#crimson chains art

[imperialdelights]

felt like drawing @crimson-chains's beautiful boys from their original work Star Crossed!

[the-chains-are-the-easy-part]

CC Art Challenge ✨

This might sounds pretentious, but basically, @eyecandyeoz and I were eager to draw. From this, the idea of a challenge with a series of music-themed prompts was born. Absolute freedom of interpretation, no pressure, lots of desire to express and experiment!

You are all very welcome to partecipate to this! You can reblog this post or Candy’s submission here to submit your own entry and see more art under the tag #cc art challenge

This is my first fan art for the first prompt:

Rehearsal

ID: Crimson Dawn, Maul’s metal band. In the picture there’s Savage who plays guitar, Maul who plays bass and does back vocals, Q’ira is the rhytmic guitar. Dryden Vos is the singer, but he’s always late to the rehearsals. Special mention to @aftergloom who provided the inspiration for this piece with her fantastic writings! You should definitely check her out! (also I want to note that the logo design is not mine cause I’m a lazy bastard lol the logo is property of the actual band Crimson Dawn who I hope won’t sue me for using it in my silly fanart 🥲)

If you want to join the creativity rampage, this is the next prompt:

Bruises

It can be really anything! Any fandom, any medium, any concept, and there is no schedule, so feel free to post whenever you want! The whole point of this is to draw and have fun!

[homeformyheart]

wedding dreams - featuring nate sewell x detective lyra kingston in the love triangle from the wayhaven chronicles (by @seraphinitegames)

art by @crimson-chains. do not repost.

[lunegrimm]

Small portrait of Ira as a gift art for @bluehunterart

[ethecookednoodle]

A few years ago I made an oc for @crimson-chains Sweet Beginnings story and I decided to redesign him the other day that I remembered he existed. As you can see, he's based on water lmao. I'm really happy with how he came out, I finally was able to draw him the way I imagined him.

Some backstory and cool background bc I can under the cut :)

His name is River, and he's a doctor! More specifically a surgeon and a pediatrician. He wasn't originally called River, but as I was redesigning him I decided that people made fun of him so much bc of his name that to change it to River to avoid anymore problems.

I think he has a horribly unsuccessful love life bc people think he's plain and boring 😂 despite being good looking and a very friendly, easy going personality I think people get disenchanted very fast with him bc he doesn't taste like anything. This is based on an ask Crimson answered a long time ago where I think she said the fluids (like saliva) of characters based on drinks and foods actually taste like the drinks and the foods. And well, since he's water he doesn't really have a particular taste.

I think he'd visit the bar and the bakery fairly often. He'd go to buy his lunch and some treats for the other doctors and nurses at the bakery and at then go to the bar to let go of some steam at the end of every of every shift. I also think he's a heavy drinker bc since he's water the alcohol washes out of his body more easily, but he doesn't drink that often since he works at a hospital.

He's also really good with kids and is the go to doctor whenever there's a patient (child or adult) who's being hard to handle. He has a very soothing and calming presence after all!

Also last but not least, let me share the cool background I made for him:

[splat1316]

[snowy-bones]

"Think that's the cue to go home huh?"

"Definitely feels like et."

*With that the two are released and escorted home by Chillz.

[solacebean]

More design changes and tweaks, so happy to finally have a decent design for Dark

[0o0ychan0o0]

So I decided to join the ball!

Grand Duke Nova De Hydrus, charismatic and charming if mischievous and a little deceptive is entering the ball!

I enjoyed very much drawing them and creating an oc for @crimson-chains awsome universe!

Also while Hydrus is indeed a women (in body at least) they're genderfluid, so man and woman! But they indeed like to create chaos by confusing the hell out of the people around them..

Anyway it was fun! I hope y'all liked this oc as well! Then take care everyone! 💜~

[ultrainfinitepit]

Damien for @kaizuart, with guest star Arthur who belongs to @crimson-chains.

[ Find me on Art Fight! ]

[19burstraat]

Ok we all know guild me, build me exists due to my artistic abilities being very lacking in the visual arts, so rather than drawing the crows in the komedie brute, I had to write kaz in. however I had ideas for the others that I couldn't get into a fic, so I've put em down here

Kaz: (description ripped from guild me, build me):

a heavy black cape, sewn with stolen chains and jewels so that it jingled upon every movement (...) It was marked up and slit here and there, on the edges and at the collar, to give the impression of crow’s feathers, and it was made of some kind of shiny, velvety fabric that had the oily shine of crow’s plumage. The gloves were the same material, thinner and more embroidered than Kaz would have ever entertained, and the cane was a plain, inaccurate copy– (...) the mask; a silver crow’s head (...) crooked over the eyes and nose, almost like a Kaelish plague mask. But it left the mouth unblocked; of course it did. Dirtyhands needed to talk.

