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boneblushed · 6 months

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Labyrinth

Uh oh, I’m falling in love / Oh no, I’m falling in love again

synopsis you’re reunited with your ex-boyfriend, Rafe, at an Outer Banks wedding.

tags Rafe Cameron x fem!reader, exes to lovers, second chance romance, slowburn-ish, A LOT of angst, an equal amount of pining, an awful breakup but a wonderful reconciliation 💓

wc ~11k

“You look,” you murmur, squeezing Brooklyn’s shoulder gently, “perfect.”

She’s sitting in front of a round, gold-rimmed mirror, the windows on either side of her painting her skin a warm aureate. You stand in shadow behind her, the sunbeams unable to reach your pretty features. There’s a wistfulness to them that’s almost imperceptible.

Almost. If she weren’t your best friend, someone you’ve known since forever, she probably wouldn’t have noticed the way you were hiding from them. The smile on her face falters as she looks up at you through the mirror.

“Look,” she begins tentatively, frowning, “if this is too hard —”

“Do not,” you interrupt. You try for an encouraging smile; what you hope is an encouraging smile. “I’m totally fine, okay? I’m over it.”

A pause. Brooklyn’s reflection sends you a long, hard look. “No one would blame you if you weren’t.”

You know what that means, the insinuation behind her words: you were supposed to be the first one. It’s all anyone in the Figure Eight was saying when they first found out about your break-up: you’re meant for each other, though, we can’t imagine you not being a couple!

Well, neither could you, not that it really mattered. Six months on with half a heart and pulseless motive, you’ve come to realise that wretched pining comes at a costly price.

You can’t afford it anymore.

“I know,” you reply quietly.

The spaghetti strap of your cowl neck falls as you straighten, the periwinkle fabric shimmering forebodingly. An image of the Rafe you knew flashes in your mind, slipping it down to press a kiss on your skin. Your stomach drops.

“But I am,” you add, louder. As though you’re trying to convince yourself more than you are her. “I promise.”

Brooklyn stares at you for a long time before her gaze falls, acquiescing with a sigh. “I hate that you still don’t believe it.”

“Believe what?”

“That he could live a thousand lifetimes and never deserve you.”

You bite back another wince, the fresh sting of forgotten feelings pricking at your eyelids. “I do believe it,” you say quietly. “I do. That’s what makes all of this so fucking hard — that I know we’re never getting a second chance. That he chose to throw all of it away and I’m never going to be able to forgive him for it.”

“You shouldn’t have to, though!”

“We were together for half our lives, Brooke!” You turn away from the mirror, taking in a jagged breath. “We — his mom had promised me her ring before she died, for God’s sake. Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to walk away from what we had?”

A long pause. Brooke’s voice is gentle, but her words cut like a knife. “It’s not as though you had a choice, Y/N/N. He didn’t give you one.”

You look around at her, unshed tears making your pretty eyes shine. “What does it say about me that I’m no closer to accepting that than I was six months ago?”

“Babe.” A tear falls. Brooke’s features soften, and she pulls you into a tight hug, enough pressure to wring out the melancholy in your chest. “It says that you’re human.”

She rocks you for a moment before you’re forced to pull apart, a knock on the door breaking your reverie. “God,” you self-reproach, sending Brooklyn a watery smile. “I would find a way to make your day about me, wouldn’t I?”

“Maybe I should ditch Kelce,” Brooklyn replies faux-seriously, catching the stray tears wetting your lower lids. “We can elope or something.”

As though on queue, the Universe intervenes before she can go through with this idea. Perhaps it knows, having watched the pair of grow close throughout college, that there’s a part of her that really would call this all off if you asked her to.

“Sweetheart!” Comes Brooklyn’s father’s voice from behind the door, punctuated by the sharp rap of his knuckles. “It’s nearly time!”

The tension ebbs. Suddenly, everything about this wedding—the same one you’ve been helping her plan forever—becomes entirely too real. Your melancholia is a tide in this way, flowing forth and receding as its surroundings permit. Never fading away; ever-present. Though it may not be as unbearable now as it was when you first broke up, it lingers.

You’re afraid that it always will. You push down this fear like you’ve done every other.

Focus. Your eyes widen in anticipation, mirroring Brooklyn’s as they transform into nervous excitement.

“Come in!” Brooklyn calls anxiously, biting back a squeal. You’re grateful for the fact that you haven’t ruined her mood completely. “Oh my god. Oh my god!”

She stands up and turns around just as her father enters the room, his lined face shining with a wistful sense of happiness. As the atmosphere in the room shifts, she glances back at you, and your insides twist in cruel mocking. More repentant than jealous. I was supposed to be the first one.

You don’t let your expression falter. The first few chords of the processional float into the room through the ajar door, and you spring into action, smoothing out your dress and readjusting your bouquet of flowers.

“That’s my queue,” you say, squeezing her arm once more before slipping past her and her father.

In true Kook fashion, Brooklyn’s wedding ceremony is taking place on the Island Club green. Upon exiting the storage room you’ve transformed into a vanity, you find yourself in the entranceway that leads to the venue, the set-up just visible beyond its oak doors.

Benches of beige driftwood sit on either side of the aisle, twined with buttery white lilies and ivy-like viridescence. They face a brilliant floral wedding arch, where the officiant and Kelce stand talking in hushed whispers. And the sky above you is a vibrant, cloudless blue, golden sunlight fanning down upon the crowd, bathing them aureate.

In the beat that passes, you search for someone you shouldn’t.

The last time that you saw him, he was hunched over his father’s office desk. His eyes were bloodshot and his tired gaze dull; half-finished documents stared up at him in mocking, and a nagging ache was making home in his chest.

The week prior, you hadn’t seen much of each other. And it wasn’t as though he’d requested this space—he rarely did, rarely asked you for anything—you’d just taken it upon yourself to give it to him. Stay in control. If you proposed time apart before he did, maybe it would feel more deliberate; hurt less.

You were dead wrong.

“Look,” he sighs, this cruel, heavy sound that splices right through your chest, “I realise I’ve been neglecting our relationship a lot recently.”

“Yes,” you respond tentatively. “But you’ve been under a lot of pressure recently. I get it.”

“You shouldn’t have to.” He glances up at you through red-rimmed irises. “I… I don’t know how long it’ll be like this. With everything that’s happened… my dad dying, and me taking over the firm —”

“I’ve seen you through all of it,” you interrupt quietly, your voice cracking. “I’ve — no questions asked, I’ve done it. I get it, Rafe, you’ve got different priorities at the moment. But we’ve loved each other for so long now that I —”

“But that’s the thing,” he says then, swallowing hard, “I just don’t know if I do anymore. Not as much as I used to.”

The silence that follows feels as though it’s suffocating you. You haven’t said a word, and Rafe’s said plenty, but it’s you with the lungs that heave for loveless oxygen.

“Oh.”

Rafe’s Adam’s apple jumps again, and he breaks eye contact as unshed tears brim to the surface. “I’m sorry.”

It doesn’t make any sense.

“Maybe,” you try, grappling hard for a logical explanation, “maybe your grief’s fucking with your ability to feel anything.”

Rafe’s gaze lifts to your face again, teardrop tracks making your pretty cheeks shine. His heart aches, hard, and he finds it difficult to catch his breath. “But… I’ve dealt with it,” he says quietly. “I’ve had to.”

“How can you have?” You throw back, exasperated. “Rafe you — you haven’t had a moment to yourself since his funeral last month, you’ve holed yourself up in his office and acted like everything’s fucking okay!”

“Because it is!” He replies, his face hardening momentarily. “I’m — I’m fucking fine, alright? I just need to be alone right now.”

“Because you don’t love me anymore.”

Rafe winces. Your lower lip trembles. “Yeah. Because something’s missing… the — the fucking spark, or whatever… and right now, I can’t give you the sort of love you deserve.”

He was tired of hurting you through his abjection, he’d said. As if breaking things off wasn’t the most hurtful thing he ever did.

Thankfully, you aren’t able to spot him in the crowd; if you had, walking down the aisle would have been infinitely more difficult. Out of courtesy to you—and Brooke forcing his hand, of course—he hadn’t asked Rafe to be a groomsman either, so you were well safe from an untimely encounter at pre-wedding festivities. And from standing opposite him in front of the altar. You aren’t sure such close proximity in holy matrimony would be healthy for either of you.

It’s unfair on him though, you know it is. He has as much a right being best man as you do maid of honour — the four of you were thick as thieves once upon a time; in fact, it was you that’d introduced Kelce to Brooklyn.

It feels like so long ago when you think back on it now, being nineteen-years-old with a naïve heart and nothing to lose.

You and Rafe had seemed invincible then, high-school sweethearts that were somehow surviving college-borne distance. Forever, that’s the word that ended every drunk call or late night text; forever, and the promise of a proposal and beach-side villa.

“Shi—did you not see the sock on the door, Smith?” Rafe groans, his forehead dropping to your shoulder in defeat. He’s spent the past half hour getting you into a compromising position, his rough hands awry and his wet mouth on your soft skin. The amaranthine imprint of his kisses have made home on your neck. You’re straddling him with your arms wrapped around his shoulders, and he really doesn’t want to sacrifice any amount of closeness.

Kelce enters the room tentatively, his hand firmly pressed over his eyes. “Hard to miss. You two decent or what?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

You let out a peal of laughter as Rafe glowers at his roommate, his calloused palms dropping from your hips to your thighs. You push the fabric of your dress over his hands, but he kneads the flesh anyway, the skin on skin like spare oxygen.

Kelce peeks at you from between his fingers before pulling them away, an unimpressed look on his face. “C’mon, surely you’re done with her Cameron. I’ve given you guys the entire fucking day together.”

“Half an hour,” Rafe replies, his blue eyes narrowing.

“As if you need more than five minutes,” Kelce snorts, plopping down on the bed opposite Rafe’s.

“Oh fuck—” Rafe’s large hands circle your thighs and tighten, standing up and advancing toward Kelce with you in his arms, “—right off—”

“Rafe!” You gasp, suppressing another surprised laugh. “Put me down, you asshole.”

“No way, Y/N/N,” Kelce says then, raising his arms in preemptive surrender. “Your PDA’s the only reason he hasn’t given me a shiner yet.”

Rafe affirms this sentiment by pressing a chaste kiss to your temple, his eyes still narrowed as he glares at Kelce. “You’re lucky I love my girlfriend more than I do my fucking reputation.”

Kelce makes a face, keeling over and mock-gagging. “Yeah, yeah, you guys have been bethrothed since fucking pre-K, I get it. Now will you stop being so possessive and let me have a conversation with her?”

You look over your shoulder at him, untangling your arms from Rafe’s neck so he can let you down gently. When he does so, it’s with great reluctance, and he doesn’t hesitate to circle your chest so he can pull you back against him. His strong bicep is warm against your neck, solid pressure.

“What’s up, Kelcey?” You ask, surveying him with interest.

“Ghosted,” he says gloomily, falling back against his duvet, “again.”

Rafe glances down at you at the same time you look up at him, a sage, sympathetic emotion passing between you. In the weeks after your break-up, you’ll come to yearn for this emotion more than anything else — that feeling of being immune to inadequacy, of having found the love of your life so effortlessly.

“You’ve gotta stop coming on so hard, bro,” Rafe says, resting his chin on your forehead. “These sorority chicks are probably all looking for something casual.”

“He can’t help the fact that he’s a lover boy, Rafe,” you defend, frowning. “You’ve just gotta find a girl that wants what you want, Kelce.”

Kelce raises his head hopefully. “Know anyone like that, Y/N/N?”

“Well,” you pause, chewing your bottom lip thoughtfully, “I am thinking of inviting my roommate Brooklyn to the Bahamas over summer break —”

“To Rafe’s?” This piques Kelce’s interest. He props himself up onto his elbows, a hopeful grin transforming his features. “Sold.”

How times change.

Today, Kelce stands at the other end of the aisle, waiting for the same Brooklyn that was once your roommate, now his almost wife. He’s wearing an elegant black tuxedo with a lily tucked into the breast pocket, its buttery white petals shining in the sun. He looks so, unimaginably, happy. It should’ve been you and Rafe. Your heartstrings twinge.

“You’re not ready,” you murmur as you pass him on the altar, finding your place opposite his best man, Topper.

Kelce smiles at you, a little nervous, a little unshed. “Will I ever be?”

You shake your head, smiling in tandem.

The wedding procession is a brilliant display of love, and you find a way to make it about your lack thereof. Seconds blur, minutes melt into each other, and your poor mind strays to when things were far simpler. The Island Club was your date night spot, once upon a time. It’s where you’d envisioned you’d get proposed to; where you would get married one day, too. Just like this.

You’re happy for them, you swear it. It’s just a difficult emotion to maintain when the opposite comes so naturally.

Rafe doesn’t arrive until the reception itself.

He wants to believe that this is entirely accidental — he’s had a long day at the office, filled with several meetings with prospective clients. He can’t though, his wretched conscience won’t let him. He chose to go to work today, chose to schedule important meetings at the same time as Kelce’s nuptials.

He thinks he knows why this is, and isn’t sure whether he can handle the why in a satin slip and strappy heels. He wants to believe that he meant everything he said to you six months prior, but the dreadful ache in his chest crescendos in mocking every time he tries this.

He’s made a mistake. He won’t admit this if it killed him. But he knows, deep down, that something isn’t right about all of this.

If he really didn’t love you anymore, if that fucking spark was missing, there shouldn’t have been anything to move on from—the ship should have already departed. But he’s struggling, hard, and his thoughts juxtapose his actions. Despite telling you that he needs to be alone for the time being, you remain unmoored in his mind, rocking back and forth but never sinking.

He’s done his fair share of fucking up over the past few months. Got into something else too quickly, tried that no contact thing and failed miserably. There’s no going back after everything that’s happened. And yet…

“Hello?” He greets you like it’s a question; like greeting you isn’t second nature anymore. Your stomach turns.

When you respond, your voice comes out jagged, pained. “Look. I get that you’re doing this ‘no contact’ thing, or whatever, but Sarah told me something pretty fucked up and I think you owe me an explanation.” Your voice is far weaker.

Rafe winces, a familiar ache pulling through his chest. “If this is about Elle —”

“It’s been a month, Rafe. You may as well have cheated.”

…that fucking hug.

After you’d confronted him about shamelessly flirting with Sarah’s friend, Elle—in front of Sarah, no less, who told you the second it happened—he’d asked to meet up in person and explain himself.

You weren’t quite sure what to make of it all, which is probably why you’d foolishly agreed to hear him out. Ward had hired Elle as an intern before his death; she’d been around a while, long enough for an affair.

It shifted bile into your throat.

And when you’d met him, the exact opposite of what you’d hoped had happened. He’d had the gall to tell you that he thinks something’s there, that he feels that bullshit spark that he swore was missing in your relationship.

What were you meant to say?

But then he’d apologised, recognised it was too soon, begged to stay friends. Friends—like a platonic relationship is in any way gift receipt redeemable. And ironically, hearing him out wasn’t even your biggest mistake, it was that wretched hug goodbye that you’d permitted you get.

It was as though that hug held everything unsaid. Your figure had moulded against his quite perfectly, and why wouldn’t it? He’s the only romantic embrace you’d known since you were a teenager.

And when you’d finally pulled away, separated the pieces of your heart that were finally greeting his again, you hadn’t realised that he’d think about that hug for weeks gone by, just like you.

All the way up until Christmas, which occurred two months after your sudden break-up.

It was the last time you saw him under the pretence of amicability, when you came by Tannyhill to drop off presents and see his family. Mostly him. It felt pathetic, even then; for all you knew, Elle was on his mind and you were somewhere insignificant.

Rafe’s pretty sure he’s fucking doomed.

Your laugh reverberates through Tannyhill like a siren song, and he’s pretty sure he’ll never not recognise the sound of it. It’s as though every bone in his body vibrates in tune to it—so unabashed, so freeing. Far more painful now than it used to be.

You’ve become so many Taylor Swift songs and none of them end happy.

He follows your sweet timbre to the hallway before he can help himself. Once upon a time—God, it feels so long ago now—he’d have been the first person you’d have texted before dropping by the house. Instead, as he stands paralysed at the foot of the stairs, it’s Sarah who’s hugging you, who gets to hold you in her arms.

Luckily for him, your eyes are closed in the embrace, and he’s afforded a second to recalibrate after taking you in. He’s known that you’re beautiful like his first memory on Earth, but that doesn’t mean your proximity leaves him any less winded. You’re fresh-faced with limbs that have an untouchable quality to them; you aren’t his to mark anymore, no longer his to ruin.

He can’t remember the last time he kissed you. He wants to remember so fucking bad. You’re slipping through his calloused fingers and fragments of you are all he has.

“You didn’t have to get us anything!” Sarah exclaims, pulling away faux-disprovingly.

“Hey, don’t do that, of course I did.” Your arms fall back to your side, and you open your eyes in tandem. When they flit past Sarah’s face and find Rafe’s instead, it feels as though someone has tipped ice-cold water down your singlet. A pause. “You’re family.”

Sarah notes the change in your tone with a frown, turning to look over her shoulder. “Oh,” she says, her expression hardening. “Sorry, Y/N/N. I didn’t know he was home.”

You swallow. “It’s no big,” you reply, forcing yourself to look back at her. “We’re alright, really. But I should go, I have a few more presents to drop off.”

Sarah frowns harder. “You sure you don’t want to stay a bit? I know Rose’d love to see you, we’ve all really missed having you around —”

“I’m sure,” you interrupt, handing her the bag of presents you’ve wrapped. “I’ll send her a text, okay? And listen,” you pause, your expression softening a little, “I know this holiday season’s going to be hard without your dad, and I want you to know that I’m here for you, whenever you need me.”

Sarah’s eyes well with tears. “It’s going to be hard without you too, Y/N,” she murmurs. “You’re my sister.”

Your features sadden in tandem, and you give her shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “And I always will be. You know that.”

“You should come to Christmas, then,” she says hopefully.

“I —” you falter as your voice cracks, grimacing slightly, “— I’m sorry. I don’t think I can.”

When you turn around, something in Rafe’s chest cracks too. He’s still hanging on to that expression-softening catalyst from a moment prior, yearning hard for the feeling of being on the receiving end of your love.

“Why the fuck,” Sarah fumes, rounding on him once you’re out of earshot, “do you have to ruin everything you touch?”

Rafe doesn’t even have it in him to wince. “I don’t know,” he responds quietly, with an honesty that aches. “If I did, maybe I’d have found a way to fix it.”

Sarah takes pause. Slight disbelief transforms her features. “You have to still love her. How can’t you?”

“I don’t know, alright?” Rafe runs his hand through his hair slovenly. “I just — I’m not happy anymore. It’s not fucking there… I don’t know if it’ll ever come back.”

“What isn’t?”

“The… the spark.”

“Bullshit,” Sarah spits out, accusatory. “The ‘spark’ is fucking bullshit, Rafe. You’re telling me you’ve felt it the entire time you’ve known her? You’re telling me this doesn’t have anything to do with dad’s death?”

Rafe swallows thickly, discomfort coating his throat. “I don’t, alright? All I know is I can’t give her what she needs right now; I don’t know if I ever will.”

To this day, he doesn’t know about your detour that evening — how instead of driving home, you took a left to the look-out where you shared your first kiss. He doesn’t know that the waves crashing ashore bore witness to your heartbreak; that sunset orange painted your tear-streaked cheeks a gentler amber. Caressed them, subdued them, where he no longer could. He doesn’t know you agonised over how much his hair had grown in your absence, the subtle stubble on his jaw, the stark outline of his biceps.

The him that’s foreign to you, now; the him that’s Elle’s and not yours.

At twenty-four years old, Rafe Cameron doesn’t know fucking anything.

Of course, once he does eventually recognise that his ‘something there’ with Elle is a rebound, it’s too late to entertain returning to you with his tail between his legs.

He can’t. Not after everything he’s put you through in the past. So he allows regret to caulk his limbs and bitterness to coat his insides, and Rafe Cameron does what he does best — pushes it down and ignores it.

Which brings him here, a non-attendee to his best friend’s wedding and an hour late to his reception.

He sidles into the venue through a pair of double doors, and the first thing he notices is the dimmed sconces and muted fairy lights. It’s the first thing, because perplexingly, the crowd is hard to discern but you glow anyway. A spotlight illuminates the centre of the room where Brooklyn and Kelce share their first dance, but they don’t draw his gaze, your beautiful features do.

Of course you do, in your strappy cowl neck slip. There’s less periwinkle fabric than he’d anticipated, more exposed limbs, and Rafe feels like he’s run a fucking marathon as he takes you in. And your pretty eyes and glossy lips cascade into a bare neck; soft skin that’s forgotten his rough touch, his bruising kisses.

It’s momentary lust that his regret promptly squashes. He can’t think those thoughts about you anymore, even if they’re almost second nature. Even if he’s spent more tangible years of his life as your boyfriend than he has a fucking stranger.

That’s what you guys are meant to be right now: strangers. His stomach coils. His tired eyes search for the open bar on instinct.

Once he’s acquired a whiskey neat and a glass of champagne, he pulls through the crowd and makes toward your figure.

You aren’t as lucky as he is to mentally prepare for a reunion. When he holds out the shimmering flute and prompts your gaze toward him, there’s a split-second of slack-jawed diffidence before you find your common sense.

God, you wish he wasn’t so easy to stare at.

He’s wearing an expression that isn’t yours anymore, with his thick brows furrowed and lips slightly parted. Yearning, but he can’t be. His blue eyes make your heart leap. Your gaze lifts before it falls, taking in his damp hair, his larger than ever frame. Both feel unfamiliar; he’s shed the skin and aureate curls your fingers once traced. Same notes of patchouli on his neck, though you note the absence of the silver chain you once bought him for Christmas.

