#...or the foreground for that matter

[kalashnikovlobotomy]

cat business... im moe'd to tears by ruscat's white sock paws okay

[twotales]

SGA Background Character Register: S1

Have you ever thought: "I need another character, but I want them to be canon." Or "What department was that rando in?" Maybe even, "Didn't they die?"

I got you.

Notes: - This is just Expedition Members. - Only background characters with names. - Chuck is considered a bg character. (sigh) - Canonically female characters have been marked because there are less of them. - Alive: meaning we never saw them die or been informed of their death. - All of the scientists are Doctors. (My dyslexia freaked when they all said doctor before their names so I left it unlabeled.) -Episode lists show all episodes regardless of seasons.

Remember: It’s just me making these so there are bound to be mistakes, if you notice something be sure to let me know! Thanks.

[lcstwarricr]

Can we talk about how in SYNC these two were in the trailer. I would've added some of the others, but they were too blurred to show. But boy did they move as if they were each others shadows.

And hey look, Baymax is here too lmao.

[adhd-merlin]

sorry but I was rewatching some bits of The Hollow Queen and the transition from daegal's tragic death in merlin's arms to arthur sitting at the table and telling his wife "I still can't believe how lucky I was! :)" while merlin limps in the background is kind of funny

[gros-chat-fait]

May I ask who is on the right in almost the back row of the David picture? I think that row is Saddler and then David's parents, but I can't guess who the fourth person is.

Hi, that would be Erek King! The back row before the Yeerks are supposed to be the supporting characters featured in the trilogy, so yes, that was Saddler and David's parents and then Erek. I was waffling about how to make it obviously him, but it didn't work out visually so I sort of gave up, lol. Thank you for asking <3

[alicephonic]

he didn’t mean to be the main track just background audio but i turned the volume up anyway

[swampjawn]

Look Back VS AI Art

This is a real frame from Look Back (2024).

You might assume this made it into the final movie because of its director Kiyotaka Oshiyama (押山清高) doing HALF the key animation for the film and only fully finishing it A WEEK before it's festival debut.

And well, you might be partially right about that. But more importantly, this is the movie embodying its themes through its unconventional production process and the very lines on the screen!

In an age of digital tools, CGI, AI, and other combinations of letters ending in I, Look Back is an ode to art and the labor that goes into it, no matter how tedious or imperfect.

Every thought, every little decision, every stroke made by a person puts a little piece of that person onto the screen, and the imperfections that come from that process can be beautiful in the sense that they're evidence of the thoughts and process that went into creating an image. So in keeping with the plot of the movie itself, Oshiyama made a point of leaving those remnants - lines that are scratchy, overlapping, or half-erased, and normally would have been cleaned up in 2nd key animation (第二原画).

Ayumu Fujino has a tight grip on how she expresses herself, having this image to uphold as the perfect prodigy girl. She's afraid to let people see too much of her, lest that perfect image be shattered.

But at times the mask does slip, like this moment of sheer panic after she accidentally drops what is really an extremely rude manga strip under her rival's door by accident.

And it's these moments when that rough imperfection shines through the most! So this breakdown of polish in the art functions simultaneously as both a connection to the human labor that went into creating it, AND an impressionistic representation of Fujino's mental state within the world of the movie.

Not only are the edges of her backpack visible through her arm, her face even disappears completely, replaced by just the roughly sketched dividing lines that indicate the position of her eyes. At least personally, I never would have noticed this fully unfinished frame at full speed because the shot is just so well-executed! The framing is dramatic with Fujino surrounded by these mountains of sketchbooks in the foreground, and the motion is so believable, her posture - hunched over to the side to support the weight of the bag while maneuvering around the books, and the way her legs twirl around each other frantically, rotating this way and that.

But more importantly, this is a frame that an AI program would never draw, because it has no REASON to. There's no thought process, no decisions being made about how to express a feeling. Even if you did train an AI specifically to mimic these human imperfections, in Oshiyama's words, "It would just be a design. It would be a fake. The lines have meaning because they were drawn by humans. […] There's value in that." (MANTANWEB)

This is an adapted excerpt from this video! Go watch it or I'll dox you.

[peascribbles]

sylus x gn!reader, menstruating reader, domestic fluff, sfw

Operation: defend your ice cream stash from Sylus begins today.

You've had enough of finding a barren desert in the freezer, devoid of sweet treats. He always leaves the evidence of his crimes for you to uncover. Bowl and spoon in the sink, slick with the melting remnants. Discarded tub peeking out the trash bin. The occasional note with a devilish winky face on the countertop. Each a cruel twist of the knife.

Your grief is doubly felt when he deprives you of life's one joy during your period. No, it doesn't matter that he always restocks the freezer til it struggles to close right after. It's the principle of the robbery in the first place that incenses you.

Luke and Kieran sneak in a clandestine package under the cover of morning, while he's still asleep. Inside is a world class, custom built, state-of-the-art safe you've commissioned for this express purpose; constructed using antimatter coated steel to dissuade him from blasting it open with his Evol.

You have no doubts about his ability to break into things the normal way, so you've designed the safe to have multiple doors which protect its contents.

For appearances only, the outer door is a mundane dial lock. He'll crack it in maybe two seconds flat. What it should do is ping your phone and alert you to the imminent break in attempt. Behind it are a series of increasingly difficult cryptographic puzzles that must be solved within a minute to proceed.

The safe's final bulwark is a stroke of genius, if you say so yourself; a singing test with an inbuilt microphone where he must stay reasonably in pitch. An assuredly insurmountable trial for him, and therefore, an impenetrable defense for your precious desserts from his bottomless gluttony.

With the twins' help, you manoeuvre the safe into the freezer. You place your last tub of ice cream into it and perform the necessary double- and triple checks. Bolts are secured. Puzzles are set and ready to go. Microphone tested to ensure it's functional.

You leave for work daring to hope for the best.

—

Hours teetering on the edge of your seat. Paranoia mounting with the radio silence. You should be happy. It could be he's decided to leave your treat alone, but it can't be that easy. You're well aware of just how tenacious and greedy he can be.

Your phone pings during your lunch break.

Determined to catch Sylus red handed, you leap into action, pulling it out of your pocket. Your finger is a millimetre away from pressing the speed dial when you notice that the notification isn't from the safe's alarm system.

It's a message from him.

The food you just ate lurches in your stomach. That can't be good. You tap to view it, the stirrings of trepidation and resignation joining your barely-digested meal.

He's sent an image of the safe. The dial lock is busted open, all the cryptographic puzzles solved. Both outcomes within the realm of possibilities you considered. Your piece de resistance, the singing challenge, is still intact, so why..?

Ah. A perfect circle has been cut into the side of the safe. Its contents empty. You spot the tub in the foreground, also empty.

Cut off in the corner of the picture is a perplexing device you don't quite recognise. From what you can tell, it looks like a gun without a barrel or a trigger.

His accompanying voice message plays.

Nice try, sweetie. He sounds breathless, as if he's been laughing too hard. The mirth that brightens his voice is infectious, and though you want to be mad right now, a pleasant warmth and the beginnings of a smile tugs at your cheeks. I do wonder where you found a manufacturer willing to do antimatter coating for a... personal project such as this. Flipping through his business contacts while he was away, of course. That thing is a gold mine.

Ringing sharp through your speaker, two solid objects clink together. Teeth against a spoon. However, the microphone you installed must not be working. No matter how well I performed, it never let me in. A pleased noise from the back of his throat. This flavour's delicious, by the way.

How shameless of him to eat your ice cream while he recorded this—this declaration of victory, you realise. He's gloating. Feasting on his bounty. Oh, when you get home, you're going to—

Before you plan your revenge, let me propose a moratorium, his voice message continues, reading your mind. Why does he always do that? I've seen your sincere efforts to protect what's valuable to you. So, I won't touch your ice cream for a month. Use it to refine your defenses.

I'll give you a few hints to start: find better quality antimatter next time. And you did forget about the extensive tools in the workshop.

You finally recognise the object on the counter.

The freezer's already been refilled. See you at home, sweetie. The message ends with an indulgent chuckle.

His words don't register for a solid minute. You're reeling from this latest revelation. Just to steal your ice cream—

He used a fucking laser gun to cut a hole in the safe?

If a puny laser was able to penetrate the coating, then his Evol would have torn it like paper. Which means he went out of his way to go to the basement workshop, retrieve the laser gun, and cut a hole in it, because he could.

You're doing two things when you get home.

One, send a complaint to the manufacturer for a shoddy product.

And two, have some of that ice cream when he's not looking.

This operation has been a failure of unimaginable proportion, but no matter; you have a month to plot and plan. You'll come back stronger than ever.

[lewdlepoodle69]

Just two girls with their big… artillery cannons…

(cough)

Happy 5/12! (Or 12/5 where I am). Been sitting on this one for a little bit because I wanted to be prepared to post it in a timely manner. So here it is! Very happy to finally be participating in a communal art dump.