Inej:

Light and flimsy dark (doesn't have to be black; could be blue or grey) fabric for the veil and cloak. Has an element of spiderwebby fraying to it which is a nod to her being... Well, a spider lmao. But also meant to look ghostly and insubstantial, can sometimes see a metal shiny suggestion of knives underneath it. The veil can be parted just down the side of her face, so you can occasionally see a bit of her face, but never the whole thing. Would not be a practical costume to climb or spy in; too long and bothersome, the same way Kaz's Dirtyhands cloak would not be practical to pickpocket in. Sometimes productions get her a few cheap sheath knives.

Jesper:

Rabbit head mask, short cloak in some batshit colour like green or pink, lined w rabbit's fur and threaded with gambling chips, 'lucky' rabbits feet, coins, and stray bullets. Adornments tied on loosely so they swing everywhere when he moves. This way there's also a real risk of the Kaz and Jesper actors getting tangled together if they interact, which is not symbolic, just funny. This is our get-along Komedie Brute costume :) (we are stuck)

Wylan:

A once-fine red cloak with a high ruffly collar-- now tattered and singed and gone to seed. Little bits of wiring or string or pouches of powders etc sewn into it; sneakily embroidered with the Van Eck laurel around the edges. Mask, while elaborate and matching with the cloak, only covers the top half of his face, as if he's not quite as all-in as the others. For similar reasons, the cloak is half-length.

Matthias:

Wolf's head mask ofc, white fur cape a lot longer and more substantial than Jesper's, with heavy furring around the neck (made to bulk out the actor if they're not the right stature, which most will not be). Likely they also weight his boots to make his tread sound more imposing. Possibly a wig if they can afford one, since Druskelle are known for the long hair.

Nina:

Porcelain-doll Venetian style mask (you know the ones!) with a single black tear-- referential both to that bit in CK when they identified themselves that way in the crowd of Mister Crimsons, and the Queen of Mourning thing. Mask is covered with a very light veil, and she wears a long heavy silk cloak with a bit of a hint of a kefta, but not enough to get the Komedie Brute in shit from Ravkan Grisha lmao. Entrance usually heralded with a blue corpselight.

I imagine dependent on the production and the costumier they could look great and beautifully elaborate, or they could look cheap and shit lmao.

Bonus: I got bored and made a mock-up of a page of a Komedie play. I edited over the first folio for this, yes. Sorry to the Big W.S.

[cookies-and-coffee]

whump thought:

Being chained upside down! Suspended from the ceiling!

— a stress position (obviously)

— the flow of blood straight down to the head? Whumpee going in and out of consciousness because their body just shuts down due to the lack of circulation?

— Whumpee getting punished every time they pass out, and they have to stay conscious for a certain amount of time before they are allowed to be let down

— this position would make the Whumpee so fucking vulnerable, spread out and open to any wandering hands

— currently imagining that the chains around the ankles are too tight… long streaks of blood dripping down the calves, thighs, torso, chest, maybe even into the eyes?

— crimson staining the floor, and the black spots in Whumpee’s eyes prevent them from even seeing it

— the suspension could be for a multitude of reasons: Torture and/or interrogation??? Auctioning to be sold?? A sick form of art display? Punishment for disobedience? Simple entertainment??

— just imagine Whumpee swinging around, crying out for help to the people pushing and shoving their body like a funny chandelier that bleeds and begs

— a literal human punching bag

— also, if a person hangs too long upside down, they could literally die??

[heavysoldat]

do as you’re told

dark!mafia!nick fowler x fem!reader

you stumble into something you shouldn’t have, and nick needs to make sure you stay silent.

warnings: smut (dub/noncon, facefucking, unprotected sex, degradation, spanking, bruising, slightly public sex, humiliation, light daddy kink), graphic descriptions of violence & gore, slapping, unhealthy dynamics

sorry for the lack of posts :( been in a bit of a depression slump with no motivation to write. i’m not super happy with how this came out but luckily i’m feeling better & have writing motivation again

You were instructed not to go downstairs.

It was the one rule your boss had for you, or, at least, it was the most inforced.

You work in a diner in the middle of the city, decorated like it was straight out of Grease. The main floor is large, covered from side to side in seating and lights, as big as a gym and as bright as a carnival.

