#I AM OBSESSED!!!! with SLATE

[fictiongods]

Now it may not count completely because the man who has 31 (should be 32) consecutive life sentences in prison and wants to control the world said it, but it is kinda crazy that Lena and Kara are so similar and so tied together that even when Lex met a blank version of Kara he goes “You remind me of her [Lena] sometimes.”

[navree]

I genuinely think Slade is only in Task Force X because he wants to be paid for killing people, and hasn't yet figured out he can go freelance

I'm assuming, based on the emphasis put on Lex gaining power in Task Force X in combination with Waller dismissing Slade at the end of the last episode, that they might be gearing up for him to eventually leave and embark on his independent mercenary career. I'm a bit iffy on it, if only because I think that only works if they do a shared universe kind of thing, since Deathstroke isn't really a Superman villain. He's a Teen Titans villain, his most famous and most emotionally impactful stories involve his beef with these fucking kids (tho he can also show up sometimes in Batman stuff, not even Nightwing related Batman stuff, considering he literally pops up out of fucking nowhere during the Under the Red Hood arc to offer Black Mask a hit squad to take out Jason, tf did Jason ever do to him why did he just decide to send a goon squad after a literal nineteen year old for no reason whatsoever????).

I'm also not entirely sure if that can be his entire motivation for Task Force X specifically, for two reasons. One, if Leslie clocked him correctly and he is former military, then he didn't need to join a super secret black ops division to be paid to kill people, that's what the military is for. I don't even mean that in a "the evils of the army" kind of way, I mean that if Slade wants an opportunity to commit homicide in a situation where this wouldn't land him in jail and he could amorally use some flimsy justifications to allow himself to go further than most would approve, he already has it by being in the armed forces. Two, Task Force X doesn't really kill people. I think part of that is just that this is meant to be a somewhat family friendly show (I don't think it's a kid's show, but they are erring strongly oln the side of caution rather than giving us something like Invincible), but the brutality of Task Force X and Waller's (and previously Lane's) whole enterprise is in what it does to the people it apprehends. Task Force X seems to specialize in weapons manufacturing to fight Superman/Kryptonians, and in human experimentation. And while Waller's the one who ratcheted it up by taking random civilians from the prison system, this is something that's been at work for a while, apprehending people deemed disposable and experimenting on them or otherwise torturing them into compliance to fit their agendas. It's something Slade is involved in, and probably an outlet for some sadism, considering how goddamn cheerful he was when administering electro-shock to Leslie (does it say something about me that this is what cemented him as "new favorite guy" in my head?), but it doesn't seem like he has a lot of opportunities to kill people, since killing people other than Kryptonians during the eventual invasion isn't really the goal.

Am I aware I'm reading way too much into a side character? Yes, but this is a side character who has been consistently present since the premiere and is literally the first antagonist we ever really met, and I have thoughts about him and the hints of backstory and characterization that get dropped seemingly at random.

[benevolenterrancy]

Recently my old Titanic obsession has turned back on and now I am wondering... was Murdoch ever a "victim" of Lightoller's pranks... I mean, certainly since they had known each other for over a decade at point, he had been a victim of Lightoller's sense of humor.

Of course, this being Lightoller, who knows how far it could've gone...

I love this ask and I say this with 100% sincerity. I appreciate the absolute and complete confidence you have in assuming I also have a vast reservoir of Titanic lore to draw upon. Unfortunately you think I am much, much smarter than I actually am, as I sadly know almost nothing about the Titanic, my main touchstone being Magic Tree House: Tonight On The Titanic from when I saw like seven.

Though it has me very intrigued by the sailors on board the Titanic now... Was one of them known for being a prankster?? Because if so, there's a horrible iceberg joke in there somewhere...

[lowlygnome]

Messy lil sketch of Slate from @bonus-links by @ezdotjpg! I love him a normal amount (lie)

[vidalinav]

I'm not going to lie... I want Mor to buy Nesta underwear and give it to her while looking at Cassian and being like this is both your presents. I don't know if it would be matching underwear, because I think that's a level of cringe I can't accept yet, but buying Nesta underwear? Yes. Bonus points if it's red.

[pastelispunx]

An evenings spin

[astramachina]

Writing this fic with the intention of dropping it into my obscure AO3 side-account but the more i work on it the more I lose my mind over how fucking based the whole thing so WHO KNOWS i might end up uploading it on my main after all.

