#even a single layer of shadow gives it SO much depth

[dragonbleps]

my fuckign fingers

[amuseoffyre]

I was mulling on how well OFMD does layers and layers of storytelling in such understated way with framing and sets and dialogue that carries so much weight without beating you over the head with exposition. Especially when it comes to the text and subtext of the history of the characters and what is happening in context.

Like every scene has a surface read, but there’s also so much more going on underneath. It’s like the many strands of threads used in weaving, where even when the things aren’t said directly and out loud, they’re present and building depth and colour to what’s happening.

I’ve picked a couple of examples which tell so much with so little.

Even this frame gives so much context without a word: Ed is from a poor background, his father is pictured beside a tankard of alcohol, his mother is dressed in servant’s clothing and he and his mother are very much separated from his father who is halfway into the shadows.

Then we have the impact of colonisation show in the words and presentation of Ed’s mother. She and Ed are both played by Māori actors, while Ed’s father is white. The way she talks about not being “those kind of people” and “it’s up to God” were lessons drilled into the many Indigenous children who were taken from their families and communities to be forcefully assimilated in church-run schools in British colonies, where they were taught English, indoctrinated into Christanity and were usually trained for roles in domestic service (for girls) or manual labour (for boys).

In three lines and with some simple set dressing and costume, they have set up not only Ed’s own history, but the history of his family and culture and how that impacted him and continues to impact him.

Another scene where this is intensely evident is in the Privateering academy:

For the first time, Ed and Stede are in the same clothing. On a surface read, this puts them on an equal footing, with them both being in the same situation. But once again, colonialism rears its ugly head in the context, especially in regards to Ed.

As mentioned before, the British colonies created schools with the declared intention of educating and improving the well-being of indigenous populations, while the reality was cultural erasure, indoctrination and genocide.

A lot of these schools demanded the pupils all dress in uniforms and in most cases demanded the children abandon all aspects of their culture. The fact that Ed has to physically change his appearance upon arrival in this British-run academy - it wasn’t regulation, it had to go - is a call-back to that legacy.

While less pointed, Stede has also been forced to assimilate into the more traditional and masculine attire. Even in the 1700s, there are accounts of queer men being described as too colourful and flashy and in the academy scenes, they have stripped his flamboyant soft queerness away from him, pushing him into the stiff, colourless cultural masculinity that is represented by the British forces throughout the show.

I could go on and on but it is very cold and I am very sleepy, but I will finish on a note about the Act of Grace and specifically on Hornberry’s “it’s boilerplate, absolution for your terrible crimes, blah-di-blah-di-blah.”

That line alone carries the weight of every single treaty arranged by the British when they colonised countries and it is a very pointed barb because it turns out that the British were very good at loopholing the hell out of their treaties, making sure certain turns of phrase could be re-interpreted to their advantage, something that is still impacting many people today.

The fact that Ed - and Taika - is the one to say “that’s where all the tricks are” is especially loaded given the history of the Treaty of Waitangi in Aotearoa and how the British interpreted it to their benefit.

There’s so much history built into the body of the show and I love that it’s there, adding depth and weight, a realness which I think is what has caused so much resonance with the audience. It provides a grounding foundation and while yes, the show is a comedy and is very funny, the history is always there too.

[akumahoshojo]

Castlevania I + II Fanfic: A Horrible Night's Dream (Chapter 1 preview)

I wrote this fic for @eboni-napalm as part of a Halloween gift exchange that started back in like... 2021 😱 After two of the roughest years for me ever (school/health/family/general RL problems all happening at once), I've actually been able to work on it!

While I'm still finishing up my final draft of the first chapter (fingers crossed I can do it before midnight!), I thought I'd post this preview of it here for tonight for any CV fans who might be interested in reading... and hopefully checking out the rest. It's the first 4 out of 8 vignettes to be contained in the completed first chapter, set in CV1 era for now.

Game: Castlevania I and II Pairing: Simon Belmont + CV2's "Mysterious Woman" (😉) Themes: Prophecies, Curses, Fighting Fate, Anachronic Order, Second Person POV, Experimental Style Content Warning: General themes of prejudice, non-graphic human sacrifice scene Thanks so much for your patience eboni-napalm-- I'm so sorry about the delay, but getting to work on this story has been rewarding and challenging in the best kind of way! 💗 Check out the story below!

i. now

To one who dreams the future, the present is the past. And thus all your remembered life has been a divided one, waking eyes on constant guard and inner eye fixed on time untold, like two-faced Janus in the body of a girl.

You've never been able to consider your nighttime visions a power, or even a gift: not when they've only come to you as you've lain helpless in the dark, bringing unwanted glimpses of a greater darkness in the world that encircles the realm of dreams.

And if some force beyond even that world can tear through the layers of time to give you a fleeting glimpse of what lies on the other side, then one lone human attempting to change the future’s design in response seems as futile a task as attempting to prevent an avalanche through the placement of a single snowflake.

But that's never stopped you from trying.

ii. then 

To the citizens of Transylvania, he may have been a savior, but to you, he was no different from the rest of them—which placed him somewhere just above scum. And so, as all of Jova turned excitedly north to welcome their conquering hero home, you chose to remain alone in the wooded outskirts of town, where they'd told you your kind would always belong.

Simon, the latest golden boy of the Belmont clan, with a mane of golden hair and bags of looted gold to match, was already the stuff of legends. He'd journeyed alone only days before to Dracula's stronghold beyond the mountains, slaying its monstrous guards and unholy master in a single night and escaping just in time to watch the demon castle crumble at dawn. Stories of his triumph had already traveled down from the hamlets at the foothills and across the river from the town of Yomi, faster than the news of the Dark Lord's resurrection on the night the Black Mass occurred. 

The night they’d shunned you for the last time.

iii. now

The future creates itself in the darkness behind your closed eyes. Your essence stares back from the depths of your mind.

Another vision, two-sided as always: fate's promise to you, and yours to yourself. You will fight it, the truest part of you swears, in the waking world where dreams can't reach, no matter what you'll see and see again.

It catches you off guard anyway.

As your mind's eye clears, the darkness that clouded it coalesces into a black sea, the crests of dozens of waves rising ominously from its surface. The light comes next—faint touches of distant moonlight and dancing candlelight, refining the indistinct sea of shadows into something all too real.

Hooded worshippers, lit by candles as black as their robes, fill the gutted remains of an old church. The church is dark, and the night outside is darker, showing through the shattered stained-glass windows like a void swallowing up the holy and the fair. Idols and relics, goat-headed demons and inverted stars and things you can't decipher, lurk just at the edges of the shadows.

But it's the thing on the altar that scares you the most.

Nearly shrouded in a tattered black cloak, it lays limp and motionless, sickly pale as any corpse—but with a countenance alert as any living man. Its face is twisted into a rictus of mad triumph, sightless eyes fixed on the crumbled ceiling above and a sky empty of stars, as if to mock, even now, whatever higher power watches from above. You're certain you've never seen it, through this eye or your outers. And yet, the longer you stare, the louder a primal alarm seems to scream from somewhere deep inside you.

Known and unknown, mighty and weak, living and dead—the thing’s very existence is a contradiction made flesh.

Clarity flashes across your mind in the errant glint of candlelight off a fang.

You know, now, what this thing is. Its—his—name is Dracula: scion of the dragon, the devil's very son.

His dark grip still chokes Transylvania as tightly in legend as it did in reality, even a century after his last death. Though the countryside has long healed from the scars of his prior reign, those like yourself, too well acquainted with the occult, feel their phantom ache to this day. It is the pain that springs up with each scornful word and every hostile stare, the chafing knowledge that anyone judged slightly less than normal will never be truly safe from a populace still cowering from even the memory of Dracula's shadow.

Your gaze focuses once more at a sudden shuffling among the faceless worshipers: a parting of the shadow sea. From the darkest corner of the church a maiden is borne, light as spindrift, through the crests. Her dress is pale, and her panicked face is paler. She seems almost to shine amongst the shadows that guide her onward, a lone spot of white nearly consumed by the blackness of the church.

A sacrifice.

As she nears the grim idol that lies in wait upon the altar, one of the encircling shadows shoves her roughly forward. She stumbles against the altar's edge, delicate hands bound tightly behind her back.

You are forced to watch, powerless as always, as present and future slip beyond salvation.

Another shift of the lurking shadows. A fleeting flash of metal. A torrent of blood from the maiden's lovely neck.

As the blood splatters on the leering corpse below, its fanged grin seems only to widen. And with a creeping chill of dread, you realize the thing on the altar isn't a corpse anymore.

The church darkens even more, beyond what seems possible, as the sky through the ceiling is choked by thunderclouds. The candlelight drowns in a shadow sea.

For a moment, you see nothing but blissful darkness, blessed oblivion—for a moment, you can nearly imagine what a normal night's sleep might be.

By the time a flash of lightning illuminates the church once more, Dracula is already gone—the monster loosed from its temporal cage.

You barely notice. You'd seen it, then, when the lightning struck, in what little you could view of the world beyond the church. The outlines of a cityscape all too familiar. The narrow curve of a waning gibbous moon.

Jova. Easter Sunday.

You still have time, you realize.

And, fate willing, so do they.

iv. then

It had been Easter then, the time of the town's yearly carnival. Those dull brick buildings had looked almost inviting, festooned with grand banners and colorful paper lanterns, as lively dances and celebrations went on in the market square. The scenes of joy and community, the swirls of music and laughter, seemed to sweep you up despite yourself, almost softening the heart their world had hardened long before. You were hopeful enough to believe the Lord's Resurrection reason enough for them to accept you, for that one day at least, to heed your warning and save their souls.

You were wrong.