Does he still have it, somewhere, hidden in a shoebox under his bed? (His hand is so close to your chest, it feels like you’re dying.) Is it as painful for him to see you like this after months and months of no contact?

Can’t be. Shouldn’t be. The ache may linger, agonisingly, but you’re stronger now than you were when he first ended things.

“Oh,” is all you can muster, accepting the flute of champagne. When your fingers brush, you reprimand the jolt of static. Lust may be hard to shake, but you resolve to let logic prevail. “Thanks.”

Rafe feels it too, harder, more unbearable. “Don’t mention it.”

You break eye contact to look out into the crowd, though it’s a struggle finding anything to focus on. “When’d you arrive?”

“Five minutes ago,” he admits, staring at your side profile for a second longer than he probably should. He analyses the glittery stuff on your cheekbones—highlighter?—for traces of a familiar feeling. “Work shit.”

“Ah,” you reply, raising your eyebrows at him. “Some things never change, huh?”

Rafe winces. “Look, Y/N, I —”

“I’m kidding, Rafe, relax,” you interrupt, sending him a small smile. It makes his stomach turn. “It’s all going well, I hope?”

“It is, yeah,” he responds, smiling in tandem. “Ish. Still doing a fuck tonne of late nights and weekends.”

“Bummer.” It feels strange, making small talk in this way. Strange, though not particularly as awful as you’d predicted. “How’re Rose and your sisters?”

“Yeah, they’re good,” they miss you, “Sarah’s going to UCLA in the fall.”

You nod. “She told me.”

Something in Rafe’s chest drops. He turns to you, his piercing gaze making your skin burn. “I didn’t realise you guys kept in touch.”

“We’ve always been really close. You know that.”

Because of me. “Right.” His eyes fall to your throat as you take another pull of champagne, smooth and unblemished and painfully foreign. “I’m glad.”

You turn to him then, an unreadable expression on your face. “Me too.”

A beat. The pair of you stare at each as the surroundings buzz into static.

“Listen, Rafe, I —”

“Y/N, I’ve been —”

You falter first, scrunching up your face abashedly. “Sorry. You go.”

“I…” Rafe pauses, running his calloused palm through his hair, “I guess I just want to apologise. For everything.”

Your eyes widen, and you turn away from him abruptly. “Rafe, I don’t know if now is the best time to have this conversation.”

“Shit, I know. I know I’m about five months too late and don’t deserve to be heard out.”

“Well,” you pause, chewing on your bottom lip apprehensively. Your voice quietens. “Maybe not at a wedding.”

Or ever. You tip back the rest of your champagne just as the slow dance fades out, breaking away from him. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

Rafe fucking hopes so. He needs a clean slate if it’ll kill him. He nods reluctantly, watching you disappear into the crowd in front of him. The ache in his chest crescendos as the physical distance swallows you completely.

—

“We love you,” Brooklyn mouthes, blowing you a kiss through the open window. The limousine she’s in stretches forward with jet-black grandiosity, its ignition blaring alive as you catch it in mid-air.

When you blow one back, Kelce peeks over her shoulder and sends you a wink. The pair of them wave to the wedding-goers surrounding you before the vehicle pulls forward, leaving you in its dust. You watch them exit the Island Club gates, and a sense of bittersweet melancholia finds home in your chest.

That should’ve been you. You turn around as the crowd begins to disperse and find yourself face to face with Rafe once again.

“Oh,” you say, looking up at him in surprise. When your expression relaxes—in recognition—his chest pulls in tandem. “They’re sweet, huh?”

Us; that should’ve been us. Rafe nods, smiling wistfully. “Can you believe you’re the one that set them up?”

“At your holiday house,” you return, smiling in tandem. “This was a two-person wing man job.”

“Nah. You were the one that saw their potential.” A pause. “You’ve always been really good at that.”

Your brow furrows. “At setting people up?”

“At seeing their potential,” Rafe corrects. An unreadable emotion crosses his blue irises. “Even when they don’t deserve it.”

Your expression falters. You aren’t sure what to say to this, so you don’t say anything at all.

“Listen,” Rafe tries again, scratching the back of his neck, “d’you need a ride?”

“Well…”

You hesitate, looking over his shoulder for your parents. When you spot them, they’re in avid conversation with some family friends; they look extremely comfortable, like they’re going to be dawdling until God knows when.

You’re searching for justification even though he doesn’t deserve it. After all the pain he’s caused you, your wretched heart still yearns for more.

Fucking sadist.

“Actually, yeah,” you finish after a beat, bringing your gaze back to him. “That’d be great, thank you.”

His shoulders relax. “Yeah, of course. You have all your things?”

“Uh huh.”

“This way.”

You allow him to guide you to his pick-up trunk, pretend that you didn’t discern it right away. Besides, you were meant to have forgotten the location of his unofficial ‘official’ parking spot. So you follow him toward it, deny the familiarity of its number plate, and act like every dent and wretched scratch isn’t a piece of your heart.

“Shit—ow!” You curse, hurtling forward as you stall, again. “This is fucking impossible, Rafe. I quit.”

Rafe grins perplexedly, giving your shoulder a squeeze. “Baby,” he placates, “if Top can learn to drive manual, anyone can.”

You make a frustrated noise, crossing your arms over your chest. “Not me, clearly.”

Rafe lets out a laugh, unbuckling your seatbelt so he can pull you into his lap. “C’mere.”

When he does so—with entirely too much ease—he pinches your chin between his forefinger and thumb so he can guide your lips against his. It’s an unhurried kiss, a sure press of emotion, as though he’s rousing the embers that live within your ribcage.

He has this funny way of leaving you out of breath no matter how chaste the embrace. You break away reluctantly, raising your eyebrows at him. “So is this the reward system you used when you were teaching him to drive, hot-shot?”

Rafe makes a face, dipping his head to sponge a kiss to your neck. “Why? You jealous?”

“Never,” you sigh, running your fingers through his hair. “You wouldn’t dream of leaving me for someone else, Rafe Cameron. The Figure Eight wouldn’t forgive you if you did.”

“I wouldn’t forgive myself if I did.” Another teeth-scraping kiss. “I’d be crazy to let you go. I’ve been in love with you since we were freshman.”

He doesn’t open the passenger’s side door for you after unlocking his pick-up truck. That isn’t his place anymore.

He wants to, anyway. You want him to, badly. This revelation passes unsaid between the two of you as you climb into the seat yourself, unscathed by chivalry.

Once you’re buckled in, your gaze lifts to the new air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. “Huh,” you say, flicking it absently, “you replaced it.”

He wants to say, you left me no choice. He wants to say, old spice smells like you. “Oh yeah,” he replies instead, clearing his throat. “Rose got me it.”

“It’s nice.”

“Thanks.”

He shifts into reverse and backs out of the park, and there’s a split second where he almost places his hand on your headrest. He can’t do that anymore. Too close; not close enough. You notice it too. An ache passes from his heart to yours.

“Are you going to take any time off over summer break?” You ask, keeping your gaze on the road ahead.

Rafe pulls out onto the main road before turning to you and responding, “I wasn’t planning on it, but I think I might need some.”

“I think you might need some too,” you agree, sending him a fleeting smile. “Bahamas?”

You don’t expect the tears in his eyes that follow. You straighten abruptly, your eyebrows pulling together. “Sorry, I didn’t mean —”

“No—shit, I just—” he falters as his voice cracks, clearing his throat again, “I don’t think I could go back there any time soon. Too many memories.”

Your expression softens. “Your dad, of course. I get it. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You have nothing to be sorry about.” He takes in a jagged breath. “Shit, I’m the one that should be apologising. For everything.”

“Rafe —”

“No, listen…”

He pauses as he turns left onto your street, pulling onto the side of the road as soon as he can. He’s still a good mile away from your house, but it feels an injustice to keep you waiting for an explanation. When he turns and angles his body toward you, there’s a brokenness on his face that makes your miserable heart falter.

“I’m… I’m so sorry for everything I put you through after I broke up with you. Even if that was what I needed at the time, even if it was the right decision, I shouldn’t have been so fucking heartless and I regret not reaching out to you more often.”

You swallow thickly. He takes your silence as encouragement to keep going.

“You deserved better than the way I treated you… you’ve always deserved better than me. I didn’t know how to deal with all of my grief and I pushed you away in the process. It was… fuck, it was so selfish of me, and I’m sorry. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t hate myself for it.”

He’s taken all of the oxygen in the car, and you find yourself struggling for air. You turn to him, every drunken rationalisation manifest. “Thank you,” you whisper, “for saying that.”

“And listen, the Elle thing —”

Too much. “Rafe,” you interrupt, swallowing again. “Stop. It’s fine. I accept your apology.”

Rafe frowns, the furrow in his brow painfully evident. “Yeah? Because… because I��d understand if you didn’t.”

“Yeah,” you affirm, turning away from him. “Besides, it’s ancient history. I forgave you a long time ago in my head.”

“You did?” Rafe’s asks, searching your features in earnest. “Why?”

The champagne you’ve consumed swirls uncomfortably in your stomach. “I had to,” you say quietly. “It was the only way I was going to be able to move on from the situation.”

Rafe’s stomach drops. “Which you have.”

“Which I have.”

The smokescreen between you smothers any semblance of hope you might’ve shared. He nods, turning on the ignition once again. “I hope that means you’re happy, Y/N.”

“It does,” you reply, “I am.”

“Good.” It doesn’t feel good at all. “Maybe this means we can be friends.”

You turn to him again, raising your eyebrows. “Friends?”

“Like we were before,” he affirms, putting the car into drive. His fingers brush the bare skin of your thigh near the gearshift. A very unfriend-like jolt of static shoots into your chest. “I… I don’t know. Sometimes I think I just miss my best friend.”

Your heart sighs. “Me too.”

“Friends then.”

“Yeah,” you reply, sending him a small smile. “Friends.”

—

You haven’t been to Shake Shack since you broke up with Rafe. You didn’t even realise you’d evaded it so long; perhaps it was a subconscious thing, too many painful memories to bear.

You remember when it first opened up in the Banks, this egalitarian refuge nestled between the Cut and Figure Eight.

Rafe Cameron remembers too, remembers bringing you here on your very first date. Roguish at fourteen with endless charm and a handsome face, he had far less creases etched onto his forehead then; far less familial expectations to deal with.

If only you knew he’s evaded it too. When he pulls into the carpark, the aforementioned date comes forth in fragments.

When memories lie dormant so long in one’s head, they tend to lose the stitches that hold them together. Nervousness, excitement, cherry coke and a lilac singlet. The strange feeling of forever before either of you could place it. He doesn’t remember any of your conversation, nor how long the date lasted, but he remembers the cloudless sky, the flutter of new love in his stomach.

The pair of you share a look before exiting his pick-up truck. A look that says: uh oh, and insinuates far more than that.

“So how’s work going, anyway?” Rafe asks, shoving his hands into his front pockets. He’s a beat behind you head toward the entrance, and you can feel your neck burn where his eyes remained trained on you.

“Yeah, alright, same old,” you say, sending him a fleeting smile over your shoulder. His blue irises are dappled golden in sunlight, and their brilliance unsteadies you, the eye-contact like a firestarter. You clear your throat. “Sam quit.”

Rafe’s eyes widen. “You’re kidding.”

“Not kidding,” you shake your head, “he ended things with Peyton and booked a Contiki in South East Asia.”

“Shiiiiiit,” Rafe wolf whistles, shaking his head in tandem. “Is he going through some kind of quarter life crisis?”

You shrug. “Who would let someone like Peyton go, huh?”

Rafe resists the urge to wince. He can think of one person in particular who threw away something far more special. He clears his throat significantly, regret like molasses coating the sides of his windpipe. “Yeah. How’s she doing with it all?”

“Oh you know Peyton, she’s the queen of acting unbothered,” you reply, sounding reproachful. “Even when she’s heartbroken, she refuses to tell me about it.”

Rafe frowns. “Fuck that.”

“Yeah?” You send him a wayward glance, raising your eyebrows knowingly. “Cause to me, it sounds like someone else I used to know.”

There’s a pause as he meets your gaze, a frightening wistfulness passing between you. It lingers.

“Right.” You’re at the entrance to Shake Shack now, and Rafe grapples for purchase on the one thing he can control—friends. He pulls open the door and beckons you forward, “So. Is today the day you branch out and order something new, Y/N?”

When you pass by him, a tendril-like brush of shoulder on chest, the buttery scent of your vanilla perfume lingers. A lot about you does, a lot more than he’d care to admit.

Rafe’s wretched heart cycles between the old and new you like it’s trying to make them both fit within its chambers.

“Don’t think I have a choice,” you reply, sending him a smile over your shoulder. “They’ve completely revamped their menu since the last time we were here.”

Rafe raises his eyebrows at you. “They have?” You checked?

“Uh huh,” you reply, nodding. “I was going to make a reservation here for our anniversary way back when.” You clear your throat. “When I went on their website to do so, I realised that their menu was totally different.”

You leave out the part where you’d stopped by soon after, asked—no, begged—the manager to serve you the originals when you came. You know, when old time’s sake was a sacred concept. When that sweet, lovesick version of you still existed.

“Oh shit,” Rafe says. Though it’s subtle, he catches the smidge of diffidence in your voice, like the ghost of relationship’s past rearing its ugly head. You checked, for him, and you’re so nonchalant about it. Like it may have mattered then, but right now it matters far less.

He feels an awful twinge in his chest. He adds, “That sucks.” He isn’t sure whether he’s referring to the change in menu or the change in your heart’s purpose.

“I know.”

“I was looking forward to ordering the usual.”

“Me too.” You shrug. “We’re just going to have to find a new usual, I guess.”

What you mean is, make new memories that’ll replace the old ones. What you mean is, erase the nostalgia being here brings.

Also, though you’d never willingly admit it, start anew.

Rafe nods, stepping forward and glancing up at the menu. Though it’s different to the one he remembers from his youth, the interior of the diner is comfortingly familiar — same ugly yellow track lights, same checkered linoleum underfoot. Same fingerprint-smudged counter and broken drinks machine, same uniform on the workers, same greasy smell permeating.

And the same booth you were partial to nestled in one corner, it’s retro cushion covers faded as ever.

The menu, and the girl beside him. The only two things that feel different.

“Hm.” You frown, deliberating over the menu. “I’m thinking the ‘classic’. You want to split some curly fries?”

Rafe raises his eyebrows, his blue eyes full of mirth. “So the one that’s exactly your old order, minus the pickles. Got it.”

“Yes,” you decide. “Except I’ll ask them to add pickles.”

“Of course you will.” Rafe grins. “I’ll get the same.”

You gasp, faux-scandalised. “Rafe Cameron eating pickles? Now I’ve seen everything.”

Rafe raises his eyebrows. “How d’you know I’m not just ordering it to pawn ‘em off to you?”

You balk. “I don’t, I guess.”

“And yes, to the curly fries,” he adds, quick to change the subject. The bashfulness on your features dissipates, but the tension in the room weighs ever-present.

You nod, sliding your wallet out of your back-pocket. “Should we just split the bill, then?”

“No way,” Rafe says, clasping your wrist to hold it in place. Your pulse feels funny. “I got it.”

“Rafe.” You frown, shaking your head. “Look, it really isn’t a big deal —”

It is to me. “Exactly,” he interrupts. “Which is why I got it.”

Maybe you should argue some more, insist on paying until he gives in. But you don’t. Between the pulse-jolting closeness and mocking sense of nostalgia, you aren’t sure you have it in you to retaliate.

Though in an act of rebellion, you avoid your usual booth. Once you’re seated at a new table and separated by your burgers, you re-enter this stupid friendship thing you’ve adopted. The one that boasts no-strings like the red one isn’t obvious.

“So,” you say, popping a curly fry in your mouth. “You remember Maya, right?”

Rafe makes a face. “That psycho roommate you had in senior year? Yeah, pretty hard to forget.”

“Well, she hit me up a month ago to let me know she’d be in the Banks to see her boyfriend.” At his audible gasp, you nod significantly. “I know. Asked if I wanted to catch up while she was here.”

Rafe wolf whistles in amusement. “No fucking way. After the Hell she put you through?”

“I fucking know,” you reply, grimacing in disdain.

Rafe raises his eyebrows, swallowing down a handful of curly fries. “Tell me you said no.”

You raise yours in tandem. “What do you think, casanova?”

“Y/N!” He groans, shaking his head. “Why do you put yourself through this shit?”

You frown, reaching for your soda and sipping stubbornly. Condensation rolls down your palm, the soft skin shining. “C’mon! It was useful, I swear. I got the intel on Maya and her mystery OBX man.”

Rafe leans forward in interest, taking a pull of his soda too. “Go on then.”

“God, I’ve been sitting on this information for ages,” you say, your pretty eyes full of excitement. Rafe’s heart leaps. “I wanted to tell you as soon as I found out, but we weren’t talking and you were avoiding me and I didn’t know whether I should break no contact.”

It deflates just as quickly, sinking into his stomach like deadweight. “I wasn’t… I don’t know, I thought it’d be best if I kept my distance.” He sighs, sitting back and raking his fingers through his hair. “Clearly that was a mistake. I haven’t been this relaxed in fucking ages.”

You smile small. “Yeah. This is nice.”

“Nice.”

“Anyway,” you clear your throat, this sticky, molasses-like something rising from your chest, “it’s Dylan. Like Dylan fucking Young that had a crush on me in freshman year.”

“Fuck off, seriously?” Rafe replies, mirth evident on his features. “Not kidding, think it’d be grounds for a restraining order if she ever found that out.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” You exclaim, raising your eyebrows significantly. “You promise to take this to your grave, Cameron?”

Rafe nods, faux-somber, extending his pinky toward you. “He won’t hear it from me, Y/L/N.”

When your fingers entwine, you wonder whether he feels it too. It’s a jolt of static that leaves your skin warm and your insides funny, and you wonder whether the effect it has on you is endearing or pathetic.

The latter, you conclude. The red string of fate disagrees.

“Good,” you say, retrieving your hand. “Oh, and,” you take a generous bite of your burger, “did you hear that Taylor’s moving to Texas?”

“I did, actually,” Rafe replies. “From Top, funnily enough.”

You frown. “He’s still pining, huh?”

“Unfortunately.” He pulls apart his burger to pick out the green pickles, placing them onto your plate before re-assembling. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. In the offensive, fluorescent lighting, they shine up at you in mocking. “Anyway, I should probably learn to get used to it. I’m moving into Kelce’s room now that he’s happily wed.”

Your jaw slackens in surprise. “You’re moving in with Topper?”

Rafe grins. “I know. Who would’ve thought, huh?”

“But,” you pause, popping another curly fry into your mouth, “why?”

“Needed to get out of Tannyhill, I guess.” He falters, swallowing down the bile-like rise of emotion from his chest. “Too many memories.”

Your expression softens. “That makes sense.”

“Besides, Sarah’s starting college soon, and Wheeze’s off at boarding school for the majority of the year anyway.” He shrugs. “And Rose… well, she’s at the Bahamas house more than she is in the OBX.”

“Too many memories,” you repeat, frowning sadly.

“Yeah. I guess.”

There’s silence then, the comfortable kind. An emotion passes between you that feels both familiar and new at the same time.

It matters less when you finally finish, what you speak about, whether you’ll meet again. All you know is, something feels different now, as though there’s embers that this reunion has reignited in your ribcage. Dormant though they had once been, you’d always hoped that the renewed hope would set them aflame.

The next day, you wake up to a text from Rafe.

thank you for yesterday. It was really nice.

You don’t have it in you to reply; Rafe doesn’t mind. He knows you feel the same way.

—

It’s a few weeks before you see him again, at a farewell party for Brooklyn and Kelce.

Prior to embarking on their honeymoon, they were shifting their lives to Chicago; laying down the foundations of stability so they could return to a clean slate.

It upsets you to no end. You’d always assumed that her marriage to Kelce would guarantee that she settles down in the Banks.

Rafe Cameron must remember this, the way he does everything else. He hands you a beer and clinks his own against it, beads of condensation sliding over his calloused hand.

“Huh,” he murmurs, shaking his head in faux-disappoint, “so much for staying here and ruling the Eight with an iron fist.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” You exclaim, taking a generous pull of beer. Rafe’s gaze falls to the bare column of your throat, and he temporarily loses his bearings. “Does loyalty mean absolutely nothing around here?”

Rafe grins appreciatively. “They’re bound to come back, you know.”

“And how can you be so sure?”

“Because,” Rafe pauses, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “we were all cursed by the hometown witch when we were babies.”

You let out a peal of laughter. “Is that why I came back here after college?”

It isn’t lost on you that Rafe is standing far closer to you than he should. His spicy, cedar-wood cologne presses over your figure in waves. He bows his head to eye level, still grinning his mirth, “It’s why we all did. It’s also why they aren’t going to last more than a year in Chicago, I’m calling it now.”

“Who isn’t going to last more than a year in Chicago?” Comes Brooklyn’s voice from behind him, pulling the pair of you from your reverie.

He breaks away and turns to find her standing behind him, her eyebrows raised accusatorially at your closeness.

You smile guiltily at her, raising your arms in surrender. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t deny it either!” Brooklyn reproaches, faux-scandalised. She sends Rafe a playful glare, reaching for your arm and pulling you away. “I’m rescuing her from your bad influence, Cameron.”

Rafe nods sagely, taking a sip of his beer. “I think that’s wise, Astor—” he balks, shaking his head, “—sorry, Smith. Shit, Brooklyn Smith, huh? Guess I can’t do that last name thing ‘round here anymore, can I?”

“Not with us,” she replies, turning the pair of you around. She sends you the ghost of a wink before adding, “Y/N’s fair game, though. You know she’d rather die than take a guy’s last name.”