[midnightwind]

sometimes I peek into the |oki for old time's sake and I just gotta say, that character is now unrecognizable to me, that isn't my little war criminal meow meow who may or may not have been mind controlled in the big fight movie, look how they massacred my boy

[tatsumi-rin]

I've come to realize that as much as I can bitterly say "read a book" sometimes when it comes to certain people's use of knowledge and their language I do think it's a damn shame to limit yourself to only one format of storytelling. When we can but don't try to access other mediums of humanity's oldest crafts what's even the damn point man

Like read but please also appreciate the hard work people put into other things damn it - you don't look better to me if you only look at one genre or medium and look down on others as an ego boost

[chocolate-cream-soldier]

///

[slimepuparibaba]

hi me again what's new anyway here's another crazed rambling

calebmc dynamic of mc being just as obsessive as caleb (let me explain)

so mc (you) has this wonderful ability where she can die but then come back without any memory of anything like a blank slate, and unfortunately Caleb did witness this multiple times when they were younger so he had to remind her of who she was

T H E R E F O R E I PROPOSE:

MC being just as obsessive and attached as Caleb DUE TO SOMETHING VERY MUCH AKIN TO IMPRINTING

BECAUSE

Caleb would likely try to get to her first before anyone else

Caleb would tell her everything about who he is, who she is, what everything in the world is

Caleb would likely not let her out of her sight so she can regain her memories / he could potentially rewrite bad ones to conceal any terrible truths (yknow, like her being killed, saying she just 'got sick')

Caleb being the first thing she sees and is exposed to and relearning everything from him = imprinting

Caleb's 1st myth shows this from how it may play it in Caleb's perspective. when he forgot who he was, we as MC concealed bad truths and still tried to remind him of who he was, and he believed everything up until he remembered everything. he must have gone through this process dozens of times, and we must have reacted the same way, because each time we (MC) die, we come back a "blank slate"

however the affinity for him does not fade, because we likely can still "remember how he made us feel", evident in both of Caleb's Myths where we can cling onto something despite death (in Lucid Dreams, Caleb remembered how we made him feel despite forgetting. in X-02, we held onto the name 'Caleb' and how it made us feel warm, despite forgetting the major details).

SO.

EACH TIME. THAT WE, YOU, MC DIES. AND HE REMINDS US WHO WE ARE!!!

THE MEMORY OF HOW HE MADE US FEEL DOES NOT FADE. AND THE ATTACHMENT ONLY GETS STRONGER EACH TIME!

SUBCONSCIOUSLY, HE STILL REMAINS IMPRINTED ON US, NO MATTER HOW LITTLE WE REMEMBER. AND THAT? WILL PILE UP.

we let things slide with caleb because of that attachment that kept piling subconsciously. we still trust him because he is the one thing that we saw each time we came back, and he held our hand and said "I know who you are, you can trust me, I am right here with you", and we remember that despite everything, Caleb is Caleb, he is warmth, he is familiarity, no matter what, BECAUSE HE HAS IMPRINTED ON US SINCE FOREVER AGO!

THANK YOU FOR COMING TO THIS TED TALK

[spitdrunken]

more bill please. i need him to laugh at me and talk to me in a very sweet voice about how dumb and weak i am and how i only need him. maybe put his fingers in my mouth as a treat

notes: humiliation (!!!), implied mind-reading, implied obsessive behaviour, bill is mean(!!!) and finally: unreality warning (sorry for doing something creative with your request at the end /lh)

"aww, look at you! poor little meatbag, leaking soooo much from your mouth-hole..." he speaks with unrestrained glee, laughter always seconds away.

bill's fingers are digging into your mouth. your jaw hurts from being open for so long. though they're relatively small, his fingers still count as intrusions. he digs them into your molars, and rubs them along your gums. he dips them into the spit gathered underneath your tongue, and tugs at the muscle in question. it'd be more difficult not to drool all over yourself in this situation.

"must've been soooo hard to live your life before i came around, huh? so stupid and silly i'm surprised you even made it this far! just so you know, there really have been multiple points in your life where you almost died, without even knowing it... but now you have me! even a dumb meatsack like you can cling to existence when you've got a guy like me looking out for you, huh?"

(still, as much as it humiliates you, you cannot deny that this is doing something for you. your face is ablaze, your heart is racing, your breaths are quick. if you try, you can perhaps convince yourself that it's fear, rather than anything else.)

when you simply close your eyes, you can almost imagine that bill is telling you the sweetest things. he speaks to you with the tone and cadence of an owner fussing over their still-waddling puppy, the knowledge of superiority ever-present. but, really, bill's voice is too shrill for any whispering of sweet nothings. it shatters any semblance of peace.

"i take offense to that, you know! when someone's indulging some of your deepest fantasies, the least you can do is not insult the guy." the demon in question chirps. the lighthearted manner in which he says it is a mere smokescreen. if your mere instincts telling you so aren't enough, his fingers dip in too far down your throat and you gag, bile tickling the furthest edge of your throat.

"sorry..." you garble around his fingers, tongue twitching and curling around them in an attempt to get the message across. bill merely hums in response, pinching your tongue once more for good measure.

"it's okay," bill cooes at you. "i know it's not your fault. so many lives bouncing around in your noggin somewhere, just out of reach. you're just a single-faced, single-minded vessel for something much, much larger than yourself, aren't you? and that's the most interesting part about you."

for a moment, your mind halts and stutters, wondering if you made it up. this is not... sexy talk, is it? this is not like anything you were expecting. in all honesty, you're a bit confused. bill is no longer looking at you. instead, his pupil is darting all over the room, seeming to search for something, but failing to find it. in the end, he merely looks up.

