#Shadow likes drawing landscapes and space

[localgardenweed]

Art Student Shadow is back and he’s late to the venue

[luveline]

Oh please do a blurb with hotch and shy!reader😭

ty for ur request! fem!reader

The sky has turned a brilliant shade of honeysuckle purple when you leave work that night. Your breath catches in your throat at the sight of it, the winter air crisp and cold where it nips at your nose. 

"We haven't seen the sunset in a while," Hotch says, stopping at your side. 

You glance between him and the breathtaking sky sheepishly. "Not one like this," you say. 

He looks up with you. You haven't felt this brand of wonder in so long, it's better than a hit of any drug. The purple transcends into a cherry pink that sinks further to a buttery orange. The horizon is cut apart by dark buildings, the sun hidden, huge shadows stretching from their monolith figures.

You snap out of it, pulling your coat tighter. Hotch spends a frankly unhealthy amount of time behind a desk. You doubt he wants to stand watching the sky change colours with you when he could be home, unwinding for the night. 

Stepping toward the parking lot, you're quickly stopped, a big hand enclosing your own. "Wait a second, honey," Hotch says. 

Your pulse explodes at the pet name. You're more used to his touch, but even that makes you nervous. He slides his fingers between yours and squeezes them together. 

"Uh," you say, hating yourself for how awkward you are. 

You don't suppose Hotch has done much hand-holding lately. Do older men hold hands? But he does it expertly, thumb drawing a steady back and forth, his grip not strangling nor limp. You take a hesitant step toward him and let your arms press together. 

Following his lead, you look back up. A white trail arcs across an otherwise unblemished sky. Your pulse is so loud you worry Hotch can hear it. 

"Are you happy?" he asks. 

You follow the white trail to the start, where an plane bisects the sky. "Yeah." 

"With me?" he asks. 

He deserves to be looked at and reassured, but it's all you can do to stay standing in one space. Intimacy makes you nervous —you want it badly, but getting it is almost painful sometimes, unused to the intensity of being cared for as Hotch cares for you. 

"I've never been this happy in my life," you confess. You wonder how you both look, two silhouettes in the darkening landscape outside of your office, faces turned up to the purple-pink sky, hand in hand. 

Hotch kisses you on the cheek. His smile is palpable. "I'm happy, too. Now let's go home. Your face is like ice." 

You look down and let him lead you to the parking lot. Your cheeks soon heat with the pleasure of his affection, though he doesn't need to know that. The colder he believes you to be, the freer his doting comes as you reach the car. "Are you still cold, honey? I'll turn the heaters on."

You combust in the passenger seat of his car as he pulls out of his suit jacket and spreads it over your legs, giving your thigh a quick squeeze through fabric. It stays there as long as it can, rubbing up and down, trying to create some friction. It's pointless (you're piping hot by this point), but you won't tell him. You're enjoying the feeling, and honestly, you probably couldn't form intelligible conversation if you wanted to. 

Hotch pretends not to notice. He'll tease you with it at another time, you're sure. 

[khristie16]

Your daddy Carlos paid for your visit to Paris as a birthday present for you and in order to make it better, he travels to you to show a side of himself not many people know

Warnings: just sweet asf

Based on this request ^^ : Meow

I’ll pick you up at seven at your place;)

You just were at your solo trip to Paris to explore the city you’ve always wanted since you were a kid. And today you were supposed to see your boyfriend. Just last week you had your birthday and Carlos made you decide on what you wanted for the gift. You liked jewelry and beautiful piece of clothes but you were really feeling to go travelling instead and that is why you’re right now in a fancy hotel at 15 place Vendôme.

Carlos wanted to spend your birthday with you and had a nice plan to visit you on your last two days to enjoy the time together.

You’ve put the last pieces to your fabulous outfit and waited for Carlos to arrive, already excited about what he planned for the two of you. You cannot wait much longer to see his beautiful big brown eyes and get lost in the warmth of them, as now when you finally meeting him in front of his car waiting for you. You kissed softly as he had a hold on you laying his hand on your waist to keep you close to him. You chuckled at his actions scratching your nails on the back of his neck. He groaned in response and closed his eyes.

“I missed you”

You smile and plant a kiss on his right cheek.

“Me too”

Smile was the first thing he saw after opening his eyes again and the light sparkled in them it warmed your heart.

“Let’s go”

Carlos opened the doors for you to hop in and be excited about what’s to come.

After few minutes the engine turned down and it made you wonder why you’re stopping. You turned your head to your handsome boyfriend to get some answers.

He was already smiling. “We’re here already”

The air outside was getting colder with each passing second as it was early spring. You hugged your arms and looked around. The moment you realised where he took you, he was already reading your mind and responding to you.

“I hope you haven’t been there yet?”

You shook your head with a smile on your lit up face.

Goosebumps on your skin disappeared the minute you went inside and walked together through the security X-ray.

“I didn’t know you liked art?”

A soft smile on his face and eyes on the floor signalled you it was not something he talks about much and your curiosity with this fact only grew. He had to chuckle to see you that way because he loved your curious nature.

“I’ve actually studied Art History back in home”

Your mouth fell open as you couldn’t put Carlos and Art together, but you closed it as soon as it opened so he doesn’t feel bad he told you. He just shook his head and shrugged.

“Let me show it to you my way”

Light beautiful decorations all around the space you two were right now standing in made you feel like you’re breathing a different type of air in here and lift you up with a different energy you immediately sensed all the possible symbolisms and meaning displayed on the canvas.

“That’s Luig Loir”

He nodded towards the painting on his right.

“Loir was a master of capturing everyday scenes with a touch of enchantment. Notice how his use of vibrant colors and soft brushstrokes brings life to the bustling streets and tranquil landscapes.”

You take a look properly on the painting and try to concentrate on those colors and contrast they give. You tilt your head slightly to see more.

“Do you like it?”

He suddenly asked you which made you frown and wonder where the urgency came from. When you looked at him you saw a slight worry on his face.

“Y-yes of course! It’s a masterpiece.”

You’ve heard a light sigh left his lips and his composure relaxed a bit.

“Whether it's a bustling Parisian street corner or a peaceful countryside vista, his attention to detail draws you into it and you can see how effortlessly he worked with lights and shadows”

You cannot hold back yourself to observe Carlos instead because you’ve never seen him like this. It made you feel intrigued?

“Does it make you feel anything ?”

Answer came to your conscious as you narrowed your eyes some more back on the painting.

“It all look so slow and simple. I feel kinda nostalgic to be honest.”

With the last words you snapped to him as if waiting to be corrected from your teacher. He smirked a little and nodded. You felt immense sense of pride filling your veins and you had to blush for yourself. Damn this guy is so much more than he let you know.

“In essence, Luig Loir's style can be described as a harmonious blend of realism and romanticism, capturing the beauty and charm of everyday life with a touch of poetic flair.”

His warm eyes landed on yours with a serious undertone.

“That’s why I like you. You’re like a piece from this old man. Real yet charming as the fairytale itself”

His broad shoulders were now facing you and closing the distance between the two of you. His hands cupped your face. Your eyes on contrary were wide open with so much admiration for this man and for the way he makes you feel. The presence of his eyes on your lips made you lick them.

“No, baby”

Frown appeared on your face, searching for answers in his warm eyes.

“If I kiss you, I won’t be able to stop.”

You bite your lower lip because you’re a brat that likes to play with your daddy Carlos. And he loves it. His low groan and amusement in his voice made you melt and wetter by the passing second as his scent filled your nostrils and let your imagination run wild as all those paintings here.

[jokeringcutio]

would you ever write for TDK joker? craving something reader/ledger joker - would you ever write for him? maybe she asks to see him without his makeup and she’s totally dazzled by him, tells him how beautiful he is, touches his scars gently (I mean, he is heath ledger with some scars without it, so it tracks😍😅) and he softens

Yes. (Short Drabble follows below:)

Rating: Mature? No Explicit Smut (yet). Just some loveliness. ~*~

You watched from the shadowed corner of the hide-out, the dim light flickering across the Joker's slouched silhouette as he shuffled in. Exhaustion hung on him like one of his tailored jackets, shoulders sagging, his chaotic day etched into every line of his body.

"Rough day?" Your voice cut through the stillness, a blade wrapped in velvet.

He grunted, a non-committal sound that vibrated against the peeling walls. He faced away from you, hands reaching up to smear away the clownish facade with a stained cloth, movements slow and deliberate. The smeared white gave way to tired skin beneath, the green paint-streaked water darkening the basin.

"Chaos reigns," he murmured, the words almost lost as he wiped the last vestige of makeup from around those sleep-deprived eyes, revealing the man beneath the monster.

You stepped closer, the space between you charged with an electric current. The air felt thicker as your gaze traced the contours of his face – yellow teeth, the sallow skin, the embodiment of neglect. No wonder he had never dared to show you his face before, how he kept himself hidden from both you and the rest of the world.

A shame, really. The rest of the world was missing out.

Seeing his unmasked visage, there was something painfully human about him that took your breath away.

"Joker..." It wasn't just a name; it was a revelation, whispered with a reverence that surprised even yourself. "You're beautiful."

The word clung to the damp air, a truth laid bare. You saw him, truly saw him beyond the chaos. Not just the demon that the world portrayed him as, but someone who touched upon the divine. There was beauty in his darkness, a captivating allure in the raw edges of his insanity.

And for a moment, just a fleeting moment, the agent of chaos stood still under your gaze, the world outside the decrepit walls of the hide-out fading into nothingness.

Your hand reached out, tentative as a whisper. Fingertips grazed the jagged landscape of his scars, grotesque and tender all at once. The touch was featherlight, tracing the history written in his flesh, the story of a smile carved by brutality.

He softened.

“Why hide this from me?” The words came out in a breathless whisper.

The wordless exhale of breath, a silent surrender. There, in the dim light, the Joker's eyes flickered with something unnamable. Not joy, not peace. A flicker of humanity amidst the turmoil.

"Liar,” he breathed, the sound a caress against the stillness.

"Beautiful," came the echo of your own voice from moments before, now reflected at you in his voice. His hand lifted, the gesture slow, purposeful. Cold fingertips danced across your cheek, a stark contrast to the warmth blooming within you.

Laughter bubbled up, nervous, shy. Your heart a staccato against ribs. You let him draw you nearer, his grip ghostly on your hand.

He was touching your face with such reverence, studying you with his darkening gaze. It made you feel like jelly under his touch. He had called you beautiful before, but this time, to hear it as an echo of your own words, felt wrong. You were no liar. You’d spoken the truth.

Joker was, without anything to hide behind, beautiful. The most beautiful man you ever saw.

His lips met your palm. Scar tissue, rough and uneven, pressed into your skin. A delicious shiver coiled down your spine, your core pulsing with desire.

"Beautiful," he murmured again, his gaze holding yours captive. And in that look, the world tilted, madness and sanity blurring into a heady mix.

"Joker..." Your voice faltered, drowned in the intensity of his eyes.

"Shh," he silenced you, the sound soft as the brush of moth wings. "Just feel."

And you did. You felt everything.

You trembled, the room's chill a stark contrast to the fever in your veins. "Make love to me," you whispered, the words a loaded gun.

He didn't speak, actions speaking volumes as he moved with a predator's grace. Clothes discarded, whispers of fabric falling to the floor. A hush before the storm.

Your bodies collided, a crash of thunder in the silence. His hands, commanding, insistent, mapped every inch of you, claiming territory. You arched into him, a willing conquest, the world reduced to the space where skin met skin.

Passion flared, raw, and unbridled. Each movement was a sentence in the story you wrote together, punctuated by gasps and moans. The Joker – no longer a specter of chaos but a man ablaze with desire - moved with a singular purpose.

You clawed at the sheets, each breath a plea, each touch a promise. He complied, a give and take that danced on the knife-edge of madness and euphoria.

And then, stillness.

Afterward, you lay entwined, a tangle of limbs and labored breaths. The silence was delicate, a gossamer thread weaving through the aftermath.

"Did you ever imagine..." your voice drifted, a feather on the wind.

"Imagine?" he echoed, his chest rumbling with a low chuckle.

"Us. Like this." Your fingers traced idle patterns on his chest, daring to explore the man beneath the monster.

"Never," he admitted, the word almost lost between you. "Chaos doesn't plan."

"Yet here we are," you mused, the irony not lost on you.

"Here we are," he agreed, his eyes searching yours for a truth you hadn't spoken.

"Will you show me your face more often?" you asked tentatively, seeking his eyes.

"Why would you want that?" The question hung in the air, a thin veneer over deeper inquiries.

"Like I said,"  you whispered. “Beautiful.”

A grin curled his lips, the scars uncurling like the petals of a flower. Gorgeous, your mind provided.

“If your reaction will always be as intense as this, I just might.”

"Good." A simple affirmation, yet it carried the weight of worlds colliding.

"Good," he repeated, tucking you closer to him.

The kiss he placed on top of your head felt like heaven. ~ AN: I haven't been well enough, but once I am, I definitely want to write more for this man. I love his little insane ticks, the licking of his lips, all his mannerisms. Definitely would love to write more about him. But to everyone who didn't get the memo, I am ill (it isn't a flu or a broken leg or something that will go away on its own, it won't go away in a few days, it needs treatment and possibly surgery and time, so keep your fingers crossed that everything will end well so I can write more for all of you lovelies out there.) ♡

[jinxhallows]

𝐔𝐧𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 .

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☾ -- ᴛᴀʙʟᴇ ᴏғ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛs

prologue | chapter one | chapter two | chapter three | chapter four | chapter five | chapter six | chapter seven | chapter eight | chapter nine | chapter ten | chapter eleven | chapter twelve | chapter lucky thirteen | chapter fourteen | chapter fifteen | chapter sixteen | chapter seventeen | chapter eighteen ((you are here)) |

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ᴍʏ ᴘʀᴇᴄɪᴏᴜs ᴛᴀɢʟɪsᴛ -- @sikebishes @hamburgers101 @felix-housewife @agnes-king @exfolitae @brojustfknkillm3 @skzswife @just-randomm-stuff @thunderous-wolf @3rachasninja @katsukis1wife @hanjingin @mylilliposts

☾ -- ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ɢᴇᴛ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴀɢʟɪsᴛ? ᴄʟɪᴄᴋ ʜᴇʀᴇ

━━━━━━━━

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ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴇɪɢʜᴛᴇᴇɴ | ᴡᴄ: 8.6ᴋ

━━━━━━━━

A dense smoky fog blankets the ground as you navigate through it, obscuring everything but the silhouette of barren trees in the distance. Their branches reach out like grasping fingers, lending an air of malevolence to the journey. It feels as though every element of the landscape is vying for a piece of your soul. 

The vampires, purportedly devoid of soul, remain unaffected by the eerie atmosphere. Jisung, however, betrays his unease by idly rubbing his amulet between his fingers. Though he maintains his stoic facade, a flicker of apprehension glimmers in his eyes as he catches your gaze. His smile is unfamiliar, lacking its usual warmth—it's akin to the polite nod given to a stranger who holds open a door.  

This isn't the Jisung you're accustomed to. 

Time is running short for Jisung. He's almost resigned to his fate, harboring a faint hope for a swift, painless end once this journey concludes. The prospect of returning home to face the slow decay of his essence over the remaining years weighs on him. 

Thoughts of his long-lost fiancée flit through his mind. He's yet to encounter her in his frequent visits to the afterlife, but perhaps he'll spend his eternity seeking her out instead of perpetually evading death. 

