#and warping things than actually drawing

[arackoondraws]

A drawing of the best winter outfit in the game

Sketch

[pearl-kite]

I was going to also make a ref sheet for Gale for my first art fight, but now that I have that research exception I imagine I'm going to be spending pretty much all of my free time cramming 6 months of capstone into 6 weeks, so

So here, have what I had finished before, because there's currently no reason for me to finish any outfits v_v

[dromaeo-sauridae]

good caption here

[cthulhubrain]

i just realized i fucked up the lil epaulet on nick's jacket in that watercolour painting i'm still struggling with (i might have to detail it in acrylics at this point): the epaulets on his jacket are sewn near the collar, and button on the ends near the shoulders. Aka, the part that is free and not sewn on is the part with the button. Which means the lil wedge flappy bit i put up next to the collar that is just... what I do whenever i draw those things on any jacket/shirt that has them (i own a lot of jackets/shirts that have them and they like to curl up), is on the wrong side.

pause for head-desk.

art is a process ;___;

[urlocaldesertdweller]

im living and BREATHING that stanford would totally, 100% appreciate and love you a trillion times MORE after the whole portal incident

the fact that you were patient alone and loyal makes he love you an unexplainable amount

during his Bill stan arc, it was always putting you second, treating you more of an assistant and a stranger in the house u shared because all of his focus and attention was drawn to the beyond

almost nearly as soon as hes dropped into the portal his own world is shattered, overtime he realizes the many faults of his own actions to his loved ones, especially you

he unfortunately didnt have a picture of you on hand but he would draw you, putting all of his time into recreating every detail of your face and he kept it safe treating it like it was a real picture of you

he do everything in his power to keep the drawing safe and well preserved, he look and kiss it when times got rough with himself

the drawing and the push to seeing you again was what motivated him, to see you not just through a picture or a drawing but back in his pwn world, you in his arms

you are his anchor, you are what motivated him to keep on pushing for an escape of the multiverse, the research was just a plus

some moments would be harder to bare, he cry worried that his dream of coming back to would only be a hopeless dream

and even if him coming back was a success…would you even still love him? he left you off with a bitter and erupt departure, god he has no idea how long he has been gone either depending if the multiverse warped time

what if you moved on?

of course he only wanted the best for you but…he still loves you and way more than he ever could now, his heart would throb and ache thinking about everything pushed against him

a mountain of doubts and fears forced him to think that his chance would be in the negative (thanks to his overthinking and paranoia)

by the time he finally came out of the portal and the one the first things to see was you, he felt so many emotions…

the fact that you still cared to stay after all this time made his heart skip, leap, and do a summersault

he tried his hardest to not run up and lift and hug you from the excitement and need to tell you everything he felt!

your moment would be slow and sweet, its clear from the way you look back you are still hopelessly in love with him, which matches what he feels for you as well

the time he would actually and finally tell you everything, from the picture, his doubts, his fears, you being his motivation.

of course when he would say all of this, it was a bunch of word throw up as he rushed to convince you

the amount of talks between you and him, ranging from sweet to emotional

you can clearly tell, aside from his age and personality you still love, you know what ever happened made him realize what he was doing to himself and your relationship

kisses and hugs are on the daily! he always worries that something is going to rip the two of you away again :(

at times he talk to himself in front of you, saying that this is much nicer than kissing a piece of paper with your face drawn one it… he wink while kissing your knuckles admiring you

he truly cant keep his eyes off you, every second is healing to him, while in the multiverse you were his anchor, back at home? you are his medicine<3

[spitdrunken]

man. still have NOT managed to get my hands on the book of bill because it's sold out literally everywhere over here, but have any of you seen the new 'how not to draw' vid on the disney youtube channel that features bill? it really got me thinking.

notes: fourth wall breaking, obsessive behaviour, unhealthy relationships, implied sexual content, implied mind control

it's heavily implied that the video takes place in a world where gravity falls is supposedly fictional, like our own. bill literally says he's going to break the fourth wall! because i'm a sucker for fourth wall breaks and characters being aware of their own fandom (to an extent), i simply just HAD to run with this scenario.

i just like the idea of 'you' being just a person, some totally, in the large scheme of things, insignificant human walking the earth. you have a tendency for escapism, perhaps. you have always been drawn to stories. you like gravity falls. maybe it was something you watched while you were younger and recently rewatched, or an interest that had never waned. regardless, bill cipher, charismatic and unapologetically evil villain that he is, is one of your favourites.

you doodle him on the edges of paper when you're supposed to be doing anything else. (regardless of anyone's artistic skills, it's not difficult to draw a triangle with a top hat and an eye, is it?) and in this world, you are hardly the only one who likes him, who, perhaps, ships himself with him, who thinks about him a lot. who makes drawings and writes or reads fic. you don't think it's all that unusual.

in a stroke of luck or, depending on how you look at it, the exact opposite, the universe's idea of a cosmic joke, you are the one to catch bill's eye. (it's, after all, much easier to infiltrate the dreams of someone who already has you on their mind. makes sense, doesn't it? a tentative, wavering link had been formed already.) there, in your dreams, he tells you what to say--triangulum, entangulum. meteforis dominus ventium. meteforis venetisarium--and the next morning, you remember it clear as a memory.

you do it. for funsies. why wouldn't you? you don't expect it to actually work. he's a fictional interdimensional demon. why would it work? but much to your surprise, and horror, because surely a screw must've gotten loose for this to be happening, one of your little doodles has life blown to it. as a response to your summon, a tiny little bill cipher darts across your paper, alive but still confined.

(you've given him an in. now, he only has to take the crack you've opened for him, dig his fingers in, and tear it open.)

oh, he'll be funny! he'll be exactly what you thought of him. perhaps he even voices a line of dialogue you swore you wrote down somewhere days prior. yes, he's read whatever you wrote or read, whatever you looked at. he's keeping it himself for now. it's not easy to inflate his ego further, but you might have succeeded. rather than a meatbag, bill first looks upon you with the eye of someone presented with a puppy. fundamentally lesser, but capable of being something with the right training.

he urges you to make a deal with him and the promise he'll act out whatever fantasy you've been cooking up in that brain of yours, even if it's gross and weird and physically impossible!

he'll warp your dimension to make all of it possible!!! it's great!!! don't worry about it!!!!!!

…you don't do it. you don't touch the paper. you've seen the show, and you aren't stupid. bill nearly balks. he'd expected you to be the easiest mark of all time, but he suppose he forgot that even puppies have teeth. that's fine. he can work with this. because even though you have not let him in yet, and you refuse to shake his hand through the paper, you don't seperate yourself from him just yet.

you could oh so easily take the piece of paper he's on and throw it in the nearest shredder. or set him on fire. in you, he recognises lingering curiosity, and the excitement at having stood out, at being chosen, in one way or another. it's not hopeless yet.

he can play a bit of a longer game, then. he's been at this for a long, long time. he'll tolerate the paper he's on being folded into a little square and tucked into your breast pocket, granting him a view of your life and the world you're living in. (all the time, his hunger grows.) your decision not to throw him away ends up being your downfall. spending so much time with bill, letting him joke around with you, complaining about your problems… it takes a while for you to realise that, for a while now, he has not been speaking out loud anymore, but instead through your mind.

a connection that cannot be cut has been formed in between two of you.

on bill's part, he had thorougly expected to be bored. but perhaps it's your genuine interest in him, not the things he's offering, which he does not often see. (he's been down this road before. won't end well. but...) the sheer mundanity of your life that makes him wish he could twist and turn it all around. or just a random alignment of the stars. the heart doesn't always follow logic. in this scenario, at some point, bill realises that he has become genuinely invested in you, too. and at that point, you'll never manage to slip away. he's already dug in his heels in your mind far enough. you had no adequate protection.

he still wants to take over your world. he still wants to escape the discomforting flatness of the paper you've summoned him in. but, perhaps, you two could share that meatsack of a body of yours, before things get that far.

[vampiricgf]

— v. lycaon | BRAND NEW CHERRY FLAVOR

warnings : fem reader, ignore that we don't know his age exactly im guessing, ruts, knotting for the first time, rina is mentioned but only because she's meddling, fingering, masturbation, begging, reader is smaller than him, reader has a tramp stamp, virgin lycaon, cervix fucking, biting/marking, blood/blood licking, creampie, crying, sorry if I missed anything

wc : 2.5k+

this is so long im sorry im too obsessed with the idea of him being a virgin lmao >.< also sorry if there's mistakes it's not edited so

He thought upon hiring you on with Victoria Housekeeping things would largely remain the same, the only difference being having one more person with whom to split the existing workload of clientele contracts and commissions. An easy choice thinking of himself and Rina, the primary adults within the company.

It had been difficult as of late, he could acknowledge that, balancing taking on the bulk of the work while the companies other two employees attended their schooling and other engagements that typically keep younger people occupied. And truly he didn't mind it, it was the duty of those older to pick up the slack, allow youth it's time to blossom and explore.

That was not the issue, though. The issue was you.

Not your work performance, no that was impeccable. You had impressed him enough during your interviews but in practical work you went even beyond that, showing an exemplary aptitude for even the most banal tasks. The picture of a perfectly competent maid and (occasional) hollow raider. Even able to both meet and exceed his own impossibly high standards per all the glowing reviews he receives from clients, truly you were a fantastic addition to the company.

The problem arose months ago, when you two had been tasked with a more unconventional commission involving a hollow. Of course danger was always ever present in those ether soaked spaces, both from the impending malformed creatures that called them home and from the levels of ether itself. The risk of warping and twisting the body into a cruel mockery of what once was, imbibing it with sickness.

It was the first time you'd actually worked side by side, he'd asked you to come with him as a sort of test not because he thought he really needed the backup. See how you'd been progressing, what you were like on the job, that sort of thing. A completely normal request for a boss to make, all things considered.

What had not been normal was allowing himself to be caught on the back foot, surprised. You were... painfully distracting to him. A major shortcoming on his part, it was nothing you were doing overtly to draw his attention in such a laser focused way it just seemed like he had a bizarre inclination to keep his attention on you. The way you walked, that delicious sway of your hips. That thing you did when you were thinking, running your thumb across your bottom lip. The smell of shampoo clinging to your hair and wafting over him every time you so much as turned your head. Sugary, faintly floral. Horribly distracting.

Giving some stray hati a prime opportunity to pounce. Neither of you had noticed them creeping up on your perimeter, stalking you both as you picked through the skeletons of abandoned, crumbling homes and businesses. You too busy nervously chattering away and him too busy thinking about how much he enjoyed the sound of your voice.

One moment there had been nothing and in another there was everything happening all at once. Their predatory howls, the initiation of combat. The ring of your weapon as it hit against their stone manes, the crunch of his ice against newly exposed flesh. His eyes frantically trying to keep you in his line of sight at all times, take advantage of the path you left in your wake to give the finishing blow, giving yet another perfect opening for one of the creatures to tackle him full force, the brute strength of it slamming against his side and laying him out shamefully against cracked concrete, knocking the air from his lungs in a painful squeeze.

But there you had been, like some kind of avenging angel from artworks of the old civilization. Your features were highlighted by the look of sheer anger as you mercilessly dug the weapon in your hands into the creatures back, ripping away its advantage and successfully dispatching it within seconds. He could feel how wide his own eyes were, but felt too much acute discomfort to bother trying to mask his own awe.

Not since he was a pup had he needed rescuing.

Not since he was once so pathetically, terribly young had he felt so immediately endeared to someone else.

You were on your knees beside him, fussing over him, eyes sweeping around for any signs of injury or blood. He knew there was none, would have smelled it immediately, but nevertheless he allowed himself to enjoy your ministrations. The way your hands so carefully hovered over him, trying to be mindful of thiren preferences for touch while also trying to be caring, attentive. It was sickeningly sweet of you, made him swear for a second he could taste it in the air, feel granuals of sugar grinding within his teeth. He wondered if your lips tasted even half as sweetly.