"i know you're there. seeing this all through this... blank slate. i know everything, and you, you--" he laughs, shrill and short. "you are practically oozing with desperation. you are! look, kid. i get it. i'm a real catch. but instead of reading words on a paper, maybe just summon me instead, huh? i'm sure we can come to some kind of agreement! ...but maybe if you try hard enough, some of your words might reach me, too."

bill pulls his fingers out of 'your' mouth and, though they're still slick with spit, he snaps them. "end scene!"

[alexanderlightweight]

Hi, I'm the anon asking for the follow up of the broken parabatai bond, I meant the bones I'd break, sorry and thank you!

anon!! it has been a while but I am back and filling prompts (and I finally found the prompt because Tumblr buries them sometimes!) so here is the last part ofthe bonds i'd break and then here is the newest part!

i hope you enjoy!

<3 lumine

the bonds i'd break

The skin on his hip is blank.

Alec feels numb as he pets over the empty skin with shaking fingertips until firm, warm fingers take his own and hold his hand carefully.

“Alexander, you need to let it heal.” Magnus’ voice is soothing and deep and Alec closes his eyes and leans closer to Magnus and the heat and magic he exudes, along with the security and peace he offers. “Let it be.”

Alec knows Magnus is right, but it aches even when he doesn’t look at it or touch it and then fabric is covering him, taking the skin away the option at all.

“No more for now, all you’re doing is torturing yourself with this. Mourn what you’ve lost but do not obsess over it, Alexander.” 

Alec tries to remember what he’s supposed to do besides feel empty but the only answer he finds is to stay near Magnus.  Who breathes new life into him when Alec feels empty and void of anything.

This is only one rune gone.

True, besides the rune marking him as Raziel's, his parabatai rune is considered his most sacred mark. 

But Alec’s soul is whole, which is almost stranger still.

The echoing ache of his soul has always been answered by the small sliver of Jace’s, the current between souls tied together via slivering their souls.

Now, Alec feels settled even as his soul struggles to relearn his body fully, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t miss the bond or what it implied.

Alec has no family now.

In trying to protect them, he’s lost them. Or perhaps they were never his to begin with and Alec has only ever been a shield born and crafted and forged to be a barrier between his family and consequences. 

“Darling, don’t get lost where I can’t follow.” Magnus reminds him and then Alec opens his eyes because Magnus is moving — leaving — except it’s only to help Alec up as well.

—-

“Up you get.” Magnus is firm as he pulls Alexander up and his boy listens, a sad little grimace on his face. “Things won’t change with a hot cup of tea and a meal, but your mind will work better.”

Alexander eats methodically and not even Magnus’ attempts to gentle him into a smile work. There’s a new anger to Alexander, a layer of enraged pain that has cracked through the icy facade that Alexander normally wears.

The facade is gone as well, leaving nothing but a blank slate that so far has shown more pain and sadness and anger than anything else.  Even now, Alexander goes through the motions and even tries to respond however he thinks Magnus wants, but it’s not real.

“We should go out for the day.” Magnus watches Alexander and sees the way his shoulders tighten, his head ducking down as if to prepare for a hit as he collects their plates. “Perhaps Huangyao Ancient Town? It’s a quieter destination, I think you’ll appreciate the beauty and age of the buildings.  The local nightmarket is old and full of timeless magic and trinkets, somewhere you can get lost in without ever losing your way.”

Alexander pauses from where he’s hand-washing the dishes, something he insisted on doing and since he’s doing something, Magnus had allowed.  Even summoning soaps made by Catarina that he hasn’t used in centuries just to make it easier and protect Alexander’s skin and nails.

“That’s fine.” Alexander doesn’t seem enthused or upset, but he does seem relieved.  As if Magnus is going to take Alexander out and about in New York or around any Institute any time soon.

Magnus doesn’t want to push, knows better, but he can’t help but step closer and cheekily dry the dishes and put them away with a snap of his fingers and then reach out to grab Alexander’s soapy hand and kiss his knuckles.

“Truly, darling? Or would you prefer to stay here? Or simply go to another one of my properties.  If this is too much...”

Alexander is staring at where Magnus is holding his hand and when his eyes raise his gaze lingers on Magnus’ mouth with a confused little furrow between his eyes.  

“No, it’s fine. In fact—” Alexander pauses and — because Magnus is still holding his wet hand — pulls Magnus' hand to his mouth and returns the kiss, clumsy but sincere. “I want to. Go somewhere with you where we won’t be recognized.” Alexander must see Magnus’ face twitch because he rolls his eyes, “I know you’ll probably be recognized anywhere. Especially at a nightmarket, but I won’t be and that’s enough. The Clave will try to hide what’s happened and until it gets out, no one will be looking for me.”

Magnus swears that his heart relearns it’s rhythm in that moment, the tempo changing to cater to his excitement and the fact that Alexander wants to do anything, even if it’s only because of a suggestion. 

—-

“It’s fine. It’s fine.” Clary tries to repeat but Jace is still incoherent, near catatonic and the fact that Alec is still alive has only made it worse. “He’s still alive, maybe you can recreate the bond.” Clary feels like it’s a safe offer,  except Izzy shakes her head and Jace silently shakes under her hands.  She’s trying her best to help — especially when the parabatai bond is creepy and clearly Alec didn’t care that much about it if he got it severed— but nothing she’s said or done has made a difference. “Besides, it’s not like it's your fault—” she starts but Jace wails as if she’s stabbed him instead.