The downstairs has been locked away since before you had been hired. You’ve never seen the bottom, only seen people go down— heard music blaring from the top of the stairs. The glimpses you’ve gotten have been vague, but enough to discern the art deco design that contrasts with the upstairs, and the dim lighting that fades between the main neons.

It’s 12 AM on a Sunday. You’ve just wrapped up, logged your shift and cleaned up the mess your coworkers left for you, including the dining seats and insides of the bar.

Wiping your hands off with a wipe placed inside of your apron, you head towards the bathroom, down the back and to the right. The blocked off stairs are just next to the door, your hips practically bumping the sign as you head towards the door.

A faint, distant scream jolts you out of your movements.

You pause, hand frozen above the door handle, chest heaving with your breaths that grow in intensity. You go silent, listening for another sound—

All you hear is faint yelling, yelping and shuffles, all coming from the exact same place.

The stairs stare back at you with a vengeance, begging you to step over the locked chains.

It’s only when the noises cease that you find yourself complying.

You manage to get over the chains, skirt riding up as you slide your legs over, trying your best not to trip on the narrow stairs. You keep quiet, practically tiptoeing down each stair.

You can feel your heart racing, beating, like it’s about to pounce out of your chest, an overwhelming sense of dread flooding your senses and drowning you in it.

As you head past the top of the railing, another room comes into your field of view. It’s walls are made of glass, the inside of it club-like and art deco in design, grape colored lighting illuminating the dark space. The doors are triangular in shape, coming together with a white tile as the top.

But that’s not what stops you.

The groaning gets louder, it drones in your head like a deep hum, as more and more of the room is exposed to you.

There’s five men huddled around a figure, all dressed in suits too fancy for a diner, bending over the frame like they’re inspecting it. You’re frozen, desperately trying to figure out what’s below them, but one of them moves—

It’s a man. A man you saw earlier that day. The man who didn’t order anything. The man who just sat at the bar.

He’s lying down on the floor, crimson blood staining the white of his button down. You can see his face is battered, beaten to a pulp, one of his eyes swollen over from the beating. There’s a hole in his side where the blood is pouring from, and he’s clutching it, gasping for air with a desperation you’ve never seen before.

The man above him has a gun, small enough to be concealed but large enough for you to notice- and he’s clicking with it like a taunt. The man below him is fading, slowly losing himself, hand shaking above his fatal wound.

Tears are streaming down your cheeks. You don’t even notice them, too locked in on the sight before you, the feeling of them dampening your hand as it covers your mouth the only real inkling of your physical reality you can hold onto. You’re breaking out of your frozen state, turning to race up the stairs, but your own frenziedness breaks you.

Before you can even yelp, you trip, colliding with the hard staircase. The noise you make is loud enough for anyone to hear, and you cry at the realization- eyes wide like saucers.

They’re staring at you. All five of them. Eyes deadlocked on your shaking form.

One of them is… familiar.

You don’t get the chance to ruminate, before one of them is heading towards the door. You grab onto yourself, hoisting yourself up the stairs with desperate cries of fear, tears still falling down your sticky cheeks— but he grabs you. His ringed fingers have you by the ankle, pulling you down the stairs and pinning you against them.

“Please,” You cry, broken sobs ringing through your chest, “I won’t tell anyone, I swear. Please don’t kill me, please, please.”

His hand gravitates towards your throat, turning you around to face him with your back facing the stairs. He lands a slap to your face, piercing your skin in pain as your head retaliates with the force.

You whimper as he grabs you by the cheeks, squeezing them while he pulls you to look at him.

It’s him.

It’s him.

Nick Fowler— the owner, the man who hired you, your boss. The man who’s watched over you, the man who was kindest to you when you started working here- the man who paid you extra just when he felt like you were feeling down.

“I told you not to fucking come down here,” He shouts, squeezing your face tight, “Don’t you ever fucking listen?”

You sob, shaking your head violently. You’re not sure what for. You’re still pleading under your breath, gasping out sobs and begs.

With one look to the side, you hear shuffling of the four other men leaving— dragging the body towards another door in the room they’ve been stationed in.

Nick turns back to you. He grasps sight of your shaking form, your tear soaked face, your soaked eyes— and his grip softens.

“Honey.” He coos, stroking your hair from out of your face, “I’m gonna need you to calm down.”

When you’re still hyperventilating, still sobbing and pleading, he lands another slap to your face.

“I said fucking calm down.”

His voice is surprisingly calm. Deep and raspy, like he’s talking from the back of his throat. He strokes the inflamed mark on your abused cheek, watching as your violent sobs turn into sniffles and whimpers.