A tender glance at your stomach reveals his excitement at the thought of becoming an uncle. Even though he likely won't be around to see it happen, he finds comfort in knowing that your child will carry his legacy through their magical bloodline. Someday, they'll cross paths again. 

The dark aura emanating from the coyote demon casts a shadow over the group. The silence is difficult to tolerate in its absolute stillness. Wasn't this supposed to be the most dangerous part of the journey? Only a day ago, you were under siege by demons, yet now, on the brink of the final stretch, there's nothing. Certainly, if there were something in the distance, any one of the supernatural creatures on your sides would be able to detect it. 

Hyunjin listens to the crunch of twigs under his feet, lost in his thoughts. He ponders his mother's cryptic words, wondering if tonight will mark the loss of one of his brothers. Maybe even you. Hyunjin had grown incredibly fond of you, and you had earned his loyalty by rescuing him.

Hyunjin even entertains the idea that it should be him instead. Many uncertainties plague his mind. Returning to the mortal world has been a jarring experience, and true peace eludes him. Hyunjin wonders if he'll ever find any sort of peace, or if this perpetual unrest is his eternal atonement for past sins.

"Hold on, you see that?" Chan's voice breaks through Hyunjin's runaway train of thought, directing everyone's attention to a sudden clearing that appears before you, seemingly out of nowhere. The forest, dense and forbidding just moments ago, now yields to an expansive open space. The nearby sounds of water reach your ears, and squinting reveals the clearing's boundary—a cliff shrouded in thick fog. The archway formed by the bending trees at the cliff's edge invites them to peer beyond, where the natural sky seems to disappear. The impending sunrise has vanished from view, leaving behind a darkness that blankets the forest in a timeless haze. 

"This must be it, I can feel it." Santiago declares, drawing a deep breath as he surveys their surroundings, his senses on high alert despite his formidable power.  He didn't clue anyone else in on it, but he had a strange feeling that they were being followed the last hour of travel. When nobody else made note of it, he attributed it to the twisted curse of this place and let it go.

Is this Abysmora? Or does it lie beyond this mysterious veil of smoke? 

You wrap your arms around yourself tightly, a surge of nausea unsettling your stomach. 

"What did you say?" Chan's concerned voice breaks through your thoughts as he turns to check on you, his expression puzzled by a sound he thought he heard. 

"I didn't say anything," you reply, feeling perplexed. Had your thoughts accidentally slipped out aloud? 

"Weird. I could've sworn I heard something," Chan mutters, his brow furrowing in confusion. 

"Maybe your mind's playing tricks on you," Jisung suggests, joining the conversation. "I didn't hear anything either." 

Chan is still skeptical, approaching you with a frown. He squats down to press his ear against your stomach, and you allow the gesture, gently resting your hand on his head, the weight of the moment heavy amidst the strangeness of the situation. Standing up, he scans the group, finding no confirmation of his earlier perception. 

"Nobody else heard it?" he asks, met with shaking heads all around, including yours. 

"In Abysmora, believe only half of what you see and nothing you hear," Santiago advises, breaking the tension. "I don't wanna tempt Fate; she can be cynical. We have to pay the Coyote demon before we cross over."  You avoid eye contact as Santiago looks at you again, instead averting your eyes to the coyote demon close to the water. Somehow, your anger has shed it's skin to reveal your fragile hurt. You wonder why you aren't worthy of the truth from him, even now, after all you had accomplished.

The sight of your mysterious guide at the cliff's edge draws your attention like a moth to a flame. It hovers there, a few inches above the ground, an enigmatic presence, its form shrouded in shadow. Despite its lack of eyes, it seems to peer intently at the ground below, as if deciphering some hidden message written in the earth itself. The air around it crackles with an otherworldly energy, adding to its mystique as it stands sentinel at the edge of the abyss. 

"I'm sorry, pay him? With what?" Jisung's voice rings with alarm. 

"What do you think, my friend?" Santiago responds, unsheathing his knife. "Our life force." With determined steps, he approaches the coyote demon, and the rest of the group follows suit. It remains unfazed, its attention fixed firmly on the ground. You cling tighter to Chan, who slows to let you grip his arm. 

With a wave of its bony hand over the water's edge, a makeshift raft emerges from the foamy stream. It appears flimsy, like a discarded piece of construction material, hardly capable of supporting its own weight, let alone the rush of the rapids with you all atop it. Yet, it remains steady, held aloft by the coyote demon's power. Santiago steps forward first, slicing his palm and allowing blood to spill onto the demon's outstretched hand. Every drop is absorbed without a trace, prompting Felix to follow suit, eyeing the demon warily before adding his own sacrifice. Jisung, surprisingly, steps up next, his usually cautious demeanor overshadowed by the gravity of the situation. 

Hyunjin's turn comes next, and as you and Chan approach, a sense of dread begins to well up within you. The fear seems to seep from the ground itself, creeping up your legs and constricting your throat.   

Chan, hearing something again, looks down at you, his expression troubled. It's a sound he can't quite place, like a whisper in his mind, indecipherable yet unsettling. He blames it on Abysmora's influence, steeling himself against its effects as he watches Hyunjin make his offering. 

As you and Chan present your own blood sacrifices, the sting of the cut fades, replaced by a tingling sensation that signifies rapid healing. Chan pulls you close, whispering words of reassurance as he guides you onto the raft. "I think she's helping you," he murmurs, speaking of the unborn child you two share and her mysterious powers. You wish those powers could alleviate the nausea that still lingers, but as if in response to your wish, the sickness vanishes without a trace. 

Jisung's voice trembles with a mix of anxiety and bravado as he settles onto the raft. "How sure are we that we’re gonna survive this waterfall drop?" he asks, his words filled with a nervous energy. 

Santiago's response cuts through the tension. "You're asking the wrong questions," he declares cryptically.  “I’m still in a mortal body that has never been to Abysmora, about to go over a waterfall, what questions am I supposed to be asking right now?” 

Perched on the edge of uncertainty, you suppress a chuckle at Jisung's retort, stealing a glance at Felix, who struggles to conceal his amusement behind clenched lips. 

“The toll is paid.” 

With a final decree from the coyote demon, the atmosphere shifts. The ethereal guide dissolves into obsidian mist, and in an instant, the raft is swept into the rushing current. 

Chan's arms encircle you protectively as you bury your head in his chest. His embrace offers a semblance of security, though beneath the surface, fear lies in wait in his veins. It's not the fear of death that grips him, but the fear of loss—of you, of his brothers, Jisung; of the life he's only just begun to consider worth living. 

Chan yearns to utter words of comfort, to quell the storm raging within you. 

Casting a sidelong glance toward Hyunjin, he extends a tentative gesture of affection, seeking to bridge the chasm between them. Though initially stiff under the weight of fraternal embrace, Hyunjin gradually yields to Chan's touch. 

Across the raft, Felix's gaze meets Chan's in a quiet exchange. But before their unspoken bond can solidify, in an instant, the world tilts on its axis as the raft hurtles over the precipice, plunging into the yawning abyss below. 

For a heart-stopping moment, gravity claims dominion, and the sensation of free fall grips you all. The wind whips around you, snatching at your clothes, your hair, as you all hurtle downward into the void. 

But just as suddenly as it began, the vertiginous descent comes to a halt. The world around you seems to freeze, time itself holding its breath as the raft settles into the stillness of Abysmora's dark embrace.    "Fucking Hell—" Felix's expletive pierces the air, jolting you from your reverie. 

"Jisung, little witch, are you—" He begins to ask, worrying for the mortal passengers.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good. You?" Jisung's voice wavers with the remnants of adrenaline. 

"I'm... still here," you manage, your voice a fragile whisper amidst the chaos that surrounds you. 

Chan's senses begin getting assaulted by a familiar itch—a primal instinct clawing at the edges of his consciousness.

Surely, he’s not going to turn? Not now? Not like this? 

The same inexplicable murmur tugs at Chan's senses once more, this time drawing his attention squarely to your stomach. An involuntary pang of tenderness wells up within him, a protective instinct he struggles to suppress. And for that second, perhaps two, he doesn't feel his monster trying to come up for air. With a will of its own, his gaze flits away, his jaw clenching with the effort to regain control. 

‘Abysmora is playing tricks on my mind,’ Chan reminds himself sternly, his thoughts a tumultuous whirlwind of uncertainty. He grapples with the realization that, in this strange realm, he may not be able to shield you and his daughter as he wishes. 

But the memory of Amelia, her sacrifice, cuts through the haze of his thoughts like a knife to the heart. He can still feel her absence, a haunting guilt for the price paid for their survival. Chan's arms wrap tightly around himself, his fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket in a desperate attempt to anchor himself in the present, to get out of his own head, to banish the ghosts of the past that threaten to consume him. 

The raft creeps languidly through the dense, murky waters, now a deep, suffocating shade of purple that seems to swallow light rather than reflect it. The waters are calm, yet their opacity hints at untold depths and secrets submerged beneath. Small islets punctuate the expanse like broken teeth, each hosting clusters of weathered gravestones that stand as silent keepers of forgotten lives. Some stones are cloaked in a dense mantle of moss, their inscriptions eroded by time, while others lean precariously, half-engulfed by the encroaching, swamp-like embrace of the water.

The air itself seems to congeal around you, infected with a sense of despair and decay. 

As the raft drifts aimlessly, a disturbing ambiance pervades, heightened by the mist that clings to every surface, weaving through the air like the breath of the isle itself. This mist carries with it an odor so foul, a blend of rotting flesh, sulfur and damp, decayed wood, that it assaults the senses, a physical manifestation of the corruption that seeps from the very soil of this place. 

“Oh God, I- I don’t feel good–” Jisung body convulses slightly as he heaves over the side of the raft, expelling a noxious, black substance—a memory of his earlier possession. The sight is disturbingly out of place against the backdrop of unnatural stillness that surrounds you. He coughs violently, a raw, hacking sound that seems too loud in the oppressive silence, wiping his mouth with a shaky hand, his expression one of revulsion and deep unease.

He speaks, his voice barely above a whisper, but it's clear the very air of Abysmora is anathema to him, a venom to his senses.  “I can’t…I don’t think I can be here very long.”    "I don’t think any of us can…” Felix's voice carries his concern, tasting the bitterness of the venom in his mouth, something he hasn't felt in a long time. Swallowing becomes a chore as the acrid taste spreads, worsening his already noticeable thirst. He keeps his discomfort to himself, knowing his brothers need him now more than ever. Despite the absence of the Full Moon tonight, Abysmora's sky holds no celestial bodies, just an endless void stretching upward into an unseen realm. 

“Where’s Santiago?”     The question of Santiago's whereabouts lingers, as you survey the desolate landscape. Memories of the heated argument with him resurface his words cutting deep. Could he have abandoned the group at the gate, his duty fulfilled by merely delivering you to Abysmora? The worry eats at you, the fear that your past conflicts might have jeopardized the journey for everyone, with no guide to navigate the treacherous unknown ahead. 

None of you have any experience in Abysmora, a daunting realization. It's a frightening thought, to be on an even playing field with some of the strongest creatures you’ve come to know, and all the while carrying your first child.    In truth, Hyunjin has rejected the idea of forming an alliance with Santiago for some time, ever since he inadvertently overheard the conversation back at Lysandra's. Despite the pressing need to focus on capturing Santiago after the Blood Bloom, time constraints forced the brothers to prioritize other tasks. However, with Santiago's sudden disappearance, urgency seeps into their thoughts, amplifying their concerns.    Finally, the raft nudges against the mainland with a soft, almost imperceptible thud, coming to rest at the edge of a larger isle. Here, the tombs are more imposing, grander in their decay, arranged in a deliberate circle that borders the perimeter.

These larger mausoleums and monuments loom like giants, their shadows casting long, dark fingers across the ground as if to welcome—or warn—any who dare to trespass. It feels even heavier here, if possible, threaded with a history of sorrow and darkness that permeates the very ground upon which you’re about to stand.

"No time to figure it out," Chan declares, rising to his feet, his actions prompting the others to follow suit. Stepping onto the mainland, he extends a hand to assist you ashore. Meanwhile, Hyunjin swiftly rips off and repurposes the hood of his jacket into a makeshift mask, covering Jisung's nose and mouth for protection.    “There you are!” Santiago turns the corner of a mausoleum and lays eyes on you.  He seems out of breath, worked up as he shakes his head, catching up with everyone.  

And yet, despite his outward appearance of concern, there’s a flicker of something in his eyes that doesn’t quite match his urgency—a subtle shift in demeanor that leaves you feeling uneasy in his presence.  You hadn’t felt this just moments earlier getting on the raft with him.  

“How did we get separated?” Santiago asks. 

You are the first to answer, unaware of the suspicions of everyone else and just relieved to see another familiar face again.  Though, that nagging doubt gnaws at your mind, whispering of the questions surrounding his sudden reappearance.   

You wonder if Abysmora is playing mind tricks on you too? 

“No idea, but we’re all here, Jisung’s getting sick, we’ve gotta get the Blood Bloom and get out of here.”  You look around, “But where is it?”    "In there." Santiago's gesture directs your attention to a towering statue of a knight, its sword thrust upward toward the darkened sky. "It's always inside the tomb of the One, the very first of our kind." Santiago approaches the statue, touching it with reverence, in a way that strikes you as odd, because it’s as if he hasn’t seen it before, and Santiago said he had taken prior trips to Abysmora, albeit via other routes. 

He must know what the tomb of the “One” looks like? Right?

Muttering under his breath in an unfamiliar tongue, Santiago circles the statue, his intent clear as he seeks a means of entry. 

Felix, ever perceptive, senses a subtle shift in Santiago's aura. Vampires as ancient as he can detect things far beyond micro expressions in mortal faces, no matter what’s wearing the skin.  It’s how they can tell when something isn’t exactly human, or when mortals lie. Yet, this time, something feels different. Is Santiago under some form of influence? What drives him to lead them into the depths of this tomb? He hears the spells the archdemon chants but doesn’t recognize the tongue. 

"Where did you land?" Felix's inquiry interrupts Santiago's prayer, prompting him to refocus his attention. As you join in the search, kneeling amidst the moist earth, the ground squirms with repulsive creatures disturbed from their slumber by your intrusion. 

 "Land?" Santiago straightens up, his confusion evident. "I just woke up behind that grave," he gestures toward a nearby tomb. "I have no idea what happened." His explanation is abruptly interrupted by Jisung's retching, the soul of this environment taking its toll on him once more. As Jisung lifts his makeshift mask to expel another bout of black, putrid vomit onto the soil, Santiago's attention remains fixated on unlocking the tomb's secrets. 

Hyunjin, growing impatient, voices his concern, stepping back to avoid the splatter onto his shoes with a lifted brow. "Can't you do something about him? We can't exactly conjure." 

"It's my bloodline—" Jisung's words are punctuated by another fit of dry heaving. "I can't—my body—" 

You spring into action, rushing to Jisung's side with mounting worry. His suffering raises questions about the influence of this place, and you fear for the well-being of his soul. 

"Jisung, tell me what to do," you plead, desperation clear in your voice as he struggles for breath. But Jisung, consumed by his own distress, cannot offer guidance. With trembling hands, you place your palm against his stomach, channeling an unfamiliar power in a desperate attempt to alleviate his suffering. As your energy flows into his body, Jisung convulses one last time before finding his breath returning in ragged gasps. 