I really have a habit of picking the most horrible and torturous angles to draw, huh… This one feels rather strange because the step by step process though out seemed short, but rendering everything felt like a hyperbolic time chamber. Having to fix the perspective in the foreground at the very end made me REALLY angry too. And then the CSP file wouldn’t save cause the timelapse was too big so I had to copy all the assets into a new file and then pretend like nothing happened. I felt a bit crazier by the end of it all. Luckily nothing important was lost, just the metadata in the original file, but I have a spreadsheet to keep track of that.

As a minor announcement, I will ~kind of~ be taking a break (very loosely) from doing print work for a bit cause I feel like I’m holding myself back having that be my main thing at the moment. I want to convey bigger things and better stories more clearly and I don’t feel like I can do that enjoyably in a print medium right now. So, I’m pivoting to work on a relatively short but hopefully sweet comic. Whether I’ll post it when it’s ready, I don’t know. Whether it’ll even be ready is a different matter entirely. I just want a thing to fulfil myself artistically and emotionally for the time being, not made for my profile or anything like that. That being said, fervent inspiration will probably strike me with a politely obtuse blow to the head eventually, exactly when I don’t want it. Who knows how things will go.

[dduane]

…So once again it’s the time of year when I return to this piece of digital art in its most recent version, tweak it a little in the attempt to get closer to what I see in my head, and repost it for Pride. (ETA, 1 June 2025: this year's version of the image is rerendered to reflect the ongoing business of getting the varying skin colors of the Five properly nailed down.)

At the moment I’m looking at These Two Idiots (because honestly, in some ways they are...) and considering, once again with the usual bemusement, how long I’ve been working with them. Of all the characters I’ve worked with in print, the only ones I’ve known longer would be the crew of NCC-1701—and (as of autumn 2024) for the first time in paid writing, a couple of gentlemen named Holmes and Watson.

I first “met” the two characters above in late 1970 in the form of two fellow college students on whom they’d be loosely based: a couple of gents—not gay, as it happens—who were friends to me when I badly needed some. They were a tall dark-haired guy and a short blond one with a mustache that came and went… so that, not even knowing the word “trope” at the time, I'd fallen sideways into at least one.

Less than a year after I met them, I changed schools and educational tracks, and we all drifted apart. But something about those two stuck with me. The nature and depth of their friendship was unusual. So was one way it manifested itself: in ruthless snark that had no meanness or cruelty about it whatsoever—just (sometimes slightly rueful and eye-rolling) affection.

In the late sixties I’d pivoted from the Star Trek fanfic I'd been writing practially since the series premiered, to start in on writing some very derivative epic-fantasy fic strongly influenced by Tolkien. Rather to my surprise, though, as I started nursing school in 1971, the nature of that fiction started to change, and began rearranging itself around two characters who had a friendship like that of my college friends. With them at its core, a rather different and subversive kind of medieval-flavored fantasy world started knitting itself together from various scraps of themes and imagery lying around in the back of my brain.

Even so early in the construction phases of this world, something the characters quickly made plain to me in the writing was that their relationships with one another were not what mainstream 1970s culture would consider conventional. They were unquestionably what we'd now think of as queer… but that was a background issue,* and not at all the most important thing in their lives. They had far more important business to deal with—as became clear as their personalities and priorities started filling themselves out in the foreground.

One of them turned out to be the deliberate, analytical, methodical son of a provincial nobleman, all too aware of the expectations of those around him: that he was eventually likely to wind up running that province himself. Yet at the same time he also became aware that he had other more serious problems—chief among them the discovery that he possessed a nascent power that would kill him young if he failed to master it. And in the last thousand years, no one of his gender ever had.

The other presented himself more and more clearly as a difficult case: someone who wanted very much to be good at the family business, but wasn’t… and knew it. Kind of a screw-up, full of romanticized and unrealistic takes on the world and his relationship with it: repeatedly doing the wrong things for what he was sure were the right reasons. Yet no matter how often he screwed up, he was also the kind of person who keeps picking himself up and trying again, because he’s been told over and over that that’s what people like him have to do: otherwise they’re no use to anybody.

Imagine my shock when I realized that these two men—initially canonically enemies in their adolescence, then best friends as they grew, and eventually much more—were the (incomplete) answer to the question I’d once asked my Mom at the end of the bedtime reading of some fairy tale or other: “Why can’t a prince rescue another prince?”§ Because one of them got himself more than once into situations where he really needed one kind or another of rescuing. The other one obliged him, while once or twice getting rescued (in different modes) himself. Those interlocking patterns started to solidify out of concept and into character detail and plot, while their world grew and proliferated into its own detail around them.

Then, without warning, in 1978 both world and characters decided they were ready to get real. I was abruptly dragged gasping and flailing under the surface of a novel that would begin the tale of what those two characters had yet to become. The period it took to produce that first draft was possibly the most interesting six weeks of my life… and that includes the six weeks during which I first scrubbed in on brain surgery. Day and night, for days at a time, I barely even existed except as something for a novel to come out of. When it was done with me, it just as abruptly dumped me back into my life and wandered away, leaving me staring around, blinking and wondering if anybody’d got the number of that truck. Nothing like it has ever happened to me since, which may be just as well. I’m none too sure that these days I could handle the strain.

The book—which sold within a couple of weeks of its manuscript landing on its first publisher’s desk—kicked off my career as novelist and screenwriter, and in its way proved that the world was at least slightly ready for epic fantasy in which the basic culture was pansexual, polyamorous, and inclusive in ways that hadn’t been attempted before.

So I owe them a debt, those two gentlemen up there: the tall dark curly-haired guy with the amateur strategist’s mind, the blacksmith’s shoulders, and the peculiar sword, his background thought always nibbling away at the question of how to heal the world’s wounds: and the short fair gent who if he could would stay at home, live quietly in town, and work in the local library… except for when saving the world (or his found family) requires him to subsume his work-in-progress kingship and his being into that of his ancestral demigod. Due to the success of the book in which they made their debut, these two became, in their way, the fairy† godfathers of the Young Wizards—and additionally enabled all that Star Trek fanfic I’d started writing a decade before to proceed to its logical conclusion.

More to the point, though, a lot of people in the 1980s and ‘90s who’d never seen queer representation in a fantasy novel, found it first (or at last) while following Herewiss and Freelorn down their shared road. It’s been my pleasure to hold that space for new readers, and to keep adding to it… because—if you ask me—it’s needed more now than ever.

So, to the readership of the Middle Kingdoms works (now pushing half a century old) and everybody else who’s celebrating the season: happy Pride!

ETA: Just noting here for those who might be interested that, as usual, the LGBTQ Pride Bundle at Ebooks Direct is discounted more deeply than usual for Pride Month. With the usual warning to UK readers: friends, our apologies, but due to Brexit we can no longer sell ebooks to you directly. However, most of these works are currently available to UK readers through Amazon.com.

*Not least because everybody else in their world is (at least potentially) some shade of queer, including God.

§ For certain values of "prince". See here for more detail.

† (snicker)

[loveemagicpeace]

🏹1st house & You 🌌

💕1st house describes you as a person, your appearance. The Ascendant and the 1st house-This area of the chart denotes your body as the vehicle for your life force and vitality, and so suggests your sense of yourself as a physically separate individual. Being the symbol of the birth moment, it also describes your arrival into the world and the pattern of responses this sets up. Your Ascendant (or rising) sign is a powerful indicator of how you feel about yourself.💕

⚡️1st house Sun -the person usually looks proud, illuminated and casirmatic. The charisma of these persons is very noticeable. Many times their hair is noticed because it is like a lion's mane or it melts. They put a lot into their hair and take care of it. I notice that these people often dress in one color or wear various inscriptions, paintings related to childhood (many times you see cartoon T-shirts) or some kind of logos. Many times they like to dress in brands. Many times they come forward very confident, but in reality many times they are not at all. Many times the sun covers up their insecurity or weakness. You know how to enlighten others around you and people with this position are often popular among people. People love you quickly. You almost never experience something very terrible (unless there are aspects and other houses that are darker).

🌙1st house Moon- persons tend to appear more kind, caring and friendly. But they can also come forward capriciously (depending on their mood). Emotions are carried on their face and it is difficult to reveal them. Individuals with the Moon in the 1st House wear their hearts on their sleeves and follow their hearts. They have good intuition and are quick to feel things emotionally. Many times the moon creates a cancer look or makes a person's head rounder. People can have gentle soft appearance, a smiling face, and a yearning for comfort, pleasure, and luxury.

🍀1st house Mercury-people look thinner and taller. Usually, when you talk to them, they come across as very smart and intelligent. Many times there are people who have the energy to talk a lot. Above all, their mind and thinking is in the foreground. Many people can ask them for advice. Mercury also gives many thoughts, which you say out loud. You can practically speak your mind. These people also start talking quickly and are the initiators of topics. Maybe sometimes they say things out loud without meaning to. Many times they have multiple personalities and are never really committed to just one thing. They can quickly change their mind if they are not sure about it. What I also noticed is that in reality they talk a lot because they want to get rid of the unpleasant feeling of silence. They do not like the death of silence and many times they prefer noise.