“Clary shut up.” Izzy is sniffling and tries to glare at her, eyes red and nose still red and raw. “It is literally Jace’s fault no matter what we think of how things went down. Raziel himself judged their parabatai rune and Jace was found guilty.” Jace shakes harder under her hand, “he’s literally being investigated for treason right now. All three of us are. The only reason we’re on probation and limited isolation is because Imogen Herondale broke far too many rules and is now also in question.”

“Okay but we have the power of the Institute.  Didn’t you say you were practically royalty beings Lightwood’s?”

“We don’t have anyone to help us anymore!  Alec is gone and with him any power to protect us. We don’t have that power. Even if our name was worth anything, it’s not now that we’re suspected of treason.  Especially since Jace has been judged to have failed and turned upon his parabatai, there is no one who will save us. Alec was the only person who was standing between us and the Clave’s sword.” Izzy spits it out now and she’s getting angry, angry and crying and Clary didn’t know Izzy could cry, not with how brave and strong and fierce and confident she is.  It’s a new look and Clary wishes she didn’t know it.  How is she supposed to be brave when even Izzy is scared?

“Your parents—” Clary gets laughed at even before the question is complete but despite the burn of irritation and pride, she doesn’t snap back.  Izzy is hiccuping sobs and choking laughter and shaking her head and Clary doesn’t want to make it worse.

“My mother is in Idris trying to make sure that they focus on Imogen’s misdeeds. The best she can do for us is by making sure someone impartial comes to investigate us, especially when you’re Valentine and Jocelyn’s daughter.  Neither of your parents left any friends, Clary. Only enemies and now Jace and I have proven to be on your side and your side isn’t with the Clave. Helping you, it might have doomed us all.” Izzy curls closer to Jace and he lets her slide an arm around his back with a shudder, clearly comparing it to a different arm.

“We wait and we stay low, no more unsanctioned missions and no more running around the shadowworld. We don’t have any options left, Clary.”

AN:

Magnus is the calm keeping the storm at bay and he's also the eye of the storm. The entire reason that Alec's so calm and reasonable and stable is because he's basically just mirroring what Magnus gives him and Magnus is being a MOUNTAIN of stability rn.

like it won't last because it can't, but Alec is able to just not completely lose himself in total dissociative episodes because Magnus is keeping him tied to reality by a little thread. Magnus is also doing so much research and studying during this time.

alec hasn't figured out what he's feeling yet. there is a lot less and more trauma in different ways because he wasn't fully deruned but also he has literal evidence from the angel that he was betrayed (his stele being stolen sealed that okay, like forget emotions by every logic and law Alec was betryaed and mutinied against).

he's a lot more angry in a different way? the deruning broke him in one way? the fact that Jace betrayed him enough the angel agreed broke him in a different way. something he is having the hardest time understanding and conceiving.

alec wanted stability and to heal in the all your cracks I'll paint gold and he's in a much more 'let me unleash my feral rage' in this fic. we're just not there yet.

Magnus having just accidentally unclipped the leash to a feral tiger he didn't know he was holding: ... here kitty kitty kitty

Alec returning covered in blood and feeling better for the first time in days and just, helplessly kissing Magnus because that's the only thing he knows he wants: *smooch*

Magnus: you're telling me I can let him go out on murder sprees and he'll return to me for kisses?? am I getting this right?

Ragnor and Catarina both feeling a chill go down their spines at the same time: oh no, Magnus who are you about to obliterate?

Magnus having a much better time than in canon: Alexander darling, for brunch I've found a Circle bunker and - darling get back here we're having pastries first!

Alec: i'm going to wash dishes. that's routine and something I can handle and control and huh, punching through that nephilim's ribcage and squeezing their heart until it burst against my palm was surprisingly therapeutic.

Valentine still gets the cup because the Institute is terrible without Alec: *creating new and shitty nephilim*

Alec: ... my I wasn't expecting presents from the enemy

Magnus: can it be considered a present if he's really just tossing fodder? At this point it's not even chum to lure in sharks, he's just throwing crumbs into the local duck pond.

Alec: I am much fiercer than a duck

Magnus: let me introduce you to the local magical pond and their poison breathing ducks sweetheart, then you can look me in the eye and repeat that.

because I don't think it's super clear, Alec is dissociating and in a bit of a daze and when he snaps, it's going to be violent and bloody and he's not going to stop being angry for a very long time, or mourning.

he's also going to be angry because even his relationship with Magnus can't be normal (for a shadowhunter and warlock version of normal), because Magnus is everything to him right now and Alec is sulking about that because he deserves the right to mourn everything he lost.

Magnus is his lifeline.

Magnus is doing an incredible job of working with and helping someone with a trauma he can only barely begin to comprehend (he can use magical accidents to get a better idea but understands that runes are intimate and different the same way Magnus can understand a vampire turning but not fully comprehend what's felt).

Magnus is doing all of this ON Top of his own trauma, because he went from 'will I, wont I?' on even trying one more time with Alec and now he has a whole shadowhunter partially broken and completely his and depending on him.