"Are you hurt anywhere, should we leave the hollow? An emergency exit is understandable, right? If you're hurt?" Your eyes met him, practically welling over with concern.

He had wanted to hold your face in his hands, soothe you. Almost immediately he'd been gripped by the horror of his own impropriety.

Clearing his throat he took the hand you offered as leverage to get back on his feet, taking note of your warmth, the surprisingly strong grip of your fingers, before you withdrew. Soft, yet capable. Beautiful.

"There's no need. We can continue on with the commission." It took a monstrous effort to keep his voice neutral, act as if nothing of note was running rampant inside his head.

From the on the feelings he had towards you only grew, like a beast growing fat off plentiful prey. Every glance from you, every accidental touch of hands, every moment of conspiratorial laughter shared between you at something silly one of the others had done. Months and months of feeling his heart rate grow increasingly erratic every time your lovely voice would sound out in the mornings, always a perfectly cheerful greeting towards him and the others before you began your work.

And so here he is, mid rut and miserable. Thrusting into his own hand, as he's done so many times before, feeling the sweltering heat in his bedroom and bubbling frustration in his head at the feeling of tangled sheets and the distinct lack of any partner to be thrusting up into.

He'd called into work, voice twinged with embarrassment because how on earth had he forgotten about his incoming rut? Well, he knew how. Because you consumed almost every moment of his waking inner thoughts, distracted him to such an insane degree he failed to fill his suppressant prescription in time. Thankfully Rina hadn't needed details, always too clever by half, but it didn't stop him from feeling intense shame rolling through him even just knowing someone else knew what exactly was going on with him.

Sickness, uh huh. Try so horny and hard he could crack a brick wall in half. The thought made him feel so erratic he couldn't help but grab a nearby pillow, pressing it to his face, feeling his now neglected cock throbbing as he bit the soft down surface so hard he could feel his teeth punching right through the material.

You, you, you, you, you.

All he wants is to lap at what he's sure is the sweetest taste in the world nestled between your legs, feel your body stretching and accommodating his size, tell you how he's going to give you his knot and watch your pretty eyes glaze over and your breasts bounce in time with his thrusts, dig his teeth into your neck, your chest, make you squeal and squirm so he can pin you down-

A few distant, tentative raps against wood.

Did he imagine that?

Tap, tap, tap.

No, no he didn't. Who would be knocking in the middle of the day? Oh god, what if it was a neglected client that had tracked down his address? Someone angry one of the girls had forgotten or completely ignored their commission? His breathing was strained, nearly wheezing as he rushed to make himself somewhat presentable, cringing as he struggled to slide trousers over his impossibly obvious erection. No time to brush down his severely disarrayed fur. How humiliating.

As he scrambles for the front door, flinging it open so hard it nearly crashes against the wall, he freezes.

Why the hell are you here? How do you even know where he lives?

Your eyes go impossibly wide as you take him in, the awkward silence ballooning in the space between you and he's acutely aware of how crazed he must look as his claws dig into the metal of the door handle.

"I'm... I'm sorry for dropping in it's just that- well, Miss Rina told me you were sick and I kind of... begged for your address so I could come check on you, I'm sorry-"

You cut yourself off from rambling, picking at your nails as your eyes flit around nervously.

Of course Rina would give you his address, mischievous as she is. She knew exactly what was going on with his little juvenile crush, his rut. Calling in probably gave her the idea.

But all that was far from his most pressing concern at the moment. You couldn't be here, absolutely not. He cleared his throat, trying to ignore that familiar shampoo scent, trying to ignore the way you look especially lovely, how easy it would be to yank you inside and just-

"I appreciate your concern, but I'll be perfectly fine. I just need to rest." Blunt enough to make him feel bad for rejecting your kindness but the boundary needs to be in place before he does something highly inappropriate. You're coworkers, not casual friends. Every thought he has about you is crossing a line.

A snide inner voice comes out of the blue and he can't focus on what you're saying, too consumed by shame.

As if you'd even know what to do with her anyway.

It must show on his face, although you misunderstand it, because you give him a look of naked concern and he's snapped back into focus. "Do you need me to call a doctor for you? I have my car, I can take you to White Waves if you need to go Lycaon it's no problem-"

"No, no it's nothing that serious." He's losing control of the situation, needs to get you out of here.

"Well, at least let me make you tea or something to eat, please. You look like you haven't eaten all day." Your worried tone makes his pathetic resolve crumble easily, like it was made of sand.

Against his better judgement he relents, awkwardly stepping to the side to let you in the door and a part of him preens at the way your scent immediately compliments his own, mingling in the space as if you inherently belong there. If he had the energy to feel it he'd be embarrassed about the state of his apartment, in disarray as it is. But you don't pay any attention, immediately finding your way to his kitchen and digging through his cabinets like you've done it a thousand times.

Watching you makes him even harder, throbbing and aching so acutely in his pants that his vision momentarily goes fuzzy at the edges. You look so domestic, so relaxed. A bolt of jealousy fires off in his brain, white hot, at the fact that numerous clients have gotten to see you in a similar way before him. Your casual clothes aren't helping him keep control of himself either.

Jeans that accentuate the swell of your ass, the shape of your hips. A tank top that's ridden up slightly, exposing a bit of your stomach as you stretch up to reach the higher spots in a cabinet. He wants to run his tongue over your belly, lick his way up to your chest, leave little love bites across your throat. As you turn to the counter beside the stove he catches a glimpse of a tattoo on your lower back and his jaw flexes so tightly he's shocked his teeth don't shatter in his mouth. He never knew you had one, but it certainly suits you. He wants to know if you have any more, in any hidden places.

"You should lay down, I can bring this to you when its finished," you say it so gently but he can't bring himself to move away, to risk missing a single glimpse of you.

He says nothing and you don't try to press him, to your credit. But when you can't quite reach the top of another cabinet, where hes kept tea tucked away neatly, his instincts to help take over before he can register that his body has moved beside you, hand going over top of yours to easily grab the box. But the way your forearms brush on the way back down makes him drop the box, a shockingly loud clatter that causes a dozen deep fissures to spread in his mind.

He's got ahold of your wrist before you can react, keeping you so physically close to himself that if he took a half step forward you'd be chest to chest. He can smell sugar on your breath, see the red twinge on your tongue from candy you must've had on the way over.

It doesn't even register that his eyes are closed, that your mouth is on his, that his tongue is lapping up the secondhand taste of cherries as it slides across yours and your fingers grasp the rumpled fabric of his shirt. It's like a moment suspended in cut crystal, refracted in a thousand different ways to the outside observer, a million different angles of this one frozen scene, and he wants to hold it forever in his hands.

Hold you forever.

But you pull away and his first instinct is to follow after you, body bending even further to chase your lips as you struggle to catch your breath. Your bodies remain impossibly close as you speak, his eyes never leaving your lips, memorizing the curve of them.

"I don't- I didn't mean-" you're struggling and he can't bear it, can't bear the thought that this one beautiful moment is tainted by the nature of your overall relationship as employees, even worse is that he truly doesn't care. It should scandalize him, shame him in some way, but it doesn't. That fact feels extremely far removed from his current reality and the feeling of even more blood rushing to his lower body.

He cuts you off bluntly. "How much do you know about beast thirens?"

You gape, having been cut off with what is to your view an extremely out of place question but he's hoping you'll follow the thread. "What?"

"How much do you know? Because Rina wasn't exactly... truthful with you." His eyes skirt away from your face but hes committed to telling you what's going on. "I'm not ill, not in the way you're thinking. I'm, well, going through what's called a rut." There's a heavy pause. "The need to... mate."

He cringes internally on the final word, finally meeting your eyes and watching you put it all together. Your own eyes are adorably wide, but you don't pull away from him and that takes him by surprise. He'd figured the second you knew you'd be in a rush to leave, probably drop a resignation call to Victoria Housekeeping on your way home.

But you don't do any of those things, merely taking it in and continuing to let your eyes travel over his unkempt appearance and he's even more aware, if that's possible, of how needy he feels. Any longer without relief and he just might need to take himself to White Waves Hospital. But that's not your problem.

"I mean... That's just a natural thing for you, right? It's not like you're some perv," you laugh nervously, "and maybe- maybe it wouldn't be so bad if you had a little... help?"

His brain feels like a damaged, glitching bangboo. Are you seriously offering this?

"What I'm trying to say is that I- I like you, and I don't care that we kissed. Well, I care but I'm not upset by it. And I'm not upset that you're, like this right now," you gesture with your chin, "and if you need someone then... I can help you with it. If you want." You finish in a rush, clearly embarrassed and something rears its head deep in his stomach.

There's no more room for coherent though as he finds your lips again, nipping at the bottom one before taking advantage of your little gasp to slide his tongue back in your mouth. He turns you slightly, so your back meets the edge of the countertop with his hands massaging at your hips, groping obscenely at your ass. The barrier of your clothes is frustrating, making him growl low in his throat before he's deftly unbuttoning and unzipping them, fingers trembling at you help push them and your underwear down to puddle at your ankles.

You squeal as he lifts you easily to set you atop the counter spreading your legs in his firm grip while your own fingers curl around the marble edge of the counter, gasping as he kisses and sucks against the flesh of your inner thighs as he makes his way towards your pussy. He can smell how aroused you are and it spurs his instincts on, despite the sliver of anxiety working against his lust.

He's marveling at you, sliding two fingers through your wetness, spreading you to see the way you glisten with the slick liquid and he can feel your eyes on him.

"I've, I'm sorry, I've just never been with anyone." The last half of the sentence is heavy on his tongue, one crimson eye shyly avoiding your own before you reach down to cup his face in one hand.

The small smile on your face is sweet, purely gentle and it eases the nerves gnawing at his stomach.

"Never?" He shakes his head and you tilt your head to the side, "Then just watch for a second."

And it's mesmerizing, the way your fingers delicately dip down into your own wetness, dragging up to your clit before your fingers start slowly circling. He watches intently, watching the way your pace slowly builds, your hips twitching ever so slightly at the stimulation before you move back down and slide those two fingers inside yourself.

And the sight is like something religious to him, totally enraptured at the way your pussy swallows the two digits, the way your head tips back and your lips part in a silent sigh. It's not long before the soft squelching sound of your fingers scissoring against your walls reaches his ears, making them flick as he zeros in on it.

With a breathy laugh you pull your hand away but before it gets out of reach he grabs it, bringing your soaked fingers to his mouth before locking eyes with you, tongue tasting every bit of yourself that lingers against the skin.

He thinks your demonstration was a good enough starting point, no longer too nervous as his tongue starts licking long stripes up your pussy and you let out a high pitched sound at the contact. It makes him eager to please, focusing all his attention on licking and sucking at your clit while his fingers find your entrance.

The stretch of you is better than anything his imagination could've conjured up, feeling your walls part around his digits as he gives a few experimental curls and strokes. He can hear you nearly choking on your own noises above him and it sends satisfaction oozing through his body, washing over him like thick drops of syrup.

But he's impatient, whining against your cunt and you seem to know what he needs without him even voicing it. Just another reason to be so enamored with you.

You drag him up to stand, hands urging him to strip and he does so gladly, nearly jumping out of his own skin he's so flush with excitement at having you soaking wet and ready to take him, right there in the middle of his kitchen.

It makes his head spin as his cock springs free, groaning as he feels the air against his overly sensitive girth. Your mouth opens slightly as you take in the sight of him and that earlier shyness returns with a vengeance, but before he can speak your hand wraps around him, barely able to grasp all of him. The surge of pride is something he's entirely unfamiliar with but he relishes in it all the same, desperately wants to please you.

