#bones and clementine

[whut-da-brunch]

they just discovered the cure for boredom

[saturday-byte]

Some stuff for art fight I forgot to postttt

[mateipixie]

"she's so me" 🙆🌞

[jellhound]

clementine, an old mario oc of mine from around 2015. i decided to draw her again because im joining an rp w her! she's no longer humanized, though. the design with the dress is my first attempt at redesigning her, but i decided to drop the dress in the second image so she would look less anthroy, if that makes sense.

[clementinesbarn]

Poison My Mind With Your Pretty Words

Rating: G

Susan has a pre-Valentine's Day dilemma, Hannah finds herself helping.

AO3 Link

[spacedlexi]

Tag 9 People You Want to Get to Know Better!

i dont usually do tag games but i'll take any excuse to have a reason to post wips lmao tagged by @foibles-fables

Favorite color: pink and purple baybee!! (my original fave colors ive come back to you im sorry i ever left...) green yellow and red are also nice (sorry i love colors)

Currently reading: nothing 😭 i keep trying to read books but i cant do it anymore the internet has brain broken me my attention span is non existent. tried rereading and then there were none last. couldnt find my murder on the orient express (i love mysteries)

Last song: shes not there - neko case

Last series: the walking dead but i had to give up i cant do it anymore 💀the games are better than the show im saying it. i got to S10E7 but i just cant go back i wont. currently mentally preparing myself to watch utena for the first time

Last movie: the lost boys :) its halloween time. been meaning to watch bound tho ive had the link up for a couple weeks now

Sweet/savory/spicy: savory > sweet > spicy honestly just depends on my mood. i like sour more than any of these tho wheres sour and salty >:( i eat lemons for fun

Currently working on: SOOOOO MUCH ALWAYS HELP ME heres just a small selection of my wips from the past month or so. i already want to re-draw half of them. dont be like me 😭

half of those notes are board scripts (other half comics) and that doesnt even include my unfinished fic (that ive been writing on the train i promise!!!!). started boarding the tower but we're about to learn storyboard pro in class so im gonna use it to help me get used to the program (no way i'll finish in time for clems bday 😔)

No-pressure tags: calling any and all mutuals who would like to play a little game feel free to say i tagged you :)

[milafm2002]

I Was Hit With A Huge Rainstorm So Here is the Third part of My Favorite Songs for a Rainy Day Hope You all Check Them Out.

Shattered - Cherry Glazerr ( I Don't Want You Anymore ) 2023

Blush - Wolf Alice ( My Love Is Cool ) 2015

The Greatest - Billie Eilish ( Hit Me Hard And Soft) 2024

Sweet Sweet Intuition - Bjork ( Post ) 1995

Nothing Matters - The Last Dinner Party ( Prelude To Esctacy ) 2024

Overdrive - Haley Bonar ( Hunca Munca ) 2023

The Essence - AURORA ( What Happened To The Heart?) 2024

Dudley - Yeah Yeah Yeah ( Show Your Bones ) 2006

Seal Jubilee - Bat For Lashes ( Fur And Gold ) 2007

Love Is A Place - Metric ( Old World Underground Where Are You Now? ) 2003

Stay Tuned For Part 4

( Featuring A GIF From Studio Ghiblis Kiki's Delivery Service)

[tigereyes45]

Electric Touch MEP - Part 2 - McSpirk, Yorkalina, & Louistine

[angstandhappiness]

NEAT

woooooo ref stuff pt. 1

[saturday-byte]

What the hell , weird animals

[comatosebunny09]

carpe noctem [ climax 2.0 ] | sylus

— summary: he takes you to a safe house. reasoned it was the safest option while his men tied up whatever loose ends remained from your mission. you get the feeling there’s more to his words than what floats at surface level. — cw: reader is not mc, reader implied to be femme, assassin!reader, profanity, sexual tension, minor character deaths, mentions of blood & violence, terms of endearment, self-deprecating thoughts, a sprinkle of romance, self-indulgent, unhinged moment, mdni — notes: special thanks to @alfredosaws for helping me write this. thank you so much for reading! — now playing: i follow rivers - lykke li

Silly woman. Getting your hopes up for nothing. Still...

He’s yet to set you down—Sylus. Your enigma of a boss, cradling you in his arms like an offering to be bestowed on an altar. Long fingers crooked under your knees, a possessive arm swept under your back.

You’re not hurt—he saw to that when he safely lured you to the ground with his Evol. So why does he insist on carrying you like you are?

You try not to get caught up in how he smells—petrichor during the spring. The leftover carbon of spent bullets. Suede and the freshly-broken skin of a clementine. 

How he feels—strong yet firm, honed from years of boxing and a past you know little of. Tender despite the violence he’s capable of. Big and comforting, like a blanket fresh out of the dryer on the coldest days of the season. 

How he breathes—even, as his heart thrums a steady tempo against your chest. Soothing like ocean waves rolling over your feet, lulling you into tranquility. 

Tch. Since when did you become so poetic?

You’ve long since traded the cacophony of bullets ricocheting off his Evol—of Nikolai’s men shouting obscenities, bleeding malice and vitriol as they spit orders—for the serenity of the night.

Passersby mill about on the moon-laden streets. Couples laugh, bundling together to ward off the night’s chill. An occasional drunkard stumbles down the sidewalk. Sylus effortlessly sidesteps them, refusing to let you walk on your own despite the perturbed looks he garners. You try not to dig too deep into things. And yet…

He’s carried you like this for at least a mile through the city’s heart. Past historic buildings jaded by time, under twinkling string lights, hung over shopping centers and outdoor cafes bordering the street. 

It’s something of a dream. Something like a romantic film, but you don’t feel like you deserve to be its star.