Magnus is hiding his panic behind an 800 year old poker face but eventually he's gonna need to call in reinforcements and Ragnor is going to stop playing dead early.

Magnus is doing amazing.

[bonus-links]

I got the notification the comic updated this morning like RIGHT as I had to start working! Needless to say, my excitement got me through the day (and had such good payoff omgg)! Thank you for sharing your work with the world, it brings such joy to so many people!

But directors commentary? 👀 I gotta say I love it equally as much as each update!

🎶two months without uploading they come back with a side conversation that takes up a whole update🎶 jokes aside uh. most of the rest of this chapter is going to be like this. sorry. bonus links is an excuse to have link legend of zelda philosophize at himself for 1000 pages probably at this rate

I rewrote this conversation a BUNCH. there are versions of it that are much longer, where they actually talk a bit abt the master sword— I really liked those versions, but I decided to save some of that for later. my goal was to create a convo where they both are sort of dancing around what they mean, but they come to an understanding anyway. I think Slate and Wake have a lot in common that they could bond abt.

Here’s an important note about Slate’s character: he does not lie. he says what he means. He will, however, prolifically dodge ur questions lolol

some notes from the script I left for myself abt Wake’s expressions, hope I was able to capture them lolol

Wolf playing with the kids! This was an important detail for me to include lolol tho I nearly left it out bc I was having trouble staging this update. I wanted to build more of a connection between him playing w the kids on the island and him playing with the kids in Ordon, but there’s just not time, and the last update already kind of covered that emotion. Wolf is a really quiet guy, so I’ve been doing my best to build up his character in the bg even if he hasn’t gotten center stage yet. A lot of ppl commented on how this is the happiest we’ve seen him so far, and that was the intention!

Just wanted to call attention to these cute lil faces.

Loft continuing his streak of falling asleep at every party he’s ever been to. alas, no partners to carry him home this time :-(

Lore abt the triforce mark has been inconsistent from game to game. Like usual, I’m sort of cobbling together my own interpretation from ideas I like— so, in this instance, the triforce mark isn’t just from having at one point handled the triforce or possessed a piece of it, and not everyone has it.

I am obsessed w the hero of time statue in wind waker. It is such a striking image, and that section of the game is one of my favorites from any Zelda game. I am also obsessed w how Wind Waker approaches itself as the aftermath of oot. I am really excited to put Wake and Mask in the same room lolol. as a side note, statues really are becoming a motif in this comic huh

That’s abt all I’ve got for now! Thanks for reading!! I really hope the chapter has been enjoyable so far. We’ve got a little while left to go, despite my best efforts to keep this chapter short 😩

[rikudaa]

Brushstroke of a Bullet

Jason Todd/Red Hood x Reader | <<< Part 2. >>>

𐚁A/N: weird kink but I seek the thrill. Dividers are made by @cafekitsune !

⚘. WARNING!! NSFW, Gun Shooting, Blood, Violence, Cursing, Erotic Scene, Jason and Reader is freaky, (I will add more..)

Note: Reader obsessed with art. This is a Fem!reader story. Long chapter so prepare!

Gotham Art Museum – 2:03 A.M.

The security lasers were child’s play. The cameras? Outdated. And the guard watching monitors? Asleep with a donut on his chest.

Midnight Miu was already upside down, hanging by a wire from the ceiling, clawed gloves itching to own a glowing impressionist masterpiece with the awe of a worshipper. Claws tapped softly against marble, eyes gleaming focused on a surrealist cursed oil painting titled “Catharsis in Crimson” under a sleek column of glass.

You pressed your gloved fingers against the glass case, felt the coolness of the alarm panel beneath the surface, bell chimed faintly on your choker, a feline giggle in sound form.

Your pupils were blown. Blushed cheeks. Breath fogging on the glass. As you leaned your head against the cold case like getting off on the texture of the colors.

You was high again—not on drugs, no. On art. Pure, uncut creativity. That masterpiece in front of your sights? Orgasmic. A textured orgasm of oil paint and torment, abstract chaos in crimson, slate blue, and streaks of black.

“God,” you whispered with a delighted little shiver then cut through the glass surface, eagerly to obtain the so treasure in hands.

“This looks like someone slashed a dream in half and bled it on canvas. Mmm—this is so much better than sex”

A familiar voice called down from above.

“…Better than our sex?”

CLANK

You didn’t even flinch as Red Hood dropped in from the skylight, landing like a ghost on the marble.

You just looked at him upside down, eyes wide, still laughing under breath like you was seeing something divine.

“Jaybird,” you cooed, purring out the syllables, “You followed me. Again”

He approached slowly, boots echoing in the open hall.

“What’s wrong? Daddy Batman not giving you enough attention?”

“You’re high off art,” he muttered. “That’s a new kink, even for you”

You tapped your temple. “High off meaning. The chaos. The unspoken confessions in every brushstroke. Look at it–it’s screaming, and I want to taste the scream.”

Jason exhaled. “You need help and put the damn painting down immediately”

“Or what? You gonna shoot me?” You asked, hanging upside-down like a devilish chandelier. “Or punish me in other ways, officer?”

