#time to commit some sins to remind the brain or whatever

[queerofthedagger]

hate hate hate when you dream of something you genuinely dealt with years ago like bro we handled the religious trauma there is literally no reason to drag it back being like hey remember this fucker. jfc

[themeaningthemeaningthe]

can’t sleep for other reasons and my brain can’t stop thinking about a post i saw and initially ignored but keep having thoughts about. i didn’t comment on it or anything and now it’s lost to the ether and i don’t wanna go looking for it but these thoughts gotta go somewhere.

this will be long and rambling and probably a little incoherent cuz it’s 3am.

the post was someone saying that they finally picked up gideon the ninth after years of seeing locked tomb posts and griddlehark, then dropped it after like 2 chapters bcuz they think the dynamic between gideon and harrow is abusive (which is fair when u first start it) and they can’t believe people are into it as enemies to lovers. on the one hand, people are totally cool to just not like something for whatever reason, i myself just have thoughts about the Nuance that i didn’t express on the post that i now must here.

lots of important spoilers for GtN!! (and maybe accidentally ones to HtN)

ok here’s the rant.

that’s the point!!!!! that’s the point.

they are terrible to each other and they have always been. the growth and the development of their character dynamics together explores how this thing between them that has always been sharp and seething and spiky must buckle under the weight of outside pressure beyond anything they could have imagined.

in a very important pool scene (one that is ubiquitous in fanart and i have to believe this poster saw at least a few times) we get an explanation from harrow! and not only does this give us a more full look into the context of drearbruh outside of gideons narrow point of view, but it also makes more clear why they were like That.

i’m sorry but literally harrow is 200 dead kids that her parents killed to make her, and gideon is the one kid they couldn’t kill. and gideon realizes once told this, she is the living reminder of the war crime committed to save the house, and no one who knows can forget it.

and harrow has known the truth of her origin since she was old enough to comprehend anything!! so yeah, a traumatized child who knows she’s the entirety of a generation of her house is gonna lash out at literally the only other child on the planet who she happens to also have power over.

and i feel like the book makes this pretty clear!! this was bad!! but also, these are two traumatized kids growing up in a dying, creepy, planet that is lowkey hell.

the other key thing about the pool scene, is that it is a Confession. these books are sooo steeped in catholicism. harrow isn’t just explaining the true history of her life, she is Confessing all of the sins that make her up and all of the sins she has committed. bearing the entirety of the wretchedness of her soul for gideon judge. expecting her only friend whom she has made miserable for years to kill her.

and i know we joke about gideon being lesbian jesus, but there’s a reason for that (besides the obvious). bcuz after hearing her Confession, gideon baptized harrow in that pool.

one flesh one end, bitch.

and also like yeah griddlehark is an enemies to lovers in some ways, but i feel like also not in the typical way you would think about that trope?? bcuz correct me if im wrong but they never really become lovers (and i personally am not sure they ever will). yes they love each other and make the grandest gestures of love imaginable. but that love is inevitably fucked up in some ways and it’s impossible for it to not be.

god that was way too long. anyway. some Nuance is necessary.

[everydayyoulovemeless]

New Vegas companions (+ulysses)with a teen Courier? Like how they treat the teen and such

FNV Companions (+Ulysses) With A Teen!Courier

➼ Word Count » 1.3k ➼ Warnings » None ➼ Genre » Platonic

Boone's not entirely keen on the idea of traveling with someone so young. He feels that you shouldn't be out here at all and would tell you to go home. Of course, you don't remember your home, and once you tell him as much he feels obligated to (reluctantly) take you in. For a while, it'll be you, him, and Manny hanging around in Novac, with the two of them taking turns teaching you how to snipe effectively. After a few weeks, you need to continue your path to find Benny, and Boone agrees to go with you, if nothing else, then to protect you from the horrors of the outside world. He's still set on the idea that you're way too young to be out doing things like this, but if it's something you have to do then he'd rather it be him that goes along with you than anyone who might be a bad influence on you, especially considering you've lost all you're memories. He's a reluctant father figure, who'll stop at nothing to ensure you don't fall into the hands of the Legion, or worse, die.

Arcade isn't sure why anyone who forgot how to gamble would want to travel all the way out to Vegas, let alone Freeside. You didn't even have enough money to bypass the guards to get into the Strip when you entered the Old Mormon Fort for the first time, so whatever plan you had before traveling here is lost on him. He only begins talking to you out of pity and confusion, wanting to learn more about your motivations for making such a long hike for a payout that would surely never come. His pity for you only grows, and he'll quickly agree to come along with you wherever you plan on going next. You don't seem to remember anything at all so he'll do his best to reeducate you on the basics. Medicine, survival, reading, he'll cover them all in due time. He truly does feel guilty that you, some kid from who knows where, got caught up in such a large mess of things, and hopes that by staying with you he can make up for the acts this world has committed against you. He sees a bit of himself in you: a lost kid with no more home or family to turn to, no one to confide in, and he hopes to one day take on that familial role for you.

Raul can't help but feel a little bit embarrassed that he had to be saved by a kid with brain damage, but either way, he's happy to be able to leave Black Mountain. He'll follow you out of a mixture of gratitude and curiosity as you remind him a lot of himself back when he still lived in Mexico City. That being said, he is just the tiniest bit overprotective over you. He'd hate it if you ended up with the same fate as his family and would stop at nothing to ensure he never has to go through something like that again. The longer you travel together, the more he feels like he's found a younger sibling to watch over again. He'll tease you and generally be his sarcastic self, but he's definitely a lot softer on you than he would if you'd been an adult. He almost feels as if it's his responsibility to help raise you and keep you alive and healthy, and that's exactly what he ends up doing.

Lily would consider it to be a downright sin for her to just let you wander around on your own! So, whether you agree to it or not, she'll become your full-time grandma throughout the rest of your travels. She's just as doting to you as she would be to any of her other grandchildren and always makes a point to check in on your health and overall well-being. Grandma couldn't have her little pumpkin sad or starving now, could she? That being said, she does her best to fit in the occasional home cooking she's so famous for back in Jacobstown. Not much really changes with Lily. She's still the sweet, old grandma who adopts you regardless of everything, the only real difference being that she's more stubborn with coming along with you. Kids shouldn't be out and about without any chaperon, after all!

Cass doesn't really have much of an opinion on it. You're a kid, so what? Everyone around you was a kid at some point. She does, however, have a small soft spot for teens who aren't afraid of what the waste has to offer, and you've had to make it all the way out to the Mojave Outpost from somewhere, haven't you? She'll pat the barstool beside her, gesturing for you to come and sit down before (secretly) sliding you a glass of whiskey that the two of you share. She wants you to start from the beginning: what are you doing here? And where are your parents? She grows to respect you quite quickly and finds herself feeling some kind of connection with you. Maybe it's because you're a lot rowdier than most others your age, maybe it's 'cause of how unbothered you appear, or maybe it's the determined way you carry yourself? Either way, she's taking her place beside you to get revenge on whoever was fucked up enough to try and kill a kid.

Veronica gets a bit excited when she sees a teen approaching her at the 188 Trading Post. She thinks you're the cutest thing and would love to come along! She's constantly thinking up outfits she thinks you'd look great in, just little accessories here and there to really spice up the 'vengeful vibe' you seem to be going for. She's like the sister you never had, or at least never remembered having, and she takes that role very seriously. You need dating advice? She's your girl to go to. Want to be a better fighter? Allow her, you're amazing new best friend, to offer you some pointers. You want a group to back you up? She'll bother the Brotherhood for as long as she needs before you're accepted into their bunker. Honestly, she couldn't have asked for a better person to come along and break her out of her boredom. The two of you will cause problems like no other, but that only means you both know how to have fun and make the most of your situations.

Ulysses holds a lot less resentment toward you as he believes you're naivety was abused by the NCR. That being said, when you come wandering into the Divide, he definitely puts it in your head that the NCR isn't any good and that you're a victim to this world as much as he, and the rest of the Divide, were. He'll try to brainwash you into viewing the world the same way he does: a cold and heartless mess. He takes you under his wing in a sense, raising you to be a strong and determined warrior against both the NCR and the Legion. He's invested so much energy and thought into you that he feels it'd almost be a waste if he doesn't. If you decide you're not going to follow his path and carve your own, he wouldn't have any qualms about fighting you the same way he would had you been an adult, he'd just feel it'd be a misuse in potential. He'd be a mentor figure to you, a dangerous and smart one, but a teacher nonetheless. There's no room for compromise, and he'll turn you both into a two-man army to ruin the two flags that run rampant throughout the Mojave.

[plague-karm]

Hadalpelagic Zone Part 8. Lena is going through it and thinking back on how she even got here. Yeah basically this is all Lena stuff, I was worried about focusing too much on the human characters but guess what motherfucker it’s MY fic and I can do what I want with it hahahahahhahahahhhahha.

Lena was sitting out by her balcony after a long day of work, she was thinking about what Ellie said…should she tell them? She still wasn’t sure, the last thing she wanted was to be seen as lesser because of the operations done on her. She was hoping they wouldn’t catch on, the poor coordination, the head splitting migraines, the lightheadedness…it was all something she dealt with on a daily basis, some days were better than others.

“Heya Len”

Lena shrieked as Bentley waltzed in, but she quickly calmed down after realising who it was…

“Hey…”

“You alright? You’ve been a bit down since yesterday…still reeling over those new hires?”

“Yeah…and my legs keep having spasms”

“Shit…well, me and Val are going out tonight, so if you’re awake when we come back…maybe we can-?”

“No”

Lena’s response was quick and to the point, something Bentley expected from her at this point but she had never been that fast before.

“I uh…listen…I don’t think I want to do it anymore…”

“Really?”

“Yeah”

“It’s just not hitting the same?”

“Not really…I don’t even know what we are at this point”

“Hey, as long as we don’t hate each other, I don’t care what we are”

The two hugged as Bentley walked out.

“See you later, Len”

She heard the doors close and she went downstairs to make sure everyone was gone, she liked the company her friends gave her, but she needed a small break from the chaos. She was lying on the sofa in the living room, mindlessly staring at the ceiling, the glare of the light blinding her a little, she was too tired to move though. And she felt it all coming back, from all those years ago…

She was sitting in her fathers lab, she had just finished playing with Bentley when she saw a few diagrams on his desk, diagrams of her, she got excited as she ran up to him, her father explained to her that he was preparing for his biggest project yet.

“You said it was gonna help my brain get better?”

“Yes, we will pick out the parts that are deemed unnecessary, and we’ll be left with someone who will take us to newer heights”

“Who’s that daddy?”

“You, my little aster”

“Woah…”

She was eleven when the operations started, her father believed that her mind needed to reach its fullest potential, he lacked the patience needed to truly let her intellect blossom naturally, but he had committed a great sin, his impatience had led him astray and Lena’s distress grew more and more with every operation she had.

“B-But…! I don’t wanna…! My headaches are getting worse…! I’ve been trying to cry but I can’t…!”

“Now now my little aster we talked about this, don’t you want your mind to be free of all limitations? For it all to get better?”

“But it’s not getting better! My head hurts!”

“What is progress without pain? I promise you my dear, whatever “pain” you’re feeling is only a result of your brain processing without the unimportant pieces, it isn’t real”

“But it feels real!”

“Lena. Get in the chair.”

“But-!”

“Get. In. The. Chair”

“…Okay”

The side effects were getting worse, she was struggling with walking, processing her emotions more often than normal, she even felt dead at times. By the time she turned sixteen she realised all of this was wrong, so one faithful night, she managed to run away, despite how much pain she was in. She got on a plane, and moved away, it was easier than she thought it was going to be, she landed in Cali and found where Bentley was living, after his own family tragedy he moved here so he could cope with life without the cruel reminder of what was taken from him, so seeing his friend standing on his doorstep was quite the surprise.

“Lena…? How did you even get here…? It’s really dark out here…”

He looked at her and saw how upset she was, she was shaking, breathing heavily, she looked awful, like she hadn’t slept in years.

“Hey…”

Bentley helped her inside and closed the door, she immediately dropped her things and looked like she was crying, no tears were. He hugged her and listened to her explanation

“I-I didn’t know where else I was supposed to go…!”

“What happened…?”

“They hurt me…! I had to get away…!

“Lena…”

That night was a dark one for the two of them, Lena drank for the first time, Bentley did the same, the two felt lonely, they were all they had in that moment, one thing lead to another…and it stayed that way for years. If either one of them got upset they’d just indulge in each other until the sadness stopped, and then they’d continue being friendly like nothing happened. It was wrong, but they never realised that it was wrong, it was normal to them, because who could teach them differently?

Besides, it made her feel safe, if something (or someone) made her feel safe, she’d do it, no questions asked, she was deprived of security and autonomy for so long, she’d take anything that resembled it. She knew it was wrong to think like this, but she was young, desperate, afraid, she just wanted to be safe.

But she’s older now, she hasn’t felt the same about her and Bentley’s nightly activities for a while now, he actually offered to do it to calm her down back when they were in the Blacksite, but she refused, he has always been respectful of her needs, protected her, brought her out of her shell…but there were times where it would be excessive.

Maybe that’s the reason she broke it off? Wait, what did she even mean by “break it off”? They weren’t even dating! She doesn’t even know what they are!

Which leads us back to present time, Lena fell to sleep after a while, completely unaware of the monster that just came back from a long run of making trades.

“That was so easy that I almost feel guilty for-“

Sebastian paused when he saw her sleeping, he sighed and shook his head

“Where’s the blankets…?”

He got a few out of a spare cupboard Valen used whenever he needed to put a random thing in a random place. He placed them on her as gently as he could (claws and strength be damned).

“You’re lucky you’re so tolerable…”

Sebastian started counting his money on the table, finally, he was actually getting somewhere with his blackmail plot. All that data he received back at the Blacksite was finally going to pay off soon, all of Urbanshade’s crimes were going to come to light, he wouldn’t see his name under a false murder report anymore. His choices might be limited now due to his new form, but hey, maybe he could be seen without the cloak in town for once? Maybe.

He hummed to himself as he finished counting his money, but then he glanced over at Lena and that came to a screeching halt, he saw the indent scars on her shoulders…he doesn’t know how he didn’t notice that until now but they were definitely there

“What the hell…?”

He went back down to his room after a while but the image stayed in his mind. Despite how much she confided in him, he didn’t really know her all that well, he could pick up on Bentley and Valen’s deals pretty easily, the former was an overly theatrical clown who lets anyone into his heart regardless of how opposed they are to his optimism, while the latter is barely keeping his shit together through a smile and amateur puppetry, and despite them talking more often, he could sense these was still some hesitance on Valen’s part.

Lena? He didn’t know, the only thing that stayed consistent about her was the way she sounded, always curious, always quiet, which made her louder moments a lot more unexpected. He knew she ran away from home, but he didn’t know why, he overheard their conversations from in here all the time but that was still the one mystery he hadn’t snuffed out. Well, he didn’t want to waste the rest of his hours thinking about her again, so he just curled up and went to sleep, something he had gotten better at doing lately.

Thank god Bentley was out, here’s to hoping he could get a quiet morning for once.

[dumbviolet]

जाने क्या बात है ,जाने क्या बात है 

         नींद नहीं आती बड़ी लम्बी रात है!!! 

 I laid on my bed humming this song and asking the inevitable question to myself .Maybe this is just a phase that has lasted for quite a while for now. The feeling of lagging behind of my peers. I mean yeah sure there might be people who are behind me but this self realization that hits out of nowhere that I'm repeating the same mistakes again and this might cost a little more than the last time & then calculating the cumulative damage that its gonna cause to my mental health & my career & my reputation. It becomes a lot. Just a single thought then starts attaching a chain of them & the next thing you know is that your brain is so overwhelmed by these thoughts ,it starts to find a numbing resource or anything to divert the attention from those thoughts whether it be healthy or in a really toxique downwards spiral.   

         These thoughts are of many shades...                                                                                                         Blue-The gloomy feeling because you have missed a lot of things.                                                                            Red-The anger on yourself that how come i missed these important things.                                                               Violet-The jealousy from those people who seem to have it all under control.                                                             Yellow-The anxiety of the consequences in the near future.                                                                                    Green-The guilt from committing the same mistakes over & over again.  

      Then after some time this starts to overpower the brain & in search of a stimulant it sometimes finds something sharp or something sultry & as the vital fluid drips or the skin sizzles the sensation of the pain elevates & calms the ongoing storm of thoughts & all of its shades are dissolved together to become a plain grey. This also gives one the  false relief that atleast I've punished myself for being such a useless person that I am.                                                But once the andrenalin & the pain flushes down & I realize that one moment of weakness has left a permanent scar on my body that will forever remind me of whatever led me to do that & the guilt trip once again takes the lead & continues for what seems an eternity...                                                                                                               I was so deeply stuck in this painful  periodicity of self harm that I didn't even realized how much I've blemished this beauteous & perfectly functioning body of mine.                                                                                   Nevertheless, this was about to stop. Not so long ago I met a stranger who coincidentally turned out to be my classmate & ever since this benevolent, 4ft creature has been unknowingly taking care of me . { I would just like to pause for a bit & admire the female friendships . Those who have them should always be grateful and  treasure the same} So this girl hatched a scheme with my favorite teacher & set me up for a free & most helpful therapy session of my life . My teacher to whom I'm most grateful to talked his way to my issue of self harming & as he glanced at my fresh outburst of the colourful thoughts{ as I like to call them} just said these words that will forever be embarked on my heart "Mam, whatever mistakes you make, I will still respect you, however harming the body that universe has lent to you & which is not yours to own & damage at your free will is simply committing a sin".                     As his words sinked in I realized how much I've sinned until now & then firmly resolved, not to commit another one ever. Its true that its not an easy job to snatch your brain's favorite stimulant & calm down the storm of the ugly thoughts by yourself but I've been endeavouring to indulge in some other stimulants such as singing ,  mehendi or as easy as making a paper butterfly                                                                                                        My battle isn't over yet as eventhough I've controlled  myself from executing the action of self , totally deleting the very command & the resource is gonna be the real challenge!!!

[ibis-gt]

something i think abt kind of frequently is subconcious influences in art and writing, by which i mean, seeing something someone else made and really liking it and then, days or weeks or months later, completely accidentally pulling inspiration from it for a creative project of your own. i feel like i do this a lot especially bc i see a lot of things other folks make and i don't always remember them specifically, but they are definitely stored in my subconcious for one reason or another, and then i'll look back at something i've made and go oh shit! i stole that! i'm a hack!!

but the thing is that i think this is largely harmless. if you derive direct inspiration from someone else's work it's always a good idea to credit and link to them, but nothing is original and our brains are all big melting pots of the things we've seen and read before, and it's not done with malicious intent, so like. forgive yourself if you realize your works are really similar to another creator's, maybe make a statement about how you took inspiration from their works, reblog their stuff, and call it a day. okay.

