was to have to perform in front of him. That was a level of vulnerability you weren’t interested in. Especially since he had such an extensive background in music and could easily judge you if you weren’t up to his standards.

“Will you let me do something nice, please?” he said, holding his arms out to the side before letting them drop back to his hips with a slap. “Isn’t the point of this entire community service thing to help me be a better person?”

He’d seen the corner he could back you into before you did. You couldn’t, in good faith, protest something like that without letting your cards show.

“I have a showcase coming up in December,” you said. “Here. At the church.”

Noah tucked his lips between his teeth and smiled in triumph.

“Are you sure you won’t burst into flames the second you step foot in a worship service?” you asked.

“Guess we’ll see,” He said, with a quick shrug of his shoulders. You continued walking down the path leading back into town.

“Isaac’s going to be there,” you said, reluctantly. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” he assured you, making the sign of the cross over his chest and clapping his hands together in prayer. 

You sighed and shook your head. “Good. See that you are.” Without anything better to say, you followed up with “now get out of here.”

Noah huffed out a laugh at your attempt at standoffishness and jogged to catch up with Nick. Your gut twisted at the thought of him coming to watch you sing. Even more so at the idea of the regular churchgoers seeing and potentially interacting with him, but you chose to trust that this would be a good thing. That Noah would keep his word.

Noah in a church. Standing in the middle of a church-going audience. You shook your head, unable to realistically picture it, but that didn’t stop a grin from sneaking up on you whenever you thought about it. 

_______

November came and went in the same way a cloud would—slowly, and easily unnoticed unless you paid special attention.

You and Isaac continued to work together on his project. He brought up passing a collection plate around during the event so the two of you could raise money for charity, which you thought was a great idea.

“That way, we can give back a little,” he said, pinching the cross charm he wore around his neck between two of his fingers and sliding back and forth along its chain. 

“I’d love that,” you said, feeling more energized about the showcase.

You and Isaac sat across from each other at a table in a room off to the side of the main worship area, often used for small group meetings, Bible studies, and Sunday School. Song books and sheets of music littered the table, musty from years of use. You sat doodling swirls in the margins of the notebook in front of you.

“How have we been marketing the event?” he asked, flipping through pages of a hymn book. 

“I made an event page on Facebook,” you said, “and have been posting about it to the campus Facebook page. A few other local groups, too.”

“Good,” he said, nodding, but not looking up from the book in front of him.

“I’ve also been passing out flyers and posting them around campus to drum up some excitement.”

“Excellent,” said Isaac, smiling.

Surprisingly enough, working with Isaac hadn’t been as painful as you’d expected. He remained focused on planning out the logistics of the showcase, appropriately delegating tasks to you as needed, but taking on the bulk of the work himself. 

You liked this Isaac. He was at his best when he had a goal and worked diligently to achieve it. When you’d first developed an interest in him, it was when he was pursuing a leadership role on the worship team. Before then, he’d always been a scrawny, nerdy kid that existed only in the fringes of your memory. You’d seen him in church and at school but hadn’t paid much attention to him.

It wasn’t until your teen years, when he’d grown his hair out and started learning how to play guitar that you’d truly noticed. One day, he’d asked to perform a song in front of the congregation. You couldn’t even remember the song, but you remembered being transfixed by his singing.

That was the beginning of the crush you’d been nursing for over four years. It had largely dissipated, but it still peeked out every once in a while, in moments like this.

He closed the book in his hands, setting it down on the table and straightening out some of the papers in front of him. “How’s the community service going?” he asked without looking at you.

Your warm feelings for him slipped away just as quickly and easily as they had arrived.

Tension flared in your neck, pulling your shoulders up to a defensive position. Aside from that telltale sign, however, you chose to play it cool.

“It’s fine,” you said, joining him in arranging the stack of music sheets in front of you so you had something to focus on aside from him.

“You better get a move on,” he said, setting his stack of papers aside and resting his elbows on the table. He spoke directly to you. “You only have a month left before you never see them again. Not a lot of time to bring people to Christ.”

Truthfully, you’d forgotten all about that. He was right—the job had been handed to you with the specific instructions towitness to these men, but you were starting to think you no longer agreed with that cause.

“Did you talk about Hell?” he continued. “That sometimes works for me.”

You shook your head. “I don’t want to do that.”

“Why not?” he asked, brows furrowing with confusion. “You have to do something. Their souls are on the line.”

“I really don’t want to talk about this,” you snapped, shifting your chair back from the table and standing. You had some homework you should be getting to, anyway. “Can we drop it?”

“No!” he barked, standing up to be on your level. He splayed his palms on the table, leaning his weight on them and eyes boring a hole into you. Even from across the table, his height was menacing. Not as tall as Noah, but definitely tall. “That’s the whole point of you being there. You have to make sure they know what’s at stake if they keep going down the path they’re on.”

“It’s not that simple,” you said, voice raising in volume.

All this talk of eternal damnation set you on edge. You still hadn’t even figured out where you stood on the issue. How were you supposed to preach to someone who had made up their mind long ago? And who was Isaac to tell you how to talk to them when he’d only briefly encountered them once and made a fool out of himself in the process?

“What’s complicated about it? They repent or they go to Hell,” he stated with a huff, blowing his fringe bangs out of his eyes.

The pressure he was putting on you was familiar—much like the pressure your father had always put on you to “go out and make disciples” but things weren’t as black-and-white as they were when you were a child.

How were you supposed to preach something you weren’t even sure you understood or believed in? Blindly giving into the pressure to convert as many people as you could to a faith you only half-trusted felt more and more like a betrayal of yourself.

Not only that, but in your experience, people simply did not want to hear the gospel preached at them. You’d tried once—when you’d joined a local theater production of Fiddler on the Roof as a stagehand. There was one girl there who you’d made fast friends with—Stephanie.

You spent all summer trying to share the Good News with her. At the end of three long months, she agreed to accept Christ into her heart, allowing you to lead her in The Prayer. It was the defining moment of your adolescence. You’d managed to validate your existence by saving at least one soul.

It wasn’t until the wrap party later that week that you overheard her making fun of you to some of the other cast members, all huddled together in a corner of the theater, that you realized she’d gone through with it as a joke.

There was no explaining that to Isaac, however. He was so caught up in everything he’d been taught that it would take much longer than you had time to explain everything, and that was if he even listened, which he didn’t seem interested in…

…much like the people you were supposed to evangelize to.      

“I have to go,” you said, turning on your heel and walking out of the warmth of the worship center, into the frigid rain. Isaac called after you, but you broke into a jog, heading—well, somewhere.

You didn’t know where you were heading, actually. Your rain boots clunked haphazardly on the sidewalk, splashing through puddles as you ran. You contemplated going back to your dorm, but knew Stevie was home. It didn’t seem like the place to be.

You weren’t interested in any of the usual places on campus, either. The wind and rain bit at your skin, chilling you through the oversized Sherpa-lined hoodie you’d worn.

Your feet guided you to the crossroads that would lead you back to campus, and you turned in the opposite direction, running headlong toward town.

Your breaths grew uneven, whether it was due to the energy you were expending, or the crushing weight of your religious obligations.

You were supposed to lead these men to God, lest their souls be cast into Hell for eternity.

Except, did you believe in Hell anymore?

You weren’t sure. You supposed it could exist, but was it really that easy to wind up serving a permanent sentence for an impermanent crime? For simply getting the theology wrong?

That didn’t seem like something a loving god would do. And if it was, did you really want to devote your life to serving someone like that? Someone who could be so utterly cruel to his creations for making simple mistakes?

You were angry. For the first time, you felt a glimpse of the anger Noah had expressed that night. He was right to feel angry. There were so many contradictions—so much about the church that just felt backwards to you. And whenever you raised legitimate questions, you were always met with the same answer:

God works in mysterious ways. 

It was a mantra the church elders repeated, but it felt more like a cop-out. A common method of spiritual bypassing.

You wiped the rain that had been pelting your face with your sleeve, unsure of how far you’d ran when a familiar voice interrupted your thoughts.

“Whoa!”

___________

At no point in his evening did Noah anticipate running into you—figuratively, and certainly not literally. But when he spotted you bounding toward him with a panicked expression, that’s what nearly happened.

Upon further reflection, you were probably aiming to run past him, but in the moment, it looked like you were on track to collide directly into his chest.

“Whoa!” he called out. Your attention snapped from the sidewalk in front of you to his face, and in the process, your left foot miscalculated its landing. It slid out from under you, giving you a half a second to react and catch yourself on a steel signpost. It was a good thing you had quick reflexes, otherwise you’d have planted ass-first into the muddy puddles lining the street.

“Easy,” said Noah, catching you by the elbows and helping you regain your balance. He observed your soaked hoodie, the way your breaths came out staggered, and the rapid rise and fall of your chest as you caught your breath. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you exhaled, struggling to catch your breath.

Noah blinked at you, eyes narrowing in on your expression. Something was off about the way you looked around you nervously.

“You sure?” he asked again.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” You looked up at him, fake smile plastered on your face to better sell the lie, but eyes blown wide as if you’d been trying to outrun a predator. Noah wasn’t buying it.

“You tell me,” he said, observing your footwear.

You looked down at your rain boots and back up to him. “I wanted to go for a run?” you said. It was framed as a question. Half-acknowledging that you’d been caught, but hoping he would drop it anyway.

 “Right.” He humored you for now. He’d get to the bottom of it eventually.

“What are you doing here?” you deflected. Your breathing had begun to slow. You tucked your wet, matted hair behind your ear and looked up at him with curiosity in your eyes. The tension in his chest began to fade the more you relaxed. As if his nervous system was inextricably tied to yours.

“I was about to grab some tea,” he said, nodding towards the small hole-in-the-wall café across the street. Your eyes followed, then dropped to where he still held your elbows, and he released them. “Care to join?”

“Sure,” you said. He nodded and gestured for you to follow him before stuffing his hands in his pockets.

The two of you crossed the street, Noah taking the opportunity to glance backwards to see if he could gather any context clues and opened the door for you when he found none.

He gestured toward the counter, indicating for you to order first, and sidled up behind you, standing protectively close, just in case there was indeed a threat.

“Want to take this to go?” he asked.

“Sure,” you said, placing an order for a decaf cinnamon latte. Gross. Too sweet for his taste. “To go, please.”

Noah placed his own order for a green tea before the barista could give you your total. You looked up at him with a question on your face, and he handed his card over to pay for both orders without pause. Perhaps he could buy some of your time.

The two of you stepped to the side while you waited for your drinks to be made. Noah leaned casually against the counter, putting his height on display and moving just enough into your personal space that you’d have to take notice.

“Why were you running in the rain?” he asked. 

You looked him over, taking note of his new proximity. “Long story.”

“Do you always deflect this much?” he asked.

You smiled sheepishly. “I’ll tell you, just not right here.”

That was enough to put Noah fully at ease. Perhaps it truly was nothing and he’d just read into your body language too much.

Noah caught you glancing over his body out of the corner of his eye. He smiled to himself. He knew he was attractive. At this point, using his attractiveness to his advantage was almost second nature to him. He drummed his fingers against the counter, feeling a slight surge of energy when he saw you studying the tattoos on his hands and trying not to be obvious about it.

Noah knew he could be cocky at times. His own attractiveness became clear to him in high school, when he hit a growth spurt and got his first tattoo. He received much more attention from girls than his friends did, and it increased exponentially the older he got and the more his once-lanky body filled out. By the time he dropped out of high school, well before his sixteenth birthday, he’d lost his virginity and then some. He couldn’t remember what his body count was up to, but he’d guess it was approaching triple digits.

He tried to stay humble about it, knowing that too much attention wasn’t healthy for his ego, but he did, at times, like to indulge.

Like right now. He was aware you were looking at him. He knew he could invite you back to his studio, that you’d probably say yes, and that you were very conflicted about your attraction to him, because this might be the first time you’d wrestled with sexual attraction to someone who wasn’t bound by the same laws of purity as you.

He’d give you time to figure out what you wanted. He wouldn’t outright pressure you the way he had last time. But he also wasn’t going to stop himself from craving you, or from responding the way his body told him to when in pursuit of something he wanted.

He slid his hands across the counter, allowing his weight to drop to his elbows, and leaned towards you. He was tall enough that his face still hovered slightly over yours when he looked you in the eye. 

Many times, people were intimidated by the weight of his full attention on them. They’d step back or break eye contact to diffuse it. You, however, just looked up at him with a question on your face.

Oh, he liked that. He liked you not being intimidated by him.

“So,” he said. A segue into nothing. A great move on his part since he had nothing to say. 

“So,” you mimicked, knowing smile teasing the corner of your mouth upward. A warm, sensation rippled through Noah’s diaphragm. He didn’t smile though. He wasn’t going to break his façade so early. 

“What…,” he began. He looked out the window as if he’d find a cue card with the prompt he’d need. He didn’t. “…do you like to do? For fun?”

A clumsy introduction to a conversation. Possibly the clumsiest he’s ever made.

You licked your lips and nodded to yourself, amused by his attempt. Without his permission, his eyes darted to your lips. He chided himself and looked away, hoping you hadn’t noticed the rookie mistake.

“Angel,” yelled the barista, shaking him from his thoughts. Noah had given them his nickname for you as the name of the order. It went over the way he expected, with you rolling your eyes and begrudgingly offering him a smile. Glee spread into his cheeks and he shot a grin at you before turning to the hand-off plane. 

You grabbed your drinks, handing Noah’s to him and led the way back outside into the rain. Your lead didn’t last long—Noah’s long legs easily overtook you and he had to make a concerted effort to slow his pace so you could keep up.