He’s made no move to set you down. You’ve also made no effort to untwine your arms from around his neck. Instead, you study the flexing tendons in his throat. The bob of his Adam’s apple when he chuckles something murky and guttural after he catches you staring. You look away with bashfulness creeping beneath your skin, only to repeat the ritual all over again. 

It feels like old times—a memory far off when he carried you like this once before after you led him on a hunt through the docks. After you took down one of the most prominent human trafficking rings in the underworld, and after he thought he would lose you forever. 

You’re sure you were heavy then—he spent most of the night searching for you, reducing anyone who got in his way to ash and bone. He was exhausted, violet bags hanging beneath his eyes, blood speckling his collar. Yet he still held you so tenderly. Walked you towards the horizon, clutching you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. 

You’re sure you’re heavy now.

And he shouldn’t be holding you like this. Despite how delightful it feels, a voice admonishes you from the deepest regions of your mind for getting too comfortable. 

He’s not yours. This isn’t right. 

She might be gone, swept up in the mountains playing escort, but you can’t help feeling like you’re betraying the hunter. You’ve already crossed her so many times in your mind before. 

You squirm a bit. His gaze slides to you. Scarlet eyes gleam beneath the tawny lights like multifaceted rubies. His brows lift slightly, and the beginnings of a smile prod his lips. 

You clear the phlegm from your throat, tamping down the hot flush rising from your chest to stain your neck and cheeks. He’s effortlessly beautiful, like something spawned from a Rembrandt painting. 

“You can put me down now,” you urge, your voice uncharacteristically soft. “I’m perfectly capable of walking by myself.”

He looks forward, wearing a full-bodied smile. “I know.” He continues walking like you didn’t speak, making no effort to let you go. 

You give him a deadpan look. Try again, a little more insistent this time. “Sylus.”

“Yes?” he returns, humored, patient. 

“I said you can put me down.”

“I know.”

You sigh, exasperated after a few moments spent glaring at his side profile. His devastatingly attractive profile. That sloped nose. Those heart-shaped lips. Those pretty, grey-fringed lashes. 

“Aren’t you afraid of someone seeing us like this?” You gesture to your conjoined bodies with a nod. “People might get the wrong idea.” 

You might get the wrong idea.

He huffs a laugh like you’ve said the most absurd thing. “When have I ever been concerned with how others perceive me?” Those softened eyes flick back to you, something cold prickling low in your belly at the weight they carry. At how his voice dips like he’s drawing you into a secret. “Since when have you?”

Your lips twitch. He poses a fair argument. You’ve never cared much about how people view you, save for Sylus and the twins. More recently, Ms. Hunter. 

Guilt twists in your throat. Burns like ash. “Sylus…”

“Am I making you uncomfortable? Because if I am, I’d be happy to set you down.” There’s a beguiled edge to his voice. A challenge. A plea. Almost like he wants you to say, ‘No.’

Surely, you’re being delusional.

Regardless, you blanch. And it’s comical how quickly you shake your head, eliciting a thick, low purl of laughter from your savior. Your argument dies in the back of your throat. The drape of your arms around his shoulders slackens. But you still don’t let go. You don’t want to let go. 

You decide she’ll have to be upset with you—Ms. Hunter. Decide to be a little selfish, but only for a little while. You’re growing too comfortable with the sharp click of his heels against the cobblestone. With how he lightly jostles you in his arms after each measured step. You could fall asleep like this, ushered to dreamland by the source of your fantasies and suffering. 

After some time spent wordless, Sylus slows to a stop. When you glance at him, he nods at something ahead, finally setting you down. You’re bereft of the warmth and safety his body provides as he helps steady you. Smoothing out your dress, you take in your new surroundings. 

A structure stretches before you, much like the ones you passed before, only the upkeep is better. Three stories of dark, historic brick and an awning dotted with sepia-toned lights loom overhead. The building's name scrolls on a marquee sign in its center, blaring through the frosty haze of the night. It reminds you of an old movie theater, repurposed for something more upscale. 

You turn quizzical eyes to Sylus. “A restaurant?” Come to think of it, you are a little famished. Murder always manages to stir your appetite. 

Sylus pushes back the tails of his suit jacket, shoving his hands into his pockets. Exhales slow. The spotlights highlight his smile as he looks between you and the entrance. “Not hungry?”

“Yeah, but…it’s a little short notice, isn’t it? Don’t you normally need a reservation to get into places like this? Will they even let us in?”

With a huff caught in his throat, Sylus brushes past you, bounding up the few steps to tug the door open. A swell of noise spills outside, the soft stroke of piano keys, the clatter of cutlery against plates. The savory scent of cooked meat and sautéed vegetables assaults your senses. Your stomach growls. You pat it placatingly, casting Sylus a wary look.

“They should,” he says with a shrug, patiently waiting for you to enter. “I own the place.” His eyes shine with playfulness, posture lax.

You scoff. Of course. He owns half the city. It makes him more attractive, knowing he can buy anything at the drop of a hat. 

“Wow. That’s awfully Bruce Wayne of you, don’t you think?” you mock, stepping up into the restaurant, guided by your fingers wrapped around his forearm.

“Wait,” you start, inadvertently tucking into his side. “Why are you hungry? I’m the one who did all the heavy lifting.”

Sylus shrugs again, feigning innocence as you clear the restaurant's entryway. “Watching you work always makes me peckish.”

You whack his broad chest, rolling your eyes. Can’t help smiling. Giggling. Letting your defenses waver.

The air between you feels lighter, reminiscent of times spent carelessly flirting when the line between employer and subordinate blurred beyond recognition.

—

It’s lively inside, but not overwhelmingly so. 

Colorful conversation brightens the atmosphere around you. Patrons of new and old money, dressed in designer clothing, sip expensive wine. Prattle on about their reckless ventures, about fickle things you can’t be bothered to entertain. 