[mobeenhakeem]

I recently started having really bad thoughts about my faith because I’ve been praying to get married for a very long time and God isn’t answering my prayers. I just feel so down seeing others that commit sins and rarely/don’t pray ..etc get what they want. I feel like I’m in a very dark zone right now thinking all these thoughts. I always pray to get married to protect me from committing sins, however I find myself falling into that pit because it’s a biological thing. I’m in my 30s. Never gotten married. Virgin. I just want to understand why God isn’t answering my prayers even if it’s for good cause? العفة. I hate how I’m thinking right now and I know God is the best planner for this world, but I can’t help but feel forgotten and not heard. Please don’t judge me because I only reached out so I can help myself become a better Muslim and stop these negative thoughts from eating up my brain.

Salaam, I don’t really come on here much anymore but your timing was perfect!

First of all, I just want to remind you it’s totally ok to not be married yet. There’s no set rules for that. It’s also ok to feel like it’s taking longer than you’d like. I mean, people have plans for their lives. It doesn’t always work out though. And that’s totally ok.

Don’t let shaytan use tests you face as ways of putting a strain your faith. Since when does our faith come with a condition of having an easy life? God didn’t just send us here to live perfect lives. He sent us here to live through some tests and enjoy whatever we can in between, bur never forgetting the tests always come first. If you’re finding it difficult, then that’s your test. Just stay patient and trust in Him always. He loves you!

Just an obvious reminder, right person is more important than right now, so just be careful what exactly you pray for because you just might get it. Remember, if it’s not someone that’s going to make you happy, God might be saving you from a lot!

I hope this helps. Feel free to get in touch any time you want. I’ll try to check in here a bit more often iA

[problematicfavesareproblematic]

NSFW with Chuck Grant

~ ~ ~

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

 Charles Grant is a walking example of “acts like a badass, is actually a softie” bc BOY, IS HE HARD (lol) TO GET A READ ON. 

When you first start fucking, he doesn’t really have the instinct to stick around after and soak up the afterglow- mostly bc that’s not the dynamic that any of his previous relationships operated under, but also bc he’s like Lieb and doesn’t feel comfortable being vulnerable and potentially having you reject him. He only confidently leaves the first time, and then he judges whether to stay or not on how you look at him as he makes to get dressed after the second time you boink. If you want your space, he’ll go and be back the next day as long as you let him, but if you look even a little bit offended or hurt, he’s getting his ass back in that bed and doing whatever he can to get that sad look out of your eyes.

When he does stay, he’s down to give you whatever he can manage. 

He’s all for slowly kissing you while trailing his fingertips up and down your side, but if you just want to sleep beside him he is more than cool with it (he’ll probably still pet you a lil bit after you fall asleep bc he’s soft for you but shh shh shh don’t tell anyone). The only thing he isn’t very good at doing is pillow talk, especially right after sex. He’s too worried about saying the wrong thing and fucking up what he’s managed to establish with you. 

It isn’t until after he’s shot that he realizes how nice it feels to have someone else take care of him, and when you do so after sex it solidifies the fact that you don’t see him as a burden- you want him and you want to stay. Thank god, too. He doesn’t think he could recover without you (again, not that he’d ever tell you that)

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

 Your AhhhhhhHSSSSssssSSSSSs!!!!!!

Oh wow, look at you- owner of the cutest butt he’s ever seen. Can he put his hands on it? Can he squeeze it? Please please puh-lease can you let him watch it jiggle as he fucks you? If you’ve answered yes to any of these questions, then you’ve made each and every single one of his dreams come true. 

He doesn’t discriminate in his love for butts- he’s an equal-opportunity appreciator of the Majesty of the Female Ass™. If it changes size throughout your relationship, he’ll love it even more. Absolutely shameless.

On himself? He likes his legs- especially his thighs. 

He likes how strong they are, despite how much he hates Sobel for getting them to their current strength re: Currahee. But he gets over it quickly bc oh wow is he happy with their endurance while trying to keep up with you, both sexually and otherwise. The day he realized you could ride yourself to orgasm on them was the day he died and went to heaven and was sent back to sin again.

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

 He likes cumming on your pubic mound and then watching it slide down your pussy, thank you very much. If you guys are trying for kids or in a position where you don’t have to worry about not having kids, he’ll cum inside of you happily but oh wow he likes watching it slide down your lower lips. BONUS POINTS if he gets to catch it on his thumb and either stick it in your mouth OR circle your clit with it in order to get you off one more time.

Also, you asking him where he wants to cum on you gets him hot under the proverbial collar. 

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

 He’d do literally anything for you if you’d let him put his finger in your ass. He will genuinely kill an individual of your choice if you let him put his cock there instead. What a perv (jk it takes a lot of vulnerability for some people to convey their wants and desires to their partners plz remember that this has been a PSA).

The one thing he’ll never actually tell you about... EVER is that for a little while after meeting you for the first time in Georgia, he started hooking up with a girl who he didn’t realize (until much later) bore a striking resemblance to you. He’d had to end the relationship when he straight-up called out your name when he came (he was a lil drunk, just tipsy enough to slip up) and full-on booked it out of there bc not only had he pissed the girl off, but his shout had woken up her family- namely her very angry father- and barely escaped with his life.

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

 He’s had two lovers before you, but one of them was really experienced and patient and bless that woman. All he really has to do is learn what you like and he’ll commit it to memory. 

And you better be damn sure that he’ll use that knowledge against you/for his benefit. 

 F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

 Doggy style for all the reasons mentioned before. Or reverse cowgirl. Or normal cowgirl. His hands + your butt= dream combo.

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

 He can be goofy, but more than anything else he likes it when you’re goofy. Chuck can get a little too in his own head at times, which can lead to frustration/self-doubt- ESPECIALLY while recovering from his brain injury. You reminding him that sex is meant to be fun does him a huge favor, bc poor lamb will forget that every so often.

So please, nibble at his earlobe in that way that tickles him. Make a quip at the expense of one of your friends. Mock the silly sound of the moan you just let slip out.

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

 He’s not going to groom unless you tell him to, but he also doesn’t feel like you need to groom for him, either. Chuck’s not afraid to admit how much his personal hygiene has improved since meeting you. 

I can promise you that if you’re heavily invested in skin/hair care, he’ll probably be just as into building his own routine. 

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

 You always have Chuck’s full and undivided attention during sex, but he won’t necessarily show it unless he gets the guy feeling/you tell him that you want him to be. He’s going to whisper sexy things into your ear, call you a good girl (if not his good girl), and do everything in his power (at the time, at least (he can get a little distracted if you’re doing something particularly sexy)) to make sure you feel just how appreciated you are. He gets more and more confident in his PDA as your relationship progresses, but when it’s just you two? You’ll never meet a bigger sweetheart.

 J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

 Ok, so I’m deciding for you that mutual masturbation is a thing that you’re both into, m’kay? 

I'm also making the executive decision that you really enjoy watching him get himself off. You walked in on him one time, before you’d had sex, and were so stunned that you just watched in rapt attention until awkwardly backing out of the room and slamming the door shut. He’d nearly cum right then and there, and it got you extremely aroused. 

The next time you see each other, at some Georgia bar while on a pass, you offhandedly mention that you wish you hadn’t left and FROM THAT DAY ON he always lets you know when he’s feeling the urge and how you’re more than welcome to watch.

And when you do? It’s always a much shorter experience than he intends bc wow how hot are you?

 K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

 Frottage! Dry Humping! Grinding!

Allow me to explain:

In the months following D-Day, it was quickly understood that being on the frontlines meant having traditional forms of sex were no longer on the table (hehe) for you two. You’d experimented with rucking your trousers down your thighs, his thighs, both of your thighs, and each time it was a disaster (with one of the worst times ending up falling onto Tab after he’d inadvertently opened a door that Chuck had been fucking you against. Chuck had nearly thrown fists when Tab refused to look aware from your bare ass.)

So yall started grinding- quickly finding out that the bunches of fabric separating your bodies not only led to new forms of stimulation, but it also meant that you both started to utilize dirty talk. There’s something about your trembling lips at his ear, your warm whispers of ‘so good’ and ‘is this really all you need, Chuck? Me, writhing on you like this? What does that say about you, you desperate boy??’

Boy’s bought a one-way ticket to Boner City, USA.

PLUS! What a way to keep warm during Bastogne? Everyone is so jealous that they don’t have a super foxy megahot babe like you to grind upon.

 L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

 Hmm…..is saying anywhere a cop-out? Because he’s down for anywhere, he’ll follow your lead and rise to the occasion. Such a perv i s2g.

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

 ♫ YOOOUUUUUUUU!!!!!! ♫

You have this one eyebrow quirk you do when you’re in the mood, and it just so happens to be similar to the brow raise you give someone trying to outsmart you (which is another turn on for him- you putting some overly-confident sonofabitch back in their place after allowing them to mansplain at you for a little bit. First boner he ever got (since meeting you, obviously) came after witnessing you telling Joe Liebgott to stfu in cutting German after he’d made some off-color comment about your ass.) 

So, more often than not, he'll get a little turned on when you argue with people. Maybe even when you argue with him- who knows? not me. (i totally do, and he totally is)

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

 Any sort of pain play, on either of you. 

After being in genuine agony for so long while recovering from all of the surgeries, the idea of seeking any more pain out just doesn’t make sense. Chuck also doesn’t want to see you in pain- even if you’re asking him to make you feel it. You’d both suffered through the pain of hunger, frostbite, insect bites, sunburn, and just war in general (all of which had emotionally taken a toll on him bc he felt completely helpless and hated that he couldn’t do anything to take your hurt away). 

Sex and pain just doesn’t go together for him. Sorry not sorry 

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

 He loves having you go down on him, adores the way your eyes look up at him as if you’re challenging him to withstand your beautiful ministrations. 

He also is a big fan of going down on you, but PLEASE PLEASE PUH-LEASE ride his face. Good lord. 

He’s a sucker (teehee) for it- something about you using him like it’s all you keep him around for gets him hot. You also get this certain snarl on your lips when you are getting close that makes him lose his goddamn mind bc WOW YOU ARE SO ATTRACTIVE and HOLY SHIT YOU CHOSE HIM OF ALL PEOPLE? WOWOWOW.

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

 He’ll follow your lead/body language in terms of pace. Most sex sessions shift between both slow and deep as well as fast and hard anyway, so he is a fan of both. 

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

 A necessary evil, as far as Chuck is concerned. He’ll do them, and he’d be lying if he said that he didn’t enjoy the spontaneity of them, but he would prefer not to be rushed when he’s with you.

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

 He was riskier until that one time Tab caught you guys, after which he chilled out. Which you are thankful for, bc you’ve spoken with Lieb’s wife and BOY have those two gotten into some embarrassing situations bc of how risky that kid is. 

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

 The longest he's gone is 4 rounds (it was celebratory sex on VE day, with both of you in the best shape you'd ever been in and too high on relief to listen to your bodies. Ya'll were sore and dehydrated afterward but LORD was it worth it.

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

 He’d be very open to the idea of toys! On you, he’s automatically cool with it, but it does take him a little bit to get his head around the idea of using toys himself. Again, 40s/50s= somewhat repressed discussion about deviations from the traditional male sexuality- but Chuck is more willing and ready to challenge the societal norms than most. Very sexy of him.

 U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

 He always intends to tease you, but more often than not he gets so turned on that he can’t follow that intention through. You are aware of this and ABSOLUTELY weaponize this knowledge. Get it, fam. 

During day-to-day conversation, however, you both tease each other constantly. It’s been like that since you’ve met each other- always making innuendos and one-upping the other and for some reason that never even went away.

When Chuck woke up and the doctors brought you in to see him, the first thing he told you was that you looked terrible. When you’d replied with a sniff, a smile and a “guess the doc’s were full of shit when they said there was no change in your vision, huh?”- Chuck had smiled so hard it hurt.

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

 He’s a choked moan kind of guy. His face gets all scrunched up and his body shakes and he curses quietly under his breath (it’s vv cute and hot, FYI). he doesn’t even try and be quiet on purpose, he just seems to lose the ability to be vocal, tbh. If he’s drinking or if it’s been a hot minute since yall have gotten to do the do, he’ll probably be a bit louder. Like, maybe one loud cry of your name (see: the letter D)

It doesn’t bother him if you make sounds at all, just so you know. If anything, he likes that he’s a quiet cummer bc then he can hear any and all of your sounds.

 W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

 biting your ass while eating you out from behind is *bang* *bang* *bang* *click* *cash register noise*.

Especially if you squeal and smack at him after he does it.

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

 Average in all respects but OH MAN does he know how to work it to his advantage. Get ready for a wild ride, my dude. 

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

 Higher post-war, tbh. Chuck had had to be on bed rest for so long that he thought he may never get the chance to have sex again, so he totally makes a point to indulge in you every chance that he can get (but he’s cool if you say no, too).

But, as I mentioned in ‘risk’, he’s not going to be humping your leg in public or anything (ok but imagine if you were a dom to his sub and you made him do that holy fuck)

 Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

 He does not sleep very well, poor bb. He will be asleep but his mind will be working through all kinds of things ranging from PTSD to what shoes he wanted to wear to dinner with your parents that weekend. Good thing there’s a remedy to this ailment- your pussy sex with you!

While he can’t konk out immediately, he is able to relax. He will allow himself to get lost in the rhythm of your breathing, the weight of your hand on his arm or your arm wrapped around his middle. He will sometimes nuzzle into you as you’re drifting off to sleep, and when you press a kiss to his forehead he finally feels safe.

~ ~ ~

taglist: @sunsetmando​ @televisionboy​ @now-im-a-belieber​ @tvserie-s-world​ @holdingforgeneralhugs​ @mrseasycompany​ @itswormtrain​ @mrsalwayswrite​ @happyveday​ 

[darks-arts]

It’s so fascinating how people can ship of Theseus a character into completely different dude and then when confronted about this, simply say the source material is wrong. I’m not talkin minor shit like “oh Aradia LOVES mcr” I’m talkin like have a whole OC and then slapping the name tag “KARKAT” on it. It seems less common these days at least in Homestuck spaces, but like it’s something I grew up around and still see happen to this day. Apologies for the Homestuck centered examples as i muse through this thing on my mind

Like I’ve seen dudes make the take that Gamzee doesn’t say honk, Nepeta hates cats , n jake LOVES peanut butter he drinks it by the gallon. This wasn’t like “oh cool edgy AU to explore the character” stuff just, at some point the character in their mind drifted, so what they associated with the character’s name no longer lined up with canon.

This isn’t nessisarrily a bad thing, everyone does this to some degree. Different aspects of a character stand out to different people. Rose is a cool girl with wizard powers to some, and a nerd in way over her head who uses big words to others. But at the same time everyone knows who Rose is, these are both parts of her characters dna. Then with some people “Rose” has drifted so far that she doesn’t even believe magic anymore in their heads, she thinks knitting is dumb and uses only the smallest of words. Rose means a different thing to them now and that’s so fascinating to me.

I have to wonder why at that point do they not just commit and make this blorbo of their own design an oc, why does it HAVE to cling to the nameplate that does not fit them anymore. Like at least in my view fictional characters are sadly set in stone so to speak. Even with the dif takes and drift I talked about, you can always just re-read/watch/listen/etc the thing. Doing this refreshes the brain version of the character, reminds you who the vague concept of a Kanaya is. Not to say there’s NO ROOM for people to fill in the blanks, lil joke fan fills for gaps are like a different thing. I’m mostly talkin when fanon mutates to its own original work I hope it’s clear.

All this to say I don’t think it’s a bad thing when this happens, it can make discussion around the character a head ache sometimes, but like it just really interesting. Wonder if there’s any studies on this or related psychology whateves I should shift through. Human brain be fascinating like this sometimes.

Personal example, one time I was talkin in a discord server about the symbolism behind Gamzee and hussies whole “religion is for fools, fools and LIBERALS” takes. Then some dude rolls into the convo and starts going off how Gamzee is “a good Christian boy” and there is nothing toxic about Gamzee at all. He just a good boy who does not curse and does not sin. When someone brought up that his catch phrase is “motherfucker” the Christian Gamzee take dude simply disagreed! No that is not a thing Gamzee has ever said. Then they just restated their take without like, elaboration. Felt like they had just emerged out of a different universe quoting a different Homestuck written by “Hussie from the universe where they have blonde hair”. The Gamzee they where trying to communicate wasn’t the Gamzee that everyone in the discussion knew about.

I don’t really have a conclusion just dang this is a thing that happens and why it happens is a mystery I’d love to see solved.

[bakatenshii]

Rapture

Oikawa Tooru x Reader (Haikyuu!!)

word count: 2.8k

TW: 18+, smut, incest, dub/noncon, mild somnophilia

A/N: I started writing this in my notes bcos I wanted to get out a cheeky Oikawa drabble for his birthday, didn’t wanna commit to a proper fic bcos fuck knows I’ve been writing my first ever fic for over a month. Technically this is my first official fic I finished! So much love for my wife @blahkugo for listening to me sob and whine about this & beta-ing it, also to @lookslikeleese who created this brainchild of Tooru-nii with me. 

rap·ture

/ˈrapCHər/

a feeling of intense pleasure or joy.

(according to some millerian teaching) the transporting of believers to heaven at the Second Coming of Christ

Blood is thicker than water, in all forms and shapes and sizes. The guilt of blood lays thicker, sweaty and clammy, threatening to matte his perfectly coiffed hair. The guilt lies limp on his childhood bed, delicate legs dangling just a hair away from toeing the carpet.

You couldn’t reach when you were younger, he’d always help you down with all the gentleness of a protective mother and its cub. Long slender fingers tucking under your armpits to lift you from his stiff mattress to stand you on the soft carpeting.

Guilt, in the form of his baby sister laying vulnerability-up, presenting to him in taunt, as if it’s a gift from Satan himself. You won’t know, will never know, It promises. You’re out cold, too many cups of trashy house-party drinks in, your night was bound to end up like this one way or another— exposed and defenseless in a man’s bed. You should be lucky it’s your own big brother’s.

He curses himself for still having been awake when you called him at half four in the morning, curses himself for staying up studying tapes of his opposing team. Bad habits die hard. You were loopy, slurring your words, and all he could hear were the warm familiar sound of ‘niichan, niichan’ tinkling through the static. He had the keys clanking in his hands before he even registered the other voices across the line; deep, low, predatory— of men.