Santiago stays oblivious to the commotion around him, his concentration fixed on the statue, lost in prayer with closed eyes. Meanwhile, Hyunjin's attention wavers as he catches the scent of blood emanating from your ear, a telltale sign of overuse of your conjure. His sudden cough startles you, drawing curious glances from his brothers as he hurriedly wipes his nose, trying to conceal his reaction. The scent reaches Felix next, prompting you to check yourself, and your fingers come away stained with blood. Panic sets in as you hastily wipe your neck with your hoodie sleeve, inadvertently spreading the stain further into the fabric.   

You’ve made it so much worse, and you don’t even know it.      "This can't be what I think it is," Chan says as he uncovers something amidst the infested soil. He holds up a fragment that appears to be from a golden beret, the gold melted over one of the encased jewels, evidence of a failed attempt at destruction. "Do you see this or am I imagining things?"    Felix's heart races as he snatches the fragment from his brother's hand, his senses heightened to every sound, every scent around him. "This is it, this is... I have no doubt," he declares, his voice tight with apprehension. He turns to Hyunjin, whose eyes are fixed on the cursed fragment a few feet away. But instead of their usual crystal blue, they shimmer with a bright amber hue, a telltale sign of a loss of control. Hyunjin shuts his eyes tightly, fighting against the onslaught of disturbing images flooding his mind. He feels the creeping sensation of tiny toothed imps devouring his flesh in the depths of Purgatory, a sensation he fights against with every fiber of his being. Is it the curse or is it just him? 

Passing the fragment to Chan, Felix approaches Hyunjin; and he gently shakes his younger brother from his trance, their eyes meet, and Felix is struck by the vulnerability in those familiar baby blues, a contrast to the centuries of resilience he's come to expect. 

"Brother, what’s—how do you feel?" Felix's voice is soft, a rare tenderness breaking through his usual stoicism. He sees the innocence in Hyunjin once more, a vulnerable human amidst the vast expanse of their immortal existence. 

“Afraid, brother,” Hyunjin confesses, his voice laced with raw emotion. He blinks back the bitterness in his eyes, unable to maintain the eye contact with Felix. “I can’t go through this again. I–I can’t, I’ll die, Felix. I’ll die first.”    Felix's voice cuts through the chaos, gentle yet firm, as he addresses his brother. "Hey now," he begins, his words carrying a sense of his own certainty, a vow to himself amidst the uncertainty surrounding them. 

"I’ll die before you go through that again." 

Hyunjin meets Felix's gaze, feeling a rush of emotions within him. Even that has become foreign after being gone for so long; feeling emotions he'd forgotten the weight of. In that moment of silent connection, he senses the weight of their bond, built over countless centuries of shared trials and unspoken understanding. Despite the shadows of their tumultuous past looming over them, Hyunjin finds safety in the unwavering intensity of Felix's gaze, a silent promise of protection and support. This rediscovered depth in their relationship speaks volumes, highlighting the profound significance they both place on each other's well-being. 

━━━━━━━━   The tension in the room is filled with anger and resentment as Chan confronts his younger brother, his voice echoing off the stone walls. Hyunjin's defiance matches his elder sibling's intensity, his eyes ablaze with righteous fury. 

"Are you mad, brother?! You're in bloodlust!" Chan's words cut through the air like a whip, each syllable dripping with disbelief and frustration. He can't comprehend Hyunjin's actions, can't fathom the depths of his rage. 

"Now you've killed her son?! Amelia's brother?!" Chan's accusation hangs in the air, a damning indictment of Hyunjin's actions. 

"Did her mother not take our parents from us first?!" Hyunjin's retort is sharp, laced with bitterness and grief. To him, his actions are justified, a reckoning for the injustices inflicted upon their family. 

But Chan's anger simmers, threatening to boil over as he struggles to contain his emotions. With a roar of frustration, he hurls a nearby chair against the wall, the sound of splintering wood punctuating the heated exchange. 

"Those were my parents too," Chan's voice is raw with emotion, his eyes flashing with a mix of pain and fury. "Do you not think me furious as well? Do you doubt that I too, want to drink from their hearts and watch them fall to my feet?!" 

Hyunjin stands his ground, undeterred by his brother's outburst. He remains unshaken, fueled by a burning desire for justice. 

"Yes, Christophe, I do!" Hyunjin's words are a challenge, a testament to his unwavering conviction. "I doubt you want to do anything more than run with your tail between your legs, defending a traitorous witch, the very daughter of the woman who murdered our parents!" 

Meanwhile, on the other side of the closed door, Amelia stands frozen, her hand hovering over the doorknob. A cool hand touches her shoulder, and she turns to find Felix by her side. His silent guidance urges her to stay back, to let the brothers work through their grievances without interference. 

As they move a few steps away from the door, Amelia embraces him, softly crying into the fabric of his blouse. Felix's thoughts churn with concern. The arguments between his brothers have become more frequent, fueled by Hyunjin's growing impatience and resentment. His thirst for vengeance risks engulfing him, driving them to move twice in the last four months alone. 

Felix knows Hyunjin cannot be contained, his actions driven by a primal need for retribution. Yet, despite his own fury towards Amelia's family, he understands the futility of their situation. They are newborn vampires--outnumbered, outmatched, and outsmarted without a plan. 

But what troubles Felix the most is Chan's hesitance, his reluctance to act. And as they stand in silence, away from the fight unfolding on the other side of the door, Felix can't shake the feeling that something is amiss, something he can't quite put his finger on… 

   ━━━━━━━━  

"Santiago," Chan's voice cuts through the tension, his gaze fixed on the archdemon who is still engrossed in his task. With each passing moment, Santiago's words grow more rapid, fueled by a sense of passion that borders on obsession. Chan moves closer, reaching out to get Santiago's attention. "Santiago, hey–" 

The statue begins to shift, its movement accompanied by the harsh scraping of rock and the unsettling rumble of the earth beneath their feet. Hissing echoes around you as the creatures in the soil turn aggressive, some leaping into the air with fangs bared. Hyunjin reacts swiftly, his movements a blur as he dispatches several of the creatures with deadly precision. 

"Protect this at all costs," Chan's command is clear and direct as he locks eyes with you, a brief flash of amber in his gaze before he blinks it away. He presses the beret fragment into your hand, urging you to keep it safe. 

“Come on, hurry!” Santiago hurries down the stairs into the tomb.  You tuck the fragment into your bra and the rest of you have no time to think, and you follow behind, risking the chance that being in the tomb of the very first demon in creation would be safer than being on Abysmora's grounds, exposed. 

If there was anything lurking in this strange place, they certainly know they have unwelcome visitors now.    Jisung's condition noticeably improves as the darkness envelops them, the sickness that had plagued him fading into the blackness. Yet, amidst the near pitch-black surroundings, a distant blue glow emanates from a room at the far end of the underground tunnel. Backed by a surge of adrenaline, you act swiftly, your fingers darting like arrows to ignite the sconces along the walls. Each flame catches, casting a blue hue that bathes the chamber in its glow.    As the dim blue glow from the sconces barely penetrates the darkness, Jisung finds himself momentarily awed by your ingenuity. But any sense of accomplishment is swiftly overshadowed by the atmosphere closing in around you. The tomb of the first demon ever to exist feels suffocating, each breath tainted by the heavy, musty scent of centuries past. With each inhale, Jisung's heart flutters nervously.    In an attempt to summon his conjure to navigate the path ahead, Jisung encounters an unexpected resistance, as though an invisible force is constricting his abilities. A dryness creeps into his mouth, he can’t be powerless yet?! How is this possible?! You were able to light the way without hesitation.  

"Now what?" You whisper, your voice barely audible over the silence. Turning to seek guidance from Santiago, you find him vanished once more. 

"What the–" 

"Little witch, we can’t trust him," Felix's voice cuts through the darkness, his hand pulling you closer to the rough stone wall for protection. 

"But he said–" 

"It doesn’t matter what he’s said," Felix's tone is firm, his words tinged with urgency. "We can’t trust him." 

With no other options available, Hyunjin strides ahead, his figure disappearing into the hallway, with Jisung following closely behind. There is no turning back now, no room for hesitation. You’ve come too far to retreat, your only choice is to press onward.  The confines of the tomb seem to be closing in on Chan, the primal instincts of his wolf beginning to overwhelm him. Sensing the impending shift, he knows he must act quickly, not willing to risk losing control in such close quarters, especially with you nearby. 

With a determined step backward, Chan starts to unzip his hoodie, preparing for the inevitable transformation. His voice carries a note of urgency as he speaks to Felix, his brother, and you. "Felix, you and little witch go on ahead with the others. I’ll catch up with you soon." 

Felix puts his arm around your shoulders and obeys his elder brother’s command. 

As Chan's metamorphosis reverberates through the ancient confines of the tomb, each sinewy shift heralds the awakening of primordial forces. A chill snakes down your spine at the power unleashed, but with Felix's presence guiding you onward, there's little room for fear, only purpose. 

Stepping into the chamber's heart, you feel a lack of control, like you've stepped into public in the nude. This feeling sticks to you as if you're an insect on fly paper, the discomfort follows you. Your gaze is drawn to the raised platform, where a mummified figure cradles a flower in its desiccated grasp. Against the backdrop of darkness, the bloom's vibrant hues stand in defiance, its petals swirling in an ethereal dance.  On the opposite end, Jisung stands watchful, his focus unwavering as he hovers over the coffin. Bathed in the soft azure glow of the chandelier above, the scene unfolds like a tableau of strange beauty, casting shadows that dance across the chamber's walls. 

Your breath catches as you draw near, the allure of the flower irresistible. Its petals, delicate yet sinuous, seem to pulse with a life of their own, their crimson hue a vivid sign of its unearthly vitality. And at the heart, a pool of crimson gleams with luminescence, a symbol of the bloom's power. 

"This is it," you murmur, your voice a mere whisper amidst the hallowed silence of the tomb. "The Blood Bloom." 

Jisung's brows furrow in disbelief, his head shaking in denial. “The legend I remember said it grows in the soil of Abysmora…”    Despite his hesitance, he leans forward, sensing the same energy that grips you both.  

As a sudden stillness envelops the chamber, Jisung's instincts flare, a warning pulsing through his veins. With a sense of alarm, he whirls around, calling out for his missing companions. "Felix? Hyunjin?" His voice echoes off the stone walls, met only by silence. 

Your palms grow clammy, fear prickling at the nape of your neck. "What's happening? What's wrong?" you stammer.    "Oh look, you found it!"     Santiago's voice cuts through the tension, his arrival heralded by a sense of impending doom. Panic floods your veins as you instinctively back away, only to be ensnared by a vice-like grip from behind. Your breath catches in your throat, your thoughts racing to the safety of your unborn child, as fear tightens its grip on your heart. 

"H-Hyunjin..." The name escapes your lips in a breathless whisper, finally realizing the scent. Your body tenses, every nerve on edge as you struggle to keep your composure. 

Before Jisung can react, Felix is upon him, his strength overwhelming as he wrestles the younger man into submission. You look to Santiago, the sight before you twisting your stomach into knots. His head lolls to the side with a sickening crack, a grotesque contortion of flesh and bone. As his eyes roll back into his skull, his skin begins to slough off like molten wax, revealing a smaller, naked figure beneath. 

This new form is like something out of a nightmare, its skin slick with a viscous substance that oozes and drips. The creature's features are twisted and deformed, elongated limbs and sharp, angular joints giving it a disturbed appearance. Its eyes, once human, now gleam with a endless black, reflecting the depths of its sinister nature. 

As the demon's gaze fixes upon you, a shiver runs down your spine, fear gripping you with icy fingers. As Jisung struggles against Felix's overpowering grip, his frustration mounts with each futile attempt to break free. Heat radiates from his palms, a manifestation of his inner turmoil, but it's as if an invisible barrier stifles his efforts, rendering his conjure useless. 

“The audacity only a Han would have, trying to use your conjure here, now don’t you know better? Then again, you want to die, don’t you?” The demon's voice drips with malice, taunting Jisung with cruel words. 

Jisung refuses to dignify the demon's words with a response, his jaw clenched tight in defiance. Beneath his poker face, a sort of fear dances in his eyes. The demon's insight and access into his psyche unnerves him, exposing vulnerabilities he'd rather keep hidden. 

“I have a name, you know.” The demon's grin widens, revealing a mouth lined with jagged, razor-sharp teeth. “Do you want to know it?” 

“Oliver,” you breathe, the name escaping your lips like a curse, triggering a flood of memories from your night terrors that you'd rather forget.  "She's smart, isn't she?" Oliver's voice drips with malicious intent, each word laced with venomous glee. The knowledge that you know his name seems to egg on his perverse joy, a sickening trophy of the power he holds over you, a feeling he rarely gets to feel in his own existence. In the dimly lit chamber, his grin casts twisted shadows across the walls.   

As your gaze darts nervously around the room, searching for any sign of escape, the sound of sloshing footsteps draws your attention to another presence lurking in the shadows. With a sickening lurch of your stomach, you realize that you're not alone, the presence of another demon sending a wave of fear over you. 

The unnamed demon drags a large and furry form into the chamber, its tortured cries echoing off the walls as it's callously thrown against the unforgiving stone. Your heart sinks in your chest at the sight. 

"NO!" Your voice rings out in a desperate plea, the words torn from your throat in a frantic rush. "Hyunjin, let go of me! Stop! This isn't you! That's your brother! Felix! Felix, it's me! Y/N! You're stronger than this! All of you are!" But your cries fall on deaf ears, drowned out by the cruel laughter of the demons that surround you. 

"Chan—Chan, please," you plead, your voice barely a whisper amidst the chaos unfolding around you. Exhausted and defeated, you sink to the ground, your body wracked with sobs as despair threatens to eat you alive and spit you back out with no remorse.    "Y/N, stop," Jisung's voice cuts through the noise, his tone firm as he locks eyes with you from across the room. His gaze speaks volumes, silently urging you to quell your desperate pleas. In this moment of peril, communication is reduced to silent exchanges, a shared understanding passing between you both. 

With a deep breath, you stifle your cries, recognizing the urgency of the situation. Any hope of escape hinges on maintaining composure, lest you risk losing control of your conjure before it can be wielded as a weapon against your captors. 

Exhausted and defeated, you offer no resistance as Hyunjin releases his grip, allowing your body to crumple to the ground. His derisive laughter rings in your ears.    Meanwhile, Oliver's attention drifts to the Blood Bloom, his excitement obvious as he revels in the discovery.     “They really found it, the Blood Bloom!” His voice echoes through the chamber, a frenzied tirade of anticipation as he fixates on the object of his obsession. But his excitement is short-lived, abruptly cut off by a sudden surge of malice directed at the lesser demon. 

"What are you waiting for?! Bring the Mistress!" Oliver commands, his impatience boiling over as he demands action. With a hurried nod, the lesser demon scurries away, his footsteps fading into the distance as he disappears into the darkness. 

Lying on the dirt-covered brick floor, you succumb to silent tears, the weight of anguish pressing down on you like a leaden blanket. With jittery hands, you crawl forward, the distance between you and the wolf reduced to mere inches. As you nestle your face into the coarse fur of the muzzle, a gentle warmth caresses you, soothing the raw edges of your fractured spirit. 

Suddenly, in the darkness, amidst the faint scent of earths and decay, you feel it—a tender brush against your nose, followed by two more delicate licks. Slowly, you open your eyes, greeted by the shimmering gold orbs of the wolf before you. It's a curious sight, this peculiar hue, but within those luminous windows to his soul, you find an unexpected solace—a glimmer of Chan's inherent spirit shining through.    You continue to feign distress, your sobs a desperate symphony masking the turmoil within. Each movement is calculated, every tremor carefully choreographed to draw attention away from your clandestine actions. Your fingers venture into the wolf's mouth, inching closer to the razor-sharp teeth that threaten to sever skin from bone. 