🧚🏼‍♀️1st house Venus-venus usually gives feminine beauty and many people can find you beautiful. You can often get compliments. Your energy is relaxing and often these people are natural (they like natural beauty). This placement gives you a warm, friendly aura and an elegant air that people find irresistible. These individuals tend to be well liked and exude an aura of warmth, friendliness. These individuals tend to be extremely tolerant, accommodating and often compromise their own inner needs and wishes for the sake of maintaining peace and avoiding conflict. You tend to attract others to you quite readily, and rarely come on too strong or aggressively. Venus in the 1st, you might come across as charming, keen to get on with everyone and oil the wheels. There are people who will make you feel that you can be beautiful no matter what u wear. Although they are either very natural without make-up and especially if they have virgo rising. Or they may be obsessed with doing beauty touch-ups and make-up.

🦋1st house Mars- Mars here can come out all guns blazing, a pattern that may reflect emergencies in the birth experience or the early presence of a rival. There may be a lot of masculine energy here. These people know how to do men's jobs and can come forward quite dominantly and decisively. Their energy is usually more intense, strong and strict. You can have a more athletic body or you can have lots of muscles. Facial features tend to be more severe, strong and dark. Many times they emit more dangerous energy (people can be afraid of them). They are people who react quickly and fight for the things/people they love. Very passionate people. They are fearless and dare a lot. They will always be up for crazy things. What I noticed about these people is that thay often attract some situation that are more aggressive or people that following them or something like that(not always).

🐚1st house Saturn- people tend to look older than they really are. Many times they give off the energy of a parent or a more authoritative energy. They are responsible and serious people who do not like someone who is too childish. Otherwise, these people are non-judgmental, you will rarely ever see them judge someone. They may have weight problems and may fluctuate a lot. Their face is similar to saturn, when you look at their face you can see the shape of saturn. They have reinforced bones, especially if they are thin, their body shape is very noticeable. They usually have tattoos. There is one thing about Saturn people that they don't actually look like some kind of business oriented people, but they actually look opposite of that. Many times darker with my style or even emo style I notice many times. Although mostly more chipped/torn style. They love things that are dark or scary sometimes.

🫧1st house Neptune-this people have a magical outlook and energy. When you're in their presence, you feel like they're not real at all or like they're from a movie. They also have the appearance of a mermaid. They have shiny and pearly eyes. When you look into their eyes, it looks like you will get lost in them. They have hypnotic eyes. Their appearance is usually dreamy and many people cannot define exactly how they see their beauty. They have a very energetically magical approach (many times they leave special energy on others). But they can also draw a lot of other people's energy. People often ask them for help or advice. People can often be shy in front of them because they have celebrities energy. Many times they live in their dream world. Neptune's influence endows the individual with a profound understanding of their innermost personality. Eyes are often grey or blue of a rather cold shade.

🧃1st house Uranus-your energy is above all unique and special. People find you unique and different. You have your own energy. You dare to be different and you like to stand out with your appearance, clothes and opinion. Many times your opinion or view may differ from others. Your style can often be very interesting and you know how to style pieces of clothing that others would never do very well. Things look special on you. With Uranus in the 1st house can be described as having unusual and unconventional qualities that person have. You may have a particular body shape or there may be a part of you that is very different from others and people find that interesting about you. This makes you stand out from the crowd.

💘1st house Jupiter-happiness is with you everywhere. There are many happy coincidences. You have a confident and optimistic energy. People can often see you as someone who always finds a way. You can be a very good teacher to others and have a lot of wisdom about things. Regardless of everything, you always find faith and trust in the things you love to do and trust that things will turn out well. You are a spontaneous person who sees life as full of opportunities. You never stop living and many times you live for the moment. Also gives you a charming and attractive appearance, which will draw people towards you. Your charming personality makes you stand out in a crowd and people admire you for the same. You love learning new things and gathering new experiences by traveling around the world. Your personality may be infused with humor, joy, and generosity. You like to experience things even if you never heard of them before. This is like a challenge to you.

🌌1st house Pluto- Your personality is many times an enigma. Because you always decide how much of yourself you want to share and show to others. Sometimes you can trust the wrong people too quickly, and sometimes it takes a long time to trust new ones. A powerful and transformative placement that can significantly influence a person's life and personality. Although pluto is prominent and the first house is the most expressive house, I would say that sometimes it can be difficult to express how you really feel or to share it with others. It is important that when you meet people / when you are dealing with a certain situation, you always listen to your feelings. It is good to carry a smoky quartz crystal with you. With Pluto you can find strength and courage and show people your strong energy. You can also feel people's souls. The first house is your appearance, it's good to change your appearance evey now or then because that's how you leave the past behind. Also pay attention to the signs around you cuz sometimes people trying to tell you something or the signs itself try to tell you something and you ignored it. Cuz pluto people have the tendency to ignore all of the signs because they don't trust them but it's actually the signs that are good for them (especially if this sign is repeated several times). And many times these people change their appearance when they want to escape from someone or change their life.

🎸For personal readings u can sign up here: https://snipfeed.co/bekylibra 🎸

-Rebekah🫧♥️🌙

[romchat]

I FINALLY bought a digital copy of Sinners and wanted to highlight a few other cinematography choices I really loved besides that tracking shot of Lisa Chow. The first is the camera language with which the White (and passing) characters are introduced and how it creates a unique sense of racial dread.

In her NYTimes article "The Condition of Black Life Is One of Mourning, poet Claudia Rankine pointedly describes the daily strain of anti-Black racism:

"Anti-black racism is in the culture. It’s in our laws, in our advertisements, in our friendships, in our segregated cities, in our schools, in our Congress, in our scientific experiments, in our language, on the Internet, in our bodies no matter our race, in our communities and, perhaps most devastatingly, in our justice system. The unarmed, slain black bodies in public spaces turn grief into our everyday feeling that something is wrong everywhere and all the time, even if locally things appear normal."

This quiet but unrelenting feeling that something is wrong and could go wrong hovers over Sinners, the movie playing with our (visual) expectations of the many ways racist violence can suddenly strike at the whim of its White characters.

From the establishing shots of Sammie's sharecropper home to the plantation fields to the prison chain gang, we know that this a world where White characters can act without impunity. The violent legacy of slavery continues well beyond its official end, which we can see from the endless white rows of cotton in the foreground and background connecting each scene to the next, the overseers' silhouettes haunting the edge of the frame.

So when a White character physically enters a scene, we immediately feel dread, hyperaware that they could choose to be dangerous and mete out violence at any time just because they can. The introduction of Hogwood and Mary are good examples of this.

As Smoke and Stack wait for Hogwood to arrive to sell them his property, the camera stays trained on a narrow road that snakes behind the bend. There's low visibility because of the use of a wide shot and its duration is a beat too long. The Twins aren't sure how the interaction will go with this White man, and we the audience are forced to sit in that uncomfortable (but routine) tension with them.

And their wariness is justified because look at how Hogwood gets out of the car, his gun front and center. He's a threat on arrival and flaunts that power (e.g., that intentionally placed "boys").

Side Note: I might be stretching but that utility pole is almost cross-like, no? Possible reference to a KKK burning cross?

And despite Mary's deep connection to Stack and the rest of the Black community, she too chooses to be a danger and we can see this based on how she's visually introduced.

Her figure stands in the background, blurred because of the depth of field. There's something ghost-like about her appearance, which I'd interpret as symbolic of how as a White passing woman her past sexual relationship with Stack can still haunt him given the South's anti-miscegenation laws.

The tension of the scene ramps up as Mary approaches, the intimacy of the close-up shots anxiety-inducing. Although she is justified in how upset she is at him, this move is completely reckless given the optics. As @mosaic-briar observes in their analysis of Mary:

"White women have some of the most historically violent relationships to Black men that goes from before Emmitt Till to the data surrounding discipline in schools...Mary's incapability to recognize how much danger she was putting Stack in by yelling about their sex in the middle of the street telegraphed for us everything we'd need to know about how far she had processed her own identity."

This is a meeting between former lovers who care about one another but Mary's White femininity is still lethal even if she doesn't mean it to be. What a smart way to communicate the capricious but destructive power of Whiteness.

[meanbossart]

Ask compilation: Mommy issues, Hair Stew, spicy blood, and some vague art advice from a guy with no formal art education.

Been a minute since I did one of these!

Thank you all for your messages and for your patience, as always I'm incredibly sorry that I can't reply to all of you!

DU drow saved Arabella in act 1 and obviously helped her out in act 2. He's surprisingly soft on (most*) kids and always has been, even as a Bhaalist (though he did consider them all Murders In The Making back then).

Arabella is no different. He thought her efforts to stop the druid's ritual were comically charming and appreciated how much Arabella seemed to successfully look after herself. They got along really well while she was around, though she probably spent more time with the more "approachable" party members at DU drow's own insistence.

And he is just biased towards less domesticated animals! Dogs are fine but DU drow appreciates cat's knack for self-sufficiency more. Also, they are pretty and elegant creatures - both things he enjoys in animals as well as people.

As for favorite cat, Malta. Easily.

First of all, interesting question!