Something in Rafe’s chest deflates. “Yeah?”

You frown at him over your shoulder, mildly bewildered. “You knew that, Cameron.”

Maybe I thought I was different. “True.” He raises his beer bottle in acknowledgement. “Besides, Y/L/N suits you too much.”

Not as much as Cameron would have, once upon a time. You nod approvingly, the twinge in your heart conveying the exact opposite. “Doesn’t it just?”

Brooklyn steers you to the kitchen under the pretence of grabbing a drink, her true intentions becoming obvious when Kelce pivots into earshot on his barstool.

“So?” She prods, rounding on you once you’ve halted. “What’s the deal?”

“Deal?” You echo, feigning confusion. “What deal?”

“Don’t do that,” she replies, narrowing her eyes accusatorially. “Are you guys seeing each other again?”

You swallow. Your gaze darts to a helpless-looking Kelce. “Why? Has he said something?”

“That’s the thing,” Kelce mutters, shaking his head thoughtfully. “He hasn’t. But he’s… different.”

You frown. “Different how?”

“I don’t know… chiller. Happier. Like he was before Ward passed away.”

“Of course he is,” Brooklyn snorts, not buying it for a second. “He’s finally being absolved of all his guilt!”

“Brooklyn…” you sigh.

“What? It’s true!” She asserts, crossing her arms across her chest. “He’s… listen, Y/N, whatever you think this is, you need to snap out of it. He’s proved time and time again that he doesn’t have the emotional capability to deal with his shit, and you’ve been made collateral too many times to forgive him this quick.”

“Quick?” Your chest feels on fire. Isn’t seven months of torture enough exoneration?

“C’mon baby, you’ve gotta cut him some slack,” Kelce assuages, gentle but firm. “He fucked up, sure, but he also lost his dad, remember?”

“Grieving or not, he shouldn’t have pushed her away.”

“Granted, but we’ll never know exactly how he was feeling —”

“We shouldn’t have to, you just don’t do that to someone you love —”

“I’m still here, you know,” you interrupt quietly, frowning. “That someone that Rafe doesn’t love.”

A pause. Its silence that’s distilled in the overhead lighting, the scene beneath it awash in dim regret.

Brooklyn’s features are softer when she breaks the silence. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I just… I worry about you.”

You know she does; it isn’t her fault. She’s the one that slept over for four weeks straight post break-up, forced food down your throat and wiped away all your tears.

“Don’t apologise, Brooke, I get it,” you say, sending her a small smile. “But I’m fine, I promise. This isn’t even… this feels different.”

“Different how?”

“Like… you know that saying: ‘You’ll never find the same person twice, not even in the same person’? That’s how this feels. We haven’t fallen back into old habits.”

Brooklyn regards this for a moment, surveying your features carefully. “But you’ve been hanging out?”

“Only once,” you reply honestly. “Sent a few texts back and forth, that’s all. If… if anything were to happen, it’d be like a new relationship, not like restarting the old one. You know?”

“I do.”

Kelce smiles. “That’s… shit, that makes sense.” There’s a wistfulness to his voice. “That’s why I couldn’t figure out what it reminds me of, this different him that’s chilled and happy.”

You furrow your brow. “Hm?”

“It’s freshman year him all over again,” he explains. “You know… when the two of you got close the first time ‘round.”

“Oh.” Your heart soars. “Square one, huh?”

Kelce shrugs, sharing a meaningful look with Brooklyn. “Square one I guess.”

You’re about to respond when Rafe’s figure pulls your gaze, his crossed arms and broad shoulders blocking the kitchen entrance. He’s wearing a handsome expression and his hair is perfectly unkempt, the heady scent of his cologne juxtaposing his lack of proximity.

Sometimes, life is unfair. Your ex-boyfriend, now new friend, eliciting such un-platonic thoughts is one of those instances.

And it isn’t as though you’ve given Rafe much of a break, his blue eyes caught on your figure like a moth to a flame. You aren’t wearing a dress he recognises, which is both a delightful and agonising revelation.

Delightful, because it reveals bare expanses of skin that make his wretched hands itch in longing. Agonising, because it’s a reminder of the seven long months that he’s had to spend grappling with your absence.

Having a smile as pretty as yours is extremely unfair, all things considered. And eyes. Soft skin. He needs to stop staring before he does something stupid.

“Perfect,” he announces brusquely, “are we hosting our intervention now?”

He looks at you expectantly. You raise your eyebrows. “You know,” he adds, “the one where we beg them to stay in the Banks?”

“Hey!” Brooklyn exclaims, her green eyes full of mirth. “What d’you mean stay in the Banks? Newsflash, I’m not even from here.”

“You’re not from Chicago either, Ast-Smithy,” he returns significantly, sending her a meaningful glance. “Besides, you married into a Figure Eight family. You are very officially one of us now.”

“Not for long!” Brooklyn sings, sending you a wink.

“C’mon, Smith,” Rafe tries, turning to Kelce and feigning disappointment. “What happened to our sacred pact?”

“We were eight, Cameron.”

“And already privy to the tragedy of small-town life,” Rafe sighs faux-dramatically, nodding in agreement. “I’m bitter, alright? I thought I’d be the first one to get out of here.”

He glances over at you fleetingly as he says this. We’d be the first ones, his heart corrects in vain.

“As if,” you scoff, raising your eyebrows. “Mr Cameron fucking Development leave this place before me? No chance.”

Rafe grins roguishly, his blue eyes shining with amusement. “You’re all talk, Y/L/N. We both know it.” He sends Kelce and Brooklyn a meaningful glance. “We all are.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re going to be here all fucking night if we keep arguing about this,” Brooklyn decides, patting Kelce’s thigh to prompt him to stand. “C’mon, baby, we should probably get back to mingling.”

“You know,” she adds, narrowing her eyes playfully. “‘Cause it’s the last time we’ll see some of these people.”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head bemusedly. Any retaliation on Rafe’s tongue fails at the timbre of it.

Once they’re out of sight, you turn to him, adopting a faux-somber look. “If we are truly doomed to a life in the Eight, will you promise me something?”

He’s still grappling with the fact that he’s a man starved of your beautiful laugh, now reborn. “Go on.”

“Should you find me yelling at Island Club employees about flower arrangements or charcuterie boards, shoot me.”

Rafe laughs, and it reverberates through your bones warmly. “And suffer alone? No way. I’ll meet you in the middle. Lobotomy?”

“No thoughts in my brain? So generous,” you tease. “Alright. It’s a deal.”

Rafe clinks his beer bottle against yours in confirmation, taking a generous pull of the bubbly liquid. “Can we trade promises?” He asks.

You take a sip in tandem, maintaining eye contact as you do so. There’s tension in the air, that familiar-new feeling manifest, and it’s no longer frightening, but rather a comforting embrace.

You marvel in it. Breaking free feels fruitless. “Yes.”

“If you make a plan to settle elsewhere, will you tell me?”

“Of course I will.” A pause. “Although, I think you’re right. I don’t think any of us are truly capable of leaving permanently.”

“If anyone is though, it’s you,” he says, so matter-of-factly, like he actually believes it. “I mean… you’re the only one who had the balls to go to a college out of state. The rest of us just accepted a cushy offer at UNC.”

“Doesn’t matter,” you dismiss. “I was back here so often I barely left.”

Rafe raises his eyebrows. “Only because you had a reason to come back.” You still do, if you’ll take me.

I still do, if you’ll take me. “True.” You frown, thinking on this for a moment. “Even so… I don’t know. Maybe it’s that hometown curse talking, but I wouldn’t want to raise my kids anywhere else in the States.”

Rafe’s gaze steadies, pulsing through you in waves. “I get that. We had a pretty sweet childhood, all things considered.”

You make a face. “Like, I don’t think I can deal with this iPad kid epidemic. Least we were sheltered from all that crap, you know?”

“Yeah,” Rafe replies, raising his eyebrows significantly. “Even if there were plenty of other things to jade us with.”

“Shit, I know,” you respond, laughing bemusedly. “See, only people from the Eight know how political beach clean ups can get.”

Rafe chuckles in tandem, taking another sip of his beer. “God, our lives are fucking ridiculous.”

You raise your bottle in agreement. A comfortable silence falls between you.

After pause, Rafe speaks up again. “You know,” he says quietly, an unnameable emotion flickering across his blue irises. “I don’t even think it’s everyone in the Eight.”

You balk. “Hm?”

“The whole, knowing each other thing,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “You’ve always understood me better than anyone else.”

Your traitorous heart leaps, and you force yourself to ignore it. Actions have always spoken louder than words, and you decide now’s as good a time as any to confront him about this.

It’s time to be brave, you decide. You say, “I find that hard to believe.”

“Why?”

“Elle.”

Rafe’s miserable heart falters, penitence like a lump in his throat. He’s been preparing for this accusation since your very first reunion, but it still doesn’t feel like enough; he’s a coward trembling at the frontlines, anyway.

“I’ve… we’ve… my therapist and I have talked about that situation at length.”

You eyes widen in surprise. “Your therapist?”

“I’ve been going to therapy, yeah,” Rafe replies, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “For a month or so now, every week without fail.”

It isn’t lost on you that Brooklyn and Kelce’s wedding was a month ago. The rift in your ribcage widens.

“Has it been helping?” You ask.

“A bit,” Rafe admits. “Mostly just to validate what I knew all along, I guess.” At your silence, he continues, “That… shit, that I’ve got this problem where I push people away when I need them the most. The Elle thing, there’s no fucking excuse for it, none, but it became pretty obvious after you confronted me that she was just a rebound.”

“A rebound,” you echo.

“A distraction, an escape… I don’t know.” He rakes his fingers through his hair slovenly. “All I know is, I didn’t care about her, so I didn’t have to push her away. She didn’t make me talk about my dad, my grief, anything, so she was easy enough company to have around when I felt like it.”

“Oh.” You swallow. “But I did.”

“But you did,” Rafe affirms, grimacing sheepishly. “Shit, all you fucking did was care about me and all I did was push you away.”

You try to be pragmatic. “Grief makes people do shitty things.”

“It doesn’t matter. You didn’t deserve it.”

“True.” A pause. Your gaze falls over Rafe’s face in paces, his haggard expression making you soften. “Listen. I’m glad you’re going to therapy, seriously. I know that’s a pretty big step for you to take.”

For you. “Thank you,” he replies quietly. “It… I just wish I’d listened to you the first time, you know? When you’d told me to go to therapy before I’d ended things.”

Your throat feels funny. “No use living in the past.”

“You’re right,” Rafe replies. A pause. The ghost of a smile flickers over his features. “What did I ever do to deserve your forgiveness?”

You smile in tandem, a little rueful. “Maybe you were a martyr in your past life, Cameron.”

“And you’re one in this one,” Rafe responds. “You know, after I lobotomise you over flower arrangements and charcuterie boards. Does that count as a full circle moment?”

You grin. “Not when you live on the Eight. Infinity sign, baby.”

It slips out before you can stop yourself, the ghost of pet-names past pushing Rafe’s pulse to fibrillation. Your eyes widen abashedly. “Should we rejoin the party?”

Rafe nods, “Probably,” and then, when you’re just out of earshot, “I’d do something stupid if we didn’t.”

—

Over the next few weeks, you begin to see more and more of one another.

A few texts back and forth become more than a few virtual trysts, and every spare moment you have is dedicated to being in each other’s presence.

And it isn’t as though you’re mending old love, this feels like something else altogether. Though old memories may flit through your brain on occasion, they are boundless and free — they don’t define this connection.

You’re starting anew. Rafe realises it too.

He still remembers how it felt to tell you he loved you the first time around, fourteen years old with a bashful smile and enough hope in his heart to ache. He still remembers what you were wearing the first time he drove you around; the first time you came to UNC to visit; the shade of lipgloss you worshipped from Sephora. And you remember it all too, the feeling of being in his pick-up, of being with this roguish, freshman boy that had so much charm your insides soared.

Going through it all again feels like receiving a new lease on life. How lucky are you to love a different person in the same man?

Currently, the pair of you are sprawled out on beach towels, velvet dusk revealing the bespangled sky stretching above you. Beside you, take-out boxes and sodas lie in the sand, discarded. Every now and then, his wrist brushes yours with a jolt of static.

You’re lying closer to each other than you should, his body heat pressing over you in paces. He’s pretty sure his clothes are going to smell like your soft-toned, vanilla perfume later, and he quietly delights in this.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says finally, breaking the silence.

You smile. “Shocker.”

He nudges your shoulder with his in faux-admonishment, turning his head toward you. It lingers; he’s closer. Your pulse feels boundless. “I’ve been thinking,” he repeats. “And I’ve realised something.”

You turn your head in tandem, his proximity making you balk. “What’s that, Cameron?”

“If we hadn’t broken up in the first place, I’d probably never have gone to therapy.”

A hush falls. “True.”

“And I’d never have worked through my emotional unavailability and all the problematic shit that comes with it.” He pauses, a heavy emotion making his blue eyes somber. “We’d have stayed together, but I’d never have become the man that you deserve.”

You swallow. “Is that what you are now?” You murmur, your voice unsure. “The man I deserve?”

“I don’t think so,” he answers quietly. “Don’t think I ever will be. But… but I’m working on it, properly this time. And getting to know you again, for real, has made me realise just how worth it this is.”

It’s too much. You make to turn away but Rafe’s hand stops you, gentle but firm on your face. His thumb swipes over your warm cheek in comforting circles, and you find yourself leaning into his touch inadvertently.

Uh oh, you’re falling in love. You sigh. “It feels inevitable, huh?”

“D’you believe in soulmates, Y/N?”

Your lashes flutter shut in response. Rafe inches closer still, his hand slipping down to your jaw, and when he kisses you, old embers create a new flame within your heart. It’s chaste, unsure, a second first kiss. And yet, though it’s soft, the press of his lips is a ravaging embrace.

“Do you, Rafe?” You return, opening your eyes tentatively.

His gaze is still trained on your pretty mouth, less iris than pupil as his yearning transcends everything else. He presses his thumb on your lower lip gently. “Only if it’s you.”

“I think I am,” you murmur.

Rafe smiles. Oh no, he’s falling in love again. “I think you are too.”

—

I thought the plane was going down / How’d you turn it right around?

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe x reader #rafe x you #rafe x y/n #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron oneshot

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morebird · 6 months

Text

Okay finally

Small lighting tutorial (very long post, lots of images)

First of all I work on PS but if you have basic knowledge of your program of choice this will be easy to follow.

Second I use a different layer for everything. So assume that each screenshot is a new layer.

Third I've seen people not knowing how to choose colors for light and shadow and for me it comes out naturally so I don't put that much thought in it, but picking the neighboring color in the color wheel never fails, so lets say you use a red for the lighting, then pick either orange or pink for the shadow. The shadow should be fairly desaturated. However if the lighting is the desaturated you can go wild with the shadow saturation. But this is subjective and it's very dependent on your goals and art style.

Okay let's start:

Line art

Base color

Now for the shadow layer. The layer blending mode is in hard light mode

I use the quick selection tool on the previous base color layer, and in the new shadow layer with the hard light mode set I fill the selection with the paint bucket tool.

The lighting layer is on the linear dodge (add) mode.

I use the lasso tool to select the lighting parts, then I fill it with paint bucket tool.

Then once I have everything, I use the quick selection tool on this lighting layer, and in a new layer also on linear dodge mode I use a radial gradient, drag it from the direction of the light source, you have to try it out on it's own but it usual takes me a couple of tries to get the desired intensity.

Also tbh you can just leave it like that no gradient, if pure cel shading is your goal.

I add all the extra shadows, this layer is also on hard light mode, I use the lasso tool and a normal round soft brush.

This next part is something that I sometimes do and sometimes it's not necessary, in this case since the light source is moonlight the light on the clothes should bounce off on the face so I do an extra gradient. (or just do this if you want to make it lighter lmao)

With the quick selection tool, I select either the base color or the shadow layer, and in a new layer with the linear dodge mode, I use a gradient, it has to be either a fairly dark color or a very soft gradient.

And lastly in a new layer, with linear dodge mode I use a soft edge brush on top of the lighting areas, to give it that glow.

Sometimes, like in this case, I have to use some color balance adjustments, more contrast or brightness.

And that's it. Good luck and hope this helped you, if you have any questions my inbox is open 😊

If you think oh I cant believe this creature just gave me great knowledge for free, and you want to drop a few coins in my direction here's my ko-fi

#tutorial #my christmas present to all of you 😘#actually this is a present for myself because when the inevitable question about lighting comes up I can just point to this

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rottiens · 1 month

Text

⊹ ˚. MORAX (REX LAPIS) ┊ sfw, set in the archon war, gn reader. divider creds: cafekitsune.

The last drops of the drizzle drip off the roof using it as a slide, until they fall in the garden and wet the green grass and the silk flowers while you walk along the corridor bathed in an eerie silence, the yellowish opaque lights are not enough to chase away the gloom that the sunset brings and the creaking of your bare feet on the wood do not help to relax your spirit.

Your spear was stripped from you as soon as you set foot in the temple. The guards at the entrance demanded that you leave behind any weapon that could be used as a threat against Morax, patted your arms, thighs and back in sign of some undeclared weapon, finally opening the doors for you when they realized they would find nothing relevant.

Without your spear you feel naked, something that detonates your paranoia— you are suspicious of the shadows moving in the garden thanks to the branches being shaken by the wind, you are wary of the noise your ears hear coming from your own heavy footsteps.

You gather your arms and your fingers curl around your forearms slipping smoothly into the sleeves of the hanfu that was offered to you. Apparently your war soiled clothes were not dignified enough to stand before an archon. Instead, you received a beautiful blue hanfu with a qingxin flower embroidery on the bottom of the garment, the fabric is soft and falls perfectly on your body, as if it had been made for you.

In front of you is a perfectly round entrance protected with a bamboo door.

"You wanted to see me, Rex Lapis?" You add his name with a tone of uncertainty, unsure of what was the correct form with which you should address a deity.

On the other side of the door remains a long silence which is interrupted by a hoarse, "Come in."

You do not hesitate. With ease you slide the door aside to step into the room. Your gaze is immediately caught by the various details, eager to devour with your eyes how the room of a god looks from the inside. The first thing you notice is that you are in what appears to be the tea room. The room is sealed by a wooden wall, dark tones and brown splashed all over the place.

In front of you is a curtain that prevents you from seeing him, yet your eyes catch shadows behind it. The noise of glassware exposes that they are moving cups, then you realize that there was someone behind it and your instincts lead you to assume that perhaps it is Him. Morax was in his human form, his height rises above the curtain just barely surpassing it, he moves naturally in the shadows making you drown with his presence which leads you to seal your lips and lower your face until your eyes are looking at the silhouette of your feet hidden behind your attire.

"Come here." It is a direct command that you cannot refuse. His voice is husky yet soft as lilies, at first more than a command it feels like a request.

Your feet rise of their own accord and move to step through the curtain. You find him sitting on the floor with his legs crossed in an opposite way forming a triangle, he had brown loose pants, his hair was down resting loosely along his back while his chest was bare. His arms were a black color which you had mistaken for ink the first time you observed him, you were sure now that they were tiny scales (a trait perhaps due to his dragon form), laced with orange-toned markings that ran from his fingers to his shoulders.

You immediately lower your gaze as you felt unworthy to be gazing at him as if he were a painting image, he hadn't stopped to look at you, he was busy manipulating the porcelain cups.

"Sit down," he said shortly after, proceeding to fill a teacup.

With firm steps you make your way to the tiny table and drop to your knees with a stifled thud, your hands on your thighs and your back so straight it hurts.

You wander in thought about the few people who have had the chance to see him like this, in his human form and your heart flutters. Your fingers push your thighs down, droplets of sweat begin to accumulate in the palms of your hands and on the back of your neck.

Morax lays his gaze upon you for the first time and those glowing amber eyes consume you, not even in his dragon form had you ever had the chance to see him so closely so you find yourself contemplating him in detail, his eyelids dropping halfway down, retaining the authority he holds over you as he now mimics the aura of a feline.

"I received your request to return to the war… I wonder why. Didn't you just come back from it?" Morax inquired, subtly thrusting a cup in your direction.

You bow your face in thanks before taking the cup and bringing it to your mouth without adding words, you didn't know that the requests went directly to the archon. You were sure that the general in charge was the one who sealed them and sent the decree that you could go to war, so the idea that Morax had that in his hands and that he read your letter makes you swallow hard.

The tea is sweet, it runs down the rasp and burn of your throat. You distinguish the taste of honey and perhaps a few drops of lemon in it, it goes down smooth and helps you soften your next words.

"I wish to fight for my nation, there is nothing that would make me prouder than to die for you."

Something trembles in his face, and you're not sure what that expression means. His jaw tenses and the corner of his lips twitches softly, perhaps it was a smile you saw?

"For me?" Morax cooed the words near the cup, his breath creating waves in the infusion. You stir on your legs, your fingers ruffling the fabric of the hanfu. "How could that be possible when I heard your prayers in the field. You asked for a contract in exchange for me protecting your life." Then he drank, closing his eyes for a moment.

A contract… The archon was right, you had forgotten that because of the adrenaline of the moment.

Fear pumped through your system and prevented the processing of any logical thought. You were sure you were going to die in the field that day. An arrow pierced your left side grazing very close to your heart, every breath you took you could feel the splinters moving closer. The rhythm of your heartbeat was like that of a drum luring you to your death.

You were sure you were ready to die, you swore you always had, yet the moment your eyelids succumbed to the darkness your courage trembled and as your eyes closed for the last time, unable to open them again, you pleaded for your life.