As your wrist hovers over the waiting fangs, fear coils in the pit of your stomach, a visceral reminder of the perilous dance you've chosen to partake in. But you steel yourself against the rising tide of panic, a vow echoing in the recesses of your mind.     You'll fight tooth and nail, even if it means staring death in the face, for you know that within the pits of Hell lies the flickering ember of hope. 

With a nod of assent, Chan's lip twitches in acknowledgment, a fleeting moment of connection. As he closes his jaws with painstaking care, the taste of blood blooms in his mouth, on his tongue, along his gums. Through gritted teeth, you endure the searing pain.    Jisung's mind races as he formulates a plan to wrest control from the clutches of Oliver. With each passing second, the grip of the demon's influence tightens around the minds of Felix and Hyunjin, reducing them to mere marionettes in this macabre play. 

"Felix," Jisung breathes, barely audible in the hushed chamber, "Can you hear me?" 

The vice-like hold tightens, and Felix's response echoes through the silence.  

"Loud and clear, mate," he replies, the words filled with a predatory glee that reminds Jisung of exactly how different they really are from one another when it comes down to being factory reset to pure instinct. 

‘Shit’. A curse punctuates Jisung's thoughts; reaching them in this state seems impossible. Oliver's conjure has rewritten their essence, transforming them into instruments of darkness. To break this unholy connection, the source needs to be severed, and at this moment, Oliver stands as the puppeteer, feeble or not. 

As Chan discreetly drinks from you in his wolf form, Jisung's mind churns with frustration, the invisible chains of restraint still boggling him. 'If he has me restrained, there must be a physical block somewhere' he muses, a spark of realization flickering to life amidst the darkness. 'So how is he doing it? Where is it?' 

A sweeping glance around the chamber reveals the answer, hidden in plain sight. The talismans, hanging down from the ropes strung along the ceiling, catch Jisung's attention. They're no ordinary charms; they bear the unmistakable markings of Korean origin, Bujeok, but warped and twisted into a perversion of their intended purpose.  

These were crafted with him in mind, designed to stifle his magic and render him powerless. 

'Bingo'    He knows what he must do to break free from Oliver's grip, to reclaim control and turn the tide of this deadly game.   Jisung's words slice through the air with a cunning edge as he probes for weaknesses in Oliver's facade. "Possessing the minds of vampires is light work, what’d you do, a blood bind of some sort?" he questions, his tone dripping with sarcasm. 

Oliver's response is swift, a mixture of amusement and hubris. "Well, aren’t you an arrogant little witch?" he retorts, unknowingly stepping right into Jisung's trap. "Demons do more than blood bind to have others do our bidding." 

A smirk plays at the corners of Jisung's lips as he goads Oliver further. "I guess you haven’t figured out how to get a Han to do your bidding though, so you had to use these guys," he gestures disdainfully toward the vampire restraining him. "I mean, I get it though, you don’t look capable of doing it yourself." 

You listen with bated breath, the cool touch of the earth grounding you while Chan's watchful eyes mirror your own tenacity. 

With calculated steps, Oliver descends from the platform, each movement purposeful and deliberate. A glint of steel catches the dim light as he approaches Jisung. As the blade he wields grazes Jisung's cheek, a thin rivulet of blood appears, tracing a crimson path down his face. Oliver steps back, grinning while Felix looms ominously behind Jisung. 

In a mocking tone, Oliver scoffs, "Miss Edith couldn't care less about the likes of you." 

Despite the threat at his neck, Jisung remains steadfast, his gaze averted from Felix's predatory presence. "You're a bad liar," he counters, a beacon of defiance in the face of imminent danger. 

Oliver's smirk fades into a scowl. "I'll have your best friend drain you dry until you're nothing but a lifeless husk." 

Jisung's laughter rings out, carrying a hint of madness. “Yeah, but then you’ll have a mighty angry vampire that can conjure on your hands, and how will you handle that? Oh fuck, you can’t--”  

“You’ll just piss off your Mistress, and I get the feeling that’s a habit of yours—what was your name again?”    The demon's rage is evident, his fists clenched at his sides as he discards the knife, the sound of its impact echoing through the chamber as it hits the ground. His bluff has been called; a demon under another's command lacks the authority to make unilateral decisions, especially ones as significant as ending the lives of captives. Captives that they’ve taken the time to carefully ward against. 

For reasons unknown, they need him alive, at least for the time being. 

"You'll regret this," Oliver seethes, his departure swift as he hurries to investigate the delay in the other demon's return, his footsteps echoing in the silence of the chamber.   Hyunjin stands frozen, his gaze vacant, like a puppet abandoned by its puppeteer. Felix, unmoving, maintains his vice-like hold around Jisung, his thoughts seemingly distant despite his physical grasp.  

With resolve sparking in your weary eyes, you snatch up the knife, ready to act. 

"Little witch, hurry," Jisung urges, his voice barely above a whisper, directing your attention to the talismans hanging from the ceiling. "Cut them down—they're sapping our power."  You swiftly ascend the stone platforms, a strength from an unknown place guiding your every move as you slice through the ropes with the knife. With each talisman that falls, dissipating into wisps of blue smoke, a surge of hope fills the air. Chan, his wolf form a blur, disappears into the darkness, tracking the demons' elusive trail. Your focus wavers momentarily, but Jisung's urgent plea snaps you back to the task at hand. 

"No time, keep going!" he insists, spurring you onward. With steady hands, you continue your circuit around the room, severing the final ropes. Jisung, eyes closed in concentration, channels his purifying energy, causing Felix to recoil and collapse, overcome by the searing sensation of his blood boiling under his skin. As Jisung kneels beside the fallen vampire, a grimly determined spirit, unflinching and serious, settles over him. 

Frustration tinges his voice as he assesses the situation. “Fuck, they’re in deep.” 

You wave your hand in front of Hyunjin’s face but he doesn’t even blink.  “What can we do?” 

"Nothing, yet. We've gotta kill that bastard first." Jisung replies, scanning the room for any signs of their next move. Striding over to the mummified corpse, he delivers a swift kick to the wooden coffin, and you wince, splintering it open. With practiced efficiency, he breaks off a jagged piece of wood, handing it to you before keeping one for himself. 

“But if we have to protect ourselves,” He gestures to the two vampires, “This is the only chance we’ve got.” 

You gaze at the stake in your hand, horror coursing through you at the thought of wielding it against those who have become your kin, your protectors. 

"Listen," Jisung's voice breaks through your turmoil, his tone resolute as he senses your hesitation. “If their souls get away from us again, I can’t help to get ‘em back.  Death is a mercy, but it’s our last resort.”

You agree, though as you look at your friends, lost and locked inside of themselves, you wonder if you’ll follow through with such a promise if the moment were to ever present itself.    Retreating toward the coffin, your gaze fixates on the flower delicately held within its grasp. Without much thought, or perhaps with thought you aren't conscious of, you extend your hand, fingers brushing against the petals, taking it into your grasp. Half-expecting the tomb to quake and crumble around you, like a scene ripped from the pages of a thrilling adventure, you're startled when the chamber remains still. 

"In my dream they wanted to stop us from getting this, I don't know why," you assert, locking eyes with Jisung, an unquenchable fire burning bright within you as you secure the flower in your pocket. "The odds are now in our favor." 

You dart down the corridor, Jisung hot on your heels, fueled by your sudden fearlessness. As the cavern splits into two diverging paths, you and Jisung find yourselves back to back, each scanning for a sign of which route to take. 

Jisung's senses, honed by experience, detect a pulsating energy emanating from the right tunnel. He purposefully directs you away from it, "Go Left!" he calls out to you, his voice echoing down the corridor like a solemn decree. Without a moment's hesitation, you veer down the opposite path, placing your trust in his keen intuition as he forges ahead toward the heart of the mysterious power. In the glow of his flickering flames, Jisung continues on, his back pressed against the unyielding stone walls, each step plunging him deeper, and he can feel himself descending, guided by the flames in his palm, taxing his magick as a necessary means of sight...  You creep, as light as you can on your feet down the hall, and though you don’t sense much, you feel like you’re moving towards something, someone important. A thought crosses you, and you recognize the feeling from before, when you could sense Chan's presence.  You're just not sure how the honing mechanism works in your body. You come to a stop, straining your ears in the silence to hear anything.  How could a place so evil be so silent? Maybe that was a part of its sinister nature, you’re in a constant state of paranoia, questioning everything you encounter.  

That’s when you hear it.    A cacophony reaches your ears—a wet, slurping noise interspersed with sharp cracks and snaps. Despite the unease creeping over you, you find yourself moving forward anyway, your feet carrying you around the corner even as your instincts scream at you to flee. 

As you round the bend, the sounds abruptly cease, leaving a heavy silence in their wake. With shaky hands, you summon a burst of flame, its flickering light casting shadows across the room. You shield your eyes from the sudden brightness, snapping your fingers again to maintain control over the fire with an extended palm, its glow offering a glimpse of the scene before you. 

With a sigh of relief, you realize it is Chan, still in his wolf form, perched atop the body beneath him, methodically tearing away its limbs. Despite the gruesome scene before you, you don't recoil in horror. Instead, a strange understanding dawns upon you—a glimpse into Chan's cryptic intentions. He's systematically dismembering the body.   Catapulted into action, you scour the area until your eyes land on a discarded plank embedded with rusted nails. You don't carry natural nightvision like he does. With a snap of your fingers, flames dance along its surface, casting a flickering glow that barely illuminates the chamber. You hope, to be able to talk about how much you've improved with Jisung once you're all out of this mess. To thank him for everything's he's done for you to get this far with your conjure. Armed with a knife of strangely high quality, the one Oliver had dropped earlier, you set to work, slicing through the demon's flesh with surprising ease. It’s as if its appendages were made of gelatinous cartilage rather than solid muscle. 

With a final, resolute stroke, you lock gazes with Chan, something primitive passing between you two. Taking a deep breath, you shift your focus to the grisly sight before you: the half-mauled neck upon which Chan still labors. You issue a directive, "The leg," you command, indicating the limb lying closest to you. You direct Chan to the leg on your side, trading places to continue the task. You hack away at the remaining flesh of the neck until the head is brutally separated from its body. As the final blow lands, the detached leg collapses to the ground with a sickening thud as the wolf by your side finishes alongside you. 

Chan nudges your wrist, smearing your hoodie sleeve with the dark ichor of the fallen demon. Bewildered, you meet his gaze. "What's wrong?" 

The massive black wolf pads over to the plank, its end nears the final embers of its burn. With a sagacious air, he settles down, resting his head upon his paws. You nod in silent comprehension, scrambling to your feet and surveying the room for flammable materials. Hastily, you gather anything combustible, stacking them in the center of the chamber—a rickety wooden stool, dusty tomes whose contents held no value, and any other debris within reach. 

Chan prowls around the scattered body parts, a low growl rumbling from deep within his chest, and you begin to deduce the demon isn’t gone yet.  "Let's go," you command, stepping backward as Chan joins you at the entrance. With a steady focus, you close your eyes, channeling the power within you. In an explosion of heat and light, flames engulf the chamber, forming a barrier that forces you to retreat, the intensity making you stumble and fall to the ground. Though the flames lick at your skin, they do not scorch, leaving you breathless as you gaze at your hands.    How did you just do that?!    A sharp itch on your forearm draws your attention, prompting you to hastily roll up your sleeve. To your astonishment, you find a series of canine tooth marks left by Chan's earlier bite, unhealed, the crescent pattern etched into your flesh. Frustration bubbles within you as you scratch at the irritated skin, rising to your feet just as the flames begin to dwindle.

"Fuck, Chan, what is this?" you demand, only to find Jisung's figure illuminated by the dying embers, his eyes glinting an unnatural complete black in the dim light.  He grins wickedly as he snatches your wrist tightly, looking down at the bite. “I don’t know, looks pretty bad though.”  Before you can react, he painfully twists your wrist, and darkness consumes you, consciousness slipping away as you collapse into oblivion. 

[fieldofdaisiies]

azriel x eris | 1,6k words | warnings: none | masterlist

Snow crunches beneath his Illyrian boots, wisps of breath twirl in front of his face, matching his swirling shadows that have slowed around him due to the cold.

A sheet of fresh snow covers the ground, sunlight dancing upon the otherwise barren landscape.

Azriel feels how his heart thunders deep within his chest – coming here is never easy. It always brings up memories, memories he has always hoped to keep locked away behind iron bars within his mind. But once again he has returned here. For her. Always for her.

Azriel's mother lives out here – in the Illyrian steppes, far from the camps where unspeakable things had been done to her. Here, she lives in solitude, in peace, only surrounded by nature and animals. 

Azriel blinks at the sunlight when he tips his head back, a sigh parting his cold lips. Frost adorns the branches of the looming trees around him, their barren limbs reaching skyward. He draws in a deep inhale, filling his lungs with the fresh air that feels like a soothing balm to his insides. 

Wisps of smoke billow lazily from the chimney of the small, in ivy covered, hut in front him, and Azriel cradles the chunks of wood he formerly collected tighter under his arm. He doesn’t want his mother to have to do everything alone up here, but he can’t always be there for her. And moving to the Library...she doesn’t want that. I was born in Illyria, I will die in Illyria, is what she keeps saying and it makes Azriel angry.

How can she like a place that has been nothing but cruel to her?

But she is stubborn, just like her son, and won't change her mind.

The shadowsinger shakes his head and takes the last steps towards the door. His gloved hand rasps against it and he waits. He waits for a long moment and unease coils in his stomach. Slowly, he lowers the firewood to the ground, placing it beside the door, easily accessible for his mother. 

Whenever he comes up here, he is always worried that something had happened to his mother in the time he couldn’t be there. Couldn’t be there for her.

But relief settles upon him, the moment the door opens and arms wrap around his neck, pulling him into the warmth of his mother'. 

"My little boy," Eleni expresses, her tone edging on a sob. She is trembling in her son’s embrace, Azriel’s arms curling tighter around her. 

"You haven’t been here in so long, I was so worried about you." 

He embraces her tighter. "I am here now, mother." His hand moves to her shoulder and squeezes, her body still trembling – either from the cold, or her silent sobs.

She worries too much, Azriel thinks. But he can’t blame her. He hasn’t been here in too long –weeks or maybe even more than a month–, of course she would start to question if something has happened to her son.

Only after a while, she steps out of the embrace, her bandaged hand reaching for Azriel. He won’t ask her where she hurt herself again, knowing she would lie to not concern him anyway. She has always done so. 

But his gaze once again moves to her limp. She has been limping…for as long as Azriel can remember. He hopes the pain won’t get worse, hopes he could help her. But she doesn’t allow him to help. She is stubborn - a trait he most definitely inherited.

"You must be hungry, my boy, let us eat."

The small hut carries the faint scent of cedar, and of herbs and baked bread, reminiding Azriel of his childhood, of the time where he used to cry himself to sleep every night. It always looks the same when he comes here. There is a small oak table with two benches in the corner of the room, and a similarly small kitchen across it, only consisting of a stove and a wooden counter for her to prepare things. The windows are curtain-framed, frost adorning the windows, spreading over them like spiderwebs. 

Azriel takes a seat on the wooden bench, the fur on top warm and soft, feeling like a cloud that he sits atop. His wings are folded in, the space between the wall and the table just enough to fit him.  

"How have you been? Where have you been?" Eleni places a bowl of hot stew in front of the shadowsinger, her hand reaching out to brush over his head. She brushes a few strands of hair back, looking at him like he is still her little boy, barely reaching her hip bone. "You look tired, my boy."