“I like movies,” you said eventually.

“What?” he asked.

“For fun,” you said. “I like to watch movies.”

Oh. Right. He’d forgotten about that.

“What’s your favorite?” he asked, this question coming out much smoother than the last, and Noah felt like he was back on track. 

“Three-way tie for all of the Lord of the Rings movies.”

Noah stopped short. “Are you serious?” he asked. You nodded.

Without thinking about it, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and gave you an overly dramatic kiss on the top of the head, not worrying for a second about how you’d react. This time, you did get shy, shrinking into yourself and making a noise of protest before he let you go.

The power was back in Noah’s possession for the time being.

“What was that for?” you asked, smoothing out your hair. In the dark street, Noah couldn’t see the flush on your cheeks, but he knew it was there.

“I love Lord of the Rings,” he said. It was true. He’d been an avid fan of the films since grade school, back when he and his friends used to pretend to be the fellowship. Tall and slender with long hair, he’d been cast as the elf of the friend group, though he’d secretly always resonated more with Aragorn.

“Which one is your favorite?” you asked, falling back into step alongside him. Even with his slower pace, you had to take long strides to keep up.

“Return of the King,” said Noah without missing a beat. “I get chills every time the beacons are lit.”

“Did you know that in The Two Towers, when Viggo kicks—,”

“—he breaks his toe,” Noah cut you off. He immediately knew where you were going with it. Everyone with even the most basic appreciation for Lord of the Rings knew. It had become a calling card among fans to know that bit of trivia, but he still took pride in finishing your sentence.

The pride within him swelled tenfold when you smiled as if you’d never been more impressed or pleased with him in your life. He couldn’t help but fall a little bit in love with you.

Which was not good, considering how much harder it would be to restrain himself around you. God, he wanted nothing more than to seduce the religion out of you. He wanted to turn his pockets inside out, use every trick in the book to get you into bed, but he would probably end up embarrassing himself if he did, because his charm didn’t seem to faze you.

He knew it wasn’t a matter of attraction. You showed all the signs of being attracted to him, yet you still had the self-control not to act on it, and that drove him wild.

Had he been wrong about you? He thought the reason you were still a virgin was because your resolve had never been tested, but he’d definitely tested it on Halloween, and you’d resisted.

Which Noah had not expected.

And though he had reacted poorly at the time (which he now found extremely embarrassing), he’s started to like that you shut him down. He’s always appreciated a bit of a chase—a smidge of hard-to-get. It made the game all the more exciting for him. 

But this was different. You weren’t playing a game. You simply existed as yourself, with no agenda he could detect. And maybe the part of him that needed someone to help tame his ego would like you to continue shutting him down, as much as it killed him.

“I play video games,” he said, breaking out of his thoughts when he noticed he’d been silent for too long. “For fun.”

“What games?” you asked, not missing a beat.

“I’ve been playing a lot of Fallout recently.”

If you told him you played Fallout, he would propose to you on the spot.

“I never got into video games,” you said, and Noah breathed a sigh of relief, because he didn’t need to be any more whipped for you. “Where are we going, by the way?”    

“Oh,” he said, halting his steps. “Um, I was thinking of going back to the studio, if you were okay with that.” Nerves in his sides and in his throat tingled uncomfortably. You hesitated, and Noah wondered if the memory of what happened last time dwelled in the back of your mind, like it did his.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” you said after a beat, and picked up your pace once again. Noah exhaled softly, nerves soothed for the time being, and followed. 

That was another thing: whenever he was with you, his nervous system oscillated wildly between feeling completely relaxed and supremely on-edge. The constant spikes in his adrenaline translated into excess energy that built up beneath his skin and all he wanted to do was sigh it into your mouth.

The three-block walk back to the studio was over all too soon. When the two of you arrived, Noah unlocked it like he had last time, and like last time, you sat in the same position on the couch.

Noah decided sit on the other end of the couch, rather than his usual desk chair. He faced you, legs crossed underneath him. 

You turned to mirror his pose.

“So,” he said, this time knowing what he wanted to ask. “Nice night for a jog, huh?”

“Yeah,” you said, clearing your throat and retreating further into your hoodie. 

“Not the best shoes for running, I have to say.” He nodded over to the rainboots that rested by the door in a small puddle.

You chuckled nervously, then worried at your lip. “I needed some air,” you said.

“Why?”

You bounced your knee up and down, collecting your thoughts. There was obviously something eating at you, and it concerned Noah that you were struggling so much to talk about it.

He relaxed his gaze, trying his best to train his face into a neutral, open expression.

“Okay,” you prefaced, exhaling a deep breath and twisting the cuff of your oversized sleeve in your hands. You looked anywhere but him. “So I have been questioning a lot about my faith recently. You know this.”

Noah nodded, stomach rolling with pride and with something slightly sicker and more selfish, knowing he’d been a catalyst of sorts for your questioning. He fought it back down, not allowing his feelings to distract him from listening to you.

“Yeah,” you nodded back at him, pulling your sleeves over your hands and bunching the ends up in your fists. Noah liked you this way. Cozy. Vulnerable. “And some people in the church are starting to notice.”

“Ah,” he said, understanding dawning on him. It was hard to ignore the changes in your behavior and demeanor. You’d become more confident over the last few weeks, less eager to please and more willing to stand up for yourself. He wasn’t surprised the church had caught onto it. The same thing had happened to him when he started deconstructing his beliefs—they saw it as a threat.

“When did you stop believing in Hell?” you asked, shifting the subject slightly.

“Oh,” he said again, feeling rather like a broken record.

You looked up at him, eyes growing wet with tears that threatened to spill over, and Noah began to see just how important this conversation was for you.

You waited patiently while he gathered his thoughts. His thumb traced along a seam in the leg of his jeans, grounding him while he tried to recall long-repressed memories.

“I don’t think there was any one significant moment.” He finally spoke, pausing to sip at his tea, savoring its bitterness. “It was more like I slowly came to understand that it was bullshit.”

“What made you realize?” you asked. Now it was Noah’s turn to carry the weight of your full attention. You hung on his every word, eyes trained on him as if you were looking into his soul and it made it difficult to focus. The collar of his shirt was suddenly too constricting. The room had grown warm. The knot of hair at the nape of his neck was tied too tight.

“My grandparents,” he began, clearing his throat. “They overused the threat of it. So did the church leaders. It started to feel empty after a while.”

You nodded, eager for him to continue speaking. “How long did it take to stop believing once you noticed?”

“Longer than it should have,” he confessed, heaving out a breath. “But in my defense, the stakes were pretty high. Had to figure out if I was willing to wager an eternity of torture on it.” 

You hummed in thought, attention finally lifting off him and drifting to the space between the two of you.

“Noah, I think I’m…,” you began, but didn’t finish the rest of your sentence. He caught the hitch in your breath. The slight shudder in your shoulders.

He was pulled to you, as if there were a thread tugging at him. He needed reach out and touch you, so he did, placing his hand on your knee and rubbing his thumb back and forth. Something in his bones told him to stay quiet and let you figure this out. 

You took a deep breath to steady yourself.

“I’ve never struggled with my faith before,” you began, and Noah nodded to show he was listening. “But now, it’s like I don’t know what to believe. I used to feel so sure. And some things I still feel sure about, but everything around it is like…crumbling.”

Noah watched you deliberately, hoping you felt you had his full attention, save for his right hand, which twirled a frayed thread from a rip in the knee of your jeans. To his surprise and delight, you inched closer to him. He made sure not to let it show. He needed his body language to match your tone—to be open and receptive. To be what you need. 

“I feel like I was lied to,” you continued, voice breaking. “For my whole life, I was told that I had to act a certain way and believe in certain things. Things that I’ve struggled with for a long time. But I still did because I was afraid of ending up in Hell.”

You paused to sniffle. “And now I’m starting to think that it might not all be true, but I’m scared to think that, because what if it is true? And I do go to Hell? I just feel like…like the ground is being washed out from under me.”

Noah’s tongue prodded the inside of his cheek as your voice became watery. You were so close to a breakthrough. He didn’t want to say or do anything that would interrupt it, but he also wanted to cheer you on. 

“I don’t want to become angry and bitter,” you confessed. “But I am angry. And I don’t know at who or what.”

“Are you afraid of being angry?” he asked, hoping it was the right question. This was toeing the edge of his jurisdiction.

“Kind of,” you said. “But it’s more than that. I’m afraid to start questioning, because I’m afraid I’ll abandon my faith altogether. Noah, I don’t know who I am without my faith.”

“Do you want to figure that out?”

You looked up at him, eyes glassy, threatening to spill over.

“Yeah,” you whispered.

Noah could kiss you. He wanted to kiss you, wanted to hold you by your jaw, make you breathe all your worries into his mouth so he could digest them and free you from the confines of your crushing guilt. Whatever suffocating remains you couldn’t exhale, he would swallow whole.

He yearned to crush his body against yours, to card his fingers through your hair and tug at the root, to hear your soft whimpers as he licked along the soft spots of your neck. He wanted the pressure of your thighs wrapped around his hips as he slid home over and over again.

Noah wanted you to take your anger out on him. Wanted you to sink your teeth into his throat, claw your nails down his back, to spit out your unfiltered rage. He wanted you to slap him hard across the face for having the audacity to dream of doing such lewd things to you. 

He didn’t do any of those things, but he did take both your hands in his.

“It’s going to be okay,” he said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you still believe in God?”

You sniffed and nodded. “I think so.”

“Okay. What do you think he would say if he saw you like this right now? If he loves you like he says he does. Do you think he’d be disappointed?”

You sniffed again, blinking back your tears and shook your head.

“How would he feel?”

“I think,” you began. Noah could practically see the cogs turning in your yead. He willed—almost prayed for—you to come to the right conclusion: one that didn’t end in self-hatred or shame.

“I think…he’d be proud of me,” you said.

Noah squeezed your hands in encouragement, manifesting a breakthrough for you. “Why would he be proud?”

“For having the courage to ask these questions.”

Noah’s dick was known to twitch at odd times. But this, by far, was the weirdest.

“To me,” he said, trying his best to ignore the feeling in his dick and focus on the task at hand, “it seems like you’re notabandoning your faith. You’re realizing that it’s so important that you’re willing to risk going to Hell to make sure you get it right.”

A strangled sob escaped from you and you dove into him, wrapping your arms around his middle and burying your head into his chest.

Noah couldn’t breathe, and not because you held him in a vise grip. He draped his arms across your back, placing a gentle kiss on the top of your head and praying to God for the first time since he was fifteen that he wouldn’t get a boner.

“I’m sorry,” you whimpered into his chest. “I feel like I’m always crying these days.”

“It’s fine,” he said. You smelled like rain and vanilla and something floral he couldn’t place. He tried his hardest to touch you as lightly as possible because if he gave into even the most innocent of his desires, his hands would be wrapped around your throat and he’d be burying himself in you.

You adjusted, crying into his shoulder now, and he could feel your hot breath steaming across his neck. Yes, he knew you were crying and that wasn’t exactly the sexiest thing in the world (at least in this context), but it took every ounce of self-control he had to not put you through the couch. You were half in his lap. Despite his prayers, he was semi-hard, and if you shifted your weight even an inch, you’d be able to feel.

When your sobs finally slowed and your breathing went back to normal, Noah continued to stroke your back with his palm.

Having you in his arms was like flirting with the devil. A serpent, offering him a bite of fruit he knew was forbidden, lest he be cast out of Eden, but the sight and scent and touch of which proving to be far too sweet to resist.

All too soon though, you were self-aware again, recognizing what you were doing and where you were. You pulled back to look at the tear-stained mess you left and had the loss of your touch not been excruciating, Noah would have been grateful because his self-control was just about spent. 

“Gross,” he said, pulling the fabric of his shirt out and away from his skin. You had snotted on it. 

“Sorry,” you said, laughing and getting up to find a tissue, and Noah was looking at your ass. No other thought ran through his head besides the stern acknowledgement that he was looking at your ass and nothing on this earth would stop him from looking at your ass until you turned back around.

“Feel better?” he asked, eyes flicking up to meet yours. 

You nodded, face all red and splotchy.

“I should go,” you said, and his heart twisted and wrenched away from his ribs, but he agreed because he needed to put his cock in somethingimmediately or he was literally going to die.

“Call me if you need anything,” he said.

“I don’t have your number.”

Noah reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone, opening a new contact page and handing it to you. Your fingers brushed over his when you took it and he wondered if it was on purpose.

You tapped the screen a few times and handed it back to him. He opened a new text, typed his name, and pressed send. A few seconds later, your phone pinged.

His heart untwisted a millimeter. He had a tether to you now.

“Thanks,” you said. “For everything.” You stumbled back into your rain boots and walked over to where he was still sat on the couch (he couldn’t stand up without giving himself away by that point), and touched your lips briefly to his cheek bone. His skin burned under the touch and he didn’t even have a chance to respond before you were across the room and out the door.

Noah tipped sideways off the couch and rolled onto the floor, sprawled across the narrow passage between couch and desk.

He took a deep breath, feeling like his heart was about to beat out of his chest, then rolled onto his stomach and did twenty push-ups in a row.

His dick was burning a hole through his jeans and if he didn’t do something immediately, he was going to bash his head into the floor.

He pulled out his phone, with one number in mind.

Noah 9:37 PM: ?

Madison 9:37 PM: ;)

Noah 9:38 PM: 5?