It’s a high-brow restaurant, with the gentle croon of live music and light fixtures dangling overhead to simulate candlelight. The interior is Art Deco inspired. Jaw-droppingly beautiful. You’ve found yourself eyeing the bar more than once, impressed by the expansive shelves housing vintage wine and spirits, stretching towards a yawning, stained-glass ceiling. 

Had you not known better, you would’ve thought you were on a date and not lying low while ornery men tore the city apart looking for you. But that’s not the case. 

At least, you don’t think it is. 

You bite down on your fork, bleeding warmth, ignoring the scarlet eyes boring into your face for the umpteenth time.

You’re tucked away in one of the restaurant's corners with your boss, seated at a booth, shying away from the spotlight. Away from the prying eyes of the other patrons, though that doesn’t stop the occasional gaze from wandering over you. Curious clients raise their wine glasses at you with tense smiles, scrutinizing the pair of you as if you’re celebrities. 

You do stand out, still donned in your attire from the banquet. And Sylus commands attention wherever he goes, standing a good foot over most of the populous, his hair a riotous shock of white. 

Also more perplexing is that he hasn’t booked the place out. He prefers solitude, the comfortable quiet. And yet, he’s brought you here, surrounded by people, treating you like something to be shown off, and you're lightheaded from the whiplash he’s giving you.

He’s been nothing short of a gentleman. Pulled your chair out for you, ordered on your behalf, ensnared you in idle conversation. Kept your champagne glass full when your waiter was out of earshot, even lauded you for another successful kill. It’s all so uncharacteristic of him, and you can’t help feeling like he’s building up to something big. 

It’s grown quiet between you since your meals arrived, and your thoughts have crept in, robbing you of any bliss you began to experience. 

You’ve caught your boss watching you several times. And he’s never appeared guilty, shamelessly peering into your eyes, smiling, slowly ticking away at your resolve. 

Your skin prickles with warmth as you push around the vegetables on your plate. The meal is lovely. Savory, but your appetite’s abandoned you. Something’s off. You’ve sensed it for the better part of the night. Sylus is being more attentive than usual, and it’s unsettling. 

What’s his angle? Have you offended him? Is he keeping an eye on you, afraid you’ll run away? Will tonight be the night he lays you off?

You decide to confront him, having had enough of this ambiguity. This farce he’s put up. You clear your throat, smoothing out the napkin on your lap. Set your fork down, gaze hesitantly sliding to him across the table as you attempt to make light of your situation.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that? Is there something on my face?”

Sylus’ eyes crinkle with a quiet mirth. A soft youthfulness as he props his elbows on the table, twining his long fingers together. A grin blooms behind his fists. You hold your breath.

“Has anyone ever told you how adorable you are while you eat?”

You choke on your spittle. Violently pat your chest to dislodge it, reaching for your flute of champagne to wet your throat as tears form. Adorable isn’t something you’d use to describe yourself. And adorable isn’t something you’d ever imagine Sylus classifying you as, either.   

“Maybe you should lay off the champagne,” you cough, the burn in your esophagus subsiding. 

He isn’t much of a drinker, so you suspect he’s spewing nonsense because he’s tipsy. You set your glass down, snatching the bottle of bubbly from the table’s center. It’ll be safer on your side, out of reach, where your boss can’t use it as an excuse to utter more absurd things. 

Sylus’ brows knit, mock hurt descending onto his face. “What? Am I not allowed to compliment you?”

You cough again, bringing the bottle to your lips. Drink straight from the source, crisp liquid drizzling down the sides of your mouth. How ladylike.

Maybe you should stop drinking. You’re starting to hear things, your daydreams coming to fruition. This isn’t happening. Your boss isn’t pouting at you like a child, calling you cute, and making you feel things that should be buried beneath the Earth’s crust. He’s typically stingy with his compliments unless given to a specific person. So why suddenly aim them at you? 

The bubbly’s got your head a little fuzzy. That, coupled with the adrenaline slowly seeping into your veins, emboldens you to get to the heart of his strangeness. You decide to poke the proverbial bear. 

“What’s your problem?” you prod, setting the bottle down with a definitive thunk. You fix him with a look, one of tight lips and furrowed brows. 

Sylus chuckles, seemingly in disbelief at your brazenness. He’s fucking with you. He has to be. Maybe he’s trying to get a rise out of you, sensing how vulnerable you’ve felt throughout the night. How vulnerable you’ve been the past few months. 

“Whatever do you mean, sweetheart?”

You ignore how the term of endearment tingles in your skin. It feels more weighted than usual tonight. Everything’s heavier tonight. 

You sigh, looking at your lap with a forlorn smile. Toy with a loose thread on your napkin, steeling yourself for this unavoidable conversation.

The champagne’s got your tongue a little loose, and the people surrounding you give you a boost of courage—witnesses in case Sylus decides to kill you. 

“You’ve been really nice to me all night.” You sound mousy, contrasting the crass asshole you were moments ago. “It’s kind of…weird.”

A silver brow lifts. Sylus adjusts in his chair, leaning closer to hear you better, the faint note of his cologne wafting off his skin. Threatening to derail you. To change your mind.

“Have I not been kind to you before?” He momentarily scrutinizes the lacquered wood of the tabletop, seemingly lost in thought. Gazes back at you, inspecting your face.

You swallow against the sandy grit of your throat, powering past your nerves, an anxious titter on your tongue. You toy with your necklace, dizzy. “No. No, you have. Just…not like this.”

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Sylus wordlessly encourages you to continue, watching your mouth, your eyes.

“I mean, the gala. Rescuing me from Nikolai’s goons. Carrying me. Dinner. The compliments. I don’t get you, Sylus. One minute, you’re pushing me away. You’re ignoring me, and then the next, you’re…confusing the hell out of me.”