"Do you remember now?" Morax's mug was on the table again, lost in the unpleasant memories that had returned you ignored the archon shifting position, now one of his knees was at chest level, his other leg still rested on the floor in a misshapen triangle while one elbow rested on top of the knee, and in turn the fist held his chin.

"I do," you swallowed. Unable to hold his gaze.

"Say it."

"I asked for a contract on my life. I asked for you to save me and in return I promised to give you the most precious thing I had…" your words hang in the air, half completed as you try to think, mentally piecing the puzzle together. "But I'm confused."

"Mm?" Morax inquired. Watching you struggle to put the pieces back in place, yet you get no more help from him. Leaving you to walk alone through that dark valley of memories.

"I have nothing that would be of value to you. I couldn't give you mora since you own every coin in existence, I have no animals to sacrifice, I have no family that survived the plague…"

"So you are unaware of your own worth." His amber eyes move over you, up and down and back and forth. There is no expression you can read on his face, the archon remains just as serene so you are not sure what he is thinking or what he is referring to. "I don't need anything material that you can give me. I already have your devotion so what could be more precious than that?"

"My body?" you added, incredulously, after a moment's thought.

Morax smiled, a grimace with an absence of teeth. "Your soul," he replied calmly. "You will always have my favor, you will always win no matter what battles you fight in. I'm going to make you the best warrior, people are going to tell stories about you." Your gaze lights up as the archon narrates the events he could make you live, or which he assures you will live. Then, he extends the hand with which he held his jaw in your direction, you watch the open palm in silence. "Just hold my hand."

It was the sign that your contract would be officially covenanted, before the celestial order, before the earth, and before the patron of contracts.

The thought makes you hesitate, shivers run through your chest making it hard to breathe. You weren't sure what that implied, what did he mean by giving him your soul?

You spread your fingers out, you can see them trembling on top of the table. Morax curls his hand around yours, his fingers are long and wrap around yours without difficulty. The texture of the scales is lumpy, barely perceptible as he tightens his grip.

The moment your gazes meet something inside you catches fire and burns. There's a bonfire at the top of your stomach and little electric snakes run up and down your arms, move inside your bloodstream.

"Don't be afraid," he assured you in that velvety voice." Your lips part to comment on something but before you can speak he pulls away from you. "I'll have your room ready for tonight."

"My room?" you repeat somewhat confused, returning your hand to your lap.

"I want to keep you close."

Something warm settles on your cheeks. Like the kiss of the first rays of the sun in the morning and the flutter of a tender butterfly makes your insides tingle.

"I want my spear back," you said suddenly.

You didn't feel like you without it, even though in a place like this you didn't need to be armed, it was necessary for you to have it close by for the emotional weight.

"You'll have it again," Morax affirmed, nodding his head.

You licked your lips as you turned your attention back to the mug in front of you, the golden liquid inside the porcelain was steady and serene, quite the opposite of your thoughts. Warm steam was escaping in the direction of the ceiling.

"Come join me for a sunset walk," Morax suggested, pricking the thought bubble that was beginning to fill in your head. "We can discuss the terms of our contract, I can answer your questions," he added. He seemed to have read your mind.

The proposal catches you off guard. Morax waits silently for your response, patient.

notes: just practicing writing again! this time I thought it would be fun to narrate and write a little bit about zhongli's (morax) personality since he is one of my fav genshin characters and i hope to write more about him in the future. thanks for reading! <3.

#wr #morax x reader #morax x you #morax x y/n #zhongli x reader #zhongli x you #zhongli x y/n #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin x y/n #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin impact x gender neutral reader

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robin-buckely · 2 months

Note

hello! I love your edits and I wanted to know, for the "Steve Robin and Nancy" Gif you posted.. How would I go about doing something like that? More specificly, the bottom two where it says "Height Difference" and where it labels them as "Princess, Jock and Loser"

Thank you! Sorry this took a while to answer. I finally had time to sit down and write this. Link to original post.

Quick notes: I'm using Photoshop 2021 on Mac and working in video timeline. Must have basic gifmaking skills and know how to use layer masks. This is primarily a gif layout and text tutorial.

Fonts used in first gif:

Pea Wolfe Tracks — link here

King & Queen — link here

Fonts used in second gif:

Kiera — link here

Post — link here

Ellianarelle's Path — link here

Heina's hurry — link here

I used a light leaks/film texture, ripped paper textures, folded paper textures, and transparent pngs (arrows + post-it notes + smiley face).

We'll start with this gif.

Make your gif! The gif here is 540x600px. I color and sharpen it to my liking. Go to image > canvas size > change height from 600 to 770px. I left the anchor in the middle, though it doesn't really matter.

I drag and drop my folded paper texture and change the layer order so it's under my gif. Then I change the blending mode on my gif to Screen so the texture shows through the gif, but I keep the texture at 100% Opacity and Fill.

Now I move my gif around and add my ripped paper textures. I wanted to give it a sort of poster-like feel to it, so I made more room on the bottom for my main text and ended up with something like this. Blending mode is set to Lighten for the ripped paper textures.

I then use layer masks to hide what I don't want shown and add my light leaks/film texture. Blending mode on light leaks/film texture set to Pin Light, Opacity: 50%, Fill: 70%.

I use Levels and Brightness/Contrast adjustment layers to darken the gif up a bit more, then I add a patterned paper texture. Blending mode for patterned paper texture set to Lighten, Opacity: 100%, Fill: 75%. Result:

Now on to the text!

I'm going to be honest here, a lot of this was clicking around until I settled on something I liked. There's three layers to create this text effect. The font used here is King & Queen.

For the first text layer, the font color is set to black (#000000), font size: 87 pt, leading: 80 pt, tracking: 25.

Layer styles used here are stroke and drop shadow.

Text Layer 1

Stroke settings:

Size: 1px

Position: Outside

Blend Mode: Hard Light

Opacity: 40%

Overprint: unchecked

Fill Type: Color

Color: #5911ed

Drop Shadow settings:

Blend Mode: Difference

Color: #2d5ba8

Opacity: 85%

Angle: 70°

Use Global Light: checked

Distance: 7px

Spread: 0%

Size: 6px

Contour: Cone - Inverted

Anti-aliased: unchecked

Noise: 0%

Layer Knocks Out Drop Shadow: checked

Blending mode for text layer set to Overlay, Opacity: 100%, Fill: 85%.

Warp text settings:

Style: Wave

Horizontal: checked

Bend: +60%

Horizontal Distortion: +10%

Vertical Distortion: 0%

With all those settings applied, the first text layer looks like this:

Duplicate the layer, clear all layer styles, and change the color for the second text layer to white (#ffffff). All other text settings (including warp settings) should stay the same. The only layer style then applied to this text layer is stroke.

Text Layer 2

Stroke settings:

Size: 1px

Position: Outside

Blend Mode: Difference

Opacity: 100%

Overprint: unchecked

Fill Type: Color

Color: #d48f16

Blending mode for the second text layer is set to Difference, Opacity: 90%, Fill: 100%. Nudge the second text layer a bit so the first text layer is a little more visible or move to your liking.

With both those layers active, it looks like this:

Duplicate the second text layer, clear layer styles, and change the color of this third text layer to a dark grey (#1a1919). Again, all other text (and warp) settings should stay the same.

Layer styles applied to this layer are stroke and gradient overlay.

Text Layer 3

Stroke settings:

Size: 1px

Position: Outside

Blend Mode: Difference

Opacity: 100%

Overprint: unchecked

Fill Type: Color

Color: #d48f16

Gradient Overlay settings:

Blend Mode: Difference

Dither: unchecked

Opacity: 100%

Gradient: #cd3f00 > #ffdb5d

Reverse: unchecked

Style: Reflected

Align with Layer: checked

Angle: 90°

Scale: 100%

Blending mode for the third text layer set to Exclusion, Opacity: 100%, Fill: 100%. I also moved the third text layer around, down and to the right a few pixels to give it that 3-D Word Art effect.

With all three text layers active:

Next are the arrows.

Take your transparent pngs and place them to your liking. Blending mode for these is set to Difference, Opacity: 100%, Fill: 100%.

Command + click on an arrow thumbnail to select all the pixels in that layer. This is why the image must be transparent!

With that selection made and on a new blank layer, right click the selection and click on stroke. Settings for that are width: 2px, color: white, location: center. Move that a couple of pixels over.

Do this for all arrows for a total of 6 layers for arrows. I group them together to keep my workspace clean, then I duplicate my arrows group with no further changes made to the second group to get what you see in the final gif.

Next is the smaller text. It's three separate text layers for each word, so I can move each of them around to my liking.

Font used is Pea Wolfe Tracks, font color: white (#ffffff), font size: 24 pt, leading: 6 pt, tracking: 25. Bold and italic options checked. I set the blending mode to Difference, Opacity: 100%, Fill: 100%.

And that's it! That concludes the tutorial for this gif!

Now on to this gif.

We'll start with the background gif. There are three separate gifs. You could make them one gif, but I wanted the option to order them differently if I needed to.

All gifs in the background are the size of the canvas: 540x770px. Color and sharpen to your liking, but keep them all black and white. To get the blurry effect go to filter > blur > guassian blur. Set radius to 7.0 pixels. Add this to all three gifs.

Then I add two folded paper textures. Blending mode for one set to Lighten, Opacity: 60%, Fill: 100%. The other set to Screen, Opacity: 70%, Fill: 90%.

I found this tutorial a while back for a halftone effect. They include links to the halftone pattern used here as well as textures and gradient maps not used here.

I'm only using the halftone pattern here.

Pattern fill settings:

Angle: 66°

Scale: 8%

Link with Layer: checked

I also added a gradient overlay layer style to the halftone pattern which gives the gifs the color you see above.

Gradient Overlay settings:

Blend Mode: Overlay

Dither: unchecked

Opacity: 100%

Gradient: #0059ac > #a33600 > #e6b801

Reverse: unchecked

Style: Linear

Align with Layer: checked

Angle: -100°

Scale: 100%

Now on to the square shapes with rounded corners. In the interest of keeping this tutorial short(er), I found this tutorial on youtube that explains how to make squares with rounded corners.

I set my stroke size to 6px, stroke color to white (#ffffff), and fill to no color. I don't use the stroke layer style to make the borders of the shape like in the video! I'm only linking the video to show how to curve corners with square shapes.

Note: Be sure you know how big or small you want these to be and how they're going to fit on your canvas in order to make all the shapes and edit them. It can be tedious to change the settings.

Duplicate and resize to your liking.

In this instance, I wanted to make three squares total, so I had to duplicate twice and resize until I had something I liked.

Settings for the shapes used here are:

Innermost shape: W: 200px, H: 280px, corners: 50px

Middle shape: W: 220px, H: 300px, corners: 60px

Outer shape: W: 240px, H: 320px, corners: 70px

Once I have the size I want for all three shapes, I group them together to make a set and duplicate that group twice, then adjust each set on the canvas for my layout.

What the sets look like all together:

Colors used: orange #e47100, blue #0062d1, yellow #ecac00

To add color to the shapes, either change the color of the shape itself or use layer styles. I used layer styles.

Note: I didn't add the colors until the end after I knew what gifs went where and what color scheme I wanted, but I don't want to add more images than I need to here.

To keep this short, I found this tutorial on youtube that explains how to wrap text around a shape. However, I wanted the text to align on the outside where the white line is and not the green line (left image):

So I created another shape just inside the innermost square and used that as a path for my text (right image). Adjust the text to your liking until you have your text where you want it. Refer to the video tutorial if you need help moving the text along the path!

You don't need the shape path once you have your text where you want it, so use the layer visibility tool to hide it. You can hide your other shapes too so you can work with your text.

Do not delete your shape path!

I duplicate it once I start working with my "jock" text since all the sets are the same size. The "loser" text has to be worked a little differently, but we'll get to that later.

For the princess, jock, and loser text, there are two text layers to create the overall effect. For both layers, font used is Kiera, font color set to white (#ffffff), font size: 60 pt, blending mode set to Normal.

I added a gradient overlay layer style to the first text layer which I'll call the base layer. Opacity for this layer is 100%, Fill: 100%.

Base Layer

Gradient Overlay settings:

Blend Mode: Normal

Dither: unchecked

Opacity: 100%

Gradient: #f0b002 > #e7f0fd

Reverse: checked

Style: Diamond

Align with Layer: checked

Angle: 90°

Scale: 100%

The second text layer is your stroke and drop shadow layer. For this layer, opacity is set to 100%, Fill: 0%.

Stroke and Drop Shadow Layer

Stroke settings:

Size: 2px

Position: Outside

Blend Mode: Linear Light

Opacity: 100%

Overprint: unchecked

Fill Type: Color

Color: #0064cb

Drop Shadow settings:

Blend Mode: Difference

Color: #fb7c00

Opacity: 100%

Angle: 30°

Use Global Light: checked

Distance: 5px

Spread: 0%

Size: 0px

Contour: Linear

Anti-aliased: unchecked

Noise: 0%

Layer Knocks Out Drop Shadow: checked

End result looks like this:

When I make my shapes visible again (minus the one I used as a path), I get this:

The shapes are clearly in the way of the text, whether they're above my shapes layer or under it. I use layer masks to hide what I want, so the text is legible. It looks cleaner this way and I wanted the text to be a part of the shape itself. I do that for each rounded square.

Now on to my smaller gifs. I like to crop, resize, sharpen, and color separately because my laptop and Photoshop would kill me if I tried to do it all on one canvas. I use the size of the middle shape for my gifs (220x300px), so I can have a little wiggle room when adjusting. I then use a layer mask to hide the parts of the gif that are outside of the shape.

A quick way to do this is to command + click on the thumbnail of the innermost square. With that selection made, I got to my gif layer and add a layer mask. Sometimes you need to invert it. Use command + i with the layer mask selected (not the gif) to invert the layer mask.

I repeat this process with my Steve and Robin gifs. I have to go back and forth with all the layer masks to hide parts of the gif/shapes I don't want for each set. It's kind of a long process, but not all that difficult. I label and group my layers together as I work to keep things clean and it helps me keep track of what I edited and what needs to be edited when it comes to things like this.

The picture below shows where I hid the bottom right corner of Nancy as well as the shapes that make up her set using layer masks. I also did this with the Steve and Robin sets, hiding the bottom left corner of Steve.

Similar text settings used for jock. The gradient overlay layer style for this base layer is different than that of princess because of the positioning of the text. Again, same as princess, two text layers are used here. Blending mode, opacity, and fill for both are the same as the princess text layers as mentioned before.

Base Layer

Gradient Overlay settings:

Blend Mode: Normal

Dither: unchecked

Opacity: 100%

Gradient: #007aec > move bottom middle dot to 80% > #e7f0fd

Reverse: checked

Style: Diamond

Align with Layer: checked

Angle: -140°

Scale: 100%

Stroke and Drop Shadow Layer

Stroke settings:

Size: 2px

Position: Outside

Blend Mode: Linear Light

Opacity: 100%

Overprint: unchecked

Fill Type: Color

Color: #a05700

Drop Shadow settings:

Blend Mode: Difference

Color: #ffba00

Opacity: 100%

Angle: 30°

Use Global Light: checked

Distance: 5px

Spread: 0%

Size: 0px

Contour: Linear

Anti-aliased: unchecked

Noise: 0%

Layer Knocks Out Drop Shadow: checked

Image 1: We start with Robin.

Image 2: To make the loser text, I had to create a new path.

Image 3: I make it so the text is on the inside of the path instead of the outside. (Hint: Refer to video tutorial if you don't know how to do that.) I then adjusted the tracking between the letters in the word "loser" so they didn't look so squished together.

Image 4: Then I use layer masks to hide the parts of the shape I don't want shown.

You can then hide the path or delete it. You only need it if you want to adjust the placement of the text. I keep it (hidden) just in case.

Text settings for loser are just like those for princess. Blending mode, opacity, and fill are also the same.

Base Layer

Gradient Overlay settings:

Blend Mode: Normal

Dither: unchecked

Opacity: 100%

Gradient: #eb6400 > #e7f0fd

Reverse: checked

Style: Diamond

Align with Layer: checked

Angle: 90°

Scale: 100%

Stroke and Drop Shadow Layer

Stroke settings:

Size: 2px

Position: Outside

Blend Mode: Linear Light

Opacity: 100%

Overprint: unchecked

Fill Type: Color

Color: #e1a900

Drop Shadow settings:

Blend Mode: Difference

Color: #0068de

Opacity: 100%

Angle: 30°

Use Global Light: checked

Distance: 5px

Spread: 0%

Size: 0px

Contour: Linear

Anti-aliased: unchecked

Noise: 0%

Layer Knocks Out Drop Shadow: checked

Next are the post-it notes! This is probably the easiest part of making this gif. You just have to repeat this process for however many post-it notes you're making.

Image 1: To start, place your transparent post-it note where you want it. You can also rotate it if you'd like.

Image 2: Then create a text layer and write what you want. Font used here is Post. I wanted this text underlined to give emphasis, so I click on the underline option. I also adjusted the leading because I wanted more space between the word and the line. Rotate the text so it looks like it's written on the post-it note. Note: It looks better if you choose a font that looks handwritten.

Image 3: I wanted another line to give emphasis to the "Dingus!!" text and make it seem more handwritten. I use the line tool to create another line.

Image 4: Then I adjust that line to my liking.

Fonts used for notes: Post, Ellianarelle's Path, and Heina's hurry

Repeat this process for all post-it notes!

That finishes the tutorial! (And I hit the 30 image limit lol.) I hope this helps. If you have any further questions, feel free to send an ask or IM and I'll try to answer to the best of my ability.

Happy photoshopping!

199 notes · View notes

animatedjen · 23 days

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Jedi Survivor Photomode Tips: Portrait Lighting!

There are four lighting features that impact Survivor’s photomode: the environmental light, Cal's lightsaber, the exposure slider, and the three spotlights. Let's use them all 🔆

Environment

The environment/lighting teams at Respawn have designed incredible locations across all these different Star Wars planets. Pay attention to how the already-placed lights impact your portrait: I have a running shortlist of favorite locations that I often go back to when creating a specific look.

Environmental lighting also includes effects like fire particles, weapons, Merrin’s magick, etc. If you get your timing right, these can add extra color and visual interest to your photo.

Lightsaber

Cal’s lightsaber! It’s made of light! While everyone has their own color preferences (ginger saber supremacy) keep your color choice in mind when using the saber as a key light.

Bonus tip: Cal’s saber can also be used to help light NPCs 👀 Photomode allows you to toggle Cal’s visibility on and off, but the ambient glow from the saber will remain. It’s pretty easy to tell when I’m using this trick: just look for a bar-shaped catchlight in the character’s eyes.

Speaking of catchlights - they’re a great way to add life to your portrait. If the environmental light doesn’t hit the character’s eyes, I’ll often use the first spotlight as a key (main) light to try and create that reflection.

Spotlights

I’m often using spotlights in two ways, either intensifying the environmental light or pushing the image with stylized lighting. The first creates more interaction between the character and their surroundings, while the second adds drama and visual interest. My favorite portraits are often a mix of both.

Here’s a breakdown from a recent photo: the unlit photo (1), a yellow spotlight as a key (2), a red rim light that connects to the neon sign in the background (3), a green rim light for stylization and repeating color (4), and the final image (5)

Other spotlight tips: play with moving them closer/further away from your subject, along with the intensity of the light itself. Some colors (white, yellow) are more powerful than others (red, blue). If I can’t get the color I want from one light, I’ll place two in the same location and drop the intensity to blend them - blue and green make turquoise!

If you want to be a nerd like me (though I'm in this industry so it's kind of my job) study lighting that’s used in real life portraiture and cinematography. Techniques like short lighting, three point lighting, butterfly lighting, etc.

Exposure Slider

The exposure slider in photomode is a helpful option when the entire scene is darker/brighter than you’d like. It’s also a good way to isolate your subject from the background: drop the exposure down, then use spotlights to add light back to your subject. Note that the spotlight brightness is impacted by the exposure as well, so you’ll need to crank the spotlights up to compensate.

Photo editing

Survivor’s visuals have a beautiful dynamic range and photomode does a great job protecting its highlights and shadows, though that often means less contrast. So if it’s a favorite portrait, I’ll add some contrast back in and often push complementary color into the shadows (yay color theory!)

So I've been slowly writing notes for a full-fledged video tutorial and wanted to try a thread-style post in the meantime. Lighting is such an important part of photography, both IRL and virtual, but it's not the easiest tool to use. This is more theory than a practical how-to, but hopefully some of it is helpful?

If you made it all the way down here, you get... a turbo dog or something. Two turbo dogs! 🌭

#star wars jedi survivor #jedi survivor #cal kestis #photomode #virtual photography #star wars #jen makes jedi tutorials

104 notes · View notes

thedreamlessnights · 7 months

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Someone to shed some light - pt. 5

Astarion x gn!reader (NSFW)

{series masterlist}

Synopsis: You and Astarion come across the camp, and its discovery adds a complication to the mix. The two of you share an intimate night together.

Warnings: 18+ - Blood drinking, mentions of past abuse. Explicit sexual content. Penetrative sex, fingering, first time sex.

Word Count: 7.7k

A/N: As you can see, this chapter is an eventful one. I hope you'll all enjoy! This story is going to get wild, and we're going to start seeing some new (and perhaps familiar) faces 👀 Also, thank you so much to @aerynwrites for making the amazing header image and for looking over this chapter! I appreciate you so much ♥

The thick, awkward silence in the air follows you all the way to the stream - tailing along with you like it’s your shadow.

You’ve never been more grateful to see a body of water in your entire life, and it’s not due to the thirst slowly building in your mouth, or the grime on your skin itching to be cleaned off. It’s because you’re dying to do something that isn’t walking, dying to curb the silence, and dying to think of anything that isn’t Cazador.