“I’m not gonna kill you.” Nick promises, continuing to tuck away your hair and wipe away the tears gliding down your skin- “I just need to know you’re not gonna say anything, okay?”

You whine, “I’m not gonna say anything, I prom- I promise. I promise.”

He tsks, almost like he’s disappointed. “I can’t be so sure of that, though, now can I?”

Your eyes widen in fear, heart picking up speed once again. “No- no, you can, I promise you can, please, please, I promise I won’t tell anyone- I-I swear, please.”

Sobs wrack through your body again, while his grip on your face tightens with his frustration.

He stares at you, silent, pondering, eyes boring into your skin like the sun. They fold back up towards your eyes, but settled.

“I know you’re not gonna say anything,” Relief washes over you. “‘Cause I’m gonna make real fucking sure sure you don’t say a goddamn thing.”

Fuck. Fuck. Your heart is going so fast you think you might faint, cries escaping your lips once again, fearful of what weapons he has in his mind and in his pockets.

He lays a light slap to your cheek— not as hard as the last few, but hard enough to leave a semi-lasting mark.

Nick stands, holding you down with a boot to your stomach. His hands fold down, undoing his belt and unbuttoning his slacks.

He leans down, pushing more hair away from your forehead, lips pressing against the skin there: “Be good, and nothing bad has to happen. Got it?”

Your lips are tightly pressed clothes, the sound of your whimper barely breaking between them. You nod.

“Good girl.”

Nick’s hands reach down beneath his trousers, pulling out his cock, already half hard. He gives it a few strokes until it’s at full mass, continuing to stroke the top of your head with his free hand.

“Open wide.”

With a shaking mouth, you comply.

He groans with the first slide of his cock in your wet mouth, letting out a holy curse to whatever higher power there is. He’s practically too big to fit inside, your jaw crying with pain at the stretch.

“Suck.”

You whimper, palms clutching hard against your nails. Your tongue slides around his shaft as you suck on him, his groans and curses echoing in your head.

“That’s a good girl,” He praises, “Wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”

You continue, whining despite your movements, feeling the salty taste of his precum coat your tongue.

He hums, “This is nice, hon,” Both hands hold place onto the back of your skull, “But I think I’m gonna need a little more.”

His hips begin to move, thrusting shallowly within the confines of your mouth. Despite the easiness of his first movements, you’re still gagging, spit rolling down your chin and onto your breasts.

“Let me take what I need,” He grunts, “And I’ll let you get what you want.”

His thrusts pick up pace, his heavy balls quickly slapping against your chin with each movement. You cry out with each thrust, gagging and spitting around his head— but it just makes him harder.

“You’re not gonna say fuckin’ anything, are ya?” He grunts, “Uh-uh, gonna be a good little girl for daddy, huh?”

To your surprise, he pulls back, cock slipping out of your mouth.

Nick grabs onto his shaft, stroking himself with fast pumps, before letting go to rub his cock up and down your face. The wetness of your own spit slathers your skin, your eyes closing instinctually.

He slaps his cock against your face, laughing at the sight. Your mascara ruined, black tears running down your cheeks, spit and cum coating your chin completely.

“You look like a fuckin’ whore.” He says, with another slap to your face.

Before you can react, he manhandles you with a grab to your waist, pulling you over and bending you over some of the stairs. He plants your ass in the air, underneath his hips— he grabs hold onto your skirt, pushing it up just to hump his cock against your panties.

He lays a harsh smack to your ass, making you cry out. He pushes your head down against the wood, completely bending you over below him.

Grabbing his cock, he rubs it up and down your pussylips, “I’ve always fuckin’ liked you. Walking in here all pretty, all shy, all polite— kept makin’ me think how good it would feel to ruin that pretty little head of yours. Make you my own little fucktoy— so polite, so willing, so obedient, just fuckin’ made for this, weren’t you?”

You whine out a “mm-mm”, shaking your head with a moan.

“No?” He asks, rhetorically, “No? You weren’t made to be my whore? ‘Cause this pussy’s telling me another story, sweetheart.”

He’s right. Your cunt is drowning his cock with your wetness, practically soaked through your now pulled aside panties. It’s humiliating, how your body reacts, how your pussy clenches around nothing, how your slick drips down your leg and onto the floor. It’s fucking humiliating and depraved.

“I think you fuckin’ wanted this,” Nick grunts, pressing his tip inside of your hole, “Think you wanted me to fuck you. You know, my boys are only on the other side of this room— can probably hear how much of a desperate fuckin’ whore you are. Probably thinkin’ about how much they wish they were me.”