“You’re completely deranged,” he said unamused. “Breaking into a historical vault with your ass practically asking to be arrested”

“You say that like you weren’t staring at it”

He stared now. Let himself. “I am staring at it. I’ve shot people for less”

You giggle, relinquishing all caution. “Shoot me, and I’ll bleed pretty shades of scarlet.” You flex on the wire, flipping upside-down, arching your back to tease him. “But darling… you’d miss the fun part.”

“Why do you do this?” He asked impatiently.

“Do what?” You asked innocently, flicking claws over the glass case. “Make you hard while committing crimes?”

Jason’s breath hitched sharply.

You tilted head with that wicked cat-smile. “Gun is not the only thing cocked tonight right?”

Red Hood leveled his gun. “Drop it. I don’t want to break the prized loot—unless you’ve got a death wish”

Your grin widened beneath the mask. You sprang off the pedestal in a single bound, tail swishing behind like a whip. “Always. Don’t let me keep you”

You landed thirty feet away, crouched low. Red Hood’s boot cracked against the floor as he advanced, gun never wavering.

“You know, I could shoot you right now,” he said, voice low and lethal. “But I’d rather…not” There was a glint in his eyes, amusement sharpened with something like hunger. “You really think you belong in my nightmares?”

You pressed the canvas against your chest, so close that you could smell the paint’s faint turpentine tang. “You already live there”

You bolted. Red Hood fired one round—pure intimidation. The bullet shattered a display case behind you. You hopped to the side, letting loose a string of curses that echoed off the polished floors. In one swift motion, you extended a steel claw, slashed the bullet’s trajectory just enough to spray sparks across the walls.

Red Hood grunted. “Impressive”

“Thanks. I try,” you cooed, backing toward a pillar. “Now, if you don’t mind, let me go home with my little companion here”

He holstered his pistol. “I prefer fair fights” He launched himself at you, fists aimed at disabling strikes. You twisted your body, silk-like, and spun away. Jacket flared as you whipped around and delivered a kick that smashed his shoulder. The impact rattled his helmet; he staggered back.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Didn’t hurt that badly.” He shook it off. “Your turn”

You moved so fast that Red Hood saw only afterimages. Your blade flashed—once, twice—slicing his gauntlet before he could bring his arm up. Pain lanced through him, but he fought through it, tackling you toward a display of medieval daggers. You then twisted in midair, slipped from his grip, and landed on all fours, cat’s eyes blazing.

Red Hood stared, a dark grin forming. “You like playing rough”

You cocked your head. “I like playing you”

He lunged again; you dodged, one hand brushing his thigh. He jerked—semi-panting. “Don’t touch me,” he snarled.

You flicked a strand of hair from your face. “Your helmet stops you from tasting me” voice dipped to a sultry whisper. “Bet you’d love it”

He advanced slowly, anger and desire tangling inside him. “I don’t like you”

You stepped close, breath warm even through the mask. “You like me. You like me a lot”

Before he could react, you tossed the painting across the floor. It skidded into the darkness. His eyes followed its direction, then flicked back up to her.

“Smart,” he breathed.

You vanished in an instant—no scream, no flash, just empty space where you’d stood. He whirled to catch sight of your silhouette on the catwalk overhead, tail flicking like a question mark.

“Nice trick,” he said into the silence. And then: “Come back” It was a challenge, a plea, half-lost in the shadows.

You perched on the railing above him, the stolen object cradled in your arms. “You lost something?” You asked with false innocence, voice echoing across the high ceiling.

Red Hood stood below, one fist clenched. “Give it back”

You tossed it. Red Hood caught the canvas, finger brushing the cursed object. The moment he touched it, a chill spread up his arm, and he grunted, shifting the weight of it. “I thought you were smarter than this”

Then you dropped to the floor beside him—a soundless landing that sent a tremor through his spine. You flipped the tail, bell jingling. “You didn’t say there’d be no curse”

His jaw tightened. “Hand over my gun”

You grinned. “That’s the best part” In a heartbeat, the bones in your hand cracked, retracting claws from your gloves—three razor-sharp talons glinting. Pointed them at his helmet. “Or do you prefer bleeding?”

Red Hood’s gut twisted in pleasure-pain. “I prefer you begging”

Your laugh was a dark melody. You crouched lower, claws extended. “Beg?” Your eyes darkened. “Why would I beg the Red Hood?”

He stepped forward, fists raised but slack. “Because you want something from me”

You tilted your head. “I want this” tapped the canvas propped under his arms. “And I want you to want me”

He shoved the oil painting into your hands. “Happy?”

You embraced it as hide it behind your back. Then you kissed him. It was brutal—claws pressed into his hip, coat collar snagged around his neck. Her tongue was a challenge, seeking his. He froze, one arm locking you skull in place while the other drifted down, squeezing your hip through the spandex.

You hissed, then yanked back. “Relax,” you whispered, smirking. “You’re tense”

He growled, fingers curling into your hair. “Don’t pull that trick”

You yanked him forward for a swift punch to his abdomen. He absorbed it, chest caving in, but held fast. “You think you can break me?”