How long have the two of you been traveling, now? How long since you’d come across Gandrel? The trees have been too dense to tell the time with any accuracy, but there’s a break of them over the water, and the sun is mid-sky when you glance at its position.

Hours, maybe.

Hours of thinking up a thousand different conversation topics. Trying to find something to fill the deadening quiet. None of them seemed appropriate, though; not in the aftermath of finding out that an evil vampire had enslaved Astarion for two centuries and is now relentlessly hunting him. What could you possibly say after that?

Nothing, you’d eventually decided. You’d say nothing. But that hadn’t made any of it any better.

The camp shouldn’t be far, now. But that can wait.

You sink to your knees on the bank, taking a handful of the mercifully cool water and splashing it over your face. It’s sweet when you bring it to your lips, blissful on your burning-hot skin, and you can’t help letting out a sigh of relief.

“I can’t wait to get out of these woods,” you say softly, more for yourself.

“They were your idea, my sweet,” Astarion replies, somewhere behind you.

“Freedom was my idea,” you combat defensively. “The woods just happened to be a temporary part of that.”

“If you’re planning to run from my mother, then it certainly won’t be temporary,” Astarion says. “I’d become very, very friendly with the woods if I were you.”

You drop your hands, shaking away the remaining water as you try - and fail - to bite away your frustration. “Why can’t she leave me alone? All I want is to go back to my home.”

“And I want to wake every morning with a virgin at my side,” he snipes, every word laced with melodramatic condescension, “but life doesn’t give us what we want.”

This time, your anger cuts through your chest like a knife as you shift to face him. “Well!” you exclaim. “Congratulations then, Astarion, because you do!”

He freezes, a glint in his eye, and you know you’ve made a grave error. “Do I, now?” he purrs. “Interesting.”

You ignore him, turning back to the stream, but your cheeks go hot. “Well?” you finally say. “Are you going to get cleaned up or not?”

To your surprise, he doesn’t respond.

You glance at him and find him staring at the water like it’s a poisonous bog. “Oh, come now, Your Highness. Don’t tell me the stream isn’t good enough for you?”

He scowls at you, but his gaze is quick to flit back to the stream as he speaks. “Running water used to burn like acid, dearest. I’ve never tested if it still does.”

Your mouth snaps shut. No more teasing him, you resolve. It’s only making you look like a complete ass. “Oh,” you finally say.

Astarion sinks down into a squat, hesitantly dipping his fingers into the water and giving a hum. “Well. I suppose that answers that question,” he says, shifting onto his knees.

He’s just as dirty as you feel. Gandrel’s blood is splattered all over him, and the grime of the woods has etched streaks of dirt onto his skin. Somehow, despite all of that, he’s still as beautiful as always. Maybe even more so, like this.

You feel a strange sense of disappointment when he starts rinsing the mess away.

It’s blazing hot out. It was easier to ignore earlier when you were under the shade, but the light is in full effect over the stream, and it’s unavoidable, now. You’re covered in sweat and dirt and the gods know what else. The itch to get clean is maddening.

At first, you try splashing water onto your skin and your filthy shirt, but all it ends up doing is drenching yourself - not cleaning anything at all. You’re left dirty, wet, and frustrated, and, well. Who knows when the next bathing spot will be. You’re already soaked…

You peel off your shoes and socks, get to your feet and take two steps back, then jump in.

The water is freezing cold, but it’s wonderful - euphoric under the pounding sun. It washes away the dirt and blood and sweat with ease, carrying them away as you kick around. The mild current feels like silk over your limbs. For a moment, you even float around on your back, enjoying the peaceful murmur of the water.

Then you remember that you aren’t alone, and you go upright. Astarion is watching you with a mixture of curiosity and disdain, distracted from his task. As soon as he sees you looking, he instantly goes back to trying to clean the stains out of his shirt - which is going about as well for him as it had been for you.

You watch his struggle for a moment before a string of words leave your lips. Words that wouldn’t have come out if you’d taken the time to think about it.

“You should join me!”

He glances at the water. It’s completely clear and a beautiful blue, but that doesn’t seem to matter to him. “Darling,” he says, letting out a haughty laugh, “you want me to jump in there? Only the gods know what’s in that water.”

“You’re using it to clean your shirt,” you point out, “which isn’t going very well, Your Highness. It’ll be the closest thing to a bath for miles.”

He simply scowls in response, and you shake your head.

“Alright,” you relent. “Stay up there in the heat, then, covered in blood and dirt. Just don’t start complaining to me when you start to feel dirty.”

His scowl deepens, but he gives up on the shirt and shifts until he’s sitting on the edge of the bank. “Fine,” he says sharply. He looks down and hesitates, tilting his head. Is he wondering how deep it is? If water used to burn, then he probably hasn’t gone swimming in…

Two centuries.

You let yourself stand, your toes sinking into the mud. The water isn’t much higher than your rib cage, and the crease between Astarion’s brows fades away. Following in your lead, he takes off his boots and socks, then lets himself slide into the water. He grimaces for a moment at the temperature, sinks under the surface, and comes up sopping, wiping water out of his eyes.

You almost feel bad, looking at that silvery mop of curls, but he doesn’t say anything. He simply pushes the mass of wet hair out of his face, then resumes his process of cleaning the blood out of his shirt. Or, trying to. It seems thoroughly fixed into the cream fabric.

For some reason, your attention on him feels like an invasion of a private moment, so you take to making sure you’re cleaned off, averting your gaze - especially when he takes off his shirt to scrub away the stains. The brief flash of porcelain skin you catch has your cheeks blooming with heat; it’s the most you’ve ever seen of him.

To distract yourself, you speak. “I’m surprised you actually got in.”

“Well,” he says. “Unfortunately, my warm baths have been conveniently misplaced. This will have to suffice.”

“Of course,” you mutter, paddling absentmindedly through the water. “For a moment there, I thought you might like something that’s remotely fun. My mistake.”

You’re still turned away, which is why the splash of water that hits you catches you by surprise. “Oh, you bastard,” you gasp, instantly sending another splash back at him.

He pauses, flashing you a wicked grin, and then you’re hit with another one, and another, and another. You’re splashing him back as much as you can and trying to swim away from the splash zone, and he’s splashing you, and you’re both breathless and calling taunts into the air. The sun is in your eyes, and water is in your lungs, and for a brief, blissful moment, it’s like all your worries have slipped away.

When the two of you are finally worn out, muscles aching, you push your way to the shore and lay on the grass, trying to catch your breath as your eyes flutter shut. The sun is golden and warm overhead, and with your now-drenched clothes, it feels wonderful.

A moment after you’ve gotten out, Astarion joins you. You hear the light thump of his wet shirt landing on the grass next to you, and then he’s sighing. “Gods - it’s hopeless,” he mutters. “Hopefully one of those Zhentarim knew something about fashion.”

His footsteps head back to his pack, but the feeling of warm sun on your skin is relaxing enough to keep you where you are as he digs around. When he stalls, you finally sit up, coughing some of the leftover water out of your lungs. Another joke is poised on your lips, but when you catch sight of his back, the words turn to ash on your tongue.

The soft pink lines seem like an intricate tattoo at first, but as your eyes continue to take it in, you realize that the skin is raised - far too much to ever be a tattoo. Scars. They’re scars.

You only see them for that brief moment before Astarion has found a new shirt and pulled it over himself, blocking out the sight of them, but even after they’re gone, the markings burn under your eyelids.

He turns to face you, and when he sees your face, the lightheartedness in his eyes immediately fades to something sharper. He knows you’ve seen.

“Your back,” you say softly. “It must have been painful.”

He looks away. “A gift from Cazador,” he says, his voice surprisingly soft. “A poem. He spent the night carving it into me.” He pauses, and pain flashes over his eyes. “He made a lot of adjustments as he went.”

You briefly think to yourself that - evil, powerful vampire or not - if you ever come face-to-face with Cazador Szarr, you’ll tear him to shreds with your bare hands.

Gods. You want to say that you’re sorry, but you already know Astarion won’t take it well. He clearly despises pity, and you’re not going to give it to him.

Instead, you get to your feet, ignoring the way your drenched clothes now stick to you, and head to your pack. “Why didn’t your mother kill him?”

He scoffs. “Believe me, she tried. Unfortunately, killing a vampire isn’t exactly easy. Rescuing me was the main priority, and, honestly? It was a miracle she even managed that.”

You nod, picking at a loose string on your sleeve. “Do you have any idea where he is now?”

“Baldur’s Gate, no doubt,” he replies stiffly. “In his ridiculous palace. He’s a Lord, you know.”

Ridiculous palace. It’s an ironic thing for him to say, but then you recall that Astarion probably doesn’t enjoy Erelin’s palace, either. Then, very much delayed, the reality of his words sinks in. “Hold on. You mean to say that there’s an evil vampire lord in Baldur’s Gate, and no one knows?”

“Oh, some do; they just don’t care,” he says, tilting his head. “You see - it’s all about power. He has a fair amount, and people will do anything to get even a taste of it. You should see his servants. They come to the door, begging for his eternal gift, and they’re stupid enough to think he’ll give it to them if they work hard enough.”

The concept of that is sickening. You fear nothing more than being thrown back into your personal prison, and here people are, volunteering to be in one - and one that’s far, far worse than yours, at that. All for what? Immortality? It doesn’t even remotely appeal to you.

From the look on his face, Astarion feels the same way.

Gods. You can’t even imagine what he’s experienced; not even half of it. Everything you’ve been through pales in drastic comparison to his two centuries of torture. Shame sweeps deep through your gut, dark and oozing, and it’s all you can do to not despise yourself.

Still - he complains about the petty things more than you do. And he hadn’t faulted you for wanting to run. He’d just told you not to bother, because you’d be caught.

“I don’t understand them,” you remark quietly, gathering up your things. “I can’t… imagine wanting something so much I’d give up my freedom for it.”

He shakes his head, and something reproachful paints itself into his expression. “Power is addictive, dearest. You’ll learn that soon enough.”

You sling your pack over your shoulder once more, and Astarion follows in your lead. “Well,” you say, “I suppose we’d better see what that camp is all about.”

You smell the camp before you see it.

The smoke you’d seen yesterday has faded in the air, but the smell of it is present: a distant, hazy odor that lingers in the forest. You and Astarion squat down to be safe, observing from behind the treeline, and it becomes immediately clear what it is.

Banners of silver and blue - those are Calthirian colors. This is your kingdom. What’s left of it, at least.

You’d been right. This rebellion is a prominent force, from the looks of it. No wonder Erelin had married you off instead of fighting. Still, it makes you wary to go waltzing straight into the place, expecting everything to turn out right. A level of paranoia lays over your skin like sweat, making it hard to think clearly. What if someone recognizes you? Do they know what you look like?

“Well,” Astarion remarks, “I suppose we’ve received our answer. And now that we have, we should be on our merry way.”

“Unfortunately,” you murmur in agreement. “You don’t think they’d give us directions to the nearest village?” It’s a long shot, and mostly a joke, but having traveled all this way to leave no better off is a sinking disappointment.

“They’d sooner recruit us,” Astarion answers. “Or kill us.”

You stare for a moment longer, then shake your head. “All right - new plan, then. We get the hells away from here. I’ll scale another tree and see if I can see anything.”

Astarion frowns, but doesn’t seem to have any better ideas. He follows silently as you creep through the woods, watching out for any nearby scouts.

You don’t like this place. It feels ominous, in a way.

Your breathing doesn’t return to normal until you’re a decent amount away, and you can’t help feeling like you’ve narrowly avoided something awful. Astarion stays on the ground while you climb another tree, and this time, the forest provides something very useful to you.

A city. Your city.

Baldur’s Gate, in all her glory, lies in the distance. It’ll take days, maybe even a week, to get there - but gods, is the sight of her a relief. Warm beds. Familiar faces. These days, there’s not many people you trust, but the ones you do are all in Baldur’s Gate. If you’re ever going to find any true escape, it’s there.

And, you think, your stomach sinking, there’ll be Ancunín outposts for Astarion to get back to his mother.

Astarion is pacing along the base of the tree when you hop down again, and his eyes brighten when he looks at you. “Gods. You saw something, didn’t you?”

“Baldur’s Gate,” you tell him, unable to mask the smile that spreads over your lips. “It’s a few days away, but it’s there.”

“Thank fuck for that,” Astarion sighs. “I couldn’t take much more of this.”

But you know what he’s really saying. He’ll finally get back to safety.

The two of you will have to have a talk sooner or later. You aren’t sure if he’s expecting you to return with him, and you’re not keen on arguing with him. You don’t want to leave him, but if it comes down to it - you can’t go back to Erelin.

Can’t, not won’t. It’s not even a choice. Every part of you rejects the suggestion like an unsuccessful transplant; every inch of you viscerally objects to returning to that palace. You’d bring him with you if you could, but you know that he’d never feel safe. Not while Cazador is out there, hunting for him.

The realization sombers the air as the two of you continue, skirting your way around the camp and in the direction of the city. You do a bit more hunting, and so does Astarion. Your food cooks in silence as the sun starts to set, and he seems to be lost in thought - just like you are.

When the crunch of a nearby branch sounds, the two of you leap two your feet without a second thought, reaching for your weapons. When you see who it is, your knife tumbles out of your hand.

“Cal?”

He looks more worn down than you’ve ever seen him, but it’s undeniably him. Chestnut hair. Grey eyes. A full, trim beard. He’s dressed in Calthirian colors, and his eyes widen in recognition as he stares at you, looking like he can’t believe you’re real.

“By the gods, is that really you?” he asks. “How? When? Last I heard, you’d returned to the queen’s palace - we’ve been trying to find a way to get you out, but - well, it doesn’t matter. You’re here! You’re really here!”

He glances behind you, and when he sees Astarion, he pauses. His eyes trail over the wedding rings you both wear, and the blood drains out of his face. “Oh no,” he says softly, taking a step back. His expression hardens, and his hand flits toward the sword at his belt. “No, no, no. Tell me that is not who I think it is.”

“Oh, him?” you say quickly. “This is Lirien. He helped me escape.”

“Of course it is,” Cal replies flatly. “Instead of Astarion Ancunín.” He shakes his head. “You think I can’t tell when you’re lying? I raised you! Gods - why? Why in the hells would you bring him? Do you have any idea what people will do when they find out?”

Astarion scowls. “I can hear you, you know,” he says.

Cal ignores him. “What am I going to tell them?” he mutters to himself, pacing, looking like he might topple over. “What am I going to do?”

“Nothing,” you say adamantly. “Cal? They’re not going to hear about it. Not about me, and not about him. Alright? We’re leaving.”

But Cal, instead of softening for you like he usually does, simply clenches his jaw. “You can’t be serious. This camp has been searching for a way to get you out for the last month,” he says. “We’ve lost… hundreds of men. They’re planning to mount a rescue mission for you, two days from now! Of course I’m going to tell them you’re here!”

“Well, I got myself out before they did,” you tell him, even though that isn’t really true. “And now, I’m going.”

Cal stares at you, incredulous. “What the hells did they do to you?” he asks. “Brainwashing? Torture?” He shakes his head in disbelief, then steps closer. “I won’t hide you. You were born to rule, understand? I raised you better than this.”

He mutters something under his breath before you can respond, and your and Astarion’s weapons fly toward him, falling neatly at his feet. You start forward, but Cal has snatched them up before you can make a grab for them. You have another knife in your bag, but - gods, do you really have it in you to kill him? Even now?

Before you can decide, he’s reciting another incantation. Warmth blooms on your skin, and something electric fills the air, hazing the air and tickling the inside of your lungs.

“What was that?” you ask, flinching at the sensation. “What did you do?”

“A tracking spell - over the both of you. It’ll tell us where you are even if you run. Don’t go trying anything. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.”

This side of him is something you don’t know, not even a little, and it breaks you. Betrayal cuts through you like a knife, etching permanently into a sharp, painful spot between your ribs. Something sours on your tongue.

You’re a pawn. You always have been, even to him. Erelin had been bad enough, but this? Cal cares more about your position than he does you. It hurts so much that you think something in you might actually rip apart and spill out of your gut, seeping into the grass below.

You have to swallow down the nausea to speak, but the slime of this situation coats your throat and your words when you talk. “Wait until tomorrow,” you request. “Give me one more night away from them. Please.”

He sighs. “I don’t have much of a choice in that. Aris won’t be back until morning anyhow. Come on, you two - I’ll get you situated.”

He starts off toward the camp, but neither you nor Astarion follow after him. Your mind is flying over thoughts at a thousand miles per minute, trying to think of what to do. Gods, what in the hells are you going to do?

“If I have to get the guards to drag you, I will,” Cal calls. “You’ll spend the night in chains. Come willingly, and you’ll get a tent. It’s your choice.”

You start walking. Your hands are shaking like a leaf. You look to Astarion, whose expression has tightened, who looks even more pale than usual. He’s scared, and you are, too. You have no idea what the hells these people want from you. Cal may have taken your weapons, but there’s still the other knife in your bag. Astarion has his teeth, and there’s two of you…

Astarion meets your eyes curiously, and his gaze flits over to Cal, raising his brows. His intention is clear, and it's the same thing you’ve been thinking to yourself. After a moment of torturous internal debate, you nod.

What had you once thought to yourself? That you were willing to do anything for freedom? Gods. Apparently, you are.

You’re just bracing yourself for a fight when the flicker of torches passes through the trees, and you hear the chatter of voices. More men, and from the look of it, they’re all armed. “Cal, is that you?” one calls, lifting his torch higher in the approaching dark so he can see. “New recruits?”

All hope left in you dies at the sight of them. Astarion tenses at your side, his hands clenching into fists. Shit, you think. Shit, shit, shit. They’re going to take you both, and you’re completely fucking helpless to stop it.

“Yes. Another round,” Cal says casually. It occurs to you that he probably doesn’t want to announce your identity right off the bat, and you can’t decide whether or not you’re grateful for it.

“Aris will be happy to hear that,” the guard replies. “With the siege, we need everyone we can get. You’re sure they can be trusted?”

Cal glances back at you, smiling grimly. “Positive.”

“Good.”

The two of you are escorted all the way to the camp, and the guards trail away when you reach the outskirts. “This way,” Cal says, leading the two of you to one of the empty tents. “There’s room for both of you, since you seem so fond of each other.”

You stare at the tent, wanting nothing more than to tear through it like a rabid animal.

“Don’t be like that,” Cal implores. “Whatever they did to you, we’ll reverse it. We’ll get you back as you were, hm?” He waits for you to respond, but you don’t. If you do, you think you might actually lose your mind.

“Alright,” he finally sighs. “Feel free to explore camp, get something to eat, but don’t go past the outer torches. If I wake tomorrow and don’t find you here, the whole of this camp will come after you. Understand?”

You swallow hard, your nails piercing into your palms. “Fuck you, Cal.”

He shakes his head and turns away - but as he moves past you, you catch a flash of movement by his pack. You say nothing, and he’s gone before he’s noticed. You and Astarion are left in front of the tent, alone.

Well. Here you are.

The tent is larger than you’d expected when you retreat into it, Astarion following after you and sheathing the dagger he’d stolen. There are two bedrolls, some blankets and pillows, and a large amount of space to the side. No amount of blankets and pillows can make any of this better.

Silence falls, sour and agonizing. You want to throw up. You want to drink yourself to death. You want to cry. And you really, really want to punch something.

“So…” Astarion says slowly. “I suppose we’ve met each other’s parents, now.”

You let out a laugh, but it’s bitter. “And what lovely introductions we’ve had.”

His brows pinch in feigned offense. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”

You try to smile, but it falls flat. You’re so angry it feels like fire is bursting from your chest. Pressing your face into your hands, you try to breathe, wanting this not to be real - please, gods, don’t be real - but it is. You can smell the torches burning in the distance and feel the soft breeze that’s pressing through the partially-open flap of the tent.

Astarion sighs, then pushes the flap to the side and crawls through.

“Where are you going?” you ask.

“To find something to make this situation bearable,” he says, and then he’s gone.

You don’t think he’s foolish enough to fight against the tracking spell with nothing but a dagger, but it doesn’t stop anxiety from fluttering in your gut.

You can’t stand sitting still, so you leave, too - not following after him, just restless. Drifting.

For a long while, you wander aimlessly around the camp, trailing from place to place with no destination. A person or two gives you an odd look, but you really don’t give a damn. Your problems are much larger than some strangers and their opinions. All of it will turn irrelevant come morning.

Is it fury you feel, seeping so darkly through you? Has your anger turned ice-cold? It’s as if your life has all been an illusion, some kind of cruel trick. Was any of it real? Did Cal ever really care about you, or were you simply a means to an end?

You often try not to think about your parents, but you allow yourself to do so now. Would they approve of this? Would they have wanted this for you, if they were here? Or would you be nothing more than a pawn to them, too?

You don’t know. You’re starting to wonder if there’s anyone who’s ever really cared for you.

The approach of velvet-blue sky brings you wandering back to your assigned tent. It’s different than it had been before - but you can’t recognize quite how. Not until you get inside, at least.

Astarion has set up a meal: candles and wine and much fancier food than was in your packs or at the ration stations. You stall at the opening, and he nods for you to come in. You take a seat across from him, admiring his work. With the tent closed, it almost feels private. You can almost forget the camp out there, even for just a moment.

“What’s all this?” you ask.

He hands you a goblet, and you take it without another thought. “Well, darling,” he says softly, “I thought we should enjoy our last night of freedom. Who knows where we’ll be come morning.”

You press the glass to your lips and drink, finding a dark, heady wine on your tongue. “We didn’t have wine,” you recall to yourself. “Where the hells did you get this?”

“Oh, you know,” Astarion sighs, waving a dismissive hand. “Around.”

This time, it’s a real smile that overtakes you. “Just like that dagger?”