"Just try to start slow, okay?" You say, breath hitching in your throat as you guide the head of his cock through your folds before positioning him at your entrance.

And he takes the lead flawlessly, one hand against the counter to anchor himself and the other gripping your thighs, kneading the soft flesh between his fingers as he pushes in. It's torturous, the howling need to just slam right into you as he feels his head sitting heavy and thick inside you, your breathing already ragged and your eyes fluttering closed.

But he knows this requires patience, for the moment. The last thing he wants to do is hurt you, hurt the trust you've placed in him, so his hips move barely an inch at a time and the feeling of your body reshaping itself around his cock is one hundred times more incredible than just his fingers.

What a pathetic comparison his hand ever was, the real thing will never be beaten out. Your whimpers increase in frequency as the head of him kisses your cervix, his swollen knot nestled tightly between his own body and your slick pussy. As he looks down at your connected bodies he can't help but wonder if you'll even have the ability to take it, but he doesn't get to give it much more thought because you start slowly wiggling your hips, encouraging him to move.

And once again he follows your lead like it was the only role he was meant for, pulling out with agonizing gentleness before pushing himself back inside you and he can't help the way his mouth drops open, the way his eyes screw shut. Does it feel like this for everyone, like they've died on the spot and been given an express ticket to heaven?

He doesn't have the wherewithall to feel any embarrassment at the way he's panting, nearly drooling on you, the way he's keening and growling like some fledgling but you don't seem to mind it. Not with your fingers digging into his fur, your legs loosely locked around his hips, the way you say his name in a half gasp.

His fingers slide down between your bodies as you pull him closer, into a heated kiss made of teeth clacking together and tongues pushing against one another. He swallows your every noise as he starts playing with your clit, just the way he watched you do it earlier. Rubbing sticky little hearts against it and nipping at your lips as your legs jerking, the muscles straining and flexing beneath the skin.

His canines scrape a path from your mouth to your jaw to your throat as his hips pick up speed, jostling your body with so much force your cries take on a higher pitch and your fingers pull at his fur sharply, only adding to the overall sensory delight. He tests your tolerance with his teeth, shallow bites in between sucking on the skin of your throat, groaning as he feels your hand slide up to cup the back of his head, feels the flesh pull taut as you let your head tilt even further to the side.

Giving him permission. His mind is swimming through a black sea of pure instinct, running his tongue over the flesh in silent apology for the pain you'll experience but he won't pass up the opportunity. You're allowing him to indulge, playing to his base instincts. How could he not gobble up the bait? And with that loose thought his canines dig into you, the fine points of them puncturing the skin and a trickle of iron washes over his tongue.

You cry out, pussy immediately squeezing him in a stranglehold at the same time your fingers yank at his scruff but it's not to stop him, it's like the string of a bow being pulled all the way back. Your toes curl in midair, practically sobbing as your hips buck wildly and he thinks this must be it, this must be what a human is like when they cum.

Later he'll examine the fact that you came at exactly the moment he inflicted that little bit of pain on you but for now he's lost in it, hips moving in no particular rhythm anymore as he fucks you through your orgasm, fuck you through the impossible tightness of your cunt, and he can feel it like a second heartbeat fluttering in between your legs as his tongue slides against the blood threatening to drip down to your breast.

And all too soon he feels his balls tightening up, his knot throbbing in time with the pulsing of your cunt and his movements are cruel now, all fueled by pure instinct as he grinds and fucks into you with shameless desperation. His knot needs to be inside you before he cums, he can't spill anywhere but inside you.

And his clumsy, less than elegant method works when he feels that tight ring of muscle at your entrance stretch to its limits and the almost too snug pop of all of himself finally sliding inside. You hiccup on a particularly loud sob as it does, legs snapping against his hips with such finality he doesn't move against your hold, remains standing as his body shakes, his cock twitching as sticky spurts of cum flood your pussy, whining at the way your walls practically suck it all deeper inside, milking him so much it's overwhelming.

It goes on for so much longer than he ever thought possible, the sheer amount of cum making him feel dizzy, like he's lost blood and is teetering on the edge of passing out. But he can't focus on the feeling, instead guiltily kissing every part of your face he can, trying to wipe away the saltwater tracks and then cradling your head against his chest as you bury your face in his fur, feeling the way you're trying to even out your breathing.

You speak before he can, his tongue like a wad of wet cotton in his mouth.

"How- how long are we stuck together?" You manage to force the words out unsteadily, pulling back to meet his gaze before nuzzling your face against his jaw.

His heads still spinning as he answers. "I don't really know," he breathes in harshly, "I'm sorry if its uncomfortable."

He can feel you shake your head. "It's not," your voice becomes shy, still thick with the aftermath of your orgasm, "I like the feeling of you inside me."

He can't help the dopey smile that crosses his face, fingers stroking down your back as he ignores the way his legs shake, the way his knot pulses. When you're no longer tied together he'll need to lay down before he collapses on the spot.

Already that thought invites visions of clutching you to his chest while you straddle his hips, cock thrusting in and out of you at a volatile pace all over again. He'll make it up to you once the fog of lust is lifted, but you most likely won't be leaving this apartment in the coming days.

He'll have to remember to call in for you tomorrow, sure to hear Rinas smug voice on the other end of the line.

[the-s1lly-corner]

CRP characters crushing on the reader 2/2

Placeholder opening here, check part 1 for the other characters! i dont usually write for zalgo because my take on him is... so... yeah... and hard to write for him, but the idea of this intangible godlike entity that can warp realities falling for someone is horrifying

Characters: Jane, Jeff, Ticci Toby, Nina, Bloody Painter, Zalgo

Notes: reader is GN but post mainly focuses on the canon characters, admin uses any pronouns for nina so if you see the pronouns swapping that's why!, heavy hcs for Zalgo and his part isnt really open for "it gets better and you guys get together" no his part is just... horrifying

CWs: zalgo is zalgo; ie non human entity does not follow human morals and is kind of... toxic and horrifying

JANE

I need you guys to bare with me because this blog has always been hc/au heavy with how I write characters but between all the main crps, Jane is probably the most likely to just.. be a normal person 90% of the time, so the chances of you and her meeting during a normal day is pretty high. She's closed off so you don't even notice that there's feelings developing on her end. If there is a difference it's just her being slightly more affectionate and open to you. She becomes even more protective of you, can you blame her? You've heard of the rumors about her family... She doesn't deny her feelings if you ask her, though, so it's a clean confession when the time comes instead of it just being spilled or forced out.

JEFF

He's so full of himself that he approaches you without thinking anything through because he's so confident that you're going to just fall for him. Makes a lot of jokes with you, some darker than others. Flirts with you up front because once more, he's so confident that you're into him that he doesn't take a moment to consider that you would reject him. Probably takes rejection the worst, at least out of the characters on this list. And that's on being on the run since your mid teen years, he didn't interact with many people because of that. "Oh you dig me" as you slap his arm because he said something dumb.

TICCI TOBY

Very similar to the other proxies, watches you from afar but he decides to interact with you sooner than the other two. He's wary, because he doesn't want to humiliate himself or screw anything up but he's so so so desperate to meet someone new who's in his age range so he's doing his best to appeal to you. Sometimes slips up because he's trying too hard. He can pester you and get on your nerves, but he doesn't mean anything wrong by it... usually.. You outright ask him if he has a crush on you and you can see him internally scrambling for something to say. It's actually a little sweet. Probably the most normal out of them all asides Jane, at least by Creepypasta standards.

NINA

Oh she is so upfront about her feelings for you! Makes you small trinkets and keepsakes with random stuff she finds. Very quick to approach you as well and make a friendship. Very chill if you don't end up returning their feelings, and more than happy to keep up a friendship with you if you want that. A yapper, too, so they have a habit of keeping you by keeping a conversation up and alive longer than others would. Custom kandi for you as well, with your favorite colors and some stuff they know you like! As an aside, Nina is a "cringe fandom enjoyer", so you guys can get into the same things and be cringe and free together! Not related to this post but have it as a bonus!

BLOODY PAINTER

He finds himself drawing you more than he draws his other subjects, and honestly its a little frustrating. You start finding some of his papers laying around. He approaches you so he can try to get even more accurate with his art, having the real thing as a reference is much better than relying off of memories of you wandering around town. Once the initial tenseness dies down, you might be able to get a few words out of him while he's drawing. "Muse of an artist" trope, a lot of the things he makes are dedicated to you in one way or another. His art is the only real tip that there's something going on, because otherwise he's good about swallowing and hiding his emotions.

ZALGO

Bonus character, Zalgo would literally alter the universe if he could to ensure that you're there and his. He can manipulate media, and create creatures.. I mean in my au he's literally the reason half the creepypastas exist... I WAS going to make a joke that he makes a stand in to act for him, but he's so into you that he can't stand the idea of someone else being with you... doesnt matter if he was living vicariously through it. Genuine psychological horror elements here with him warping the world around you in an attempt to get your attention and to get you to come to him. Technical cosmic / otherworldly horror (?) because he's something that transcends just about everything in universe. Simultaneously everywhere at anytime all the time, there is no real way to get away from him. Horrifying stuff.

[ranticore]

someone asked me ages ago for more anatomical drawings of harpies so i deliver. the feathers are laid out in tracts and can hide a lot of detail under the contours, and the fact that the body is usually smaller than people think (and much lighter). The neck usually blends in pretty well with the body, unless the feathers are raised or the crop is full.

they do not have hands whatsoever, all manipulation of objects is done by the feet and mouth. even with their lack of hands they do not at all suffer a lack of dexterity. in the kosa region the eagle harpy flock is famous primarily for its weaving culture - weaving is so integral to their society, in fact, that they view the world itself as nothing more than a large and complex tapestry, woven by some unknown artist. this is evident in how they orient themselves in the air, referring to a tailwind as 'warp', while a crosswind is 'weft'.

these aren't like actual muscle groups or anything it's more of a drawing guide to show which areas have mass & define the form

the thing that gets me a lot about drawing birds & birdlike guys is how high up the leg can articulate, in real birds it's like pretty much in their armpit. harpies have a more humanlike torso which means more space between the rib cage and the hips, and more articulation of the spine in this area as well (though i realise now that i didn't actually draw that in any of those poses). it also means they have a more defined belly area below the pectorals/ribcage.

a king is pictured here but there's no real difference under the feathers between a king and a regular harpy, aside from kings being generally more robust and more heavily built (by harpy standards).

harpies are the descendants of humans who were cursed to be birds thousands of years ago. those humans, who aided the apocalypse, were primarily messengers and chanters, assistants of the wizards who ended the world. their relatively unmonstrous cursed form reflects their general lack of importance to the crime - petty criminals, accessories, not perpetrators. their behaviour is strongly informed by the birds they were blended with to the point where there is very little about them that's even remotely human and their cultures and societies are almost wholly birdlike.

[heliads]

first of all i just wanted to say that i’m actually in love with your writing and i can’t wait to read more from you!! anyway i was thinking of some good ol’ peter hayes x fem!reader where they were both in candor together and hated each others GUTS, but then when they transferred to dauntless, peter starts developing feelings for reader so he follows her around like some puppy but she’s still on the peter-hate-train. maybe also like he starts talking to some other female dauntless initiate and stops giving reader as much attention and she finally realizes that she likes him

(this is such a long request i’m so sorry)

thank you so much!!

'Bad Liars' - peter hayes

masterlist

Starting out life on your own terms. A fresh page, a blank slate. This is why you decided to switch factions in your Choosing Ceremony, why you agreed to never see your family again except by something as meager as coincidence. Friends, neighbors, blood relations, all left behind with one swipe of a knife against your palm. It’s worth it, though. Running through the streets of your city like your world is on fire, you’re free for the first time in your memory. It’s just you in this new, grand place they call Dauntless.

Well, you and Peter Hayes.