“You almost did,” you purred. Claws pressed lightly across the front of his helmet. “But I want more”

He caught you by the waist and slammed you against the display case behind them. Glass cracked; shards fell like crystalline rain. Your breath escaped in a gasp as his body pressed against you, hard. One hand cradled the back of your masked skull; the other slid between them, fingers brushing the bell on your choker.

You arched into him. “Is that… discomfort? Or excitement?”

Red Hood’s voice was husky. “Both”

You twisted sideways, slipping from his grasp like smoke. “Your turn to run”

He staggered after you, pistols drawn again. But you vanished behind a column, bell jingling like a seductive echo. He fired a non-lethal round; you tumbled from a ledge two floors above—landing gracefully on feet, twisting in midair so the painting stayed secure. You sprang toward him, boot burying into his sternum; he punched your jaw so hard head snapped back, bell clattering against throat.

You laughed. Blood trickled from the corner of your mouth. “You really are stupid enough to want this, aren’t you?”

He laughed, a low rumble that made your pulse bolt. You dipped into feline grace, slipping past him—he lunged, but you flitted sideways, a wisp in leather, and ghosts of the bell-choker chimed on your throat. His fist sliced the air where you’d been, and you slipped into a dark corridor, fingertips slick with stolen paint still.

Later, after a dizzying chase through artifact rooms and brass railings, you finally come to a halt among scattered white velvet cushions you’ve looted from display stands—now your makeshift throne. Sprawled like a desecrated angel across stolen velvet, the holy relics around you turned into thrones of sin.

The painting leaned crooked against the wall, light from the skylight casting divine gold across the bloodied strokes. Your legs draped over a silk-draped altar, body half-melted into the cushions. Breath slow. Bare shoulder gleaming beneath the loose slide of your jacket.

You was already twitching with impatience, ready to dive back into the canvas, but another presence filled the doorway: Red Hood, helmet in hand, hair mussed from exertion. He watched with narrowed eyes, corner of his lip curled, as though he’d caught you sneaking whiskey in church.

You propped yourself up on one elbow, legs splayed like a feral queen. “Took you long enough,” you said, voice sweetened by mischief and sweat. “I thought you’d given up.”

He pitched the helmet onto a nearby crate. “I almost did.” He kicked one beside you, sat. “But then I remembered how you look when you’re lost in your little art highs. And how much I hate that it turns me on.”

You rolled onto your elbows, smile lazy and wicked. “It’s not the art that gets you, Jay. It’s me. Chaos in a catsuit.”

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he stepped closer, something glinting in his hand—a brush. Wooden, worn. The tip dipped in something thick and white. Paint, probably. Or something more metaphorical. You watched it like prey watches a loaded trap. Licking your lips.

“What’s that for?” you asked.

“I’m painting,” he said simply. “You called this religion. So let’s worship.”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just lifted your chin and smiled like the devil whispering secrets in church.

“Where’s your canvas, preacher?”

“You,” he said.

You rose in one languid motion, skirts of shadow swirling. “Paint me, tough guy? And show me whatever twisted vision you got?” You grin was feral—hungry. “I’m all ears.”

He set up on the loft floor: a small wooden easel, his brush, and a jar of thick, creamy white paint—lead-heavy, sweet-smelling who knows where he got that. You perched on a battered stool, legs parted just enough to tempt him, breathing soft and shallow. Every inhale made the fabric of your shorts cut into your skin, and you danced fingertips over the soft flesh of your thighs, blinking dreamily at the unrolled canvas behind you.

“Close your eyes,” he instructed, voice clipped-quiet. You complied, eyelashes fluttering down over eyes already half-lidded with desire. “I want you to imagine you’re floating—no gravity.” He dipped his brush into the paint, tapping it against the rim with a dull thock. You felt a tickle of cool air as he lifted the brush toward your inner thigh. Electricity.

First stroke: a long, lazy swipe of paint across the soft, vulnerable skin above your knee. You gasped, breath hitching, and arched into the touch. The brush dragged slick wetness into you, smearing alabaster white against black spandex.

“Fuck…Jason,” you whimpered, eyes still closed, voice thick with need. You could feel paint sliding up you leg; a fine, trembling prelude to something deeper.

He obeyed your unspoken invitation—the brush dipped again, now heavier, and he slid it higher, closer to the place where the skin was most tender. A single stroke smudged white across the slick seam of your shorts; parted legs a fraction wider. The bristles curved and soaked into the tight fabric, brushing directly against your heated flesh.

Squelch

The sound was wet, sinful. You tilted head back on the stool’s backrest, lips parted, a soft moan slipping free. Your body quivered, as if every cell screamed delicious surrender.

He paused, brush hovering at the edge of the fabric. “Relax,” he murmured. He tore at the shorts—soft rip of fabric—exposing you fully. Your skin glowed pale even in the dim loft light, and he couldn’t help the dark thrill that twisted his gut. He licked his lips, dipping the brush deep into the paint again. “You know I’m not just painting your outside tonight.” The promise in his tone made your pulse a drum.