You’re gasping, whimpering, whining as his cock slides inside of you, bottoming out within seconds. The stretch burns, his cock thicker than anything you’ve had before, practically tearing you open from the inside.

“Bet you wouldn’t mind that,” He groans, “Such a fuckin’ slut. Bet you wouldn’t mind them passin’ you around like a whore, like a hole for them to use, fillin’ up every fuckin’ hole you have.”

He starts to move, too fast as soon as he starts. His balls smack against your ass with each brutal slam, cock hitting your cervix in a way that has you sobbing— mouth wide and agape, unable to control the noises you’re admitting.

“That’s it, baby,” Nick’s grunting, head tilted back in pleasure, “Take this fuckin’ dick, all up in that tight little pussy.”

Nick leans his body over yours, bringing his hand around your neck to pull you up. You gasp, his fingers close enough to have you choking, but not quite.

“You didn’t even fight,” He muses, “Didn’t even fight to keep me out of this dirty cunt. That’s how I know you’re made for this. You already know what you’re good for.”

You gasp, letting out “ah, ah, ah’s” with each rough pound he lands inside your pussy. Your knuckles are turning white from how hard you’re grabbing the stairs, unable to stop the way your body reacts to the stimulation.

“God, you’re gonna fuckin’ cum, aren’t you?” He groans, smacking your ass, his rings leaving a pigmented indentation— “I just slaughtered a man- I’m still fuckin’ covered in his blood and sweat, and you’re about to come? Fuck, you’re such a whore, a good little slut for me.”

You don’t know why that builds you up faster. You’re disgusted by how that makes you climb faster, how that makes your cunt clench, how your orgasm starts slicing through you like a knife— it’s intense, how you come. You’re twitching and trembling, he’s barely able to hold you still with both hands, still fucking into you like his life depends on it.

“God, fuck yeah, gonna cum up in that cunt,” Nick’s grunting, moaning, cock twitching as you clench around it, “Gonna fill that little pussy up so fuckin’ nice, never gonna want another cock. This pussy belongs to me, now, honey, and you’re gonna fuckin’ let me use it whenever I want.”

His pounding gets sloppier, messier— and then he’s yelling. His cum spills deep in your cunt, so much that you can feel it filling you up from the inside. He’s left panting, moaning and gasping, still clutching onto your waist.

Nick pulls you up by your neck to sit up, level at height with him, pressing his nose against your neck.

“Mm,” He moans, “Not gonna say a fucking word, are you, honey?”

You shake your head. Still shaking. Still trembling. Still processing.

“That’s what I thought.” One last slap to your ass, “You’re learning fast. We’re gonna have so much fun.”

[jenniferchaulam]

MLP G4 LU Chain HCs!!!!

/inspired by @kenvamp 's (check the art out here)and @cheatsylu 's (check over here)

I had.. cutie mark head canons for Pony LU chain and I need to talk about them (these are my own HCs and you guys don't have to agree btw!!!!!!!) So, how and when each pony gets their Cutie Marks: Warriors: same time as his scarf. He was given the scarf and then the cutie mark appeared. He got it a bit later than his peers, but it's a very cool cutie mark. Fitting for a captain.

Time: can i be spicy? i want to be spicy, he got his cutie mark when he was 20. Not when he did OoT, not when he did MM. 7 year nap and woke up hoping for a cutie mark only to see a blank flank. and during MM, Everyone comments on it! like he never gets the mark of adulthood ever! okay not "ever" i want him to get it when he's 20 or sth and his cutie mark sucks,. and even twilight doesnt know what it looks like like he got it during a battle

a battle when he was TWENTY and it looks like the FD

and like, yall know Trouble Shoes who HATES his CM, yea Time loathesssss his

first he wishes he has one and now he wishes he didnt - only person who knows what his CM looks like is his Wife btw

Wind: OHO OPPOSITE SIDE OF THE SPECTRUM- Bro probably helped his sister and taught her how to swim or sth and get his CM at age 4 like by the time he does WW his cutie mark has been there for a While. He is a Big Boy. He deserves it

Four: Would it be funny if he has four different cutie marks and when he's merged they're like, blended together - and his cutie mark gains another shape each time he upgrades the four sword - but like, instead of the four elements for the four sword,.his cutie mark is the forge and it just becomes more detailed and has different colors - like a red fire, blue hammer, green anvil, purple tweezers

Twilight: Yall know Yaks and Cows exist in MLP as like... high sentient beings that also go to school and talk and stuff. What if Ordon Goats. like Twilight's Entire Village. Twilight stuck out like a sore thumb. And he's Very very disappointed that his cm isnt a goat. he got his cm at age 14 when he was helping everyone on the farm, and it's some generic rancher stuff like a hay bale or sth.