No matter who you approached, no matter how you pleaded, the hatred you'd grown up with, inseparable as your shadow, blocked you at every turn. Maybe it was your clothes, or your accent, or just the fact you knew something they didn't, but whatever attempt you made, they judged it to be wrong. Your warnings, increasingly desperate, were met with insults from even the kindest faces in that celebration, insults steeled with the threat of something worse.

Liar.

Witch.

Unholy.

Unwelcome.

You'd finally turned your back on Jova when the stares began to linger a little too long, when the murmurs in the crowd began to overpower even the sounds of the festivities. You refused to add your own life to the number that would soon be lost.

And you'd tried, dammit. They couldn't say you didn't try. 

If their blood was to be shed, it would not be on your hands.

You told yourself this as you left them all behind, the music growing fainter and the colored lights dimmer with each step you took into the engulfing darkness. They'd just shown they cared nothing for you, for even themselves, so why chance your life for them? You didn't care—you truly didn't care.

But when your prophecy came true and hell came to earth, you suffered with them all the same.

[sovonight]

Hey there!

I love how you draw backgrounds, and I was wondering what your process for that is?

ahh i'm almost not sure how to answer, i feel like i haven't done a proper background in a while!

i think the most important part is to go into drawing a background with its purpose already in mind. even if you're not drawing a dedicated background, and it's just a backdrop for your characters, there should still be a reason why it's there. like, maybe the character(s) are interacting with it (leaning against a door frame, sitting in a chair, having their hair swept by the wind), maybe it provides a certain dramatic lighting that you want the character(s) to be cast in, maybe it adds a physical barrier between two characters who really need to talk something out, etc.

i feel like this is much easier in a comic because 9 times out of 10, the background is already woven into the setting and movement of the scene so you already know what you need from it, but you can also do the same for a single illustration. if i know i want a character to be shelving a book in a bookstore, and to have a ray of morning sunlight come in from the right that just catches the edge of her face and her neck, then I know that I need to draw a bookshelf near an implied window, and then maybe a few more books that she hasn't shelved yet, another bookshelf or two to imply there's an abundance of them, and then a few things i think a bookstore would need to have: a checkout counter, the counter is by the entrance/exit, the entrance/exit has large glass windows, additional light is coming in by the counter.

after i decide what elements i need in the environment, i sort out how i'm going to separate those elements out into layers--foreground, midground, background--and then i start working on composition. i value composition right after context because even if you can draw an environment with technically correct perspective, if it lacks a pleasing composition that completes the piece, it just feels dissatisfying. of course it's nice to have both a pleasing composition and correct perspective, but if i had to sacrifice one i would always sacrifice perspective. composition is hard to give tips on, because all i can really say is rule of thirds, feel it out, trust your gut, do your best, and remember that color and lighting affects composition too so try to plan with those in mind as well. at this point i usually try to start a color sketch and add in all the lighting effects i had in my head in order to get a full picture of the environment so far, so that i can judge if the composition & the colors work well together or not.

for coloring, i start by coloring everything its base color, which means the background starts out looking very flat. you can add depth into this base--and i sometimes do by just adding a few washes of darker color using normal mode layers--but for my comic backgrounds i actually prefer to add depth by relying on the lighting that i apply through layer modes, to keep my layer count down. for lighting, i like to stick with one main source of light that i can use to justify glowy highlights, and then i'll use a soft brush to airbrush some ambient light in the background. i'll mess around with my favorite layer modes, like multiply, linear light, and add glow, and i'll also try to have different gradients of light going in the foreground, midground, and background to maintain some contrast and depth between them. sometimes, if you're pushing something further into the background, and you're tempted to add more shadow and make it darker because you think that'll push it back, the right move is actually to focus on reducing contrast. like, if you look at a landscape, the hills in the far distance almost just blend into the sky; it's objects that are close to you that have the most distinct shadows and high contrast.

as for perspective, you can always fudge perspective, and should feel free to mush and squish it around if it benefits other aspects of the piece (composition, eliminating tangents, symbolism, whatever). messing around with it too much can break the illusion (unless your style completely supports that), but a little bit is healthy. everyone has an innate sense of perspective, and as long as that sense says "yeah feels good to me," then you don't necessarily need to pull out the formal perspective tools for every single background. a huge part of faking perspective without many tools is just to get so familiar with different angles that you can just toss them out on demand, and for that you can study a bunch of photo refs of different angles from real life, or you can do what i did and get a freecam mod for your favorite game and fly around taking screenshots of environments of interest from different angles.

[thatwitchyaunt]

Makeup for Magick/Ritual p8: Yule - The Winter Solstice

And finally, Yule! The Winter Solstice! We’re almost done, people… Let’s get it started!

All the colors of Christmas applies to Yule/Winter Solstice, since it’s one of the holidays the church “borrowed” from.

I know! Shocker!

But as a reminder, my notes have the Yule colors as :

Red

Orange

Yellow

Gold

Silver

White

Blue

Green

First up, Give Me Glow (plus singles).

Christmas Morning Palette: Not sure if there’s a holiday palette with a better curated color story. You have the beautiful gold for the Sun and solar magick, pine green for evergreens and prosperity, warm cinnamon and cranberry reds, and warm toned silvers and deep greys.

Single Shadow “Add-Ons”

Low Battery: neutral toned medium-dark red matte

Emerald City: emerald green metallic

Patty: slightly warm toned medium green matte

Cream Please: ultra creamy ivory matte

Glamourous: extremely high foiled pale gold

Halo: metallic white with baby blue and gold shifts

Icy Frap: icy warm champagne metallic with taupe undertones

Icicle: icy white metallic

Marshmallow: pure white matte

Satellite: aluminum foil silver metallic

Dirt Road: deep black brown matte

Valentines Red: cranberry red metallic

Now for Juvia’s Place!

The Afrique: Toasty reds, golds and greens. It’s definitely more suited for Yule than Samhain. It’s similar to Christmas Morning in terms of color magick, but I definitely prefer the GMG palette.

The Warrior: If you’re focus is the rebirth of the sun, the golds and gold-toned browns in this palette is the way to go. A work safe color and subtle enough for people still in the broom closet.

This is the last time, I promise! For now, anyway… Our lord and savior, Coloupop!

Just My Luck: Green for the evergreens, celebrating life even in the long, dark cold winter; and for prosperity, abundance and luck.

Main Squeeze: Reds for strength, health, and physical energy for those of us with seasonal depression; and for the fire that keeps up warm and alive during the icy winter.

Blue Moon: Speaking of icy… Blues for the ice, snow and cold outside.

Frozen II: Elsa: Seriously, fuck pressed glitters. This is another “going with the vibes” palette. The icy blue, silver and purple, and the berry shades scream winter. It’s based off of Elsa, so I’m not surprised.

Next, BH Cosmetics!

Poison Shock Ghost Pepper: Like all the Poison Shock palettes, the depth of the mattes are lacking. But if you ignore the pink shades, it could lend itself to some holiday glamour magick. I feel like the Poison Shock palettes can be paired with a Colourpop monochrome palette . So yeah… what I wrote for CP Main squeeze applies here too.

Poison Shock Absinthe: Again, depth isn’t great, but everything from the CP Just My Luck palette applied to this one.

Poison Shock Sub Zero: The depth is slightly better in this one. Again, all things from the CP Blue Moon palette applies to Sub-Zero.

Naughty Palette and Miss Claus: The Lit List Palette: If you have either of these BH holiday palettes, you have options. I like the size of the pans in the Naughty palette because it makes it easy to also use them as blushes, and the quality is worth ignoring the two pressed glitters. The only look you can really do with this palette is an icy blue one, since it’s more toasty and cozy. The Lit List palette is the Naughty palette’s brighter little sister, and it thankfully only has one pressed glitter. This one will give you an icy December weather look, and it has an abundance of golds if you’re aiming for the rebirth of the sun. To be honest, you have them both, you’re pretty much covered.

Smitten in Switzerland: These colors lean more to the icy side, but with a bright golden yellow pop. Another “vibes” palette for the list. If you’re going for Jack Frost covering everything with a layer of ice, this will have you covered.

Passion in Paris: I included this for the winter berry shades. The reds and blues specifically.

Love in London: This palette’s here specifically for the metallic blue, purple, grey and gold. And no other reason.

Blueberry Muffin: Another good icy palette, with its cool toned blues, greys, white and silver.

And finally, we have the singles from Shroud, Terra Moons, and Looxi Beauty.

Shroud:

World Eater: an intense true red metallic shimmer

Vigil: a golden yellow metallic

Artifact: a grungy olive green metallic with a slight gold shift

Terra Moons:

Skyfall: a pale cool toned blue metallic with blue and lavender shifts

Meteorite: a golden, pink shimmer with hints of green

Nightfall: a deep blue metallic with hints of cerulean blue and gray

Spiked: a warm, dark red metallic

Hot Spiced Cider: a unique gold-green with hints of brown metallic

Dark Matter: a turquoise brown shifting metallic

Looxi Beauty:

Dream On: a pale aqua blue shimmer

Money Bags: a green with shifts of gold and blue

Honey Pot: a golden orange with shifts of copper, yellow and purple

Snow Angel: a light iridescent shimmer with shifts of gold, pink and bluish purple

Winter Moon: an azure blue shimmer with subtle shifts of gold and olive green

Chilly: a baby blue shimmer with shifts of pink and purple

Cupid: a warm peach shimmer with shifts of gold, orange and pink

Donner: a blue with green and gold duochrome

Rudy: a burgundy red with shifts of gold and orange

Adonis: a metallic powder blue with shifts of silver, blue, turquoise and purple

CASHmere: an emerald green with slight shifts of blue and gold

Noir: a steel blue with a lavender shift

Firefly: a red metallic with a copper/orange/gold shift

Lady Luck: a bronze gold with shifts of green, red and brownish purple

Nebula: a light violet metallic with undertones of silver

Vibin’: a periwinkle shimmer with a lavender shift

As usual, if you have anything to add, 100% please do so! Share and inspire!