The words are out before you can contain them. Silence stretches between you, stiff like a bowstring drawn back. You can’t look at him now, feeling so small and stupid beneath the blistering weight of his stare. 

You’re disbelieving that he could be so kind. Romantic. Considerate, treating you like something closer than a subordinate. Like he doesn’t have someone else occupying his mind, and you’re wondering if he’s playing some twisted game with your emotions tonight, using you to fill the gap the hunter left while out saving the world. 

“Am I truly that difficult to understand?” he replies, his voice gritty yet soft. 

Something pinches in your chest at the fragility of his tone. You want nothing more than for the world to open up and swallow you whole. 

You flinch when the flat sides of his nails graze your temple. He briefly stops before tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. Then, his fingertips blister down your cheek. He tilts your head back, cupping your chin, coaxing you to look at him. And you do, reluctantly, a warm film of something wet washing over your sight. 

He studies you with a reverence you don’t deserve. A look you haven’t been subjected to in a very long time, yet it still manages to constrict your heart. Still makes your stomach jump like you’re descending downhill, and your lips part slightly, quivering. 

Time slows to a crawl around you, the world seemingly carving out a pocket of space for only the two of you to exist. The sights and sounds of the restaurant fade into obscurity. You’re focused solely on the scarlet wash of his eyes, how they shift back and forth, studying your features, searching. Seeking answers your mouth refuses to utter. 

“If I’ve made myself anything less than transparent, I apologize.” The sincerity there, the quiet vulnerability, it makes you sick because you’re undeserving of it. You feel like you’re taking part in a naughty secret. Witnessing a side of him usually reserved for the hunter. “But I assure you, I’m not as mysterious as you think.”

You snort despite the moment. Despite your pulse thudding in your eardrums, a trickle of optimism seeping through you like molten liquid. You don that arrogant, playful front as if rolling over and showing him your belly will be viewed as a sign of weakness. He could still very well be screwing with you. Getting your hopes up to shatter them like waves breaking against the rocks.

“Yeah, right. And I’m the Queen of England,” you retort, rolling your eyes.

Sylus shrugs, resigned. Still, he doesn’t relinquish your gaze, the soft curl of his fingers around your face. Instead, he grows more tender, his irises twinkling a youthful shade beneath the ambient lighting as he leans closer. His voice is wispy like he’s murmuring something confidential. 

“You don’t have to believe me. But I am no liar, sweetheart. You know that.”

With that, he releases your chin, fingers slowly dragging over your face, leaving a searing path in their wake. You breathe again, unaware you weren’t, as if released from a spell. You watch him take up his champagne flute, slender fingers curling around its stem, and he stirs its fizzy contents. 

You’re jealous of that damn glass, still feeling those ruinous digits burning themselves into your skin.

He decides to shift gears. You’re thankful because you need time to process things. To get your heart rate down from the sky. 

“Besides, you looked like you could use a break. I figured tonight would be a good time for some morale boosting.”

You snort again, sipping from your own flute to assuage a flare of anger. “Me? A break? Morale boost? Yeah, sure.” 

Taking a breather with your boss, playing around on a date like you didn’t just murder someone? Was he serious? And is that all this was? A figurative pizza party to say, ‘Thank you’ for being an obedient little pet? 

You knew you were an idiot, getting your hopes up for nothing. 

“You know, contrary to popular belief, I’m not as much of a slave driver as you think,” he says, parting the tumultuous sea of your thoughts.

“Really? Luke and Kieran might say otherwise.” There’s more vitriol in your voice than you intend to let out. But you’re deflecting, protecting yourself. 

Your chest tightens when Sylus looks down, idly twisting the glass stem between his fingers. His gaze softens, and something in his voice shifts. “Can’t I just spend some time alone with you? Show you how much I appreciate you for being loyal to me all these years?” 

You stiffen, feeling like someone’s thrust a knife into your gut and twisted it. You must not have heard him right. For a moment, he sounded exposed. Wounded. And for a moment, you feel bad for doubting his intentions. 

You’re about to pursue it when your waiter reappears. He’s all smiles and professionalism as he sets two martini glasses on your table, crystalline liquid swirling ominously inside.

You look up at him with quirked brows. He stands in good form, folding his hands together behind his back. 

“Courtesy of the couple over there,” says your waiter, gesturing over his shoulder with a nod. 

You peer behind him. A middle-aged man and a younger-looking woman dressed in eccentric textures smile and wave enthusiastically at you. You lift your glass to them in a quiet toast, pasting on a smile. The gesture is sweet, but what’s the occasion?

“They said, drinks for the lovely couple, and congratulations on celebrating your anniversary.”

You sputter, sending drops of your martini flying every which way. 

Sylus laughs at your plight, taking up a glass for himself and lifting it in appreciation towards the couple. You glare at him as he sips. 

“Happy Anniversary, darling,” Sylus teases. Winks for added effect. He laughs a wealthy man’s laugh while you choke. 

You contemplate correcting the generous couple, but the martini is delicious. And Sylus doesn’t seem affected by it. 

And maybe it feels good pretending that, just for a moment, he’s yours and yours alone.

—

Someone had a sweet tooth following dinner.

That someone, of course, being you. 

The dessert menu at the restaurant looked appetizing. But you had a craving for something cold. Soft-serve. Besides, you were growing uncomfortable the more that couple ordered you drinks. At one point, they’d been so bold as to stop by your table on their way out. 

They kept ogling you. Winking, laughing drunkenly, spewing out their hotel room number upstairs. When they left, you leaned over the table, cupping your hand around your mouth.

“I think they’re swingers,” you whispered to Sylus. 

He laughed, sitting back. Raised his glass to you, a brow tilting up to match the cant of his lips. “Wanna go find out?”

“Hell no! I’m a one-partner kinda gal.”