I am tired, Azriel wants to say, but only shakes his head. "I‘ve been working a lot. Rhys needed me."

"Of course he did, the busy High Lord he is." The corners of her lips tip up, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. "You have to tell him that he–” 

She inhales deeply.  “don’t work so much, Azriel. This is not good for you. Your eyes, they look empty. I don’t want them to be a mirror of your soul. Of your heart."

She claims the seat opposite him, her hand moving to his, clasping it tightly.

"It is alright, mother." Azriel’s voice has turned a little hoarse, his throat all of a sudden so very dry. "I am alright."

"And how are Cassian and his mate? What was her name again…Nes-"

"Nesta," Azriel says around a spoonful of stew. He swallows. "Her name is Nesta. And they are very happy."

Banging on top of every possible surface in the house, every moment of every day. He leaves out that detail, but once again frustration starts to boil inside of him. Only the thought of it—

"And little Nyx?" Her thumb strokes over the back of his hand, over the marred skin. 

Azriel eats another spoonful of stew. "Happy. He seems like a very happy child. He is learning very quickly."

What else is there to say, Azriel thinks. The little boy eats, drinks, poops, giggles and blabbers. That‘s it. And everyone is delighted about it. 

"I want you to be happy." He looks at her through his lashes when puts the spoon away, lifts the bowl to his lips and drinks the rest of the soup.

Once done, he wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and leans back. "I am happy, mother."

She frowns, and then shakes her head. "I hate it when you lie to me. Especially when you lie to me about your wellbeing. You know this."

He knows it. But he can’t tell her about how empty he feels. How sad he is most days. How much he yearns for a mate. For love. For the one person in his life to love him unconditionally.

He has no idea if he will ever have such a person in his life. 

Once he hoped for Mor to be his person.

Then Elain. His thoughts wander, eyes trained on the little mark in the wood on the opposite wall. Memories bubble up in his mind. Memories of a recent conversation.

"About the necklace—"

"Did you apologise to her?"

Azriel startles. He has not expected this question, and most definitely not the tone in which she said it.

"I…I—"

Elain frowns. "Don’t look at me like that. Regifting any kind of present is not noble."

He knows this.

The shadowsinger dips his chin, letting his head hang an inch lower. "No, it isn’t."

"Then apologise to her as well."

He nods again and watches how she turns to the sink with a graceful sway of her hips, not deigning him another look.

"Are you angry with me, Elain?"

She turns to look at him over shoulder, giving him a long look. Then she shakes her head a little. "No, Azriel, I am not angry."

With that being said she turns back to the sink, focusing on the task at hand - doing the dishes. 

"El—"

"Good night, Azriel." For her the conversation is over. And even though, her voice did not once waver, the hurt in it was loud and clear.

This is a lost battle, Azriel knows this. It already was before he started it. Elain has a mate - nothing will ever change that. Amd he…he doesn’t love her. Not in the way he had loved Mor. He found Elain attractive, still does, but…He won’t bother her again. He has come to accept that over the past year.

Azriel shakes his head, hoping the memory fades, leaving his mind once again blank. Dull. Empty.

"I want you to find love, Azriel."

His eyes return to his mother, empathy written all over her face.

"What if love isn’t meant for me? What if I am undeserving of it?" he asks her before he can stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth. 

"Bullshit," his mother says and it is the first time he has ever heard her curse. "Everyone is deserving of love and I know that one day it will find you."

It will find him. Or he has to go look for it. He can’t sit around each and every day hoping love stumbles on him. He has to go out there and search for it.

But before he can focus on that, there is still work to do. There is still unresolved business with a certain heir to a certain court. And a spying mission ahead for Azriel. One that will bring him right into the middle of the nearly southern-most court, one where rain dances on scarlet leaves, and where ancient trees loom in large forests that whisper tales of old times. The Autumn Court.

tag list for ACOCD @hnyclover @honeysuckle-daydreams13 @a-frog-with-a-laptop @queercontrarian @fandomsmultiverse @acourtofbatboydreams @chunkypossum @baileybird71 @beckkthewreck @hells-sluttiest-new-arrival @owllover123 @acotarobsessed @goldenmagnolias @honeysuckle-daydreams13 @v3lv3tf0x @talibunny30 @allyhill

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[daisychainsandbowties]

thinking about bea painting mary, again and again across the years, the change in bea's skill and in mary's demeanour easily allowing an observer to organize the pieces. bea learning blending and edge control, learning how to vary brush strokes and layer colours to add light and shadow, to give pieces dimension. mary's eyes softening, the tension ebbing from her shoulders, from her jaw, laugh lines pulling at a mouth that had been set grim for so long

she paints her in the aftermath. clumsy, at first, talking through her first few paintings while the brush is still resisting her, when the colors don’t wash together. a disharmony of hues, brushstrokes too blunt, too treacherously thin.

and, by some miracle, she’s not talking to herself. she feels ava sidle up behind her, hands slipping up under her shirt, taking a familiar path over a blunt crescent of scar tissue on her abdomen. linking her fingers loosely at bea’s midriff, up on the tips of her toes to see over her shoulder.

‘okay, talk me through it.’

this punctuated with a kiss to the nape of her neck, ava’s breath falling down past the collar of her shirt.

‘i’m’ - she loses herself a little in ava’s hands - ‘i’m trying to learn edge handling. it’s somewhat mathematical, i suppose, in that it’s about the relation between edges. you have to understand not only where you want to draw the eye, but also how. with the right technique, you can make some edges harder, sharper, or you can blur their boundaries.’

she’s working from sketches. precise, but lacking in flare. they’re spread out on the desk, drinking in the sunlight.

sketches of mary from so many angles. with her chin tilted up, eyes searching for sunset out the convent window. cleaning her shotguns or standing in a store sifting through tubes of paint.

(distracted then by a memory of ava sneaking her between rows of shelves while the owner stared grumpily at mary. whisper-hissing what are you doing?! as ava took down one of the acrylics and unscrewed the lid.

ava’s eyes dancing as she dabbed the barest drop of it onto beatrice’s nose. she could have dodged anyone else but this was ava, who is always and forever her weakness.

sighing, drifting in for an exasperated kiss. ava’s mouth tasted faintly of butter and honey, and beatrice pulled away without her breath, gasping. ‘we’re going to get into trouble.’

‘so? i like trouble.’)

beatrice takes out her canvas and she paints mary, trying to ignore the grief she keeps at the edge of her mouth - a shadow so razor-thin you can’t see it except in the washed-out light of sunset or the soft-footedness of dawn.

when beatrice sketches mary she finds herself drawing out each line in relation to something missing; an absence in the space beside mary, around which her body curves.

sometimes she’s halfway through painting a bruise onto the landscape before she stops. alway, then, the brushstrokes are certain. dynamic, drawing the eye in towards that blurry mass of half-remembered things.

ava tells her to keep going, when she finds her staring at another ruined canvas with the brush near to cracking in her fist.

stepping dainty through the apartment in her bare feet and an oversized t-shirt (lilith’s), stopping at bea’s easel. tracing her fingers over the dull purples that have blossomed as an aside from mary.

‘i don’t know bea. a bruise is just something that happens after an injury, and then it changes color. maybe you need to let it happen.’

so she does. layering dark blues under broken purples. using everything, to see what doesn’t work. oils, because she likes the thought of unearthing things layer by layer. the edges are all very sharp, only softening at the boundary line between mary and everything else.

phthalo blue and green, dioxazine purple with little hints of alizarin crimson inside. and maybe there is a second shape inside the cloud that rises up off of mary’s outline.

she’s imprecise, at first, more of an impression set against her sadness, but over weeks beatrice thins the layers and goes back again and again, adding and adding until ava drifts by one day, waits for bea to lower her brush before she takes her by the jaw.

they kiss so often but it’s always a dizzy thing, like the first daring stroke of color onto canvas.

and there she is, opened like a wound against the backdrop of her grief.

‘hi mary,’ ava says, speaking to the painting like it’s alive.

she reaches out, her hand a shape beatrice has learned to worship - that, the splay of ava’s fingers, the way her veins work over the back of her hand. the pad of her thumb and the heel of her palm. beatrice could paint her in the dark.

later she finds herself sitting at the kitchen table, staring at flecks of drying paint on her knuckles. a stripe of alizarin crimson following the soreness of overworked joints.

and there, a spot of blue that doesn’t brighten as ava comes over with a mug of cocoa and a bag of tiny marshmallows, dropping them one by one into bea’s cup. trying to coax language back out of her, and beatrice watches for one, two, three, four, five before she reaches out and finds the slender inside of ava’s wrist, thumb trailing over her scaphoid.

‘i love you.’ and from ava it’s a promise as much as a reminder.

beatrice makes a noise, manages to turn it into words.

‘love you too.’

ava gives herself a hot chocolate mustache and then, when they’ve settled into silence, when she’s watched bea tease marshmallows out of the mug with her tongue, she says, ‘i didn’t really understand what mary lost, what you lost in shannon. for a while it was just guilt. i didn’t want to understand, because then i’d have to feel bad about it.’

‘you don’t-’

‘no, i know. i’m just saying that the painting… it’s a good thing.’

mary cries when she sees it, ava phasing through the wall when the first tear falls, letting mary turn into beatrice’s arms.

she’s captured mary as she was years ago, leaning into shannon on the warm roof tiles. at peace, aglow, shielded by a dim halo of light. face upraised against a storm of bruise-blues threaded with that off-shade phthalo. silver shards and red strands and graying edges.

they miss her, together, and beatrice tells mary that the oil is only touch-dry, and it occurs to her that a painting is a bit like a wound. as with oils it’s a thing that opens and closes, building layers that have to fall away. like watercolour it feels out of control at first, but then beauty falls out of the disorder. sometimes the wayward drips only feel accidental.

sometimes the flaws are necessary.

and she does paint mary, again and again and again. consulting shannon’s old sketches, but painting always from memory. and gradually there’s the blending of colors and those soft and hard edges. that’s love, too, beatrice learns. bruising kisses and featherlight touch.

she learns, and one day there’s a painting of mary that they look at together. mugs of hot chocolate and mary joking ‘ah, she’s been training you’ when she watches bea flick a marshmallow out with the flat of her tongue.

blushing, and the painting sitting there as mary frowns and says, ‘why’d you never let me pose for you?’

beatrice, pausing with her whole body in that way that reminds mary of shannon.

‘i wanted to be good at painting from memory.’

‘why?’

and instead of answering immediately, beatrice leads mary into the spare room they’ve given over to storage. and there, lying along the far wall, are a dozen paintings of shannon.

dozing with her head in mary’s lap, or standing in the garden with dew dusting her ankles, painted mid-movement with her bō an umber blur.

'oh.' mary stands silhouetted against each scene. older now, and different, and still in love.

beatrice, aware that she's probing a wound, stepping up beside her. 'i just... i wanted to paint her.’

and memory is all that's left

mary turns, presses a kiss to bea's forehead, and they stand together surrounded by all that they've shared, and all that they've lost.

[catharsis-in-a-bottle]

what does tillie walden do?

i don't know.

i just finished 'are you listening?' and it left me with the same exact unidentifiable shrimp emotion that this beautiful author bestowed upon me with on a sunbeam and the end of summer. i want to curl up in a blanket and cry. i want to draw. i don't even know what this book has done to me. i want to know how tillie walden captures something [this unidentifiable but very present feeling] that no other work of art has captured for me.

are you listening? follows two women through their road trip through western texas, both traumatized and both hurting. one older and more experienced, one freshly eighteen and emotionally raw from years of sexual abuse. the road trip is the story's through line - they find a cat and the landscape begins to shift, becoming more indistinct and unreal as they travel further - but the body of the story is the characters themselves. i think the thing that gets me overall is that the characters don't mark the strangeness of the shifting landscape until well after it begins. even then, it isn't their main focus - they focus on the rawness of their pain and the friendship they find in each other. what does this do? it captures the experience of deep emotional pain, the experience wherein the world doesn't feel real - the world is already warped into darkness in your vision. the true landscape change thus becomes irrelevant to the characters - it's a product of pain. it's just how they see the world. absorption in one's thoughts makes any external weirdness perfectly possible.

to add to all of this, both the characters are gay, a fact that tillie walden so beautifully incorporates into their personalities and experiences. the warping of the world sees strangers - men in particular - become shadows, silhouettes, looming figures defined only by too-large, colorful eyes. (i think this reflects the common queer experience of not knowing who can be trusted with the knowledge of our identities. and personally, i know that when i'm in a shitty mood and am overthinking my own identity, the surrounding world begins to feel like a bunch of untrustworthy strangers.)

the landscape itself also adds to the deep isolation of this graphic novel. yes, the characters are alone on a road trip with only a cat to keep them company, but the surrounding world is also huge and foreign and unreal. they are alone with each other. to me, their own pain and this isolation compound each other; i felt myself slipping further into walden's constructed darkness as i read.

and at the end, there's hope. the world is dark and that darkness is inescapable, and then at the end of it all, the characters continue on with their lives, changed for the better.

IT MAKES ME INSANE.

tillie walden did the same thing with on a sunbeam. a group of space travelers isolated on their ship, exploring strange buildings and ultimately venturing into a strange, unknowable landscape (The Staircase). a group of travelers bonded by pain. a group of queer travelers bonded by their love for one another. a world that is fundamentally built upon queerness - upon lesbians, upon trans people. i think the recipe is ultimately similar to are you listening? pain + isolation + queerness + found family = a reader response of despair, catharsis, hope, tears.

perhaps my own response stems from the fact that on the deepest level, i most relate to the struggles of butch lesbians, if i am being entirely real with myself. what does tillie walden do? she knocks it out of the fucking park and writes a type of very real-feeling queer darkness that caters to me specifically. (chomp chomp.) but apart from my own shrimp emotions, she's also just a really fucking good storyteller. a brilliant artist, a brilliant character creator, a brilliant writer. and her graphic novels are really fucking brilliant books.

[mswyrr]

“prey” 2022 thoughts

-- wonderful balance of history and sci fi with the French trapper invaders and the alien Predator all feeling like they belong in the same space thematically and within the landscape they do not respect, only pillage

-- the styling and camera focus on Naru's (very expressive, watchful) eyes and her body *in motion* seeking and acting. it's a very nice approach to move around the components of "the male gaze" (a body exposed and held in place to be gazed upon vs a body that acts and emphasis on drawing you into empathy with her pov and want as the protagonist) .

--THAT SOUNDTRACK. omg. i love that they got a female composer.

--Naru's story (and size/strength/dexterity) would be the same if she was the younger brother eager to prove herself and get out from under her older brothers' shadow rather than the younger sister doing the same and sexist fanboys would be all over it

every single thing she uses against the predator is narratively earned!!! and part of her growth!! 

runt-y younger brother proves himself by defeating a monster is a classic - like,  "David vs Goliath" is a classic for a reason - and nobody has as a problem when the David is male but somehow it's absurd when the clever, not as big, but capable and smart one vs the giant is a girl? eff off

[scotianostra]

On March 3rd 1792, Robert Adam, the Scottish architect, furniture and interior designer, died.

Born in Kirkcaldy, Adam is regarded as one of Europe's great architects. Now I'm not one for visiting Stately homes and the like, give me a castle ruins any day of the week, but Adam designed some of the most admired houses, not only in Scotland, but throughout the British Isles, he didn't just work on buildings, he was also a furniture designer, I have added a couple of his pieces in the pics.