And the sabbat series is officially finished! It’s done! Holy crap…

[mitcenter]

8 Best Illustrator Tools for Graphic Design in 2024

In the ever-evolving world of graphic design, Adobe Illustrator remains a staple for creating stunning visuals. As we move into 2024, the landscape of design tools within Illustrator continues to expand, offering designers more flexibility, creativity, and efficiency. Whether you're a seasoned professional or just starting, these eight Illustrator tools will elevate your design game to the next level.

1. Pen Tool

In Illustrator, the Pen Tool is used to create new vector objects and lines. It provides us the capability to make custom shapes, curves and complex designs. Another improvement of the Pen Tool happened in 2024, this time with Adobe introducing smoother curve control that enabled designers to create intricate paths without using as many anchor points. This update saves time, and also gives more polished designs.

2. Shape Builder Tool

The Shape Builder ToolFor designers who create intricate illustrations by merging basic shapes, the shape builder tool is indispensable. Making it easy to add, minus and intersect shapes. 2024 NEW — The most recent upgrade for 2024 includes advanced snapping options, which is very useful in speeding up complex shape manipulation.

3. Gradient Tool

Shadows play a crucial role in giving that gradient look feel to your designs. The gradient tool is a wonderful asset employed by illustrators while creating color blends in subtle transitions. Other new gradient types within the tool in 2024 are free-form gradients that allows creation points at arbitrary positions and enable users to define colors along paths for a more organic look. By introducing these improvements, you have even more creative freedom to create interesting ways in which one gradient transitions into another color and can bring a new level of depth toward developing your design solutions.

4. Appearance Panel

The Appearance Panel makes it super easy for designers to apply numerous fills, strokes and effects in a non destructive way on one single object and be able to edit each layer independently. This tool has been enhanced in 2024 to be easier for users with the new features of layering effects and complex design handling. Being able to save and store appearance styles is a real time-saver, especially when you are consistently applying the same style across many different elements throughout your projects.

5. Artboards

Artboards are a must in Illustrator, they allow you to keep your workspace clean and help manage multiple design output. We also tweaked the Artboards tool, improved some of its alignment and distribution options so that you can take even better control of projects with multiple design variations (like social media graphics, banner ads or print layouts) in 2024. It is quite useful when you have to quickly change the size of multiple artboards and reshuffled them around, especially in high-speed design workflow.

6. Brushes Panel

Illustrator gives a large group of brushes with various purposes extending from vector brush strokes to surfaces and designs. 2024NEW BRUSH LIBRARIES AND CUSTOMIZATION OPTIONSCreators have more brushes to work with, including textures and effects. The panel has also been streamlined with new brush convenience, making the brushes you use most accessible and easier than ever to create custom designed styles.

7. Type Tool

Another type of tool that many graphic designers use is the Type Tool in Illustrator, which gives us more complex text manipulation options. Phillip: The Type Tool has also had a major upgrade in 2024, with support for variable fonts and much-improved text flow capabilities. With these updates experimenting with different font styles, weights and sizes will be more straight forward — making sure your text elements are both beautiful to look at while being read.

8. Adobe Sensei Integration

Illustrator is increasingly Adobe Sensei-ified — the company’s AI and machine learning technology. In 2024, Sensei powers even more smart suggestions and automates repetitive tasks. Auto-colors, pattern-making and layout suggestions are just a few of the features that will help to reduce design time so you can use what really matters— creativity! As a result, this AI-driven method improves the efficiency and assists designers in realizing more significant professional results faster.

Conclusion

Now as 2024 is in progress, Adobe Illustrator has developed new creations and given graphic designers great tools to put their ideas into realization. Whether you are leveraging the raw control of Pen Tool or using your creativity aided by Adobe Sensei, these 8 tools will be a milestone helping any designer to keep pace with time. From logos, illustrations and complex layouts all the way to learning how to design just like what we would print out from a printer sitting in-between of SSH terminal commands.

[heartfullofleeches]

Static Dreams

Yandere monster oc x G.N Reader

Had some trouble sleeping last night so I wrote this thing with my oc, Static, when I woke up. Just some fluff with a monster that puts you to bed

You wake up in a cold sweat. Memories from the prior night keep you pressed to the damp mattress; shadows dancing along your walls in the eve of a new dawn. The longer your eyes stayed open, the more of the dream you forgot; yet its hold on you still lingered. You tensed up whenever a shadow would move too much for you liking or at the various sounds of dark.

You sit up as the sun pokes its ugly head through your window. Even if it was still the dead of night, you doubted you'd be able to go back to sleep. You yawn; eyes tight as you stretch with the force it. Recently, you had fell under a spell of poor sleep. From bad dreams, to just finding it difficult to rest.

Throwing your legs off the side of the bed, a new blight works its way into the back of your mind. Faint static clicks in the recess; popping in your ears as it slowly rises in volume. Through the sound, you're able to make out a single string of dialog.

"Come.. home?"

You smile a bit, letting out a chuckle of disbelief as you shake your head. "I'll be there later. Let me take a shower first."

There's a pause in the air.

"Bring the stuff?"

-

After said shower, you leave your apartment and head out into the early morning. Backpack over your shoulder, you venture towards the other side of town where an abandoned house and your new partner resided. The front door is already cracked upon arrival. A layer of dust kicks up as you open it; contaminating the already stuffy air. Not even a foot over the doorframe and you can hear its arrival approaching. Hands slapping against the rotting wood; small groans played between their falls. You hear a clicking noise behind you, followed by a crawl of static electricity as a figure rises behind you. Its tangled white locks drap over your face as it used the height difference between you to lean forward and look down at you. It attempts to tilt its head into an upright angle as it stares you down; static filled eyes giving off small clicks as it blinks.

"Y/n.."

Its voice plays in your head. Rasped; yet soft at the same time and popping like it was filtered through an old radio.

"Good morning to you too, Static."

Static chirps; grabbing the sides of your face and rubbing its nose against it. It lets go and half crawls in front of you; getting a proper view. Its lips pull into what you imagine to be a smile, waiting patiently for your next action; eyes shifting between your backpack and you.

You had met the entity a few weeks prior on a dare. The house had played part in many ghost tales around town, and it was the source of them all. It was rumored to cause any man that met its eyes to go insane, and in a way they were correct. Static was unable to speak on its own, and had to resort to using hallucinations to convert brought on by meeting its gaze, and sounds it could mimic.

After being rightfully terrified, you managed to have a somewhat normal conversation with it, and that's where your relationship began. It appeared in your dreams asking you to return. Hardly even let you leave on the first night. Disregarding their nature and some plot holes in the stories; they made decent company.

"Don't worry. I brought everything." You swing your backpack onto the nearby couch; causing another miniature dust storm in the process. From its depths, you pull out two items; a brush and a laptop - its two favorite things besides yourself. Its hair had a habit of getting mangled over short periods of time, and it enjoyed looking at human media. Something it often did before the previous overs of the house smashed their television due to beliving it was the cause of their nightly troubles.

After turning on, and setting the laptop on the floor; Static takes position in front of it with their back against the couch. They lean back so that you're just able to comb their hair without struggle. You pick up said item and start doing so; the creature letting out a sound akin to a hum as you begin. It always missed you so everytime you left.

You run your fingers through its mane before even thinking about sticking the comb's teeth in. You washed it to your best extent the last time you came so there wasn't much dirt, but it had the texture and consistency of a store bought spider web. It doesn't seem to mind when you have to use a little force, knowing that you're doing your best. You can hear the videos that it listens to as you work.

Somewhere along the line, your tiredness starts to catch up on you. You slack a bit; arms slowly growing heavier as does everything else. You cover your mouth with the back of your palm as you yawn; the click of a spacebar heard the second it leaves your mouth. Static looks back at you; their expression speaking loud on what they were thinking.

Are you okay?

"I'm alright. Just.. been having trouble sleeping lately." You answered honestly. You had restricted its tampering with your dreams, so it had no knowledge of your current troubles until now. It stares at you for a moment, before turning back to the computer. After some typing, and a frame of rapid clicks, it turns back to you. It opens its mouth wide; a gentle melody coming from the back of its throat.

"Twinkle, Twinkle. Little-"

"I don’t think that'll help." You retort with a small laugh. They close their mouth immediately. "I'm fine, don't worry about it."

Their eyes narrow; groaning with a tone that could only mean one word. Liar. They stand back up, and in one swift motion they have you in their arms; barreling out the room and towards the stairs to the second floor. You hang over its right shoulder; protests falling on deaf ears as they bring you to the master bedroom. They toss you gently onto the bed; the mattress kept in pristine condition - possibly for your arrive. They grab both corners of the blankets and shove them over your body.

"S-static? What are you doin-" Your sentence is cut short as they cup your cheeks; eyes glowing brighter than before as they flicker swiftly - locking you in a state of reverie. The shuttering of their lids and the various sounds their body makes drowns into background noise as a ringing silence takes hold. Somewhere through, you hear its voice once more.

"Shhh."

It whispers; bony fingers holding you so delicately. The walls of your surroundings begin to melt as does its monstrous form.

"I don’t want you to get sick. Let me help you go to sleep."

Its voice has grow mellow; fully lips smiling sweetly down at you as it brushes your cheek with the pad of its thumb. Its skin remains as dark as night, but comes full and adds mass to its thin cheeks. It's sunken eyes fit properly into their sockets; shining a faded grey. It took on a human face in visions you had the first time you met for a similar reason; to provide you with as much comfort as possible through the whole process.