Hyrule: is the triforce. id like to imagine that full triforce wielders gets a triforce as a cutie mark. He has a bunch of magic of his sleeves, and if you know anything about MLP G4 naming conventions, magic-adjacent ponies are named after light-emitting things. So, Triforce emits a BUNCHA LIGHT

Legend: Oh my god I imagine he hides his cutie mark because its something very soft (bnuuy) and people wont take him seriously - he got it when he was very very young, before his adventures. But the rabbit cutie mark depicts a rabbit that's shaking an apple tree. (proof of courage. or sth. that's what im aiming for as a symbol of bravery, but I am no writer)

Sky: Got his CM at the same time as Sun!!!!! They have matching cutie marks. His is a sword and a Crimson Loftwing's feather, while hers is a pair of wings, one white (like the goddess, but she didn't know that before the adventure) and one blue like her loftwing.

Wild: He DID have a CM before the clammy, but one of the side effects of the Shrine of Ressurection is that it also erases that pony's cutie mark. he woke up with a blank flank. and my guy fought the clammy and found his own new cm that fits him. honourable mentions: Spirits! He got it when he got on a train for the first time, it. was. magical

the train

the train was magical. i hc that he didnt thought much of his CM

[tenjito]

fireflies become stars when the sky burns. || jang wonyoung

pairing: jang wonyoung x female reader contents: angst, hanahaki disease, y/n just wants wonyoung to be happy, implied death, unhappy ending description: you had never realized your feelings for your best friend until you started coughing up those pink carnations—wonyoung's favourite flower.

how ironic, was your initial thought after the first petal tumbled from your lips, because essentially, you did this to yourself.

you had introduced yujin to your best friend only two weeks ago. expectedly, they hit it off almost immediately, and it was very much planned.

wonyoung wasn't the type to go out and find people to date. like she had always told you, she wanted to "fall in love naturally and not force anything", to which you'd scoff and roll your eyes.

it was exhausting to watch your best friend be so painfully single all the time, that you made a vow to yourself to change that. so, when you met ahn yujin, you took the role of playing matchmaker (foolishly enough).

it was almost like a calling, a sign of fate. you knew wonyoung like the back of your hand, so you knew that yujin was absolutely perfect for her.

and fuck you for being so right.

staring down at the toilet basin, crimson covered petals of what resembled pink carnations floating in the water, you understood perfectly.

it was always there, you were just to blind to actually notice.

the lingering trembles and flutters your heart would get whenever your eyes would catch hers, they were always there.

wonyoung had always been a pain to you, even before yujin.

she was a pain to look at, laughing and shining like a small sun, because you knew you'd never get to taste her smile. a pain to touch with only slight brushes from your fingertips, knowing there were miles and miles of her skin you'd never get to feel.

and now, this. an ultimatum. this was the painful confirmation that even if you died now, from the flowers in your throat suffocating you whole, or the all-encompassing dread from the unrequited, you would never be able to forget jang wonyoung.

it's always been like that, you've always felt like that. hacks of red coated pink, finally make you realize that you've been in love with your best friend this whole time, and now you're dying because of it.

you couldn't help but wonder if you and wonyoung could've been something. something more than just best friends. you wondered if you hadn't have introduced her to yujin, would she have loved you back?

you wanted so desperately for the answer to be yes, to give yourself a chance, some hope. your soul was captured, chained and broken into so thoroughly by wonyoung, and now you were being released into the reality.

wonyoung would never love you. she couldn't. not in the way you loved her.

not in the way she loved yujin.

your breathing kicked in violently, filling your lungs with longing, burning gasps as you choked on another flower. sensation tingled back to the edges of your body, prickling like a thousand tiny, rusted needles.

you were dying.

you remembered what your friend, gaeul, had said when you told her about the disease. "but you can't die." is what she said after you had admitted you weren't going to get the surgery.

you thought it was an utterly stupid sentence. everyone died eventually. gaeul said it like it was a crime, an impossibility. she said it like it was something that could never happen.

except that it was happening right in front of you.

you felt your chest seize again, and the cold tiles of your bathroom floor underneath you, nipping at your skin as your body slowly lost its warmth.

there was a tragedy in being selfless, and you had it down to an art.

watching as the radiant-hued lights on the ceiling gleamed, you conjectured where your soul would go upon your death, the moment you'd join a spray of stars reserved in eternity.