The drive there felt like a blur, tunnel visioning only on the number plate you’d sloppily sent him three times, each varying in one digit. It wasn’t even the right address, it didn’t match your location on his phone.

He saw crowds, loud bass reverberating through to his sleek car that stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the sea of beat-up sedans and trucks. He saw limbs, too many limbs, entangling together in a frenzy of sweat and lust; limbs on curves and humps of silhouettes, limbs on your small frame leaning into the corner of the dimly lit room. Then he saw red.

He couldn’t hear the shouts and hollers of his name, crazed fangirls pawing at him for an autograph, a picture, any type of affection from The Oikawa Tooru himself, international volleyball superstar with too many sponsorships under his belt. He reached out an arm towards you, and you clung to him like a magnetic pull, whole body suctioning onto his and tittering out a string of ‘niichan came to pick me up’ and a fit of giggles.

His first conscious breath was taken once he got you in his car. He didn’t want to look at you, didn’t want to assess the damages lest he drove his car straight into the dastardly party if he saw any hint of protrusion. He didn’t; you were fine. You seemed fine, too. You were all-too happy to see him, bragged to him ‘I bet them that you would come pick me up if I called you.’

You told him you missed him, ‘missed niichan so much, he never even bothered to call when he came back to Japan’. Tooru sighed, half part relief, half part guilt. He told you he couldn’t bring you back to his hotel, had to bring you home, because imagine the scandal if he got papped.

It was a lie, he couldn’t give a damn if he got papped, he could easily have explained that it was his own sister; he couldn’t give himself up to the safety of his own enclosed room. His room with no security net of Mum and Dad threatening to barge in, his room where he was free to do whatever he wanted.

He drove you home.

You begged him to pick you up and carry you upstairs, because your feet hurt, they’re so sore from dancing all night. He complied, using all his decade-molded muscles to pull you into his chest and his heart sank to his gut at the realization that you weighed like nothing to him; just like you had when you were younger.

You were bigger now, grown, an adult, but he had grown all the same. It was like a cruel joke— no matter how much you grew, he’d parallel your growth so he would always be just that much stronger than you, that much bigger. The perfect size to protect you. The perfect size to hurt you.

He was directed to his own room rather than yours, with the excuse that yours was too close to the master bedroom, too risky to wake your parents up. His feet moved before his mind could stop him, muscle memory bringing him to the space he’s barely stepped foot in since he was eighteen.

It was too familiar, whole body transcending back to his childhood, back to the innocence of your relationship before he’s tainted it with his twisted perversions. His arms laid you down on his bed, hands finding the straps of your heels to pick off before you thumped back onto his bed, sprawled out and fast asleep.

He’s been staring at your vulnerable placid silhouette splayed on his bed for what feels like minutes, hours. He can’t bring himself to tuck you in, can’t trust his limbs to function how he instructs them to. His skin crawls at the gust of wind kissing the sweat embalming his body, but he doesn’t let himself strip off the suffocating layers. He wants to bask in the physical manifestation of his disgust, nausea, let it remind him of his twisted perversions he can never, ever indulge in.

You shiver, and he jumps. Your tiny body is quivering in chills, begging him to warm it up. He moves with the grace and caution of a robber on the prowl for an expensive jewel, gently snaking his arms under the crook of your knee and top of your spine, lifting you up and away from him like he’s terrified— disgusted, by you.

He lifts the covers and daintily drapes it over the small rise and fall of your chest, pinching the top with only two fingers. A deep breath, a moan, a soft ‘niichan’, and he thinks his heart has stopped completely.

He’s frozen, the hammering in his chest arguing that no, he’s still very much alive, and spares a glance down at you. Your eyelids are fluttering, lips softly pouting, and unmistakably still asleep. He’s mid sigh of relief when he feels a small hand wrap around his arm, and for the second time that night he thinks he’s died.

All the gravity weighing him down disappears as he lets himself be tugged down onto the bed, the weight of his body crushing your tiny one, but he can’t bring himself to move. He’s too scared, he’s horrified.

He can feel two dainty arms loop around his neck and cage his head into the side of your face. He can feel the palpitations in his chest, heart hammering straight into yours, tangling with your soft cadenced beats, reaching in and provoking it to waltz to the same fatal rhythm. He can feel his trousers strain and his blood run cold.

Deep breaths to the count of the tick and tocking of the clock on the wall. He feels blurry, vision blotchy, skin prickling with every flood of blood traveling south. He wills it to stop, begs for it to spare him, he’ll behave, he’ll never let his mind wonder to you ever again, he promises.

God is all merciful, but God has long given up on him. Satan wants to watch his world burn, collapse, and dance in the ashes of his crumbling dignity. It teases him with the hilt of your soft body moving to press into his, crawling into his arms caging you in, willfully entering the den holding a ravenous lion fighting its own fangs.

Your eyes flutter open, gaze finding his with striking precision, and smile. It’s the same smile you’ve given him his whole life, the trust and love carved into every quirk of the lip. It shatters his dignity, stomps on it with childish fervor, and Tooru chokes on the breath coming out.

He feels you nuzzling closer, can feel your hair tickling his chin, and prays for forgiveness to any God willing to listen. None do— he’s too far gone. His hand’s reaching to cradle the back of your head as he plants the softest kiss on your cheek with all the practiced grace of a man begging for salvation.

Your eyes stare straight into his with undeterred conviction, glazed over with equal parts alcoholic daze and pure, unadulterated adoration. There’s not enough oxygen traveling to his brain to justify his actions, no amount of repentance would excuse his sins. His lips press into yours, so gently it feels like a mere ghost of breath, quivering in prayers for forgiveness.

A shift; small warm body squirming under his arms, shuffling closer. It catches the tent between his legs, and his whole body twitches like it’s been stung. He barely chokes down the whimper that threatens to come out.

He can feel your hands locking behind his hair, pulling your body infinitely closer to his, smushing your soft tits into his hard chest as he feels the breath sucked out of him by the Devil himself. There’s no more feigned chastity, all abstinence launched aside as he feels a little tongue prod at his lips. They open to let yours in, sucking on it as if it’ll bring his very breath back.

He doesn’t let himself wonder if it’s okay, he knows it’s not; it’s wrong, so wrong, on so many levels. He’s given up trying to please a Holy deity, Satan can take him whole if it means he can ravish in his sick twisted fantasies. He slots a leg between yours, letting the two pairs tangle and waltz to the symphony of your matching heartbeats, finally synching in a virulent tempo.

Breaths turn to pants, turn to unmistakable moans, and Tooru has to pull back to clamp a hand over your mouth in warning. The imagery of his long slender fingers covering more than half your face sends jolts down his body at the same time he realizes it’s him whining out so desperately.

He looks back at your face, beady, glassy, needy eyes peering back at him in sheer devotion, and he shuts his eyes in pure agony as his heart clenches in pangs of guilt, while his adulterous cock twitches in revelation. The warm soft breaths fan his palm, lips puckering underneath to peck softly at his fingers in hopes of escape; he thinks he might cum untouched.

His hand yanks back in shock, in horror, in disgust. But your hands clasped firmly behind hair pulls him back in, and he whispers out a prayer before a soft, “We can’t.” His eyes bore into yours, begging for mercy, begging you to let him go so he can suffer for his sins.

You don’t respond, not immediately. He feels his face pulled into yours and a distinct moisture building up on his thigh wedged between your much smaller legs. Wet— the suction on his tongue, the grinding on his leg, everything’s wet, and damp, and he thinks his mind might be drowning.

He can hear whines, pitched in desperation, and he’s certain they’re from you this time. His arm moves to grip at your hips, cupping your supple mound to shift it up the sheets and press your cunny against his straining erection. His hips buck on instinct, grazing the drooling slit covered only by a thin piece of cotton.

His mind goes blank, vision patching, and it’s too fast, too much, “please, Tooru-nii”— he’s crying. There’s tears stinging the corners of his eyes while he chokes out a string of ‘no, no, no’. He can’t slow the erratic humps against his lil sister’s cunt, the fingers digging into your hips marking you with patches of blooming purple and green, ‘I love you, niichan’.

It’s a knee-jerk reaction; he yanks his body back, takes sharp inhales of breath, until he can open his eyes to look at you again. Panic and nausea coat his tongue where it once tasted like you, but he’s met with the same look of pure adoration you gave him before he tainted your body with sin.

He realizes your hands are still straining to reach the back of his neck where they were before he wrenched his body away. They’re laying gently on his shoulders, twirling lazily at the strands of his hair curling around the base. Tears are flowing down his cheeks, or maybe it’s one single continuous tear, and his body is wracked with guilty desperation.

There’s no malice in your expression, no accusatory anger, and most of all, no disgust. Your face is painted with bliss, and joy, and love— Tooru snaps.

He’s pushing your shoulders back until they meet his singular pillow, and crawls down to nest in the space between your thighs. Large palms hook under your knees and push back until they touch your shoulders, and he moans when he sees your arms reach out to hook them in place obediently.

He wants to cherish this moment, burn the image into his brain for years to come, however many he’s spared, but his loins burn with years of yearning. He grants himself one glance at your tiny frame spread open for him, revels in the sheer devotion in your eyes, and plunges his face into the drenched cotton covering your core.

You moan out his name in a wanton reaction as he inhales your sweet toxins like he’s trying to drown— he is, he has no reason to live past this moment he sins, no right to live as he indulges in his sick perversions.

He can feel each shake and tremor of your thighs above his head as he sucks and licks at the soaked cotton, rendered nothing but an useless scrap now. Each suck is paired with a deep whine, echoing through his now-barren room. With one swift move he pulls off your panties and let it dangle between your ankles hanging above your bodies. Slick lines drip from the wet rag, stretching to connect back to your drooling pussy.

Five seconds— that’s how long he allows himself to marvel at your leaking slit, lips pink and puckered around the clenching hole. His cockhead drenches through his pants, so painfully hard a soft breath could send him tumbling over.

But he doesn’t allow himself to touch it, it’s not about him; it’s about you. Your devotion, mercy— your sheer, unadulterated, unwavering love for him. It’s about you; you deserve the best, you deserve it all, you deserve someone that’s not him.

He licks up, tongue flat, and slowly follows the dip between your folds until he suctions onto your swollen bud. His lips give it a soft peck, before wrapping around it and enclosing it in the hot heat of his mouth.

He has half a mind to snake his hand up to clamp over your mouth, stop the loud moans and sobs from coming out, but each wail shoots jolts of arousal straight to his leaking dick; he can’t bring himself to shut it down, despite how good you look with his long fingers wrapped around your face.

With every long lap, he pulls more cries out of you, and by the time he prods his tongue into your needy hole, you’re clenching down on him, sucking back on the muscle. You’re close, he can feel it. His tongue fucks into you without any of the mercy you’ve graced him, hips rutting into the bedsheet in tangent to your growing squeals.

The palpitations hammering in his heart synchronizes with the pulse of your cunt, weaving into a fatal rondo before everything stops; his hips, your cries, the air closes in on your writhing bodies as he paints his pants in shame and sin.

He allows his peripherals to roam your body; thighs indented with tiny crescents by your dainty fingers, mouth agape with your cute pink tongue lolling out— he swallows down his guilt, letting it scorch his insides before coating his cock threatening to twitch back to life.

He watches your hands drop down from their determined grip, thumping lightly as they hit his bed. He gingerly folds your legs back onto the flat surface before dipping down to place a gentle kiss on your forehead. He can feel your arms shake in attempt to reach out and cuddle him in, but give out to fatigue.

Your eyes flutter closed, lips molding back to that soft smile ever-present in his presence, and he thinks he hears a faint whisper of, ‘I love you, Tooru-nii.’

Placid, limp, he watches as your body loses energy and drains into the mattress below. It slaps him in the face, presents him with a trophy, a golden star stamped with a big fat ‘Sin’ calligraphed on. His world collapses around him, buries him in the debris of his crumbled dignity, and the Devil dances.

[dreamkidddream]

I really enjoyed your writing on the ADA members with a younger sibling like partner <33 I was wondering if you could write the same scenario but with Chuuya and Fyodor? Except the younger partner in question has a rough past and cheery/joking personality similar to Dazai(?) I'm super excited to see more of your writing!! c:

Hi anon! Thank you for the compliment and for reading (here’s the scenario for those that want to read it)! The only difference is that instead of this reader being pure, they’re going to be like a mini Dazai (or at least similar to him). One change that I did make was that Reader isn’t as suicidal as Dazai (ie. constantly trying to find a way to end their life), but Reader is ready to go whenever and wherever, whether it’s on their terms or not. Reader is gender neutral and hope you enjoy!

Also ayyyeeee my first time writing for Fyodor! Hope I did him justice cause his part took a while lol

TW: Mentions of suicide, dark moments (Reader is a bit sadistic, but nothing graphic is mentioned) small spoilers for Dark Era arc and Season 3

Acting as a Younger Sibling with a Rough Past and Personality Similar to Dazai with: Chuuya and Fyodor

Chuuya

Well he was extremely disturbed to say the least. Okay extremely may be over exaggerating, but the way you acted got underneath his skin bad

You reminded him too much of Dazai, minus the suicide attempts and the animosity towards him. Although that didn’t stop the morbid jokes from happening

“Hey Chu-Chu, what did the librarian say to the guy that wanted to check out a book on how to commit suicide?”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that!-“

“Go away, you’re not going to bring it back. HA! A knee slapper, am I right?”

He wondered if Dazai got to you first like he did Akutagawa, and if he did, that was just another reason to strangle him

You were his partner, and you were young. So seeing the way you interacted with everyone and everything with such a pessimistic attitude while still being cheery was alarming

Not to mention how easy it is for you to just readily accept death at every turn. You’re the literal embodiment of “guess I’ll die” and it drives Chuuya up the wall every time

He remembers the one time an enemy held you hostage how you were so cheerful to finally be rid of this joke you called a life, and that you told the guy who was holding a gun to your head to “put it between the eyes, it looks 10x better that way.” And “don’t be afraid to blow my brains out either! But you do you, but I think it’s a rather stylistic choice if I do say so myself.”

The man thought you were trying to distract him at first, but when he figured out that you were serious he honestly got so nervous he was ready to just let you go and suggest therapy lmao

After he handled the situation, he took you directly under his wing. Sure, you were already his partner, but he was really going to look out for you including outside of work. If it meant that he had to “babysit” you, then oh well

Plus he didn’t want to face Mori if he just let you die while under his care

You realized what he was trying to do when you two would go off to “collect information” and would be doing the complete opposite. “Hey, I’m kinda hungry, let’s take a break and grab a bite to eat.”

“I thought we had to get this info back to Mori ASAP. Not that I care if he’s mad, he’s been holding out on me and this is the perfect way to take revenge.”

“Holding out how?”

“I told him that since he’s a doctor he would be the perfect teacher to show me some new techniques.”

“...on?”

“Torturing, duh! My methods are getting kinda stale, and I do want to perfect my craft after all. I want to be good at something before I kick the bucket, Chu.”

Poor man is honestly in so much distress because of you please help him

And the way you interacted with the other members was both entertaining and horrifying to watch at times. Majority of the time, you were this happy go lucky kid with a dark sense of humor (you still made people smile, although sometimes it was tense or apprehensive, but whatever a smile is still a smile). But when you were having a bad day or a mission was going wrong, everyone knew to steer clear of you.

A new recruit tried to cheer you up one day, telling you that “it could always be worse”. You then got pulled into the office with a very angry Chuuya and a mildly disappointed Mori.

Chuuya finally had enough after months of this occurred. It was like a never ending cycle: except your behavior was getting increasingly more reckless and dangerous. It was driving him crazy trying to figure out why you were this way and if it was any way to snap you out of it

He wasn’t a stranger to death, he’s seen it with his own two eyes, end even killed people with his bare hands. But the huge difference between you two is that he didn’t particularly enjoy killing, if it had to be done then he had no problems doing so; it comes with the job y’know? But with you, you took actual pleasure in killing. It filled you with a sick sense of glee, and it even made his stomach turn

The bond between you two grew from just a typical work relationship (as far as working in the mafia goes). He knew that from underneath your rather concerning persona, you were just troubled. Someone or something made you this way, and while he had his own troubles growing up, he was able to deal with it and overcome his issues. It just seemed like you just...gave in to yours. And it made him feel pity for you.

You didn’t mind Chuuya at all. You actually liked being his partner! He was pretty much the only person that you didn’t feel a need to harm or kill. And he was fun to be around, when he wasn’t being such a party pooper (I mean what’s the point of being in the mafia when you can’t purposely spill some blood every now and then for fun?). The only thing you didn’t like was how he would try and get you to talk about your past. You honestly didn’t see a point in it, it’s called the past for a reason, why didn’t he understand that?!

But no matter how many times you would shut down or try to change the subject, he would always try again, and again, and again. It was very annoying. And you didn’t like to talk about it. Why didn’t Chuuya understand that?!

Eventually, his pestering worked. One day after a rough mission when he had to patch you up, you opened up to him. You didn’t immediately tell him everything, but you gave him small insights to what happened, to what lead you to be this way

You could tell that he was grateful that he was finally getting somewhere with you. And you yourself was surprised that your dynamic didn’t change. He didn’t look at you with sympathy in his eyes, he didn’t baby you, he wasn’t disgusted by you, everything was normal. The only difference is that Chuuya told you that it was okay to talk to him, and that you shouldn’t be scared to approach him (psh you scared, yeah okay)

Chuuya felt like a weight lifted off his shoulders once you opened up. You were still a bit sadistic (but you did tone it back after the recruit incident, and after you saw how repulsed he looked, so you just did everything behind closed doors now) and had your cheery persona on, but it felt a little bit more real now. It felt genuine. It gave him a good feeling to see some spark in your eyes instead of the full he felt himself getting used to. And he would never say it to you, but it also gave him a warm feeling with him being your role model (you knew but didn’t want to burst his bubble yet)

Your change wasn’t very noticeable at first, but that’s okay. No one needed to know, it was fine with just you and Chuuya. You still felt the desire to just be done with life, but it wasn’t your focus whenever you were with him. You hadn’t made peace with your past yet, but you felt you could one day with him by your side. He was someone that you didn’t knew you needed (or wanted to admit to), but it worked out in the end. You had doubts that you could or would ever change, but if you did, growing to be someone like Chuuya would’nt be the worst possible outcome

Plus, whenever he did run into Dazai with his new sidekick, he is 10000% bragging about how much better and cooler you are, with him being the superior between them both. He can’t WAIT till you guys can whoop their ass

Fyodor

Well weren’t you such an interesting character

To see someone as young as you ready to just leave this world in an abrupt way was intriguing, and he realized that he could use this to his advantage. Maybe even give you something to gain in exchange

He found you hiding inside a disgusting abandoned building (a fitting place for a rat if he would say so himself), drenched in blood. Fyodor didn’t necessarily care why, but he was curious about one thing: why were you smiling? Your eyes were so lifeless, yet here you were smiling so bright, as if you weren’t covered in someone’s blood

Fyodor found himself smiling down at you. Did you think he was prey, that he was going to be your next target? He wanted you to try, he wanted to see what you were really capable of

“Tell me, what is going to be your next move? Do you wish to attack me?”