Of all the people to come here with you, of course your fellow transfer from Candor would be Peter. Bold, callous Peter. Peter, who’s had it out for you since you were kids. No child should know that much bitter hatred, but the two of you have been arch rivals since you were small. You’d be lying if you said that leaving him behind didn’t factor into your decision to transfer from Candor to Dauntless even a little bit, but yet here he is anyway. Turns out you couldn’t run that far from him after all.

To you, it makes perfect sense that if Peter Hayes had to go anywhere, he would go to Dauntless. All throughout his time at Candor, for as long as you can remember Peter, he had been crafting his words to inflict as much misery as possible. In the eyes of the faction leaders, anything he said was fair game so long as he was telling the truth, and Peter did just that. He told his truth, which was precisely like reality except warped to cause as much hurt as he dared. 

Peter’s words were honed to a knife’s sharpness, easier for drawing blood than the syringes of your faction’s truth serum. Of course he would go here, where bullets are no longer how he shapes his syllables to spike into your throat but a real thing. Why bother with figurative pain if you can produce the genuine article?

The two of you had ended up here for precisely opposite reasons. Peter wanted to hurt, you wanted to fight back. Candor is full of self-righteous bullies who believe they’re doing the right thing by being uncommonly cruel to anyone they pass. In Dauntless, everyone is finally on a level playing field. If someone insults you, you fight them, and no amount of callous words can save you then. Talk is nothing if you can’t back it up with prowess. For someone who had to swallow plenty of poison back in Candor, Dauntless is like a holiday.

However, the one thing that makes your paradise fall short is the fact that Peter decided to come here with you. He had made his decision independently of you, of course, but you’re still infuriated about the whole affair. This was supposed to be your fresh start, your one chance to escape your past and become something no one expected of you. That’s the whole point of the Choosing Ceremony, isn’t it? To kill off the old you and transform into the best version of yourself?

That had been your plan, at least, and then Peter had made his choice. You wouldn’t go anywhere but Dauntless even if your entire faction transferred over here, but it did complicate things. You had hoped that you and Peter would always end up on opposite sides of the room, then opposite ends of the faction, and never come in contact again, but as per usual, it looks like Peter isn’t much inclined to follow your whims.

From the first day alone, you knew he was going to be trouble. You were one of the first to jump, fresh off the exhilaration of the free fall plunge from the top of the roof, and reeling in the lingering aftereffects of your largest adrenaline rush to date while waiting for the jumpers to take their turns off the edge. The room was crowded, more so with each new jumper to make their move, yet somehow in all that chaos, Peter managed to find you. It didn’t bode well for the remainder of initiation, to say the least.

You had been hoping that the two of you could exchange silent, wary eye contact and then move on, your past shattered and gone for good, but instead Peter wove his way through the throngs of people and came to a stop by your side.

“Look who we have here,” he says, drawing the words out, “Y/N L/N. I never thought you’d have the guts to come here.”

“And I always thought you’d be too much of a coward to leave Candor,” you reply. “Looks like we were both wrong.”

Peter’s eyes widen and he chuckles, evidently not expecting your retort. “Careful, L/N. Didn’t know you had such a sharp tongue.”

“You’ve known me for years,” you say, eyeing him coldly. “If you didn’t know that, you’re about to be very surprised indeed. I hope you didn’t set your hopes on making first place in initiation, Hayes, or you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”

Up ahead, one of the initiation leaders is calling for the trainees to fall in after him. You take this opportunity to breeze past Peter, who’s standing there and staring openly, mouth agape. You’ve put up with his bullshit for many years now, always taking it silently in fear of jeopardizing your position in your faction, but no longer. You’re on even footing again for the first time in a very long time, and you have absolutely no intention of ever caving to Peter Hayes again.

For Peter, it seems, your decision is a very rude awakening. You immediately fling yourself into the intricacies of fighting and running and shooting, which causes you to rise quickly through the ranks of initiates, much to Peter’s chagrin. Although he’ll tell anyone in earshot that he’s only letting you do so well because he thinks it’s funny to watch you struggle, you can see the panic in Peter’s eyes when you crush one fight after another. You meant what you said, after all. It’s first place or nothing, and you don’t intend on settling for anything where Peter’s concerned.

Your rivalry becomes just as well known among your new friends in Dauntless as it was back in Candor. Hardly a day goes by without you and Peter getting in each other’s way, whether it be slamming each other into the ground during a fighting match in the ring or running yourselves ragged in an attempt to be faster, stronger, better. It’s like you can’t get away from him. 

Everywhere you go, Peter is there too. Staying late after initiation to get some more practice with throwing knives, he just so happens to choose the target right beside you. Walking over to the training gym in the middle of the night because you can’t sleep and might as well use the empty hours to improve, Peter seems to have the same bright idea to practice with the punching bags even despite the midnight hour. You don’t like the fact that Peter seems to have such a good knack for telling when you’re awake or asleep, you have half a mind that he might get frustrated of the close competition and take you out while you were sleeping, but he’s never gone that far.

Your friends seem to have a different view of the whole affair. Every time you complain to them about Peter never letting you have a moment’s peace, Tris and Christina, your closest friends in initiation, just exchange knowing looks and begin to tease you. They seem convinced that Peter doesn’t hate you but actually harbors a crush, which is beyond you. There’s no earthly way that Peter likes you. The two of you have despised each other since before you could talk. The whole idea is absurd.

Still, if you were nothing more than an unknowing bystander, you supposed you could see how the situation might be misconstrued. A lifetime of truth-telling in you has to admit that maybe it is a little suspicious that you and Peter can’t seem to go an hour or two without running into each other, that Peter is both your greatest threat and the object of your every waking thought. It’s just because you want to beat him so badly, of course. Of course. If it weren’t, though. If you were thinking of him not because of hatred but for something more–

You wouldn’t. You would never be so foolish. This is how Peter wins, by twisting his way inside your mind until you’re second-guessing every single thing he does, and you’d die before you let him win. If he’s willing to play the game, though, you’ll do anything to beat him at his own technique, so you up the ante and repeat it right back to him. 

Sarcastic comments slip from your tongue whenever you see him. When Four takes the initiates out on guided runs, you make sure you’re jogging right by Peter the whole time, your pace steadily increasing until both of you end each race at a sprint. The rest of the trainees have learned to leave two targets side by side for you two whenever it’s time for sharpshooting practice, and heaven help the hapless initiate who asks one of you to spar as if the other wasn’t standing right there, guarding their territory.

It doesn’t mean anything, though. You still hate Peter to the ends of the earth, and everyone around you had better know it, too. You despise him as much as it’s physically possible for a human being to hate anyone, but then he starts spending a lot of time with someone else, and suddenly the hatred is far harder to come by than it ever was, and you’re not sure what to do with yourself at all.

He’s spending time with another girl. Which isn’t bad, of course. He’s got friends. You do too. But. One time at dinner, you heard Tris saying that he’s looking at the girl the same way he used to look at you, and she wasn’t talking about hate, and you cannot tell whether you were supposed to deny that he’d ever done anything but hate you or be furious at this new girl for stealing his attention away from you, so you didn’t answer at all. You didn’t sleep a wink that night, and gave up a few hours in to try and train some more. He didn’t follow. He always follows. Not this time, though, and when you came back, he was quietly whispering with the other girl. Hatching sinister plans, no doubt, or planning to stab someone in the back. He didn’t even look at you when he came in. It was like he didn’t even care.

You feel sick to your stomach. You intentionally ask other trainees to spar in the ring– look, Peter isn’t the only one capable of moving on– but it’s like he doesn’t even notice. You want to slam your hands against his chest and shout in his face, do anything to make him look at you, but instead you stay sullen and quiet and pretend like nothing has changed even though everything, everything, has.

It hits you, about two weeks later, what the problem is. Like a lightning strike in the dark of night, all of a sudden you know, a knowledge that had been blank and absent before but totally unavoidable now. You like Peter. Hell, you might even love him, if you gave him that chance in your heart. Peter might have liked you, but you brushed him off for so long that he moved on.

It hurts like a jagged hole in your heart. Someone has reached inside and broken your ribs to claw this feeling out from where you’ve so cleverly hidden it, and there’s no disguising the horror of the wound now. You couldn’t escape it if you tried.

You found out this truth about yourself in the middle of a Dauntless party, and it kills your mood completely. You can’t stand the loud music or flashing lights anymore, so you put down your half-empty cup on one of the debris-strewn surfaces and make your way out. No one notices you leave. You’re a ghost on the outskirts of a celebration of life, and there is nothing here for you anymore.

You wander until you end up on the bridge overlooking the pit near the center of the Dauntless complex. You stand as close to the edge as you can, hands gripping the flimsy railing until you’re not sure your fingers could peel away from the rusting metal if you tried. If you’d felt any buzz from the party at all, you’ve sobered up by now. You have no idea how long you’ve been standing here, skin chilled by the drafts of the pit, and then a voice sounds from behind you, and you’re abruptly dragged back to reality once more.

“I thought you’d be back in there with the rest,” Peter says, coming to a stop beside you.

You don’t dare to look at him, opting instead to keep your eyes firmly trained on the drop over the edge of the pit. “I could say the same thing about you.”

Peter sounded genuinely curious when he asked, but your tone is harsher, colder. You still haven’t forgiven him for moving on just when you realized that you liked him, and it’s leaching into your voice. Peter chuckles even still. “No, not me. The best part just left.”

You risk a glance his way, and to your surprise, he’s looking at you. “Are you being honest with me, Peter?” You ask.

His face twists into chagrin. “Looks like we can’t beat the Candor out of ourselves after all, even despite all the training sessions we’ve pulled. I’ve tried, though.”

“You’ve done a good job,” you muse. “It’s me who needs to be fixed the most.”

Peter’s brow furrows. “What are you talking about?”

You shake your head. Maybe you weren’t as sober as you thought. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

“Says who?” Peter asks plainly. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

You regard him suspiciously. “You haven’t always.”

Peter has the grace to look embarrassed. “I’ve done things I regret.”

“I don’t believe you,” you say, and laugh to hide your heartbreak. “I know you, Peter Hayes. I know what you do. I’m not falling for it. Not again.”

“It worked before?” Peter asks, genuinely surprised. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

This time you do laugh for real. “Why would I? And give you another weakness to exploit?”

Peter flinches as if you’ve slapped him. “I deserve that, probably, but I’ve been trying to be better.”

“Why?” You ask. “You’ve never cared what I thought, and you certainly don’t care about being better. Nothing about you makes sense, Peter. You’ve got a girl back there in the party who’s probably looking for you now, but instead you’re trying to apologize to me. You’ve never cared about that before.”

“But I do now,” Peter says, voice unexpectedly strong. When he turns the force of his gaze back on you again, you feel totally rooted in place, unable to move even if you wanted to. And, when he starts to move closer to you, one hand coming to rest on top of your fingers, you’re not sure that you do. “I do care. I’ve been trying to tell you that for weeks.”

“I thought you were excellent at telling the truth,” you whisper.

“So did I,” Peter replies. Hesitates, then says, “Only other people’s truth, it turns out. You were always my best secret. I wanted to keep you the most.”

Your breath sticks to your lungs, refusing to grant you release. None of this makes sense. Peter would never– But he is now, standing in front of you, telling you as much as he can. Peter still wants you. It’s up to you if you want him, too.

After everything he’s done to you over the years, you owe him nothing at all. He’s hurt you more times than you could count. When you’re cold, bitterly cold, freezing down to the bone with no way of rescue save your own rough and ragged principles, you burn everything around you. Clothes, shoes, furniture. Even people. Peter burned you, and so severe was the flame of your mutual hatred that it made it impossible for anything to grow between the two of you but a jealous wrath. 