the door opens, but you don't notice until wonyoung's in front of you, tears in her eyes but you couldn't hear her cries. your gaze is latched onto her and, slowly giving out as it was, your heart beat lonely within your ever-aching chest.

you know why you're here now. all you ever wanted in this world was one simple thing, and that was for jang wonyoung to be happy. she found her happiness, who were you to get in the way?

the blood continued to pool, drip, drip, dripping away. each droplet was in the shape of a spider lily bud, blooming, blossoming, agonizingly red, eerily reminiscent of an emotion in your chest that's about to burst.

you imagine the scene drawn as an impressionist painting; the light, flickering brutal white-yellow in thin pen strokes, enhancing the two bodies, two friends in embrace, one laying limp on the ground, and the other holding her with glass-like droplets down her cheeks.

it's beautiful (and so is wonyoung).

it's beautiful, in the way she's telling you to stay awake, completely unknowing of the fact that she's the reason you were there, covered in a sprawl of blood and petals.

it's delicate, in the way her eyes focus on yours, then to the flowers, then back to you, and her cries grow louder, as she finally realizes.

it's soothing, in the way she's holding you in her arms and whispering while you die, sounding like nothing but a sweet symphony to you.

it's tragic, in a way, but you think it's a pretty poetic way to die, and you wouldn't want it any other way.

"y/n..."

agony is to hear your name on her tongue. when she says it, it's as though her lips are dancing across razorblades, as though her voice whistles through a slick iron grid.

her touch is soft and warm, her tears striking along your cold jugular, her breathing cardice, smaze against your skin. she sounds of regrets and mistakes.

"y/n, please..."

you try to hate it, you definitely want to hate it. the way she says your name is beautiful, like a poem, but it is also so cruel, the way she forces it through your ears, because you know you'll never hear it again, and it spreads and stings like blight.

but you love it.

"i love you, wonyoung."

and you love her.

"i'm so sorry, y/n..."

yet she'll never love you back.

[cuubism]

some uhhhhh dreamling smut that got a litttttle more kinky than originally intended 😳

necessary background: this is from me and @magnusbae insane and stupid au wherein dream starts coming around the university and hob's students assume he's hob's sugar baby cuz like he doesn't work? he's always wearing really nice clothes? hob pays for everything? how did hob pull this hot goth anyway? and dream does absolutely nothing to disabuse them of this notion, if anything he cleverly and carefully encourages the idea because fuck it, he loves a good story. he is the king of stories after all. hob gets in on it later

secondary less important background is dream spending his free time around the university making art and sculptures and stuff because he is a CREATOR even in the waking world. and of course his sculptures are amazing.

ANYWAY

---

“Professor Gadling, might I have a word?”

That voice never ceased to make Hob stutter where he stood, no matter how often he heard it, how often it whispered endearments and worse in his ear. If anything, he was more affected the longer things went on.

He turned, chalk still held in his hand from where he’d been writing on the board.

Dream lounged in the doorway, hip pressed against the doorframe, hands casually in his pockets. And he was wearing—

Holy God, Hob was going to die and then come back to life and then kill him.

Hob first noticed that he was not wearing a shirt, unless the strings of jewels – rubies? diamonds? – draped over his chest counted. They glimmered sharply even under the weak classroom lights. Dream was kept modest, barely, by a long silk blazer that narrowed his shoulders and cut low to the upper thigh.

Thank fuck he was wearing regular pants, at least, ankle-length black slacks, and— were those fucking loafers? The other day, a student had made a comment – rather inappropriate, Hob really should reprimand them, not that he would ever get around to it – about Hob being some kind of Victorian maiden bowled over by the sight of an exposed ankle, and Dream had apparently taken this as a personal bet, for he was not wearing socks, either.

And the smirk on his face was like fire.

“Um,” Hob said, managing with great effort not to collapse on the spot. He glanced at the clock. “You know what? There’s only ten minutes left of class anyway. Why don’t you all go home early; I’ll send out the lecture notes and we’ll pick this up next week.”

None of the students seemed upset to get out early, but they were tittering amongst themselves, looking between Hob and Dream. This was becoming a problem. In a mere one semester, Dream had turned Hob’s university reputation from good-natured modest professor to deranged sex fiend.

That was what Hob got for loving the Prince of Stories, for he could never resist a good one, even if it was at Hob’s peril.

When the students had gone, Hob took Dream’s hand and dragged him down the hall. “My office. Now.”

“Oh dear,” Dream mused as he was yanked down the hallway and into Hob’s office. That smirk still hadn’t left his face. “I am in trouble.”