Suddenly, you're on a beach. Cool sands beneath your feet as waves crash over; the distant cries of seagulls behind you. The sun is just warm enough to give you the feeling of a warm blanket around your body. You find yourself in a field on a star light night. Cradled by the grass surrounding you and a soft breeze. A star shoots across your field of view; falling someplace else with a streak of its glimmer left on the sky.

Static shows you many things within that time frame. Things that bring you ease; things that you've never seem before. The images come and go, but you can always feel them right by your side; lulling you to sleep with the best extent of their capabilities.

You end up in your bedroom, their hand clasping yours; stroking it gently. There are no stray shadows. No bumps in the night aside from those that might seem pleasant. The atmosphere is so light it feels like your floating, but they're right next to you to keep you grounded. Your eyes become heavy, but the flashes remain. You don’t remember when you finally fall asleep, but they wish you a well deserved rest as you go limp. Staying by your side from then and onwards.

"See you soon... Y/n"

[tawaifeddiediaz]

hi can you make a tutorial on how you sharpen your gifs? i especially love the black and white ones you make

Hi Nonnie! Sorry you've had to wait a little bit, I've just been really insanely busy with a thousand things 😅 Anyway, I'm not sure how exactly to do this, but hopefully this makes sense!

We'll be doing this scene, to go from the top gif to the bottom gif:

(This tutorial assumes basic knowledge of gif-making and smart filters, and is probably long-winded because I haven't been making gifs for very long, but this is the way I do mine.)

Tutorial under the cut:

Couple things to note that make a huge difference before you even start:

Use high-quality videos! I try not to go below 1080p for anything, and sometimes that means downloading bigger files.

Make sure that whatever application you use to get your frames isn't distorting them, or skipping frames. I use MPV player.

Make sure your gif size is correct when you crop it, if you're posting it somewhere). For example, if you're making a single gif on a row, Tumblr's optimum width is 540px. If you make it 500px, or 550px or whatever, it's going to look super crunchy and weird after you post it, so stick to their sizes.

We're gonna begin at this page (if you need a tutorial on how to get here, let me know, but I'm assuming you know!)

First, make sure your gif is a smart object! If your gif isn't a smart object, you won't be able to apply the smart filters. If it is, you'll see this symbol next to it. To convert all your layers to a smart object, select them all, right-click, and select "convert to smart object."

Next, duplicate your gif layer so you have two. Hide the top layer and select the bottom layer. Your layers should look like this:

Remember we're working on the bottom layer first! Go to Filter > Sharpen > Smart Sharpen. Use these settings, depending on what looks best for your gif/video quality:

The radius can be set to 0.2px to 0.5px depending on your quality/preference. You can also choose to remove Lens Blur instead of Gaussian Blur but these are my preferred settings. (I don't do anything with the Shadows and Highlights section)

Next, do another Smart Sharpen, but this time, use these settings:

(a popular choice for this second smart sharpen is 10%-10px, but I like the clarity 20% gives just a little bit more.)

This is what my layers look like right now:

And this is what my gif looks like. I removed the sharpening from the right side of the image, and while it's not super obvious like this, I think you can see the difference best in Buck's eyes. The eye on our left has much more detail and depth, while the one on our right isn't as clear:

You can stop right here if you want to, if you're happy with the way your gif looks. However, my preference is always to soften the crisp edges just a little so it doesn't look over-sharp, and also give it some clarity, which is where that second layer comes in.

Select that top layer and un-hide it. Remember that there are no filters on this layer so far. Go to Filters > Blur > Gaussian Blur. Choose a radius of 0.4-0.7px, and click enter. The gif will look like this:

Next, change the opacity of this top layer to 20-25%. You should have your sharpened gif back, but it will look just a little softer and less harsh along the edges. You can change this opacity depending on your scene, so it's really like a slider you can control to go back and forth.

Your layers will look like this:

Then, one more optional step that I like to do is add a noise layer. This seems counter-intuitive, but when you have big blocks of color, the noise helps disperse them just a little bit.

Go to Filter > Noise > Add Noise. Use these settings:

Then, in your Layers pane, right-click where it says Add Noise, and in the menu, click Edit Smart Filter Blending Options. You should get this dialogue box, where you can change the opacity of that filter to 50%.

I know it kind of seems like "what's the point?" when this particular layer is already low-opacity, but it does make a difference (to me, at least) in some gifs where there's a lot of color/light, especially after you color the gif in!

This is what your layers should look like:

And this is what my gif looks like after I run it through the frame animation, all sharpened!

Here it is colored the way I color my gifs xD (and also slightly slowed down):

And here it is in black and white (I love black and white, too xD):

I hope this helps, Nonnie! Feel free to drop me an ask if something here doesn't make sense.

Last tips:

Don't be afraid to play around with multiple settings until you find the one that works best for you.

Make. An. Action. I can't tell you how much actions save time when I'm working because then I don't have to remember every last detail. The first few times, just get in practice of doing it yourself, but after that, actions are amazing. Some people on tumblr have actions you can download and use, too.

Different scenes/lighting will result in different outcomes of your sharpening, so you might have to play around with it. Sometimes, I add an extra Smart Sharpen layer to that bottom layer to help clarify some of the details, and other times, I just change the existing settings to fit the scenes.

Sharpening tends to be a personal preference thing, so just play around with all the settings until you find one that works best for you.

Happy giffing!

[soulmate-game]

New fic *test*

New Bio!dad Bruce story? I’m testing out this first chapter, and if I like where it’s going I might add it to my growing pile of WIPs. If I have inspiration, I might as well use it. Because of life events stressing me the hell out, I’m throwing any writing plans out the window and I’m purely gonna write to destress right now. Whether that means updating THG or not, or continuing Maribat March, we’ll just have to see how this all pans out. Things are subject to day-to-day change.

I got inspiration from this from rereading my day 1 story for Bio!dad Bruce Wayne month from last year. I’m just gonna change a few things.

—*—*—*—*—*

For once, an unfamiliar face attracted the attention of everyone who caught even a glimpse of them. It wasn’t even because of the person themselves at first, but their dress. The skirt like the most fantastical of storybook ball gowns, fluffy layers of satin over a luxurious petticoat, with a stunning pink floral pattern whose busy appearance was tastefully offset by a shorter, sheer layer of leaf green tulle artistically weaved and somehow sculpted over the floral in order to tame it. The effect turned what should be a grandmotherly pattern into something softer, sophisticated and youthful and yet also reminiscent of fairytale princesses. Over top the short layer of green tulle was an even shorter later of white tulle, almost invisible except for the elegant embroidery of crystal-white vines that twined all over it, connecting the green below it to the bottom-most floral pattern and oddly adding a layer of childishness instead of maturity. At the waist of the dress was a dark plum pink satin ribbon, to separate the elaborate ballgown skirt from the bodice. Attached to the simple ribbon was a large brooch of fabric flowers, with a single plastic ladybug in the center.

The bodice of the dress came up into a cheongsam neckline, but was sleeveless. It was a simple design, of half green and half dark pink, with a white border separating the two. The white border had expertly done embroideries in a soft silver thread that would only be visible close up, the images the thread made being that of fairies and ladybugs dancing around one another.

It was, all in all, a stunning display that made the small eurasian woman wearing them look like absolute royalty. Perhaps a long lost fairy princess. Her black-blue hair was even done up in elaborate looping braids and a braided bun, with silver and green pins that further completed the regal ensemble. And yes, while the expertly done dress was what initially captivated her current audience, it was not what kept them from leaving her alone. That was all her personality, bubbly and bright as her blinding smile. It was a sunny disposition that very few people present had any exposure to at all, and it drew them like a sunflower to the daylight. They could not help but flock closer, or even just stand back and keep themselves turned to her presence. Already she had been at the gala for two hours, but there was no issue. She just kept proving her generosity, admitting she had donated both a dress and a suit of her own making to the charity auction that would begin soon, one of the main attractions of the gala. She skillfully charmed the more snooty of the attendants, and artfully twisted her words so that they felt compelled to donate more money that they truly had no use for. Later, they would remember their donation and wonder what compelled it, but come up with no satisfying answer.

And yet she was entirely unaware of her more silent audience, who stood back and observed. Truth be told, every one of them was glad to not be the center of that attention for a change, to have room to breathe for so long at an event where usually that commodity was so scarce that it demanded a fierce competition for. Compared to her garden of color, they were all shadows in shades of blacks and blues and whites, with a touch of red here and there that was entirely too thematic for their home city. The one who sported a royal blue suit tilted his head at the scene they were all calmly witnessing, his bright azure eyes glittering.

“She’s like magic,” he mused, clearly enchanted despite having not said a single word to the woman. “Perfect socialite. She’s kind, generous, she made that dress and the ones she donated to the auction herself so she’s obviously got an intimidating amount of skill for her age. She even tricks those old fuddy-duddies into spending money. It’s like a dream come true!”

“I don't trust it,” the one to his right said, a man just a few inches shorter in a classic black suit with a red dress shirt underneath. He absently swept his bangs away from his face as he narrowed his eyes at the woman. “It seems too perfect. She doesn’t have any identifiable character flaw, except maybe being a little clumsy and too energetic. She does babble a little… but nothing that actually suggests any depth besides her just being— good. That’s impossible, and I don’t trust it.”

“Tt. I agree with Drake for once. She seems entirely too comfortable with this setting, despite her blushes and rambles,” the one who spoke this like was taller, clearly a teen in the middle of his growth spurt. He, too, wore a plain black suit but his had subtle charcoal embroidery and he wore an emerald-green dress shirt under it that made his matching eyes gleam dangerously. “It seems almost playacted. Expertly so, but nonetheless not entirely genuine.”