After his death some of his structures were remodeled as tastes and styles changed, some of his best surviving work in Scotland can be seen at Hopetoun House, Register House and The former Royal Exchange, now the City Chambers in Edinburgh, Trades Halls Glasgow and the mock medieval Culzean Castle in Ayrshire. Down south in England my favourite of Adam's work is Pulteney Bridge which crosses the River Avon in Bath Somerset, I lived in Somerset for a few year and loved visiting Bath. Over in Ireland he designed the Templetown Mausoleum in County Antrim, his style was copied extensively and is described as "neo-classical"

Adam was a success in part because he insisted on designing everything himself, down to the tiniest detail. The result is work that has a sense of overall unity, or flow. He moved beyond the Roman classical style, and borrowed heavily from Greek, Byzantine, and Italian Baroque influences.

This obituary appeared in the March 1792 edition of The Gentleman's Magazine:.....

"...... Mr Adam produced a total change in the architecture of this country: and his fertile genius in elegant ornament was not confined to the decoration of buildings, but has been diffused to every branch of manufacture. His talents extend beyond the lie of his own profession: he displayed in his numerous drawings in landscape a luxuriance of composition, and an effect of light and shadow, which have scarcely been equalled...to the last period of his life, Mr Adam displayed an increasing vigour of genius and refinement of taste: for in the space of one year preceding his death, he designed eight great public works, besides twenty five private buildings, so various in their style, and so beautiful in their composition, that they have been allowed by the best judges, sufficient of themselves, to establish his fame unrivalled as an artist."

He left nearly 9,000 drawings, 8,856 of which (by both Robert and James Adam) were subsequently purchased in 1833 for £200 by the architect John Soane and are now at the Soane Museum in London.

The pics are odf Adam and some of the interiors with his designs,

[futurehunt]

hii requesting azris drabble 20 or 46 :) tyy

46- Azris kiss out of jealousy 🤭

me: send me drabbles

also me: writes way more than a drabble

18+! mature more than explicit but still slightly smutty, minors dni 😝

ended up posting onto AO3 for funsies if you'd rather read there

Azriel does not fidget.

He was a battle-hardened warrior with centuries of training in stoicism– he knew better than to fidget.

But, by the fourth time the Raskian dignitary left a lingering hand squeezing Eris's shoulder, Azriel found his legs jittering with frantic energy, hands squeezing rhythmically– imagining crushing that olive-skinned hand until bones crunched.

The collective murmur of the crowd echoed around the Great Hall, bouncing off the soaring arched ceiling and blanketing Azriel in its inescapable din.

"This is my spymaster, Azriel." He could hear his brother's garbled voice through the racket to his right, drawing Azriel's attention away from the sight of Eris and the dignitary leaning in close to one another.

Azriel couldn't erase the scowl from his face as Rhysand introduced him to a Monteseren nobleman, if the emerald and silver embellished robes were any indication.

"Wow." The male gawked at Azriel as if he were a roadside attraction, leaning in to Rhysand to ask, "Where did you get him from?"

His brothers eyes shot wide as the moon. Not giving the conversation a chance, Azriel stalked away with a growl– doing his reputation of being an animal no favors.

Shadows thrashing around him, the crowd parted for Azriel in fear.

He had been a staunch advocate for this– a grand soirée between Prythian and empires on the Continent, a joining of peoples to put the past behind them. With Koschei destroyed and power wrestled, at last, from Briyallan's clutches, tenuous peace had settled between the humans and the fae. Under Queen Vassa's guidance, this gathering had been organized at her castle with every court of Prythian and the Continent invited to attend.

Azriel regretted it now, fully intend to go hide within his chambers until the event had finished for the night.

He chanced one last glance back, searching for Eris's vibrant red hair among the sea of muted browns and blondes. The Raskian official that'd been drooling over the Autumn High Lord now stood alone, looking forlorn. Eris? Gone.

With a huff, Azriel resumed the trek back to his room.

It had made his skin crawl to see the greasy human draping himself across Eris. Eris Vanserra was a High Lord– a title that deserved respect no matter how much Azriel despised the male that held it, and that human had been acting as if Eris were no more than a for-hire courtesan sent there to please.

Shortly after exiting the Great Hall, the hallway forked and Azriel veered left towards the Night Court's collection of rooms.

Back, his shadows whispered. The other way.

"What?" Azriel whispered.

The other way, they repeated.

Azriel backtracked, curious, and followed the hallway to the right.

His footsteps bounded off the carved limestone walls, sound bouncing ahead and leading the way. This must be the private wing, Azriel presumed, its walls less laden with ostentatious memorabilia. Thick clouds outside hid the moon from sight, leaving wall-mounted braziers providing the only pockets of dancing firelight to guide Azriel down the hallway.

Behind the tapestry, his shadows said.

As if on cue, a tapestry, as tall as him twice over, emerged from the darkness. It had a lush, hilly landscape sewed onto its surface. In the center, a murky black lake with a red winged bird gliding across its surface.

Azriel ripped back the side of the tapestry and found, hiding within an alcove, Eris.

Eris, who'd been leaning casually back against the stone-stacked wall, jolted up, brows shot high at the sight of Azriel. A lone ball of fire, like produced by Eris, hung in the air above him, gently illuminating the small space.

"How did you find me?" Eris spluttered.

"Waiting for someone?" Azriel growled. That's all this could be– a clandestine rendezvous with Raskian dignitary. Why else would Eris be sequestered away within the private wing of Vassa's palace.

"Not that I'm aware of?" Eris said rising to his full height, only an inch shy of Azriel.

Azriel scoffed in disbelief.

"Oh," Eris drawled, a coy smile spreading across his face. "Don't think I didn't see you watching me all night, shadowsinger. I could practically smell your jealousy from across the ballroom."

"Jealousy?" Azriel gaped in shock.

Eris continued, "You won't act on your desire for me but no one else can have me, is that it?"

"Desire?!" Azriel repeated in disbelief. "I desire you as much as I would a toad."

With a chuckle, Eris said, "You must be really attracted to toads."

Azriel growled and turned to leave.

"I am waiting for someone, actually." Eris's words stopped him in his tracks. "You know, I figured– what better way to strengthen relations with the human of the Continent than to... partake in relations with humans of the Continent."

Whipping around, aghast, Azriel searched Eris for any signs of deceit. "You're joking."

"I don't joke," Eris said haughtily. "You should leave. He'll be here soon and I don't need your presence ruining anything."

Azriel's gaze flickered down the hallway, he saw no one and heard no footsteps. Letting the tapestry drape closed behind him, Azriel stepped into the alcove.

Even with the tapestry down, he could still hear the echo of the crowd in the Great Hall.

All it took was two steps for Azriel to have Eris backed flat against the wall. A heartbeat later, his arm wrapped around the Autumn High Lord and pulled the male flush against him, capturing his lips in a searing kiss.

The first joining of their lips was slow, sucking, and exploratory. Eris tasted of cinnamon spiced liquor and sweet walnuts.

Soon, their manic longing caught up with the pace of the mouths.

Azriel's mind melted.

The only sensation he registered was the soft glide of Eris's lush lips against his own, dancing together in desperate desire. He swallowed the choked groan Eris released into his mouth as the male pressed every inch of their bodies together.

Why hadn't Azriel done this sooner?

His skin burned everywhere they touched, his heart galloped painfully in his chest.

Azriel needed more. Now.

Tilting his head to deepen the kiss, Azriel slid his tongue into Eris's mouth, memorizing his intoxicating taste.

Pulling back to catch his breath, Azriel asked between pants, "You said he's meeting you here?"

"Yes." Eris's pale skin was flushed a rosy pink.

"That's too bad for him." Azriel crept his hands under Eris's shirt to glide along his taut abdomen. "Because he's going to be very disappointed to find me fucking you up against this wall, instead."

Eris's voice was breathless, yet more composed than Azriel wished, as he said, "Against the wall? You're overconfident."

"No, I'm not." With a sturdy grip on the back of Eris's thighs, Azriel hiked the male up, thanking the Mother for centuries of training that made the lift feel effortless.

Wrapping Eris's legs securely around his waist, Azriel leaned in to the male's ear and said, "Tell me you want this."

Eris huffed but said nothing, mouth hinged slightly open and eyes glazed.

Azriel pressed tight into the crux of Eris's thighs and ground against the hardness he found there, managing to suppress a moan at the friction. Unlike him, Eris failed at holding back a whimper.

"Eris, I'm not doing anything until you beg." Azriel whispered before recapturing the male's mouth. They made out in silence, hips rocking against one another, original intention evaporated from Azriel's mind– his sole focus drawing more broken moans from Eris.

Pulling free tightly knotted laces, Azriel slid his hands inside Eris's waistband to grab two hand-fulls of the male's ass. As Azriel massaged the butter-soft skin, squeezing it to its limit, he'd occasionally slide an exploratory finger down to tease Eris's tightness. Every time his finger glided over, Eris's long legs would squeeze around Azriel's waist, using the force to pull their bodies closer.

On the fifth passover, Eris broke free from Azriel's lips, heaving, and begged, "Fuck me, Azriel. Please, fuck me."

"Yes," Azriel moaned eagerly in affirmation.

Shucking Eris's pants up his thighs so that it exposed enough of the male's ass, Azriel trailed his lips down the pillar of his pale neck, sucking deep bruises into the skin.

Fingers twisted in his hair as Eris rasped, "I said, fuck me."

In a haze, Azriel fumbled with a vial of oil his shadows deposited into his palm and made quick work of slicking up his fingers. He circled Eris's heat, egged on by the male's muttered encouragements. They kissed with manically, barely repressed smiles making it hard to maintain a rhythm. Just as he was about to dip a finger into Eris, Azriel paused.

Too late, with no forewarning from his shadows, Azriel registered the clack of footsteps in the hallway outside the tapestry. And, before he could do more than rip his mouth away and gape at Eris in shock, the tapestry was yanked back, flooding light from the hallway braziers into the alcove.

Shadows burst forth, surrounding Eris and blocking him from view.

Azriel dropped Eris from his arms, guiding his legs down so he didn't fall, and double checking that shadows shrouded him entirely, before turning to face the bewildered face of the Raskian dignitary.

The male stared at them, dumbstruck.

"Get out," Azriel growled, cobalt siphons flaring in warning.

That was all it took to send the Raskian scampering away, tapestry dropping to cloak them once more.

Azriel whipped to face Eris, shadows dissipating. "You were serious? You were actually meeting him here?"

"I told you, I don't joke," Eris replied.

Snarling, Azriel pressed Eris back into the wall, plundering his lips with white-hot kisses, set on erasing every thought of the Raskian male until all the existed in Eris's mind was Azriel.

[dribdrab]

Just a little headcanon/FF7 epilogue idea that i couldn't get out of my head. More like a cinematic storyboard than proper prose. we're going for fluffy redemption. but realistic. am about halfway through rebirth so may adjust later or not

--------------------------- [Soundtrack: Eerie, pulsing strings]

Permanent twilight hangs over the glacier.

The air is brittle with dread. It starts with a low, spreading hiss as tiny cracks spiderweb through the ice. Then, with a hideous groaning and grinding, with echoing cracks that sound more like gunfire than anything natural, the barren grey landscape erupts, and the battle against Jenova's final form begins.

[Soundtrack: Jenova: Rebirth https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Kh0OPbKtYw&ab_channel=MasterSweet]

Zack is going into this fight determined to at least try to get through to Sephiroth before the end. Cloud thinks this is unbelievably stupid. He wants to keep his mind together, for this to be over, for his friends to survive. Or most of them. Don’t think about that.

Jenova’s bulk remains hidden below the shifting masses of ice. The monstrous, bulbous, flailing protrusions that stalk and divide the party across the ice flow are plenty to deal with. Some spew oily, caustic bile that clings and eats away everything it touches. Some are almost mineral and fling spikes of obsidian like arrows. The worst look like they are cut out of a starless piece of deep space. A void, a nothingness that casts no shadow, and snakes its way silently into the heart. Cloud and Zack grimly dispatch one after another. Any short reprieve is a moment to scan the field for allies. Barrett, Tifa, Red, an indistinguishable knot of Turks. Still standing.

A familiar jolt snaps across Cloud’s vision. Aura, electricity, blue, green, cracking his mind like the ice. ‘Zack, he’s here.’ It is not a grand entrance today. One moment Cloud is standing, and the next he’s thrown skidding, barely able to parry Sephiroth’s strike. Metal rings on metal rings on metal, echoing back from the cliffs, and it almost feels clean after Jenova.

Zack speaks insistently to Sephiroth the whole time. Names, missions, honor, friends, memories, places, Loveless, anything. (This probably gets him through as well, Cloud realises later.) Cloud thinks he sees the tiniest hesitation in Sephiroth’s unearthly slitted eyes at the mention of Angeal and Genesis, but the onslaught continues. If it’s there at all, it’s not enough.

Zack catches Masamune in a bind while Cloud shatters an encroaching piece of Jenova.

Zack is shaking with effort, and with hope, and with rage as he looks past the locked swords and sets his eyes on Sephiroth’s. ‘Come back to us, Seph, please.’

Sephiroth seems to falter for a moment. The pressure of the bind lessens. Zack’s eyes widen.

Sephiroth’s eyes stay as malevolent as ever as he takes the opening to blast Zack back into the ridge behind them. It’s brutal and once Zack slides slowly down to the ground, he doesn’t get back up.

Cloud hurls himself at Sephiroth with a strangled yell. The initial flurry is so wild that both swords are knocked away in the chaos. Cloud draws his knife and goes for Sephiroth’s throat. Sephiroth catches his arm less than an inch before it connects and again there is a frantic fight for leverage.

Too long, it’s taking too long, Cloud thinks, as he notices the telltale hum of Masamune being summoned. Oh. He braces himself for the killing blow.

But it never comes.

Cloud is looking into green eyes that are free and alive, and then he looks down and sees that Sephiroth is clutching Masamune’s hilt with both hands and has buried it in his own chest.

[Soundtrack: Apocalypsis Noctis https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hB2CIDg_CUg&ab_channel=YokoShimomura-Topic]

An inhuman wail splits the air. Forks of lightning strike the earth and silhouette a staggering Sephiroth and Masamune against the roiling sky. Sephiroth twists the sword deeper. The wail intensifies, jagged glass, alien, wrong, and in Sephiroth's eyes there is another surge of clarity. He grips Cloud's arm. Fixes a desperate, shining, human gaze on him, using words and not words to say that Jenova's centre/heart/weak point is in the crater. Sephiroth collapses. Red blood pools in the white snow.

The radio network gets the message to Cid somehow. It could have been a minute or a hour but Cloud sees engine burn through the miasma as the Highwind launches its attack run on the crater.

On the surface, things are bleak. Bodies litter the glacier, and some of the water foaming up from under the ice flow runs rusty with blood. Most of the Planet’s forces have withdrawn to the solid land, dragging their wounded where they could.

On the empty battlefield, Aerith appears to Sephiroth and places her glowing hand by his head - a blessing. Only he sees her, and in his state he can’t really tell the difference between the snowy battlefield and Aerith’s luminous in-between world.

Cloud, Tifa and Red lead the charge. Not one person slows or falters, even when Jenova’s wrath rises up to meet them.

Aerith watches from the land as Sephiroth struggles to his feet behind the dwindling resistance and suddenly blazes with the Planet’s fire. Two white wings, more light than flesh, unfurl like a shield; like a challenge. Sephiroth drags Masamune out and abandons it on the ground. Though mortally wounded, he hurls everything he is into the final assault on Jenova.