“Of course,” he says, tilting his head. A mirroring smile plays on his lips, and he takes a sip of his wine. “If he didn’t want it taken, he shouldn’t have had it out in the open. Besides,” he adds, rolling a shoulder, “I was only returning it to its rightful owner.”

You shake your head. “I still can’t believe he did that. I never thought he was capable of… anything even similar to that. I thought he - cared. About me.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Astarion replies, but there’s a quiet sympathy on his face. “Especially if they intend for you to rule, which they almost certainly do.”

“Of course.” Your throat tightens, and you take another sip of wine. You feel drawn so incredibly tight. It’s like a part of you is waiting to burst.

“So,” Astarion muses, swirling the glass around, “our last night of freedom. Any idea what you want to do with it, my sweet?”

You let out a huff, staring down at your wine. “Aside from blowing this entire gods damned camp up?” You let out a shaky exhale. “No idea.”

“No?” he asks. “No lifelong list? Something you’ve always wanted to try?”

There must be a thousand things you want to do while you still can, but none of them are coming to mind. You’re wound as tight as a rope, fuming, and would give absolutely anything to stop thinking.

When you shake your head, Astarion leans forward, setting down his glass. “Nothing comes to mind?”

“I - I don’t know. All I can think about is how… angry I am. I don’t know what I want.”

“Then allow me to make a suggestion, darling,” he says, taking the wine out of your hand, neatly setting it on the chest he’s using as a makeshift table. He leans forward, trailing his thumb along your cheek, and something in your stomach jumps. “We’re here, aren’t we? We might as well take the opportunity to distract ourselves.”

“Astarion-”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” he asks, his voice low and honeyed. “I’ve seen the way you look at me. I’ve felt those little… trembles of excitement when my teeth are in your neck.” He pauses, tilting his head, and another smile plays on the corners of his lips. “No need to be coy,” he purrs. “Your body has already given you away.”

And you do want it. You want it so badly that you can hardly stand it. “And what about you?”

“What?” he asks, frowning. “What about me?”

“What do you want?”

He lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Gods. Isn’t that obvious?” he asks, “I want you.”

You’re caught between the ever-growing want now steadily coursing through you and - something else. Something you don’t recognize. “If you’re sure.”

“Of course I’m sure,” he insists, frustration bleeding into his voice as he pulls back to look at you. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You give him a half-hearted smile. “Well, for one, I’ve never done this before. Remember?”

The frustration bleeds out of his face, and the line that’s been creased between his brows disappears. “Please,” he says incredulously. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Haven’t you heard of vampires preferring virgins?”

Something flutters in your gut at his words, at the heated way he’s taking you in. “Alright, then, vampire,” you say, before your fears can suck you in. “Do what you will with me.”

His eyes darken. “Oh, I most certainly will,” he murmurs.

He leans in, and his lips meet yours, fragrant with honeyed wine, ardent and sweet. Gentle at first, but that quickly becomes a haze of need - his hand tightening on your cheek, your hand tightening on his shirt.

Gods, you think. Kissing Astarion is like hearing a new melody and knowing that it will never leave your mind. The kiss you’d shared at the wedding has already haunted your mind plenty, but this? This is incomparable. Electric. He coaxes your mouth open with ease, and arousal shoots down your back like a bolt of lightning. When his tongue brushes against yours, every muscle in your body goes slack.

In the midst of everything, you’re still inexperienced. Your hands don’t know what to do or where to go. One settles on his shoulder, the other keeps itself clutched in his shirt. You can’t tell if it’s right, but if it’s wrong, Astarion doesn’t say.

He places his free hand at your side, using it to stabilize himself as he crawls over you, still kissing you, straddling your legs with his hips. Then that hand is at your waist, and his lips are at your neck, and you’re letting out a soft, wanting noise.

He huffs, kissing up your jaw, gently nipping at the sensitive flesh of your earlobe. “Eager little thing, aren’t you?” he hums.

And what the hells are you supposed to say to that? Of course you’re eager. You’ve been wanting him for ages. The building need between your legs says that more than enough. You’re viciously turned on, and the smugness of his voice isn’t helping, but there’s still an awkwardness to the situation.

You have no idea what you’re doing. You can’t tell if anything you want is remotely right. In between the pleasure and passion, there’s a building anxiety that’s becoming more and more prominent. It’s distracting you from what he’s doing, which is leaving you nothing but frustrated.

“You’re thinking too much. Relax, darling,” Astarion murmurs, pulling away. “Close your eyes for me.”

And you do. You take one last look at him, so impossibly beautiful in the warm candlelight. His curls have dried tousled from the river, his eyes are half-lidded and dark, and there’s a certain amount of expectancy laced in his gaze that makes you shiver. Then, satisfied that you’ve enclosed the image to memory, you shut your eyes. The darkness helps, you think. A little.

“Good,” Astarion praises, and his lips return to your neck. He takes your hands and places them at his waist, and you’re more than happy to keep them there as he kisses down your jaw. In the darkness of your closed eyes, every touch becomes intensified. Every thought begins to slip away in favor of the feeling of him.

Sharp teeth, grazing along sensitive skin. The icy touch of his skin, sating the scorch of the arousal that shudders through your veins. The soft, almost ticklish brush of his curls against your neck as he kisses along your clavicle. The moment his hands stall at your top, your breath hitches, and your body flinches - an automatic defense you’ve ingrained over the years.

But you want him to touch you. You want this. So you take in a steadying breath and compel your muscles to relax, and he continues - not teasingly slow, but not rushed, either. Taking his time with you.

You’d thought he was beautiful when you first met, but you have to admit: you’re glad that your first time with him, as horrible as the outside circumstances are, is happening here, and not on your wedding night, when you were so hesitant of him. You wouldn’t have enjoyed it, then, even if he’d been the exact same with you. But now?

Gods, you’re enjoying it. And, judging by the growing hardness between his legs, he’s enjoying it too.

You’d like to think you’re a patient person, but you really aren’t. The more your want grows, the more your impatience does as well. Your breathing has turned heavy, and as his hands, slowly taking on your warmth, grasp lightly over your ribs, the rhythm of your lungs turns shaky - your entire body singing in want for something you’ve never even experienced.

Just as you’re truly getting desperate, he pulls away again, his hands trailing along your abdomen as he nips at your ear. “You poor thing,” he says, his voice light and teasing. “How did you stand it all this time, alone with me?”

You open your eyes and find him staring down at you, observing the sight of you. You shake your head, failing to bite away the smile that’s threatening to show itself. “Sex wasn’t exactly my priority in the middle of the woods, Astarion. The circumstances were awful.”

“True,” he remarks, tilting his head. His fingers graze over your thigh, still clothed with fabric, but you almost can pretend you don’t know better. “Still,” he says softly, his hands stalling at your lower navel, “here’s hoping we’ll get more time to enjoy this.”

Before he continues undressing you, he pauses, and that crease between his brows forms again. “Just to be clear,” he says, “you do want this?”

Your response is immediate, albeit breathy with want. “I do.”

He flashes you a grin, suddenly wicked. “Good.”

To your dismay, he crawls off of you, but it’s immediately remedied when he places his hands on your shoulder and eases you to the soft floor of the tent, coaxing your legs apart with his knee.

Any clothes you’re still wearing are quickly disposed of, and needless to say, being so naked while he’s still fully clothed leaves you feeling entirely too vulnerable. “Planning to take me with your clothes on?” you ask, and he pauses, blinking - shaking his head, as if shaking away a stray thought. “Of course not,” he says, the corner of his lips tugging into a smile. “Simply admiring the view, darling.”

His shirt comes off, first, tugged over his head. All silky-smooth skin that you want to trail your hands over, admire inch by inch. Gods, he’s beautiful, shadows reflecting over lithe muscle, supple skin and unearthly beauty you shouldn’t be able to touch. But you are. You gently lift a hand to him, running your fingers over his forearm, and he smiles, undoing his trousers.

Your entire body tenses in anticipation of him, but your gaze can’t stay in place. It meets his for a moment, taking in the dark ruby color of his eyes. It flickers over his nimble fingers, studies the tendons in his hands, dances over his chest and abdomen. Something stirs in you, something that aches well beyond the temporary arousal, something that cuts deeper. It’s something that, selfishly, wants him to stay. Wants him to curl next to you in the nights, wants him to leave his mother behind and continue on with you.

An impossible want, but it’s still there. After this, where will it leave the two of you?

You aren’t sure - but if this is the only chance you’re going to get at it, you’re damn well going to take it. Astarion leans over you, kissing you softly, and then his talented fingers are going to work between your thighs. They work a smooth, blissful friction that you’ve never been able to achieve by yourself - and, though the anxious rooting inside of you wants to shut your eyes, you don’t. You hold his gaze.

For just a moment, he looks almost distant, but his eyes clear - and something darkens in his gaze as he looks at you. He props over you, watching you as you squirm in pleasure, his lips slightly parted.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, and you nearly come apart right there. You don’t, though. He pulls his hand away and you’re left shuddering, panting and aching. Then, he moves closer, places a hand on your thigh to coax your legs apart, and works a finger into you.

His hands are warm by now, but - gods. The feeling of him, compared to your feeble attempts, is nearly shameful. He takes his time with this - goes slow, watching your face intently. He doesn’t want to hurt you, you realize.

Your impatience is less now, as he increases it to two, then three; the stretch, despite his best efforts, is bordering on painful. The almost-pain fades the further he goes on, bleeding into something else that’s so intensely pleasurable you want to beg him to just take you.

When he finally stops, he tilts his head. “Oh, you’re ready for me, aren’t you?” he asks, his voice silky and low.

“Please,” comes your response.

“Darling, no need to beg,” he says. “I won’t keep you waiting.”

And he doesn’t. He props himself over you, lowering himself to kiss you, and your leg hitches around his waist. His skin is warm from touching yours, but it’s cold where your arms move to wrap around his neck. You’re mindful of his scars, because you doubt he likes them touched, and he brushes his nose against your cheek as he pushes into you. Slowly, again, but you’re not going to complain. There’s that wash of pain again, and then - oh, gods. Pleasure. Delicious, blissful friction. Your chest heaves and your mouth lets out a loud, needy sound.

Only then do you remember you’re in the middle of camp, but honestly? You’re so removed at this point that you don’t even care. If all of Calthir hears you getting fucked to the heavens by their enemy prince, so be it. Cal’s probably fucked off to somewhere else anyway, no doubt burdened by guilt. He has to feel some sort of guilt, doesn’t he?

“Gods,” Astarion pants, drawing you back to the present as he slowly deepens his thrusts. You swallow hard, watching the crease of pleasure form between his brows, studying the flash of fangs between his lips. You’re drunk on pleasure, the feel of him, the tiny solitude in this tent that separates you from the rest of the world. He kisses you again, and this time it’s heated, desperate, messy.

His tongue molds against yours, his fangs graze your lip. Gods, his pace is picking up. Your muscles are starting to tense - the flushed warmth that’s building under your skin is growing. He lets out a soft moan and grips your shoulder, and you instinctively tilt your head for him, giving him access to your neck.

He studies your expression for a moment, as if he’s confirming what you’re offering, and then - gods. He sinks his fangs into your neck.

If you’d thought the practice was intimate before, it’s so much more now. You barely even feel the pain of the piercing skin - all you feel is him tasting you, groaning into your skin, his hips still rolling evenly.

He only takes a little, but when he pulls away, there’s that rosy flush to his cheeks. When he kisses you, you can taste yourself on him, metallic iron. His movements are less graceful, now. His gaze is dark and intense, and his grip on you is stronger when he takes your shoulder again, thrusting harder - enough to have you tensing, the both of you panting.

When the pleasure finally takes you, it’s so intense it’s almost painful. It starts somewhere deep within, working its way through you, singing through your veins until the world blurs at the edges. Blinding, white-hot waves of it ebb and flow through you, taking you away from every sensation but that of Astarion, skin balmy against yours - floating somewhere in the depths of your mind until you finally come down.

Astarion shudders through his climax just after you, letting out a sudden, wanting noise - as if it’s been punched out of him. As if it had surprised him, just the way it had surprised you. You want to memorize it. You want to take that sound and remember it forever.

When it’s all passed, you’re left covered in sweat, sated, and very, very vulnerable. The arousal that had drifted away your insecurities is waning, and you’re left wanting to hide - to crawl away. But Astarion gently kisses you, carefully pulling out of you, and exhaustion takes over instead.

The Gur. Finding out about Cazador. Cal’s betrayal. All of that in one day, and it’s taking its toll. Your eyes feel heavy. Your muscles feel achy and worn out. Your thoughts are clouded over, too intertwined and complicated to drag apart when you’re like this.

You sit up and grab a stray rag, intending to clean yourself, but Astarion tugs it out of your fingers. “No, darling, let me,” he says.

And you do.

He confuses you - that he can be so vicious and so tender. He’d killed Gandrel without hesitation, without remorse - though, admittedly, you’d let him. Let him. As if you had some control over him. As if you could have stopped him. It should scare you, perhaps - that callous, venomous side of him - but it doesn’t. The rough edges of him you keep finding only make you want him more. The details don’t sate you. You always want more.

And now, you suppose you’ll find out what comes next.

The tent is silent. You fumble through your pack and find your sleeping clothes, and Astarion does the same. You’re hesitant, not wanting to push too far. You know very well sex doesn’t mean anything more - however much you might want more - and you know for certain that Astarion had not offered you anything aside from that. Still, the thought of curling up alone tonight has your chest aching.

When you finish dressing, you find that Astarion has pulled the two bedrolls together, fluffed up by the pillows and blankets. He raises a brow and pats the spot next to him, and it’s really very childish, the way your chest fills with a delirious sort of joy. You make your way next to him, and he folds you into his arms.

His skin is cool again. The little sounds of him are relaxing - the movements of his ribs when he breathes, the bob of his throat when he swallows, the light sigh he lets out when his head meets the pillow. It almost makes up for the silence in his chest. The void of sound where a beating heart should be.

For just a moment, before sleep pulls you away, you wonder if he remembers how it felt - to have something alive, thrumming in his chest.

tags: @amica-aenigmata-naboo @sadslasher13 @peachy-possum @the-lonely-abyss @maddiedrmr @starved-kitten @catching-fire-in-the-wind @aoirohi @g0retash

#astarion #astarion x reader #astarion ancunin #astarion x you #astarion x tav #baldurs gate 3 x reader #mywriting

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sanctus-ingenium · 1 year

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I was wondering how achieve such a wonderful textured finish on your pieces? They are wonderful and I love their resemblance to aged photographs and the speckles of colors in the backgrounds. Your art is mesmerizing :)

you can see some of the texture brush sets i use in my #info_asks tag but i have some more (procreate) tips aside from just brushes

also hi i made this whole thing and then stupidly hit ctrl z to erase ONE word and i lost the entire bottom half of the post and all my image descriptions so fuck you tumblr i had to make this twice

to get a faded photo or old digital screen look, consider duplicating the canvas (once all the layers are merged) and using a gaussian blur tool on the new duplicated layer. then set that to low opacity to add a misty sort of look. looks nice in combination with some chromatic abberation and a small bloom effect. then a subtle noise filter on top:

for faded print effects, it's really worthwhile to learn how to use layer masks. you can use a layer mask to non-destructively 'weather' blocks of colour or lineart, without erasing the layer itself. the weathered ink/block print effect here was made using layer masks which means that if i just hide the mask, the lineart becomes solid black again and easy to alter or colour in:

for old paper effects you can just set a paper texture on multiply over the art sure, but you can also combine it with the blur & bloom thing, a really subtle drop shadow and canvas tilt, and highlights to make it look like an aged photograph of a card. this originally had a transparent bg but i'll post it here with a white bg so that the drop shadow is more obvious. the scuffed edges of the card (left) were hand drawn, simple white stucco brush. the bigger patch of scuffed ink (top right) was a texture stamp.

for block print looks you can move the colour layer out of alignment by a few pixels - but only after you're absolutely sure you're done with it, otherwise you'll get something like this -

i forgot to erase out her eye before i moved the red layer so now her eye defeats the 'look' of a misaligned print. the black lineart and red layer were also given the same layer mask treatment as described above to make them look faded or like the ink didn't stick down right to the paper

you can do this with multiple colour layers too. if the colour layers are separated and set to multiply (as in this cmyk example), it'll leave halos and edges around each shape which mimic old comic book print

just to show what you can do WITHOUT any special brushes, here's a piece of one of my mez tarot cards from before i got any extra brushsets at all. for this one, i added a green tint over everything to mimic a sun-bleached or faded print (my actual goal wasn't 'medieval illustration' but actually 'trading card from the 60s that got left on someone's windowsill for decades'). the background texture is the procreate noise brush. the texture under the green lion drawing is the procreate concrete brush (to make it look painted onto a wall). the lettering and lineart is procreate's 6B pencil. but to properly aim for The Look of it being a printed physical object, i also used a perspective blur so that the edges are out of focus, and metallic gold highlights which don't match the lighting of the actual illustration and appear to be catching some other external light. that texture was made from the procreate noise brush

it's pretty simple compared to my later stuff but i still really like the effect

in terms of colours, you need to keep them unified so that they all appear to be acting under the same external light source, like if someone is holding up a torch to a painting then the painting colours will be glazed with firelight even if there's no painted fire. a really easy way to do this is to slap a multiply layer over everything in one shade - grey-yellow for a weathered paper look, or greenish blue for sunbleached photos. this unifies all the colours of the drawing. or you can apply a gradient map at a low opacity so that there's only a subtle change. or just do it by hand - if you want everything to be slightly tinted yellow, just pick the colours you normally would, but move the colour wheel towards yellow to get a yellowfied version of the base colour. easy

it's really important to consider how fading and weathering can affect printed colour. white paper yellows, black fades. you will rarely see pure black or pure white. which means you can use pure black or pure white to add external effects like the white scuff marks on the hierophant card. if the whole drawing is yellowed from age but there's some white somewhere, it's an easy shorthand to show that the scuff mark or whatever was not originally part of the drawing (great way to add some nasty stains lol)

#info asks #i don't have like a specific set of steps i follow i kind of freestyle it every time #obviously i have favourites i like to use but like that sphinx drawing? don't ask me how i did it because i don't remember #i just played with it until it looked nice. the blue dots are ... some sort of effect layer i don't remember which

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the-darklings · 2 years

Text

──𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐢 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞 [𝐗.]

summary: "I heard you."

pairing: dream of the endless x f!reader

wc: 9.2k+

warnings: angsty, they're truly pining in this one ngl, Dream is still Dream (trying, but lowkey failing) ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

notes: whose ready for that reunion, huh? Ngl, I struggled with writing this chapter if only because I'm so used to writing original content. It was weird trying to adapt the show timeline without bogging down the pace or doing a beat-for-beat recount (which would have been tedious), so I hope you liked the uneasy medium I chose instead.

part one | series masterlist | ao3 |

PART TEN: YEAR 1021 II

His realm. Ruins.

Everywhere Morpheus turns his attention, decay and ash greet him on his traipse to the castle. Time is cruel. What he has built over the years—with devotion, care, and contentment—has broken down to nothing in a hundred years he was gone.

These walls, physical and otherwise, keeping so many unassailable, have stood for thousands of years. Since the dawn of all creation, the Dreaming had been a haven.

Now, it is barely standing.

Crumbled stone and dust. Grey, drab surroundings devoid of colour, gutted of resplendence that once coursed so freely here. His Dreaming, his home, his beautiful treasure. The weight inside his chest is unbearable. Scratchy and thorned, each image bites into his mind, snagging and burrowing there. He will carry this weight until his end. This is a failure; fundamental, wretched, inescapable.

His subjects have fled. Abandoned the Dreaming—and him—in droves. Not even his siblings have sought him out.

You love them, but you don’t see them.

“You may be correct about your siblings not arriving to your aid, Lord. But someone else did. Someone searched for you. Rather ardently, I might add.”

Morpheus raises his head, pain knotting his throat, his hands clasped while he perches on a fragmented staircase.

“Who?”

Lucienne’s expression pinches, eyeing him over her glasses as if it should be obvious. But if not his family, then—

“My Lord, surely you can think of someone who cares for you enough to do so?” Hearing no response, his librarian persists, “Someone who has stood by your side no matter what. I confess it was most perplexing to hear your tale, for I had assumed your return was thanks to—”

“Lucienne. This lead is different. I can feel—”

That voice.

A figure clad in black rounds the corner, and instinct, pulsing and devastating, jerks his body upwards. Morpheus stands, but his knees hold a mortal’s frailty. Had he not surmised you lost to him? Gone forever?

Wanderer.

Hello, stardust.

So long—it had been so long. Not two centuries have passed since he’d last seen you—a mere drop to an Endless such as him, yet it feels like lifetimes have flown by. All those years, wasted. Some foolishly given away, others stolen. Just once, the passage of time is devastating. Because this time, Morpheus bears the full brunt of his loss.

I call upon Dream of the Endless. Answer my call, Dream Lord, for you are sworn.

There had been a call, a plea, a dream echoing inside his barren, shadowed prison. And he failed—he failed to answer. What is he if not Lord of unanswered dreams and hopes? What is his purpose if the one whose call he’s waited for centuries does not receive an answer?

You teeter to a sudden stop, gawking; it’s as if your body has transformed into an obelisk. Midnight flows and encloses your figure and—

It is but a coat now, his power long since faded, but it is his. Sown into being from nothing, shaped by his will, by his hand alone, tailored to fit a different form now. Repurposed for holding, touching, lingering on your skin—

A star erupts inside his chest, boiling through him, and the sheer, scalding power steals his breath.

Thousand words tangle on his tongue; a thousand stories, reasons, curses and pleas. Yet, only one word leaves Morpheus, his hand seeking, even if his tongue would not verbalise the want, the need:

“Wanderer.”