“Wow, not many pick up on that. I’m gonna give your observations a solid eight out of ten. They’re all perfectly sound, but not quite complete,” a new voice made all of the silent group stiffen— somehow they had been snuck up on. The newcomer smirked at them as if having fully expected their reaction but still being pleased at being able to evoke it. This was yet another stunner; far too much color in her outfit to be a Gotham native, and far too much skill in the construction for it to signify anything less than extreme influence. She had bright golden-blond hair that was coiled into a low bun, with her bangs artfully curled and arranged to display her crystal blue eyes.

In contrast to the garden-themed dress of the Eurasian woman who had garnered their attention at first, this newcomer was wearing a pantsuit. It was all in a dark honey-gold, in a stiff fabric with construction that made it lay entirely in perfect, straight lines and hug her form in the right places. Black embroidery decorated the long, flared sleeves and pant legs and dripped around the square neckline like a faux necklace. A cape made out of the same material as the rest of the pantsuit was draped on one shoulder. It started out as the same honey-gold color, but it became a gradient as it faded to a solid black at the ends. Gold thread embroidery decorated the solid black bottom of the cape in delicate, deceptively simplistic swirls. The top half of the pantsuit was clearly inspired by military garb, simultaneously rigidly constructed yet fitted, with circular onyx buttons going down the center of the chest and a thick metal belt, all in swirling silver and black, sat perfectly clasped around her waist. It was far more solid-colored and simplistic compared to the fairytale dress in the center, but no less show stopping and luxurious. It simply showcased an entirely different attitude, almost as if the two women could never get along if their personalities matched their outfits.

“And who are you?” The man who had been the center of the group of shadow-like adults spoke up, back straightening to milk every speck of his generous six-feet-and-three-inches of height. This was none other than Bruce Wayne, the host of this annual charity gala. And normally, his current stance would either intimidate or utterly charm whoever it was directed at— but not this pantsuit-clad blond warrior. Her smirk merely widened, and her blue eyes took on a slight shade of teal as if trying to mimic the dangerous ocean depths.

“I am Chloe Bourgeois, the daughter of Andre Bourgeois, the mayor of Paris, and Audrey Bourgeois, the Style Queen. It’s nice to meet you again, Monsieur Wayne,” she introduced herself imperiously. “I also happen to be the best friend of the girl you were just staring at.”

Bruce nodded, but had trouble reconciling this clear powerhouse of a woman with the bratty and entitled preteen he had met years ago, at the last gala she had attended with her mother. “Of course, I didn’t recognize you at first Chloe. You’ve grown a lot since the last Gala I saw you at.”

Chloe wrinkled her nose, clearly not appreciating the reminder. “I was a bitch,” she admitted easily, seemingly not at all bothered by the confession. It caused not only Bruce but also the oldest three of his sons, who had all also met her in the past, to blink in silent shock. “Things have changed. Paris is apparently the perfect chaotic environment right now to promote emotional growth and smack spoiled kids over the head with reality,” she shrugged. Part of the reason her and her whole class had even been able to come to the Gala in the first place was the fact that Bruce wanted to offer the most attacked group of Parisians a respite and some support from their crazy lives. The fact that even Gotham seemed sane in comparison to Paris was a bit of a hard hit for both involved parties, but in the end everyone understood that “more sane” didn’t always equate with “less dangerous.” Considering all that, Chloe had no reason to sugarcoat the situation in her home city. “But it wasn’t easy at all, and Marinette was largely responsible for my improvement too.”

“Marinette?” The heathen who somehow got away with attending a gala in a black leather jacket over a dress shirt and suit pants asked, raising a brow. Chloe nodded.

“The girl you were just goggling at. Marinette Dupain-Cheng, the class president and resident workaholic. Does she ever sleep? Nobody knows,” Chloe shrugged.

The blue-suited man, Dick Grayson, shot a suspicious glance at Tim, who was standing to his right, as if he was worried his brother had made a female clone of himself just so he could continue to work hard and never rest. Tim ignored him and sipped from the thermos of coffee he had somehow snuck in.

Bruce cleared his throat to bring the focus back onto himself, and shot his most charming smile at Chloe. “They would have known who she was, if they had read the brief information I gave them about your class. But they never do listen to me,” he complained with good humor. “But back to the original topic, Miss Bourgeois, do you care to correct us on how our observations are lacking?”

Chloe laughed easily, smiling and nodding to indicate Marinette, still stuck in a circle of socialites and not seeming the least bit worn out.

“Of course. First; She is not completely acting. She really is like magic sometimes— disgustingly kind, generous, far too willing to help just about anyone for just about any reason. She’s one of the best people I’ve ever met, as much as it pains me to admit it. But she is exaggerating her personality a bit and hiding the parts she doesn’t want anyone to see, so there is a little acting involved. Just not as much as you seem to think,” Chloe then waved her arm in a flourish as if she were presenting Marinette to them. “In short; behold Mari Dupain-Cheng, the ridiculously likeable, disgustingly cute, extremely philanthropic mask that she shows everyone at public events like this. You don’t see any of the insomnia, or the anxiety, or the self doubt. Just the parts she wants you to see, accompanied with a smile to blind you to everything else,” her all-too-deep blue eyes settled back on Bruce then, a knowing glint shining in them. “Don’t you think that’s ridiculously similar to Brucie Wayne for you, Monsieur? Utterly, ridiculously, similar?”

Bruce grit his teeth. He hadn’t expected anyone else to know about his exceptionally well hidden secret, not even his kids had caught on or found his buried evidence yet. Yet his heiress comes up, nearly flaunting her knowledge in his face with all too many unspoken questions and criticisms.

And her cryptic words had succeeded in making all of his kids look at him with extreme suspicion. Shit.

“What are you saying, Miss Bourgeois?” he cautiously prodded. She hummed noncommittally before dropping the bomb all too casually;

“I’m saying I’ve seen her adoption papers, and you won’t be able to run from her for long Monsieur Wayne. As soon as she gets an opening, she’s going to pounce,” Chloe’s eyes glittered dangerously again. “And nowadays, Marinette doesn’t ever let people escape her. Your problem with adoption has created a rather unique problem, you know. You’re at fault for a large majority of her self confidence issues, and I want you to know that I am not going to forget or forgive that anytime soon.”

“Bruce,” Jason’s voice was dark and threatening. “What is she talking about?”

“Something we don’t want getting in the tabloids,” Yet another new voice popped up, allowing Chloe to smugly sink back into the background.

Somewhere during their discussion, Marinette had ambushed them.

“Chloe and I are very good at locating all the reporters in a room and distracting them, but we’re not infallible and this event has far too much coverage,” Her smile reeked confidence and charm, but this close all the Waynes could see the doubt hiding in her bluebell eyes. “Since I’m about to turn eighteen, I figured this would be as good a time as any to finally confront you. I want to make it clear that I seek nothing from you, except the occasional contact. I would like to keep in touch, if nothing else. But if you are adverse to that… then at least answer my questions after the gala,” her eyes developed a hint of carefully controlled desperation. “Please.”

Bruce met her eyes evenly, trying to read her. But she was difficult, simultaneously too many emotions to sort through in her demeanor and much too little. After an extremely tense moment of silence, his voice came out barely above a whisper:

“You do not want anybody to know?”

And hell, if she didn’t recognize the hidden vulnerability in his voice as the very same she heard in her own far too often. In a much tamer version of her own rambling, he went on:

“I can keep it silent if that is what you want. But I want you to know that I will not be adverse to you admitting it anywhere. I don’t expect you to change your name, but I would not be ashamed of the truth getting out. I am not ashamed of it, of you.”

Marinette’s smile grew a little watery. She had to clear her throat to keep herself from tearing up. “Maybe eventually, but not yet. I… I want to stay a little more anonymous for now. It’s one thing to be a well known designer with good connections. It’s an entirely different thing to be…”

“A Wayne?” Bruce finished, ignoring the daggers that were being stared into his back. “I understand completely.

“Father,” Damian’s voice was all sharp edges and rapidly suppressed panic. “What. Is going. On?”

Marinette shot him an apologetic smile. “Apparently, eighteen years ago, his prerogative was to put the child he actually knew about up for adoption when the mother died in childbirth,” her voice was once again only barely loud enough for them to hear, since she didn’t want any eavesdroppers. “Imagine my surprise when I find out he completely flipped sides only months later.”

--*--*--*--*--*

Hey, so please share your feedback on this. This is just to test out a possible new bio dad, multichapter fic and this is the opening scene I'm trying out. If you like it, please tell me what you like about it and please suggest titles for the story! I love you guys' feedback so much!

[elvensorceress]

I had too many feelings after yesterday’s episode. So, here. Have an angsty snippet of angst. 

Everything Is Fine

It’s not the loss of light that bothers him, or even the whole station living on top of each other for days on end. It’s the unending heat. Constantly sticky, constantly sweating, constantly too much. But he wants to set a good example for his newfound probie protégé, so he does what he does best. He wears a smile and keeps track of what he can control and shows the world that he’s fine. 

Everything is fine. 

Except that nothing is. 

The blackout, the power outages, the zoo escapees, the sad food, the lack of his own cellphone — that he can handle. All things considered, they’re nothing really. Especially after last year. It’ll be over eventually. Those aren’t the things that keep gnawing at his insides and flooding him with worry and visions of a hospital ICU. 

Every time he closes his eyes. Eddie is pale, intubated, unconscious, fighting for his life. 

What if his heart is broken? What if the extreme hypovolemic shock and blood loss and trauma to his body weakened his heart? What if there’s residual damage? What if he had some kind of underlying condition that was aggravated when he nearly died four months ago? What if he suffers an attack or his heart starts failing and they can’t get him to a hospital this time? 

There is no chance in any sort of hell that Buck will just drop it and move on. 