Peter has left the cold of Candor and traded in his shivering bones for Dauntless’ natural warmth, and now he finally has the room to put out the fire again. He’s stamped out the inferno, or tried to, at least; but upon inspecting the last flattened spark, Peter can’t tell if he went too far. It is immensely difficult for him to discern if he has left anything of you but char and ash. 

What could have been a beautiful thing went up in smoke the moment he first raised a harsh word against you. Peter loves the truth, loves most of all to twist it, but in the end, the truth cannot help him here. Peter knows what he wants the truth to be, but the truth is no substitute for reality. It is up to you if you can ever forgive him, and no amount of pretty words on Peter’s end can change that.

It’s up to you, and for the first time since you came to Dauntless, you know precisely what you want. “I know what you mean,” you tell him carefully.

Peter’s face cracks in a tentative smile. “You know? So you–”

“I do,” you interrupt. “I like you, Peter.”

You have seen Peter furious, filled with righteous vengeance. You’ve seen him bloody and bruised on the other end of a sparring ring. You thought that the brightest emotion you’d ever see on him was the pure flame of hatred, but it turns out there’s one thing better than wrath, and that’s sheer, incandescent joy. He wears it now like the finest of luxuries, and you decide that you’d like to see it many times again. As it turns out, you’ll have plenty of chances.

divergent tag list: @blondsauduun, @gods-fools-heroes, @23victoria, @manyfandomsfanvergent, @imwaysthelastchoice, @crazyhearttragedy, @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed, @alex-1967s-blog, @aoi-targaryen

all tags list: @wordsarelife

[wingedblooms]

Blooming dreams

Gardeners, I think, dream bigger dreams than emperors. (Mary Cantwell)

This meta is a continuation of my thoughts over the years, but especially the ones expressed in the following links. Please be aware that there are major hofas spoilers in this post and avoid if needed.

Secret, lovely seer / Forbidden secrets

A rose in the thorns / The flower of life

Seer, wise woman, witch / Three sisters witches / Starborn light

Since my first meta, I have been fixated on Elain’s connection to the Mother, Cauldron, and Fate (let's call her Wyrd) and her potential powers, including sight, shapeshifting, and healing. They are all related when you’re talking about Wyrd, though I am not here to say what I have written is what Sarah has planned. This post is more a love letter to Sarah’s mystical and earthy depiction of Elain and what I would love to see in her story based on all the seeds she’s planted (and if there is an actual magical bean seed involved, I’ll love her all the more for it). Thanks especially to @psychologynerd for previewing this fever dream of a post.

I gazed again at that sad, dark house—the place that had been a prison. Elain had said she missed it, and I wondered what she saw when she looked at the cottage. If she beheld not a prison but a shelter—a shelter from a world that had possessed so little good, but she tried to find it anyway, even if it had seemed foolish and useless to me. She had looked at that cottage with hope; I had looked at it with nothing but hatred. And I knew which one of us had been stronger. (acotar)

From the first book in the series, Feyre recognizes that Elain views things differently. She views things that are sad and dark with hope, and that’s why Sarah has called her the quiet dreamer. It’s a strength that sets her apart. I like to think that’s also what the Cauldron—though warped by the Asteri—saw when she was forced into its womb. 

The Cauldron seemed to realize what she’d done, too, as his head thumped onto the mossy ground. That Elain…Elain had defended this thief. Elain, who it had gifted with such powers, found her so lovely it had wanted to give her something…It would not harm Elain, even in its hunt to reclaim what had been taken. (acowar)

@silverlinedeyes and I wondered if it may have recognized Elain as a kindred spirit, some echo of its Mother form. A creator, life-bringer. Were the waters of the Cauldron more like Silba’s Womb—a darkness of creation, sweet and lovely—when Elain was immersed? Or is it possible that when Elain entered its dark womb she viewed it differently than her sister? Did she see a wounded creator to help rather than an enemy to combat? 

Elain’s hopeful perspective might be why it gifted her with such powers, powers that we know allow her to see differently than others. And since it may have enhanced her unique perception, I wonder if it also enhanced her ability to bring life and beauty into the world. As a gardener, Elain is well acquainted with the task of envisioning her garden and then getting her hands dirty to make that vision a reality. Dream and reality are entwined in gardening, just like her Sight.

“She loves to garden. Always loved growing things. Even when we were destitute, she managed to tend a little garden in the warmer months. And when–when our fortune returned, she took to tending and planting the most beautiful gardens you’ve ever seen. Even in Prythian. It drove the servants mad, because they were supposed to do the work and ladies were only meant to clip a rose here and there, but Elain would put on a hat and gloves and kneel in the dirt, weeding. She acted like a purebred lady in every regard but that.” (acowar)  If Elain was a blooming flower in this army camp, then Nesta…she was a freshly forged sword, waiting to draw blood. [...] Nesta stared them all down. Elain kept her focus on the dry, rocky ground. (acowar)  She had no mental shields, no barriers. The gates to her mind…Solid iron, covered in vines of flowers–or it would have been. The blossoms were all sealed, sleeping buds tucked into tangles of leaves and thorns. (acowar) If Elain’s mental gates were those of a sleeping garden, Nesta’s…They belonged to an ancient fortress, sharp and brutal. The sort I imagined they once impaled people upon. (acowar)  “What now?” Elain mused, at last answering my question from moments ago as her attention drifted to the windows facing the sunny street. That smile grew, bright enough that it lit up even Azriel’s shadows across the room. “I would like to build a garden,” she declared. “After all of this…I think the world needs more gardens.” (acowar) 

As we saw in acosf for Nesta—a new type of warrior who forges magical swords and retrieves the Harp from an ancient fortress (the Prison) connected to the Starborn—these descriptions are clearly meant to foreshadow what occurs in the sisters’ stories. While Nesta is a freshly forged sword, Elain is blooming life in Illyria. And what do we learn in hofas? 

“The Cauldron,” Nesta said hours later, pointing to yet another carving on the wall. It indeed showed a giant cauldron, perched atop what seemed to be a barren mountain peak with three stars above it. Azriel halted, angling his head. “That’s Ramiel.” At Bryce’s questioning look, he explained, “A mountain sacred to the Illyrians.”  Bryce nodded to the carving. “What’s the big deal about a cauldron?” [...]  “All life came and comes from it,” Azriel said with something like reverence. “The Mother poured it into this world, and from it, life blossomed.” (hofas)

We receive confirmation that the Cauldron is associated with the sister peaks, as I suspected, and Ramiel in particular as @merymoonbeam has previously suggested. 

Before Bryce could contemplate this further, Silene went on, But my mother and father knew they needed the most valuable of all the Daglan’s weapons. Bryce tensed. This had to be the thing that had given them the edge— The snows around Ramiel parted, revealing a massive bowl of iron at the foot of the monolith. Even through the vision, its presence leaked into the world, a heavy, ominous thing. “The Cauldron,” Nesta said, dread lacing her voice. […] “The Cauldron was of our world, our heritage. But upon arriving here, the Daglan captured it and used their powers to warp it. To turn it from what it had been into something deadlier. No longer just a tool of creation, but of destruction. And the horrors it produced…those, too, my parents would turn to their advantage.”  [...] “They fought the Daglan and won, she went on. Using the Daglan’s own weapons, they destroyed them. Yet my parents did not think to learn the Daglan’s other secrets—they were too weary, too eager to leave the past behind.” (hofas) 

In Forbidden secrets, I theorized that Elain’s powers might allow her to map the secrets of the land in order to heal it and @offtorivendell discussed magical mounds in her theory on reviving dusk. It seems like the Asteri did indeed leave secrets behind, which might explain why certain places continue to be forbidden and barren. But we are given hope that they do not need to remain that way. In hofas, Bryce wakes and wields the land belonging to her Starborn ancestors on the Prison island:

And precisely as Theia had gifted her own power to Silene … perhaps Silene had in turn left that same power here, to be claimed by a future scion. One by one, rapid as shooting stars, the thoughts raced through Bryce. More on instinct than anything else, she dropped to her knees and slammed her hand atop the eight-pointed star. Bryce reached with her mind, through layers of rock and earth—and there it was. Slumbering beneath her. Not firstlight, not as she knew it on Midgard—but raw Fae power from a time before the Drop. The power ascended toward her through the stone, like a glimmering arrow fired into the dark— [...] Like a small sun emerging from the stone itself, a ball of light burst from the floor. A star, twin to the one in Bryce’s chest. Her starlight at last awoke again, as if reaching with shining fingers for that star hovering inches away. With trembling hands, Bryce guided the star to the one gleaming on her chest. Into her body. White light erupted everywhere. Power, uncut and ancient, scorched through her veins. The hair on her head rose. Debris floated upward. She was everywhere and nowhere. She was the evening star and the last rays of color before the dark. Azriel had nearly reached the tunnel. Another flap of his wings and he’d be swallowed by its dark mouth. But at a mere thought from Bryce, stalactites and stalagmites formed, closing in on him. The room became a wolf, its jaws snapping for the winged warrior— The rock had moved for her, as it had for Silene. “Stop him,” she said in a voice that was more like her father’s than anything she’d ever heard come out of her mouth. Azriel swept for the tunnel archway—and slammed into a wall of stone. The exit had sealed. Slowly, he turned, wings rustling. Blood trickled out of his nose from his face-first collision with the rock now in his path. He spread his wings, bracing for a fight. The mountain shook, the chamber with it. Debris fell from the ceiling. Walls began shifting, rock groaning against rock. As if the place this had once been was fighting to emerge from the stone. [...] From far away, she could sense it: the things lurking within the mountain, her mountain. Twisted, wretched creatures. Some had been here since Silene had trapped them. Had been contemplating their escape and revenge all this time. She’d let them out if she restored the mountain to its former glory. And in that moment, the mountain—the island—spoke to her. Alone. It was so alone—it had been waiting all this time. Cold and adrift in this thrashing gray sea. If she could reach out, if she could open her heart to it…it might sing again. Awaken. There was a beating, vibrant heart locked away, far beneath them. If she freed it, the land would rise from its slumber, and such wonders would spring again from its earth— (hofas)

The mountain–Bryce’s mountain–speaks to her, asking her to open her heart to it so it can finally rise from its slumber. Cue internal screaming, my friends, because this language was intentional and it might finally explain Elain’s conversation in this scene: 

She looked away—toward the windows. “I can hear your heart,” she said quietly. He wasn’t sure how to respond, so he said nothing, and drained his tea, even as it burned his mouth. “When I sleep,” she murmured, “I can hear your heart beating through the stone.” She angled her head, as if the city view held some answer. “Can you hear mine?” He wasn’t sure if she truly meant to address him, but he said, “No, lady. I cannot.” (acowar)

Elain’s hearing is a source of concern after she is Made because it is unusually heightened; she hears so many things, usually connected to the nature around her as @silverlinedeyes theorized. Like calls to like, and so she might be able to hear the beating heart of the land around her, even as it slumbers. Perhaps that is why her eyes were drawn to the barren ground in Illyria.

Vesperus, an Asteri trapped in a glass coffin below the Prison, tells us more about the connection between the Cauldron and the land: 

“I am the Evening Star,” Vesperus seethed. Bryce rolled her eyes. “Fine, we’ll call you the Evening Star, too. Happy?” “Is it not fitting?” A wave of long fingers capped in sharp nails. “I drank from the land’s magic, and the land’s magic drank from me.” [...] Vesperus folded her hands in her lap. “A planet that was once green, as this one is.” “And that wasn’t good enough?” “We grew too populous. Wars broke out between the various beings on our world. Some of us saw the changes in the land beginning—rivers run dry, clouds so thick the sun could not pierce them—and left. Our brightest minds found ways to bend the fabric of worlds. To travel between them. Wayfarers, we called them. World-walkers.” [...] “Once we left our home world, our powers began to dim. Too late, we realized that we had been dependent on our land’s inherent magic. The magic in other worlds was not potent enough. Yet we could not find the way back home. Those of us who ventured here found ways to amplify that power, thanks to the gifts of the land. We pooled our power, and imbued those gifts into the Cauldron so that it would work our will. We Made the Trove from it. And then bound the very essence of the Cauldron to the soul of this world.” Solas. “So destroy the Cauldron…” “And you destroy this world. One cannot exist without the other.”