“If you do something that I don’t like, then yes, that’s the plan. Why are you here Mister? You wanna have some fun too?”, your smile turned into a smirk, twirling your very sharp knife in your hand. “You’re not even from here, so why are you trying to bother such an innocent kid like me?”

He matched your smirk, “You are from innocent, child, even a blind man can see that. To see just how full of sin you are. This wasn’t your first atrocity that you committed nor would it be your last. Which is a shame, it might be too late for me to cleanse you of your filth.”

Oh, he was going to be very amusing to mess with. But you weren’t stupid. Something wasn’t right with this man. No one would walk up to someone with copious amounts of blood on them, holding a weapon that caused said blood, while berating them about being “full of sin”. What was his ability? Did he have people with him? Was the building surrounded or booby trapped? These questions swirled around your head, all while he just kept smirking at you. He was pissing you off, who the hell did he think he was?

But you kept your anger at bay, plastering a cheerful smile on your face. “Sin? Cleanse me of my filth? I guess I do kinda stink but who exactly do you think you are, some type of God?”

“That’s exactly what I am. I’m here to free this world from this wretched curse that has been brought upon.”

...huh? Did-did he escape from the asylum or something? Did he seriously believe himself to be a God (not even a prophet but an actual God)? Seeing your confusion, he continued on, “The curse of ability users. They plague this Earth, and they need to be eliminated.”

“Why is that? What’s wrong with having abilities? Hellooooo, some people’s abilities are actually pretty cool! If you just have a terrible ability, it’s your problem, not the world-“

“Why not let me show you why it’s indeed a curse?”

“And how would you do that? You must be crazy if you think I’m going anywhere with you. I may be dangerous but I’m not dumb!”

“You poor, misguided soul.”, he tutted at you. “Look at where you have ended up at. These people with these so called “cool abilities” have failed you, have they not? Yet you still idolize them, not believing that they are the reason for your misfortunes. If they were truly your idols, they wouldn’t have left you to fend for yourself, to live among the rats. They left you to rot, do you not see that?”

He was hitting too close to home, he was getting too personal, too close. He didn’t know you at all, you’re a complete stranger to him, but why did his words hold some truth to them?

“Come with me, and I will prove to you first hand why this has to be done.”, he was now physically close to you, staring you deep into your eyes. “It would be such a waste for you to die without knowing the truth, wouldn’t you agree?”

You didn’t have much, he wasn’t wrong. But if he could take you somewhere with real food and not scraps you had to fight to find, and to have real shelter, then fine. You agreed. And if you felt that something was up, you’ll just kill him, run away, or both

After he took you away, he kept to his word. It seemed like he was really was telling the truth, you getting first-hand experience like he promised. It was scary that he was right, but you were also indebted to him. He not only allowed you to live in luxury (at least it was luxury to you considering what you had before), but he opened your eyes to what the true problem is. He gave your life a new purpose. If you two were able to successfully complete his goal, then your problems would be gone forever right? You would finally be able to feel a sense of peace, and you can’t wait till that could happen

You and Fyodor, after he opened your eyes, bonded easier than in the beginning. You were smart enough to not fully trust him after leaving with him, but after just a couple of pulled strings to cause certain things to happen, you slowly melted and molded into the way that he planned. You would be an excellent pawn in his grand plan, and you would do well in keeping him entertained at the same time

You were a joyful child, even when carrying out his dirty work, you did so gleefully. After joining the Rats in the House of the Dead, you tried to spread that joy among the other members. They didn’t find it very amusing, but you didn’t care and neither did Fyodor. You were far too important to let go of now

You were always by him, it seemed. Always in the same space, whether he was planning his next move, and playing the cello, you were always there with this look of awe directed at him. Every time he would catch you staring, he would simply chuckle and softly reprimand you about, “how rude it is to stare, but you simply can’t help it.”

He even taught you how to play the cello!

You sounded terrible but practice makes perfect

As time went on and the end goal seeming to be closing in, he came to see you as more than just an expendable tool. He found out about your past, but simply proved to you once again why you two had to make sure the curse was ridden as soon as possible. No one wanted a repeat of what happened to you to happen to anyone else, so the mission had to be success. Failure was not an option

Fyodor didn’t see himself as a cruel man towards you. He just didn’t mince his words and he made sure that you were dealing with the truth, and not some lie that was attempted to be twisted as reality. If anything, that was the way that he showed that he held some compassion for you, he wasn’t willing to let you be lead astray from the truth again, not while he was here. You had somehow wiggled your way into his mind, where he had been accepting of your close bond, and he took that into consideration

Once his goal is achieved and he has truly made his place known as a God, he’ll make sure that you gain your rightful place among him as well. You were worthy in Fyodor’s eyes, and as long as nothing came in between your bond and the end goal, then everything will work out. He will make sure of that.

[thecitythatdoesntsleep]

Vampire Master-Guide

First of all I want to start off by saying I've gathered inspiration from MANY vampire medias. Fictions, games. The biggest influences are Vampire the masquerade (primarily bloodlines) and Vampire Knight (manga). As well as honorable mentions to Vampyr (game), Queen of the Damned (movie) and Van Helsing (movie, anime). So if anything sounds familiar, chances are it is. I highly encourage you to explore them as they are a few of my favorites.

Second of all this is going to be massive, so I'll be putting it under a cut. But it will be a comprehensive guide to my personal vampire lore that I've crafted and worked with through the years. If you like it, feel free to use it! I'd absolutely love to be tagged (so I can shower the creations with praise) but it's not required. I'm just out here making one more version of vampires that hopefully inspires you. There will be a couple different categories that I will touch base on.

History (this part is super short)

Physicality - Medical Information

Physicality - Appearance/Body

Mental Effects

Society

Anything from my vampire lore will be tagged #vlor

Now follow me under the cut, lovelies. But please be Warned: We'll be discussing blood, violence, physical and mental illness. As well as regular vampire related things. If any of this could trigger you, please kindly skip this post because you're far more important to me!

'History'

The original vampire to walk the earth, cursed by the heavens was Caine. After committing the first murder, a blood-soaked punishment was to forever be banished to walk the darkness with a constant reminder of his crimes. Thirst. Craving for the same blood he shed against his own kin. The sin was carried through the years and he came upon another outcast kindred by the name of Lilith, cursed by God in a different way and hexed with powerful disciplines.

They bonded as kine and Lilith taught her chaos to Caine in hopes they'd rule together. In the end his nature stayed true and his now empowered wrath befalls Lilith, committing murder yet again and taking her life.

To feed upon and be fed, was a now animalistic instinct that spoke louder than supposed human nature ever could. And thus the curse spread. To anyone that drinks from the tainted or is bitten by a rabid, is surely to bear it at the final heartbeat. The path to redemption is sealed but survival is nearly infinite. So long as the beast is obeyed and satisfied, there is no constraint on lifespan. They will be damned to an eternity enslaved to thirst.

(Primarily from VTMB but I really like the idea of it being some sort of ancient curse from the gods so I thought I'd include this tiny historical bit. Onto the good stuff.)

Physicality - Medical Information

Vampires are anemic, let's just establish that all vampires are what modern day medicine would consider anemia. But they also have super aggressive red blood cells that function x100 that of human white blood cells. All in one combo of super cells. No illness spreads. No disease can contract, nothing can live in their system. They don't fall ill with colds or flu. STD's aren't feasible. Their systems are far too strong and combative to infections, bacteria.

Their integumentary systems regenerate about x200 - x300 times faster. Within seconds (if there is or has been fresh blood in the system recently) their skin regenerates and goes even beyond that. Mere hours and limbs grow back, bones realign.

Vampires don't have functioning organs. (If they are turned from humans they are there but they don't work and will eventually wither.) Hearts don't beat, lungs have no need for air.

Vampires can't drown. They don't breathe and even if water fills their lungs, they would be weighted down but not die. They also don't float like humans do naturally.

Vampires can go out in the sun but they have hard times with sun poisoning. Think of a sunburn but more like a rash. They can't process the vitamin D very well and almost all of them have trouble with getting severely burnt very rapidly or having a rash from the sun. Prolonged exposure can make them feverish, nauseated and give them body cramps and fatigue. Even longer can make them violently ill and can essentially melt their skin. It can be healed but takes longer.

Staking their hearts immobilizes them but does NOT kill them. They can be detained this way and it is excruciatingly painful. But it doesn't kill you.

Vampires can't eat food. Only few can consume liquids aside from blood. They have no ability to digest it and no longer make acid. They'll usually heave it up along with whatever blood content is left in their gut.

They have perfect eyesight, hearing, hyper senses of taste and smell. Touch is extremely sensitive as well. Their skin isn't fragile, in fact it's a bit thicker than average skin from how fast it regenerates and is constantly maintaining itself.

They are very resistant but not impossible to scar. Scars from human life are erased with first turning.

Vampire blood tastes like flat soda or icky, room temperature tap water. Unpleasant to other vampires but in a desperate pinch, it will sustain but nowhere near as good as foreign blood does. Even animal blood takes better care of a vampires system than another body of recycled blood. (Think of it as they've already taken the good stuff out of it for their own bodies so all that's left is the taste and a few stray nutrients.)

Vampires fangs grow back indefinite. At about x10 the rate of humans losing and replacing their first set. No matter what comes of them, their fangs will always grow back. No other teeth mutate like this.

Fangs lengthen and retract when around blood or not. It's not something that can be helped or even trained out. When blood is present, fangs will lengthen even if there is no intention to feed. Automatic reaction and a painful one at that. They get used to it but it's a sharp pain like having a human tooth extracted but it doesn't have prolonged swelling or discomfort. Only when getting longer or retracting back in.

Whenever they're in bloodlust or a state of starvation, they gain a sense of x-ray vision but instead it's vein mapping. They can see through skin to arteries and if it's severe blood lust, they can even see the smaller, tinier veins in fingers and faces. This is a sight that ever vampire possesses in order to obtain blood easier or figure out a good place to bite. Anything that is living will be seen in a structure of veins. Animals, humans, other vampires.

Severing the brain stem from the body is one of the few sure-fire way to kill a vampire. Alternatively burning them to pure ash and scattering them or holding them in separate vessels. (If ALL ashes are contained somehow and mixed with fresh blood, there is a reanimation process so beheading them is more permanent.) Silver weapons or exposure to silver prior to wound can result in death as well.

Alcohol is SUPER effective when they drink it. Think of one shot making them drunk because it hits their bloodstream almost immediately. A double would have them seeing double and acting like a hot mess. 3+ for even the beefiest of men would have them blacked out and vomiting on the sidewalks.

Drugs effect them but only in extremely high doses and for nothing really over 2 hours or so. Short, short longevity but they have the same crash that humans do. If it's hard detoxing symptoms for humans, it's the same but faster. They can do a hard drug, feel the high for maybe 1 - 2 hours and immediately go into hallucinating and shaking from the aftermath. The same goes for Pharmacia. There's really no medicine that works.

Garlic is a myth. So is wolfsbane.

Silver on the other hand is a very real, very deadly weapon that still rings true. A single pinprick of a silver sewing needle and it can render a vampire powerless. Slow them down to the speed of a human, take away their rapid healing and remove all of their heightened senses. Silver directly into the bloodstream essentially renders them as they were before they turned in physical response and structure. It's the only metal that burns vampires skin and will char it if it sits in one spot for too long. Silver is the only kind of metal that can forge chain that vampires cannot break and can successfully be restrained in. Any wounds inflicted in silver take longer to heal.

They can't reproduce after being turned. Purebloods + Purebloods are the only exception and it's still extremely rare. (Only 9 children born in over 2,500+ years.)

Physicality - Appearance/Body

Whatever color their eyes are, blood-lust accentuates the brightest color. I.e: Brown eyes turn Yellow/Gold, Blue eyes turn White/Purple exct. (Different powers can change this depending on the vampire and their history, sire.) Just think neon, glowing eyes in the dark if they're thirsty or hunting.

They stay frozen in whatever physical appearance they're turned in. Their metabolism is whack so they don't really lose or gain weight, it's down to cosmetic changes or cosmetic surgery. Which at least it heals flawlessly and doesn't ever change. But there aren't many options for personally invested physical change.

Their hair and nails grow super fast.

Vampires usually have the hair color they have when they are turned but around 15% experience graying or whitening of their hair within a few days of turning. Due to a semi-common genetic string in humans.

Vampires don't tan. They burn. No matter what their skin color is. Most are the palest/pasty tone of their natural skin color merely due to anemia and lack of blood circulation.

They don't blush or show physical signs of fever.

Vampires don't sweat or flush when exerting or exercising. They don't have to regulate their body temperatures.

They get dry skin pretty often and it's important to combat it with baths and soaks and lotions/oils whenever possible.

They are usually a lukewarm body temperature. As low as 15°C|59°F to as much as 21°C|69.8°F.

Every vampire has a certain amount of charming allure to them. In whatever form or fashion suits them the best, it's a natural attractant to their human counterparts. A glint to their eyes, a certain smile, the pitch or timbre of their voice. Endearing, seductive, mysterious, whichever shines through in their personality. They are magnetic, attractive to the human eye, no matter what they tend to look like.

They can see themselves in aluminum coated mirrors. Just not silver.

Mental Effects

There is a staggering 95% probability that 'created' vampires will have amnesia unless turned by a pureblood/noble/king/queen/high ranking blood vampire. They remember nothing of their human lives and this is extremely common. It's actually very rare to remember anything prior to your awakening. (That's why there are usually strict laws about siring without consent and proof of consent.)

It is very easy for vampires to be blinded by fits of rage when starving for blood. They can fly into blind anger and attack people they normally wouldn't or even foes they have no chance of winning against. Depending on their remaining strength when this tipping point of starvation happens; it can be extremely dangerous to be around.

Most turned vampires suffer a psychotic break in their early turning years. (Between 6mo and up to 25 years of awakening age. I.e: from the date of being bitten.) The brain is the last thing to be altered in the physical process and because of this, it's believed that their mental state has to crumble to be built better. It's unknown as to exactly why this happens but it's almost guaranteed. It's the vampire equivalent of 'adolescence'.

Over 75% of vampires experience periodic depression and random bouts of sadness. Another 39% live with bouts of mild to moderate psychosis. (This has been suspected to happen because of the physical stasis and improper circulation of chemicals/hormones/exct. Many believe it's because of the guilt of their King, Caine.)

Mental illnesses that aren't born from physical imbalances are in cases of amnesia, cured. Those that are chemically related are usually worsened by the stagnant physical changes of vampirism. It's rare that those with amnesia remember their traumas or emotional upsets after turning.

The "amnesia" of turning is the death of a human psyche. With the staggering rate of permanent amnesia, it is hard to figure out exactly how it happens but it's widely known.

Society

Humans are not fully aware of vampires. This still rings true with the fear of world war and or wiping out the human race given their species.

There is a high society "government" type of monarchy. Each clan or type of vampires has a leader "elder". This is usually the oldest vampire to date of that specific type. Sometimes it's a group or a family of elders. In most modern day they have adapted to a more "presidential" route and have to establish themselves as leader types to be considered for any kind of law making or enforcement. (I.e: Noble bloodline, diligent efforts of servitude such as public service, military or other.)

There is a strict law against turning humans. Vampires are required to have clearly given consent and the process is to be looked over by an elder or enforcer. They must show strenuous documentation of that persons preservation in the name of probable amnesia. They must have a comprehensive processing of that persons interests, personality traits, societal standing, proof of occupational termination, familial status and situational agreement. (Basically they don't want humans forgetting their lives entirely and they want to make sure that they are able to move somewhere or hide from their families until they're well trained enough to be around them again. It's a very long to legally accomplish it.

Every city handles turning differently. Some require the sire to pay the death penalty and others are strictly against killing the one person responsible of their turned kindred.

Vampires are in every day jobs, doing anything and everything that humans do. From trash collecting, to law and doctors. Fame, fortune, poor, criminal; they all live as many walks of life as humans do.

Anti-vampire establishments are alive and well. Most are run by other vampires. Some humans share their beliefs but most typically it's a resounding amount of vampire extremists. This is legal due to the fact that they try to adhere and coexist for their sanctions ordinance. Helping enforce justice for their regions and implore an opposing force for rampaging vampires or other law breaking kindred.

Most human killings are covered up, tampered with or has someone on the inside working on doing both. It's a constant job but a needed one to keep their existence safe from being proven.

There is a massive shortage on vampire doctors serving other vampires or studying from what little information there is on vampirism. The ratio looking like 1 to 300. 1 doctor for every 300 vampires.

The most vampire dominated and lucrative occupations are generally law, publishing and sex working. There are 3 vampires with these jobs to every human worker.

Here is an additional post about how vampire blood would effect humans.

So that was everything I could think of for the time being. I may continue to edit and update this as I have time or I think of something that I haven't touched base on yet. But this is just the general lore I work with when I do write about vampires or when I think about them in general. Feel free to skip certain parts or like.. adapt it however you'd like. I made this to more so inspire people not to show a list of HOW things should go. Take of it what you like and ignore what you don't! Add more if you think of something!

Some of it gets a bit random but it's still things that I've either incorporated in some unpublished fics or talked about with some friends or just fantasized about in general. There's bits and pieces in all media for vampires that I really enjoy and I think every new style spins something different and makes for wonderful content!

[meyosei]

“I am crime. I am punishment. Crime and punishment are close friends. Borders vanish. Rooms awaken. The incarnation of death, the master of the ability consuming fog... Eat, howl, and make violence as your instinct desires. This is neither a loss of control nor a singularity.”

Dos-kun’s ability.

[spoilers from anime and Dead Apple]

So I brainrotted about this enough to come up with 5 theories.

Theory 1: Fyodor’s ability tried to kill him indirectly in the fog incident.

We all consider Fyodor’s ability not attacking him in Dead Apple a mystery, but I think that it was actually hurting him somehow (well I don’t know how exactly). Because Shibusawa’s fog seems indiscriminate, it’s job is to make one’s ability personified and kill it’s owner. But how does Crime and Punishment try to kill Fyodor? It seems to me like the quote above is a hint to that, but I don’t exactly know how :,). Plus reading irl Dostoevsky works, specifically “crime and punishment”, “Brothers karamazov”and “the house of the dead” might be of help to understand what he meant in the quote above.