It's a mixture of both. I draw conclusions from stuff I observed (Astarion's ass grabbing and confidence during sex, The Dark Urge's entire characterization, the obvious oral fixated vampire connection, Orin's barefootness) and more minute stuff that's already based of off personal headcanons I have - but of course, its all pretty limited to things I can personally stomach. I'm not necessarily into the same things they are, but I can get them, if that makes sense.

And thank you so much!

How dare you. He's clearly a Foetus man.

I'm really glad you like her!!! I honestly love that scenario even more than I thought I would and have a lot of plans to draw more of it.

And potentially! I honestly hadn't thought about that, but I think female elves do tend to be a little shorter than the males, so she might shrink down to 5'8, 5'9 or something. Kind of a negligible difference because I would still like for her to be a pretty tall woman.

The epilogue party isn't really a "canon" event to his story, since it wasn't out when i finished the game and - and while very satisfying from a gameplay POV, I don't find it narratively interesting.

BUT his epilogue party would look pretty full save for Halsin, Karlach and Lae'zel. We'd have a God Gale, a Selunite-ish Shadowheart and a Blade of Frontiers Wyll - as well as Spawn Astarion, obviously. I Haven't given it much thought, admittedly! And there isn't much reason to do so since A Novel Experience serves as the Actual epilogue to me.

He puts the blame for Yenna's death wholly on Orin. It's one of those things he avoids reflecting on entirely and Yenna's name will probably never leave his mouth again. Considering he allowed her into camp and personally failed to convince Orin to spare her life at the temple, I think it's a guilt too difficult to circumvent, were he to entertain it.

Because he has a father figure already, which left room to fantasize about an idealized maternal one. It's also his bias towards femme people.

Hello!

Unfortunately I can't give you an easy answer for this one. I have drawn a lot and for a long time, and I've always enjoyed dynamic poses and put a whole lot of effort into capturing motion in a way I'm satisfied with - and often I STILL feel as if certain aspects of my art are stiff!

I think working on being a little "looser" with one's art and playing with lineart weight helps tremendously. Understand things like foreground/background division can also help to give your art dimension, and inevitably that movement you are looking for. Unfortunately, I'm self taught and not very educated on the matter myself 😅 I can do it, but explaining or teaching it is something else entirely.

It dips in his stew 😔

The usual pet names! Darling, Lover, Sweetheart, he's been known to let a "baby boy" slip out. DU drow is more known for the literal name-calling.

.... And neither of them is a "daddy" person, for sure.

He has no idea and he thinks that's pretty damn funny. He likes how his dick looks, and he is kind of glad that he gets to enjoy it without having any memory of how it got to be that way - he's definitely assuming Bizarre Sex Accident, though.

He will eat whatever is available without complaint if he has to for survival, but he does enjoy a nicely prepared dish! From rustic home-cooking to the gourmet dining. He's most definitely fond of onions - as well as meat, fat, and heavy seasoning. I don't know what that means for the way his blood tastes, maybe it makes it specially hearty... Which Astarion might like, based on his Spicy Food comment in act 1.

Either way Astarion does not feed on him after the campaign is over, so that's not something they have to worry about!

He's.... Okay with Minsc. He definitely doesn't take him too seriously but they've had fleeting moments of meat-head-like understanding between the two of them, not that DU drow would ever admit to it. He kind of sees him as Jaheira's beefy pet.

He is profoundly suspicious of Boo.

This ask was a little buried in my inbox, so I hope you have been able to secure work since then! Patreon subscription completely aside.

That's a tough question because there is definitely a degree of luck involved. I'd say find your niche - be that a genre, character, or fandom - and then find the niche within that niche you feel comfortable in and where you can meet people of similar interests, and who might be interested in your art. Don't go in making selling pitches, obviously, actually try to make friends and lift each other up.

At that point, if you're both persistent (-in your craft, NOT in chasing after validation!) you will be able to sell a few commissions or get a few bites on patreon or a similar platform! After that, its a matter of letting your work speak for itself.

This is very simplified of course, and a summary of a process that usually takes many many years to develop unless, once again, you get very lucky. But I do think persistence and passion tends to reward folks who stick with it!

I know some artists use advertisement and reel trends on instagram to get more eyes on their work as well, and I've seen a few get a lot of success from it, but unfortunately I don't know anything about that side of things.

[ilium-ilia]

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Thirty: saint eulalia

tw: angst, smut

Simon’s first time visiting Terminus haunts him occasionally when the sun is too low to pull him out of his dreams. 

A place of pain smothered in lacquer and polished leather, his first memory is of that chair. Antique wood creaking beneath his weight, fingers curling around the backrest as a needle bites into his skin. The sting is worse than a blade as it digs into his flesh for purchase then pulls. He doesn’t grunt, but his knuckles are turning white—at least, the knuckles that aren’t split open like too-ripe prunes. 

The abattoir smelled wrong. Rotten. Nothing but addled blood and offals that seemed so close to being from an animal, but not quite. Something familiar in a twisted way. The stench of it follows him, overwhelming the attar of his own wound while the echo of splitting bone drowns out the muffled club music. 

“Haven’t seen a scratch this deep in a long time,” John Price says. He wipes at a trickle of blood as it waterfalls down Simon’s side, staining his flank a rosy pink. “Sorry the patch job is shit. Too used to doing this to myself, I hardly know how to stitch anyone else up.” 

The last suture stings the most. Tender, angry skin frustrated from being toyed with and tugged on—Simon grits his teeth especially hard until his jaw creaks. The ache ebbs the moment needles clink and latex snaps as John removes his gloves. Simon’s attention stays pinned at the wall in front of him. 

There is a painting of a girl that stares at him. Simon can tell by the odd shine on the canvas that it’s merely a mimic—a bulk made print—but the diffused lighting does nothing to nullify the dread it strikes in him. She’s lying on an ancient, snowy street with her head closest to him and legs awkwardly angled to the left. Her curled hair fans out around her head like swirling river water that contrasts with the rime that covers the stones she lays on. Despite the cold, she’s half covered. Chest on display with a pale pink garment covering her lower half, Simon feels his nose scrunch when he notices the cross standing proud above her and the manacles that still taint her wrists with dull bruises. Doves litter her body while people whisper and look at her in the background. A guard stands at the ready with a pike in hand, eyes straight ahead, unbothered by the child dead at his feet.

No one seems to lament her quite like the white dove in the foreground. Head tilted to the side, beady eye focused on her corpse, Simon wonders if a dove could ever mourn such a loss, or if death is all the same to it, no matter what form it takes. 

“Do you know her?” John asks. 

Finally, Simon feels free to look away from the painting. “Who?”

“Saint Eulalia.” 

The name doesn’t ring a bell. Simon isn’t an art connoisseur, and really he didn’t take John Price for one either. Leaning back, he inspects the stitching on his ribs and tries not to scoff at the wide wounds. The scar is bound to be gnarly—just another one for his growing collection. 

Humming, John sits on his desk. The dark wood is solid but still creaks beneath the man's weight as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Her death was more brutal than what’s depicted in the painting. It’s hard enough showing a dead child at all, let alone one that’s been tortured beyond recognition.” 

Simon doesn’t know why John’s telling him this. Maybe it’s supposed to be a lesson, but as far as he’s concerned, he’s already gone through his lecture. It’s painted on his skin in stray splatters of blood, in scrapes from blunt fingernails; it’s burned into his mind. The look of the first person he killed on purpose; not in self defence. He doesn’t know why he had to do it—all he knows is that he couldn’t afford not to.

“Is this supposed to be your way of makin’ me feel better?” he bluntly asks. 

“No, you don’t need comfort. You’re too much like me for that.” When Simon raises a brow at the comment, John simply shakes his head. “That’s not a compliment.” 

Scoffing, Simon finds himself looking back at the painting. Poor little Eulalia. Slaughtered and left bare with nothing but the snow to blanket her body. How strange for nature to be kinder than man in the face of such cruelty. 

“People like us don’t need comfort for something like this,” John continues. “It’s just in our nature, isn’t it? Fighting tooth and nail, scrapping whenever it’s convenient, protecting?” 

“You’re talkin’ like you know me, old man.” 

“Old man? You’ll be my age before you know it… prick.” A faint tone of humor lurks beneath each syllable he speaks but it doesn’t quite land on Simon’s ears. “No, but I do know you. I know you’re the quiet type who watches people and only opens his mouth for crass humor or to bark profanities. You pretend not to care when in reality it eats you up from the inside out; knowing you’re falling short. That you’re not good enough.” 

The more John speaks, the more Eulalia begins to morph before him. Face maturing, skin stretching, complexion changing, features blurring—she almost looks familiar now. 

“Got all this from a glance, did ya?” Simon challenges. 

“From a lifetime of being in your shoes. Don’t worry, you’ll grow into mine someday.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, because I know you’re not turning down my offer. People like us never can,” John explains. “Besides, you have to.” 

Everything sharpens. A snap into focus, the twist of a camera lens as the foreground jumps into view—Eulalia is no mere girl, she’s his girl. You. Dead in the snow on cobblestone streets with doves mourning the loss of your breath, of your love for foxes, of your sweet smiles and tender kisses. John’s hand rests on his shoulder, but it’s not his voice that speaks. 