He knows Eddie’s been carefully avoiding him the past few days. Not enough to be obvious. Not enough to make it seem like it’s anything out of the ordinary. To anyone else that is.  He still smiles when they’re near each other and sits beside Buck when they eat like they always do.

He’s just not talking. About anything more than work. 

And after something clearly happened when his girlfriend stopped by with salad and Christopher, Buck is done. He’s done. It’s not okay. He’s not ready to be a single parent. He’s not ready to watch Eddie crash and slip away from them. Everything around them is sweltering, suffocating, and he can’t bear to watch Eddie stop breathing. 

So, no. He’s not going to give up. Ever. 

He’s also not sure what to do with the revelation that Eddie is having panic attacks so intense and visceral that 1) he has to see a cardiologist and 2) are over the thought of his long term relationship becoming serious. 

Eddie and Ana are supposed to be great. They’re supposed to be doing well together. Eddie is supposed to be happy. He has to be because if he’s not then all of this is so much worse than Buck ever could have imagined. 

He’d been working on his relationship with his parents. He’d upgraded himself, turned a page, started a new phase. He’d been thinking about the future he wanted. 

Dr. Copeland told him to make a list — they could be goals, they could be dreams, it didn’t matter how far-fetched or ridiculous they seemed. She told him it was good to figure out what he wants his life to be and what he wants out of it. It would help him take steps toward those things. 

He knew it wasn’t possible. He knew it was a future he could never have. But it was a dream that existed, okay? 

When he looks at the smile on Christopher’s face, when he thinks of the way Christopher turns to him for help, when he feels the way Christopher hugs him and melts because he’s safe and loved and happy when Buck holds him. 

When he thinks of his own safe person, of reassurance, of compatibility, of comfort, of happiness, there’s no one he can picture but Eddie.

He can’t imagine a future without them. He doesn’t want a life without them. 

But he can only have so much. He knows that. It’s fine. Everything is. He just filled his nights off with an endless string of first dates that went nowhere instead of playing video games and watching movies and cooking dinner with his favorite people. 

He didn’t think about being replaced. He’s not a Diaz and never will be. He wouldn’t be missed. He had plenty of things to do on his own. If a lot of them turned out to be listening to Albert talk about the people he’d met while out clubbing and the ones he’d kissed or wanted to kiss, it was Buck’s fault for asking what he was up to. 

His loft was so quiet without roommates. Too quiet. When Albert was gone. When everyone was gone. 

But it was supposed to be worth it. Because Eddie was supposed to be happy. 

How the fuck can he stay with someone, knowing she is probably in love with him by now, when he knows he’s not in love with her? When he knows the thought of being with her and having a future together is something that literally, physically hurts him? 

How can it be enough? How can he live through giving up time with Chris? Time with Eddie? If this is what he gave that up for?

He stepped back. He made room because Eddie wanted someone and should have someone, and Buck knows there’s nothing on the future list for the two of them as anything more than what they already are. 

And that’s fine. He can live with that, too. As long as they still have each other in some way, as long as Eddie is alive, as long as Christopher is still somewhat his, Buck can accept it. 

But not like this. Not when Eddie is miserable and hurting himself and hurting someone who probably loves him. It’s not fair to any of them. 

“I have been Ana,” he says before he can ever rein in depth and layers of unrequited love. Maybe it’s not fair, but neither is holding on while you have one foot out the door or your whole entire self on another continent. 

Abby let him love her. She knew Buck loved her, wanted her, wanted to be with her. If she’d asked, he might have even followed her. But she didn’t ask and didn’t want him in return. Didn’t even tell him. In the end, he’d fallen in love with a ghost. A shadow. She confessed she wasn’t herself with him, and he wanted to say he didn’t know and couldn’t feel it. But he could. 

He’s not sure anymore if he’s ever known what it’s like to be loved by someone in that way. 

It hurts worse than the truth. The uncertainty, the knowing but having no confirmation, the suspicion and doubt. It breeds insecurity and jealousy and he already lacks in the department of self worth. 

If Eddie asked, there’s no question, no limit to what he’d give.

But he won’t ask. He wants to stick it out and hurt every single one of them. 

So, Buck leaves him to contemplate while he goes outside in the roasting sun. It’s too much. Too much heat and not enough relief. Too much always, always pulsing in his chest. The air smells and tastes even more toxic. Metallic, noxious pollution hovering within everything. 

It’s not fine. He doesn’t know how Eddie can be okay with it. 

[yeojaa]

Dude... What about a devil!jk spending his first valentine's day with her and she's all it's just a dumb holiday and he's all offended cus he's a rooooomantic 🤣🤣

[ read devil in a new suit ]

pairing.  rich boy!jjk x girlfriend!reader.  rating.  general.  tags.  the epitome of fluffy angst.  wc.  1.4k.  beta reader(s).  @coepiteamare, @yeoldontknow.  ty mucho. ✨  a/n.   vday is a capitalist lie and also, this will rip your heart in half then piece it back together.  happy 14th of february!    

There sits a portrait in the atrium of his heart.  A lovely thing, a lonely thing, painted in the shades of your smile, the rouge of your lipstick, the studded dark of your stare.  It never gathers dust, prim and pristine, carefully tended to with an adoration that sinks sunbeams into the shadows, sweeps cobwebs away on moth wings.  

It’d once been blocked off, locked with a skeleton key, brass tucked behind the cage of his ribs.  He’d guarded it like a three-headed dog, barked and bayed and keened quiet in the night when no one else was around.  No one enter, he’d said, full of fear, skin of his hands hardened and rough and purpled.  The flesh of a fig, hardy and thick, protecting a centre soft and chewy and terribly sweet as it stuck to teeth.  

He’d never been bitter - never the harsh white pith of a lemon, never tart like the yellow that burst forth and stung - but he’d been something else.  Cautious, worried, scared.  Full of love but with nowhere for it to go, overripe and inedible from years of hanging on the limbs of trees left to rot.

And then you’d appeared.  Shot across his sky like a comet, brilliant and beautiful and fluorescent, lighting up his life like the burst of a supernova.

You’d drenched all the grey in technicolour, turned paper leaves green, spilled colour into his cheeks.  Made them rudied red and full of life, warm warm warm in the curl of your palms, scorching coals under the weight of your kisses.  Filled all his cracks with the silver quality of your laughter, honeycomb smile turned gold filigree to piece back all the fragments. 

So of course he’d showered you in affection, appeared with an armful of flowers and a smile that rivalled the sun.  “Happy Valentine’s day,”  he’d hummed, a heart full of hope, hands full of freesias and white roses and enough baby’s breath to take yours away.  He thought you’d love it - like you loved him, with unashamed adoration and lines at your eyes, brow creasing with delight.  But you’d only blinked once, twice, with a polite turn of your chin, a knife slipped between his ribs and pressed, too gentle for purpose. 

You’d smiled and shook your head, caught a petal between your fingers and dipped your nose to the leaves.  Inhaled deep and pure and then continued on, moved along, already miles away by the time he’d caught up.  

“Don’t you like them?”  He’d asked, doubt creeping up, twining around his lungs like a rose bush, heavy with thorns.  They’d pin-pricked his heart, spilled his insides out;  your bandages were nowhere to be found, no chiming bells or liquid gold in sight.  It’d beat for you, in time with you, one to one for each of your own.  It’d stuttered and tripped, caught on its own too feet, overeager and delirious.  “The girl who helped me said freesias symbolise trust and baby’s breath mean love and—”

“They’re lovely.”  

Maybe you’d meant it, for the briefest of moments, in the quiet before you’d crossed the threshold, before you’d swung open the door and turned his efforts to ash.  Surely you’d appreciated them - him.  Surely you never intended to hurt him the way you had.  

“But they’re kind of a waste.”

A heart is a well of impossible depths, an abyss of contradictions and contrived notions.  Even the brightest of rays do little to penetrate its darkness.  Moonlight filters over the surface in ripples and waves, undefined and blurred.  Thoughts without end and often without start.  

He supposes he can’t help the way he feels, how his shoulders turn stiff beneath your touch, the set of his mouth worn and sagging, a poorly strung noose tying his lips up.  (It feels more like the thing around his neck, tattered and heavy, a reminder of all the reasons the door had been better left shut, sealed.) 

“What’s wrong?”  You’re a birdsong in his ear, lilting and lovely, impossible to ignore.  You hold him in your hands and press kisses to his throat, sear stardust beneath skin, and hum in hopes of an answer.  He’s stoically silent, a statue fit not for hallowed halls but mausoleums, stone cold and sad.  

Jungkook doesn’t mean for this - for the sorrow that rains down in sheets.  You’re a Monday in May, a winding path speckled with flora, springtime.  His misery will surely suffocate you, tear life from limb with its torrential cast.  

“Nothing,”  he says, through the pristine white cage of his teeth, untruths bleeding past enamel and staining them red.  He speaks them well, well enough to fool anyone else, well enough that his lies are dressed lily white, stunning in their Sunday best.  “Just don’t feel well.”

Hasn’t, since you’d come home, since dinner, since exactly four hours and four minutes ago.  

“Don’t lie.”  It’s not an accusation, baseless and blunt.  It’s coaxing, pleading, whittling away amber, crystallised and hard around the too-soft thing in his chest.  A layer of wax giving way, melted by the warmth of your touch, the fire in your eyes.  Icarus’ wings, hummingbird wings, monarch wings.  Stained glass creaking and cracking beneath the weight of your words.  

“I’m sorry.”

The apology lays itself over crushed velvet, spins itself into silk and twines into strands, a braid twisted over your shoulder.  It settles, indistinguishable from the salt-sweet, his whisper finding a home within the shell of your skin.  He threads his fingers with yours, twists and turns knuckles until they knock awkwardly, unkempt and unsure.  