You didn’t miss how his gaze shifted. Darkened into something you couldn’t quite place. 

You find yourselves in a 1950s-inspired diner— a modest hole-in-the-wall joint with retro decor and bright lights. Only a couple of other diners inhabit the restaurant. You’re nursing a milkshake, courtesy of your boss, buzzing like a child who’s gotten everything they wanted. 

He teased you about your cravings—only you’d want ice cream when it’s cold out. But he didn’t put up much of a fight, humoring you after you wore him down with those puppy eyes and your fingers buried in his sleeves.

He entertained you further by playing the claw machine in the corner at your behest. Watching a man so big, feared, and elusive fiddle with such a garish machine—you felt honored.

You cheered him on, the sleeves of his jacket draped over your shoulders, puddling around your elbows. After several attempts, he was successful, sheepishly shoving a purple koala bear into your hands. Your face burned hot, and your cheeks ached from smiling and laughing. 

It feels like a dream. The ideal date. And for a moment, you forget that Sylus is your boss. That he could never be yours and that you’re anything but a killer. 

You fiddle with the jukebox, earning curious glances from the diner’s other customers. They’re whispering things, eyeing you warily. You ignore them, queuing up a song. And you’re dancing, silly at first, but muscle memory kicks in. Soon, you’re moving your hips, smoothing over the contours of your body, spurred by Sylus observing you from his place atop a stool. 

You wish he would smile more—an authentic smile, unhindered by sarcasm or smugness. He’s much more handsome like this. 

You think about all the times he’s smiled this way for the hunter, and you stumble in your steps. You flash him a smile when it looks like he’ll get up to help you. Carry on dancing, doing one of the things you do best.

You pretend you’re at Lux, and he makes you feel like you’re on a stage just for him, your nerves flaring at his attention. There’s a gleam in his eyes as he leans back on the countertop on his elbow, watching you with muted appreciation. How long has it been since you’ve danced for him?

So swept up by the music, you hardly register the diner slowly emptying. Not even the servers seem to be bustling about anymore. You get an ominous prickling sensation on the back of your neck, the fine hairs there standing stiff. You stop. 

You exchange a look with Sylus. He raises a brow, tapping his temple. “Keep going,” he rasps, doting, coaxing. Entranced.

He has whatever’s about to transpire under control. You trust him fully. The Bonnie to his Clyde. 

The wispy tendrils of his Evol materialize around the diner’s interior to form a barrier, tossing the restaurant into a misty haze of red and black. It’s reminiscent of hellfire, and you feel like Lilith taking part in a sacrilegious waltz. 

He doesn’t take his eyes off you, attentive as you continue to dance. And you smile, putting on a damn good show as Nikolai’s men funnel in, their cries of agony tempered by the music spilling from the jukebox and your laughter coloring the air as Sylus rends flesh from bone with his Evol. 

—

He takes you to a safe house as the night reaches its peak. 

He reasoned it was the safest option while his men tied up whatever loose ends remained from your mission. Like dining and holding hands out in public didn’t warrant an ambush. 

Someone snitched. Saw that familiar riot of white, those brawny shoulders. Heard that gritty voice mixed with your distinct laughter and sent Nikolai’s men to finish you off. Sylus picked them off while you danced unhindered, but there was no telling how many stragglers were left, ducking into the shadows, creeping along the historic brick walls. 

Again, he insists on carrying you as you break through the door of a quaint, quiet home perched on a hilltop. Secured by his biometrics. Bordered by evergreens and the calming symphony of the forest. Isolated, like him. Hidden from invasive questions, from prying eyes. 

You’re tired. The night’s adrenaline sloughed off, leaving you tenuous and agreeable, which is why you don’t put up much of a fight as Sylus walks you through the foyer, smiling down at you like you’re his precious bounty. It’s infectious. Your lips tug, too, though a little less enthused. You blink slowly. Breathe evenly, lulled by the mollifying thump of his heart against your cheek. 

He drops your stilettos on the hardwood floor halfway to the living room. Deposits you on a dark leather settee, fixing your dress over your legs and his jacket around your shoulders. Draws back. Your chest tightens. You don’t know what hits you when your fingers close around the pleated sleeve of his button-up, eyes beseeching when he looks at you from over his shoulder. 

You don’t say anything. Don’t have to.

Don’t leave. Stay.

You don’t want the dream to end. Not yet.

He chuckles low, all smooth like whisky poured into a glass. Softened, scarlet eyes pan in through the low light, his silhouette haloed by amber. He lifts your legs to settle onto the upholstery beside you. Pulls your feet onto his lap. They’re irritated. Rubbed raw from being strapped to too-tall heels all night, running and gunning like you had no limitations.

He sensed your discomfort. Always such a gentleman.

Large, sweltering hands close around your feet, kneading through pressure and knots of tension. Knuckles at the balls of your feet. You exhale slowly, pleased. Thankful. The attention’s nice. There’s a small voice wading through the murky sea of your mind, telling you this is wrong. That you don’t deserve it, his tenderness. 

You’re getting pretty fucking sick of your conscience. It’s just a foot rub. It’s not like you’re kissing him. 

“You’re good at this,” you note offhandedly. 

“My hands are more useful than you think.”

Something dark threads through his voice. Something cheeky. You ignore how your stomach flips, your mind sparkling with impure ideas. 

Drowsiness sweeps in around the corners, bordering your vision like a vignette. He’s masterful with his hands. You wouldn’t expect anything less from the king of the underworld. You doze off, shepherded through the inkiness by the faraway tick of a clock. By trees rustling beyond the massive window, the moon dragging itself to the center of the sky, cloth moving as Sylus rubs over your calves. 

You stir when he shifts. When he moves to get up and lay your legs on the couch. That feeling returns. That ache. The call of loneliness. Your sleepiness abandons you, making way for cold fright. You stumble from the settee. Rush to stand at full height, gripping his shirt at the crooks of his elbows, halting him.