As soon as they were inside and the door was very firmly locked, Hob pressed Dream up against it with a hand around the base of his throat. “Are you trying to kill me, love?”

Dream leaned into Hob’s hand. His eyes were burning. “I would bring you as close to death as I could and then pull you back.”

“You’re managing it.” Hob released him, pinning him by his waist instead – his bare waist, mother of Christ – and kissing his throat, his collarbone, his sternum over the draped jewels. Dream leaned his head back against the door, sighing like a wanting creature now satiated. “You should be classified as a public hazard.”

“I would like to be your hazard,” said Dream, as Hob mouthed his way down his stomach. The jewels swung and glimmered unnaturally bright against his skin, crimson and shining like fresh love marks. Hob knelt to nip above the waistband of his slacks, tangling a hand in the dangling chain and tugging so it pulled on the back of Dream’s neck.

Dream arched his back against the door, petting at Hob’s hair like Hob had done something particularly pleasing to his majesty.

“I suppose this is exactly what you planned?” Hob gasped, wrapping his hands around the backs of his thighs.

“Perhaps.”

“Menace.” Hob tugged at his slacks and managed to unbutton them with his teeth. “You ruin me. Never stop.”

“I was not planning on it.”

Hob lurched to his feet again, pulling him forward by the bejeweled chain. “Come.”

Dream did as Hob bade, but the way a tiger might perform on a leash – easily escaping with one swipe of its claws. He let Hob push him up onto his desk and crowd between his legs. Hob had to push one of Dream’s ridiculous sculptures out of the way to do it, and was careful not to let it fall.

“Let it smash,” Dream murmured into his mouth as Hob kissed and bit at his lips. “I will make another.”

“I’m not going to break one of your sculptures, Michelangelo.” Hob huffed. “That would be sacrilege.”

“I make them not for the finished product, but for the experience of using my hands.”

Hob slipped his hands under Dream’s blazer. The fabric was incredibly soft, but not as soft as his skin. “The experience of using your hands, hm?”

Dream’s lips curved up against his. “Mmhmm.”

He tugged Hob’s shirt from his waistband, pressing those strong, delicate hands to Hob’s back, holding him close.

“You know,” Hob murmured against his ear, mapping Dream’s stomach with his fingertips, smooth skin punctuated by jewels, “I believe I vastly underestimated the experience of loving such a dedicated, skillful artist.”

“Are you saying that you like my hands, Hob Gadling?” Dream asked, and used those hands to unzip his jeans, slipping one in to wrap around him, never once looking away from Hob’s face. The tips of his fingers were always a bit cold, but Hob liked the way they warmed against his skin.

He struggled to regain his breath. “In so many words.”

Dream looked so superior. “Good.”

“I’ll show you good, you nightmare,” Hob muttered, and tangled a hand in his hair, tipping his head back. Dream still just looked down at him from under his lashes, muscles straining.

“You shall?”

“I’d take you home and lay you out and show you if I thought we would get that far.”

“Worry not, this—” Dream wrapped the glimmering chains around his hand until they cut into the skin in white lines— “can always make a reappearance.”

“It had better.”

Hob finally got his own hand around Dream, wrapping his other arm around his back to hold him close, and Dream twined his legs around Hob’s back. This pressed them close enough that they were essentially just grinding against each other, barely managing anything more precise. Hob ravaged his mouth, giving in to the sheer power of Dream in these clothes, and Dream only urged him on, biting at his lip.

Heat raged through Hob’s body. He found the strings of jewels again and twisted them around his fist, pulling so they went taught around Dream’s neck like a choker.

Dream’s breath stuttered and tripped over itself and then they both came, one on top of the other. Dream’s legs tightened around Hob’s back. He panted into Hob’s mouth.

When they’d caught their breath, Hob held his face between his hands and kissed him, light kisses on his forehead, cheek, the tip of his nose, and finally his lips, the tenderness deserving of such an exquisite creature, and Dream smiled.

He collapsed back onto Hob’s desk, arms draped languidly above his head, jacket falling open on his naked chest. His mouth was ruined, and there were hickeys already starting to settle on his neck and stomach, but he didn’t seem to mind. He closed his eyes, humming. They had just come, and Hob still wanted him with a violence. If anything, it was worse.

“We shall have to do this again,” Dream murmured, voice barely more than a gravelly hum.

Hob sat down in his desk chair, running his fingers through his hair as Dream sprawled before him like some kind of hunter’s catch. “What, ruining my reputation with my students?”

“Among other things.”

“Nightmarish, you are,” Hob said fondly.

Dream tipped his face into Hob’s hand. “Hmm. Yes.”