Your sigh is a salve, soothing ointment spread over scorched earth, dulling the sting.  He still aches all over, from the base of his spine to the top of his head, a rattle in his bones when he brings you close.  It trembles through the both of you, an eruption of emotion felt to the core.  (But still, he feels best when he’s with you.)

“For what?”  

He thinks and thinks, works himself into a knot he doesn’t know how to unfasten.  It coils in the centre of his chest, a slipknot he’s tied wrong, whose tail has been folded in on itself.  He grasps at frayed rope, seeks aimlessly for the answer.  A tidal wave of emotion sweeps high above his head, an unnamed terror that threatens to upend his rowboat.  He settles as the sea does, in breaks and luls that belie something far worse, in a voice small as a drop in the ocean.  “For being too much.”

“Jungkook.”  The way your voice breaks hits like a thousand pounds, an assault to the back of his knees, a shot to the vulnerable soft of his gut.  A sound whines out - another apology - and you swallow it whole, take it in and turn it around, offering tenderness in its wake.  “You’re never too much.”

He believes you.  He swears he does, even if the words come tumbling out, glass too full to hold them all.  “You didn’t like the flowers.”

“So what?”  You cradle him careful with magic hands, understanding threaded between each digit.  You hold him tight even as he threatens to run away, can’t keep the skip of his stare from doing so.  “I don’t need flowers.  I don’t need gifts.”  (Not the jewels he’d laid in your lap, stamped with an interlocked ‘C’ and nestled within pristine white tissue.  Not the flowers that’d poured onto every surface of his apartment, a mountain of blooms with typewritten cards nestled amongst stems.  Not the five course meal he’d ordered in, because love and devotion didn’t translate into a masterclass in cooking.)  “All I wanted for Valentine’s Day was you.”

Something he’s never heard before.  Less an excuse and more akin to you’re enough, echoed in the quiet, repeated in a daisy chain that attaches itself to the end of his thoughts and undoes all the sadness.  That unravels him in a single fluid motion and has him melting against you, leaking love from all his undone seams.

“I’m sorry.”  This time, he means it as thank you.

“Me too.”  And you mean it as I love you.

[delldarling]

flinch | rivulet & alethea

male octomer x female human 2215 words lemon | 3rd POV, mention of alcohol, mention of drowning, darker themes, tentacles, mild description of cis female parts, our octomer lad is definitely on the villainous side but everything is (and will always) be consensual mermay prompt: 'tentacles' and 'if there is angst who am i to complain' and 'ALL 11 HERBS AND SPICES'

────── {⋅. 🌊 .⋅} ──────

Rivulet is a delicate name, depicting the soft, sinuous trickling of liquid over stone. Over skin. It's a pretty name, gentle on the ears, and paired with Rivulet's handsome face, it’s far more than most need to lose their train of thought. His sweet, earnest voice and his nervously tangled tentacles leave most everyone tripping over their own tongues to assuage his apparent nervousness The slow blink of his eyelids, lashes thick over the human-pink arch of his cheeks, fool everyone into thinking he’s kind, into thinking that they can and will get everything they want out of him.

Alethea thought that once too.   

She’s never been blind to his blatant machinations though, having come from the surface world where humans wear false faces day in and out for work. She’s spent years witness to cherub cheeked smiles and simpering platitudes, and it’s easy enough to recognize that kind of mask if you know what it is that you’re looking for. Here in the depths though, any hint of human appearance and warmth is cherished. Coveted, and all manner of things are ignored or purposefully forgotten in the hopes that they might be allowed a taste. Never mind that Rivulet is no more human than the lionfish Mer he’s chatting up, his upper body looks like one, and that makes him popular.

But they believe they can trust him, Alethea thinks, lip curling into a sneer when she catches sight of Rivulet’s flushed cheeks. That he doesn’t have ulterior motives because he’s one of them. Idiots. This deep beneath the surface, his kaleidoscopic hair has turned to shadows and faint flashes of blue, highlighting the pink over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He’s beautiful, like a moonlit prince underneath the glowing blue coral ceiling, straight out of a seaside fairy tale.

“Or a nightmare,” Alethea mutters, relishing the faint trail of bubbles that slip free of her lips. She pretends the swift slide of them are barbs, prickling incessantly at Rivulet’s curling tentacles. At least then he would have a reason to fidget about with them, no better than a child scuffing his shoe in the dirt when they attempt to charm an elder. Alethea swallows, eyes closing tight. Keeping herself angry is so difficult. 

She sets down her half empty scallop shell, still gleaming with the dense violet substance that passes for alcohol here, and turns to go, swimming slowly so as to avoid drawing too much attention. Rivulet’s presence has guaranteed that the night will be anything but restful. She doesn’t get far before something cool lashes about her ankle, yanking her to a stop. Alethea knows exactly who it is, even before she turns her head to make sure of it. 

“Leaving already?” Rivulet asks, and the other Merfolk in the vicinity all turn to watch out of the corner of their eyes. They crowd a little closer on all sides, eager to see some kind of show or steal some of the warmth that radiates off of Alethea. Rivulet, at least, is here for something more. He’s hoping to pick up where they left off, and Alethea’s theory is all but confirmed when his eyes dip to the heavy, enchanted necklace around her throat. The gift of the Tide King, and a human’s only passport down in the Trenches. Her nose wrinkles, toes curling as she yanks at her ankle, trying to loosen Rivulet’s grip without letting her anger get the best of her. A smirk blooms on his lips, his horizontal pupils chasing away the silver of his eyes. He softens the expression into a genteel smile when the other folk begin to whisper.

“I suggest you remove your appendage,” Alethea says, deathly soft. She lets the flow of the water carry her closer, thankful when her hair shifts, hiding her face from onlookers. Alethea bares her teeth. “Or I will remove it for you.”

Rivulet doesn’t laugh, though she can see the thought of it pass through his head. If Rivulet wanted to ensnare her, Alethea wouldn’t be able to get free—he’s in no danger. He lets go of her ankle, purposefully trailing the suckers of his tentacle over her bared flesh, letting them catch at the hem of her trousers before he finally lets the tentacle fall. She takes a breath, but Rivulet seizes her wrists instead, pouting at her like she’s shut him out for nothing more than a trivial mess. A few of the surrounding Merfolk start to laugh. “Must we continue this tiresome exercise?” He asks, voice pitched low. He’ll play for the crowd, happily work them like a swindler, but his business has always been his own. “There’s no shame in letting anyone drown you with-”

Alethea can barely see through the surge of her own anger. "Poor choice of words, Riv. Now: Back off.”

Rivulet lets go, holding up both hands. His tentacles twist and lash uselessly in the water, but he doesn’t make any sudden grabs for Alethea when she kicks, swimming backwards to put more than a hands-breadth of space between them. Some of the other folk shift in place, fins and tails twitching, but none of them interrupt Rivulet and Alethea’s quiet, but very public separation. Rivulet hums, catching sight of her darting eyes and dips his head, like he’s ashamed. When he slides closer, tentacles catching at the floor of the Trenches to propel him, Alethea forces herself to stay still. “Later?” He whispers, a single tentacle weaving over her knuckles in an attempt to imitate lacing fingers. The other Merfolk, even Rivulet himself, are probably waiting for her to forgive him straight away. 

Alethea pulls her hand free. She refuses to answer and damn herself, but she doesn’t know how much that actually matters. Everyone in the vicinity can read the emotions in her like a book. She’s unbearably angry, but everything about her, from the tension in her shoulders to the twitch of her fingers, spells out one thing. She wants to throw all her caution to the current and say: Yes.

────── {⋅. 🌊 .⋅} ──────

Rivulet doesn’t say a word when Alethea slips in, clothed in nothing but her necklace. He smiles, because of course he does, all saccharine sweetness and knowing eyes, strange pupils curling into inhuman shapes as he catches her hands with his own. Tentacles whisper over her knees and down the sides of her calves, ready, reaching, but going no farther. She wishes he would say something, wishes he would open his stupid, lovely mouth, if only because it might make her change her mind. She shouldn’t have come here.

She kisses him anyway. Pulls her hands swiftly out of his so she can take hold of his face, pressing too-quick kisses to the corner of his mouth before he tilts his head to meet her lips head on. 

Whatever patience Rivulet was holding onto vanishes. His tentacles lash around her thighs, his arms circling her to trap her wrists at the small of her back. He takes the kiss over, tongue slipping between Alethea’s lips to muffle any noise she might make—though no one else is around to hear any of it.  

Breath still slips out from between their mouths, pinprick bubbles tickling over lips and cheekbones. The sensation reminds Alethea of anger, the way it skitters over skin until everything feels tight and over sensitive. Her teeth find his lower lip, but that only makes Rivulet groan, hands squeezing around her wrists. Bound as she is, it gives Riv free rein to touch where he will, always hungry for the heat and softness of her skin—and the layer of magic that keeps her safe from the pressure of the depths. It buzzes whenever Riv touches her, as if it recognizes the potential threat of him, but he uses it to his advantage. 

Alethea turns her head, gasping for oxygen through the magical filter, sagging in his arms. She ignores Rivulet’s smug grin, closing her eyes to shut out the sight of him, which is exactly when his mouth closes around her nipple. Alethea jerks, eyes flashing open as Riv tugs at her wrists, bowing her further back. He has better access this way, sucking and flicking his rough tongue over the nub of flesh. She trembles, impatient for him to move on, but unable to tear her eyes away. Riv looks drunk on the heat of her, eyes gone heavy lidded, cheeks hollowing. He still looks like a prince, with shadowy hair and his pink lips, but there’s nothing innocent looking about him now, mouth working as he slowly coaxes her legs apart. He slips one of his tentacles between her thighs, dragging the suckers back and forth over her clit, humming around her nipple as she writhes. 