Your mouth opens. Heart thundering. You don’t know what to say—what you were thinking. His gaze is unyielding, studying your face like the slow flicker of a flame. Silver brows knot. Peach lips fall slightly open. He’s waiting for something. Asking for something. 

You’re on autopilot when you cautiously angle yourself closer. Your gaze falls to his mouth, and he mirrors you, cradling your elbows as if he’s afraid to break you. You’ll blame it on the bubbly you consumed later. On the spell he somehow cast over the night, enthralling you with his chivalry. 

You tug, and he meets you halfway. Not like you have to put in much effort. He’s already leaning down. Eyes already half-moons, breath already shaky. 

He tenses when your lips meet. Shoulders drop once the initial shock peters, and then he’s kissing you with those full, molten lips. He draws you closer, hands splayed possessively at the small of your back. Thumbs cruising over the meat of your hips. Up and down your sides. Wherever he touches, you burn.

You exhale through your nose, and your arms snake around his neck. Fingers sift through the fine hairs at his nape.

He teases your mouth open with his tongue. Sighs something anguished when you grant him entry, licking into your mouth. Pulls you impossibly closer. He’s rigid and warm against you. Gathers your cheek in his palm, angling your head back. He kisses greedy. Selfish. Plunders your mouth, milking the sweetest little sounds from your body. Sounds you didn’t think yourself capable of making.

You kiss and kiss until your lips are chaffed. And even then, you don’t stop. He’s ravenous, moving against you like he’s waited eons to do this. Like he’s fought a war with himself and lost. You’re his Gettysburg. His Kryptonite.

You’ll feel sorry for yourself tomorrow. Blame it on the air, charged with something heady, your inhibitions and common sense thrown to the wolves.

It’s just a kiss. He’s your boss. And tonight, he’s been something of a friend. A dream. Friends kiss all the time, right?

So why do you feel so guilty?

— tags: @emneedshelp, @reiofsuns2001, @crazy-ink-artist, @vonev, @subliminalwish, @ikiru-wa, @inkonparchment, @regandoesthings, @szired, @alyyylog, @leekingsman, @beewilko, @an-ever-angry-bi, @abbylee0710, @sunnyf4lls, @himiko-omikami, @midiplier, @ari-shipping-stuff, @karespocketboyfriends, @glamouroki, @babygirl-panda19, @im-in-different-universe, @sillyfreakfanparty, @lunebulous, @vilehrs-blog (sorry if i missed anyone.)

climax | masterlist | falling action

[hurtspideyparker]

"What's up small fry?" Tony asks when he catches a blur of red and blue in the corner of his eye.

He continues unscrewing pieces from inside the old car engine at random, deconstructing the machine. Tony looks up at Peter when he gets no reply.

"Pete?"

Peter's hand slips from the door frame, trudging over to Tony across the workshop.

The sun must have gone down without Tony noticing, the only light in the room coming from a few scattered table lamps. Explains all the squinting he's been needing to do anyways. Peter doesn't have his mask on, but his face is too shadowed to read.

"How was patrol? I think someone made dinner, we can heat it up together. Or there's that mac and cheese you like—"

Peter comes closer and doesn't stop until he's crashing into Tony in an all-encompassing embrace. His arms constrict around Tony's waist, face squashed into the older's chest.

"Oh."

Tony looks down at the tuft of gelled curls, a warm sigh leaving Peter's mouth as his body melts into Tony.

Tony's arms jerk to catch the boy, scared he'll simply wash away, but Peter only relaxes further into the hug. Peter secures his grip with an unwavering hold despite the tension that drains from him in a steady stream.

When the hug sustains Tony pulls him closer, tucking his chin over Peter's head and breathing out his own restlessness. One arm rubs up and down Peter's back, thumb drawing a strong pressure into the firm muscle.

They stay like this; Tony's eyes close at some point, their breathing syncing into even exchanges like heart beats. He isn't sure if he should be worried or confused, but all thoughts flit out of his brain at the genuine expression of affection being laid upon him.

It's Peter who lets go first, death grip sliding away until Tony becomes aware enough to unwrap his own self as well.

"Sorry, I just really needed that," the boy mutters.

"Um. No problem."

Peter steps away, and Tony gives him a look up and down. He doesn't seem injured, but a weariness clings to his bones like laundry scent on fresh sheets.

"M'hungry. Can you make the mac n' cheese?"

Normally Tony would refuse, mostly out of the habit of saying 'no' whenever someone asks something of him before he even actually considers it, but Peter's eyes are big and earnest, and he quite possibly has turned Tony into a giant teddy bear with the way he's been appeased and clung to.

"Sure thing. Why don't you go get changed and I'll meet you in the kitchen?"

Tony is plating up the steaming, alarmingly orange food with a side of the lamb chop someone cooked earlier and a peeled clementine when Peter wanders into the room. He's in his signature hello kitty pajama pants and a striped sweater Tony is sure is his girlfriend Michelle's.

He looks a bit better now, simply sleepy instead of dead on his feet, the attempt of usual pep in his step as he comes and lays his head down in his arms on the kitchen table.

Tony places the food in front of him, Peter immediately shoving a spoonful of the pasta into his mouth without picking his head up.

"Fank 'ou."

Tony lets a humorous puff of air out of his nostrils.

"You're welcome, now don't talk with your mouth full," he says while ruffling the boys hair.

He swallows, "your hand smells like oranges."

Tony pilfers a piece of fruit from Peter's plate, taking a seat across from the boy and shooting a brief raise of his eyebrows his way.

"I wonder why."

Peter smiles at him.

He smiles back.