“You have to, because she’ll die if you don’t.” 

Simon wakes with a start. 

He’s reaching for you before his brain can even make sense of it, hand cutting through the darkness of the bedroom until the tips of his fingers meet your cheek. Your rousing is minuscule but still tangible beneath his touch—head nodding, nose nuzzling closer to him as you breathe out a sigh. It takes everything within Simon to hold himself back from swallowing you. From wrapping his arms around you and pulling you so close that you’d never be free of him again. 

Instead, he’s slipping out of bed quiet enough that you don’t wake. Stealing his phone off the nightstand then a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the living room, he slips into the garage where the light illuminates with an electric flicker before stilling with a dull buzz. 

Settling on the wooden steps, Simon can’t help but eye his motorcycle as he fixes himself up a nicotine buzz. The once sleek black finish is now dusty with months worth of grime having built up on the body. It’s been too cold to ride throughout winter, and even now with the weather warming up he finds himself with you too often to even think about getting the poor girl back into shape. 

Still, the view of it has his mind wandering back to the first time he ever took you for a ride on it. A long, sleepless night at Terminus spent watching over you and patching your hands up after his scrap with Andrei. He can recall the way your arms wrapped around him, how your head rested against his back—and then it’s all blood. Your puking, your bleeding and sobbing, the pure fear in your eyes because you were caught in the middle of a hunt. 

Simon brings the cigarette up to his lips for a drag only to realize his hand is shaking. Each beat of his heart sends shockwaves throughout his body, toppling his strong demeanor, whittling him down until he’s nothing but the scraggly boy he used to be. Ignoring it, he breathes in the smoke only to realize it tastes stale. Mouldy and rotten. Hollow bones on his tongue, marrow long decayed out. 

Though he has built his walls up high, Simon is still the little brother. With his trembling hands, he ignores the time that illuminates his phone screen as he calls Tommy. The line rings for so long he’s convinced the man won’t answer, but eventually the speaker clicks. A moment's silence screams at him until his brother’s sigh crackles. 

“What’s up?” 

Concern heavily laced with fatigue—it’s nearly one in the morning. Simon closes his eyes and contemplates hanging up, but he’s shivering so bad he doesn’t think he’d even be able to hit the button. 

“Just wanted to talk,” he admits bluntly. 

A mangled cough sounds on the end of the line, then a peeved laugh. “You’re tellin’ me you called me this fuckin’ late at night—nearly woke Beth up—just to talk?” 

“That a problem?” It’s supposed to be humorous, but it comes out dull. Simon can hardly get his eyes to focus on anything in front of him, let alone the words brewing in the back of his throat. Frustrated, he flicks his cigarette onto the garage floor and watches it slowly burn down to the filter. 

“You’re in trouble, aren’t you?” Tommy asks. 

“Probably,” he shrugs. 

“Well come on, out with it.” 

“I’m paying a blood debt soon.” 

Silence. Brutally long and accompanied with a sniffle. “You’re takin’ the piss, aren’t you? There’s no fuckin’ way you’re in debt.” 

“Not my debt,” Simon retorts. 

“No, no you’re not fuckin’ doing this.” Tommy’s riled up now, and the heat behind his words grows ever stronger. “C’mon, it was bad enough when you did it for me. I remember that day. I remember how badly it fucked you up mentally, Simon. Marco—the fuckin’ bastard—I mean… havin’ you kill a damn kid. No, I don’t care who it is, no one is worth you doin’ that shit again.” 

A flash of red. Ichor on concrete. It looked so much like the pool house that he nearly didn’t care at first. Until he heard the rattle. And the begging. 

“She’s gonna die if I don’t.” Simon’s throat is getting tight now. Shards of glass perforating his vocal chords, changing the tone until it’s breathy and light; hardly anything like himself. There’s a pressure behind his eyes that threaten to pop them clean from his skull, and the brine gathering on his lower lashes cuts worse than a bullet. 

“You can’t keep treatin’ yourself like some fuckin’ superhero. Maybe some people gotta face the consequences of their actions,” Tommy rationalizes. 

“Tommy… It's Chip.” 

Everything good in the world quiets. There is no sweet moonlight, or birds in flight, or laughter. There is only the unspeakable darkness in the cavern of Simon’s chest, and the shadows that gnaw on the meat of him. 

“Shit…” Tommy breathes. Neither of them speak for a few minutes. On the other end, Simon can hear shuffling. Rolling drawers. A door closing. He thinks he might hear the click of flint, but he doesn’t mention it. “Tell me what you can.” 

Simon is tired of this game. Of rehashing your trauma as if it’s something to air publicly—the juiciest news report, a true crime show, a scary story to tell kids at night. And still, he does. He waters it down until the burn doesn’t sear as bad, but he can’t drown the images. The pictures he immolated. All the tears that stain his throat. 

“I love her so fuckin’ much.” His voice breaks. Slices clean in two in imperfect halves. “And I’m terrified. I’m so fuckin’ scared, Tommy.” 

“About the blood payment?” Tommy asks. 

“Everythin. All of it. Of havin’ to kill some other poor kid. Of dyin’ and not bein’ around to protect ‘er anymore, of leavin’ her all by herself. I think of Marco gettin’ his hands on ‘er again and it makes me fuckin’ sick.” Simon wipes the tears off of his cheeks but continues to pretend as if they’re not soaking his face. His fingers clench and unclench—caught in a battle half brewing. “I keep thinkin’ ‘bout how she didn’t know ‘bout the blood payments, and it’s cuz the nonce wants her chained up. He doesn’t want her free. Marco might’ve left you alone after it all, but he’s not gonna do the same for ‘er. I know he isn’t.” 

“That’s not gonna happen,” Tommy insists. “Nothin’s gonna happen to you. You’ll settle that debt just like you did for me and if the wazzock pushes his luck then you’re within your rights to kill the cunt.” 

His head is spinning. Unrelenting asperity fills his body to the brim until it’s overflowing and seeping out of him until and spilling on the garage floor. Finding the cigarette still burning to ash on the ground, he breathes deep and allows the smoke to fill his lungs enough until everything else is pushed out of him. Replace the bad with something worse—but at least it’s familiar. At least he can stomach it. 

“I’m sorry, Simon. I really am.” His brother’s voice takes on a clemency he’s never heard before. Tender and low—the type of tone that’s usually reserved for funerals and wakes. “I know how much she means to you. Never even seen you get like this over anyone before.” 

Simon’s head bobs as he runs his fingers over his aching hairline. “I’d do anythin’ for ‘er. I’d fuckin’ die for ‘er.” 

A sour chuckle slices through Tommy’s throat. “Yeah well… maybe try not to do that. Mum’s still hopin’ for a few more grandbabies, you know.” 

That comment slices deeper than Tommy could ever know. Clean through flesh, down deep until it hits bone—Simon yearns for that simple life more than anything. That white picket fence dream with a rambunctious puppy frolicking through the yard and a happy wife to come home to. He’d work a good job—a proper job—and rest his head on the pillow without a worry in the world. 

Deep down, he knows he’s too far gone for that life, but it doesn’t prevent him from thinking about it even after the call ends and he’s left alone. Men like him aren’t supposed to have the type of life everyone else does. His hands have seen too much gore. He’s roped too far deep into a tenebrous world where the tunnels wind too sharply for him to claw his way back up to the surface. 

But he did find you because of it. 

It’s the only thought that keeps him going when he crosses the threshold back into the bedroom and he finds you lying on your side, still smothered in blankets and deep in slumber. Though his aching muscles yearn for the mattress, he wanders until he’s on his knees, torso curling over the edge of the bed as if caught in prayer. Reaching through the darkness, his fingers curl around your palm where he runs his thumb over the tender skin that covers your metacarpals. Even now you’re glowing. His girl, the only light in his life. 

He stays there for so long that his legs begin to ache, but he finds reprieve in the way your eyes flutter open. Legs stretching beneath the blankets, chest expanding with an impending sigh—you hum his name on the exhale. 

“Si? What’s wrong?” 

When you reach for him, palm cupping his cheek, you feel the lingering moisture that cools his skin. His cheeks feel puffy, an oddity when coupled with his stubble, and your heart swells so quickly in your chest that it hurts. Holding back the urge to coo at him, you scoot back along the bed before beckoning him closer. 

Except he can’t help but fall into you. Scooped up by your Event Horizon, your bodies are colliding as he hovers over you, lips crashing into yours, hands pressed on either side of your head, leg tossing over your hip. Pain blossoms in your face each time he bumps against your still tender nose, but you ignore it when he slips his tongue into your mouth. 

He feels like home. He feels like the only solace in the storm that’s raged around you for these last few suffocating days. 

It’s why you don’t question or protest when his hands slide beneath your clothes, pulling at them until they’re in near tatters around your body—you need this just as much as he does. 

The skin to skin contact leaves you dizzy. A newborn babe thrust into a strange world, clinging onto the only familiar thing you can get your hands on. Sparse chest hair against your stomach as he kisses a trail down your torso, puffy scars jutting out along his back as you hold onto him—he’s kissing away every ache and pain that nettles in the deepest parts of you. He hungers for the rot, for the taint that mars you, so that he can lick you clean. 