Hot, treacherous power sparks through the air, igniting from within you where that pesky curse dwells, and then you’re gone with a thunderous crack. Fragments once more. Continuously slipping through his grasp.

His breath escapes short and tight. His hand lowers back to his side. His skin itches and an invisible tremor shakes his fingers—one Lucienne would miss, but Morpheus senses with shameful intimacy.

Undone by sight alone. Broken apart into no more than sand and sea foam.

Raw instinct exhorts him to go after you, but he cannot. Unlike other mortals, you do not dream. There are no photographs for him to use for locating you, and his pebble—

Is it still in your possession? Or have you cast it aside? Forgotten your bond? He could place no blame if you had. But the need to know is blistering. He permits no shadow of irresolution to show. This is to be an exercise in patience, duty over impulse.

“Lucienne, why was Wanderer here?” he questions softly instead.

His librarian gapes for a second before composing herself, her mouth pressing into a tight line.

“Shortly after you vanished, Wanderer returned.” Lucienne’s account washes over him while his stare remains glued to the vacant spot where the residue of dark power lingers. “For decades, she searched for you. For decades she helped to hold the realm together in your absence. Scoured the waking world and all the realms in between and at a great personal cost.”

Oh.

Morpheus’ head sinks to the side, half-turning.

Lucienne strides several steps closer, resolute and wonderfully brave despite her subdued nature. “I implore you to reconsider further punishment, Lord.”

A soft sound bubbles in his throat. “Punishment?” The word is dark silk blanketing damage. His damage. “Do you believe I seek to punish? No, Lucienne.”

With a breath, his shoulders straighten, and his fingers uncurl. The steadiness with which Morpheus has stood for centuries makes a much-welcomed return. “I must recover my tools. Then, I shall seek out Wanderer once more. There is much that remains unsaid between us.”

Everything. Too much.

But first, he must convalesce. Retrieve what was once stolen from him. Just moments prior, Morpheus had been too weak to sense your entry into the Dreaming. He could once do it without conscious thought.

Lucienne bows her head. “Yes, Lord.”

Restless, he calls, “Lucienne?” A beat. Perhaps it would be kinder not to ask. “Wanderer looked…”

The librarian might not be in direct sight, but Morpheus senses how deeply his uncharacteristic falter startles her.

Lucienne’s hands clasp behind her back. “Sick, yes.” There is grim verity about her tone, her bearing. “I’m afraid such is the price for devotion, sir. Wanderer was not afraid to pay it on your behalf. Not even after the banishment.”

The shores of the Dreaming have transformed in his absence. It would seem nothing in his kingdom remains untouched. Lifeless, desolate, no longer comforting. Once encompassing dark has become devouring, lonely darkness.

“I do not require a minder,” he reminds stiffly. “I’m Dream of the Endless.”

Lucienne is ever loyal and present at his back, and Morpheus hears her concern. He understands the reluctance to permit solo travel after what transpired, but he is the Endless. What happened with Burgess will never be allowed to happen again.

“Yes, and Dream of the Endless always has a raven,” Lucienne insists.

Morpheus halts, hesitance locking him in place before he finds his voice, “Jessamy was the last.”

It is then, on distant shores, that a realisation strikes Morpheus. Or, rather, an absence. Something he should be able to view even from his location, unfailingly visible from the docks.

“The Wanderer Island.” The name drags from his throat with hoarse reluctance because, deep down, the answer is already evident. “What happened?”

Where once he could see the island piercing the horizon, there’s now nothing but hollow blackness. A place where so many had journeyed in their dreams—with increasing frequency over the centuries—is gone.

Lucienne’s words come out tired and heavy, and in them, Morpheus hears further proof of how terribly he’s failed them. “Much like the rest of the realm, in your absence, the island broke apart and sunk, sir. It was the last to go.”

“Did Wanderer witness it?”

His inquiry is barely audible. So much so that Morpheus figures Lucienne did not hear him at all, but when her answer does reach him, it’s worse than he expected: “Yes. Mervyn and I discovered her here one evening, crying. The island was gone. I know not why, but Wanderer would come to the pier every evening and watch the sunset alone.”

Because we used to sit side by side, she and I, and speak no words, for we had no need for them. Only her breath and mine. Because the island sunk while Wanderer waited for me to return to her.

And it is my fault.

“I need your help.”

Hob’s reaction is instantaneous, “Anything.”

He adjusts the strap of his leather satchel as he heads towards you, carefully noting your shaken, fidgety demeanour. The university hallways are quiet this evening, and Hob gently grasps your elbow in his, leading you with him.

“Can I stay with you?” you blurt out, hot and cold all over. Sweat soaks your clothes, but you manage to form words, wobbly as they are. “Just for a day or—”

“However long you need,” Hob interjects placidly. He guides you outside, adding a thoughtful, “Or however long the curse allows you, but yes, you can always stay. Are you alright?”

The chilly wind bites your cheeks, storm clouds brewing in the distance. No stars or moon tonight, only charged heaviness. Your mouth is so dry your tongue is little more than paper.

“He’s back.” Your words come out as a croak. Words jumble inside your head, but Hob patiently nudges you towards a lamplit street. “Dream. I… I don’t know how, but… he might come after me. I broke his law and…”

Hob tenses.

“You’re joking, right? Because ha ha ha.” His timbre bleeds with urgency and solemn disbelief all at once. When you don’t laugh, only stare at him, unblinking and trembling, Hob exhales. “Oh God, you’re serious. Well, he certainly has swell timing, doesn’t he?”

Your chuckle sounds strangled in your ears. “Consider me a Faerie right now. I can’t lie.”

“And fae are real.” A muffled huff leaves Hob. The immortal shrugs, accepting this new knowledge as quickly as he did your curse. “Because, of course, they are. Next, you’ll tell me leprechauns are real, too.”

You could hug him for what he’s doing. Gratitude twines through your heart as you lean into him, solid and warm, settling your quaking knees. “Well—”

“No,” Hob cuts off, dismayed. “Don’t. I don’t want to know.”

He asks you on the way back to his flat anyway.

By late evening the weather takes a turn for the worst. Rain falls in deafening, heavy sheets, drenching every available surface. Gutters overflow as you cut through bleak London streets. Despite horrid weather, people bustle around, and it’s an effort to avoid them. You lower the umbrella Hob had allowed you to borrow, stepping under a carved stone arch. The apartment complex is mainly blackened windows and no visible movement at an hour this late, but it doesn't deter you.

You’re certain Johanna is not going to mind a late-night visit. You tried calling multiple times. But at her failure to answer, you had set out to her office despite Hob’s instance that you should wait till morning. Your friend had been inaudible mutters and a deep-set frown since you trudged back to his flat above the pub. Something about annoying Endless, and no one is hurting you in my flat. He can bugger off.

Your finger digs into the door buzzer until there’s a crack on the other side, “What?”

“It’s me, Constantine.”

A pause. “Now’s not a great time. Come back tomorrow.”

Is she with someone? You buzz her again, leaning closer to the speaker.

“Let me in.” Something flutters in your peripheral, and instinctively, you turn towards it, “We need to… never mind.”

A shape steps from the shadows, mouth parted, devouring you where you stand. Dream of the Endless dons a shorter version of your coat, his raven hair as dishevelled and wild as you remember it, his skin pale and translucent, his features ethereal and powerful despite their gentleness. Nearly two centuries have done nothing to dampen his distinctive handsomeness.

“Wanderer.”

The curse consolidates inside your chest, and you jerk—

Dream’s hand snaps around your wrist, shackling you to him. At once, the curse buckles, frizzling under the presence and will of an Endless. Dream’s body brushes against yours, and you suck in a pained breath, your wide-eyed stare snapping to him. Dream pours over your features with such burning intent even his searing touch on your chilled skin is slow to register.

“How—”

His response is instant, knowing. “You always move your body left when you are about to jump.” He tilts closer, his voice so achingly familiar, the deep rumble holds you close, embraces you. Each hushed word kisses you all over. “A thousand years, do you truly believe I do not know you?”

Indignation wells in your chest. “That goes both ways, Lord Morpheus. How did you find me?”

You tug your hand back, but it takes two attempts before he relinquishes his hold. Needle stab your heart. There’s horror at what he might do for your waywardness, but cutting through the terror is…

You’ve missed him. So dearly, so fiercely—that having him this close, unchanged in his imposing presence and dour countenance, melts something inside you. You’ve spent decades searching for his face in everybody. Seeking him in crowds and alleys, in each corner of this world. You bled and suffered to get him back. It’s surreal to have him this close again.

A dream; a cruel, horrible, seductive dream.

“It would seem Fates keep drawing us together, you and I.” There is no wrath on Dream’s face, not unlike the last time you spoke, not unlike you expected. He’s drinking you in, and against your better judgement, you do the same. “I needed not to search for you. We found each other.”

What are the chances? In this fathomless cosmos, between hundreds of dimensions, to find each other here. In a rainy, sleepy city. Destiny is no doubt sitting somewhere in his realm, mutely delighting at seeing this written in his book. All things pass as they are meant to pass.

“I prefer my mind intact, so I’ll make this short,” you speak before he can say anything else, rushing over your thudding heart. “It was a mistake coming to the Dreaming in your absence. I recognise it as much. You banished me; I shouldn’t have used your absence for my gain. I won’t bother you again. You have my word.”

“I heard you.”

Your heart stutters, all thoughts and rehearsed sentences evaporating.

A breath slips past your lips with a quiet, “What?”

Your back brushes against the concrete wall, yet he seems closer and closer with each blink.

“I heard you call for me. Yet I could not answer your plea. I was imprisoned. You sounded in pain and then nothing.” Each word comes out fainter and fainter. Each sentence chosen with the same circumspect care you’ve come to associate with him. “For decades, I knew no peace, wondering what might have befallen you to call for me finally. Only to learn, upon my return, that you alone searched for me. Aided my realm when no one else would. Yet, your conclusion upon our reunion is to fear punishment? Do you honestly believe me so cruel?”

Does he need to ask?

“Yes. Yes, I do.” Dream shrinks backwards, his expression stuttering at your pained, breathy reply. “Was it not you who banished me? All because I disagreed with you? You threw away eight hundred and fifty years of us without hearing my side. Where was your trust in me?”

Dream moves back a step, turning away from you. For a moment, there’s nothing but his proud profile, inky shadows, and roaring downpour. Pain bleeds fresh, and your features crumple. You tuck your face in the collar of your black coat—his black coat, you correct yourself immediately. Even this isn’t yours. Neither is he.

“I was… wrong to do what I did.”

Your head jerks towards him. Dream Lord hesitates, visibly holding himself back, searching for words you know all too well after a thousand years, are all but unknown to him.

“I accept that now,” he continues tightly, uncomfortable and stiff. “I should have paid closer attention. Centuries ago, I assumed Desire chose Prodigal and you for their little game to spite me, but I never considered Desire picked my younger brother for a reason. Perhaps I was too blind to see how true your feelings for him were. To defend his whereabouts so fiercely, you must care for him a great deal.”

I could make you desire anything… even a kiss.

A dumbfounded grimace contorts your mouth. Your clenched fists tremble at your sides from the urge to hit him.

“Oh, Maker. I don’t believe it.” You stagger several strides to the right, breathing hard. “You think I didn't tell you because I’m in love with Destruction?”

“It would be logical—”

You pivot on your heels, nostrils flaring.

“Yes, I love Destruction. I love him a great deal.” Something flashes through Dream’s eyes at your controlled exclamation; crushed glass and ice, distant and… hurt. “But not romantically. Don’t you get it? No, you don't, do you? You look, but you still don’t see.”

Your feet carry you towards him. Dream straightens at your proximity. Bracing for more lashing words, perhaps, but you’re simply too jaded. From this existence, from him. “Over a thousand years cursed. Humiliated, maimed, haunted, stuck in Hell, Delirium’s realm, Despair’s realm. Before you, there was no hope for me. I told you what I… but what you did… what you did hurt the most.”

Briefly, you see something close to despair paint his striking features; too fleeting, then hidden.

“What you took from me…” Your words splinter, cracking around each syllable, an agony laid bare at the altar of your relationship. Your hand settles gently on his chest. Captured. For a hundred years. What did he go through? Right now, he’s real. Tangible beneath your hand. There’s an inordinate urge to grab his coat in your hands, pull him close, and breathe him in. Your hand drops away. “I just wanted to be with you. I would have stayed by your side forever if only you asked.”

Dream’s features are unreadable; all emotion wiped clean. His glassy gaze scorches into you, but you encounter no answers or comfort there. You rotate your head away from him, licking your wobbling lips once.

He edges closer, cautious. “Let me make this right.”

Ignoring the deep, low request, you bite out, “Why are you here?”

“Because my tools were stolen from me when I was captured. My helm, my ruby, and my sand. Without them, I cannot rebuild the Dreaming.”

You watch the rain while he watches you.

Shoving your hands in your pockets, you hunch your shoulders. “Fine. I’ll help you find them if I can.”

“I did not ask for aid.”

Is he trying to insult you by implying he would need to beg for help? Does he assume the Dreaming means so little to you?

“You never needed to,” you say, shifting back to face him, your jaw set. “I’m not doing this for you, Lord Morpheus, but for them. All those dreams and nightmares without a home because they feared you abandoned them.”

Dream’s gaze drops to the ground. Is it guilt? Shame? You’re not sure. It’s an unfamiliar shade on him.

Not waiting for a response, you head for the door, buzzing the button twice more.

“But not you.”

You stop dead at his assertion. Your back remains to him. Yet Dream Lord’s words hold their power; a chain around your foot, an anchor in the bed of your heart.

“You stayed,” Dream continues. “You searched even after I banished you. Why?”

Why indeed. Is he hopeful or too blind to see? You no longer care to find out which.

“If you need to ask, you don’t deserve the answer.”

You pull on the door, and this time it opens.

Johanna’s glower is fierce enough to make you bite back a grin. You’ve glimpsed plenty of such expressions mirrored on Edward’s face in the past. The similarities are difficult to overlook. Though they’re undoubtedly distinct, they are eerily alike in certain aspects.

“I can’t believe you were right,” she mutters peevishly.

She’s said it twice in the past ten minutes.

“Just keep searching,” you say instead.

You've got 99 problems, and all of them dreams—

This time, you’re the one left scowling, pointedly ignoring the silent Endless lingering in the corner of the room and the droning radio. Johanna turned it on accidentally while searching for a light switch, and it hasn’t stopped playing songs that prickle your neck since.

“I’ll check the other room,” Johanna declares, straightening. Her dark stare slides to you briefly. Whether it’s because she senses the suffocating tension between you and the other occupant in the room or simply because she’s more caring than she lets on, she asks, “Are you gonna be alright?”

We all are living in a dream, but life ain’t what it seems—

Grinding your teeth until your temples throb, you offer her a jerky nod. Johanna chews on her inner cheek for a moment, casting a warning glare Dream’s way before she heads for the adjoined room.

How Dream’s sand pouch came into her possession, you don’t know or care to know. All you care about is locating it.

Johanna’s departure leaves behind a silence that borders on unbearable. Rifling through papers, you consider your options. Bite the bullet and talk, or wait and see how long until Dream notices the radio acting up.

Forcing an exhale between clenched teeth, you venture, “Over a hundred years in captivity is a lot. How are you?”

“Fine.”

Lovely. You’re not sure what you envisioned. A heartfelt conversation where you share your woes? Right.

“I’m sorry about Jessamy.” This attempt is more subdued, more sorrowful. “I was trying to locate her when I heard the news.”

Johanna’s office remains quiet and dimly lit. If you couldn’t sense him in the room, you would assume you were once more alone. You haven’t realised you ceased your search until you’re left staring at your hands flat on the table.

“You don’t have to lie,” you whisper, pushing yourself away and turning to face him. “No one can be captured for so long without being affected, not even you. That’s a lot of time to think.”

Hey now, hey now, don't dream it's over—

Grimacing, you march towards the other table across the cramped room.

“I did,” comes Dream Lord’s low declaration. “Think.”

Documents and notes smear together. “Yeah? And what did great Lord Morpheus think about during his captivity?”

“You.” A beat. “Every day.”

I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream—

An invisible hand wraps around your throat, strangling you. Oxygen escapes your lungs but it’s no better than knives dragging down your windpipe. Your knuckles bulge beneath your skin, your grip on the table’s edge unsteady.

“The radio is broken,” you choke out, veering towards it.

You press the off button, glaring when stations instead flip repeatedly.

Sweet dreams are made of this—

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream—

I spend these waking hours looking for the Sandman—we're waiting for the Sandman, but he never hears the call—

Anger blinds you. You reach for the capable, yanking on it. Once, twice.

We'll begin… with a spin, travelling in the world of my creation. What we'll see will defy explanation—

You tear the cable out, panting, hiding your shaking hands. The cord falls to the ground, and you gasp loudly in the now too silent office.

“Wanderer.”

You hold back a cringe at the deliberate way Dream Lord articulates your title.

“Don’t bother,” you snip back.

This time, Dream moves physically in your direction. Not through the fabric of the Worlds but physically announcing his arrival. “Those songs.”

You could lie. It’s the first and most overpowering instinct. Spin him a tale, convince him it’s chance, coincidence.

Shutting your eyes, you heave the heaviest sigh you’ve mustered up in decades.

“When you disappeared, I tried everything. I know you’re not a God.” Dream pauses before you, his black coat skimming against yours, listening intently. “Your existence doesn't depend on worship or prayer. But you’re the King of Dreams. I thought—I figured if I inspired stories and songs about you, the word would spread. Maybe you’d be able to sense that you’re not forgotten. Maybe all that inspiration would reach you somehow. Help you. I couldn’t do it myself because the curse would destroy them, but I could inspire others to do it for me.”

Dream speaks no words or shows any outwards reactions—he simply reaches forward until the back of his fingers brush over your cheek. One knuckle, two, the featherlight touch skims over your skin, burning and mangling your insides. Those cold, ancient eyes shine with some potent emotion you’ve only caught traces of in the past. Never there long enough for you to examine closer. This time, he doesn’t hide. This time it’s his fingers on your cheek.

The door rips open behind you, and Dream’s touch vanishes.

“I know where the pouch is. You two ready to go?” Johanna asks.

Neither of you replies.

Leaning into the cold, coarse stone wall, you survey the raging storm. Better than acknowledging the man standing opposite to you. Johanna had served as an excellent buffer between you on your journey here, snarky and unafraid to throw barbed words or sass back at the Endless.

She’s bold in a way most Constantines you’ve met tend to be. Commendable trait, but a dangerous one. You’ve learned it’s about choosing when and how to present yourself. There are beings out there who make torture into a game. Delight in it, too. It’s always wiser to err on the side of caution until limits arise.

Yet you would welcome Johanna’s presence now. While she went upstairs to visit her ex-girlfriend to make amends and hopefully retrieve Dream’s pouch, you can’t imagine a worse situation she could have left you in.

“I must recover my tools first but return to the Dreaming, Wanderer. You belong there.”

You contemplate not answering. But what would it achieve? You’re not children. How far would this silent act take you?

Instead, you choose to remind him of your stark reality: “You banished me, Lord.”

“I void the banishment.”

You blink at his rapid edict. As if those words had been sitting behind his teeth this entire time.

You cast a dubious glance Dream’s way, your arms crossing over your chest. “Just like that?”

He exhales but one word over the rushing rain, “Yes.”

That somehow makes it worse. No relief or happiness accompanies this pardon. How many times had you desperately wished for him to lift his merciless decree? Only a tiny, pained whisper remains deep in the recess of your mind, calling out a weak why did you do it in the first place?

“Whims of the Endless,” you conclude. “Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised.”

It’s not fair to say such a thing. The Endless have been the closest you’ve come to an actual family in the last millennium. Even when you’re intimately aware it’s not sentiment returned. There is a divide between you and the Endless that can never be traversed. They exist outside the bounds of mortal comprehension, and you’re still a cursed mortal.

Perhaps Dream reads this defeat in you, pulls it from the weary slant of your mouth or the despondent creases around your eyes. In the way shadows prop you up rather than you standing inside them.

It’s been a long night, a long century. It will take time to learn how to relax around him again and stop yourself from instinctively flinching whenever he reaches for you.

“I do not wish to be parted from you. Not due to my past actions.”

Utter, uncrackable steel rings through every carefully punctuated vowel. Dream peers at you, unblinking, his hands in his pockets. “Things are different now. I am different. If you allow me, I would like to prove it to you.”

Goosebumps skitter across your flesh. You’re uncertain how to react, what to say, if anything. He is different just in this single night, but…

It doesn’t erase his past actions.

Rustling wings interrupt your charged eye contact. A raven slants its head in your direction, hopping on its feet.

“Sorry to interrupt, Boss. Uh, Lady Dream.”

That jolt you. “I’m not—”

“Wanderer is—”

You both look at each other, both falling silent. Uneasy seconds slither past, and you peer down at the raven, who slides his attention from Dream to you and then back again.

“I’m not Lady of anything. I’m the Wanderer.”

The raven ruffles his feathers, bobbing his head.

“Oh.” Caw. “Well, this is awkward. I’m Matthew.”

Lowering yourself to ground level, you smile at him, inclining your head. “I greet you, Matthew. It’s an honour to meet Dream of the Endless’ raven.”

Caw. Matthew hops towards Dream. “I like her. Can we keep her?”

Dream appears as if he’s fighting back a sigh. “What is it, Matthew?”

“Listen, boss. As once human-now-turned-raven, I just figured I’d warn you. Whatever your friend is doing up there. It’s sure as hell not worrying about your pouch. You’re better off going up there and getting back your stuff personally.”

“He might have a point,” you agree. “You said the helm is in Hell. It’s probably better if I go my way for now. I’ll try to search for leads on the ruby in the meanwhile. Save time.”