[clementinesbarn]

Chocolate Frogs Thursday Spotlight

MONOLOGUES: Studies of Thorns and Other Portends

THE PERSONS IN THE PLAY   (His Highness) Mr James Potter, Ph.D.   Miss Lily Evans, D.A.   Succulent   James' Ego, Esq. THE SCENES OF THE PLAY   ACT I. Common Grounds coffeeshop; seating area.   ACT II. Common Grounds coffeeshop; till.   ACT III. Same as ACT I.   ACT IV. Same as ACT II.   TIME: The Present.   PLACE: Anywhere you want, really. (James would probably say 'London'. Lily might say 'not here', but blush a little.)

Rating: G

Relationship:

James Potter/Lily Evans Potter

Characters:

James Potter

Lily Evans Potter

Additional Tags:

Pastiche

Theatre

Screenplay/Script Format

Poetry

Character Study

Eventual Romance

annoyance to friends to lovers

Fluff

Nice and Orderly Abuse of Text

Metafiction

Personification

Plants

Modern Marauders (Harry Potter)

Marauders

Marauders Era (Harry Potter)

Coffeeshop AU

nonmagical AU

(If you want)

James Potter Has a Crush on Lily Evans Potter

and it ends well

Slice of Life

'Perhaps' as a weapon and a promise

Chairs (lots of chairs)

It's a coffeeshop (duh)

but James Potter is Lactose Intolerant

(he's also whipped)

Humor

Fluff and Humor

Tea

and cakes

No Coffee (as has been alluded previously)

James Potter Has a Big Ego

And an Even Bigger Heart

AO3 Link

Perfect

Percy is out on a date and it's perfect... almost.

Rating: G

Relationships:

Percy Weasley/Oliver Wood

Percy Weasley/Original Female Character(s)

Characters:

Percy Weasley

Oliver Wood

Original Female Character(s)

Additional Tags:

Mutually Unrequited

Closeted Character

First Dates

Walk Into A Bar

AO3 Link

Posion My Mind With Your Pretty Words

Susan has a pre-Valentine's Day dilemma, Hannah finds herself helping.

Rating: G

Relationships:

Hannah Abbott/Susan Bones

Hannah Abbott & Susan Bones

Susan Bones/Mystery Guy

Characters:

Hannah Abbott

Susan Bones

Additional Tags:

Valentine's gift

The Day Before Valentine's Day

Pining

Best Friends

Friends to Lovers

Fluff without Plot

egg

Hufflepuff Girlies

Girls Kissing

You Aren't Losing Your Mind Hannah This Is Normal

Feigned Fainting

Pre-Relationship

AO3 Link

[ernest-rimmingway]

⭐Soft⭐

Tags: [mlw][mdni][watersports][fingering][overstimulation][edging][dacryphilia][clit play][bladder pressing][mentions of cunnilingus][gentle mdom][slight exhibitionism]

honorary tag: @lucky-beheaded ⭐

You're a pet.

Nothing more than a toy to sate the desire of intimacy of a monster. A beast without a name, only a purpose.

Conquest let's out a soft breath, hands moving towards your hips before he pulls you into his lap, face buried in the curve of your neck, bulging muscles wrapping around your form as he takes a deep breath, inhaling that sweet scent that clung to you.

He's not a patient man.

Not in the slightest.

But he would argue that the shift in your scent, from something bitter, akin to a deer being cornered by a hunter to the saccharine scent of clementines and honey, the smell he's only gotten whiffs of between lovers on the planets he's conquered in the name of Viltrum.

You're soft. Pliable. Weak.

Your hands cradle him affectionately, fingertips tracing the scars that adorn his body, traced the sharp, jagged lines of his bones. And he mimics you.

Hands that have crushed worlds cup your jaw, lips that snarl purse sweetly to press kisses against the fat of your cheeks and fingers that have gouged at eyes until rupture....

...circle your clit with slow intensity that makes your belly dip and your mind hazy.

"My little human." He coos softly, strong nose pressed against where your pulse thrums erratically, hands grasping at his bulky forearms, your lashes flutter and sounds slip from your lips. Perfect, rosy lips that part to let out those delightful little noises, glossy with saliva or whatever little thing he brings back from the ruins of worlds he takes.

Massive, corded muscles keep your thighs parted and you don't know how long he's kept you nestled against him, keeping you on the precipice of a world shattering orgasm.

"So.... Fragile, so... Weak. So very... Soft."

Your mind's blank, eyes bleary as you try to control your bladder because like NLE Choppa said, 'don't cum quick, I control my bladder'.

You're convulsing, clawing at his thighs as he keeps you spread so obscenely wide, glistening cunt facing the ajar door of his quarters. It's nerve-wrecking. The fact that anyone could walk in, and just...

Watch.

"So... Soft..." Conquest's free hand moves to press on your lower belly, gentle pressure from a heavy hand and your back arches, lips parting as you take a shaky breath.

You're so, so very close. Your lungs are burning with sounds you've insisted to swallow down, your skin prickles with sweat and teardrops threaten to spill. You've never been edged this long.

Much to contrary belief, Conquest always gives in. Eager to please, even more eager to allow himself the sight of your cunt pulsing, slick slipping past your holes to pool beneath you.

"Wait-wait-wait," the pleas to make him stop fall on half-deaf ears, his fingers slowing to a gentle stroke between your slippery folds, each stroke causes a squelchy noise to slip past your puffy pussy, alongside trickles of slick that soak into the silken sheets beneath you, "I have to... Pee..."

The admission is sheepish. You have no idea why.

This beast of a man has stood in the doorway of his bathroom, watching you relieve yourself with hearts in his eye, his large form filling the entryway and he's proceeded to lap at your cunt, your legs obscenely wide and your hands weakly pushing at his head.

"Then do it." Conquest whispers, hot breath ghosting over your ear and your heart drops to your spine.

"What— no— you big back- I'm not pissing mysel—llff...."