Theory 2: The mystery is in the fog.

Let’s suppose Shibusawa controls what his fog does, for example he can make his fog seperate the ability of it’s user nothing more nothing less, or he can make it seperate the ability from it’s user and make it kill them. But then again what’s the point from exposing Fyodor to the hypothetical first fog? Was it to prevent him to use it against him? But Fyodor killed with using his brain only, so his ability didn’t impose such threat. This leads us to my third and fourth theory.

Theory 3: Fyodor doesn’t have an ability.

I reached this in the pinnacle of my brainrot, what made me think so? He wants to eliminate abilities, maybe it’s because he has that grudge for not having one? Maybe he saw people doing amazing things with abilities, when he was a child, and developed that hate towards the ability community from that feeling of unfairness? There’s a high chance what I said before is wrong, but he really might not have one. The way he killed Karma, it can be that he cut his throat with some sort of broken fragment? He had the opportunity to use his ability against Ace but instead used his ruse, also against Dazai, and a sniper shot him in the anime. Same thing for Katai whom he supposedly shot.

Theory 4: Fyodor’s ability affects non-ability users only.

This seems a lot more logical than the others, because Karma seems not to have an ability, as well as that military guy Fyodor killed when he got surrounded at the end of cannibalism arc. But the ones he didn’t use his ability against are ability users (Dazai, Ace, Katai). We can conclude his motives from that, he might’ve thought in his childhood (I go to childhood because it’s where motivations are developed for majority of characters, protagonists or antagonists) “ability users are unstoppable, they can do whatever they want, life is easier for them than normal people. That’s not fair.” He might’ve thought that he’d want to be someone who’d punish those who run rampant, but his ability works only on normal people. He might’ve thought that they’re unreachable and that his ability is useless. He might’ve went by the logic that sinners are people who do whatever they want and don’t bother with morals or common sense and therefore he named ability users sinners. That’s why his ability is called Crime (for killing non-sinners) and punishment (for wishing to kill sinners... okay this seems alot like a headcanon) but anyway I hope I conveyed my idea well :)

Theory 5: Fyodor has a completely unknown ability that he refuses to use.

This also feels a tad logical. What if he has an ability that he refuses to use since it’s a sin, and instead relies on his ruse and mind? Someone who wants to eliminate ability mustn’t rely on theirs right? Unless he goes by the concept of “committing a crime for the greater good” which is also very likely.

Also back to Fyodor’s ability personification, if he didn’t have an ability, that can be how the fog affects non-ability users,it personifies their antithesis, like kunikida’s, the ability’s notebook kanji said “give in” but kunikida would never give in in matters concerning his ideals. Back to Fyodor, if he had an ability that works on non-ability users, shouldn’t it go for killing him?unless he was someone like Dazai, who wants to die, then his antithesis won’t go for killing him.

Okay my head hurts, I feel like I didn’t explain well but anyway. Im aware that the first and second theories aren’t that logical but yeah.

Plus I think that I’m overthinking it. The answer might be in what Fyodor said (the quote above) but I’m just too dumb. It can be just as he said “this is nor a singularity or a loss of control” with nothing special about it.

Additions:

“King crimson is an alchemical term. King crimson is a metaphor for the devil or Satan, but at the same time it’s also a metaphor for one of the statures in the purification of man and the purification of mankind soul towards union with god and with infinite. Which is the philosophical aim of alchemists.”

This quote reminds of Fyodor. Don’t tell me it don’t apply to him.

It made me think of bungou to the alchemist too and the possibility of it being an undercover alternative universe of bsd :) but no.

Thanks to whoever took the time to read this :)

[killemwithkawaii]

can i maybe rq headcanons for yandere sal (or larry!) with a super soft s/o like .. they’re super cuddly & love all things cute like the color pink, plushies, etc. + sometimes act like the mom friend™️ because they constantly worry for their friends lol

I’ve had Double-Trouble on the brain lately, so this is pretty self-indulgent tbh u//w//u I hope you enjoy, anon~

Double-Trouble with a darling who is the soft mom friend-

>Having a soft darling that's a sucker for all things cute almost makes it too easy for Love-Sick Sally and Scary Larry to get into their good graces 

>Any time one of the boys wants to get them a gift (which is often), they just have to pick out something pastel and adorable, and [darling] is sure to love it (and the boys love that [darling] has so many reminders of them displayed in their bedroom now) 🎁🍬

>[Darling] sleeps cuddled up with their plushies (and, occasionally, a body pillow), and so they're used to having something beside them in bed- this gives the boys the golden opportunity to slip under the covers and take the place of of whatever [darling] selected at their bed companion that night. They find the entire process so cute- gently removing the plush or pillow from [darling]s grip as they sleep, letting [darling] groggily grope around in the dark for a few seconds to try and retrieve it, only for them to grab and snuggle up to one of the boys, whom they've mistaken for a large plushie that's still warm with their own body heat. [Darling] blames any fluttering heartbeat or excited whisper they hear on being half-asleep and still dreaming, and will quickly resume their soft snoring, now that they know their poor plush won't be spending the night alone on the floor. 🛌💤

>There have been a couple times where the boys have had to hide in [darling]s giant pile of plushies when they accidentally woke them up during a 'visit', or they came home a little earlier than originally anticipated (It's a good thing Sal and Larry got [darling] so many big plushies to 'protect' the collection of little plushies they'd already put together- there's plenty of empty spaces in the pile that they can squeeze into in an emergency!) 🧸

>Sal and Larry usually aren't the type to complain, but since their darling is 'the mom friend' they aren't as as hesitant to bring up their aches and pains. [Darling] always has aspirin (Sals headaches have just been so bad lately and he forgets his own) and bandages (Larry keeps managing to get cuts on his right hand and needs help with the package every time) with them, just in case! 🩹💕

>Another duty of The Mom Friend is to feed everyone- knowing this, Double Trouble tends to eat the least nutritious junk they can around their darling. The light scolding the pair gets for splitting a box of snack cakes for lunch is a small price to pay for having their darlings attention. [Darling] often goes out of their way to cook them a decent meal- showing up at their apartment with carefully-labeled containers of food, or inviting them both over for a hearty, made-from-scratch dinner to make up for the dietary sins they committed earlier in the day. (Double Trouble are in their darlings home all the time, but it's so nice to be invited for a change!) 🍝

"Neither of you are allowed to die of malnutrition on my watch. Now, eat!" 

"Heh- okay, okay, whatever you say, [darling]..."

"Jeez, [darling], you don't have to twist our arms or whatever, just pass me a fork..."

>All this time spent with their darling means that there's a good chance the boys will get a much-needed dose of TLC. Once they get the green-light, Double Trouble would greet their darling with big, lingering hugs and find any excuse they could to make other physical contact. Larry likes to pick them up and initiate some light rough-housing, and he loves it when [darling] plays along- striking back with a light punch to his shoulder, or running from him mid-giggle so he can give chase and boast about catching them. Sal, on the other hand, prefers a gentler approach, casually touching [darling]s upper back, shoulders and forearms during conversations and picking imaginary specks of lint from [darling]s clothes and hair when they've stopped paying attention to him. Both Sal and Larry will purposefully leave the tags of their shirts sticking out or miss a button on their coats so that [darling] feels compelled to fuss over them. 🧥

"Can't you two even get dressed by yourselves? You'd both be a complete mess without me around...!"

"You have no idea, [darling]..."💘💘💘

[oatmilkslytherin]

ruin me 3/? (d.malfoy)

description: part 3 of ?? of ruin me mini series:) read the other parts !!<33

pairing: draco malfoy x slytherin!reader

requested: yes / no

warnings: light cursing, mentions of sexual themes

taglist: @jud3cardan​ @dray-cookies​

y/n’s pov:

i sat anxiously in the common room, my teeth gnawing at my lower lip as my leg bounced relentlessly against the wooden floor. as hard as i tried, i couldn’t get draco out of my wandering mind. much more than the thoughts of how he had me writhing under him only a few nights ago, much more than his dark smirk and piercing blue-grey eyes. 

our run-in at the three broomsticks didn’t end the way i wanted it to. not at all, in fact. i would be lying if i said i’ve never thought about him in that way; how could you not? he was devilishly handsome, incredibly witty, and much smarter than he allowed himself to come off as. not to mention he was equally as dangerous, just as sarcastic and troublesome. truth be told, draco malfoy was my perfect equal. 

i could never tell him this, though. i prided myself on turning down men who thought they had a chance of winning over my heart. i thought him to be the same until he asked me to go out with him on the sunday after our lustful night. i hadn’t expected the question; it was possibly the last thing i thought i’d ever hear come from his pink lips. but it did, and i panicked. 

i cursed myself for letting my guard down the way i did. for panicking to no end and rushing out of the pub without a second thought. if i thought a little longer, perhaps i would’ve said something calm and cool; something that kept him wanting more. instead, i turned him down with no seeming remorse. i cursed myself for it. 

in reality, i dreamt of the thought of being with draco romantically. i thought endlessly about us being together, showing the whole world how we won each other over. it made my heart soar at the thought of it. to everyone else at hogwarts, i was nothing more than the token heartbreaker. as stupid as it sounded, i’d let him break my heart if it meant i could spend a multitude of nights cradled in his arms.

but, the nagging thought in the back of my mind reminded me that love was a scam. with every relationship came the risk of heartbreak, for either part, or perhaps both. i understood it at too well; i experienced it with cormac mclaggen when he ditched me for some girl two years our senior after we had dated for approximately six months. i felt it when adrian pucey told me i was too high-maintenance and only good for the animalistic, carnal things. i could tell you interaction after interaction i’ve had with dim-witted boys who didn’t understand commitment if it slapped them in the face. of course, i understood that this wasn’t the case with every guy. still, i couldn’t help but hear the tiny voice in the back of my mind remind me of my awful track record with relationships; was i willing to let draco just become another one?

the sound of the door to the common room opening snapped me out of my recurring thoughts. i paid no mind to the person as i took a deep breath, fixating my eyes on the fire that flickered in front of me. 

“i want to know why you think you’d ruin me, y/l/n.” my eyes widened as the voice sounded from behind me. i could nearly feel him burning holes into the back of my head as i stared aimlessly into the fire. i swallowed the lump in my throat, pinching at the skin of my fingers to keep from saying something impulsive out of my nervousness.

“some people aren’t meant to love,” i stated simply, relaxing my shoulders into the cushioned backing of the sofa. i heard draco exhale in frustration, listening to his footsteps around the couch until he was slumping his weight next to me. i couldn’t look at him; i stared at the fire, instead.

“what’s that supposed to mean?” draco asked earnestly, his voice soft and delicate. he sounded like he was methodically picking and choosing the right words to say, tip-toeing on eggshells to ask the question.

“i mean,” i started, shifting lightly in my position to cover up my anxiously tapping foot, “some people are not good partners. some people don’t know how to properly love the other...” 

my voice trailed off as i alluded to my previous misfortunes in relationships. 

“if you’re referring to mclaggen and pucey, then believe me when i say i’m not like them,” draco stated softly yet sternly. my face scrunched in confusion; i hadn’t expected him to pay so much attention to me before our sinful rendezvous. not many people knew about what happened with adrian and cormac; they begged me to keep quiet to protect their reputations. draco, however, knew despite this.

“you were dealt a shit hand, y/n. but i’m not them, i wouldn’t do that to you.” the way draco spoke made my heart flutter. i wanted so desperately to believe him. i dreamt of a moment like this since we had met, and now here it was at my disposal, and my heart was screaming ‘no’. still, the logical part of my brain tuned into the way draco spoke and how soft and sure he was. no person in their right mind would go to this length for someone like me... right?

still, i couldn’t ignore the familiar pang in my heart. the sheer thought of getting my heart broken was enough to make me nauseous. my stomach twisted at the possibility of draco being the one to rip my heart in two. i couldn’t handle it. 

“look, draco, you’re an amazing guy, truly. but, i can’t stomach the thought of getting my heart broken. i’m not going to let you ruin me, not in that way at least.” 

before he could say another word, i stood up from the couch and quickly paced towards the girl’s dormitories. i desperately wanted to look back, take my words back and dive head first into whatever it was my heart craved. but, i couldn’t. i had to keep walking and tense my shoulders to keep from stealing a last glance at him. 

i cursed myself for letting my guard down again. this was the second time that i’ve exposed my vulnerability to romantically entwining conversations. the second time i’ve shown draco malfoy that i’m not everything i’ve made myself out to be. i cursed myself for my stupidity. 

i pressed my back into the wooden barricade of my door, letting my head fall back onto it with a soft thump. i sighed outwardly, running my hands through my hair due to my overwhelmed state and pure frustration.

this boy was going to ruin me.

[jefferoni-quotes]

hotter than this heatwave

Jamilton, 13,045 words

I am begging y'all, don't let this flop it took an ungodly amount of time and I am so proud of it. Full fic under the cut.

Also, leave feedback! I love reading what you guys thought of my writing!

Hamilton is hot.

There’s no other way to say it. He’s hot, miserably so. Even with the air conditioner full blast, and a fan directed straight into his face, he’s simply sweltering in the heat. His childish refusal to remove his shirt (even in the privacy of his own home) isn’t helping the sweat cease in their races down his back, and the base of his ponytail sticks to his neck. He grimaces every time he even tries to move, and thus he’s resided himself to the expanse of couch, positioned himself under an open window. But there’s no breeze, none reaching him anyway. If he lifts himself on his shaking arms, and peers out the window, he can see the trees aren’t swaying. The leaves bustle occasionally, but it’s far from the usual dance they perform. He can hear all too clearly conversations, chatter from those subjecting themselves to the summer heat. Perhaps Alexander is more a winter person, ever since he had moved to America he had been, after all, he saw snow, something he thought only existed in movies, and immediately fell in love with the season. Being able to choose if he was to be pleasantly warm, or surprisingly cold during winter was an experience. To have the option of curling up like a cat by the fire, or lying in snow, making snowmen and such. And Christmas dinners- Alexander could go on and on for hours about the wonders of the coldest time of year, alas Hercules would disagree, argue Summer was so much better. But Hercules is Irish, he has enough of the cold to last him a lifetime. Now Hamilton would bet the man wishes he had just held his tongue, because he must be suffering in the heat too. 

Fuck heatwaves, and fuck New York.

He thinks to himself as he throws a cushion across the room in frustration. It hits his air conditioning unit, and before he knows it the apartment is plunged into a volcano. The unit malfunctions, turns off and doesn’t turn back on, even when Alexander shoots up from his languid position and desperately tries to fix it. He beats his fist off the top with pent up frustration, sincerely hoping that magically it would be fixed. Alas, it was not, it gave one last spluttering attempt to turn on before dying with a not so graceful clank. What sin has he committed to be tortured in such a way? It feels as though Satan himself is clawing his way up from the circles of Hell, and has declared Alexander’s apartment his spawn point, where the Heaven vs Hell war will begin. Whatever war is about to commence, Alex is on Satan’s team, as God must have something against him to send this wave of heat his way.

“Fuck!” He yelled, kicking the machine and cursing even louder at the shock of pain coursing through his toes. He clutches his foot, hopping around his apartment like some hurt rabbit and hisses through clenched teeth. He finally jumps his way ungracefully back to his couch, collapsing onto it in one foul swoop. His legs involuntarily give out under him, and he’s almost thankful for it as he half considers stripping out of his shirt, aching for some kind of relief. He starts tugging on the hem of his shirt, mulling over the idea before pushing his own hands away in disgust. A respectable man always remains fully dressed for any occasion. What if a visitor were to come by? He would likely demand their exit from his home, but he would at least like to do so in style.

The rooms are quick to grow stuffy, uncomfortable and as though the walls are too close and getting closer. Suddenly removing any clothing is a thought long forgotten, quickly replaced by the innate desperation to escape the closed doors of his apartment. He scrambles for purchase on the arm of his couch before forcing his muscles to revive and motor him towards the exit. He passes by his kitchen, opens the fridge for a moment just to feel the coolness on his body. He closes the door before all his food defrosts, albeit reluctantly. He would stand there all day if he could. Leaving the kitchen, he examines how his kettle has evaporated of all remaining water inside. There goes Plan B of making iced coffee, or worse, iced tea. Who could subject themselves to the bath water like clutches of cold tea? Disgusting.

He doesn’t stop to grab sunscreen, doesn’t consider sunburn a thing as he grabs his keys and shoves them in the pocket of his ratty cargo shorts. He pushes his feet into sandals, Birkenstocks, brown ones. He half contemplated putting socks on with his sandals, and automatically laughs at how much that would irritate Jefferson if he just so happened to run into him. The man is obsessed with his looks, conceited and vain in every way. Alexander wouldn’t be surprised if the man carries a pocket mirror on him, just to examine his appearance and remind himself of how goddamn gorgeous he is. Because he is gorgeous. Alexander is stubborn, not blind, and even he can admit the things he would give up for a fling with the man. His pride would never allow him to plead Jefferson for a one night stand however, and he knew Jefferson would never come to him, so that fantasy may as well remain just that. A fantasy. 

So he leaves the socks behind, but not because he cares what others think. Of course he doesn’t… simply because socks would just be extra layers. He doesn’t care if people think his hair is a mess, which it is, so he drags his hand through it. The hand comes back damp, and he grimaces, wiping it on the tan material of his shorts. And he certainly doesn’t care that one of the buckles on his sandals is about to break. He glares at it, willing it to sew itself back together. It does not. Hamilton sighs and folds, giving up on attempting to appear presentable. It’s not like anyone else outside looks much better, save for the few teenagers posing on the streets in incredibly short shorts with a Starbucks they probably waited an hour for. 

Alexander practically throws his door open and is met with a pleasurable breeze as it swings, which quickly dissipates into a blast of scorching air, as though opening an oven too quickly. You would think after being born in such a humid climate he would’ve grown used to the hot weather. Apparently, this was a false assumption. He fishes his keys back out of his shorts and locks the door, standing out in the lobby of his apartment complex. 

Now that he’s escaped the confinement of his home, Hamilton doesn’t know what to do. He could run down to Starbucks, take his mind off the heat with an ice cold Frappuccino. However, that would only distract him for a moment, perhaps an hour, until every drop of coffee has been drunk, and he’s left with an empty cup and a smoldering heat once more. And besides, if he's so desperate for an iced coffee then he could just make his own. That idea drains down the gutter, because he doesn't have any ice and there's no way water would freeze very fast in this temperament. He can briskly walk to work if he so pleases, despite being ordered to stay off, but that would require changing into a suit and now that he thinks about it… does his office even have air conditioning? 