Madison 9:38 PM: ✔️ _________

Noah just about ran the few blocks to Madison’s apartment. He walked in unceremoniously, ignoring her roommates, and took the stairs two at a time all the way up to her room.

She was there, sitting on her bed with a hungry smile twisting on her lips. She wore a sports bra and the shortest shorts Noah’s ever seen, but he barely looked at them.

He kneeled in front of her, grasping her shoulders in his hands.

“What’s your safe word?”

“Candyland.”

Noah nodded.

“That’s the only word you’re allowed to say,” he commanded. Giggling, she fell back on the bed, opening her legs wide for Noah to wedge himself between.

Noah closed his eyes, focusing on breathing in and out through his nose and his hands found the flimsy fabric of Madison’s sports bra. She gave a yelp when he just about ripped it off her, flinging it across the room. He turned his focus to her shorts to do the same.

Once she was rid of her clothes, he ran a finger between her hairless folds to find she was already wet. Madison was always reliably wet.

Even so, he stuck two of his fingers in his mouth, collecting saliva before he plunged them into her, moving them up and down, scissoring them the way he knew she liked. It wasn’t long before she expanded enough to accommodate him.

Fumbling while removing his own clothes, he wasted no time taking his heavy cock out and stroking it. He reached into the familiar top drawer of her nightstand, producing a condom and rolling it onto himself. He cradled his throbbing cock and lined it up with her entrance, glancing up at her to check in, and she nodded.

Noah didn’t go slow. He pushed into her all the way as deep as he could go with a snap of his hips, and once he was fully sheathed, he finally he felt like he could breathe.

He groaned low as he began to thrust inside her. She moaned loudly, draping her arms around him, and the second he registered her touch, he grabbed her arms and pinned them above her head. With one hand, he held them there, while the other crushed her jaw between his fingers.

“I need you to listen to me,” he growled, looking her directly in the eye. “Do not move. Do not make a fucking sound. Any other night you can do what you want but tonight, if we do this, you are a fuck doll. Got it?”

She bit her swollen lower lip and nodded eagerly.

“Open,” he said.

She opened her mouth for him and he spat into it.

“Swallow,” he hissed. 

She closed her mouth around his saliva and swallowed it obediently.

“Good. Now hold still.”

She preened, eyes rolling back into her head and lips dropping open.

Noah relaxed, finally feeling in control for the first time that evening since running into you. He folded Madison’s legs up over her, found purchase on the backs of her thighs, and began his descent into his lowest and most carnal self.

Madison, to her credit, didn’t make a sound. She didn’t move. She braced herself against her headboard and held her position like a dutiful fuck doll.

Noah didn’t make a habit of treating women like objects, and he didn’t like that he was doing it right then. In many ways, he was disgusted with himself, but tried his best to get over it, telling himself the ends justified the means.

He threw his head back and breathed deep, the heavy musty smell of sex permeating through the air, but Noah didn’t care much about that. He pistoned his hips into her, squeezing his eyes shut tight, wishing he was anywhere and anyone else but the depraved man he knew himself to be.

Wanting to feel at least a little better about what he was doing, he took a thumb and rubbed quick circles into Madison’s clit to reward her for letting him use her body like this.

She whimpered. He didn’t care enough to tell her to shut up again. Any sounds from her were just white noise.

God, Noah hated himself. Hated how absolutely weak he was, submitting to his body without even trying to put up a fight.

He never stood a chance, though. How did you do it?

He sighed and picked up his pace, reveling in the tight warmth of cunt.

Had your roles been reversed the other week? Had it been you on your knees in front of him, practically begging him to give himself over to you, he would have done it without question. Had you given him any hint of desire—had you given him even an inch, he would have taken the whole fucking mile and he would have doubled back just to do it again. What made you so much more capable of resisting? 

Madison pulsed around him, and when something splashed against his abdomen with each thrust, he realized Madison had released onto him. She did that sometimes. Whatever. He was used to it. He kept going.

He thought of you masturbating. He thought of you thinking of him while you touched yourself, your fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your white panties, whining his name while you made a mess of your bedsheets. He thought of you thinking of him tying you down and forcing you, and he could almost cry, he was so hard.

He tried not to think about the fact that he was fucking someone. He wasn’t really. He was using a body to masturbate because he knew it would give him a bigger release than he could get with just his hand.

And fuck, did he need release. He needed control. He needed to defile something beautiful and make it as ugly as he was inside.

Recognizing he wasn’t going to get what he needed in this position, he pulled out, flipped the girl over easily, and pushed back into her with a hard smack to the soft flesh of her ass.

She yelped, but made no other sound, and that was enough for him.

He thought of you coming undone beneath him. Of you weeping with the release of years of pent-up sexual energy. Of your makeup smearing down your face as you cried his name out to the heavens like a prayer for salvation.

He fucked Madison at a punishing pace. She arched her back and whipped her hair around to look over her shoulder at him, and as soon as he noticed, he stared at a random spot about two-thirds of the way up her wall.

Madison gave a choked, strangled sort of sob before everything grew more wet and her pussy began to flutter around him.

Noah would have to finish soon. Madison always got overstimulated if she was forced to keep going.

He gave a low, guttural growl and picked up his pace, needing to get as much energy out of himself as fast as he possibly could. The headboard slammed into the wall over and over, the bed creaked beneath him. Madison was a sobbing, sputtering mess as she tried desperately to keep still and silent for him.

“Just a little more,” he muttered angrily under his breath, picturing you on the brink of orgasm, body tensed up as you began to tip over the edge. “Come on.”

He dug his hands into Madison’s hips, slamming his body into hers and using his full strength to get as deep into her as he possibly could.

His lower abdomen tightened and his balls pulled up with the tell-tale sign of impending climax. He wrenched himself away from her, ripped off the condom, and gave himself a few quick strokes before he spilled himself onto her trembling body. Then he collapsed onto the bed, half on top of her, and curled himself around one of her pillows.

“I’m sorry,” he said, emotions washing over him like a tidal wave. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Madison said, cradling his trembling body into hers. “Noah, that was amazing. Don’t be sorry.”

Noah shook his head, throat closing in as he struggled to breathe. “I have to go.”

“What? Noah, don’t be ridiculous. It’s late. Just stay.” She said—his cum dripping down her shoulder and back as she sat up to look at him.

But Noah was already up, scrambling to pull up his jeans and find the shirt he’d thrown somewhere in his lust.

He all but ran out of the room, down the stairs, and out the front door. He ran the several blocks it took to get to his house. He slowed down momentarily as he entered through the front door and past the main living space, but it was only to fend off questions from his roommates.

Once in the safety of his room, he collapsed to the floor, crawled to his bed, and knelt.

“I…,” he began, whispering into his clasped palms. And then he blanked. Because he didn’t know who he was praying to, or what for. All he knew was that he was praying.

“I’m sorry,” he eventually settled on. And that’s all he could find to say for the moment. It wasn’t enough. Taglist: @reyadawn @sundamariis @noahsebastions @cyber-tiny @livingdeceasedgirl @just-randomm-stuff @xxkittenkissesxx @treacheryinblue @flowerynerds @1toreyouapart @badomensls @rain-down-on-me @poisongirl616 Let me know if I missed anyone!

Click here to be added to the taglist! Masterlist

[peaches2217]

Stealth has never been Mario's strong suit, so it takes every ounce of his concentration to keep his footsteps light. He gets a few amused glances from the groundskeepers, but they don't interfere, nor do they hint his presence to his target, who's now only twenty yards away, fifteen, ten. He's decided he'll bring them a heaping plate of bruschetta tomorrow to thank them for putting up with his antics. But for now, he has more important matters to attend to.

Now he's five yards away, and the blonde bombshell sipping tea in a wrought-iron garden chair is still none the wiser to his presence. He can't help himself; he rushes forward, balancing his delivery precariously in one hand as he approaches, and the surprised squeak Peach emits when he covers her eyes from behind immediately validates his efforts.

"I'm thinking we're overdue for a nice merenda, yeah?" He's proud of how light and naturally he's able to say it, given the cake he's poured so much time into is about to slip out of his grasp. He's able to reach around her so that the dish falls from his fingertips and directly onto the table without so much as disturbing her teapot and saucer.

The impromptu acrobatics coupled with Peach's delighted giggle makes him feel invincible. He really is Number One.

"Chocolate?" Peach guesses, sniffing the air, and the eagerness in her voice is enough to melt his heart.

"Close!" He uncovers her eyes then, and Peach gasps in excitement as she takes in the dish he's placed before her. "Double dark chocolate cake with three layers of chocolate mousse and a generous sprinkling of powdered cocoa! As requested."

While he's still out of her line of sight, Mario can't help but pump his fist in victory. He's been cycling those exact words through his head since early this morning, when Peach awoke him with a craving so insatiable that it drove her to tears. Though she was asleep again within twenty minutes, he made it his sacred duty to fulfill her wish, and now here he is, seeing it off without a hitch.

Not normally one to brag on himself, Mario can't help but acknowledge just this once that he's like, the best husband ever.

As he fishes for a serving knife and fork from the cocoa-stained burlap apron still tied around his waist, Peach's elation fizzles into something far meeker. "Oh, stars," she groans, setting her teacup back on its saucer so she can lean back and bury her face in her hands. "Mario, I'm so sorry, I—"

"Ap ap ap," Mario cuts in. "No apologies! Just cake." He comes to her side so that he can retrieve the extra plates from beneath the cake's serving dish, and she looks up at him then, her face pink with embarrassment but bright with happiness in spite of it.

She recomposes herself with a deep breath and sits back upright, her swollen belly making the action only slightly less graceful than normal. "You're incredible," she sighs, smiling softly.

Mario debates pushing the cake aside and kissing every last inch of her until she's squealing with laughter, but he's an Italian man with a pregnant wife, so even thinking about letting her go hungry makes him feel worthy of capital punishment. He dutifully serves her with a generous slice and internally pats himself on the back once more.

Peach melts into a puddle of bliss as she savors her first forkful of cake. "Oh, sweetie, you're my hero." Mario, now seated across from her with his own slice of cake, opens his mouth to respond, admit that Toadsworth is the true hero because he's the one that walked Mario through each step of the baking process and ensured the dessert would actually look as good as it tasted... but then Peach's face changes, her bliss replaced with something that looks like surprise.

Before he can inquire, she relaxes again, resting her free hand on her belly. "Our hero, sorry," she rectifies, and the fondness in her eyes as she looks down and pets the bump in her abdomen has Mario reconsidering his whole Cake Now, Kisses Later stance.

"Ah, so she likes it too?"

"Who do you think has been giving me all these cravings in the first place?" Spearing another bite of cake on her fork, Peach giggles. "I can assure you she’s very happy right now.”

Mario’s heart leaps in his chest, realizing right away what she means.

The baby’s recently started moving, according to Peach. Subtle movements, movements she can’t really put words to, but gentle and very real affirmations that there’s a fledgling life within her. It tickles, she’s told him.

Mario still hasn’t gotten to experience it yet. He’ll spend long stretches of time with both hands and one ear on her stomach, holding his breath and keeping his muscles as still as humanly possible in the hope that he’ll feel or even hear their baby. Nothing has come of it yet except acute oxygen deprivation and the information that he looks like a Goomba when he’s so intently focused like that.

It’s enough just to know, at least for now. That alone brings him joy beyond words. He eats his cake in silence as Peach tells him about her day so far between bites, half-listening and half just admiring the way she glows in the afternoon sunlight.

Between Peach, who’s eating for two, and Mario, who always eats for two anyway without the excuse of pregnancy, the cake is gone in half an hour.

“Oh… I’m going to regret that,” Peach sighs, but her contented countenance betrays her complete lack of remorse. “Will you walk with me? I’ll be in a sugar coma before sunset if I don’t get some exercise.”

Their walk finds them meandering through the garden’s central hedge maze together, their feet following the familiar path blindly as they chat back and forth about various projects and undertakings and plans they’ve found themselves saddled with of late. Peach is in the middle of pressuring Mario once more to reveal his Big Secret Building Project to her (a nursery, with completely hand-crafted furniture, but he’s still a month or so out from completing it and he so desperately wants it to be a surprise) when it happens again: she stiffens slightly and draws in a quiet but quick breath, stopping mid-sentence and touching her stomach tentatively.

“Peachy?” Mario inquires.

Rather than respond, she takes his hands and places them on her belly, and his heart thumps a bit harder as she guides his left hand to a spot just right of her navel. Then she leaves it there, her hand resting atop his, and waits.

He doesn’t feel anything. The disappointment is short-lived, because even if he can’t feel it, he knows their baby is stirring beneath his hands right now, and the thought alone fills his heart to bursting.

“Don’t be shy now,” Peach urges in a gentle croon, stroking her right hand over the back of his left. “Wasn’t the cake yummy? Don’t you want to tell Papa thank you? I know that would make him very happy.”

Mario clears his throat to avoid choking, because the maternal affection thick in her voice so overwhelms him with love that it’s making him dizzy. He imagines their baby all curled up within Peach, soothed and intrigued by a voice she surely recognizes as her mother’s by now, and then he’s imagining that same baby wrapped in soft blankets and cradled safely in her mother’s arms, being rocked to sleep to the tune of a lullaby in the dim light of the stars—

And then he feels it. A nudge, directly against his palm, quick but pinpointed.

He stares down at his hand for a moment, wondering if maybe he imagined it. Maybe he was daydreaming so hard that now he’s feeling phantom sensations. But when he meets Peach's eyes, he finds her grinning ear to ear, and he knows right away that his senses aren't tricking him.