Then he did it: He slid the brush—not the tip, but the full belly of it—inside you. You gasped so loud it echoed off metal beams. The thick white paint slurped and smeared into your depths, the bristles sliding sluggishly, coating your wetness with creamy slickness.

Schhplorp

The sound was obscene: a squelchy, rhythmic plunge. You arched off the stool, hands clawing the leather cushion.

Your voice was ragged. “Holy…shit…Jason.” Every thrust of the brush sent paint further in, flooding you, mixing with your heat. He stroked slow, deliberate: pulling out to drip ivory nectar across the folds, then plunging back until your core was a churned canvas of wet white. With each move, the loft filled with wet cries and the bristles’ obscene.

He pressed his free hand to your hip, steadying your shifting body. “Look at you,” he growled, “all painted up like art.” He pulled you to the edge of the stool, edging your back until shoulders pressed against the hard wood. The brush’s handle nudged your clit, slick with paint and arousal. Squip

A tremor ran up your spine, and you bit your lip to stifle a scream.

“How—does—this feel?” he asked, voice warm but wounded—like he was amazed by your reaction. Your could only arch and moan, paint dripping from the brush tip back into the jar before he plunged once more, your insides a palette of creamy white madness.

When he finally pulled out, your body shivered, lips parted, paint oozing from center in thick, gleaming drips. He set the brush aside and leaned down, kissing your inner thigh where the paint pooled, smearing the last of it into you. Sluuurp

You clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into leather as hips bucked.

You whimpered, voice low and shuddering, “I… I thought you were just… painting me white.” Broken laughter. “Fuck, I didn’t know it’d be…like a masterpiece in my pussy.”

His breath warm against your cheek. “You’re the only canvas I want to ruin tonight.” He paused, gaze softening for a flicker. “No gallery would ever hold what I see here.” He dragged his thumb through the paint lingering on your lips, then kissed your mouth—paint-smudged, salty, divine—capturing your moan with his own hunger.

*ੈ𑁍༘⋆ *ੈ𑁍༘⋆ *ੈ𑁍༘⋆ *ੈ𑁍༘⋆

Your body still damp with dried streaks of paint that cracked in places as you moved, him shirtless, mask discarded, eyes glittering with something raw. The stolen painting stood silent witness in the corner, its pale curves echoing the contours of your body. You blinked at him, chest heaving, hair matted with sweat. Cheeks were flushed, pupils so dilated you looked like a dream.

He brushed a lock of hair from your forehead. “You…okay?” His voice was uncharacteristically gentle, as if he worried you might shatter under the weight of you own sensation.

You rolled onto your stomach, head cradled on one arm, tail-thin belt spilling over the couch like a living thing. “Never better,” you rasped, fingers trailing down his spine to brush at the waistband of his pants. “But I’m gonna need more paint tomorrow.” Your grin was wicked, glazed with lust. “Think you can deliver?”

He smirked, shifting to capture your bottom lip between his teeth. “I’ll bring the painting supplies—and maybe a new canvas.” He winked, then kissed the side of your neck, whispering, “You know, I might just paint more than your pussy next time.”

You laughed, a low, throaty sound. “Only if you promise to hang me somewhere afterward.” You tapped at your collarbone where the choker’s bell rested. Ding

He chuckled against your skin. “Deal. But only if you promise to keep stealing those paintings for me.”

You reached back, wrapping an arm around him, dragging him flush against you. “Anything for art…anything for you.”

He pressed a kiss to your painted spine, eyes shining with dark promise. “Good. Because tonight, you belong to me—and to every twisted stroke of paint in your veins.”

You purred, stretching luxuriously, paint cracking beneath fingertips. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Next up: Heaven Was Never For Us | <<< Part 2. >>> Tagging: @zomqiez

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[wishfulsketching]

I am becoming so obsessed with Julian!!! I don’t know what it is about him. He just has the demeanor of a terrified prey animal all the time and its so endearing!

You don’t have to answer this if it’s too spoiler-y, but I gotta ask: Did Julian build Sapphire and the big robot fellow? If so, which did he build first? It would probably be smart of him to stop after Sapphire took his hands. Though, I find it funny that he might’ve just… NOT learned his lesson and built an even bigger and more dangerous robot protect him lmao

Anyways, love your ocs!!! They’re so neat!

Thank you for asking about poor poor Julian!!! Yea, he is a very smart man who is also doomed to do stupid things thanks to him wanting to just see what he can do.

Sapphire was build first, they were an experimentation of "can you copy a human and put them into a machine". It was a success but also, not. They had planned it that the person kinda wakes up as a blank slate but can act as a human aka no need to code, you can just copy paste human "mechanics" into a bot. Sapphire woke up pissed off and very aware.

Julian is living his worst life but he also really really wants to build things and needs resources to do so. His boss is also an egomaniac who really wants to take over the government and the world before her brother does, so Julian is stuck.

His robot friend, full AI, sees his anguish and somehow grows its own personality and life goals. It's not stupid tho, it's keeping it's sentience a secret. For a while, at least. It really wants Julian to be able to relax

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR LIKING MY SILLY LITTLE OC'S AOIUSDHAIH

Julian's design has changed along the years but his character really hasn't. He's always been a nervous wreck