A long, broken sigh escapes his lips and he drags a hand through his hair, which has grown ever so slightly damp with sweat. Maybe a walk to clear his head, and if he strolls in the right direction, the wind will hit him perfectly and he should cool down. 

He accepts this as the perfect idea and walks his way out onto the street, practically able to feel the burning tarmac through the soles of his sandals. He hopes there are no poor dogs or felines roaming the streets, or on daily walks on this day. The pavement would be far too much for their paws. Alexander feels which way the warm breeze is flowing and begins to trek directly into it, finding a sense of overwhelming relief at the sensation. (Even if it is relatively brief.)

Alexander’s feet carry him wherever they please, walking him down long streets, past empty stores. He stops to glance into a bustling Starbucks, hears through the glass a man screeching at a barista who is refusing to take his order because, “no shirt, no service.” He continues past, rather glad he had decided not to go inside, as it looks far too crowded, even for a small man such as himself.

His strides are short but swift, floating him along the streets with an air of confidence that he is known to possess. It is undeniably cooler outside, a welcome surprise as a gust of wind blows his hair from his face. He hears the simultaneous sighs of alleviation from the few on the streets, clearly walking around for the same reason as Hamilton. 

Time ticks by and Alexander allows his mind to wander, as it all too often does when he gives it the chance. His thoughts speed past a mile a minute, tempting his brain to consider them longer, grabbing them like falling petals before letting them drift to the ground and blow away once more. 

He passes through Time Square, finding it bustling, more so than he had imagined. However, it’s not ‘Christmas Crowded’, the eloquent name given to Time Square by Lafayette for when the area becomes full at the most amazing time of year. He makes his way past people, brushing shoulders and probably contracting some undiscovered disease off of some of them. It’s New York, he wouldn’t be surprised. He jumps out of his skin when some man behind him traces their fingers up his spine, but when he turns around the person is gone, laughing to their friends. He scowls, half considers shaking his fist and exclaiming about “kids these days!” But he doesn’t, he just shivers despite being roasted alive and continues on his way. 

He spaces out again, wondering about work and then he doesn't know what he starts thinking about. But in his head he can picture a man. A man with a jawline that could cut glass, eyes blacker than the depths of the sea, yet shining as though filled with fire. He can see springy curls, imagines himself running his fingers through the mystery man's hair and cooing as he mumbles his disagreements. He sees a dark complexion, sharp cheekbones, with soft edges. The colour purple is prominent in his clothing, and it takes a moment further for Alexander to identify the male in his mind.

He zones back in as soon as he realises he's thinking about Jefferson. Again. He's thinking about Jefferson in a good way, thinking about doing couple things, about dates. And he grimaces. He convinces himself it's just a fluke, only because he sees Jefferson every day at work. 

He starts checking the watch on his wrist, which is starting to heat up in the sunlight. It’s been almost an hour and forty five minutes since he began walking, and he checks the number on the street. It’s all okay. He can always catch a cab. He looks around and finds himself no longer in the bustling parts of New York, but instead part of a classy suburban area. Rows of white picket fencing and neat little gardens, full of wilting flowers meet his eyes. In the lawns of a few are men and women of all ages tending to the plants, feeding them with water to try and keep them going through the unbearable summer heat. 

All the homes are different colours, some a perfectly average, cream white, others slightly more lavish baby blues. There’s one where the exterior walls are a glowing lemon colour, and it fills Alexander with an unexplained wave of joy. Then again, the colour yellow always has. It feels warm, welcoming, like a friendship long awaited. Something that has awakened the craving in him that demands the enveloping arms of a smothering hug.

A child - probably around eight - runs down the street, being chased by who looks like his friend. The girl racing after him knocks him to the side and he goes down on a patch of grass, flat on his back while his friend stands over him with a look of pure pride. Her curls bob as she jumps up and down beside him with glee, and Alexander observes as the boy stands. They lean against the tree beside them for a moment, before he mutters something and this time the girl takes off sprinting, the boy following five seconds later. He chuckles at the purity of the situation and takes it upon himself to continue his walk. It’s warmer than ever, but he doesn’t care as much anymore. 

The kids race ahead, the girl much further ahead until she stops. Alexander observes from the sidelines as he walks, and the boy taps her on the shoulder. They stand there, childlike joy radiating from their area. 

Alexander breezes past them, halfway down the stretch of street. The houses grow larger than the previous as he continues to walk, yet still feel as homely. An amazing feat really. He can hear the soft patting of his Birkenstocks as they tap off the pavement each time his feet hit the floor. A car trundles past, down the street, at what must be 10 miles an hour, giving kids on the road time to move out the way. He doesn't catch a glimpse of the driver, but he has respect for them nonetheless. 

As he passes a large, pastel green house, a tall woman exits her garden. She’s old, that much is obvious, but she doesn’t live up to the ‘little old lady’ aesthetic. She’s tall, she’s not hunched and the only part that gives away her age is the wrinkles lining her face. She brushes a grey curl from her face, tying back her hair afterwards. She’s mumbling under her breath, something that sounds like, “it starts soon! The concert!” And for a moment he feels awfully bad for her, thinking she has Alzheimer’s or something similar.

She has a thick Southern accent, and reminds him of Jefferson in a way. Her curls are similar, perhaps not as bouncy or as soft looking (in fact the only similar thing is that they’re curls,) but it has the same obvious care put into maintaining their pristine appearance. Her skin tone isn’t at all similar to his however, she’s pale while Jefferson’s complexion is almost tawny in a way. He can’t see her eyes from where he stands, but if they’re anything like Jefferson’s, then they must be dark, and perhaps they sparkle like his does when he gets passionate about what he’s speaking of… And when did he start thinking about Jefferson so much? Why does he know Jefferson’s eyes glimmer in certain lighting, or burn with a fire when they argue? Why is he paying so much attention to the man's pupils, and how they fail to hide the emotions his stone-cold face manages to maintain? When did he begin to study his rival so closely that he noticed all these oddities? Little details; like the way his lips twitch into a soft smile when talking to Madison, or recalling fondly his time in Monticello. Or now his eyebrows quirk upwards whenever Alexander opens his mouth to speak during meetings, conveying his irritation, yet innate fascination with the words flooding the room. How does he know that Jefferson’s curls would be soft to touch, without ever being close enough to feel them between his fingertips. Why does he feel that the man could go pliant with a scratch to the right place of his scalp? Where did all this knowledge come from? The depths of his bustling mind-palace? Or is it some fountain of information that Alexander and few others have access to? Is there some key to access the quirks about Jefferson, a key that he has? Or does he simply have the mould, a fragmented ideology of a key? Has Jefferson personally handed him this key, trusted him with it? Or has Hamilton snatched it from his clutches like a criminal from an off-guard prison warden? To think of it, why does Jefferson - the ever flowing river of confidence - stash his emotions away, hiding them like a gold hoarding dragon in a cave. He sits on them as though a mother bird would protect her eggs. He keeps them unseen to the passing onlooker. Is he scared? The idea is ridiculous. Thomas Jefferson? Scared? Hell would freeze over before the moment Jefferson is frightened. Or is anxious a better word? Why does he covet to know what it’s like to wake up secured in those arms? (God those arms.) Why does his head claw for the intelligence to feel Jefferson? (Whether that be a warm hug or a simple swing of their hands, linked together?) Why is Alexander asking himself all these questions? Why is his brain grasping and reaching for the answers, as though the forbidden apple that he craves a bite of.

Why does he care?

It’s a recurring thought, one that his mind cannot seem to formulate a complete answer to. Perhaps because it’s the nice thing to do? But no, fantasizing about someone’s eyes like some schoolgirl is not a “nice thing to do.” It’s a crush, is what it is. Wanting to know more about Jefferson, seeking the answers to his many personal questions is not simply because it’s a nice thing to do. It’s because he needs the answers. His mind demands he become closer with the man, the vain, uncaring man. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Out of all the people his heart could sing a yearning song for, it chose Thomas fucking Jefferson.

Why has his attention been undeniably captured, held hostage, by the Southern fuck?

This one, he can justify. It’s a simple answer really, one that is half the solution to his hundreds of other questions, the ones that buzz in his ears like insistent flies. And it’s two words, one word if you so wish to keep it incredibly succinct. 

His wit.

His brain, his intelligence only matched and rivalled by Hamilton’s own. The way his fingers tap out word after word on keyboards, or scratch out essays upon essays onto paper with pens, pencils, whatever he can get his hands on. His intense expanse of knowledge that spans from American finance, to Shakespearean literature. His ability to argue and debate and speak for hours and hours with Alexander without losing his pace. The way his mind formulates sentence after sentence where he debates and there’s a fiery, yet somehow icy cold, passion in his tone. The fact that Hamilton finally has an equal. Where it’s unlike arguing against Burr, a stone wall of indifference. Jefferson is a stone wall that Alexander knows exactly how to make crumble. And he does. Over and over, yet Jefferson keeps rebuilding, stronger than before. He makes Alexander fight for his right to get his ideas across and as much as if pisses him off… he can’t deny that he loves it. He adores having to work his way up, enjoys knocking away obstacles that continue to respawn. What’s life without a little competition after all? Alexander enjoys hiking, and Jefferson is the ultimate mountain to climb. 

But he wants more. He needs to know more about this mysterious man. He wants to know what it’s like to share sweet moments with him, wishes to be granted passage to his heart. He wants the key to be given to him, not stolen away. He wants Jefferson to trust him. He wants to know his talents, his skills, his hopes, his dreams. He wants to know about his past, his present and his future. Wants to know his real personality, the one he has secured in a vault. Because Alexander is stubborn, this much as already been said, but he’s not stupid. He can see the twitch in his fingers, the brief panic that flashes through the man's dark eyes whenever he has to present in Congress. He can hear the way he stumbles and stammers his way through speeches, as though he’s ready off a particularly shitty script. It’s only when they debate, when they argue with that familiar intensity, that the inferno is let loose.  And Alexander is happy to be consumed in its flames. 

The thoughts are almost enough to frighten him. The way they consume his constantly changing mind until he can think of nothing else. The burning heat in the air has been forgotten, replaced with a searing, white-hot pain through his chest. A heart attack maybe? More likely a soul attack. Hamilton uses his clairvoyance, he isn’t stupid. He knows this crush has been around since the day they had met. Since the first inklings of their argumentative ways. The kindling that sparked a fiery rivalry. One sure to last a lifetime. Well, maybe on Jefferson’s end. Alexander has felt this way, this white hot pain for a while, but now his body registers it and it hits all at once. Like a slap to the face, a punch to the stomach and a kick in the balls. It’s never hurt this much. Not with Aaron, not with John, not even with Eliza. The three most important relationships of his life had never been this intense, and he and Jefferson aren’t even together. Perhaps that’s what caused the pain to harm him so much. The craving of a thing he can’t have.

He gets the same feeling, the same way he felt around his other relationships. With Aaron, it was calm, predictable. It was boring. He needed more, he needed a spark, something he could bounce off of and then melt together. Aaron was grey. Monotone, and straight lined. He was a man who needed something still. He required security and promises to stay the way they were. But Alexander was a storm, unpredictable and wild and fully intent on ravaging the waters, while what Burr really needed was a lighthouse. Someone who was a beacon of light to shine him to the right place. Hamilton could never provide that.

John had been close. He had been orange. Intense, swirling like a fire, like a burning heat. But not enough. He was too quick to back down, to agree and leave arguments unsettled. He didn’t put up enough of a fight, backed down from debates and left Alexander with many more points to push across. They had the same opinions, there was no need for a friendly debate. It just wasn’t enough for him. There was passion, but not in the way Alexander’s heart craved. John needed something grounding, someone to match his intensity with a cute yellow or a fellow orange. And he found that, he found that in Peggy and Alexander was happy to watch him go. He wanted his orange to be happy.

The third person had been blue. Eliza was the sea and the sky. She was beautiful and calm and swaying. She was helpful and loving, quick to input her opinion only to retract it later on. Alexander had thought she was perfect. She was, Eliza was perfect. But Alexander was not. Blue didn’t mix right with whatever colour Alexander was. Blue turned dark and foreboding, into something he didn’t want to experience. Their fire had been wrong, and if Eliza was the ocean, then Hamilton was the smoke on the water clouding her. She needed a similar colour, a green like the Earth whom she could surround and heal. Or another blue to swim with. It appeared Alexander was neither of those.

But Jefferson. Jefferson was different. He was intense and angry and punched out. He was red. A dark crimson that demanded attention at all times. A matching light to Alex’s own. They bounced off each other, before they crashed together in a mess of colours, an abstract painting of similarities. Jefferson was passionate, he had an intensity that matched Alexander’s previously unrivalled one, and he loved it. He loved red. Red was the colour he needed, the colour that felt best in his heart of hearts. And that’s when he knew that he was red too, that he was a candy red. He was bright and flashing and Jefferson was dark and mysterious and together they were perfect. Together they formed a shade of undiscovered colour. 

That’s what Alexander needed. He needed his red. Everyone else had theirs! It was his turn! It was finally his shot to find love, and he had no intentions of throwing it away.

In his time thinking, he’s almost completely forgotten the putrid heat, and the fact that the woman from before is walking down the street just a foot or two away from him. She’s brisk, in a hurry clearly, occasionally checking the time on her surprisingly high class smart-phone. In fact, another person joins him on his venture down the street, the little girl from before, but without her friend. And if he thought the woman reminded him of Jefferson, then this girl is the spitting image of him. Same hair, but longer and tied into puffy pigtails, the same wide and toothy smile as she taps Alexander on the side.

“Hey there, Mr!” She waves, and the first thing he can think is Stranger Danger. Did this girl's parents never teach her the importance of not talking to random people on the streets? “I’ve never seen you round here before, are you lost?” He supposes that he sort of is. He doesn’t know his way home, but somehow he’s not concerned. He can call a cab, or an Uber or Lyft. There are plenty of ways for him to arrive back home. But the fact that she asks him this is evident that this is one of those neighbourhoods. One where “everyone knows everyone.” Which is sweet, but annoying, because now he stands out. He wants to blend in with the crowd for once, but as he looks around, that’s been impossible for a while. He notices everyone out in their gardens or on the streets are white, which is expected at this point. It’s a flaw in the American housing system, one that he should bring up in Congress. Perhaps he could get Jefferson to support him for once, team up even. That’s the dream. 

He hasn’t said much for a few seconds, and the kid looks up at him with large, expectant eyes. “Oh, I’m not lost, no. Just going for a walk,” he nods gently and she seems to understand. He thinks she’s just going to run off after receiving an answer, but she seems insistent to interrogate Alexander a little more. 

She hums to herself, “what’s your name?” She asks ever so superficially, like an employer ready to write someone up for bad behaviour or poor customer service. Alexander knows those write ups all too well, it’s the reason he’s been forced off work today, something he was happy to let happen as soon as the heatwave hit. Work doesn’t have good air conditioning, if it has air conditioning at all. 

“Alexander,” he answers with a flick of his head, casting his glance to the sky. They’re still walking, nearing the end of the street. The old lady has stopped, and the little girl has too, which subsequently has Hamilton stopping. He looks down at her, chin tilted down as she glares up. She seems livid at his name, and he wonders what he’s done wrong until he realises she’s staring directly into the sun as she tries to suss him out. Her gaze is warm and welcoming however, childlike and pure and it’s a nice break from the cool stares he’s used to.

She nods happily, “my name's Patsy, I’m eight,” she grins and turns on her heel, casting one final look over her shoulder. “I’m going to play, if my Pops leaves the house tell him that’s what I’m doing!” She runs off, leaving Alexander wondering who her father is. The old lady is leaning on the fence of the house in front of him, glancing up to an open window. She looks like an NPC in a video game, purposefully placed in a specific spot just for unimportant exposition. Alexander is an expert in certain video games, and if her position isn’t just begging for him to go interact with her. She seems as though she may have some enchanted knowledge to pass down onto him, maybe even a cherry pie recipe if he’s lucky.

He walks over to her side, resting his forearms on the flat tops of the white fence. The house in front of him is painted a soft violet, it’s pretty. There’s neat rows of tulips and petunias in the lawn, which is freshly trimmed so it seems. There are bushes in the middle of the grass, cut into a point. Everything is seamless, blending together. It’s homely and calm, and Alexander smiles. The woman is smiling too. He glances at other things in the garden. Tucked away into the left corner by the porch is a barbecue, and not too far from that a wooden bench. There are thin cushions resting on it, but no one sits there. The lights in the house are off, the windows open along with the curtains. But when he looks in, he sees no one. Then again, he can only see directly into the window and up, so anything at the other end of the room is out of sight. Perhaps he should’ve worn his glasses today, unable to see very far in front of his face. In the driveway is a family car, a blue Chevrolet still spongy with a few soap studs. Newly washed, he notes. 

“It starts soon,” the elder comments, gesturing vaguely to the home before them. So she’s not an NPC. Alexander can’t put his finger on if that’s annoying or perfect, because he doesn’t have to start the conversation.

Yet his interest has been piqued, he was always a curious soul. It gets him into fits of trouble occasionally, but for now it seems as though the only thing he can get out of it is an intriguing talk. “What’s starting?” He asks quietly, tone low. His lips are dry, and he smacks them together to coat them with saliva to hopefully stop them cracking.

“The concert,” she answers, as though it’s the most typical thing in the world. Alexander is about to open his mouth to argue against that fact, to insinuate that a concert happening in someone’s home is ridiculous - (Even if all the Disney Channel movies taught him otherwise.) - but the woman is talking again. “Tommy always plays at three in the afternoon on a Sunday.” She seems transfixed, and every time Alexander tries to speak she hushes him. She holds up her hand to silence him, and it gives him the same feeling George Washington gives him, authority radiates from her and Alex finds himself actually shutting up. It’s two fifty-nine now, and he’s waiting for the music to start from this mysterious “Tommy.” 

He’s impatient, and authority only hushes him for so long. He fidgets, picks paint off the fence and then speaks. “When does it start?” He hisses, bored. Come on, it’s three! Almost at least. 

“I told you, he plays at three.”

“It is three!” Alexander whines pathetically, crossing his arms over. He’s stood still in wait for long enough, and if music doesn’t start in the next thirty seconds he’s going to walk away and never look back. He’s all set to move when the lady grabs him by the shoulder.

She hisses, “it’s starting!” 

And indeed it is. Through the open windows, pouring out the house are the sweet chords of an expert violinist. It’s a harmony, seems sad, longing almost. The melody starts slow, and carefully picks up pace as it goes. He can only imagine who the player is, male or female it doesn’t matter. His mind whirs with ideas, forming the musician in his mind.