“Wh—” A matching grin, one filled with disbelief and awe, spreads across his face. “When did—”

“Just earlier today.” Peach chuckles into the knuckles of her gloved left hand. “I was speaking in front of the Parliament, and suddenly she just started kicking. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a hard time keeping a straight face!”

As if on cue, it happens again, a tiny kick against Mario’s palm. Their baby, their little girl, strong and healthy and growing every day and now finally making herself known— it’s too much to bear.

“Ah!” Mario cries, and then he’s kneeling on the cobblestone path, pressing kiss after kiss to that exact spot where he felt his child move for the first time. “Brava!” Mwah! “Nostra talentuosa principessina!” Mwah! “Sei proprio una brava calciatorina!” Mwah!

Peach is shrieking with laughter in no time at all, crying out from ticklishness but making no effort to stop him, and pretty soon he’s laughing right along with her. He really is Number One, he finds himself thinking again, though not in self-satisfactory pride this time around. He’s the number one luckiest and happiest guy in the world.

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

what would make yves and montgomery go crazy? crazy in the sense of awooga wowowoa sexy hot and bothered yknow what i mean??? i bet it would take a lot to rile yves up but i would like to as a precursor to the tooth rotting sweetness of his love making! - 🌷

Tw: discussion about sex, dubcon

Montgomery is a horndog, he gets horny just about anything and would paw at you to get some juicy pussy, dick or nonbinary genitals. Just bat your eyelash or lack there of and there's already a banana in his pants. If you're dominant enough, stick a finger up his ass and he's going to cum buckets instantly, whimpering and crying on the ground.

It does depend if you're a dom or sub. If you're like the reader depicted in It Was Only Supposed to Be a One Night Stand series, he would act more like an obedient dog that is desperate for a release, yet sob in agony when he's overstimulated. He would cling onto your arm and look up to you with big, adoring eyes.

But if you're a meeker person though, he's going to be grabby, touchy and a piece of shit who wholeheartedly believes that you're simply playing hard to get and you secretly wanted him to insist harder.

For instance, when he's spooning you from behind at night, you can feel his hard member pressing up your ass. The only barrier between his dick and your hole are clothes. Montgomery would slide his hands down your pants and fondle you until he eventually falls asleep. Your 'no' means 'yes please, take me now and don't stop' at worst, 'definitely later' at best.

If you don't like penetrative sex, he's more than happy to use his tongue. For a tall guy, he sure loves to make himself a lot shorter, usually to your crotch level.

Even your scent gets him aroused. The only difference is that he will act upon it if you're a sub, he will wait for your touch if you're a dom.

On the other hand, You have to go through a ninja-warrior-esque obstacle course to get some from Yves. You have to technically act as the "man" for a bit, planning dates, trying to pay things out of your pocket, being extremely attentive to him and generally be super romantic. In other words, attempt in your own way to match up to what he brings to the table, have a binder full of his information, log his habits, take note of what he likes, etcetera etcetera.

Try your best to make it an elaborate surprise, but he will know about it anyway because he's Yves. The more effort you put into this wonderful gesture for Yves, the more likely he is going to initiate sex. However you're going to have to be patient, you're going to have to check yourself.

If you're too pushy and borderline coercing him to have sex with you, he's going to be upset and tell you off. All of your work would have been for nothing if he thinks you're doing this to get some dick.

If you're too passive, Yves will not reward you with lovemaking. But he will still remain the same affectionate and caring man.

His willingness to bed you will come unexpectedly, usually during times where you're kind and loving towards him without expecting anything in return. Your intent and motive matters very, very much, you can't lie about it because Yves can see right through you.

To you, it's like a random event. You cannot predict when Yves is going to indulge you in his sexual proclivities, there is no rhyme or reason to it. But if you pay close attention, it usually happens when you're doing things out of love for him or from the kindness of your heart.

It is highly unlikely he will agree to sex if you explicitly ask. It does happen, but it's rare. You still don't understand what factors control the outcome.

You could get it as much as you want only if you share the same views on sex as him. But if you truly share the same opinion, you wouldn't want to participate as much in the first place. Yves sees it as something tremendously sacred and special, it shouldn't be done too frequently lest it loses its significance.

However, if you have depraved fantasies you would want to fulfil, he will play the part and let you experience your own heaven and his personal hell once. Just once. And never again.

Overall, both have very different ideas on sex. Personally, I think Yves would be a much better candidate. He respects your space, but he expects the same respect for his boundaries in return.

If you're more sexually charged though, Montgomery would be a nicer fit. He never seems to run out of spunk and could go at it for days.

[send-me-a-puffalope]

@hearts4ggy ever since your one doodle about Michael and Vanessa as kids,,, I cant stop thinking about that AU. It’s such a satisfying mixture of the story of the games and the movies GAHHHHH

Michael is the oldest Afton kid, Vanessa is either his twin or a little younger, and Evan is the youngest. Mike and Vanny are partners in crime as teens, though Michael is more hotheaded and a troublemaker while Vanessa is meeker and tends to get dragged into his pranks. Cue the Bite of 83’, with Michael in the fox mask and Vanessa in the rabbit mask (I was thinking smth like this rather than her iconic Vanny mask to match Michael’s a little better)

The death of Evan causes them to drift apart, the final catalyst being the MCI. Michael and Vanessa witness it a la FNAF movie lore. Both are horrified but Michael chooses to run away while Vanessa stays, in fear of being their father’s next victim if she fails to get away. She never escapes from under William’s thumb.

I haven’t fully thought through the middle section but generally, the idea is that Freddy’s shuts down and years pass. William and Vanessa almost seem to disappear off the face of the planet, Michael seemingly the only one able to escape the gravity that was the MCI tragedy. but almost a decade later, people have been going missing around the abandoned Freddy’s again and Michael (who never really got over what happened) suspects that William is back.

Michael goes to investigate only to find himself face to face with, not William, but Vanessa. His shy younger sister. Only now she has a lot more blood on her hands.

Smth smth the fox and the rabbit switching roles right??? I love FNAF’s reverse food chain, it’s so compelling.

I haven’t thought much past this point but I feel like it’s gotta eventually converge into the death of William Afton somehow. There’s not exactly a small child like Abby to be in danger but I can see Michael getting lured back every night by the ghost of Evan like Mike is by Garrett in the movie. Perhaps Michael is able to convince Vanessa that he’s gonna get her out of there. William comes to the pizzeria as Springbonnie cause he finds out Michael is back, Vanessa turns the animatronics against William because they see her as one of them but still gets stabbed.

and there can be like a sweet heartfelt moment of Michael and Vanessa in the hospital and her waking up like “You kept your promise, you got me out.” and Mike being super guilty about her getting hurt and her replying “Well I’m still alive, arent I? That’s all that matters.” and woo peace and love on planet earth. family reunited. until william always comes back or whatever.

90% sure all of this is just nonsense word vomit but that one doodle really just drove the brainrot crazy.

[marshmallowwitharubberband]

I have a complicated relationship with Jiang Cheng.

As a character, I love his complexity, but I especially love how realistically it portrays one of the real-life outcomes of growing up in a violent, emotionally-repressive environment. When every display of emotion is labeled as weakness and answered with violence, some people eventually become programmed to turn any emotion into agression, see everything as an attack, and become secretly-people-pleasers with zero tolerance to frustration.

Actually, the Jiang siblings are excellent portraits of the different outcomes of what growing up in violence can do to you: you either become small and unnoticeable to survive, you become the kindest person ever so no one goes through the same, your self-worth gets reduced to what you can do for others, you go into substance abuse...

Thinking about it, I wouldn't be surprised if MXTX studied psychology in some form because the personalities resulting of her character's backgrounds are surprisingly realistic, for the most part, but back to Cheng-Cheng.

Guy had all the pressure put on him by his emotions-hating helicopter mom. Yanli got a pass for being a woman and being "destined" to be a wife, and maybe Mme. Yu may have projected a little, maybe she thought if she, herself, was sweeter and meeker JFM would treat her better? Idk, but the fact is, Yanli was allowed to not be "strong" ('Cause Mommy Yu is definitely the type of person to equal strength to agression). WWX "didn't count" because he was just a servant, so she merely ground his self-worth into the dirt.

Poor Jiang Cheng had to bear the brunt of his mom's horrible expectations and it broke him. His agression is more like a scared animal's, he lashes out his fear and frustration as violence because it's the only "acceptable" way, the only way he learned to be taken seriously or handle emotions at all. Much like today's wall-punching macho wannabes.

I wouldn't be surprised if Jiang Cheng, in a modern AU, would be sucked into the red pill rhetoric, he's exactly the lonely, stressed, emotionally hurt and vulnerable demographic those jerks target.

So yeah, he is a complex character with very valid motivations and a horribly tragic story handled in a very realistic way, I love that.

As a person, though, I really, really hate him and admit that, at some points in the book I would skip over his dialogue because yeah, yeah, your suffering, your sacrifices, boo hoo, poor you, my god, just shut up, everyone in this place has suffered and lost and is majorly messed up, you're not special! (At least he didn't actively murder anyone)

But I am aware it's because he reminds me, uncannily accurately, of someone who irl emotionally abused me all through childhood while the other adults around me did nothing. They, too, were obsessed with what I "owed" them both literally and metaphorically, and showed their affection with criticism, aggressiveness, and irate explosions. And while I understand them more now and the cycle of violence they were a victim of, I cannot forgive their actions. And I kin Wei Wuxian too hard to ever forgive Jiang Cheng.

But I do like how The Untamed softened him a lot and took care to emphasize that he was just an insecure kid who wanted to be accepted and the universe made him its chew toy. It re-portrayed him as that younger sibling who just wants to be included in his big bro's adventures and keeps being pushed aside by everybody. TU JC is my sweet little baby and needs a hug.

Book JC can go fry asparagus.

[imrllytootiredforthis]

yuuta in the movie 😭

I have so much to say but imma leave it to you

also his dumbass not knowing he's a special grade sorcerer 👍🏻😃

maki being like 😧

this was the funniest moment lmao

nooo that was so funny though, i just saw a video of that clip a few days ago😭, he was just so cute a clueless

and she's just like 'you fuckin' dumbass🙄-fine here, let me see it' and is utterly shocked.

i have like a million and one thoughts about them but it's all just incomprehensible maki fucking yuuta, fucking yuuta, yuuta crying and sniffling, yuuta with his big puppy eyes as he begs for more-claiming he can take-even if he can't, yuuta cumming completely untouched when he's degraded and praised, yuuta with a breeding kink-begging to be filled up full of you because he wants to be a good boy and take it all~, yuuta being your and maki's cute little puppy-getting all dressed up and cute to have his two very hot partners absolutely destroy him, yuuta being sad when you're both busy-acting out in his own barely acting out because he's a good boy way-pouting and crossing him arms with a cute little 'hmph!' before inevitably breaking with a 'will you guys please just fuck me!' ...and then meeker 'please, i just need you so bad~'

yuuta and maki<3

[frozenjokes]

horrible family reunion

ao3 link

“Oh, I forgot to ask, have you called your folks yet?” The question came out of nowhere from Cleo the next day, and it startled Scar slightly, like having his mind read. He’d been thinking about it. Of course he’d been thinking about it. Sleeping at Cleo’s legs hadn’t managed to quell his homesickness, his desires still centered around the fantasy of being piled up in a group of snoozing mercenaries, resting until their next mission. He missed the warmth, the shallow breaths of alive bodies. Maybe he’d try to get further up by Cleo’s chest once they were asleep; calling home or not, Scar wouldn’t get to doze with his fellows any time soon.

“I tried,” the admission came meeker than he’d meant it to, “I couldn’t figure it out. There were instructions on the pamphlet, but it was gone when I meant to.. I don't know. I couldn’t figure it out.”

Cleo's gaze shifted to something heavier, sympathetic not like pity, but understanding, a look that might have picked Scar up and hugged him if it had been any more intense. Scar wavered under it, dejection of his failings splitting his chest in a gaping black cavity he was sure she could see, even through the clothes he tried to hide it with.

“Come on then,” Cleo was already walking away, decidedly less all-encompassingly soothing than he’d lost himself to, but he snapped out of it, hurrying after them. Goodness, he was in dire need of being held. This was ridiculous.

“Let’s show you this first,” Cleo sat once they were both inside, Scar standing behind her, wary as he always was outside of the safe room. Cleo didn’t need his acknowledgement though, continuing, “This is the main panel you want to worry about. Most of the important stuff you can do with this. It’s a little difficult since you don’t know the language, but I don’t think that will be a great obstacle. You’ll probably only need to know how to spell your name, but it’s short in English, so it’s not too bad.”

“How would you know how to spell it? We have different letters.”

“Oh, well your name translates directly to an English word, so it’s not hard. The names that don’t necessarily mean anything.. we do our best. The epitome of sounding it out, y’know? Regardless, here’s how you access your papers,” Cleo returned to the control panel, gesturing to a button on the keyboard, “When you press this, a different screen will pop up,” she did so, letting Scar see, “It’s got a lot of information here, but all you need to care about is the search bar up there, the long rectangular box. You’re going to select it, and then you’re going to type your name. S-C-A-R.” Cleo pointed to each key as they spoke. Scar strained to remember, following their finger with a distant paw. “Why don’t you try to type it?”

Scar bit his lip, ear pinned. He tried. Four letters- he didn’t even have to know the letters, it was just like a keycode on a lock. All the characters were smushed to one side, it couldn’t have been any easier. Hesitation did him a disservice, and he was already forgetting. He hit four keys. Nothing happened.