This should come as no surprise because we saw this play out in acowar, but the Cauldron is tied to the soul of their world. The term soul is intentional, and we will return to it in a bit, but I started to wonder in Forbidden secrets about that connection. The influence of Wyrd is especially clear in the sacred peaks, where the Asteri left behind their secrets. Could Elain unravel the Asteri’s magic from the slumbering heart of the earth, and unbind the Cauldron as a result? Or will she need to go to Cretea to retrieve and purify the magic of the Asteri from the Cauldron like a healer would, in body and in spirit? (Hello, Nephelle celebrations, let’s go.) Nothing feels more right than seeing our strong-willed gardener get her hands dirty as she rips out the Asteri from the root, or beating heart, of their world. Sarah may have even hinted at this role for Elain as she describes getting into her mind for her book:

“There was literally ivy everywhere: in the garden beds, wrapped around the trees, crawling up the sides of the house. So I went into this obsessive, I-need-to-rip-out-every-last-strand-of-ivy-before-I-have-this-baby mode. And I remember the entire time I was ripping out the ivy, and trying to get some semblance of order into the garden beds, I just slipped into Elain’s head. Elain is a gardener, and everything I did during those weeks became research for her book. I’m not even joking. Elain’s now going to have dreams about ripping ivy out and the ivy creeping in through the windows to strangle her at night, because let me tell you, that ivy does not want to go.” (Sarah’s interview in acofas) 

English ivy is an aggressive invader and its hosts decline over time before they die. That’s exactly what the Asteri are: aggressive invaders that feed off of their hosts, warping the power of the land for their sole benefit, until it begins to wither away. In hofas, we learn that the Asteri hid their power throughout the land, including at the root of sacred mountains:

Vesperus backed up a half step, hissing at the gleaming weapon. “We hid pockets of our power throughout the lands, in case the vermin should cause … problems. It seems our wisdom did not fail us.”

“There are no such places,” Azriel countered coldly.

“Are there not?” Vesperus grinned broadly, showing all of her too-white teeth. “Have you looked beneath every sacred mountain? At their very roots? The magic draws all sorts of creatures. I can sense them even now, slithering about, gnawing on the magic. My magic. They’re as much vermin as the rest of you.” (hofas)

And we see the moment Bryce discovers that Vesperus has hidden her power in the root of the Prison mountain, which is what sustains her and weakens the land: 

Bryce clutched the Starsword tighter. Its power thudded into her palms like a heartbeat. “But why store your power here? It’s an island—not exactly an easy pit stop.” “There are certain places, girl, that are better suited to hold power than others. Places where the veil between worlds is thin, and magic naturally abounds. Our light thrives in such environments, sustained by the regenerative magic of the land.” She gestured around them. “This island is a thin place—the mists around it declare it so.”  […] “Every world has at least one thin place,” Vesperus drawled. “And there are always certain people more suited to exploit it—to claim its powers, to travel through them to other worlds.” […] “Theia had the gift,” Vesperus said, “but did not understand how to claim the light. I made sure never to reveal how during her training—how she might light up entire worlds, if she wished, if she seized the power to amplify her own. But you, Light-Stealer…She must have passed the gift down to you. And it seems you have learned what she did not.”  Vesperus peered at her bare feet, the rock beneath. “Theia never learned how to access the power I cached beneath my palace. She had no choice but to leave it there, buried in the veins of this mountain. Her loss—and my gain.” Oh gods. There was a fucking firstlight core here, far beneath their feet— (hofas)

These thin places are where ley lines—highways for magic and communication—overlap, allowing travel for those who are suited to it (wayfarers). Starborn and Asteri alike seem to be suited to these places, and have used them to store their power, causing the land around it to wither. 

“Ley lines,” Bryce breathed. Aidas nodded. “These lines are capable of moving magic, but also carrying communications across great distances.” Like those between the Gates of Crescent City, the way she’d spoken to Danika the day she’d made the Drop. “There are ley lines across the whole of the universe. And the planets—like Midgard, like Hel, like the home world of the Fae—atop those lines are joined by time and space and the Void itself. It thins the veils separating us. The Asteri have long chosen worlds that are on the ley lines for that exact purpose. It made it easier to move between them, to colonize those planets. There are certain places on each of these worlds where the most ley lines overlap, and thus the barrier between worlds is at its weakest.” Everything slotted together. “Thin places,” Bryce said with sudden certainty. “Precisely,” Apollion answered for Aidas with an approving nod. “The Northern Rift, the Southern Rift—both lie atop a tremendous knot of ley lines. And while those under Avallen are not as strong, the island is unique as a thin place thanks to the presence of black salt—which ties it to Hel.” “And the mists?” Hunt asked. “What’s the deal with them?” “The mists are a result of the ley lines’ power,” Aidas said. “They’re an indication of a thin place. Hoping to find a ley line strong enough to help her transfer and hide Theia’s power, Helena sent a fleet of Fae with earth magic to scour every misty place they could find on Midgard. When they told her of a place wreathed in mists so thick they could not pierce them, Helena went to investigate. The mists parted for her—as if they had been waiting. She found the small network of caves on Avallen … and the black salt beneath the surface.”

All of the sister peaks thrum with power and are at odds with the land around them. Barren. They might all be thin places, interconnected through ley lines...and hiding a cache of magic in the root (heart) of their souls.

Bryce’s ancestors, separated by the Void, planted clues for those with the gifts and vision to see it.

What had looked like etched seas or rivers of stars now filled in with starlight, became … alive. Moving, cascading, coursing. A secret illustration, only for those with the gifts and vision to see it. (hofas)

A secret carved in stone. What secrets remain under other sacred mountains, such as Ramiel? Is it any coincidence that Enalius, who defended Ramiel, was the owner of Truth-Teller? Or that the Cauldron is depicted there? Who would be equipped with the gifts and vision to uncover those secrets and finally set the soul of the land free, like Bryce? 

“Light blasted up through the blades into her hands, her arms, her heart. Bryce could hear it through her feet, through the stone. The song of the land beneath her. Quiet and old and forgotten, but there. She heard how Avallen had yielded its joy, its bright green lands and skies and flowers, so it might hold the power as it was bid, waiting all this time for someone to unleash it. To free it. […] Helena had bound the soul of this land in magical chains. No more. No more would Bryce allow the Fae to lay claim over anything. “You’re free,” Bryce whispered to Avallen, to the land and the pure, inherent magic beneath it. “Be free.” And it was. (hofas)

Helena bound the soul of Avallen in magical chains. Doesn't that sound like what the Asteri did with the Cauldron and the land? There are so many hints that Elain is set up to address this plot, but the one I find the most compelling is given by the Under-King when he confirms who Wyrd (Urd) is:

The Under-King lounged on a throne beneath a behemoth statue of a figure holding a black metal bowl between her upraised hands. Symbols were carved all over the bowl, continuing down her fingers, her arms, her body. Ithan could only assume it was meant to represent Urd. No other temples ever depicted the goddess, no one even dared—most people claimed that fate was impossible to portray in any one form. But it seemed that the dead, unlike the living, had a vision of her. And those symbols running from the bowl onto her skin…they were like tattoos.” […] “And she,” the Under-King went on, gesturing to that unusual depiction of Urd towering above him, “was not a goddess, but a force that governed worlds. A cauldron of life, brimming with the language of creation. Urd, they call her here—a bastardized version of her true name. Wyrd, we called her in that old world.” (hofas)

Now, doesn't that sound familiar?

Her gaze shifted to the carved wooden rose she’d placed upon the mantel, half-hidden in the shadows beside a figurine of a supple-bodied female, her upraised arms clasping a full moon between them. Some sort of primal goddess—perhaps even the Mother herself. Nesta hadn’t let herself dwell on why she’d felt the need to set the rose there. Why she hadn’t just thrown it in a drawer. (acosf)

The statues are essentially the same and Wyrd has already been described in terms that evoke the Mother, Cauldron, and Fate (Forces That Be). And Nesta just happened to feel the need (fateful tug?) to place Elain’s rose—a symbol of life and joy and beauty—right next to Wyrd, and drew our attention to it again in the final scene of her story. What do you want to bet that Wyrd, the Stone Mother, gave her favorite gardener the gifts and vision she needs to make her dream of building more gardens, of breathing life and beauty into the land, a reality?

Sarah has confirmed that the main female characters in her books are helped by others, usually a love interest and friends. So who might be foreshadowed to help Elain?

I dragged a hand over my face before going to Elain and touching her too-bony shoulder. “Can I set you up in the garden? The herbs you planted are coming in nicely.”  “I can help her,” said Azriel, stepping to the table as Elain silently rose. No shadows at his ear, no darkness ringing his fingers as he extended a hand. (acowar)  - “I’ll help you,” Nesta offered.  But Elain shook her head. “Nuala and Cerridwen will help me.”  Then she was gone–shoulders a little squarer.  - It was three by the time the others went to bed. [...] Azriel and Elain remained in the sitting room, my sister showing him the plans she’d sketched to expand the garden in the back of the town house, using the seeds and tools my family had given her tonight. (acofas)

It’s no coincidence that the characters closest to Elain possess unique powers that complement her own and relate specifically to the elements of Stone Mother. Azriel learned to speak the language of shadow and wind and stone, while the half-wraith twins are nothing but shadow and mist, able to walk through walls, stone as @psychee92 discusses here. Their magic likely thrives in thin parts of the world. It also isn't a coincidence that Nesta noticed and wondered this:  

“You came,” Elain said behind her, and Nesta started, not having heard her sister approach. She scanned Elain from head to toe, wondering if she’d been taking lessons in stealth either from Azriel or the two half-wraiths she called friends. (acosf) 

Their beautiful, wraith-like team has the gifts necessary to traverse the slumbering heart of the earth as easily as foreign courts, which is a hard combination to find and is uniquely suited for Elain’s mission to release the Cauldron and land from the magical chains of the Asteri. Especially since we learn that Bryce uses both blades of the Starborn to free Avallen from its magical chains:

On an exhale, she plunged the weapons into the slits in the eight-pointed star. The small one for the knife. The larger one for the sword.

And like a key turning in a lock, they released what lay beneath. (hofas)

They even help Bryce rid the land of the Asteri and their core of power, creating a larger void to devour the one the Asteri set in place. Back in acowar, as many have noticed, Sarah already planted this moment between Azriel and Elain:

I saw the painting in my mind: the lovely fawn, blooming spring vibrant behind her. Standing before Death, shadows and terrors lurking over his shoulder. Light and dark, the space between their bodies a blend of the two. The only bridge of connection…that knife. (acowar)

She and Azriel seem to represent the balance of light and dark in the Starsword and Truth-Teller, as @merymoonbeam theorized. The Starborn blade—the one belonging to Enalius—is a bridge of connection between them. Bryce leaves the Starsword (Gwydion) and Truth-Teller with Nesta, encouraging her to learn about her connection to the Starborn (eight-pointed star). That might mean the Archeron Starborn connection may happen after all. I could see Elain wielding those blades when needed, activating their magic as she seemed to do with Truth-Teller, to release the land from its magical chains. It would also be interesting if Elain and Azriel functioned like the Made blades themselves, releasing the Asteri’s chains with their own blend of raw magic, and watching joyously as life blooms in earnest again.