Their hands would grip the bow with precision, glide across the strings with a focussed expression. He can see their- no, his, eyes turned down to the instrument, pupils darkening as they get lost in the notes. The violin is balanced on his shoulder, tucked under his chin and his hair falls into his view but he keeps playing. The straight, actually, it’s curly. The ringlets of curls are brushed away quickly, in one movement as he continues to play. 

Alexander spaces out, losing himself to the music. It appears the lady beside him does the same, but he can’t be sure. He tries to put a colour on the tone of it, tries to decipher the meaning behind the song. The violin fades into an instrumental where it’s clear the player should be singing, but they don’t. He tries to picture a face, going as far as to close his eyes and block out everything but his own imagination and the melody flowing to him. It’s like a siren call, coaxing him towards sudden death. And Alexander is all too happy to submit to the urges. 

He finds a face, dark eyes, curls, complexion. Once again he’s picturing Jefferson. Over and over the man comes to mind. He tries to push him away, attempts to imagine someone else standing in the home and playing just for him. But it’s futile. And the song does feel like it’s for him. It feels like it matches the music his heart sings, the yearning harmony that lathers his soul is rivalled by this player. By Jefferson. It’s not like he’s ever going to meet the violinist, so he’s free to picture whoever he pleases. 

He’s sweating, it’s the heat, it must be. His palms that are clenched into fists by his sides are coated in a thin sheen of sweat, his forehead growing damp again. He makes no effort to wipe it away, he lets the heat sweep over him. He allows the flames to engulf him, the chords of the song floating to him still. 

But as soon as it’s begun, it ends. The violin fades out, leaving the music buzzing pleasantly in his veins. The lady smiles, nods and starts to walk off, back to her house. The concert comes to a close, curtains shut and shun all backstage visitors away. But when has Alexander ever abided by the rules? 

His feet march him into the garden, down the lawn and up to the porch. He steps up the stairs, both of them at once. He’s having trouble summoning courage, something that’s rare for him. Typically he isn’t walking up to a strangers home just to congratulate them on their musical talent… that he probably isn’t even supposed to hear. 

It takes Alexander a long minute of just standing there before he swallows his pride and taps his knuckles off the door. There are footsteps, coming closer and as they do he rids himself of the urge to run away. 

He’s almost expecting Jefferson, he’s built him up in his mind and placed him on a pedestal. Or maybe it’s better to say that he’s trying to force the man into a treasure box, as he does with all the things he loves. His mother’s memory goes in there, his pens and his laptop and the pendant necklace from his mother. He’s trying to push Jefferson into the box too, to keep him by his side but he won’t stay. Perhaps it’s impossible to keep a person preserved in a treasure chest, or maybe it’s just Jefferson. He needs room, he needs space to evolve and change and grow and Alexander’s treasure chest can’t provide that. Alexander can though. He just has to let Jefferson stay out of the box. 

Like he said, he’s almost expecting Jefferson to be at the door. But he still gets shocked when it actually is. It actually is Thomas fucking Jefferson standing in the doorway and Jesus he’s wearing shorts and a t-shirt so tight it should be illegal. It’s difficult enough for Alexander to handle when he can practically see Jefferson’s chest through his sheen white dress shirt at work, but this is too much. This man is an Adonis. He’s the sun, Alexander is an icarus and he feels as though he simply has to fly closer. 

“Hamilton!”

Shit, has he been speaking this whole time? Alexander flicks his gaze to Jefferson’s face, and fuck him he’s wearing glasses. Chunky black hipster frames that balance on the bridge of his nose. Christ, he’s in deep isn’t he? 

Jefferson waves his hand in front of Alexander’s face, grabbing his attention. “Hu-uh?” Alexander stumbles out his words pathetically, lighting up red soon after. He goes the same crimson as Jefferson’s shirt, the colour he identifies the man with. He looks like he’s about to slap Alexander across the face if he doesn’t start properly talking soon.

“Are you even listening to me?” Jefferson hisses, venom laced in his tone. He’s like a snake, coiled up into a spring, ready to attack and bite at the next to approach. In his hands (lord, those hands!) he holds a clear water bottle, knuckles white with the ferocious way he grips it. He brings it up to his lips and takes a careful sip, eyes trained like a sniper on Alexander.

Hamilton collects himself, gathering his thoughts, which shouldn’t be as difficult to do as it is. He coughs into his fist, realising how dry his throat is. The aspect of water is welcoming, and he wants to reach out just to snatch the plastic (reusable, how environmental) bottle off of Jefferson to guzzle down the remaining liquid. Alas, he does not. Because that would be weird. 

He still hasn’t answered, thus Jefferson continues with a hiss. “What are you doing here?!” He’s not angry, Alexander knows this. He has seen the man angry. 

One time, he had seen the man in his furious element. The cabinet meeting had just ended, and Jefferson had stormed out after Washington had taken Alexander’s side once again. It wasn’t Hamilton’s fault he was better! Jefferson had stalked towards his office, and Hamilton had followed after him, the cheap fake leather of his shoes squeaking on the polished linoleum. Alexander had continued his argument, much to the dismay of the taller man. Jefferson had tried his very best to slam the door on Hamilton’s face, using all his force (which was a lot) to close it behind him, but Alex managed to stick his foot in the gap and wretch it open, still blabbering away. Jefferson had collapsed into his office chair, held his head in his hands and muttered to himself as Alexander got closer. His voice had stayed a constant, boisterous and accompanied with gesticulating gestures until he lost his cool and whipped Jefferson’s seat around himself. 

“Answer me already! You spit and stumble your way through speeches, I bring out the real you! I bring out the fires! Show me him and argue back!” The animosity had been high in Alexander’s tone, he liked the unabashed Jefferson who fought with him. The man who poured wisdom from his tongue like his mother language. Why he held it back when talking to anyone else baffled him beyond belief. But this meeting he had barely spoken, just shared his points with a quiet voice and sat back down, not bothering to debate Alexander. He was furious, made sure to target Jefferson in some of his words just to try and get a rise, a reaction, anything! But it had not worked, so he resorted to his last lifeline, and followed the man to his office. 

Jefferson snapped his gaze up, and there it was, the fire he so dearly wanted. The red-hot passion that licked at his pupils, threatened to burn Alexander. “You bring out the real me?! No, Hamilton,” he had spat his name like it was some dirt on the bottom of his polished shoes, “you bring out the worst in me! You bring out the angry, tired part of me that doesn’t want to deal with your bullshit!” 

“My bullshit?” Alexander had smirked as though he had won, and in his sense he had. For a moment at least. Because he had gotten a reaction, the thing he craved as much as air. He had gotten his red to reply and that’s all he really needed. He was happy from here on out. But, he could always push it further. So he had. “Care to explain to me what my bullshit is? Is it my financial plan? Is that what it is, Jefferson?” He had remained sickeningly-sweet, words sugary like honey, dripping in the same way. 

Jefferson had laughed, hysterical really. A break from his usual smug laughter. A break Alexander didn’t enjoy very much. He was never one to like breaks, preferred to continue in a way he always had. And he and Jefferson had a dance, a specific way they did things that they had yet to break. A routine that Jefferson was so arbitrarily destroying just with a fit of chuckles. “Your financial plan is a piece of insulting garbage, but that is not what I mean-“ he had scoffed, and rose from his seat, towering over Alexander with a menacing glint. “-You are a parasite to me, you trail around like some sad puppy, desperate for attention! But why me? I stammer through speeches, but alas it’s better than talking a million miles a minute where no one can understand you! You bring out the fire, the hellfire! You make me want to snap you into pieces and scatter you on my lawn like fertiliser. Do us all a favour and get out!”

A little shocked by the imaginative insult, Alexander resisted. “No.”

“No?”

“No.”

Jefferson had him by the collar next, shoving him up against a wall, face so close he could feel the hot breath of his rival on his face. “You talk a big game, Hamilton, yet you forget to follow through. The fire you bring out in me is the worst part about myself and I’d prefer to hide it away,” he had growled, low and rumbling in his chest, “you’re not good enough to lick the dirt off my shoes. You must think you’re so special, yet all you do is hump the President’s leg until you get what you desire. God knows why he takes your side on every political matter.” He had dropped Alexander after that, left him scrambling to his feet. “Get out of my office.”

Scared, but stubborn, Alexander had supplied a retort. “Or what, old man? Gonna make me?” 

Jefferson had grit his teeth together, grinding them so hard Hamilton was surprised they hadn’t faded away. “Or else.”

“All bark and no bite.” Alexander scoffed in return, making his way slowly to the door. He cast a look over his shoulder in time to see Jefferson physically slump back into his chair, looking tense and stressed and he couldn’t help but feel bad. He had felt Jefferson’s eyes on his back the whole time he had left, felt them searing holes through his jacket and burning into his skin. Not that he was complaining though. 

And once again, Alexander peers up at him with wide eyes. “Oh, well um-“ he directs his gaze over Jefferson’s shoulder, “it’s kind of a long story.” He’s hinting quite obviously at his pleas to come inside, and Jefferson must catch on because a hint of realisation casts over his dark eyes, the eyes Alexander spends so much of his time thinking about. 

“I have time,” came Jefferson’s grimy reply. One long finger came up to push his glasses up by the rim, unlike anyone else who would push them up by the bridge. Alexander inadvertently stashed this information away in his treasure chest. He taps his foot in a way that almost feels surreptitious. Or perhaps that’s the incorrect word. Jefferson keeps looking over Alexander’s head, then glancing behind him, eyes darting in all directions. 

Alexander has the sun beating down on his back, and he can see Jefferson squinting in the light. It’s hot again, too hot in all the wrong ways, and Alexander only feels hotter with Jefferson’s eyes on him. “Well- uh- it started because my AC unit broke and-“

“Hamilton, I didn’t ask for a life story,” Jefferson fiddles with the hem of his t-shirt, looking almost nervous. Which was ludicrous! Jefferson? Nervous? That… made a lot of sense actually. His stammering through meetings, his constantly tensed shoulders, the time he had overheard Madison and Adams talking about him a few years back, saying “He was born stressed out about something.” It makes the shuffling around start to add up, how he loses his cool around Alexander and loosens up because he stops thinking. He stops worrying and starts concentrating solely on deconstructing Hamilton’s argument. He feels a little rush of pride at that, that he can get Jefferson to let go. Yet at the same time, it feels like it’s perverse knowledge he isn’t supposed to have access too, which brings him right back around to the key metaphor. A metaphor he’s using so often it’s beginning to lose meaning, and he’s beginning to imagine an actual key, which confuses his head even more than it already is. 

He’s broken from his thoughts by Jefferson speaking once more, “would you like to come inside?” He asks quietly, shifting foot to foot. Alexander steals his gaze downwards, unable to look Jefferson in the face as he processes that question. His rival (whom he’s established as the man he wants to date, and god it feels so much more real when he thinks of it like that), has just invited him into his home. His home that Alexander always imagined to be bigger, more spectacular and less… welcoming. “You could inform me of why you’re standing on my doorstep in broken sandals over a glass of Chardonnay?”

“How am I supposed to say no to that?” Alexander responds almost mockingly, stepping into the home as Jefferson moves aside. He shuffles and a hand goes up to card through his curls, and Alexander wonders if they’re as soft as they appear. He resists the urge to stride over and find out for himself as he steps inside. “I would take my shoes off, but I feel as though barefoot is even more disrespectful.” He hums absent-mindedly.

Jefferson seems to tune back in at that as he flicks his gaze to follow Alexander. “And since when have you cared about being respectful towards me?” His words are sharp, upset almost. It’s strange, but Alexander kind of likes the vulnerability, it feels special. As though Jefferson is trusting him with the real real him. “Just leave your shoes on,” he adds carefully onto the end with a flippant wave and a frown. 

Alexander does just that, but wipes his feet on the welcoming mat Jefferson has placed in his hallway. “What’s your liquor of choice?” Jefferson asks, sauntering off towards his kitchen, voice growing quieter as he walks off. Alexander finds his eyes following his back, watching the way his red shirt clings to the muscles of his back, and he swallows slowly, with intent. 

“I believe I was promised Chardonnay, Mr Jefferson!” Alexander calls after him, taking it upon himself to look around the hallway. It’s cooler inside, thank god, but it’s not chilly. Jefferson knows how to set his AC without breaking it, Hamilton could never relate. The walls are painted a warm brown, framed family photos lining the hall. There is one, where Alexander counts twelve people in the image. The camera quality isn’t great, but all the people in the photo are similar in appearance, the only two who stand out are the ones who look like parents, as their hair is turning grey and there are wrinkles along their foreheads. He spots Jefferson - well, Thomas because he’s managed to figure out everyone in the photo is a Jefferson - rather quickly, he’s the second tallest in the picture, just after the one who looks like his father, but he looks younger, smiling wide at the camera and holding a baby boy on his hip. He looks much too young to have a son, so he must be Jefferson’s brother. 

There's another photo of him cradling a small child in his arms, a newborn, little girl based on the pink wool hat on her head. He looks older than the previous photo, so Alexander deciphers that this is his child. He looks around. There are no children about. He’s smiling wider than he’s ever seen before, down at the baby whose eyes are tightly shut. Alexander grins to himself and ghosts a finger over Jefferson’s face, or at least over the glass. There’s a corner of a woman’s face in the top left, she looks tired. Jefferson does too, bags under his eyes and smile creases by his lips. But he still looks… god, what word can he use?

The next photo makes his fond smile fall faster than a rock from the top of a cliff. A wedding photo, Jefferson in his mid-twenties, dressed in a suit (that hugs him in all the right places, damn) and kissing a short woman in a flowing white wedding dress. He looks so happy, beaming as his hands rest on her hips. A wave of jealousy crashes over him as he studies the image closer. It’s outdoors, must be in Virginia, and the two newlyweds are standing under an arch laced with pink roses and light pink tulips. He frowns, there goes his chance. But it won’t hit him yet, it only will at around midnight, when he’s emailing Washington where he will pause and scream for a minute as it sets in.

He’s so focused on the wedding pictures that he doesn’t even notice Jefferson coming up behind him. “That’s Martha,” the low voice by his ear makes Alexander jump out of his skin, clasping a hand over his mouth to stop himself from crying out. “Sorry, did I scare you?” He doesn’t wait for an answer and continues to talk, “I thought you would’ve been in the living room, but I suppose I never told you to make yourself at home.” Alexander turns around and chokes on a breath. Because fuck, Jefferson is right there, glasses slipping down his nose, cheeks dusted red and lips inches away from his own. He swallows again, takes a step backwards and hits the wall with his back. 

Jefferson hands him a champagne flute with a bubbling glass of white wine, and Alexander nods in return. "Thank you," he studies Jefferson carefully as he flicks his chin up quickly and takes a step away, giving Alexander room to finally breathe. He quickly glances back at the few photos on the wall, catching a glimpse from his peripheral vision as Jefferson sips from his glass. "Martha was…?" He waits for the other to finish his sentence impatiently. 

"My wife," Jefferson answers with ease, gulping back a small drink. "A million years ago at least." He chuckles. And Alexander doesn't quite understand. Typically, divorcees don't keep photos of their marriage hanging in the entrance way to their home. Apparently the confusion is evident in his expression, because his host keeps talking. "She passed away eight years ago, just after giving birth." 

Alexander bites down on his bottom lip, regretful. He was just thinking about how jealous he was, thinking about going home, calling Laurens or Lafayette and talking shit about Jefferson and his supposed wife. Well he certainly wouldn’t be doing that anymore. “Oh,” he says, rather ineloquently, “I’m sorry.”

Jefferson shrugs, takes another long drink from his glass, like the conversation pains him. It probably does, Alexander realises. “It’s alright, it was a long time ago,” he drawls, making sure to not finish his glass. It’s half full now, and Alexander sips the sparkling liquid. Jefferson clears his throat, looking much like he does during meetings. Uncomfortable, small almost. “Well, can I tempt you to sit in the parlour with me?” He raises an eyebrow, leads them through to a room with windows that are almost floor to ceiling, spar for the comfy looking window seat (covered in a knitted quilt and tartan pillows) that Alexander plops himself down on. The other man seats himself by a small round table, mahogany for the looks of it. 

Alexander wants to speak, as always. His tongue flicks in his mouth, forming words but Jefferson cuts him off. “So, Alexander, tell me, what brought you to my doorstep on this… boiling afternoon?” It doesn’t slip past him that Jefferson uses his first name. The way it rolls with his accent, drawling slow as always until Alexander is hanging onto every syllable. 

His brain catches up with the question after being so hung up on the way his given name sounds on Jefferson’s lips, and the fact that he would love to hear it in other contexts- God, he needs to stop. But the man is right there and- No. “I broke my air conditioning unit, and needed to get out.” He shrugs and takes a slurping drink of Chardonnay, perhaps if he irritates Jefferson enough, he’ll see the fire he wants.

“That doesn’t explain why you knocked on my door,” Jefferson flicks his wrist and places his glass down. Alexander can practically hear the cogs in his brain (that wonderful mind) whirring as he thinks. He can see the intelligent man putting the puzzles pieces together, in order to view the whole picture. He stops to admire his fellow Secretary’s brilliance far too often, and he always has. It’s a constant, a comma in his life where he pauses and admits to himself that Jefferson is smart. And sometimes he hates it. He hates that Jefferson is so so bright, but is full of only stupid things to say. Like he doesn’t learn both sides of the argument before presenting. Or perhaps that’s just how humans work, they’re always going to be biased. 

Alexander coughs into his fist again, seeing Jefferson grit his teeth that he had the audacity to slurp his expensive (probably French, pretentious bastard) wine. “I decided to go for a walk,” he began to explain, as confident as always. “And then I ended up here,” he chewed on the inside of his cheek, “because I heard you playing violin and wanted to come speak to whoever the player was. Didn’t know it was going to be you.” 

Jefferson appears uncomfortable. He finishes his glass in one large gulp and places his now empty glass on the table. He pushes his glasses up his nose by the rim once more, sighing softly. “You say that like it was bad playing.” He said quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. He glances at his empty glass, refilling it with only his eyes and exhaling as it refuses to fill. How disappointing.

“No, no!” Alexander waves his hands in a flurry, almost spilling his Chardonnay on the laminate flooring. Jefferson’s eyes catch the droplet that flies from the glass and lands on one of his quilted cushions. Hamilton is too busy explaining himself to realise. Why is he being so considerate of Jefferson’s feelings? (He has a crush on him, he knows this. He knows it’s because the man looks so much more vulnerable in his own home, in shorts and t-shirt and glasses. And oh fuck he’s staring again.) “I wanted to come tell the violinist how incredible their playing was!” He watches the man who is supposed to be his rival smile, genuine and pure, and his heart soars. Butterflies swarm in his stomach, flapping their wings at a hundred miles an hour. It’s like he can take flight, all because of Jefferson’s shy little grin, watching the way his lips twitch upwards. It’s so different from his other sly, wicked smirks, all teeth and hatred. Is it hatred really though? Alexander doesn’t have the time to ask himself all of these questions again, he’s never going to find an answer. 