It isn’t long before your bodies are rolling. Westley and Buttercup tumbling down a hill, you land on top of him with your thighs spreading wide over his hips before you’re taking him into you. Delicately sinking down, slowly taking his cock until your bodies are flush together. Simon stares up at you through the shadow of night and he has to hold himself back from crying again. How beautiful you look even in the darkest of times. How lucky he is to be able to call you his. 

The experimental rock of your hips is enough to steal moans from the both of you. Instead of bouncing, you roll, keeping his cock nestled inside of you so the friction is full and raw, slicing through you with a heat that leaves your clit twitching. Your words are liquid on your tongue, spewing out between your teeth and falling in a mess on his chest; promises of love and adoration, discombobulated thanks, wet eyes and wetter lips. 

When you come, your head throws back as if you can see the stars through the ceiling—nails digging into his chest, he holds you steady by your hips as you slowly come back from the heavens. For Simon, the stimulation is smothered by the agita coursing through his veins. His cock is already softening even without an orgasm by the time you collapse back into him, face buried in his neck, breath moistening his skin. 

You lie so still against his body for what feels like hours that Simon nearly jumps when you speak again. “Your heart’s beating so fast.” 

Sucking in a deep breath, Simon stretches his legs before his grip tightens around your back. “Think I’ve got you to blame for that,” he teases quietly. 

Fingertips on his shoulder, you trace the old bullet wound that puffs out on his skin like puckered lips. “Simon, are you scared?” 

Your question leaves his brain reeling, but he’s quick to yank on the line. “Nah, I’m not scared, baby.” 

It’s a lie. A festering, burning lie, and he’s not sure if you feel the warmth of it or not. 

“I’m scared,” you admit. 

“About what?”

“Everything.” You swallow, and your fingers cease their movements. “I don’t want you to get hurt. I don’t want you to have to hurt anyone. This all feels like a cruel game.” 

“Try not to worry too much ‘bout it, baby. I’m gonna take care of it.” 

“You keep saying that but I just—like—just thinking about it and- I dunno I just… I…” 

Cupping your face in his hands, Simon lifts your head off of his chest. It’s hard to visualize him through the penumbra as the lack of light makes his eyes darker than charcoal, but you do your best to hold his gaze. 

“I’m gonna take care of it,” he reiterates. “All of it. When I’m finished, I’ll take you somewhere nice. We’ll get out of ‘ere for a bit. I want you to think ‘bout that instead, yeah?” 

“Somewhere nice?” you repeat. “Like… Sapori nice, or…?” 

The mirth that bubbles in his chest feels like the first real emotion besides fear he’s been able to convey all night. “No baby, like on the other side of the world in a fancy hotel away from everyone.” 

The way your eyes widen makes something prideful swell in his chest. “Oh.” 

“You just think ‘bout it, sweetheart. Anywhere. Tell me and I’ll take you.” 

Simon sleeps better after that. Locking you in his embrace, shoving his face in the back of your neck, breathing you in until your scent is engrained in his mind. His dreams come short and sweet, quickly smothered by your quiet snoring whenever they decide to wander too far from kind. 

In the morning, it’s the sun that wakes him up. You’re still fast asleep next to him, naked body obscured by the blankets, skin glowing in the gentle rays. He doesn’t know why he has to ruin it. Hands stretching out, fingers wrapping around his phone, he’s greeted by an early text from John Price. 

The deal with Makarov’s been set. The debt will be settled tomorrow. Same place as usual.

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

[chanafehs]

This is very Dragon Age negative so feel free to ignore but I am not looking forward to hearing anything about the Qunari in Veilguard. I know with a qunari companion and romance (taash) we’re going to be hearing more about Qunari lore and all matter of things but I really don’t know how BioWare could improve on the lore after digging themselves in so deep with the Qunari.

This is a group of people who’s inspirations are a “militant Islamic borg”, their conflict with tevinter is allegedly inspired off of the historical conflicts between the Ottoman Empire and the Byzantines, uses Arabic words within their vocabulary, the only race that has literal animal features, and some general SWANA influences throughout - Orientalism, Anti-Blackness, and islamophobia has always been a thing BioWare has taken part in but I don’t know what BioWare plans to do with the Qunari even *if* they attempt to try and correct any of this.

With the direction Veilguard is going with the concept art (literally having our characters going through a Bazaar with scantily clad women in the foreground) I’m not really holding out much hope that this is going to be an improvement on what BioWare has done in the past (if anything this could get worse). I’m trying not to be so negative about DA4 because most people are but I’m setting myself up for disappointment with the Qunari.

[anlian-aishang]

You had heard that he only got two to three hours of sleep per night, and as your overnights with him grew more and more frequent, then to the point of living together, you found that to be true, but misleading. Levi’s insomnia was indeed a persistent thief of his chances for a sound night of rest, but your relationship was his rehabilitation. 

tags: levi x reader, established relationship (spouses), fluff, ambiguverse, food mention, gn!reader word count: 4700

Spring mornings were now a household holiday. Whether it was a sunrise coffee together, a walk to the downtown bakery, or simply stepping outside to feel the warm air’s hug – no matter how varied the activity, the feeling was always the same. Never explicitly spoken, but mutually shared and understood, There was no better way to start the day.

One of those mornings, you couldn’t remember which exactly, you had ventured to the local library and each picked out a few books. When you got home, you set them on a window sill and murmured some vague suggestions as to when you might get to them. Who knows how long ago that was? Long enough to have collected dust atop the covers, to Levi’s discovery and dismay as he cleaned. “...Should probably get to these.”

That led you to where you were now, and where you had been for the last few mornings, each of you snared in your own cozy rope hammock. Close enough that you could catch glances of one another, but distanced such that you had to raise your voice a little to be clearly understood. You were putting the final touches on your latest sketch, Levi was reading one of the loans - the dark, dense novel that you had abandoned a couple weeks ago. You were absorbed by details. He was deep into the plot. The singsong of returning birds and the buzzing of awakening bugs, nature filled the silence between you.  

You were not sure how much time had passed, but you knew it must have been a decent while. The side of your hand had grown dark from all the back and forths along your sketchpad. The eraser you started with was hardly a nub now. The sun must have started to shine since, its warmth tinting Levi’s cheeks ever so slightly.

You sheathed your pencil through the loops of your sketchbook, at last satisfied with the final result. With one final look, you affirmed yourself and shot your glance to Levi, eager to flip the page around and show him your latest masterpiece. However, when you caught sight of him, you froze. Despite parted lips, the words stuck in your throat. Suddenly, your work of art seemed to lose its appeal. The greyscale of graphite was remarkably dull when it was the foreground to Levi Ackerman. His ivory skin had adopted a tan shade, overcast by a canopy of leaves. His jet black hair was somehow glowing, the sun��s spotlight haloing his head. Light winds sifted through his bangs and the wrinkles of his cotton half-sleeve, the pollen it carried causing him to lift his wrist to his nose now and then. The pastel aura of spring, brought about by budding flowers or perhaps rose-colored lenses, showed a side of him that few would see. Instead of shadows coating his rigid features, pure light showcased his best ones.

Without thought, you swung your legs over the side of your cot and left the sketchbook in your place. For those few steps from your hammock to his, you felt at one with the birds and the bees: light as a feather, warm and fuzzy all over, like you were flying to nectar after waiting all winter.

Together this long, you did not let your clumsy flop next to him embarrass you at all, and Levi was likewise unbothered by it. Your cheek was in soft opposition to his chiseled collarbone, as he looked down to you, his eyes aligned with the contact: gentle, yet steely.

“Weren’t you the one who insisted on buying two?” Feigned annoyance was offset by his movements, guiding his arm around your shoulders and pulling you to his side.

With your head soundly on his chest, you looked up to him, “They were on sale!”

His response was silent, but you could feel the brief exhale of his lungs, a tickled sigh.

Right side now preoccupied with securing his bunkmate, Levi propped his hardcover in his left arm, fingers folded over the top border, the crook of his elbow aligned straight with the book’s spine. Gradually, absentmindedly, the angle of the prose began to tip as his muscles relaxed. His head would tilt to accommodate and grant his eyes the appropriate angle. This cause and effect went on and on, and before either of you knew it, his head was completely laid on his shoulder, the book had drifted closed, and he had dozed off. 

It took you a while to notice. The rise and fall of his chest was as steady as it always had been. Awake or asleep, he was equally unbothered by any environment, calm in every storm. 

Storm? You lifted your head slightly, gently, so as not to disturb his rest, and looked to the west. The heavenly clouds were growing corrupted by the showers that would satiate the earth, but not without cost. You figured that the weather was far enough that you could afford to wake him gradually, he woke up with startle often enough. 

You draped your arm over his torso, hand cupped his shoulder, thumb at the crook of his neck. This all seemed to have the opposite effect, as you felt your insides awakening while he remained fast asleep. Through light and airy fabric, the chisel of his body was impossible to ignore. His chest was so symmetrically divided, his abdomen so mirrored, row after row of muscles. Your fingers acted on their own desire, tracing his middle from neck to waistline. If you pressed hard enough, you would feel the slightest damp of sweat, momentarily sticking his clothing to his skin. The times that he shifted or breathed somewhat sharply, you instantly snapped your hand back. It was as if you had forgotten what you were doing in the first place. Though your intent was to stir him awake, your nerves felt the opposite, as though you were trying not to get caught, stealing from the cookie jar or sneaking around past midnight. 