Once they remove the magical chains of the Asteri—on the land and their sacred Cauldron—perhaps we’ll also discover what exists between Elain and Azriel at last: 

Elain sat silently at one of the wrought-iron tables, a cup of tea before her. Azriel was sprawled on the chaise longue across the gray stones, sunning his wings and reading what looked to be a stack of reports–likely information on the Autumn Court that he planned to present to Rhys once he’d sorted through it all. Already dressed for the Hewn City–the brutal, beautiful armor so at odds with the lovely garden. And my sister sitting within it. 

“Why not make them mates?” I mused. “Why Lucien?” 

“I’d keep that question from Lucien.” 

“I’m serious.” I turned toward him and crossed my arms. “What decides it? Who decides it?” 

Rhys straightened his lapels before plucking an invisible piece of lint from them. “Fate, the Mother, the Cauldron’s swirling eddies…” (acowar)

@silverlinedeyes, @offtorivendell, @elriell and others have written extensively about mating bonds, so I won’t discuss that in depth here. Essentially, Feysand and Nessian appear to have bonds that are true in spirit, and they are described as living threads of pure golden light between their souls. 

Thread after thread of pure golden light flowed into him, and he met it with his own. Where those threads wove together, life glowed like starfire, and she had never seen anything more beautiful, felt anything more beautiful. (acosf) 

This living light reminds me of the dawn, which is associated with healing and new beginnings. When Feysand and Nessian bind their souls together in these scenes, the dawn is invoked each time: 

Feysand

…I was his and he was mine, and we were the beginning and middle and end. We were a song that had been sung from the very first ember of light in the world. (acomaf)

Nessian

Cassian roared as he came, and the sound was the summons of a hunt, a symphony, a single clear horn playing as dawn broke over the world. (acosf)

And when Azriel first sees Elain in his bonus chapter, her hair is unbound and she appears like the dawn, gilded in living light on the longest night of the year. 

Soft steps padded from under the stair archway, and there she was.

The Faelights gilded Elain’s unbound hair, making her glow like the sun at dawn. (Azriel’s bonus chapter)

Is it possible that, with Elain’s connection to Wyrd and the land, her own threads of life are similarly chained, or warped? Perhaps when Elain clears away the Asteri’s power, we will finally see the truth blooming between them: threads of golden light twining together in an endless, earthy melody.

[thewertsearch]

[Dave] goes underground and discovers gold ruins. Before entering, he's interrupted by Karkat who uses a memo to warn both him and John about their involvement with Terezi and Vriska, telling them the scourge sisters are partaking in a dangerous game of rivalry fueled flirtation which has gotten both him and John killed at least once each.

Initially, I wasn’t sure we’d seen all four of these deaths - but on reflection, I think I can actually list them.

John was manipulated to his death by Terezi, creating Davesprite’s timeline.

He was also killed by Jack, as part of Vriska’s plan to turn him into a god.

Green-Suit Dave was killed as the result of Terezi’s game/experiment.

Red-Suit Dave was killed by DD, who was acting on Vriska’s suggestion to create Bec.

Bro is slain by his own sword, and the body is discovered by Dave later, who can't bring himself to retrieve the sword.

Bro's death is canon - but, at least for now, Davesprite's death is not. Hope is the thing with feathers.

[Dave] then goes on to make all the money needed, to buy all the fraymotifs, which are powerful battle techniques purchased from consorts, and to reach the top of his echeladder.

I’m interested in seeing these Fraymotifs in action – particularly the combined ones that we saw in John’s walkaround.

John appears to be getting a combination attack with each of his co-players. Based on what we know of their respective Aspects, I'll brainstorm some hypothetical techniques that match these names.

Ivories in the Fire [Breath/Time]: I'm picturing John and Dave's combination attack as a time-accelerated hurricane. The main problem with weather manipulation is that it tends to be rather slow; John's storms come out relatively fast, but Dave's help, he can bring them out instantly, firing gales off with the speed and precision of lasers.

Mixolydian Maelstrom [Breath/Light]: A maelstrom of light and wind sounds like something John and Rose would use to distract foes, rather than directly harm them. I think this could be a smoke-and-mirrors technique, summoning strobe lights and clouds of dust to confuse and disrupt large groups of enemies.

Fantasia’s Inhale [Breath/Space]: This sounds like some reality-bending shit. Maybe the Prospit siblings can warp space in a way that synergizes with John's normal fighting style. For example, they could lower the mass of any objects in their vicinity, allowing John's wind to launch much larger objects than normal.

With [Dave’s] massive reserve of grist accumulated in his travels and his more advanced torrenting capabilities, he allows Jade to alchemize some sophisticated equipment right away.

This is a good point that I didn’t catch at the time. The GristTorrent we saw in the comic has an extremely slow download speed, but Jade quickly had millions of grist to spare. Dave had to have a way to speed up the transfer.

[Jade] makes her entry item from the pre-punched card. A tree sprouts from the alchemiter, and a green Bec-shaped pinata dangles from a branch.

Oddly enough, Jade’s entry item spawned the same tree that John’s did. Rose and Dave’s items didn’t have anything in common, so it's just the Prospit siblings whose items share traits.

How typical is this phenomenon? Does it mean anything? With this comic, it's often difficult to tell.

As the clock ticks down to the CRITICAL EVENT, the most important character in Homestuck sits and watches this pandemonium ensue. And then, the second most important character in Homestuck positions a shitty drawing of himself in front of a typewriter and writes this recap.

Gamzee is now more important than Hussie, for whatever that’s worth. What the hell is going on with this guy?

[enemywasp]

Alright so someone on tiktok sent me a link to a compiled list of arguments against proshippers and so I wanted to put a sort of brief response of my own thoughts of each point.

Long post warning!

"Proshippers are non-offending minor attracted people in a fresh paint of coat"

What a start, am I right? Okay so first off this is a huge generalisation, not every proshipper engages with or is even comfortable with anything that sexualises fictional children, or ships them with adults. And of those that do ship adult/minor ships, it doesn't always mean they're attracted to the character themselves or gains any sexual pleasure from that.

They then went on to say that although they might be non-offending, they still fantasise about and romanticise children- in the case of proshippers by creating art and stories. And I am not personally educated enough on how people's minds works to go in depth here, but I do know a lot of pedophilic thoughts can be intrusive and unwanted. And I would much rather people engage in this and deal with their thoughts through fiction where no actual children are harmed, than actually go touch a real child or engage is any form of CSEM.

“People can draw and ship whatever they want!”

Here they went on to say that surely to ship and create content you must justify these things in some capacity regardless of them being fictional. And immediately I'd argue, the justification it that they're fictional. And that sometimes you want to read about things you'd never approve of in real life, it's a natural curiosity. And again, regardless of what the dark content is I would take someone engaging in fiction over harming a real person any day.

They compared this to alt-right groups and dark humour justifying racism and transphobia, etc. And whilst I think something we should always be aware of in fiction is stereotypes and how we may be representing people. Youtube videos like this are usually a type of propaganda that AIM to change people's mindsets and turn them against groups. Whereas fiction tells a story, some may have meanings and connections to real life, be a political piece, etc. Not everything is that serious and has a clear distinction from reality.

Think for example, reading/watching about murder and gore. More on that in a second.

"Fiction doesn't affect reality!"

I'm going to be honest I rolled my eyes at this as their main example was slenderman. If you don't know about that, those girls were schizophrenic. Anything could of set off and caused delusions, it just so happened to be fiction. Those girls needed help- not to just read purer content. They also basically brought up propaganda again, which is again deliberate and designed to warp peoples perceptions. Its based of lying and spreading misinformation and passing it as facts. The only thing I strongly believe can be directly harmful is stereotypes if not handled with care. But I think that's something for anyone who writes and consumes content should be aware of regardless of their stances.

Again here they implied that all proshippers are peodophiles. And that they normalise abuse of children. I'd also like to point out that most proshippers I've interacted with online have age boundaries to avoid interacting with minors depending on how graphic or sexual their content is.

"What do you think all stories about murder should stop existing?"

Here they basically argued that killing in media isn't the same as its not romanticised or condoned. YA Novels disagree- mafia stories being the most immediate example to spring to mind. Furthermore, morally grey villains. One of my favourite films is Mr Right. It's about a hitman killing people. Anna kendrick falls in love with him and its framed as a romantic comedy. Funny how its only fanfiction that's criticised like this? I actually have more thoughts on this if anyones interested.

Again they bring up kids not knowing adults pursuing children is wrong, and I'm questioning why children this young are unsupervised on the Internet. How young were you when you were allowed to watch anything with graphic blood or violence? This content isn't made for kids! Especially not anyone so young they can't seperate fiction from reality as most sites have a specific age you have to be to join. And I'm sorry to say it, but on websites and social media where adults can interact with kids, anything can be used to groom kids. (The real thing you should be mad about here is how there's no websites aimed just for children and safe spaces on the Internet anymore cause it can't be monetised as easily)

"Artists are allowed to draw and write about dark people"

They basically said, yes but it's not the same as promoting. Writing something under a romantic light and not saying "Don't do at home!" Isn't promoting. No ones encouraging these things in real life. Or rather, if they are its not because they're a proshipper but rather who they are as a person and their intentions.

The trans example they used is very extreme and honestly something I agree with a little more, fiction can definitely be used as an excuse to say and act out hateful and discriminatory things. Whilst I do think it's something we should discuss and unpack more, I'm not certain of my view on how I would fix this without risking silencing people talking about their experiences.

"Its not my responsibility to look after other people, just block me and the tags"

Here they threw all kinds of accusations. And says that we're making traumatised people jump through hoops to avoid getting retraumatised. I hate this argument, you know people have actual triggers they may not be able to avoid in real life? The world can't bend around you. And I am very sorry if any content online is traumatising to you, but someone could also be traumatised by a certain breed of dog and not want to see it. Should no one post dogs online ever again? A bald man reminds you of an abusive ex? Bald men get off the Internet! You see how this thing can just keep escalating? The tags and warnings are important because they're the best you can get. You can't control the world to protect everyone from everything ever. No ones forcing you to interact, and if you're on any algorithm based content that will encourage that content on your for your page more.

The only thing I think we should take from this is the reminder that warnings and tags are always important.

"You only care about censoring creativity"

Here they defend themselves that oh wouldn't you want freaks out the community! Which again immediately makes me lose respect for you, if you're just going to brand us all as freaks as an argument and generalize us.

No comment on that first line when you can easily argue antishipper do the same.

"Proshippers are not remotely innocent of targeted harrasement" Neither are antis. There's people who take things too far both sides and I'm not going to defend either for that.

"Real kids get assaulted and all you care about is censoring people online!"

Here they shout "oh I can care about both!" But what I don't think they realise is censorship can make it difficult for kids and to learn about how to speak up and to look for signs, or to speak up about their experiences. How do you plan on removing the topic from the Internet whilst also letting victims speak up? And people may want to write fiction based off their experiences. Who are you to go through it and proclaim what is too far, what romanticises it too much? More on this later.

"Antis are reducing my trauma"

They compared this to saying "date rape victims are reducing my trauma because they weren't taken advantage of in the same way as me" which is a disgusting parallel?? Date rape is still rape. Someone writing about something isn't the same as it happening. Although it can be used as harrasment, grooming, etc if directly addressed to you or being constantly sent to you, written about you. But the content existing in general? No.

"I'm coping"

Compared it to self harm, and such. Poetry and diaries are also used to write about your experiences and unpack trauma. Some of which may write it in an unrealistically positive light cause that's how they want to unpack it or explain those thoughts. And yes these things get posted online.

I can't imagine a single therapist or professional psychiatrist of any kind disapproving of creative writing because, again, it's much better than any alternatives of doing real harm to yourself or people around you. Although I do agree that if something is traumatising for you to read about and just upsets you further, be aware of your own boundaries but not everyone is the same so how are you going to police people's own thoughts and emotions.