Your eyes roll back in your head when one of his meaty fingers pushes into your cunt, and he groans.

"So... Tight..." He groans, and you can feel the way his cock pushes against your lower back and you're already sweating bullets, trying to figure out how it'll fit when he eventually decides that he wants to fuck you.

You're surprised that he hasn't.

Surprised that he prefers to watch you being split open on thick fingers, his tongue lapping at your glossy cunt while he ruts against the base of his bed.

Rubbing his cock raw as he pushes you past limits that have you seeing limbo before he yanks you back to where you're meant to be.

Wrapped in strong arms.

"Piss yourself." Conquest whispers. Ticklish kisses pressed to your temples, one hand fucking your cunt with slow, deep thrusts, his rough palm grinding against your clit. While the other remains pushing down... Down... Down...

The embarassment comes second to the relief.

Fluids trickling down your thighs, soaking into the sheets and dripping into a puddle on the marble floor and you bring your hands up to hide your face.

And that coil in your belly snaps and you don't know how to feel.

Cumming around his thick finger, grinding your hips against his palm and you're whining, writhing all while making a mess that you're probably going to be too fucked out to clean. But by God, do you intend to.

Your nails are clawing at his thighs, not even ripping a stitch in his uniform and the longer he keeps stroking that gooey spot just behind your clit, the more your mind turns to a hazy mass of mush.

"Fuck... S'too much— s'too much."

This time... Your pleas do fall on deaf ears. Conquest continues to push you over the edge, your cunt gushing around his fingers and it's only when your eyes well up, fat droplets of salty tears rolling down your flushed cheeks that he pulls his finger out of you.

His tongue drags along your cheek, licking up the rivulets of tears, as well as perspiration before he shifts, setting you down on the edge of the cushioned bed.

Conquest makes slow work of arranging a plethora of pillows around you, surrounding you and keeping you nested in place before he kneels. Knees bitten by the cold of the floor but he nears his face to your pussy.

Flushed, overstimulated and glossy.

Eyes stare up at you from beneath snowy lashes. One, a beautiful and pale shade of brown, pupil large and the other, the palest of blues, nearing white. Blind, without a pupil and bisected by a scar.

Rough features, made for destruction and your hand moves to stroke along his cheek, and he inhales sharply, reveling in the softness of your touch.

Before he leans forward, his tongue lapping at your cunt with slow, unpracticed strokes. Rough and messy, you watch as he keeps his eyes on you.

"Soft..." He coos. "So, so soft. And warm. And wet..."

[milafm2002]

Happy Music Friday Everyone

This Week's Songs Are ...

Dudley - Yeah Yeah Yeahs 2006

Earthly Delights - AURORA 2024

Haxel Princess - Cherry Glazerr 2014

The Childcatcher - Lush 1996

Enjoy And Have A Great Weekend

[noir-renard]

For @haunting-heroes-creative-games Poetry-Inspired GTA, I made this comic based on "10 legs, 8 broken" by tiktok user68519586.

For those unfamiliar with the poem, it's a conversation between a spider and the human who squashed it. It's a poem that reframed how I think about and interact with bugs in my house, so it's important to me personally; but what really stuck with me is the hate the human has for the spider, mingled with fear and a sense of entitlement, it reminds me of the way the various anti-ghost characters in Danny Phantom talk about ghosts, from the disgust to the lack of care about a ghost's sense of pain, self, and existence in a world that is shared (even if ghosts are "from" the ghost zone (though many of them used to be humans, so really they're not only from the GZ)). Spiders are distinct from other kinds of bugs; as any Spider-Man fan surely knows, they're not insects! They're arachnids. They help control other kinds of bugs onenmight not want in one's house for various reasons. So Danny as the role of the spider in the poem is fitting on several levels.

When making this comic, I wanted to create distance between the humans and their humnity because of how they act, so I hid their eyes, including Jack who usually does not wear his goggles. Eyes are the windows to the soul, so by keeping theirneyes hidden from our sight (and Danny’s), we get perspective into how he's feeling. Danny only ever has one eye showing at a time because of his own internal conflict about his status as human. There's a secret eye hidden in one of the panels, though. Can you find it? (Hint: it's symbolic)

I might post a part 2 to this eventually, but I think it feels complete as is. So we'll see!

Full poem under cut!

To the spider,

the shadowed creature in the corner of the room

i hate you.

You scared me just as your brothers and sisters did before you,

and i will tell you what i told them,

You are a trespasser that does not belong here.

You entered without knocking.

Roamed freely like this is your home and decorated my walls with unwanted, silk webs without asking.

You may not be the only killer here, but only one of us is innocent, a

nd it's not you.

The spider says to me, it's brittle body squashed and dying,

It's not you, either.

There is venom infused in my fang-shaped maws,

but i was born this way.

What's your excuse?

If you could count your murders, how long would you be counting?

Am i really this threatening?

I thought human hearts were bigger that mine, but you have killed with malice instead of marrow of your bones and poison bubbling

behind your scowl

And i'm sorry for scaring you,

but i didn't know being seen would cost me my life.

Maybe

If you didn't fabricate the prickly feeling of my legs creeping upon your skin while I crawled across the living room floor,

If the webs I weaved were made of cotton candy and captured clementines, cherries, and sweet peas rather than struggling wings and blood;

If i had a pink tongue, push fur, a wagging tail, and fur legs instead of eight

If i had only two eyes, and they were glittering stars and not supermassive block holes;

If i was the same but looked different; maybe you wouldn't hate me.

Maybe you wouldn't have loved me, either, and maybe you still wouldn't have let me stay,

but maybe you would've shown me the door or a window.

Maybe you would've shown me mercy.

(But you are still standing, and I am still sorry).

I think

maybe,

no matter how reluctant,

mercy would've been enough.