“Not quite,” Cleo frowned, but not judgmentally. “Okay, better idea.” Cleo retrieved a small notebook and a pen from a drawer, sitting back and drawing on the first page. ‘S-C-A-R,’ just like the symbols on the keyboard. Underneath his name, Cleo drew a small rectangle, writing another human word inside of it. Then, they pointed to it on the keyboard. “After you write your name, hit that button. It should bring you to the page you’re looking for.” Cleo gestured for Scar to try.

He did. It took him a minute, but matching the symbols was much easier, and he was quite pleased with himself! He was a little less pleased when Cleo made him do the same thing ten more times. But hey, he could spell his name in Human now! With the same amount of repetition, Cleo taught him how to find his pamphlet and how to print it. A little annoying, but in the end Scar didn’t have anything else he would rather be doing. It was a relief to know.

Calling home was a much simpler matter. There was a button on the panel that Cleo said was an image of a human phone, though Scar had never seen one that looked like a backwards ‘C.’ On the communicator screen, Scar recognized his own name. Briefly, he was annoyed it wasn’t written in his own language; how hard would that have been to do? They had a whole pamphlet in his language, would this have been so much of a hassle? Maybe he would have figured this out sooner. Regardless, it wasn’t hard to select his name. Cleo blinked, surprised at the drop down menu.

“No place to add numbers. Looks like you’ve just got one option.”

“What does it say?”

“Just the name of your planet. I’ve got no idea where or with whom the call is going to connect. Might as well give it a shot though.”

Scar’s stomach twisted. He didn’t.. he wasn’t exactly sure what he was expecting, but to have so little control over who he talked to.. He might not even get to speak with someone he knew; he had been dreading talking to Grian, but somehow this was worse. It didn’t matter what anyone really said to him, he just wanted to see a familiar face.

“Did you call yet?”

Scar jumped at Cub’s voice- he just seemed to appear behind him, since when was Cub so quiet?

Cleo answered in Scar’s stead, “We were just about to. I’m shocked you didn’t come sooner, I didn’t think you’d want to risk missing something like this.”

Cub shrugged. “I meant to. Got distracted.”

“Well, Scar,” Cleo turned back to the screen, “If you’re ready, selecting the number and pressing enter will dial it. Hopefully it goes through, but if not we can try again later.” Scar wished she’d just do it for him. He was suddenly afraid of messing this up somehow.

He persevered. The screen dialed.

“Hello, Scar,” a face Scar didn’t recognize answered him, further sinking his sullen heart. Maybe the receiver noticed his dejection, because their professionalism fell, expression apologetic. As they spoke, subtitles in Human dotted the bottom of the screen. “I’ll be able to connect you back to your clan in a moment.”

“Could I speak to Mumbo?” the words were out of Scar’s mouth before he could think to stop himself, recoiling moments later in his embarrassment.

“I don’t know a Mumbo.. sorry..” the receiver looked awkward, glancing the other direction, “You’ll be redirected to your local terminal. Just a moment, please.” There were no other words shared between them before the screen flickered black, and Scar was momentarily terrified that the call disconnected.

And then the feed was back, back with someone Scar recognized. He could have cried. Impulse stared back at him with those stark yellow eyes, the white patch on his chest standing out against the rest of his inky black fur. Scar had always wondered if he had horns, or if his spectral aura only created the illusion.

“Scar..” he said, uncertain. It stung Scar slightly to be regarded with such hesitation, but most cats’ opinions on him weren’t a great secret. Impulse was nice at least, but it was obvious he would rather share grooms with most anyone else. This.. was not an uncommon opinion.

“I’d like to speak with Mumbo if he’s around.” It was becoming increasingly clear Scar would not be getting what he was looking for from anyone else.

“I’ll send for him,” Impulse straightened, like it was far more comfortable to talk business than float in the threat of small talk. “Grian’s already on his way.”

“I don’t want to talk to Grian.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice. I’d just keep your head down if I were you.” Scar saw an uncharacteristic flash of anger, maybe bitterness in Impulse’s eyes, and a potential show of teeth, though it was impossible to tell, his fangs as black as his fur. “With recklessness like this, you're more than overdue to have your head ripped off.”

Scar’s ear pinned, unable to help the growl that slid from his throat, “Right, good to know I’ve been so missed as for my recklessness to be your main concern.”

Impulse did not flinch. “Playing with your life is playing with all our lives. What were you thinking? Those ships are off limits for a damn reason, and now we’re down a soldier with nothing to show for it. What was the point, Scar? An adrenaline rush? Was it worth it? When will you grow up?” Scar saw the pain there, he saw the pain just as clearly as he’d known it his whole life. Impulse had kids, Scar knew that. Still, every hair on his pelt set on end, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Cleo get up, then Cub pull her away.

“Would have been better if I was just plain dead, right? At least you’d get a meal.” Scar spat, furious in his own pain. It was never enough, was it? He was never enough, he would never be enough for anyone.

“That’s- no.” Impulse backed down, but Scar didn’t believe him. It didn’t matter what Impulse said, Scar would never believe him. “Scar, I’m glad you’re alive. We’re all glad you’re alive. It’s going to be hard without you here.”

“Shut up. Shut up. I don’t answer to you. I outrank you, you answer to me, and I want Mumbo, so maybe you could do your fucking job and get him here!”

“Scahhrr,” the telltale drawl of Grian’s voice silenced the room, even the remaining dredges of conversation from other catfolk during Impulse’s and Scar’s fight. Well, if that was a fight, they were about to learn what a real screaming match looked like. Impulse dropped away from the desk, the cat sìth retreating into the dark.

Grian was not an inherently intimidating figure. He was a sphinx, small and brown with that signature flat face, his own pale and dotted with freckles. What was really impressive about him were the wings, bright and colorful, red, blue, yellow. The feathers shook and rattled when Grian was angry, and today one might have mistaken the room to be full of snakes. “Who is it you answer to?”

Scar narrowed his eyes. “Sir.”

“How long men tussle in the dust, fight, rightly, ‘for they rust, rot, trust me damned man, plans unplanned, unwise, unlistened, unheard. A fool might wonder who lays the blame in a cruel mind unfortunate, caught in blasts that rattle hearts too young, brought to fly too early, too stupid, though he insisted naught. But we remember. We think. We wonder. Who's to blame for your lost mind. Lost ear. Lost lives. We remember, do we?”

“Who is this fucking guy?” Cub’s voice made Scar jump, but Grian’s soulless eyes did not leave Scar. Grian was waiting for an answer. Scar would not give him one. “No, seriously, why is he talking like that?” Cub was left unacknowledged.

“Scahhr. Marred heart. Who do we blame? Who is your only undoing?”

“I haven’t- Are years without incident not enough for you? How long will it take, huh?”

“Without incident!” Grian howled, and Scar saw others begin to scatter, dropping their headphones and retreating out the door. “A tree without leaves. A cat without claws. A Scar without incident. Fool greater than foulest words, who will never be less trouble than he’s worth? Answer.”

“I’m doing my best.”

Grian squawked a sharp laugh, in it no joy. “Mumbo knew. Mumbo knew. Still you fly, flew, you reach, you tear, you force his hand. Who is his own ruin? No, not just his own. To ruin yourself, that is selfless. You. Like venom, you infect every wound.”

“Congratulations, you’ve learned to answer your own questions. Would have been great if anyone told me about the time looping human death prisons, but sure, finding out for myself is just as fine a way as any to get rid of me. Three whole years, wow, G, what a treat that is for you! So lucky not to have to deal with me anymore, isn’t that right? You fuckin’ hate me so much! My biggest crime is surviving a bust mission, and yeah, sure, the play wasn’t perfect, I wasn’t perfect, but maybe I wouldn’t have admitted that to anyone if I knew I’d be scrutinized about it for the rest of my damn life! What does it take, huh Grian? What the hell does it take?” It occurred to Scar late he’d been talking for an awfully long time without being interrupted. He looked up. He..

He had never seen Grian shake so hard, claws buried in the seat, fur bristled, tail and wings quivering.. Scar knew instantly he’d said something very wrong. This was not going to be one of their typical arguments.

“IF ANYONE TOLD YOU!?” Grian was so loud that Scar physically recoiled, eyes wide and ears pinned as Grian lunged toward the camera. “If anyone- IF ANYONE TOLD YOU!? If anyone told you. IF ANYONE TOLD YOU!”

Scar cowered under the massive screen, certain Grian was going to tear through it and pull him apart limb by limb. He’d known sphinxes could get stuck like this, he’d seen it happen, but never in this context. This repetition came most commonly from grief, from shock, from loss. Scar had seen it from Grian, grieving the two mercenaries that fell on Scar’s mistake. That died because Scar had let a person go, he’d wanted to continue chasing them, but he lost them around the hall. He did not remember the explosion. Distantly, he remembered space, floating. He remembered someone touching his face. His mother, maybe. But she was dead. (Later, he’d been told he was found in a corner, smushed between metal boxes and supply crates. That he’d taken cover and hid. If he’d been in space with a torn up suit, he’d never have survived. It was a miracle he endured the explosion in the first place.)

Seeing Grian, who he had looked up to so completely, stuck.

It had frightened him more than anything in the world. More than being yelled at, screamed at, forced to admit his blame over and over and over.

“How did this happen?” were the words. The words Grian couldn’t stop repeating. They were desperate words, frightened words, deeply upset, shocked words. Scar remembered, half conscious, Grian shaking him. He’d had to be pulled away by doctors and nurses.

Grian had approached Scar later, still hospitalized, but conscious. Grian hadn’t been stuck anymore, but he’d asked the same question. It frightened Scar so badly he could only tell the truth. He was so afraid. He’d just turned of age, the age cats were allowed to enlist. He hadn’t been allowed to fly before then, even at his insistence he train.

Grian never forgave him.

Finally, Grian broke his repetition, but the words were no less harsh, “PEARL. IMPULSE. SKIZZ. GEM. JOEL. MUMBO. MUMBO. MUMBO!!! Marred heart, broken oath, cold blood. Risk your life, risk your fellows, never listen! Stupid, less than worthless, welcome home with only a dead pulse. I will make sure of it, I will make sure. Who is worse than reckless? No one told you. No. You never cared, that’s what.” Grian swiveled around. Feathers whisked away in his wake. And just like that, it was over. Scar’s life, over.

Scar sat on the floor. He couldn’t get any lower. He.. he knew. He knew how Grian felt. He knew how Grian hated him, hated especially Scar and Mumbo’s friendship, how Scar would take Mumbo up and put his life in peril, just like he’d done to Grian’s past friends, lovers even; in communities so tight knit, it was all the same.

“Whoa-“ the mic picked up someone across the room, and Scar looked up to see Mumbo collide with Grian in the doorway, then Grian push past without another word. Mumbo looked quite like he wanted to pursue Grian, but glanced at the screen, at Scar, and broke away to approach him instead. Neither of them said anything for a many long moments.

“Chewed you out, huh?” Mumbo tried after a while, but there was no joy behind it.

“I can’t come home.”

“He say that again? You know he doesn’t mean it, mate, he can’t do anything about it anyway, that’s not his jurisdiction. I wish he’d stop telling you that..”

“He meant it. He meant it this time. I can’t come home.”

Mumbo was quiet for a moment. He might’ve started to speak, but Scar was suddenly overcome, talking over whatever Mumbo was about to say in a stark panic.

“Was I supposed to know? Know about this? This- This stupid human prison?”

Mumbo seemed to stop in his tracks, eyes widening, “Oh, Scar,” he was horrified, distinctly the wrong reaction, “You’re joking, mate. Seriously.”

Scar stared helplessly. “I- No! How many times was this mentioned, really?”

“We have to renew our training every year, Scar! There’s a whole section on these ships. I- I told you before you boarded! I told you it was a terrible idea! You wouldn’t have it any other way!” Now Mumbo was angry, oh god Mumbo was angry, and suddenly Scar wanted nothing more than for Cub or Cleo to put a bullet in his head. “You can’t- You can not seriously say you didn’t know. You didn’t tell Grian that, did you? Fuck.” Mumbo drew his hands over his face, black and white patterned.

“It’s my fault.”

“It is your fault! This could not be more completely, utterly your fault. Did you not-? Scar, I- This just- I don’t know. Maybe I should have stopped you. I can’t- I don’t know. I just hate when you don’t.. listen. I have to go, I’m sorry, I just can’t deal with this right now. I hate when I advocate for you and you just- augh. So stupid.”

Scar did not see Cleo stride forward and end the call. She looked at him. He wanted to die.

“What a bunch of shitheads, right?” Cub’s contribution was met with a glare from Cleo, but he paid them no mind, stretching uncaringly. “Yeah, I think I’d rather be here. Yeesh. At least we know we’re all assholes.”

“Cub, come on.”

“No! Seriously! If it’s a choice between back home with that load of losers or up here where we can at least have fun with it, it’s not even close! Come on, Scar, off the floor,” Cub wandered over, nudging Scar with his foot. “Whatever you’ve done I promise you I’m about a hundred times worse and the only way you’re gonna stop feeling like shit is to stop giving a fuck. You didn’t do your training and got stuck in a time loop, who cares! Let’s go break some shit and throw a party about it or draw pictures of our exes and burn them with lasers, let’s go.”

Quietly, hoarsely, he spoke, “I just want to go home.”

“Boooo, home, we hate home, I never want to go home!”

“Alright, that’s enough from you,” Cleo huffed, smacking Cub over the head. Scar did not move when she approached him, falling limp as he was scooped up off the floor. He felt a lot like he was floating in space, his mother’s hand against his cheek. Her touch was distant, fleeting, and every time he chased it she was further and further away.