Also I can't remember who or where as it was years ago now, but I have heard of people who actually realised they were being groomed or abused and just how bad it was through reading about it in a fanfic and seeing it in an outside perspective.

They also say to do it in private, but doesn't everyone on the Internet now have an understanding of finding a community and looking out for eachother and sharing experiences?

"There's more nuance here than just calling proshippers peodophiles"

Here they say no matter what it still comes down to whether it's ever okay to sexualise minors in certain contexts. And again, not every proshipper does this or is even comfortable with engaging in this kind of content. And further, no one is sexualising real minors in this context.

"I'm a proshipper and a minor tho!"

I'd agree minors should be wary of the spaces they're in but proship spaces aren't always necessarily sexual, graphic or 18+. Saying they're being groomed feels like you're watering down that term. I was a proshipper at age 13, I didn't interact with anyone online about it though, I didn't even know that was the term. I just came to the conclusion that it's just fiction all on my own. Minors aren't idiots.

At then end they talk about their own experience being groomed and I'm obviously not going to nitpick or criticise their experiences. I will point out that one person being bad and taking advantage of you and using content to do so doesn't mean everyone is like that. I am sorry to anyone who has been taken advantage of by someone who claims they're a proshipper though. There are people who have turned out to be horrible on both sides.

I am ill and it's late but I want to get this up sooner rather than later so please ask for clarification on anything. I'm always up for a discussion on this topic as I do believe some of these points do have merits at times and that this whole topic is not black and white

[she-whatshername]

EVEN MORE Tyrrish Headcanons you didn’t ask for (Xaden, Garrick, Bodhi, Imogen, aka the Kitchen Table crew)

AN: Wow I’m just posting everything but a chapter update to ‘Drifted’ aren’t I? Writing about trauma is hard for me, and IDK why i chose to make Cree’s character full of it and pair her with Bodhi who’s…surrounded by it. But, what’s a fanfic without a little author induced torture, right?

ANYWAYs, let’s get into it

Garrick, Imogen, and Bodhi would draw straws on who would have to update Xaden on Violet during her first year before Liam was tasked as her bodyguard. Bodhi never drew the short straw but was always the one who ended up telling Xaden. He carried on the tradition after Garrick and Xaden graduated.

Bodhi is viewed as the little brother of the group for two reasons. One, he always was one step behind Xaden and Garrick and a physical year younger than him. And two, despite everything he's been through, he never let it take away his humanity. Xaden cruelly jokes that Bodhi is the only one in the revolution with a still beating heart

Bodhi only 'broke character' once during his years at Basgiath when someone in his squad used a particular slur when referencing his deceased mother. Garrick and Xaden had to drag him off the cadet and dispose of the body and make a cover up so he didn't get charged with breaking the codex. It was their first trio heist together before the actual weapons operations.

Garrick didn't talk to Imogen the first month of her year at Basgiath because he was ashamed of all the horrible things he'd done in his first year

Every one of them has cried in front of Xaden at least once. Even Imogen, though she was heavily inebriated

Also, everyone has cried in Bodhi's lap. Even Xaden, who was also heavily inebriated.

Xaden didn't want to let Imogen into operations at first due to her unpredictable emotions; Garrick convinced him otherwise. When Imogen thwarted not one but 4 separate attempts on Xadens life, it was one of the first and few times he actually admitted to Garrick that he was right.

When Garrick and Xaden found out that Bodhi lost his virginity to someone at Basgiath the two literally detoured from their weapons operations to find out who it was like the protective and nosy older brothers that they are.

Imogen snorts when she laughs. She rarely laughs as deeply as she used to so when it does slip out, it instantly makes everyone feel like they aren't in a active war and that they're back home in Aretia.

Bodhi, Xaden and Garrick have all had sexual relationships with Fliers/Poromish people. Imgoen has not and refuses to out of what she calls 'pride and respect for dragons.'

I think all Tyrrish folk are pretty open and fluid about their sex lives until they find their person. Much like fated couples or mates, its Tyrrish tradition to find 'your person'.

I think they all marry for love only and Xaden's family dynamics are the outlier. Though I think Fen's 'person' was Tyrrendor the country verses Xaden's mother.

Because of this, Xaden grew up with a warped perception of romance and relationships. Also, he's fluent in all Tyrrish history and customs. He knew and spoke Tyrrish before the common language, and learning the common language was very difficult for him.

Also, Imogen is Garrick's person, 100%.

Xaden got his ego, wit and charisma from his father but his aunt, Bodhi's mother, taught him a lot about actual charm.

It was actually his aunt who, upon finding out that then 13 year old Xaden ghosted his girlfriend, made him go the the gardens and pick fresh flowers and hand deliver them to the girl's house with a handwritten apology declaring his 'boyish stupidity'.

Before the unification, if someone finds their person and they choose to marry, the couple would create a rune specific to the joining of their love/family house. Xaden giving Violet a book on weaving textiles was NO coincidence.

Tyrrish weddings are fun as shit (Why yes, there is one in 'Drifted'). In fact, there is a 'Cardulo Clause' that states that any wedding guest who drinks beyond their fare share at a wedding ceremony most pay a balance to the respective wedding partners. This came in part due to Imogen's great, great grandfather who, legend says, drank an entire keg to themselves during a wedding.

Okay now I'm actually going to go back and write 'Drifted'.

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Saw a video of a video of a lady on tiktok pretending to be deaf to avoid the attentions of some "admirers" while traveling abroad. It was questionable, but it does give me the idea of Lena being fluent in ASL, and using it to ignore people she doesn't want to deal with.

So, say Lena and Sam are traveling, and some dudes start pestering them for greetings/pictures/attention. Lena slips into fluent ASL, legit explaining to them that she's deaf (she is not), and Sam trying not to laugh as she's plays along and translates.

The men eventually move on, but when Lena later goes to the bathroom, she's caught on her way out by the same guys who try to press their luck again. They're drunker this time, and ignore her signing as they leer closer and closer into her personal space.

Just as Lena is about to panic and abandon the charade in favor of telling them off, she hears a call from across the bar.

"Hey!"

The next thing she knows, Lena is wrapped up in a warm hug from a person taller than her but also female, who smells so so good.

When the woman draws away, Lena catches a glimpse of a beautiful face before her rescuer turns to her would be assailants.

"Can I help you?"

Lena nearly chokes at the sound of accented English, the slightly warped, slightly too loud words those of someone who is *actually* hard of hearing.

Then men try to explain that they're friends, but before Lena can deny it, the woman cuts in with a loud "I can't hear you", signing as she goes.

Quickly losing interest in a woman who can speak-- with her voice, loudly-- the men soon drift away, giving the woman room to turn back to Lena.

"Are you okay?"

Then, before Lena can reply...

"Sorry for the hug. Looked like you needed an out."

Lena grins. "I did, thank you. But I have a confession-- I'm not actually deaf."

The woman's smile only deepens. "Well, you sign beautifully."

Lena flushes a light pink. "I have a friend waiting outside. Can we buy you a drink?"

"My sister is already at the bar-- maybe we should buy you one."

Kara turns a little sheepish then.

"Actually... can we? It's rare that I find a stranger who can sign."

Lena nervously nibbles her lip, then makes an executive decision.

"That would be lovely."

[rebel-walnut]

Let's Do The Time Warp Again

steddie time travel s3 ficlet, Part 1

Ao3, Pt.2, Pt.3, Pt.4

"Harrington! Customers!"

Pins and needles flood Steve's limbs as Robin's voice slowly comes into focus, his eyes still scrunched closed with sleep. The tiredness is heavy in his bones, like he's been asleep for years in the oddly cold back room of Family Video.

"Dingus!"

Steve doesn't even remember falling asleep on his break. Actually, he doesn't remember taking his break at all. Or even coming into Family Video. In fact, the last thing he remembers was covered in black and red slime-

"DINGUS! YOUR BREAK IS SO OVER!"

Steve forces his eyes open to witness the too-white walls of a break room that burned down a year ago. Frantic hands run over the garish blue and red of the tacky sailor uniform he hated, the same uniform he lit on fire in his backyard with Robin before the start of her senior year. Somehow, it's back. All of it. It's all come back to haunt him.

Robin from a year ago seems to also be back to haunt him -or maybe she's here as his savior- either way, she's just as loud as ever as she kicks the swinging door to the cramped back room in. It hits the wall with a crack, causing a jolt of both familiarity and dread to shoot up Steve's spine.

He waits for the tell-tale chime of a clock that was still ringing in his ears before he woke up in the summer of '85 or Robin's face to start warping into the melted mass of tentacles hiding in the Creel attic that will certainly become a common occurrence in his nightmares, but the only thing in front of him is Robin's all too common apathetic yet disappointed stare.

"I gave you an extra 7 minutes to sleep, but that little sampling-brat and her terror-troop are back for more and I swear to God, Harrington, I cannot deal with her again today, I just can't-"

Steve cuts off her ramble by scrambling out of his seat with more effort than either of them had ever put into this job, squeezing past her and out of the small doorway.

"Steve, where are you- hey!" Robin says as she latches into Steve's shoulder before he can finish his beeline out the door.

"I'll explain later if you still exist," Steve responds as he turns out of her grasp, shoving past the group of teens making their way into the store. He can hear Robin's small shouts after him, but her exasperation with him is nothing new and frankly the least of his worries.

Starcourt, somehow, is still standing. Clamping down on his rising heart rate, Steve glances around for any sign of the current date, or even year. Everything is exactly the same as it was a year ago, but Steve knows nothing he sees can be trusted. Not with the visions Max described, that's for goddamn certain. While he doesn't know enough science fiction shit like Dustin to know if he jumped universes or is in a different reality or whatever the fuck, he can at least place a little bit of faith in his ability to distinguish dreams and visions from reality.

His frantic pace along with the extremely out of place sailor costume draws in a few curious stares, but again, least of his worries. No one's faces warp into slimy horrors and none of the walls start crawling with vines, no flickering lights, no distorted voices in his head, no signs of the upside down at all. As comforting as that should be in theory, that means it's something else entirely and definitely something Steve can't figure out on his own.

He finds himself leaving a trail of pinches down his arm as he reaches the far side of the mall, posters for the theater coming into view. A particular poster catches his eye, BACK TO THE FUTURE highlighted in yellow and orange in all its sci-fi font glory.

Fuck. 1985. Again.

He presses his fingertips into the glass covering the poster as his breaths come out raggedy and sharp. C'mon, wake up man. It's all some weird ass fever dream, you probably just hit your head again.

He waits a few seconds and prays to wake up. Nothing. Obviously, he thinks. He's stuck, somehow, a year ago, with no clue how it happened or how to fix it or if anything here is even real in the first place.

Steve isn't the guy who comes up with plans, okay? That's more of a Nance thing, and Steve is totally fine with his role as the muscle. Unfortunately, right now there seems to be absolutely no Nancy Wheeler, and Steve has no fucking clue what the fuck is going on.

He steps back from the entrance to the theater and spins around probably faster than he should for someone who maybe just got shot through time, and comes face to face with a small music store labeled Hot Wax Records in some sort of groovy 70's style font. That's not what gets him though.

Steve stops dead in his tracks as he makes eye contact with the guy at the front desk. His hair's a little shorter than he last remembers it, hitting just above his shoulders instead of just below them. The man is wearing a familiar denim vest with slightly fewer patches and less grime than was on it when it was adorning Steve's shoulders, but familiar all the same. What gets Steve though is that the man at the counter is white-knuckling the edge with one hand while the other braces and claws itself around his neck, a look of equal parts horror and recognition strewn across his features. He looks on the verge of screaming, yet his eyes are forcefully locked into Steve's with a determination Steve had only seen from him once before.

They both falter a half step forward as Steve struggles to find his tongue.

"Eddie?"