In the end, despite your efforts, you could not claim the credit for waking him successfully. Just a stone’s throw away, a low thunder roared and shook the ground beneath you. With the smallest twitch, Levi flinched awake. Always quick to recognize a situation, even faster to act on it, he flipped you both out of the bed, grabbed you by the hand, and ran you both inside. A handful of minutes later, just before the downfall, he returned to the yard, sprinting in bare feet, to grab the sketchbook you had long forgotten about. 

Summer afternoons outdoors together. While you planted flowers, he did the rest: pulling weeds, trimming the hedges, and sweeping the deck. Even with the long list of tasks he gave himself, your hours of gardening outnumbered his hours of handling everything else. It irritated him slightly, the idea of idling around while you were working hard - perched on sore knees, covered in dirt - he’d have to bathe you later. 

“Just let me help you.”

Stern voice rained down, his short stature cast a long shadow over your kneeling stance. As with everything, Levi chose to be deliberate, standing in a way that allowed him to shield your eyes from the glaring sun. 

With your soil-caked glove, you nudged him back. Levi clenched his teeth as your handprint stain soaked through his linen. Mud cool on his shin. “No thanks,” you smiled in earnest, “I’ve got this.”

Levi used the back of his hand to wipe a strand of hair from your eyes, he sighed with the recognition that it had been glued to your face in sweat. “I know you can do it, but you know it could be done faster.”

You tilted your head and countered, “Why would I want to be done faster? I’m in my happy place.”

Levi pinched his brows in doubt, it was hard to believe that something so laborious and filthy could be enjoyable. Although, he supposed the same could be said about him. Every week, he did the dirty work - scraping the gaps between tiles, scrubbing the floor on his hands and knees, dusting the spaces you forgot existed.

“Any other housework you’d like done?” Levi already knew the answer, for he had completed every other chore, aiming to finish at the same time as you, but despite his most thorough efforts, you were still working and refusing his help.

You turned, looking as though a lost thought had dawned on you, “Oh, actually, there is one thing you could do…” your smile opposed your words, “leave me alone.”

Levi’s eyes widened, “What was that, brat?”

“Oh, come on…” you teased and shoved him back even further, “Relax. It’s the weekend. You’re so high strung.”

Everyone seemed to label him that way, but your opinion was the only one he trusted and the only one he cared about. How long had he prioritized your happiness? At least all of today so far. Seeking confirmation, he met your eye contact, in which you communicated clearly: Thanks, but I’m fine, your job is to look after yourself, too.

“Well,” Levi opened his hip and started back towards the porch, “don’t hesitate to get me when you change your mind.”

“If.”

With his back to you, he rolled his eyes. Meanwhile, you did your best to silence your giggles with a bite of your lip. Who was really the brat here?

His gaze landed on your outdoor set, the one he had bought and assembled for you, but never used himself. Levi grazed his fingers along the armrests then pressed his palm against the cushion, Not bad. Inch by hesitant inch, he finally allowed himself to take a seat. Though he was pleased with the feel of the furniture itself, it also seemed as though each of his nerves was stinging, irritated at the sight of you working while he sat in the shade. Levi closed his eyes and took three deep breaths, and when he opened them, refreshed lenses viewed the scene differently. 

If Levi could tell his younger self that his life would turn out like this, well, he wasn’t even sure how that kid would’ve reacted, probably something like “fuck off” or “yeah, right.” Owning a home that overlooked acres, cabinets full of food, and a loving spouse to share it all with. Reflecting on all the aspects of his life that had made the 180 from dire to perfect, he had to gaze upon you to convince himself that this was real. In each passing second, his situation became more believable. The life beyond his wildest dreams - those in which he was warm, safe, and housed - had come into reach and landed in his grip. All thanks to you. 

A tired yet contented sigh fell past his lips, and despite the considerable space between his chair and your garden, you caught the lovely sound. Over your shoulder, you glanced back at him. Your worn sunhat and the willow’s leaves hid most of your figure, but with a narrow squint and dilated pupils, your playful wave and toothy smile shined through. His chest fell with a single huff, what you considered his chuckle, maybe you were right - he had been high strung lately. Wind carried the songs of swallows. White clouds blocked the harsh sun. A bit hot, but that was fixed with the unbuttoning of his shirt and the removal of his shoes. By undressing, the breeze complemented the perspiration that enveloped his chest and arms, beckoning another satisfied exhale. Just like that, there was nothing to be upset about, nothing on his mind, the most important condition for his chance at rest. 

The elbow cuff of his sleeve served as a cushion to the armrest. Cheekbone rested on the base of his hand. Wooden chair his frame, its canvas coating his mattress. Summer heat his blanket, overworked hand his pillow. Good enough, but he had already drifted off before that crossed his mind. 

Fall evenings in your ranch home. Apples from the orchard. Cider from the market. The hue of candle flames matched those of the sunset sky and leafy ground. Stew simmered on your gas-fueled range, ready for whenever one or both of you craved it. Wind whistled through your chimes, decaying tree branches cracked under its pressure.

Levi brewed the accompanying tea while you dashed the finishing spices into the soup. Fall was in the air - its cool temperatures, its cinnamon scent. Your home was illuminated in an unsourced golden glow. As the steam rose from the mugs, Levi tossed you a side glance and his trademark sliver of a smile. His happiness always incited yours, you thanked him with a wide grin. Wordlessly, you communicated the shared thought, What a perfect evening. 

Well, as long as the dinner tastes good. 

You clenched your teeth and cringed as you shuffled to the table. Mitted hands carried the cauldron, your latest concoction. “It’s a new recipe, it might not be good… I was kind of eyeballing -”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Levi reassured you, then caught himself, “You made dinner, I’ll never complain about that.”

“I dunno, I’d try it first before making that promise.”

And no, it���s not perfect, but it’s also your first try. Levi was not much of a liar, so he did not pretend it was the best thing he'd ever eaten, but his reaction was much more muted than yours.

“What the -?! This tastes terrible!! It tastes flat-out wrong!”

Yeah, he had to agree with you, but he did not have to voice it. Instead, his silver eyes drifted to the countertop, and at the sight, he tucked his teeth beneath his lip, “How many cloves of garlic did it ask for?”

“Just two!”

“Did you count cloves,” Levi’s voice dampened a little, a tone he mostly used with his subordinates, “Or heads?”

Fuck. That made sense, too much sense. You tried to convince yourself more than him, “No…”

Levi placed his palms on the table and pushed himself up from his seat. Fists clenched at his sides as he sauntered over to the trash can, finding the pile of food scraps smothered by flaky white paper. With his lips pursed, his trademark sigh was forced out through the nose. Calmly, he placed the lid back on the bin and swung open the doors of your pantry, fridge, and sliding glass door. From the cabinets, he found bread and buns and tucked them under his arm. From the fridge, a seasonal maple sausage and fresh figs. Then, he headed outside.

“What are you doing?”

Levi turned back, the look on his face said What do you think I’m doing? Instead, he opted for, “Plan B.”

When the puzzled expression on your face refused to fade, he tilted his head and offered, “Look, I know it’s not gourmet or anything. This was something I used to make as a kid. Didn’t require much.” He dipped his gaze to the floor and toed into his slide-on shoes, “I think you’ll like it enough.”

Your confusion turned to elation when you realized what he was doing, fixing your mistakes, as you so often did for each other. With a bright grin, you flung yourself up from the table and looped your arms over his shoulders and around his neck, leaning in -

“Ah ah ah,” Levi put his fingertips to your lips, “you reek of garlic.”

“We reek of garlic.”

He flashed you a slight smile before setting off towards his outdoor kitchen. “Grab two sweatshirts. Meet me back there.”

Sat on the stone benches around your fire pit, Levi had skewered two sausages and readied two buns. By the time you arrived, the links were almost cooked through. It was minute, somewhat silly, but you felt an odd admiration as you watched him plate the meal, unafraid of the fresh-off-the-fire temperatures. Moving swiftly and confidently, as though he had done this tricky maneuver a million times before.

“Almost done,” his gaze kept on his lap, his ingredients, as he spoke to you, “these’ll just take another minute.”

From the side of his hip, he flicked his knife from the small leather pouch. Suddenly, his nerves singed, causing a shudder to run up his shoulders - a shudder you attributed to the cool autumn night but was actually summoned by a long distanced instinct. Not in danger, just slicing figs. 

A slice of bread, some sticky fruit, and another slice of bread: a sandwich that was itself sandwiched by two metal clamps. Wordlessly, he held both makeshift desserts over the campfire, elbows rested on perched knees, moving minimally.