At some point he recognized he was in bed. In Cleo’s bed, held close against her chest. He might have sobbed. He didn’t remember.

…

Time passed, and what could never be normal again became a little more feasible, a little less difficult. Was it ever possible to want and to love again, Scar did not know, but no one could force him to answer on this quiet little spaceship in the midst of nowhere.

…

The longer Scar spent around humans, the more unsettling he found them to be. The passing time had been uneventful mostly. The thought of starting the puzzles was floating at the back of Scar’s mind, but his main focus was easing his own hurt, and he had little energy for much else. Cub didn’t seem interested in anything to do with puzzles either, and if Scar was being honest with himself, he did not have the energy to get into it with Cub again.

In general though, humans were just.. strange. Very strange, and very weird about it too. They would not stop staring at him, a lot like kittens, always curious and looking at you in that unfocused, distant way. Always, they were always staring. He could not doze without the looming feeling of being watched, because he was being watched, every single time he opened his eyes one or both humans were watching. They didn’t like it when Scar stared back, they always looked away then, but there was nothing guilty about it, they’d just been watching and that was normal??? Scar wasn’t sure they could help it! He’d told them to knock it off multiple times, and while Cub denied staring in the first place, Cleo would agree to stop, but he still caught her just as much!

“You look like one of my cats. It’s a good thing,” Cleo had tried to explain themself, a little awkward. “Big girl, very good. Makes me miss her.”

Scar growled from his place near the ceiling, tail flicking. “I’m no deserter.”

Cleo snorted, “I don’t see how either of these two things are related in literally any capacity, but I’m deeply intrigued, say more right now.” Cub looked up, but Scar shut him down with a glare before he could say something snarky or dumb or just generally unpleasant. Cub must have been interested in the story however, because he looked back down to the game he was working on, saying nothing.

Well, Scar would be lying if he didn’t thrive off the attention. He let his front paws hang from the machinery he’d settled precariously on top of, rolling his eyes. “Our history of space travel is vast and impressive but when you get into the weeds, utterly boring. I like space. Space is great. Too many details though, no thanks, you’ll lose me. In one ear and out the other, that’s how it goes with me.”

“You only have one ear,” Cub mumbled. Valiantly, Scar chose to ignore him.

“Regardless, all you need to know is that space exploration was a great passion of my people thousands of years ago when hardly anyone else was doing it, and explore we did. For missions at great distances, our crews needed to be small for more efficient resource use, and our greatest astronauts were the smallest of us. Your ‘cats.’ They didn’t have it all; lacking limbs and thumbs especially, but with a little extra help on board, they did great, great things. Our old maps of the galaxy are the best there ever was, and you can bet it was their contributions that made it happen.”

“Do you still make maps? Cub asked, but there was an interest there that appealed to Scar’s ego, so he answered before the rest of his brain could get mad at Cub for interrupting him.

“No, not anymore. We don’t- well, the old ones are brilliant enough as it is. We make updates as need be, but as far as map making goes, that’s now a common hobby among the universe, not something we bother with anymore. We’d rather keep our people close to home.”

“That’s a shame. I’d love to see the ones you have, I’m sure they’re cool. Are they physical, or all electronic? I wonder how much has changed.”

“We- We have multiple versions. It’s taken a lot of great care to preserve the earliest physical versions, and they really are incredible. It’s been a while since I’ve seen them, that was more of a field trip activity. I’ll have to go back.”

“If I’m okay with dying, would your people let me see them?”

“Uh, no.”

“Damn.”

“Back to the cats!” Cleo rallied, “Enough nerd stuff. Tell of the crimes of my kitty cats’ ancestors, please.”

Scar’s tail twitched distastefully, but regardless, he continued, “Well, a lot of the roles of space travel began to be filled by the little guys because of how well suited they were to it. It was a point of great pride, and prideful they were, certainly. Species-wise, it was a common belief that our planet was too small to hold the lot of us, hold them more specifically, and there were places out there better suited. It was.. a point of contention, for sure. Now, we’re a hearty people, but even then, finding a whole other planet where the stars align to create something habitable? That’s pretty.. well, impossible sounding. But they found it. They sure found it. And boy, wasn’t that exciting. Conceptually exciting, yes, but they were thinking further than that, they stepped foot in the wilderness of Earth and decided it was better.”

Scar grimaced. “That was.. controversial. A chunk of the population just deciding they want to get up and go, well, it didn’t go over well. Our planet isn’t perfect, it never was, particularly agriculturally, but there were quite a few issues with picking up the lot of us and fucking off to somewhere new. Civil wars were massive issues during that time, fighting over the right to leave, to keep them with the rest of us. A lot of industry halted, and given the size differences between species, the little guys were more easily abused. Still.. Didn’t stop a significant portion of cats from leaving anyway, a whole underground operation, stealing a horrendous amount of resources and technologically setting the rest of us back by decades. It was bad, really bad, there was so much spite, so much environmental warfare- the little guys couldn’t fight the rest of the population physically, but they could poison the land, doing everything that could be done to prove the cats who thought everyone ought to stay were wrong. That’s the long and short of it at least. I don’t honestly know all the details. I’m not the right person to ask about history.”

“So all of the- for lack of a better word- to-be-domesticated cats just left? How would a species-wide exodus like that even be possible?”

“Oh, no, not all of them. Not even half- that was one of the issues. It just wasn’t even close to feasible to get everyone off the planet in the first place. I feel bad for the little ones that got left behind.. Not all of them even wanted to go, but they still faced the social punishment for it. It’s still a problem now. None of them are allowed to go to space anymore all these centuries later, not that they’re suited for hunting like we do now, but..”

“Cat racism.” Cub mumbled, astute.

Scar shrugged, “Yeah, guess so. Though they’re still much better off than being an Earth cat, for goodness’ sake, look how they ended up! How did that even happen! I’d rather die than be a human pet. Then be anyone’s pet.”

“I think Scar is cat-racist,” Cleo hummed, and Cub nodded, Scar bristling in turn.

The humans continued to be annoying. And also they never stopped staring at him.

They were weird about other things as well. They were so weird about clothes, it wasn’t like Scar had any change of clothes like they did, why was it so odd that he took his off? He had to wash them- he had to wash himself! Was this the only way to get them to stop staring?

Maybe it was because he was from another planet. They didn’t seem to have a problem changing in front of each other, though they never lingered undressed, and washed privately. It was so odd. No wonder they had nothing to do when they were talking to each other. They were dirty too, they stank, they could do with a proper groom (Cub especially, something was wrong with that one). Or maybe that’s just how humans smelled. Unclear.

Though maybe it was just recent events that were making Scar restless, desperate for that physical affection, to be affectionate, to care for someone else, to nurture- he’d never even thought about being a father before now, but all of a sudden he wanted nothing more than to just take care of someone, a little one, someone who hadn’t yet seen the world and the horrors it might bring upon them.

These impulses were about to become the humans’ problem. They acted enough like kittens anyway, and it was much easier to dismiss the squabbling if they were kids, troubled and alone, things to be cared for. Much easier to forget past violence. To feel needed.

Cub’s hair was particularly greasy, but he did all but shoot Scar when he tried to take care of it. Cub’s hair was long, but not ridiculous like Cleo’s, it was totally manageable! Scar tried very hard, very very hard, but after being battered in the face so violently that his nose bled, he gave up.

On that attempt.

Cub was in desperate need of help! Scar saw the dandruff, he knew very well Cub needed this!

So he waited. He waited until Cub was asleep. He and Cleo turned the lights out at the same time every day, but the hours were different from Scar’s days, so he wasn’t quite used to it, and honestly, in his (human) month alone, he’d never turned the lights off. He hadn’t known how.

But apparently Cub and Cleo were trying to preserve what remained of their circadian rhythms. Fine by Scar. It meant they typically went to bed at predictable times. Scar waited a couple hours after Cub had fallen asleep, just to be safe. He didn’t know what a couple hours really meant, but it felt like a long time had passed, and no one stirred when he stalked over to Cub’s bedside, so…

Scar slunk up the side of the headboard to perch on top, staring at Cub beneath him. Sleeping face down. Certified fucking freak for that, but a good position for Scar. Carefully, he set his front paws on either side of Cub’s pillow so as not to disturb him.

Slowly, he leaned forward, midpaws scraping quietly against the headboard in his effort to keep himself upright.

“Scar.” Cub’s voice was muffled, but clear. How did he even know Scar was there??? He’d been so quiet! “Don’t.”

“You need help.” Scar whispered, but Cleo snickered from their own bed, and Scar was starting to wonder if either of them had fallen asleep in the first place.

“I am not allowing you to lick my psoriasis rash. That is disgusting. Nor will it help me. It goes away on its own.”

“But the flecks. Your hair.”

“Scar. I am not going to say it again.”

“Cub.”

Cub grunted, sitting up on his forearms, head inches from Scar’s face. He looked unhappy, though maybe that was just Cub without glasses, he looked so odd without them! The squinting in the dark didn’t help. Humans didn’t see as well as cats did- wait, since when did Cub have a gun?

“I see.” Scar mumbled, unmoving still.

“Do you?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Great. Well you lost my trust. Goodnight, Scar.”

Somehow, Scar did not expect Cub to just shoot him right then and there. And a good shot it was as well, so instant a death that Scar definitely wouldn’t remember it, but he’d probably puzzle it out after waking up in the next loop. Unfortunately, Cub failed to consider how blowing Scar’s brains out would affect his sleeping situation, which is to say, both him and his bed being coated in viscera.

After a great deal of effort and grief and cleaning himself up, he was allowed in Cleo’s bed for the night.

[amethysttribble]

AU of my own AU, inspired by this post: the Seven Sons of Feanor and their father are reborn much closer together, but not in nearly so advantageous a position. The year is 259 AC.

@blue-ink-pearls

Celegorm jerked awake, coughing and hacking. His tongue felt frozen in his mouth and there was blackness swirling in his eyes. The darkness, the cold, seeping ever closer, it clung to his sweaty skin. There were heaps of blankets on top of him and, despite the cold, he kicked them off.

Trapped, I can’t be trapped, he thought, panicky, I must fly.

But the evil thing in his dreams had ripped out his wings and he felt the wounds on his back like they were real. He felt grief for them. A sob crawled up his throat even as he heaved for breath, oh, it was was hard to breathe.

Celegorm was so cold and he had no wings. He needed fire, heat; he needed to fly! The evil thing was coming, he must-

“Cel?”

He was shaking as he looked over at little Curufin, seated next to him on the cot he, Celegorm, and Caranthir called a bed, which they shared.

“Finny,” he gasped out. He didn’t want- He couldn’t scare his baby brother. “Where- what time is it?”

Curufin had in his hands what looked like a quarter of an apple, and he was licking the juice off his fingers as he said, “Hm, morning. The bells rang for first service a while ago. But you’ve been in the fever sleep for two whole days! Mae and Maggie and even ‘Ran have been really worried, though they try to pretend they’re not.”

Two days. Celegorm should be hungry, but all he felt was a pit of nausea in his stomach. He put his head between his legs.

“Then there’s little hope old Mycah will let me keep my job.”

Maedhros had gone to a lot of trouble to get Celegorm work down at the docks; good work, too, because he was tall for his age and strong. But that job had come with strict times and rules to follow from the dock warden, Mycah, a salt old cur, who never really liked Celegorm to begin with. It was just a favor for Maedhros.

No, he wasn’t likely to be lenient.

The anger and frustration had such a clawing grip on him, Celegorm didn’t even look up when he felt a little hand touch his arm.

“It’s okay,” Curufin said, “Maggie’s been making good money, staying out all night.”

And now Maglor was walking the streets all night, singing from dusk til dawn, to make up for Celegorm’s stupid bullshit.

“Fuck,” he muttered, standing up suddenly. He threw his gross, soiled shirt and pants off and went hunting for better clothes.

With seven brothers, there was scarcely a stitch of cloth to share between them, but he managed to scrounge up some old items of Maedhros’s that were too big for Maglor; they were waiting for Celegorm to grow into them and repair them then, which was probably still a few years off, but they would do for now. Too long and wide and riddled with holes, but Celegorm really didn’t care.

Not right now.

“‘Suppose they’re both still at work,” he snapped as he tied a piece of rope around his waist like a belt.

“Aye,” Curufin’s tiny voice piped up, much meeker than before. Celegorm looked down at him as the boy- just seven- came closer.

He was looking at his feet when he said, “You’re better now. Right?”

The cold was still wrapped around his bones, but Celegorm said, “‘Course. Where ‘Ran and the little’uns?”

Curufin looked skeptical, but did perk up a little as he said, “Watchin’ the twins. I’m supposed to watch you!”

Celegorm ruffled his hair.

“You did a good job. Come on. Let’s you and I get some air. This room is foul.”

Forcefully, Celegorm grabbed one of Finny’s sticky hands. He was met with no resistance as he dragged his little brother out the bedroom all seven of them shared and into the rest of the house. As reported, Caranthir was seated at the table with Amrod and Amras, trying to play cards with them. How did you play cards with three year olds?

“You’re awake!” Caranthir squeaked when he saw them, grin massive. Amrod and Amras gave happy cries as well, but Celegorm didn’t stop to really greet them. He was too filled with shame and anger to let his brothers be kind.

“We’re going to the Sept,” he said, walking right past them, “be home soon.”