In the explosion everything goes bright and loud and then there is no sound at all. Sephiroth ends up collapsed near Zack, lucid for just long enough to meet his eyes. ‘Welcome back.’ They both go under.

[silence]

The night sky and stars twinkle down as the clouds dissipate. Sephiroth's wings disintegrate. It's like blowing a dandelion. White feathers waft across the battlefield, and both SOLDIERs finally look at peace.

[Soundtrack: Zanarkand: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LHQApVHWRyk&ab_channel=NobuoUematsu-Topic]

Sephiroth wakes up in a secure medical facility. Only short flashes at first - dressings being changed, IVs adjusted, Cloud injured but walking, slowly, Zack being treated in the next bed, a vase of flowers on the table, Cloud and Tifa watching through a window from the corridor. Comes to properly to find Cloud there, staring at the other bed, now empty.

'Is she gone.' 'Yes.' 'Zack?' 'You just missed him.' Sephiroth withdraws even further and will not communicate. Slowly starts being assessed/interrogated, Cloud watching occasionally but never speaks.

Tifa and Cloud talking about how weird this all is, what on earth happened in the final explosion/fight. Tifa notices that the flowers next to Sephiroth are the same flowers that have been there for weeks. They look as alive as when he first arrived. She does not mention this to Cloud.

Sephiroth dreams of Aerith. All very mysterious. 'I don't think the Planet is done with you yet.' Zack is there as well, with Aerith. Sephiroth says he should have died instead. Zack tells him he has no regrets and not to waste the second chance (but in a brasher Zack way obv.).

Weeks later, Cloud finally visits. They can barely look at each other, but both establish that Jenova's pull is gone. Ruminating on why Cloud was able to fight the control but couldn't win, Sephiroth broke completely and was submerged, and Zack seemed entirely unaffected. Zack knew exactly who he was. Cloud + Sephiroth remember him together for a moment before Cloud leaves.

Tifa debriefs with Cloud, encourages him to finally leave the building and get some air now that he is mostly recovered. Cloud is not keen. Tifa brings up the flowers, then: 'There's something else you need to see.' They take their first steps out of the building to find that greenery and vines and wildflowers have sprung up around the shabby med centre in the middle of the slums.

Cloud dreams of Aerith that night. She tells him that Hojo seems to have have experimented on Sephiroth not only with Jenova cells but also true Ancient samples from Ifalna. They remained dormant and undetectable due to Jenova's influence, but when Sephiroth cracked Her control, Aerith was able to awaken them. 'Not too much, though. He's still very lost. A wandering path, that one - I don't know where it will lead.'

'Does he know?' 'Not yet.'

Cloud visits a little more often. They still don't talk much. Cloud reluctantly confirms to those in charge that Jenova's influence is likely gone - he knows because he can feel it himself like a weight lifted. No SOLDIER has had an episode since Jenova was destroyed.

Sephiroth is allowed to leave the room for short periods. It is strange to see him do normal person things like read and eat soup and make tea. He is always locked up at night. He wonders who is changing the flowers. Gradually he realises that they are the same flowers.

Rumours of some kind of planetary imbalance start filtering in. Destructive weather patterns, long droughts, monsoons, wildfires.

Aerith appears to both Cloud and Sephiroth separately and while still being very mysterious, asks them to go seek answers relating to the Cetra and the planet and the imbalance.

Cloud and Tifa talk about whether this is a Very Bad Idea. Maybe, but honestly who knows when you're a normal person being buffeted daily by cosmic wills and mind control and planetary disasters. They talk properly about Jenova's influence on Cloud during their initial missions and how much deeper it must have gone with Sephiroth. Cloud shares his disgust for Sephiroth's upbringing with Tifa. They agree that while Sephiroth is a wild card with dreadful associations for them both, they do trust Aerith and will cautiously see what the future holds.

[Soundtrack: Not alone: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nyQCR-8Squ4&ab_channel=NobuoUematsu-Topic] I imagine the first flute theme is Cloud and the low strings theme that answers is Sephiroth.

Sephiroth and Cloud set off at dawn on Cloud's bike, driving down the empty highway away from Midgar. (It makes them both jittery to be forced so close together, but they're both too stubborn to show any weakness while the other is looking. It's certainly not a good idea to let go.)

The morning smells like smoke and asphalt and mako, and as the city vanishes behind them, it gradually gives way to fresh and green and freedom. Sephiroth's hair ripples in the wind and reflects the changing sky as the smog lifts. Burgundy, amber, silver.

Seph can't or won't summon Masamune anymore. When it becomes clear they will be fighting through fiends regularly, he uses a staff. His magic no longer works as expected. He finds this deeply frustrating but doesn't show it much.

Sephiroth learning to ride a chocobo is hilarious. He does *not* want help climbing onto its back. Cloud is absolutely fine watching him struggle.

Cloud is his prickly monosyllabic self but Seph notices he's always willing to help the people they meet when they stay in a town, and children always seem to flock to him.

Cloud is injured when a spell of Sephiroth's fails during a fight. Seph goes to patch him up - explicitly without magic because of how often he keeps screwing it up - and accidentally heals him with something innate. Sephiroth is very confused.

Camping in a rocky wasteland, Sephiroth wakes up to find that tiny patches of snowdrops have grown around the shelter overnight.

On the road, Sephiroth suddenly holds up a hand, indicating a monster ahead. Cloud asks how he sensed it so far off. 'I don't entirely know. The birds sounded different.'

Cloud eventually tells Seph what Aerith did. Aerith hasn't appeared to either of them for weeks so they're both in the dark about what it fully means.

Seph starts honing his new magic and quietly helps people they meet - healing small injuries, calming animals, encouraging crops and gardens grown sickly from the shifting weather. Cloud pretends not to notice.

Sephiroth and Cloud start sparring and working out how Seph's new magic can be combined with Cloud's when they fight against a common enemy. Cloud is cautious at every turn and Sephiroth even more so.

They find a small girl who has fallen down a ravine. Sephiroth takes away some of her pain, wraps her carefully in his coat, and carries her far off course to her remote village. He's able to heal a broken leg and some smaller things but during the long night it becomes apparent that there is some kind of internal damage. In the end neither he nor the doctor can save her. She passes on as dawn begins to break. Sephiroth is quiet about it as always but Cloud has never seen him this upset. For once Sephiroth doesn't shy away from contact and when Cloud puts a hesitant hand on his shoulder, he covers it with his own and holds it there. The next night they sleep back to back to be less alone.

Seph redoubles his efforts to master the healing magic. He's always up early, or up late when they camp outdoors, seemingly watching things Cloud can't see and listening to things Cloud can't hear.

Cloud notices that now when Sephiroth works larger healing magic, he clasps his hands exactly like Aerith. Cloud wishes Aerith would appear again, but she doesn't.

*Clifftop training montages, stunning wilderness vistas, dramatic staff magic/giant sword combo fights with sharply decreasing numbers of mishaps* …until:

Cloud doesn't hesitate when Sephiroth sees a slightly too-tall rock plateau ahead and dips his interlaced hands to boost him over. Sephiroth doesn't hesitate when Cloud extends a hand and grips his forearm to help him up in turn.

When Cloud takes first watch and a silent, familiar flash of silver stirs the shadows in his peripheral vision, his breath stays calm. A rough wool blanket settles around his shoulders, and Cloud leans into the steady presence, warmth, cut grass on a hot summer day very slightly before it's gone. Sephiroth notices but later tells himself he's probably imagining it.

They barely need to speak when they fight now. Each covers the other's vulnerabilities without thinking. A flick of a glance flows smoothly into a silent shared intention, and then bursts into a conflagration of burning slashes and iridescent refracting shield veils, and leaves a circle of fallen enemies.

Somehow it is easier to talk by the fire - once it has died down to glowing, gentle embers. Sephiroth tells Cloud what is supposed to be a humorous story from his childhood in the lab and looks up to find Cloud's expressive eyes fixed on his in pity, horror...disgust? Cloud abruptly reaches over and wraps him in the blanket as well. No, something softer in his eyes - compassion.

With more hesitancy than he has ever felt in his life, Sephiroth relaxes his head against Cloud's shoulder. Cloud doesn't let go.

It's nice to feel your heart start beating in time with another person, to feel their breath rise and fall and change your own to match. They stay that way for a while.

In the morning, a patch of little yellow flowers has grown next to the campfire's ashes.

----------------------------

[Soundtrack: Fabula Nova Crystallis: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AQ0Mi3YRtM8&ab_channel=MasashiHamauzu-Topic]

It's like something between Atlantis and Naboo when the Cetra settlement reveals themselves. All waterfalls and rainbows and shimmering air where the bare cliff face had been.

The Cetra will help, but won't reveal themselves directly given their small numbers, and what has happened in the past. Cloud and Sephiroth agree to be their intermediaries and to carry their secret. It's hinted that there are more Cetra and part-Cetra children in the world. (Really, how could Shinra possibly know with certainty that they had searched every corner of the planet?)

Much later, Sephiroth and Cloud return to Nibelheim. Sephiroth won't go near the centre of town, but one morning in the dark says he has something he needs to do. Sephiroth and Cloud walk to the reactor together and there is a familiar echo of dread. As the sun comes up and paints the sky crimson, Sephiroth faces the reactor. He kneels like Aerith at the moment of her death and calls up the full power of the ancients. The sky is gold. Plants and trees and greenery and flowers wrap themselves around and subsume the reactor complex; cracking foundations, returning the doomed experiments to the planet, crystallising the residual mako into a beautiful, glowing spring that reaches toward the sky; a monument to everyone cut down in Sephiroth's past life and a silent promise to atone in the time that is left. Zack and Aerith appear with the first full rays of dawn. Zack embraces Cloud. Aerith kisses the still kneeling Sephiroth on the forehead, smiles at Cloud, and they fade away.

[seukorei]

I love ur art so much!!!!🥹🫶🫶 how long have u been drawing for? and I was wondering if u have any tips(?) for drawing cuz im trying to learn how to ehe👉👈

thank you so much!! sorry for the late response

i honestly dont know how to answer how long i've been drawing for because i kinda just been doodling since i was a toddler but i started doing it more seriously when i was in 5th-6th grade and then digital art when i was around 12? it doesn't really matter when you start though

tips!!!!!!!!!! this might get long i hope i dont sound pretentious

in my opinion, art is 70% observation and 30% putting it into practice i.e. you first have to see the concepts and the breakdowns and the details before being able to use them at all. they're not going to appear by brute force or out of thin air unless you first observe that they exist and how they are used.

i have an entire archive on art tips and breakdowns that i store that cover basically everything like anatomy, color theory, composition, perspective etc. i also have an archive for art that i just enjoy looking at and want to emulate! that doesn't necessarily mean to copy verbatim someone else's style, but to pick up details in how they use colors or how they conduct lighting or how they paint a landscape. it's to pick out what makes their art so appealing and figure out how that can then be used to apply to your own art! I also just like looking at beautiful art to inspire me :)

general tips i think are really good for improvement vv

study the difference between cast shadows and form shadows. this is REALLY helpful in making your art look more 3 dimensional. for simplicity's sake, cast shadows are generally more hard while form shadows are generally more soft (depending on the form) and every object has a combination of the two. the way that you can see it most notably and then apply it is on clothing, where the clothing folds will cast a shadow while also being rounded and have a form shadow

color and light are deeply intertwined and something that you can use is cool shadows/warm light or vice versa! this doesn't ALWAYS apply, but it is a good starting point.

think of shadow not as an addition but the starting point while light is where you are adding. therefore, the shadows should be heavily influenced by the environment that they are in, i.e. a white box in an entirely red room is not going to have gray shadows, but red shadows. when the white light is shined on it then it becomes white.

use dynamic lighting to create the sense that something is real! this can be done in the way that either your shadows are rendered while your light has little detailed or that your light is rendered and your shadows have less detail

when referencing, use at least one or two "reference" lines that go across the entire picture horizontally or vertically so you are not trying to draw everything relative to each other but instead search for where something is relative to that line and you will be able to then capture the proportions in much more more comprehensive manner

i think this one might be overdone but break everything down into simple shapes!! it becomes a lot easier to understand something when it's not as visually complex and then after you have gotten down the basic shapes of a figure

use blank space as a guide (when referencing or otherwise). sometimes something isnt looking right when you have tried to redraw something and that might be because the blank spaces in between the lines of the figure and outside the figure arent actually matching up!

the heat of your drawing is determined by the dominant colors and when trying to make a color more cool or warm, you don't necessarily need to shift your hue over to that color. for example, if you have a predominantly warm color scheme with strong oranges/reds/yellows/pinks, if you wanted to have bluer shadows all you need to do is to make the color more desaturated. it will pop out as blue because your colors are mostly warm

make shadows a bit more lighter/saturated in the insides of them because light is being reflected onto it

this one might not apply to you, but it really helped my art when i stopped trying to force myself to do lineart. there are ways to improve at lineart but i prefer not to do it and to just create multiple layers of sketches and then at the very end after i've colored i create a layer on top of everything to clean up the messier bits

implement light fall-off! tbh i don't reallyyy know what this is i just see it a lot but it's basically a really saturated red-orange that you mostly see on skin where the shadows meet the light

pick what your brightest and darkest colors are going to be when you start coloring. i would normally stay away from pure white or pure black because by picking other colors as your brightest/darkest you can create mood and tone

fade out the hair at the edges of it because hair isn't really a block despite often being drawn like one. it's a large collection of strands and as it nears the edges those stands would begin to thin out in comparison to the cneter. in addition, add flyaways to your hair to make it more realistic because again, it's a collection of strands that is usually composed into blocks because that's how it looks most of the time

alright that's kinda all I got for now there's so much more i could talk about but i think this is getting long LOL... i hope that at least one of these is helpful in some way, shape, or form <3

[piratemousey]

Bg3 romance fanfic

Karlach x Tav

Tav - half-wood elf druid (she/they)

⚠️ warning - NSFW, act 2 spoilers

Tav crouched behind the tree, her feet moving silently over the leaves. She leaned out to glance quickly around. They'd wandered a little further from camp than usual, especially in the shadow cursed lands. Tav had the blessing of a wonderfully foul mouthed pixie to protect them from the shadow curse which still mostly clung to the land.

With the curse partially lifted, the air was brighter, the trees were no longer tangled in shadow, and Tav felt like she could smell the earth healing.

As a ranger and druid, Tav used a trip to get a stash they read about in a notebook as an excuse to camp in nature. While Tav appreciated the hospitality of the Last Light Inn, she needed to be out in the wilderness again before the battles still to come.

Tav turned as she heard the rumble of boots. Far between the trees she saw a flash of red.

Tav pushed her back up against the tree. She glanced to her right and saw a low bush with space beneath. More than likely a burrow for something small and furry.

In a few quick and silent movements Tav climbed beneath the bramble. She could see out but she hoped it would be hard to see her through the bush.

A figure emerged from the trees, their thick boots crushing leaves and sticks. While her hand positioning seemed to indicate she was trying to sneak, Karlach made an incredible amount of noise.

Tav watched from beneath the bush. As a half-wood elf, Tav's skin had a soft oaky coloring. She was slight, her pointed ears were delicate. Her hair was dyed purple in the front, green in the back and was shaved close on the sides.

Karlach's hands dropped, slapping her sides. Her shoulders sagged in defeat. "I can't find you, you're too woodsy. I'm going to get lost with all these trees and green." Karlach was a tall broad woman with round hips. She had a straight nose and a single horn curled from her forehead over thick black eyebrows.

Tav giggled. She knew she'd draw Karlach's attention but that's what she wanted.

Karlach spun around in place. A move she'd perfected for combat. Her eyes searched frantically.