“Will you return? Back to the Dreaming?” Dream prompts. Mutely, you rise back to your feet, your smile long since dwindled. “If not for me, then for them.”

Clever, brilliant man. Quite ingenious addition. You’ve refused him plenty in the past, but never them.

“Fine.”

Adjusting the collar, you step towards the awaiting night. Inside, you ball the curse, ripping it by force to obey your will. Pain rakes through your limbs, inflaming your nerves. The more you demand, the steeper the physical toll is each time. At least your pain tolerance after a thousand years of suffering is top-notch.

You’re one foot between dimensions when Dream’s voice snags you. “Wanderer?” Your head slants marginally towards him. “Whatever it is you are doing to control your curse. Cease it. It is hurting you.”

Since when do you care?

You let yourself ripple away without a response.

The Dreaming is rebuilding. But it’s a slow, meticulous process. Dream had returned triumphant from his mission to retrieve his tools, as you had anticipated he would. He’s Dream of the Endless. Even without his instruments, his power is far beyond your ken. Or those foolish enough to assume they can procure it for themselves.

You’ve hardly left the Dreaming since, occupied with nonstop repairs and helping returning dreams and nightmares to readjust. Great numbers began returning unannounced once the news spread about Dream’s return. The caste was the first to be repaired and one with the most noticeable reconstructions. The remainder will require a great deal more work. But Morpheus has been relentless about mending the damage his absence had evoked.

Including you two.

He’s been giving you much-needed space. Indeed more breathing room than you had anticipated, but you’ve made it clear you’re only here to help the Dreaming. With no long-term plans to stay or return the next time you depart.

I do not wish to be parted from you.

No matter how sweetly those words make you ache, you can’t be lulled into forgetting the undeniable reality. And the truth is that while you can forgive Dream, there is no denying it will take time to forget how he once stripped you of choice due to his bruised pride.

“So, you’re a bird who was once mortal.”

“So, you’re a mortal cursed to wander for eternity between realms.”

Your mouth curves into a reluctant grin. “Fair point. How did you become a raven?”

You’ve grown rather fond of Dream’s new raven in the short weeks you’ve known one another. After Jessamy, you hadn’t expected Dream to permit another raven close so soon.

Matthew rustles his feathers, expertly clinching his talons into your shoulder. Your coat is dense enough to void pain, leaving nothing more than passable pressure behind. While Dream has made no comments about your new apparel, you’ve felt his prickling stares on you multiple times in the passing weeks. You’ve debated removing it now that he’s back, but… you couldn’t quite bear to be parted from it.

“Eh, not sure, to be fair. Just kinda did. Flying is handy. The rest is… weird. But I wasn’t a very good person in my previous life, so this isn’t so bad. Protecting dreamers out there. Caw.”

Your eyebrows come together. “How can you be so certain you weren’t a good person?”

The castle corridors smear past you while your feet carry you towards the throne room.

Matthew mulls it over. “Oh, y’know, call it a hunch. How about you? Why were you cursed?”

His curiosity is innocent, but you, too, think over your answer for several paces. You’ve been a complete unknown even to yourself. There are no glimpses into your past, no before. As if it had been so thoroughly wiped, not even a shadow remains. Whatever or whoever you were before assuming your title is lost. You’ve constructed yourself from nothing. Cracked, riddled with human impulses and weakness, driven by emotion, but not all bad.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.” It’s the truth. Except for that stray moment in Johanna’s office, there’s been no inkling for centuries. “But I don’t think I was a very good person, either.”

Matthew readjusts himself on your shoulder, and you hold your hand over him so he can brace himself. “Well, you’ve changed,” he says conversationally. “We all do. Second chance and all that.”

A certain Dream Lord springs to mind at the raven’s words. Are we cemented into who we’re destined to be, or is there room for permanent and meaningful change? Dream is trying. Those years locked away have altered something. You want to believe him again, but it’s not so straightforward.

Eventually, you settle on a halfhearted, “You’re right.”

You’re nearly at the throne room when Dream’s throaty words slice through you, stopping you dead in your tracks.

“—The Corinthian.”

Your heart catapults to your throat. Dream’s head slants in your direction. Lucienne follows suit. They both eye you closely, but you don’t let anything show coming to a gradual stop between them.

“Are you aware he is out there?” Dream wonders. Ice lingers in his mild tone. “Feeding on the dreamers he was meant to serve.”

You’ve never stopped being aware of the Corinthian.

“Yes. I tried to seek him out in the waking world,” you say, swallowing thickly. Searching for more words, you further admit, “To bring him back. But I didn’t have much luck tracking him down.”

Over a century. All those people. You don’t dare to admit the true extent of Corinthian’s cruelty. Dream would spare no mercy to his nightmare if he knew. And all these years—all those lonely, painful years—you’ve been stuck one step behind, unable to save those Corinthian has unjustly slaughtered. He wasn’t trying to hide. He was sending a message. One you couldn’t bare to examine closer.

You’ve failed to stop him. Somehow Corinthian keeps finding ways to stay ahead, and blood coats your hands as much as his.

Your nightmare. The initial realisation had torn you asunder. Corinthian had never been kind or gracious, had never expressed anything more than finely laced contempt for humanity but ripping eyes out? Exhibiting bodies as if he were decorating his surroundings? This wasn’t accidental or self-defence; it was deliberate cruelty. Blood savoured and shed with clear intent.

Once Corinthian had been a part of you as much as Dream, if not more so. The one who has been steadfast by your side. You and I, together. He’s the one you trusted the most and relied on the most. Who knew you, arguably, the best.

You were there to see him come into existence. Smiled at him and guiding his first steps, heard his name being spoken aloud for the first time. He was the first creation Dream ever shared with you. Corinthian would always be the first and most precious. He built a house inside you. A space no one could ever touch or destroy where you house your memories together.

And now he’s painting that house with the blood of innocents.

If you don’t uncover some way to locate the nightmare first, and soon, Dream will find him instead. There will be no mercy then, no second chances. Dream Lord has already taken everything from you once. You’re no longer scared to lose it again. Not if it’s for Corinthian.

“This is my fault. Had I been here, fulfilling my function—”

Dream’s voice rips you from your thoughts, leaving you squinting at his profile.

Lucienne frowns at once. “It was not your fault, my Lord.”

Dream closes the census, his words unusually subdued, “No? Then whose?”

“You didn’t ask to be captured.” Dream stills at your words, nudging his chin slightly in your direction. Guarded hope gazes back at you, so you continue, “Or be held captive for over a century. It wasn’t your fault.”

His shoulders droop slightly, then hoist upwards, less unburdened than moments prior.

Lucienne clears her throat.

“There is yet more news, Lord. There are rumours among the dream folk… of a vortex.”

You’ve heard rumours about vortexes in the past. Unprecedented phenomenon no one had an explanation for—not even Dream himself.

A mortal capable of lucid dreaming so powerful they could cross dreams of others, thin and bring down walls between Worlds and eventually destroy the Dreaming. The final part wasn’t particularly comforting to consider, especially when a vortex—the first of this age—has manifested in a young woman called Rose Walker.

While Dream is happy to allow Rose to be, for now, hoping it would attract his missing Major Arcana—Gault, Fiddler’s Green and the Corinthian—to her, you more than share in Lucienne’s concern about the current state of matters.

“Why would Gault sever Jed Walker from the Dreaming?”

Lucienne meets your question with a blunt answer, “He is no ordinary child, is he? He’s Rose Walker’s brother.”

Dream rests seated on the staircase, listening to your confab. You’ve been trying to discover Jed Walker’s whereabouts. Gault was the last nightmare to haunt Jed, after which he had all but vanished both from the waking world but, more unusually, the Dreaming as well.

Muffled footsteps sound behind you, then, “Excuse me. I’m Rose Walker. What do you know about my brother Jed?”

Your attention snaps towards a young, unfamiliar woman standing in the throne room. She leans on the shorter side with smooth, dark skin and round, pleasant features. Rainbow kisses her hair, colours loud and bold across each individual dreadlock. Delirium would love it is your first thought. Your second is that you love it just as much.

Lucienne, who stands beside you, appears utterly baffled by the newcomer's presence. Understandably so, aside from you, she’s likely never witnessed anyone simply stroll into the heart of Dreaming this way. Even you, more often than not, enter the Dreaming on the bridge or close by and enter the castle via the entrance.

Dream stretches to his feet, focusing on the young mortal woman.

“You are welcome here, Rose Walker,” he greets, his voice reverberating.

Rose, in return, looks just as confused as you all do. “Who are you?”

Lucienne straightens. “You have somehow dreamed your way into an audience with Lord Morpheus. The King of Dreams. And now you must go.”

“Lucienne,” Dream cautions.

A small, disgruntled sound leaves Lucienne. “She shouldn’t be here.”

Dream all but glides down the staircase, his curiosity about Rose’s presence piqued. “But I should like her to stay.”

Noting how mutely freaked out Rose appears, you venture closer, bridging the gap with placating slowness.

“I’m Wanderer,” you introduce yourself with a reassuring smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Rose.”

Rose relaxes slightly, but her confusion persists. “Nice to meet you, too. I think. What is this place?”

“It’s called the Dreaming,” you explain smoothly, taking another step closer. You gesture around yourself. “This is where you come when you fall asleep.”

Immediate hope ignites in her dark eyes. “Is my brother here?”

Your smile dims. “No, but we can help. I can help find Jed. In the waking world.”

Rose examines you for a tense beat, searching for something that goes beyond skin deep. They do it often, humans you offer your help to. In some vain hope they can see into your motives, perhaps. Ages have made the populace more chary and unwilling to trust strangers. After witnessing the horrors humanity is prone to unleashing on one another, you don’t blame her. Or anyone else.

“How does that work?” Rose poses. “I thought I was dreaming?”

A faint smile ghosts over your face. “I can travel between dimensions.”

Rose waits for the laugh, for the expected I’m joking, silly, but it doesn’t come. She ducks her head, processing. “Okay. Yeah. That makes sense, I guess. It totally doesn't, but…”

Dream’s deep voice is a hook from behind you, “Much still needs to be done here, Wanderer.”

You don’t look his way.

“You’re the ruler of the realm, Lord Morpheus. Nothing here can’t be done without me.”

His following silence speaks volumes, him choosing to plan with Rose on how to locate her brother, even more so.

Dreaming walking is a rare and powerful ability. While realms and dimensions are your domain, dreams remain closed off to you. Therefore, the situation evolves swiftly into a waiting game, anticipating how quickly Rose will be able to navigate to her brother’s dreams under Dream’s guidance.

It also becomes a race on your end. Desperation drives you. Your task is singular and relatively simple: locate Corinthian first. There are spells, Johanna had informed you, leaning over a book written entirely in Latin, Hob by your side. Spells, she insists, that can cloak you, guide you, and locate things or people.

If only you offer something in return.

For the first time in a century, you have a sorcerer on your side you can trust. Once Gault is found, Dream’s attention will inevitably shift towards Corinthian and Fiddler’s Green.

So when you catch sight of the rippling, purple-blue form of Gault in the throne room one afternoon, it stops you dead in your tracks. You’ve spent the day working with Abel and Cain, ignoring their ceaseless arguments, only coming back to the castle to check in with Lucienne on your progress.

Dream brushes past the nightmare silently, heading towards his throne.

“Gault,” you choke out, quelling your unease. “It’s good to see you.”

It’s not contempt Gault regards you with, but something closer to disappointment.

“Is it, Wanderer?” she questions in a half-hiss. “You are more blind than I feared. You have returned to a man who cares not for others. Not even you.”

“Silence.”

The castle trembles at the foundation from the utter, horrible power that rings through Dream’s low baritone. Lucienne winces mutely.

But Gault is as audacious as you recall, stubbornly fierce in her drive. “Do you have any idea what his life is like in the waking world?”

Jed Walker. Your stomach sinks.

“Humans cannot live in dreams,” Dream bites out, nothing but a cutting velvet behind you. “As long as he stayed there, the child had no life nor hope for one.”

“The boy is being abused. He’s suffering.”

Pained understanding sinks its roots into you, already morphing your objectives. Once more, you’ve been selfish, focused only on Corinthian, when Jed Walker, a boy you promised to find, is being hurt somewhere.

“You abused that suffering to build a Dreaming you could rule,” Dream accuses quietly, his words brittle.

Is this what the nightmare did? Controlled Jed’s dreams, separated him from the Dreaming to what?

“I had no wish to rule,” Gault rebukes. “I merely wish to be a Dream and not a Nightmare. To inspire, rather than to frighten.”

Gault was helping. In Jed’s dreams, he could taste happiness, brief as it may be. She could make sure no nightmares haunted the boy. Spare him more misery and dread. Lucienne draws a deep, understanding breath, mutely arriving at the same conclusion.

“That choice is not yours to make,” Dream states icily. “We do not choose to be created. Nor do we choose how we are made.”

Your stomach cramps.

The nightmare nods; muted, swirling lights dancing beneath the shapechanger’s skin. “That is true. But we can change.”

“No.” The Endless speaks, and in that lone word, time is near undone. It is you in Gault’s place, hearing Dream banish you again. “We are, each of us, born with responsibilities. Even I am not free to choose to be other than I am. Nor is anyone.”

An invisible knife slips between your ribs, twisting.

“If that were true,” Gault challenges softly, unbowed. “Why did the other dreams and nightmares choose to leave this place when you had gone away?”

Lucienne cuts in before Dream can react, “Not all of us left, and nearly all have returned. Some believed even when no one else would.”

With the wilful reminder, the nightmare’s attention goes to you. Despite being far older, you feel small under Gault’s percipient gaze. She’s strong and proud and will not plead for clemency, but you almost wished she did. If only to ease the wrath brewing at your back.

“You say you love humanity, Wanderer,” Gault begins purposefully. “You are one of them, yet you choose to be here. Serve blindly to one who has treated you like nothing. You will not be any different than his other lovers. Discarded when he is finished with you. You may have returned out of love, but not others. They came back from fear. They saw what he did to you. What would he do to them? But I am no longer afraid.”

The silence is suffocating. Even Lucienne has frozen in shock at Gault’s bold declaration.

Love. Yes, maybe you did return for love. But it goes so much further than just Dream. It always has.

Your nape tingles. Something dark and insidious brushes past your ankles, a feline weaving between your limbs. Your eyes widen at Dream’s shadow slithering across the pale marble and towards the nightmare. The atmosphere crumples, pulsing, cooling. Each crevice of darkness seems to accentuate, growing in magnitude.

“You should be afraid.” Dream’s words are blacker than deepest night, colder than bleakest winter. “A nightmare’s purpose is to reveal the dreamer’s fears so they might face them.”

Your body half turns towards him. “Morpheus.”

“Perhaps a few thousand years in the darkness will reveal your fears,” he continues, stony.

Gault’s legs disintegrate before your eyes, devoured by Dream’s shadow. The Darkness; an endless prison crafted by an Endless being. “Dream.”

He pays you no heed. There’s no mercy, no softness to be found on his face, only something ancient and cold that cannot be reasoned with. You’ve seen this look once, tasted the poisonous cruelty he can inflict so effortlessly.

“Better that than to make others afraid,” Gault affirms shakily. Her torso goes next, ripping, flaking— “Even a nightmare can dream, my Lord.”

Your vocal cords hurt. “Dream, stop.”

And then Gault is gone. The shadow vanishes immediately, and the throne room instantly lightens. Lucienne hangs her head, hiding her unhappy expression. You gape, fixating on the spot Gault once stood.

“I have disappointed you.”

Those words are directed at you, but you say nothing.

This. This is what will happen to Corinthian if Dream uncovers him first. If you can’t convince Corinthian to come back, cease doing what he’s doing.

“Wait.”

It takes several moments for awareness to sink back in, to realise you’re stalking away, your muscles rigid beneath your skin.

Dream’s gait is unwavering behind you.

“For what?” you call back, strangled.

“I did what I must,” he says.

Who is he trying to convince? You or himself?

Your footsteps beat on the marble. Even your pace betrays your emotions, the bubbling agitation streaming through your veins.

Not considering consequences, you halt abruptly, posing a biting, “You mean being obtuse?”

You spin to face him just as your words sink in, watching those distant stars spark to life at once. Dream’s features harden.

“You dare—”

“Yes, I dare.” Each word escapes from behind clenched teeth. You close the distance between you in two strides. “I respect you, Dream. I’ve always respected what you are and what you do. I respect your purpose and your duty. How hard this responsibility is. I’m saying this not because of disrespect but because of that respect. Because you need to hear it.”

Your hand flies back towards the throne room, your index finger stabbing at empty air, “That was cruel. Gault only wanted to be something more, something better—to change.”

“Gault severed a child from the Dreaming,” Dream reminds coolly. “She broke my laws.”

“She did it to give that boy hope. An escape. No matter how brief.” You suck in a shaky breath, your fingernails biting into your palms. Your following words flow quieter, fragile, “Do you know how many times I wished for sleep? For dreams? To escape my misery, if only for a moment? You don’t understand that hurt. You never understood what it’s like. Not because you can’t but because you don’t dare to try.”

For the first time since his return, Dream’s features soften, his self-righteousness draining. His arms jerk at his sides, and then he settles again. You’re not sure why you foolishly hoped he would reach for you, pull you to him, and promise you would never again experience such pain.

“You said you changed, but what I just witnessed was the exact same man who banished me without hesitation.” As you verbalise your thoughts, another certitude becomes abundantly clear. “The same man who would do it again,” you add tightly, upset.

Dream catches your elbow, each finger folding delicately around your arm, drawing you nearer. “No. Never.”

“Oh, Dream. My Dream.” Your palm settles gently on his cheek, skin warming when connected with his. Something visibly crumples in him at the touch, the fondness in your hushed call, his eyelids fluttering. “I wish I believed that.”

You let him go, pulling away from his hold. He doesn’t impede you. You wish he did. You wish he held on so tightly you could forget everything else.

“Where are you going?”

His controlled question nips at your heels as you walk away.

“To the waking world,” you reply, pivoting on your heels. “I’m going to do the thing this damn curse has ever been good for: help people. And it begins with finding and saving Jed Walker.”

“Wanderer, stop—”

Your smile is grim. “I am not your subject. I wander where I please, Dream Lord.”

And then you’re gone.

The Library of Dreams is silent apart from rustling parchment. He can will things into being, but Morpheus discovers there’s little desire in him for an easy solution. Instead, he searches manually, walking through each bookshelf separately. It gives him time to mull matters over and search for reasons why things keep cracking. Just when things were starting to return to normal, this.

It was going so well. Now you’re gone once more. The weight sitting on his chest is intolerable. He has to move, occupy himself with something lest he goes mad.

You may have returned out of love, but not others.

Could it be? You came back, you searched, even after all he’s done. Hope—foolish and undoubtedly mislaid—kindles in his heart.

I just wanted to be with you. I would have stayed by your side forever if only you asked.

He could hope for nothing more, but it is not so simple. Or is it? Could it be? If you both fought for this, would any outside circumstances even matter? Morpheus could search for a way to undo the curse. There must be a way to do it without resulting in your death. Without shattering your destiny. Could he not write you a new future? One by his side?

Phantom heat lingers on his cheek.

“Lord Morpheus,” Lucienne’s nonplussed acknowledgement ushers him back to the present. She stands at the sight of him. “I was not expecting you here.”

“Continue with your duties, Lucienne. I do not require you at this time.”

The cool command, their own… disagreement, suffuses the air between them.

“As you wish.”

Did he lash out? After you disappeared, he can scarcely recall what words left his mouth. All he knows is how, at that moment, everything felt terribly out of touch. Unreachable to him. Never had he felt a century pass more acutely. Things once familiar and dear to him have altered shape in the time away. And Morpheus no longer knows how to hold them or care for them. He knows not how to exist in a world that seemingly no longer needs him.

What is his purpose if they have found ways to live without him?

His kingdom is bare bones. His subjects are distrusting.

And in the torrent of questions, he spies the subject of his search. Always coming to him in a time of need.

Morpheus heads towards a shelf to his right, picking up the thickest volume on the rack. Not many can challenge this book in size and density. He foresaw no less.

“My Lord, is that—”

“Yes.”

Lucienne loosens a shallow breath. “Are you quite certain?”

He holds the tome closer to him. “More than.”

You don’t understand that hurt. You never understood what it’s like. Not because you can’t but because you don’t dare to try.

You were right to say it. He’s been avoiding your book for a thousand years. At first, Morpheus did not care to dwell deeper. Later because he started fearing what he might learn from those pages.

Lucienne steeples her fingers, eyeing him over her round glasses. “Sir, I must warn you, what you will discover between those pages will not be kind.”

“That’s precisely why I must do it,” he admits softly, avoiding her shrewd appraisal. “So I may, at long last, understand.”

Morpheus doesn’t linger, stepping from one shadow into the next, appearing directly in his throne room. He journeys up the stairs one at a time, the thick tome tucked under his arm. There is a voice deep down that mocks his hesitancy. What has he to fear from bound pages? Yet another story when he is the king of them?

But it is no ordinary tale, belonging to no ordinary individual.

Oh, Dream. My Dream. I wish I believed that.

Even seated on his throne, Morpheus lets the velvety, black leather book rest in his lap for long, hesitant minutes. On the supple cover, engraved in bold, golden letters, sits not a name but instead a title.

The Wanderer

His thumb kisses delicately over the title, then again. Again. Again. Again.

Morpheus draws a muted breath, the sound all but lost in the raging cosmos, and cracks open the only book he’s stayed away from for over a thousand years.

an: Just the home stretch to go, eh?

Thank you, everyone. For being here and reading and just being absolutely wonderful, talented, and unfailingly kind. Look forward to hearing your thoughts : )

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