"I've played ever since I was a child," Jefferson replies, tapping his fingers off his thighs. As Alexander has established, everything about this man seems to be carved by the gods out of stone and his legs are no exception. 

"Impressive." He isn't lying. Alexander finds it wildly impressive, violin is a difficult instrument to master. He believes Jefferson mutters something along the lines of 'thank you', but he isn't particularly paying attention. He needs more to drink. He doesn't want to have to think anymore, so he doesn't. Instead, he downs his glass. 

“Want a refill?” Jefferson drawls, rising to his feet and taking both empty glasses. All Alexander can do is nod and watch as the man walks off, eyes concentrated on his back and definitely not other places because that would be crude. 

Alexander crosses his legs (sits criss-cross applesauce) on the windowsill seat, fluffing a pillow behind his back and cautiously leaning back to rest against the window panes. He’s almost scared of breaking them, or of the glass popping out. So instead he turns and tucks his knees in slightly, sitting along it sideways to lean on the wall that slightly juts out. He must appear comfortable, because when Jefferson comes back in he laughs carefully. “Made yourself at home I see?” He hands Alexander the glass of Chardonnay, and he notes that in his other hand is the bottle. 

“Yeah, got a problem with that?” Alexander responds sarcastically. Jefferson plops himself down - surprisingly - beside Alexander, in the small space between his feet and the other wall. He hadn’t expected the sudden closeness, and all cognitive thought grinds to a stop when he realises he can smell Jefferson’s overpriced cologne. It’s probably perfume, when he thinks about it. Flowery and reeking of money. But Alexander thinks (after smelling it before, and now smelling it here) that he’ll kill Jefferson if he ever wears anything else. 

Jefferson sips from his glass. “Not at all.” Alexander wants to stretch his legs out, but felt as though he couldn’t do that. Jefferson was right there! What can he do? Put his feet on the man’s lap? … he could do that. He could actually do that. “Whatcha thinkin’ about, Hammy?” He purrs teasingly, raising a curious eyebrow and chuckling to himself. Alexander can’t help but notice the slight flush of his cheeks, the dusty pink across his skin. He eyes him suspiciously, before he finally realises that the man must be a lightweight. Now there’s something he didn’t expect.

“Hammy?” Alexander quirks an eyebrow, suspect. It’s amusing how Jefferson seems to relax that slight bit as he sips his Chardonnay. The slightly older man just nods in return, bringing his glass to his lips and taking another drink. Alexander does the same, swirling the wine in his champagne flute with a chuckle. “Just that I wanna stretch out.” He shrugs and continues to drink, observing as Jefferson’s face scrunches up unattractively. Somehow, Hamilton still finds it adorable. Who would’ve thought he would find Jefferson cute? How strange.

“Then just do it,” Jefferson suggests with a smile, shrugs his shoulders and sips his drink. Alexander is surprised, never would’ve thought Jefferson would allow him to kick his feet up. It feels intimate, like a cute-couple thing to do. He hesitantly stretches his legs out, untucking his knees and placing his feet up on Jefferson’s lap, who hums his approval. 

Alexander sips his Chardonnay, starting to speak. And Jefferson? Jefferson starts to listen. 

Half an hour, and the rest of the bottle of Chardonnay later, the two are on the right side of tipsy. They’re just drunk enough to feel comfortable enough to sit shoulder to shoulder, resting against each other without looking like they’re being forced into the close proximity. Except they are no longer shoulder to shoulder, in fact, they’re closer than that. Alexander has his head on Jefferson’s lap, his glass long forgotten on the table, along with Jefferson’s champagne flute too and the empty wine bottle. Alexander is continuously muttering about the current political climate, ranting quietly while Jefferson listens, occasionally inputting his opinion.

“Are you not gonna argue with me?” Alexander raises an eyebrow. He’s trying to irritate Jefferson, and pokes his cheek to try and agitate him more. But Jefferson doesn’t react, other than blushing an even darker crimson. The colour he is. He’s crimson, but now he’s dull and Alexander misses his booming red. 

Jefferson hums to himself, eyes fluttering shut. Alexander reaches up and pushes the other man’s glasses up his nose by the bridge. Jefferson flicks his eyes open suddenly and stares down at him, catching his wrist in his hand. Alexander feels paralysed, feeling his large palms around his own bony wrist and holding it in a loose grip. He doesn’t answer the question, “it’s so nice outside. Why are we still sitting here?”

“Why indeed?” There’s a ever so slight slur to his words, drawn out a little more than usual. Alexander kicks his feet to the ground, standing so casually it’s like he stays and hangs with Jefferson all the time and not never at all. He turns to face Jefferson, overlooking his features. He’s never had a chance to look at him so relaxed, and he notices how tense Jefferson typically is compared to now. At work, his shoulders are straight, hunched up to his ears and his posture is a horizontal line. Whereas now, he’s a little more slumped, tension gone from his body. It’s a breath of fresh air, one he never thought he would experience and accept so easily.

Jefferson rises to his feet, and typically he would be towering over Hamilton yet now, he doesn’t feel as dominating. Instead, he’s softer, edges aren’t as sharp or predatory. The mirthful glint in his pupils has faded, but the fire still licks at his eyes. It’s a welcoming heat, like the fireplace on a freezing day. And despite the current heatwave, Alexander finds himself wishing to curl up by the fire like a purring cat. “Come on, let’s go sit in my backyard.” 

Alexander expects to trail after him, certainly not for the man to offer his hand to Hamilton. But he takes it, ignoring the way his heart pounds in his chest and the way his head is screaming at him. “You’re holding his hand! You’re holding Thomas Jefferson’s hand! He offered it to you! You didn’t even have to ask!” His pulse races in his ears, as he leads the two of them into his back garden. It’s beautiful, a large monkey puzzle tree in the far right corner, casting a lovely shadow over a section of the yard. Jefferson guides Alexander over to the tree and sits down under it, gesturing next to him. “C’mon, Hammy, I don’t have all day.” Alexander feels his heart flutter again, starting to race at the ridiculous nickname. If anyone else used it, he would be quickly driven mad. It’s all because of this damn Secretary. 

Alexander takes a seat by him, leaning against the bark of the tree and exhaling. It’s warm, but at least vaguely cooler under the tree. Jefferson certainly seems to appreciate it, as the slightly intoxicated man removes his glasses and places them on the trimmed glass next to him, tips his head back until it hits the tree truck and breathes out happily. Alexander eyes the expanse of skin by his neck, and starts to feel like a particularly famished vampire, gazing at the muscles of someone’s neck of all places. But there’s a familiar itch in his fingertips, the urge to have his face tucked into the crook of his neck and just breathe. The thought would be scarier if it wasn’t for the alcohol in his blood. He feels confident, confident enough to lean against Jefferson and carefully hide his face in his shoulder. Not his neck, sure, but it’s close. 

Alexander can feel his counterparts breathing stutter and he gently nuzzles against him, appreciating the muscle under him. “Hamilton, are you alright?” He’s sobered up, the shock of Alexander curling around him like ivy clings to a house seemingly having knocked the wine out of his system. He allows Alexander to wind himself tighter around his body, like it's cold out and he’s the only viable source of heat. It’s not. It’s still absolutely sweltering, evident in the way sweat beads at Jefferson’s brow and Alexander longs to reach over and smooth out the developing stress lines. 

“Mhm…” Alexander hums his answer and buries his head into Jefferson’s neck, finally finally being close enough to him.  Yet… somehow he’s dying to be closer. “I’m great, perfect! Even,” he giggles, the alcohol definitely making him a fun drunk. He’s a lightweight, that’s for sure, but when it hits him, it hits all at once. He’s got a rush of flirtatious courage surging through his veins, hot in his blood. 

Jefferson moves his hand across and gently caresses Alexander’s pink cheeks, observing how he keens into it like a cat. That’s exactly what Alexander reminds him of, a cat. Hissing and violent in his worst moments, yet clingy and desperate for attention in his best. It’s a good thing Jefferson likes cats then. He drags an arm around Alexander’s shoulder, taking in his appearance. Small and (gross, his back is damp) hunched over, tucking into him and smiling, pink lips twitching into a happy grin. He’s so soft like this, vulnerable in a way Jefferson’s never seen him before. He’s intensity is being channeled into a new emotion, and Jefferson knows he’s still red. Still a fiery red, but it’s dragged in a different direction. It’s pulling him into love, and it makes his stomach do flips. Because if he has to be honest to himself, he’s had a crush on this ridiculous gremlin (excuse of a man) politician since the day of their first Cabinet meeting. Alexander could keep up with his thunderous talking pace, and he loves it. He loves it so much. “You’re sure?”

“Well,” Alexander decides it’s now or never, “I suppose there’s a way it could get…” he darts his tongue out and licks his lips, “even better.” He moves an inch away from Jefferson, eyes flickering between his eyes (no longer covered by lenses) and his lips, which look all too kissable. Jefferson doesn’t seem to catch on, just catches Alexander’s gaze with his own intense one. 

“How so?” He raises an eyebrow, arched brow almost judging him. 

“Kiss me,” Alexander breathes, tilting his chin upwards and leaning forward, hoping Jefferson will close the gap. And he does. God he does. He leans down and in, dipping his head and pressing his lips softly to Alexander’s own. They’re soft and insistent and gentle against his own chapped ones. And Alexander finds himself sober, before getting drunk on the feeling of Jefferson kissing him and ha! He’ll be able to rub this in Lafayette’s face later! Suck it, Frenchie! 

Alexander cards his hand into Jefferson’s curls, because he’s scared he’ll never get the chance to feel them again. They’re as soft as they look, springy between his fingers and wonderful to the touch. It’s such a wonderful kiss, their first kiss, and Alexander wants to keep on kissing him forever. Jefferson makes a quiet whimpering noise and Alexander forces himself to pull away before he melts and never does. “Jefferson,” he breathes across his lips.

“Thomas,” the other corrects delicately, a meer whisper before he’s tangling his hand in Alexander’s hair and tugging Alexander back to meet his lips. It’s feverish this time, desperate and needy. The roasting heat must be getting to them, because they’re rivals, are they not? Well, not anymore. Because he’s pretty sure enemies don’t kiss in summer heatwaves, under monkey puzzle trees in their rivals back garden. But they do now, because Alexander isn’t giving this up for the world. Not now. He has his red. 

“Thomas,” Alexander repeats Jeffer- Thomas’s words as they break away again. The name feels heavy on his tongue with the taste of its owner on his lips. Like it should be a sin, a sin to have enjoyed that so much. But he will gladly go to hell if it means getting to experience that intimacy again. The base of his ponytail has started to be tugged out, knotting where his fingers have tangled in the locks. He lays his head on the man’s shoulder, starting to slide half in and half out of his lap. It’s insane, the burning feeling in his chest as he locks this memory away in his treasure box, saving it for a rainy day, just in case this was a one time thing.

Thomas cradles Alexander’s chin in one hand, thumb hooking under his jaw and tilting his head up so that he can look into his eyes. Hamilton could get lost in those eyes, as he has many times. So many times during cabinet meetings he has stared at Jefferson, at those dark eyes and simply dove in, gleeful at the aspect of drowning in them. Only for the man to spout some ridiculous shit and drag Alexander out of the waters, slap him around and take him to his senses. “Yes, dear?”

That voice was going to be the death of him.

“I-“ He lost all forms of cognitive thought, the train must’ve derailed when Thomas pressed their lips together. Because fuck, he can even feel the violin chords buzzing in his veins again and it’s all so much and he loves it. Alexander flicks his gaze around Thomas's face, (he really has to get used to calling him that) kiss-swollen lips, the deep blush across his cheeks. He must look like an awestruck child from Thomas's perspective, because the man chuckles and takes his free hand through Alex's hair, taking it out of the pony tail in one movement. "Red." Alex mutters finally.

"Red?" Thomas repeats with a cocked eyebrow, hands Alexander his hair tie and brings both hands back to his lap. He really isn't sure what Hamilton means. What does red have to do with anything? If he had to put a colour to this moment, he would call it tickled pink. Intense and warm, but full to the brim of love and devotion. Pink.

Alexander nods, presses a finger to Thomas's chest, and another to his own. "Red," he nods, taking his fingers away, instead splaying his palm across Jefferson's chest absent-mindedly. "That's our colours. We're red."

Thomas never imagined he would be agreeing with Alexander so easily. With Martha, their relationship had been a soft pink. The fire was there, buried beneath the surface of dedication and loyalty. It was comfortable, it was perfect. He never needed anything else, because everything he needed was in Martha. But was he pink? Certainly not. She was his high-school sweetheart, the only real relationship he had ever had. He didn't count the many women (and men) in France, they never lasted longer than a night of sub-par activities and a morning of awkward goodbyes. 

"We are, aren't we?" Thomas hummed, eventually pulling himself from his thoughts before he sunk too far. Thinking was a dangerous activity, one he didn't take time to do in fear of never emerging again. 

"But," Alexander continues, and Jefferson's heart sinks. There's always a catch, isn't there? "We're the opposite reds. You're the darker red, most definitely. You're secrets and feelings are locked away, while I display mine like the lights on Broadway." 

Thomas gulps. Never before has he been called out so boldly, or in such a forward manner. Yet Alexander has hit the nail on the head, first try and won the prize so it seems. He softens a little further, slumping against the tree. A low hanging stick swats at his head, and he bats it away with one hand.

"You keep everything behind lock and key… no one else has the key, I don't think," Alexander draws little swirls and patterns with his fingertip on Thomas's chest, the art fading as fast as it appears. He feels the man quiver, trying to hold himself together, and he knows that stone wall he hides behind is breaking. 

He shakes his head in a curt motion. "Ja- Madison has a key," he corrects, inadvertently agreeing with Alexander, "Martha… Martha had a key." He finishes there, hands folding into each other, fingers fidgeting with discomfort. His face contorts as he screws it up, not allowing his mind to drift, forcing himself to stay in the moment. Stay in the tickled pink time. But how do you make pink from two reds?

"I'd like a key," Alexander adds, "if you'd be willing to lend me a spare." He glances up at Jefferson through his eyelashes, shall he offer something in return? The key to his treasure chest perhaps? The place he stores his most prized memories? 

Jefferson chews on his lip. "I think you already have one. Whether we realised it or not… you've always had one." The metaphor is starting to confuse him, muddling with his mind. So many keys, and so many possible doors they could unlock and it's all a bit much. What door should he go through first? None of them have labels, none of them have a clear cut future secured behind them. How does he choose? Maybe he should let Alexander choose for him, go along for the ride.

Alexander smiles. He drapes himself further across Jefferson, kicking one of his legs over both of the man's and leaning into his shoulder, tucking himself there. The hot air, accompanied by the events that just occurred have sobered him almost entirely, but it feels so much better to experience this without the alcohol tainting his memory. "Thank you."

"For what?" Thomas raises an eyebrow, because as far as he's certain, he should be thanking Hamilton. Or cursing him. Cursing him and whatever magical force drew them together. This may just make him believe in fate, in destiny. He wasn’t a Christian, not anymore anyway, but this had him thanking god. Thanking every god for bringing them together. This was good, he could sit under this monkey puzzle tree, feeling the way he is now for the rest of eternity. Not good, no, that didn’t do this justice. Amazing? Fabulous? Stupendous?

"It's a preemptive thank you, since you'll be paying for tonight's date. Say seven o'clock." Alexander smirks up at Thomas, watches as the man chuckles. That laugh, there's a sound he could get used to. And to know he caused it? Fills him with joy. The laugh is like yellow. He doesn't know why, it just is. Colours fit everything, his mother was a deep navy blue, his father a cold icy white. Lafayette is purple, a mix of strength and flowing like the sea, but passionate like red. Hercules is green like juniper, he’s a grounding presence, one that Alexander can rely on to stay strong for them all. Angelica is pink, full of passion, but for some reason she just doesn’t hit that red mark. Washington stands bold in yellow, along with Peggy, but much like Thomas and Alexander, opposite ends of the spectrum. He can’t say why these colours fit, where he got them from or why they are this way, but it just does. It all slots together, everyone in his life has an assigned colour. And he thinks they always will.

Thomas raises an eyebrow. "Alright, I'm sure the neighbour will be fine taking care of Patsy for a bit," he hums. It's nerve wracking, because Jefferson doesn't have a clue if Alexander is alright with kids or not. His brain is screaming at him that Alexander is going to see sense and run, hear the talk of kids and sprint. After all, they're both in their mid thirties, so it's normal for someone their age to have a child. What if Alexander doesn't like kids? God, was this a mistake?

“Patsy? The little girl playing out in the street?” Alexander asks, laying himself across Thomas. He feels comfortable, like himself already, and he feels like this could go places. Because reds match, and opposites attract. They’re just lucky they’re opposite reds. 

“Yeah, yeah, she’s playing with John,” Thomas sighs out his nose, grabbing his glasses and pushing them up his nose. He smiles at Alexander and giggles, actually giggles, a sound that makes Alexander’s heart fly like doves around his chest. “Dress comfy, I hope you like picnics.”

“Picnics?” Alexander raises an eyebrow. “I love picnics.” It’s true. Hell, if they picnic in the back of Thomas’s garden, criss-cross on a blanket under this tree, that could be one of the best dates of his life. 

“I’m glad, it’s my dream date,” Thomas admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, “look at us, getting to know each other already!” He chuckles again, noticing the flush it causes to Alex’s cheeks. Gorgeous. He cups his jaw, watches as the smaller man leans into the touch with a soft purr. 

“You know what’ll make it even better?”

“What, if I bring more Chardonnay?” 

“No!” Alexander bats at his arm playfully.

“Then what?” Thomas asks through laughs.

“If you kiss me again.”

And he does. God, he does.

-

Reblogs > Likes

please this is 13,045 words I spent to much time on this I'm begging yall, if you liked it please reblog it, I dont want this to go unnoticed.

Tag list: (just ask to be added!)

@a-nice-tea-time @skyluni @khiara1776 @beetlejuicebeetlejuicebeeeecause @slushy-sloosh-musical-person @i-can-get-extra-with-my-ships @iss-yaboi @patt0n-sanders @karixx-png @tryingtohealandgrow @justthehopeleft @pufflypuffle @swagdiplomatlightkid