Tav moved her head.

"Ah, there you are," Karlach approached the bush, bending down to get inside. "Your green and purple hair gave it away."

"Did it?" Tav asked, still giggling.

"Are you laughing at my stealth skill?" Karlach asked. Her accent exaggerated when she was offended.

"A little," Tav said. "Halsin makes less noise as a bear scratching his back."

Karlach lifted her chin and did a grunting impersonation of Halsin.

Tav continued to giggle.

"You better stop that giggling, you know it's my favorite meal," Karlach warned, her eyebrows raised.

Tav couldn't help but break into more laughter.

"That's it," Karlach's tail whipped back and forth as she knelt down and crawled into the burrow beside Tav. She broke some branches to make space for herself. "There we go." Karlach's attention turned to Tav who laid on her side smiling up at Karlach. "Where was I, oh right, you were asking to be eaten up."

Tav laughed as Karlach's hands reached for her. They pulled each other close. Karlach tickled Tav, smiling as she tried to wiggle away. Though, she wasn't trying very hard.

Tav buried her face against Karlach's neck enjoying the short break from all of the drama and struggles of their journey. They spent the day clearing the rest of the shattered landscape which the servants of Shar and the druids fought so long ago.

But all of that was for tomorrow.

No one said anything when Tav and Karlach started to leave sight of camp. People either understood their need for privacy or they didn't care.

Karlach's hands slowed and she let Tav lay back. Tav was breathing deep from exertion as her laughter subsided.

Karlach looked down at Tav, her eyes trying to find something new to discover and love.

"Are you okay?" Tav asked. "Is it the burrow? It's been empty for a while, it won't be too dirty."

"What do I care about dirt?" Karlach asked. "I just look at you sometimes. Out here in nature. You're like a beautiful flower that's known only sun and warmth. I'm like a big city fool who's spent too much time in the hells. The only flowers I saw were red and spiky and would spit venom. Look at you, you're a ranger, a druid for god's sake."

"Despite what the devils made of Avernus, it's still a wilderness," Tav said. She touched the braid which hung behind Karlach's ear. "That flower is still a wildflower. Just because the hells touch something doesn't make it tainted, or unlovable."

"I just... I really , really like you," Karlach said. "But, I don't know when my heart will give out. It's not fair to you."

Tav pulled Karlach's hand to her chest. "I wish I could keep it here, safe with mine."

"And then I'd keep you safe," Karlach smiled, her eyes wet with tears.

"Who else but my big barbarian babe?" Tav laughed.

"Come here," Karlach leaned in. The two kissed until their breath came in gasps, their hands moving over each other's bodies. Tav wrapped a leg around Karlach.

Karlach tried to move lower to kiss more of Tav but there wasn't enough room.

As Karlach tried to maneuver, she grew frustrated, her chest glowed. The heat warmed Tav's chest. Karlach grabbed the root bundle which barely poked out of the ground and tore it free. With a loud yell she threw the bush across the clearing and into another tree.

Without any barriers Karlach laid next to Tav, pulling her underneath herself. As soon as she realized what she'd done, Karlach's mouth hung open. "I'm so sorry." Karlach said. "I killed a plant right in front of you."

Tav was out of breath from the excitement. She rested her hand on Karlach's shoulder. "It's okay, we can replant it. It's not the first bush relocated for forest sex."

"The fact that you talk about forest sex so casually is so hot. Come here," Karlach held Tav's face as they kissed.

Karlach pulled Tav's vest open, and unbuttoned her shirt.

Karlach's mouth found Tav's nipple. She pulled it between her lips, pressing her tongue under the curve. Tav moaned, her hand resting on Karlach's horn.

As Tav pressed herself against Karlach in a needy way. Karlach smiled, her lips moving down Tav's bare tummy.

Karlach kissed between Tav's thighs as she pulled her pants down over her feet. But Tav motioned for Karlach to kiss her.

"I'll do whatever you want," Karlach said. She laid between Tav's legs kissing her strongly.

Tav pulled at Karlach's pants but the buckle was hot to the touch

"I'm sorry," Karlach said.

Tav whispered a fire protection spell she'd prepared and worked Karlach's pants off. She slid her fingers between Karlach's legs while they rocked against one another.

Karlach pulled Tav's leg up, then sipped her hand up her slit, pressing two fingers inside. Tav gasped with pleasure.

Their rhythm was easy and natural. As they came one after the other, around them the forest was still and a fog hung between the trees. No one disturbed the lovers as they drank deeply of each other. What shadows remained stayed in their hiding places. They whispered their poison to other ears.

Tav and Karlach had each other and a wilderness to explore.

[bellygunnr]

Snow Tires, Never Worn

Secret Santa for @sierra-touge-bitch !!!! This was a blast to write.

Also my entry for the 2023 @initialdsecretsanta

Snow falls steadily outside. Three cars, all alike in dignity, gradually join the white landscape as they are left to fend for themselves in the elements. An unceasing wind forces the snow to collect in whorls and drifts around the parking lot, and despite the short amount of time it has been falling, the ground is already difficult to discern. Light and shadow play with each other– glowing warm and yellow where there are lamp posts, flickering rapidly in the same breadth, unable to keep up with the weather. 

And inside one of the apartments lining up the parking lot, a television plays loudly. It fills the tiny space with rote, serious droning, a bassline to ambient chatter and clatter of pans.

“Road’s blocked!” Sayuki shouts. 

She’s sprawled out, half-draped over the back of the couch while her feet rest on the coffee table. Her head is thrown back to project her voice, which carries easily anyway.

“What do you mean, road’s blocked?” Shingo shouts back, slightly slurred.

“Your road! Back home!”

“Would you two stop yelling? The apartment’s not that big.” That’s Nakazato from the kitchen.a

Sayuki lifts her legs and twists off of the couch in one smooth motion. With a long, deliberate stride, she slides into the kitchen, or at least hovers at the edge of it. Her hands wrap around the painted wood of the doorway. The newfound light reveals a faint flush to her cheeks. A beer bottle on the countertop hints to why.

“I’m saying,” Sayuki says, far quieter, “that your guys’ road. The one you and Shingo need to get out of here. Is blocked. The– the snow.”

“Ah,” Takeshi says. “Shit.”

He glances over to Mako, slightly nervous. Sayuki looks at her too, and in a moment, three pairs of eyes are on her. While Sayuki broke the news– Mako’s in charge of the little abode.

Mako has her tongue stuck out as she tends to a mess of ingredients. She lifts her head, blinking in confusion at the sudden prolonged silence.

“Uhh– it’s a pull-out couch? Just stay here,” Mako says. “Like hell you were gonna drive home drunk…”

“I haven’t been drinking,” Nakazato protests.

“But you brought the beer,” Shingo says, laying a hand on Nakazato’s shoulder. “Thanks for that.”

He shrugs Shingo’s off, because he knows it’s a ploy to steal what little prepared food has been set out. Still, Shingo manages to snake an arm around and grab a tempura from the plate, even as it burns his fingers.

“Are you happy?” Nakazato says, watching him huff around the still-hot shrimp. “Do you feel proud of yourself? Sayuki!”

He rounds on Sayuki next, brandishing a pair of battered chopsticks in her general direction.

“You guys are taking forever!” Sayuki exclaims, half-way from the plate. “Come on…”

She turns her big, pleading eyes to Mako. Mako sticks her tongue out at her, unrelenting.

“Why don’t you and Shingo go find the spare blankets?”

Sayuki sputters. She worms her way around Nakazato to drape herself over Mako’s shoulder, one arm squeezing tight around her middle. With how small the kitchen is, she’s smashed up against the fridge, which rumbles balefully at the disturbance.

Mako bows her head in defeat. With slightly trembling fingers, she lifts a hunk of carrot for Sayuki to grab with her teeth.

“Why’d you eat it like that,” Mako says, brows drawn down. 

“You’re the best! We’ll be right back!”

She grabs Shingo’s arm on the way out of the kitchen, laughing somewhat maniacally. The free-flowing alcohol makes them both clumsy, and they trip over a loose shoe in the middle of the floor almost instantly.

—-

The blizzard makes the little apartment colder as the night draws on. The television, long since turned down, lays a flickering haze over the room. Sayuki watches the shadows dance in time to the characters on the screen. An older movie is playing, some kind of drama. She glances around the darkened room next, counting the heads of her friends counter-clockwise. Mako is awake, slumped against the couch. Nakazato is asleep with his head cradled in Shingo’s hands. The latter is trembling violently.

“Come up here,” Sayuki hisses. “I have the blankets.”

Mako and Shingo look at her at the same time, confused. Shingo gestures at Nakazato frantically.

“Drag him here too. We need to make the bed, anyway!”

Shingo groans and shoves up at Nakazato. He barely avoids the arm he gets in return and slaps him in the side.

“Come on, we have to get up,” Shingo grunts.

“But it’s cold…” 

Mako giggles uselessly as she tries to stand up in one fluid motion, but she stumbles, bracing herself on the edge of the coffee table for a moment. She and Sayuki share a look and then they’re both laughing, not sure at what, but definitely at the pair of Night Kids on the floor. It’s only when the light turns on that they stop, bewildered at the change in their environment.

Sayuki rolls onto her side and blinks blearily up at Nakazato poised by the light switch.

“Well? Come on. Or we’re stealing your guys’ bed,” Nakazato says, staring at her.

“Hell, no, you’re not.”

She drops to the floor, dragging the bedding with her. 

Nakazato, probably because of his nap, is now the most alert of all of them. Shingo has slid back onto the floor, sprawled out like a fish, while Sayuki methodically dumps the blankets on top of him. Mako wiggles her eyebrows when they make eye contact.

“Let’s just sleep on the floor,” he sighs.

He comes up from behind and upends a couch cushion onto the ground. It flops, revealing a stained underside that Sayuki just shakes her head about frantically. It doesn’t stop her from dropping onto it, or Shingo from following, curling up against her side. He smiles fondly, just for a moment, at the sight.

Mako follows Nakazato to the far end of the room where the window is. Despite the snow, the lamps outside still give them enough light to see, and it’s not– pretty. Only a couple flashes of blue and red are visible beneath the white. She frowns, bears her weight down on Nakazato’s shoulder.

“You guys might be stuck for a while,” she says. “Hope you didn’t have anything sensitive going on.”

He shrugs. ”Just a couple parts coming, but when do we not?”

“Well, they won’t be coming in this…”

No, they wouldn’t be. Nakazato stares out into the snow for a moment, arms folding across his stomach.

“Now I just feel bad for our cars. Do you even have snow shovels?”

His poor, miserable R32, left to fend for herself in the elements…

Mako grins wryly. “Why don’t we just go to bed? You don’t wanna know the answer.”

—

It’s still snowing by the time they’re all awake – which is closer to one in the afternoon. Someone’s turned the television back to the news. The difference between night and day is not a lot, it seems, as everything blends together. All three of them cluster by the window, making noises of vague discontent. 

“How did we not hear about this…” Nakazato says, despairing.

“None of us watch the news,” Shingo says. “Who watches the news?”

“We had it on last night–”

“My dad told me to,” Sayuki says with a shrug. “Besides…”

Mako chooses that time to reappear from one of the rooms in the back. Her arms are laden with wintry gear that she dumps unceremoniously onto the ground next to the door. She has a hard, determined look in her eye, not unlike the expression she wears before a race. 

“We’re gonna have to clear it now,” Sayuki finishes, gesturing to Mako. “So you boys have fun!”

Mako grabs the back of her shirt. “No! I need you to help me with the old man–”

“Wait, why are we cleaning up the snow? Shouldn’t the apartment do that-?” Nakazato pipes up, looking even more harried.

“We’ve already been here a couple years, man,” Sayuki says. “Just put on the jacket.”

–--

The next hour is nothing but the scrape and bite of plastic shovels against the concrete. A sharp wind blows intermittently, cutting into what exposed skin they have left, and their breaths huff out in long blasts. Shingo casts long, forlorn glances back at his EG6, only stopping when Mako knocks him lightly in the hip.

“Don’t stop now!” She sings, brandishing her shovel.

“This is stupid,” Shingo says blandly. “What–”

He freezes, suddenly locked onto Sayuki creeping through the snow several feet ahead of them. She’s hunched over, telling Mako to be quiet, while cradling what is clearly a snowball in her hands. Just in front of her, an unsuspecting Nakazato. 

WHAM.

Nakazato shouts. It echoes oddly in the snow-covered world and is drowned out by Shingo losing it, laughter devolving into snorts. 

“Sayuki! Shingo– Shingo, do something!”

Nakazato hefts up his shovel and shoves the snow he’d collected at Sayuki. She just throws another snowball at him, and then it’s on, with both of them charging back at Shingo and Mako.

Shingo, wheezing, grabs onto Mako for stability– and she dumps into the snow drift they’d made. He wails, arm outstretched to the sky.

“I thought we were friends!” Shingo cries. “How could you?!”

A second later, another snowball hits Mako, right in the chest. Nakazato hovers manically about a foot away with the stuff spilling out of the top of his jacket. 

Shingo manages to vault up and grab Nakazato by the sleeve, throwing them both to the ground, and the cold means nothing when you’re trying to kill each other–

In the end, they only stop when Mako’s elderly neighbor scolds them for horsing around. But he does invite them into his home, offers them tea, and lets them (or forces them to) use the shower after spectacularly getting covered in the snow outside.

[wheelchair-wizard]

Irish Mythology.

VOL 11.

The Grogoch - The Irish-Scotish Trickster.

Once upon a time, in the rugged hills of Ireland, there dwelled a curious and peculiar creature known as the Grogoch. This little being was neither fully human nor entirely fairy, existing in a liminal space between the two worlds.

Resembling a very small elderly man, the Grogoch was covered in coarse, dense reddish hair or fur. His attire consisted not of garments, but rather an assortment of twigs and dirt collected during his travels. Personal hygiene was not his forte, and there were no records of any female Grogochs—perhaps they were equally elusive or simply nonexistent.

But the Grogoch possessed remarkable abilities. He was impervious to searing heat and freezing cold, a resilience that defied the elements. His home, if one could call it that, might be a hidden cave, a hollow in the landscape, or a cleft in the ancient stones scattered across the northern countryside. These stones, leaning and weathered, were affectionately known as the “Grogochs’ houses.”

The Grogoch was a creature of paradox. While he preferred to remain unseen, he occasionally revealed himself to trusted individuals. Those fortunate enough to catch a glimpse of him described a wizened face, eyes twinkling with secrets, and a mischievous smile. He would scuttle about kitchens, seeking odd jobs to do—helping with planting, harvesting, or domestic chores. His payment? Simple: a jug of cream or a pint of ale.

Yet, like many fairies, the Grogoch harbored a deep fear of the clergy. If a priest or minister graced a household, the Grogoch would vanish, retreating to the shadows. Perhaps he sensed their spiritual authority or simply preferred to avoid their stern gazes.

And so, across the misty moors, the Grogoch continued his clandestine existence. His stinky presence became woven into the fabric of Irish folklore, whispered about in hushed tones by firesides. His work remained uncelebrated, his name rarely uttered aloud. But those who knew of him—the farmers with bountiful crops, the housewives with tidy hearths—secretly thanked the Grogoch for his unseen labor.

And thus, the legend of the Grogoch persisted, a reminder that magic and mystery lingered in the nooks and crannies of the Emerald Isle. So, the next time you find a leaning stone or catch a whiff of something peculiar, pause and wonder: Could it be the Grogoch, still tending to his silent tasks, hidden from our mortal eyes? 

Christy,

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