“Ah, but, Cel-“

He was gone before Caranthir could finish his protest. He didn’t feel too bad about abandoning Caranthir with the twins, not like he used to when he first started working all day. Caranthir had just turned ten then, forced to look after the two year old twins and six year old Curufin, but without Father, there really hadn’t been any other options.

Oh, Father… he would have been able to help Celegorm understand the dreams.

But Father was gone, and so was the life they used to live on the Street of Steel. They were in Flea Bottom now, the place the people who killed Father- if you can’t prove that, you best not be repeating it, Mae would always say, but Maggie would say, be smarter and more patient- said they belonged, Feanor’s gaggle of whore’s sons.

Gathered from six different mothers, all different brothels, if a woman asked him, ‘please take my son’, he did. No questions were asked about the real father. Their Father was very kind, and perhaps overly confident.

Seven sons just meant seven orphans, now. Maedhros did his best, but…

Make their lives easier, Celegorm thought, eyeing a burning pit that someone was cooking over, throw yourself on the flames.

He tightened his grip on Curufin’s hand and kept walking.

Their journey up Visenya’s hill was silent and felt tense enough to snap Celegorm in half. But his breathing eased once the Great Sept of Baelor came into view. The bells had just started ringing for noon service.

“Do we have to pray?” Curufin whined.

“Yes.”

The went inside and the smell of incense finally warmed Celegorm up somewhat. Started to melt the ice of his bones. The beautiful rainbow lights chased away the darkness. Here, he did not need to be scared that he couldn’t fly. The Seven would protect him.

Celegorm let Curufin go finally as he took a second to stand in the middle of the Sept and just breathe. His brother wandered off to the statue of the Smith, as he always did. Celegorm wasn’t nearly so partial to one aspect of the Seven but today…

Today he knelt in front of the Maiden.

He clasped his hands together and dug his nails into his skin and squeezed his eyes shut so hard that tears sprung to the corners of them.

Please, he thought, please protect my little brothers. Please tell me you’re looking. You see, right? It’s coming. I don’t know when it’s coming, they might not be children anymore, but please. Please keep this summer lush for a while longer. Please take care of us when the bad thing comes. Please cure of me whatever’s wrong with me. Please, please, please-

Eventually, he had no more words to beg with and started to recite every prayer he knew.

When he came up for air, much later, his knees ached and he was glad of it. Celegorm felt that if he hurt, the Maiden might see him more clearly. His words might be louder.

He kissed the statues robes before backing away.

Curufin was no longer praying to the Smith, but that was to be expected. He hadn’t gone far, though, no, he was talking to the septon who was equally partial to the Smith and thus always kind to eager Finny.

“An, young Celegorm,” the Brother said as he approached them, smiling, “Curufin was just telling me you have been ill and that is why we have not seen you recently. Is there anything we can do to help?”

The idea of admiting his horrid fever dreams to the blessed septon made Celegorm choke up with fear and revulsion and shame, so he shook his head.

He just held out his hand for Curufin to take, which his brother dutifully did.

“No, Septon, but thank you. I’m much better now. But, ah, if you hear anyone praying for a new worker who is strong…?”

“Ah,” the Septon said with a slight laugh, “yes, I see. Well, I’m sure the Seven will guide some soul here to receive precisely that sort of help.”

He winked, and it made Celegorm smile slightly.

He said his thanks again and made Curufin say his, then they bid their farewells. They started to walk home, and as they went, Curufin swung their joined hands.

Once they reached the bottom of the hill, Curufin said, “Happy Nameday, by the way.”

“What?”

“Your nameday, it was yesterday. You’re four and ten, now.”

“Oh,” Celegorm muttered. He didn’t feel four and teen. He felt like, whenever he dreamed, he lived decades in seconds. Thousands of years of waiting as the darkness and cold crawled closer, breathless with dread, helpless to stop it as his wings were ripped out time and time again. “Is that why you had an apple?”

Curufin grinned at him guiltily.

“Mae bought it for you, but he said ‘Ran, the babies, and I could share before it went bad.”

“Mae is smart,” Celegorm sighed.

“I thought you’d be mad,” Curufin said.

“I’m not mad.”

“I wish you were. The fever sleeps are making you too sad. You used to get mad.”

He did, didn’t he? But that was then and this was now. The night those jealous murderers burned the forge they called their home down changed a lot of things.

That was the first night he had one of his dreams.

“Yeah, well,” Celegorm muttered, “maybe I’m just more mature now, being four and ten.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Nuh-uh!”

Celegorm laughed. He squeezed Curufin’s hand and laughed through the exhaustion, thankful to the Maiden that at least he had such a silly little brother to lighten his spirits.

“Sure whatever you say,” he said, sticking his tongue out. “Do you know where Maggie is singing today? We can go bother him.”

With a wicked grin, Curufin pulled his hand from Celegorm’s and took off running. He ran after him.

Elsewhere, Summerhall burned.

[eldritch-spouse]

hihi, this is socially awkward anon ( now converted to just regular dry anon because i'm more socially inept than awkward and i hated the label i gave myself ) here again for a question regarding not just one but two people this time !

question numero uno, about Jonesy because I love him very dearly and he's just so neat. You said in a previous ask that besides the slight attraction to dominance, he prefers someone who he can " mold ". Does Jonesy gravitate towards meeker people who've had no romantic relationships? Who would end up confessing first? ( miniscule side question, are the circles on his shoulders muscle, shoulder pads, or one of those medieval puffy sleeves ? The last option's funny to imagine for me, in a good way )

last goofy little question ( and this can even be optional if you want ) if we gave Fasma a big old smooch, would some of his goo rub off on us like slime, or is he juuust " solid " enough to leave no residue on our lips ?

Is the sky blue? Is the grass green? Do birds sing in Spring mornings?

Most angels like having some form of control, especially over humans. It's sort of part of their programming. However, casts like warriors ironically tend to be the most submissive, even more so than workers. This is why Belo is a lot more susceptible to folding towards someone more dominant- Wherein Jonesy, someone in the upper echelon of the angel hierarchy, is not so easily bent. (Though let it be known Belo can also adopt this dynamic.)

He absolutely gravitates towards someone he can inflict his own "correct" views upon. He's very much a "fixer" type of person, the throne will gravitate towards someone who's going through real lows just so he can be the light in their life and make sure they take his every word as gospel. A lack of romantic or sexual interaction is, to Jonesy, just another way he can make you an exemplary lesser- By teaching you how to be intimate without being lecherous- Aka, "do sex acts with me only because I'm holy, therefore it's always correct, trust me".

In this case, there isn't really much of a confession, so much so as Jonesy makes several "obvious" pushes in the way you two interact. It's natural that you should hold his hand, of all people. You can trust the throne with your deepest feelings. In fact, if you have to love anyone, it might as well be the celestial that saved you, isn't that right? It makes sense that he should be the one to teach you intimacy and love. It's only natural that you're his.

It's an unspoken sort of thing. By the time either one of you says "I love you", it no longer comes as a shock, because your actions have spoken ten times louder.

[In regards to the outfit, those are puffy sleeves, yes.]

In normal states, Fasma is made of a pretty consistent ectoplasm. The material would cling to your lips for a second or two before easily molding back into shape. Naturally, the more force you exert, the harder it'll cling, but you'd have to put some effort in it to come out with a piece of him.

However, by the time you decide to smooch him, he's probably more than a bit nervous, so he's going to start melting, in which case you definitely get a gross sort of string connecting you two, like hot runny bubblegum. This is intensified when he's drunk.

[wingsoverlagos]

Lewisohn vs. Cynthia Lennon, Pt. 1 of 3

Part 2 // Part 3

Seems like we're getting some momentum, eh? Let's keep it going! To that end, here is the first of three posts comparing Tune In against Cynthia Lennon's memoirs. Cyn wrote two memoirs: A Twist of Lennon (1978, henceforth Twist) and John (2005). Lewisohn cites Twist 21 times and John five times, twice in conjunction with Twist. Of these citations, I found issues with sixteen of them. I'm deferring judgment on footnote 9-33 at this time, as it cites three other sources that I haven't gone through yet.

Cyn's memoirs were used both for quotes and for factual information in Tune In. In general, the quotes were less mangled than the ones taken from the 1980 Playboy interview, but I also stumbled upon some other issues, namely plagiarism and mischaracterization of certain events. Some of that will pop up here, but I intend to make standalone posts to explore those issues further.

For previous Lewisohn fact-checking, check out @mythserene's work and my Lewi-sins tag. Onwards!

Twist p.25-6 vs. Tune In 11-22

This passage describes the emotional timbre of John and Cyn’s relationship starting from their art school days. Tune In gives a mostly faithful account – I’ve underlined/highlighted some details that are consistent in both books. There was one line that stuck out to me in Tune In, though: “she knew he’d dismiss her in a second if she didn’t stand up to him.”

There’s no account of Cyn standing up to John in Twist. She withstands his behavior, but there’s no evidence of her pushing back, particularly in the early days. She describes herself as “a quaking, nervous wreck on many an occasion—so much so that the thought of going into college the following day would fill me with fear and dread.” I can’t think of any passages in Twist where we see Cyn standing up to John, and John (2005) is similar. In the latter, Cyn does give a couple of anecdotes in which she goes against John’s will (e.g. having Julian baptized), but this is usually done in an “ask forgiveness, not permission” way, rather than directly confronting him.

In fact, this isn’t the first time Lewisohn mentions Cynthia standing up to John. Just a few paragraphs before the above example, he writes this:

Cyn standing up to John is crucial enough that Lewisohn mentions it twice in short order, but that dynamic isn’t present in either of Cynthia’s accounts. Of course, there’s always the possibility of bias—perhaps Cyn portrayed herself as meeker than she was in practice—but if that’s the case, Lewisohn needs to provide a source. He mentions conflicting accounts multiple times throughout Tune In, but there’s no word of that here.

This isn’t the only time Lewisohn writes something contradicted by his cited source, and in some of those cases, I’ve found information supporting Lewisohn’s account in another, uncited source—we’ll get an example of that in the Twist citations. But I don’t think that’s what’s going on here—I think Lewisohn is subtly but purposefully warping the dynamics of John and Cyn’s relationship to make John come off better. He doesn’t go so far as to erase or excuse John’s abuse, but he implies there was more give-and-take in the relationship than was really there.

Twist p.18 vs. Tune In 10-34

There are no factual errors or misquotes here; Lewisohn is instead too faithful to the source material. Cyn describes her first dance with John as “slow and smoochy”; Lewisohn describes it as “slow, smoochy.” Yeah, he changed the “and” into a comma, but this is still plagiarism. “Slow” is a classic dance descriptor, but “smoochy”? Lewisohn is lifting original, distinct verbiage with little change. If this was a one-off thing, I might give him a pass, but he frequently leans heavily on distinctive phrases from his sources. There will be a post.

Twist p.30 vs. Tune In 13-10

Omission without ellipsis.

Twist p.42-43 vs. Tune In 13-53

A one-word quote from Cyn, but Cyn did not say that one word. Without the quotes this would be fine.

Twist p.37 vs. Tune In 13-64

The quote itself (in green) is consistent here, but check out the surrounding sections in pink. Cyn says that the boys’ magic was “so indefinable as to be almost non-existent at times” until they started playing. Lewisohn uses it as a blanket description of the band while playing. Not the most consequential change, I know, but Lewisohn is nevertheless using a quote in a way that directly contradicts the source.

Twist p.42 vs. Tune In 15-32

A few dropped words and one large, unmarked omission in the middle of the quote, but the meaning is retained.

Source: Lennon C. 1978. A Twist of Lennon. New York (NY): Avon Books. 190p.

[mistkissedmoon]

Rebuilding Azarath

Raven visits azarath sometimes, to wander in between the wreckage of what used to be buildings, for a reason she doesnt know. Nostalgia? Punishment, and reminder both? Either way, she is obedient to her duties on earth and always precise in her timing, telling starfire how long she will stay beforehand and returning when she says she will, so starfire permits it with a worried frown that eases whenever robin asks to join her. Raven would accept his company for that alone, even if she didn't find his silent presence at her side grounding. He made time for her without complaint, even when she only gave him a few rushed minutes notice, until one day she knocked on his door and he opened it to reveal a packed bag on his bed.

Raven's stomach dropped, and Damian read her expression and frowned, stepping aside to let her in. "It's a mission in Gotham," he explained. He packed the last of his clothes and turns back to her. "I won't be gone for long." His eyes betrayed his concern, and raven straightened to reassure him. "I'll be fine. I'm just going to walk around for a bit, then I'll teleport back." 

She repeats it to herself firmly as her feet touch azarathian soil, but it's so much lonelier without Robin. She hadn't noticed how much easier it was to breathe, and take up space and make noise with him beside her. Slipping through the broken streets, raven felt as though she were choking on the silence. Her footsteps ring out unbearably loud in contrast to the silence, yet the noise didn't help her at all. It feels as if she is being rude by disturbing the silence, as if Azarath itself disdained her presence here. 

She frowns at the thought, before seeing if flying silently would help her feel a fraction of the serenity she felt with Damian's strength to lean against.

It doesn't.

She's wasting his time. 

Raven hovered outside Damian's door, willing herself to knock.

Why would he come with her, if he has anything else he could be doing? When before she hadn't even given him an hour's notice, certain she wouldn't mind if he joined her or not? 

She shuffled in place, before deciding, miserably, to leave. As she turned, his door opened, catching her off guard. Damian, looking unsurprised to see her, raised an eyebrow at her and she flushed, realising he had been waiting for her to knock.