You could feel yourself salivating, and who could blame you? In your eyes, a perfect man making a meal for you, allowing you to relax and enjoy the view. The night’s clear sky allowed the stars to illuminate his skin. The light of the campfire both highlighted and shadowed his best features - the blue of his eyes, his sharp and angular cheekbones. Your earlier mishap had completely vanished, for if you had made such a huge mistake, how could you have wound up in such a flawless scene? 

As the minutes went by, and as your stomach rumbles grew increasingly louder, however, your gratitude for his cooking regrettably began to waver. Levi grazed the pies along the tips of the flames. This would take forever, and you were starving. “Here, let me help!”

His lips parted in instinctual dissent, but before he could object, you had already snatched one of the tools from him and stuck it in the heart of the fire. Needless to say, Levi ate your burnt pie. You enjoyed his immaculate one.

After the first few bites, he shot you a glance. Lifting an eyebrow, a silent ask for critique. You swallowed, “It’s really… simple.” For a moment, Levi bit the inside of his cheek until you continued, “And tastes really good.” You nudged his bicep with your elbow, “Why didn’t you make this for me earlier!?”

The truth was, after moving out of the slums, he figured that he never would have to cook these things again. Now, here he was, serving it to his spouse who was already asking for seconds. Funny how something that had symbolized such hardship for him was soldering into a fond memory with you.

That night was one of the first that he could fall asleep in peace. Usually, as he closed his eyes, traumatic moments of his past would snatch him from the brink. This time, though, it wasn't the bad times that visited him, but the better ones from his youth. The fresh scent that filled his room after his mom washed his linens. Sneaking out late with friends, being up to no good. Finally, he fell asleep with the taste of campfire desserts on his tongue, and you in his arms.

Winter nights were unexpectedly bright. The fresh, sparkling slate of snow combined with outdoor lights to replace the early setting sun. It was not quite the same light, but it was as if the earth was making the most of what it had. If the days were to be shorter, the nights would be kind to you. 

Just outside your home, technically a few yards away, a harsh blizzard was making its presence known. Trees bent at its will. Its vicious gusts caused white sprinkles to flee from the top layer of snow. Pounding ice and whistling winds attacked your windows. Outdoors, there was a war, but here - inside and together - you had never felt safer. 

The most you felt was just a slight draft, but you had a million ways to deal with that. You crossed your arms across your chest, blanket bundled in your hands, wrapping yourself tight in your sofa nest. On the braided rug, Levi stretched his legs - clothed in fleece - closer to the fireplace and caressed his warm ceramic mug. Black tea, as always. At this time of year, it was the best season to pair his tea with a dessert. Gingerbread and sugar cookies - your annual tradition. Come early afternoon, you two had spent a long time baking, but spent even more time cleaning up the mess it had made. That you had made. 

The food fight started with one party not knowing that it had started. A jar of all-purpose flour was tucked in the crook of his arm, a measuring cup in hand. He gathered the flour carefully, using the brim to flatten the scoop, but his pour was not nearly as delicate. Levi flung the ingredients into the mixing bowl as if he was in a cooking competition and the last minute was approaching. 

At first, it appeared somewhat magnificent, artful even. There was something satisfying about watching Levi work the kitchen. When he smacked his hands together, clapping them clean, you admired the tiny particles that dissolved in air. Simple ingredients somehow combined to create complexity: a familiar scent and a feeling of comfort. 

That was all just icing on the cake. What you honed in on was the calloused way Levi cupped his arm to roll up his sleeves, the steep flex of his forearm as he stirred the batter, knuckles white around the wooden spoon. Once everything was incorporated, he pressed the dough to the countertop, which he had of course covered with flour beforehand, and began to knead it. Veins rose, tendons stood as he forced the dough into shape. The objective was a perfect sphere, one that would ensure that each cookie had uniform thickness. Nothing raw. Nothing burnt. 

Looking down at his work, his brows lowered, eyes narrowed, more flour. This time, he grabbed a random spoon that happened to be in reach, and used it to add a likewise random amount of flour to the dough. 

A bit of wafted flour had gotten stuck in your throat, causing you to cough a couple times. You tried to clear your throat, take a sip of water, but only after a lengthy coughing fit were you able to breathe without struggle. Bent at the waist, hand clutching the countertop, eyes brimming with tears, it wasn’t pretty. Past the blur, you caught sight of your husband, and were shocked to see his lack of shock. In fact, it appeared he had not even shot you a glance, seeming to care about the baking more than the baker. 

“Ahem!!” 

Still, he showed no compassion, it was as if he did not even hear you. With your hand on your hip, you thought of one surefire way to get his attention. You poured some sprinkles into your palm, pinched them in your fingertips, and showered them on his head. Most fell straight to the floor, some went down his shirt, and one tiny snowflake managed to stick on him like a crown. Annoyed before, but you were laughing now. 

His voice was low and quiet. “You don’t want to start this with me.”

“You started it!”

At last, he afforded you his gaze, though it was more concerning than concerned. Over his shoulder, a side eye colder than the negative temperatures. Also over his shoulder, a fistful of powdered sugar that hit you head-on. Levi choked down his amusement at the ripple effect it painted on your face.

Despite his efforts to stifle, you still picked up on his inner delight. At this point in the relationship, you had too much intel for that. You used your hand to wipe your face clean, but then cleaned your hand by having it slide down his apron. 

Then was an exchange that could not translate to spoken form, a silent conversation that you had engaged in on a few notable occasions. 

Did you really just do that?

Yeah, you tilted your head, and I have no regrets.

Levi knit his brows and flashed a devious smirk. I’ll make you regret it.

Caramel sauce, honey, and syrup - you were one of - now two - people on earth who could rank them in order of stickiness. Mini chocolate chips made good explosions. Whipped cream cans could shoot further than expected. The textures of custard and condensed milk could take a battle to the next level. And no matter how hard you threw a marshmallow -

“Hey!” Levi’s determination dimmed to seriousness. “Knock it off! We need those!”

Again, a conversation that was best had silent. The perfect offense in hand, you offered him a puppy dog look. Levi clenched his teeth, affirming his command, but his palm lowered slightly. You flicked one more marshmallow at him, and this time, he did not retaliate, instead offering a ceasefire with a sequence of plain blinks. 

You tiptoed as you approached him, ensuring there was no surprise attack coming. Finally, the truce was solidified by your touch, not the traditional handshake, but a warm washcloth to his neck, its damp fresh from the faucet. Your contact was deliberately gentle as you wiped him clean.

Back then, from behind your cover, the dining room table, you were unable to see how much damage you had really done. This close, the casualties appeared one after the other. Bangs that were typically combed straight had become glued together with various confections. Beneath them, sprinkles shaped like trees and candy canes stuck to his forehead. Comedically timed in your eyes, though he was not laughing, a puff of whipped cream fell from his chin and onto the towel you were trying to clean him with.

It was then that you broke, laughing and blurting out, “You look ridiculous.”

“Tch…” Levi scowled, “and whose fault is that?”

For this aftermath, there was only one solution: your corner bathtub and his mop bucket. Hours later, you united in your living room, two entities at total peace. Perhaps that was a reason for his tire. Normally, Levi would not feel the effects of being on his hands and knees, scrubbing for hours, but the season’s premature sunset made the early evening feel like midnight. You were cozy with blankets, enveloped in the plot of the latest fiction. It was difficult not to sympathize, to find anything less than perfect in this moment.

Levi propped himself up with a grunt and gazed towards the kitchen. Your sugar cookies had 5 more minutes, but then they’d have to cool. Then, you’d have to frost them. Then, you’d have to get the gingerbread in, wait for that to cool, and -” 

Levi could feel himself nodding off, eyelids even heavier than usual. Energy dwindling, he strained to meet your eye contact. His tired, crackled whisper spoke to you, “You’ll let me know when they’re done, right?”

Definitely not. “Yeah!” With how hard it was for Levi to find sleep, there was no way you were going to wake him up just to take cookies out of the oven. “Just rest for now, I’ll let you know when they’re done.”

But he was already out by then, and the direction of the night was yours. You were deep into the novel, just a hundred pages left. It was the tangent of the plot’s climax and the winding down of the story, the gravitational pull to finish it tonight. A howl of wind, a tick of the timer, and the start of new chapters, they nudged you back to reality just enough. You were always relieved and content to find Levi sound asleep on the carpet. As the night went on, you had gradually set pillows and blankets at his side until he was surrounded. When he eventually stood, there would be a Levi-shaped outline on the rug, you bit your lip and chuckled to yourself.

There would also be an imprint of you on the couch once you were done with your book. There was no reason to get up, and you could not have imagined a better scene. Outside, snowflakes continued to pile on one another, finally able to settle at the blizzard's mercy. Levi’s inhales and exhales made a subtle harmony to the sporadic fireplace crackle. The smell of cinnamon was gradually fading, melting into a scent that was familiar. Too familiar?

You threw your book down and ran to the kitchen. The sweet aura was gone, replaced by grey fog and smoky fumes. Peering into the oven, you should have been grateful that there were no flames, but you were too overwhelmed by the dreadful sight of burnt discs. The white delicacies you molded should have looked like snowmen. Instead, they looked like the coals in your fireplace, the fireplace he was sleeping next to now.

You’d just have to make more tomorrow.

// masterlist //