"You must have something to say, after waiting so long at my door." Damian said dryly. Raven flushed deeper, and he leaned against the door, studying her expression as though he wanted to memorise it. His inspection made it harder for her blush to recede and she fumbled for an answer, before clearing her throat to compose herself. 

"Would you mind visiting Azarath with me?" It came out meeker than she intended, and she cleared her throat again in embarressment. There were so many explainations on the tip of her tongue, but she didn't want to pressure him into agreeing by telling him how much safer she felt when he was with her. Caught between the urge to defend her unexplainable need to visit azarath and the desire to tell him why she wanted his company, she wrested with her tongue and stared at the floor between them, too many thoughts in her head to say something coherant. 

"Of course I wouldn't mind." Raven peeked at his face and found his eyes softened and gentle. "If you give me enough warning, I'll try to rearrange my duties to go with you."

Raven felt warm. "Why did you come with me every time, even when I didn't give you warning?" She murmured. Although they were alone in the corridor, this moment felt intensely private and she leaned closer to him without thinking.

"You needed me." He said simply. "I won't let you down when you need me." Damian reached around her waist and gave her a quick hug that she leaned into. 

Though it takes courage, it becomes easier to ask for his company after that. He makes it so obvious that she's a priority. Damian is far too stubborn and perceptive to let her slip away. Raven loves him so much.

Raven waited patiently for damian to stand after he kneeled to check something in the dirt. It was commonplace, as her wanderings grew more like wanderings and less like feverish hauntings, for him to stop and inspect something he saw; a piece of rubble, a ruined sign in the dirt.

"Raven. Your father…" Damian hesitated before continuing, his voice toneless in a way that told her he was hiding nervousness, and she turned, alert and wary. He was still inspecting, or pretending to inspect the soil, and with his back turned to her she couldn't see his expression. "The soil may be useable a few centimeters below the surface. I believe the years have been enough time for it to recover, only the seeds were all destroyed. We could replace them, if you like." Raven froze, shocked. Azarath, blooming with life, again? After what she did to it? Could it recover - No. Nothing could ever make the ruins clean again. Would the monks have thought she was trying to absolve her guilt by growing a garden on their graves? Cowardice. She seethed with self loathing. "Raven. Breathe." Raven became aware of Damian's, warm, calloused hands cupping her face and her own panicked breathing. Tears pricked at her eyes and despite her best efforts, a few rolled down her cheeks. Damian's eyes stayed fixed to hers and in a bid to calm herself, she slowly leaned towards him until their foreheads were pressed together. Damian didn't move, though his eyes showed uncertainty, and after a few tear soaked minutes she took a deep, heaving breath and stepped away, honoured by his trust in her and embarressed that she broke down in front of him.

"Let me think about it." Raven croaked. Damian waited patiently as she tried to order her thoughts. She didn't know what the monks would have wanted. Years of guilt and avoiding thinking about them had made their memories so blurry she could barely remember their faces, and only the repeated lectures their stern voices drilled into her. Their lessons hadn't been enough to halt youthful foolishness, though they had tried their best to ensure she understood the inherent value found in living things. "A garden. I think they would have liked that." She rasped, finally. Damian didn't pry about who she was talking about, and stayed with her silently, sensing she needed a minute. A garden for them. They would want to be in a garden. It won't be for me, and I won't forget what i did. If you can hear me, she prayed, thank you, and I'm sorry.

The rows of potato plants looks strange against a backdrop of collapsed columns and crumbling stone stairs, but after so long with nothing but the ruin left in trigon's wake, raven is glad to see any life growing on azarath. It's a far sight from the elegantly draped flora that used to grace Azarath, but she was too young to remember the names of any plants before they were incinerated to look for them on earth and after, all that remained of them was ash. The thought of making the hollow corpse of Azarath into a copy of what it used to be makes raven shiver, anyway, and she hasn't figured out how to remember the old azarath without seeing her mother dying. Restoring azarath to what it was exactly would not help her; she already suffers through visions of the past superpositioned onto the present - where this monk died, and or that monk was cut down as he ran - where buildings survived enough to facismile an appearance of before and during. Damian's offer to ask swamp thing for any plants that might have been on Azarath was sweet, though, and Raven takes it as the offer of support it is, and breathes through the guilt he didn't mean to elict.

Instead, a sprawling, tangled web of pumpkin vines that neither of them remember buying shove their neighbors to make themselves comfortable in a large corner of the messy plot she and Damian had cleared of rubble to prepare for a small garden. They had tilled the soil, damian easily working through his half while she panted through hers. Her patch of ragged, overturned soil and untouched earth looks both freshly overturned and strangely methodical and uniform when she comes back from her break, and she shoots Damian a wry look that he pretends not to notice. She supposes she won't turn down his help on her side, though it hurts her pride, since her shoulders ache worse.

She silently planted Purple hyacinth for regret, and a few days after find blooming zinnias (remembrance, goodness, friendship) amongst her flowers. They bring a smile to her face, although she privately thinks damian esteems her too highly (he thinks the same of her).

She considers planting asphodel (my regrets follow you into the grave) but Damian has been determinedly trying to persuade her to grow spices for cooking with a ferocity that Raven privately finds adorable, and she aquieses in anticipation of the food he will feed her. She hopes the departed monks won't notice the difference between the plants.

Damian has been bringing Daylillies to fringe the edges. Raven admires the way the golden petals look in the sunlight, and adds her own seeds and saplings, until the garden has been expanded twice and the vegetables make regular additions to the titans fridge. The garden looks overgrown, huge and healthy but riotous, individual plants boundaries' ill defined and sloppy from where the plants had grown beyond their boundaries and she hadn't had the heart to clip them. It was a wonder they were growing at all - how are plants supposed to flourish in half melted, seared soil? Whatever mixture Damian has been pouring into the soil (It might be magic), Raven is grateful, knowing he does it for her sake. She doesn't think she could bear it if her garden died now. She wouldn't try to grow anything here ever again.

Ravens aware it's irrational, but she'd been secretly convinced in a guilty, superstitious way, that nothing except her and her father would be able to breathe the air without slowly dying. Raven never tells anyone her fears, even though she suspects Damian already knows. The first time Damian asked to plant something there, she froze, after all. When she realised they had been on azarath for hours every weekend, she trembled, and fiercely hoped that damian would remain as strong and lively as ever. Raven would do anything, anything at all, to make sure what happened on Azarath wouldn't happen again (especially not to Damian). Damian didn't remark on the days when she doesn't leave his side, giving her tasks to do and things to hold when he kneels to inspect the soil. Although it doesn't - shouldn't change anything, the grief and fear in her eases when she sees the garden, and even the guilt is sometimes replaced by a contented peace. She wishes that serenity would be less rare; she knows enough psychology to know her self flagellation hadn't helped anybody, but she doesn't know how to stop loathing herself even as she tried not to nurture these feelings. She wants to stop feeling awful about herself. "Thank you. For - everything." He stands to face her, and Raven bit her lip, wondering if she should leave it at that, but he's done so much for her. "For being so patient. And keeping me from drowning here. And the plants and the food and -" The words flood out until she runs out of air, and sucks more in noisily, cringing in embarressment, but he's been looking at her with a gentle, tender look in his eyes since she started talking, so she continues. "You're a good - great friend. I'm so glad to have you in my life." And if she's been silently admiring the way his hair looks in the sunlight more than paying attention to the plants when he's not looking at her, he'll never know. Damian blushes uncharacteristically and looks away. "I'm glad you're in my life, too, Rae." He mutters, clearing his throat. He looks like he wants to say something more, but looks away again, pretending to look over their garden. An unfamiliar tension coils between them, and she stares at him trying to make sense of it until his ears burn red. Feeling pleased at his blush, and embarressed that she was pleased, raven broke the tension by turning away to put away her tools for the night so they could leave.

The air seems fresher then before, the land less imposing (haunted) with a garden, so when Damian suggests bringing Titus to Azarath, she agrees, thinking of dog produced fertiliser and bringing his water bowl.

Titus gambols around, flattening springy stalks. "Titus. Heel." Damian commands. Titus, aware that his master can be charmed into forgiveness with the application of puppy eyes, huffs playfully and races off to chase a dragonfly. Damian grumbles in exasperation, waiting for his dog to return as he always does, which makes raven smile, charmed.

Raven takes her rambling garden all in and hopes the plants won't die. Although she is a poor gardener (not for lack of effort, but skill and experience), she trusts Damian to step in where her attempts aren't enough. There are times where she retreats into herself and does nothing more than hauling bags of fertiliser around for fear that the plants will somehow sense her relation to the demon that scoured all life from this planet, as if they will wilt the moment she touches them. One day, Raven sees a plant drooping and drops whatever she was holding (she cannot remember what it is and does not register if it breaks), gripped by the a wild panic that she is killing this planet again - but no. It is a plant, it does not care of her heritage, and simply needs more water. Damian presses a watering can into her nerveless fingers with a knowing, gentle look and goes to pick up what she had dropped before she can protest and persuade him to tend to it. Days later, it is as green as it's neighbors and Raven decides that it is her favourite plant. She pats it's broad leaves every time before she leaves sheepishly, aware of Damian's amused eyes on her. They had been more amused when she'd dropped a kiss on the leaves before knowing it was covered in spines.

She doesn't bother to define what kind of love she feels for Damian, and she won't until they're ready. She does love him; she can't deny that. All that matters is he is the most important person in the world to her and by the look in his eyes and the shy smile and the unfailing loyalty and support he gives her when he stays with her instead of patrolling, she can tell he feels the same way.

[sasusakucore]

What's your headcanon for Katniss and Peeta's children?

How old was Katniss when give birth to their daughter?

How many years apart between them in age?

Your headcanon for their name?

Who gets the singing and art skill from their parent?

Bonus question : please give recs of your fav everlark post-Mockingjay fanfic.

Thank you :)

@curiousthg

1)I haven't thought much about katniss and peeta's children but I feel like the daughter got their facial features and eye, skin and hair colour from katniss(but her hair is wavy like peeta's) though their son has peeta's colouring and wavy hair but his facial features are exactly like his late aunt, Primrose Everdeen, and whenever katniss looks at her son's face she gets reminded of prim which never fails to get her almost teary eyed.

The daughter is a complete katniss mini-me(peeta definitely makes alot of jokes regarding their daughter being katniss' mini me) in terms of personality while the son is almost equally like both his parents and his aunt prim(like he is 26% katniss, 24% peeta and 50% prim) in terms of personality.

The daughter, like her mom, is talented in music, archery, survival skills(katniss definitely thought her children survival skills),swimming and hunting, good at first aid,loves fashion(katniss adored cinna's dresses so I feel she loves fashion), is cunning, strong willed, caring, maternal and smart like her mother but she is also oblivious like her mother when it comes to romance and has most of katniss's flaws. She also can't stand to see terrible injuries on a person, just like her mother and is very shy when it comes to romance.She, like her father,loves painting and is good at wrestling as well. She unfortunately didn't inherit his baking skills, her cooking skills is decent but not as great as her father's and she struggles with woodwork.

The son,like his mother, is good at archery(he doesn't like hunting), swimming and survival skills. He adores fashion just like his sister and mother. He got his charms and intelligence from his father, his 'maternal(pr paternal whatever you call it) instincts' from his mother and like his grandmother and late aunt, he is a splendid medic, though his temper is like his father and I feel he is a bit meeker and shyer than his father when it comes to romance and like peeta, he got a bit of people pleasing personality and self-esteem issues. And like his aunt, he doesn't want to harm animals and cried just like her when he witnessed an animal getting hunted. He like, his father, is good at baking but he doesn't have his talent for painting. He is also good at wrestling like his father and he, unlike his sister, is good at woodwork. Unlike his mother and sister, he doesn't have a good singing skills. Both the everlark children are popular at their school and got asked on a date by both boys and girls.

Both siblings are very close just like how katniss and prim were(especially since their daughter is the older sibling in the books)and it never fails to make katniss nostalgic and teary eyed while peeta is very happy that their children's bond is strong just like the bond between his wife and his late sister in-law unlike his bond with his siblings.

I feel like if katniss reconciles with gale, both would be super close to him and he would adore them and would teach them how to make snares and along with katniss,he would take them in the woods for a trip and also along with katniss,teach them hunting and would hold archery competitions. And if gale has his own spouse and children, everlark's children and his children would definitely be best buddies. Finnick and Annie's son is like an older brother figure to them and they have swimming competition(odesta's son and everlark's daughter are very competitive regarding swimming while everlark's son is not that competitive). They are close to Haymitch, effie, greasy sae Johanna, Delly and their grandmother(I headcanon that Mrs everdeen tries to visit her grandchildren as much as she can though in early years those visits were mostly monthly due to her busy schedule as a medic but when panem's health infrastructure got some stability, years after the revolution, she immediately visited katniss and her grandchildren).

They have heard stories about their late maternal grandfather and late aunt and they both admire them. The son especially adores his late aunt and wants to be like her, a splendid medic. The daughter is unsure what career she would take since she likes so many different things but she would either be a singer or a professional archer. Both the children equally adore their parents but I feel like the daughter idolizes katniss alot and she wants to become a person like her mother while her son tends to idolize his late aunt alot. They adore both the trip to woods and archery competitions with their mother and baking and painting time with their father.

2)I haven't thought much about it but i feel like katniss would give birth to them in her thirties.

3) 3 years apart.

4) The daughter is named after her late aunt and I feel like the son would be named after his maternal grandfather though there is a possibility he might be named after a type of bread/bakery product.

5) See point no. 1) .

6)Sorry, I don't read hunger games fanfics, so I have no recommendations for you.