The pop as he removes his mouth is muted, but the sight of it, tongue flicking out to chase the taste of her, is enough to distract Alethea for a few seconds. He wriggles the end of one of his tentacles inside her while she’s staring. It’s slim, and slick, despite the surrounding ocean, but he corkscrews the appendage, making Alethea throw her head back with a shriek as it fills her. Riv laughs, moving with the arch of her hips.

“Shut up,” Alethea says from behind gritted teeth, wishing she could appear unaffected, that she could stop the shaking of her limbs and how eagerly her body responds. A thought passes behind his eyes, but he sighs rather than speaks, bending his mouth to her other nipple, and bites. A sucker settles over her clit when she screams.

Rivulet’s mouth goes slack, teeth gentling as he concentrates. The tentacles around her legs loosen, and tighten, a strange stroking that serves as a reminder of strength. His hands leave her wrists, the slick slide of another tentacle taking their place as he lifts his head. He stares, trailing fingers along her sides, strangely pupiled eyes focused on nothing but her panting mouth.

“If you wait,” Riv says softly, the tentacle inside of her writhing, “if you just wait, I can make you feel even better. Would you like that? Don’t you want that?”

Alethea closes her eyes.

────── {⋅. 🌊 .⋅} ──────

Rivulet wants Alethea. He’s always wanted her, shooting her fuck-me looks whenever their paths crossed throughout that first month. He used every excuse he had to attend the banquets the Tide King held, flirting with her all the while. She’d been foolish at first, thinking him little better than the other Merfolk vying for her attention. He didn’t treat her like them though, kept seeking her out, coaxing her into laughing, into enjoying his company. She’d fallen in with the rest of the warmth chasers, thinking he would be nothing more than a bed partner during her stay here, but the illusion hadn’t lasted long.

Rivulet wants Alethea, but he wants knowledge too. He wants the enchanted necklace hanging around her throat. He wants to pick it apart, to figure out how it works without having to lend his abilities to the Tide King or the enchanters under his employ. He wants to carve a permanent place for her here down in the Trenches that doesn’t involve being one of the Tide King’s tourists. Wants to free her from the figurative shackles that keep her within the boundaries of the Tide King’s domain.

She just has to drown.

Riv is lovely, and charming, and knows exactly how to drive Alethea over the edge and keep her coming back. He wants her, her mind, her presence, and would like nothing more than to keep her by his side. But to stay, she has to change, to give up her ability to breathe on land, to give up her legs and the face she’s always known. 

“There are other ways!” Rivulet had assured her after he’d finally confessed his plans, tentacle sliding over her wrist to gauge her pulse. “If I can snare one of his other guests, I’ll be more than happy to take their necklace. In fact, it would be preferable, if I’m being honest. I would rather attempt the spell on another before risking you, and who knows?” Rivulet had turned, pulling Alethea along with him, tentacles wrapping around her hips. “I may be able to amend the spell, and keep that lovely face of yours.” He hadn’t flinched when she’d told him that sounded like murder. 

She should be flinching. Alethea should be going back to the surface and staying there. She should be telling the Tide King or his other guests about this. Warning them. She doesn’t want Riv to experiment on anyone, even if it might end up with her being able to stay permanently. But a small, selfish part of her wants to keep the days the Tide King promised. Three more months. Three more months of swimming along the ocean floor and discovering all of the wonders kept beneath the waves. Three more months of Rivulet, and watching Merfolk fall over themselves to flirt with him while he secretly flutters his eyelashes at her, a joke only they share. Three more months of his hands and tentacles on her, slipping between her thighs and making her shake to pieces.

Alethea knows she can’t have it. Not… Not all of it.

────── {⋅. 🌊 .⋅} ──────

[tsuumu]

beautiful stranger.

oikawa x reader

a short piece in which oikawa tooru approaches you on a idyllic evening. it’s a little awkward though, since you’re trying to die.

word count: 3.3k

tw: indirect and direct implications of suicide.

your warm hands stay gripped onto the metal rails in front of you, applying enough force to watch your knuckles turn white. you find yourself doing it over and over until your fingers numb from the continued pressure. alone, you’re mulling over mundane affairs. you’d rather not be thinking about them but find this loop all too easy to fall into.

the shadow of the railing casts over a large canal, its water sifting freely, far beneath you. it laps over itself, slithers of fish break the transparent surface as they swim. some of their scales rise to kiss the sunlight in opaque relfections.

thin layers of petals scatter the ground beneath your feet that have slipped from overhead trees and continue to flutter down freely. glowers of dying sunlight seep through the shapes of them as they fall.

in this moment, autumn is alive.

it’s really lovely right now.

you’re here, all caught up in chasing that feeling of peace. safety in an open space. you have to cope with that fact that tranquility never comes easily for you.

there’s nothing that should be leaving you as deeply unsettled as you are. you’ve learnt to largely ignore feeling so overwhelmed, though it stirs and resurfaces times you wish it wouldn’t.

what’s bugging you is that you can’t quite get a grasp on your own life.

for starters, everything lacks coherent meaning. to you, there’s something constantly missing every single day. nothing purchasable, nothing attainable through hard-work and any level of perseverance. truly, it affects you so much so that even just standing here, feet glued to the very spot that is undeniably ‘lovely’, brings you nothing but unimaginable sadness.

earlier, you brushed it away as an off day but you know that’s not true. you’ve been feeling like this all the time.

it is, therefore, not at all abnormal to wonder: can a person have such thing as an off life?

you really don’t like to think about things like this too much. once you begin to muse over deep naysay you find yourself snowballing.

solutions are painfully unobtainable and it’s generally as productive as chasing pavements.

do i really enjoy being alone? or am i obsessed with the sensation loneliness brings?

“you know, if you stare long enough, you might end up wanting to jump in.”

at once, your vision snaps up, taken aback by the additional voice. you hadn’t realised that during your mindless lamenting, another person had quietly joined you by the evening canal-side.

fair skinned, dark eyed, chocolate curls brushed neatly over his features and cowlicks that bob against the light gusts of wind.

a boy offers you a smile, before shifting his feet towards the empty space to your left. you can’t seem to process him, staring at the empty spot he’d been in seconds earlier.

you’re not supposed to be here right now.

“i was totally kidding by the way.” he adds. “that was really dark, sorry.”

you’re silent in return, eyes casting back onto the running stream. the water is shallow and the fall long, so jumping in would certainly prove fatal. you know all of this too well. it’d disturb the fish who are just here to live, though, it’ll only be for a moment. they won’t know any better.

you don’t really know what to say. it’s troubling that he’s here and hearing it out loud disturbs you, like a direct call out. at no point were you prepared for any kind of conversation prior.

the two of you stand there in complete silence. it’s not particularly awkward, you just don’t know why he’s approached you so easily, talking to you like he’s known you well enough to make outlandish jokes.

asking directly for his intentions seems rude, so you’ll put up with it until he leaves.

“do you always come here?” the stranger pipes up once more, though his focus doesn’t leave the water. you breathe in deeply.

“sometimes.”

“oh, i see.”

his palms lay flat and he pushes gently off of the rails, only to fall back onto them with all his weight. he does it again, repeating the process over and over at a steady pace. you stay hunched over, keeping your distance. he doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest though, clearly absorbed in his surroundings.

“it’s like a set out of a movie, this place. seems like somewhere i’d ask my girlfriend to marry me.”

your tongue rolls around in your mouth.

yes. you think. his girlfriend would most likely be thrilled-over the top-squealing if he did. that’s entirely his business.

you really don’t care to hear of other people’s romantic endeavours.

is it out of jealousy? you don’t know. maybe.

this conversation is meaningless. you wish he’d go away sooner so you could have this time to yourself.

also, jealousy is an ugly word. you hate it.

he stops his movement with a exhale of air, tilting his head back to blink up at the warm sky. the last touches daylight mingle with the oncoming darkness, creating a deep tinge of orangey-yellow.

“when’s your birthday?”

‎a petal lands on the bridge of your hand, sticking to your skin.

“do you want my social security number?” you deject.

“what? no!”

“are you sure? really, i’ll give it to you.”

“no!”

“then why are you asking for my personal information?”

‎

he falls silent for a moment, before mumbling out a small: “just wondering.”

a tinge of guilt creeps over you at his apologetic tone. you admit, your answers thus far must make you seem like a completely unapproachable asswipe. you’re not at all. you just aren’t all that sure how to make small talk with strangers when you’re trying to part with the world by dinner time.

it feels like an unexpected guest at your very lonesome party.

“it’s (insert birth month).” you fold.

he purses his lips, face contorting a little.

“i see.”

he doesn’t continue down that path after your response. the both of you return to a mutual silence, staring into the portrait scenery ahead. the stream fills the soundscape pleasantly. fallen leaves have gathered at the base of your shoes, brushing over the tip gently with the turn of the wind. you observe them quietly.

“can i ask you another question?”

he seems a tad more timid now.

he definitely thinks you’re the type to blow up and give him an earful about minding his own business, doesn’t he?

you’d never raise your voice. in general, but also because it’d break the comfort of the scenery the world has so generously given you.

“sure.”

“do you believe in soulmates?”

‎the question is a little random but not impossible to answer by any means.

“no.”

“what?”

“i said not really.”

“you said no.”

“that’s the same thing.”

“...fair enough.”

‎he exhales out, sounding a little disheartened by your curt response. perhaps to him, you were a tough nut to crack; an ambiguity for him to understand. were all people like that? you weren’t playing hard to get, in fact, you’d answered every single enquiry he has had to offer. his efforts are amusing, though.

you raise a brow at him.

“i’m sorry, was that the wrong answer?”

for a moment, he doesn’t reply, stuffing his hands into his pockets, gazing down at the head of his shoe. pivoting his ankle, he draws small circles with the tip of his foot into the ground, into the dead leaves.

“not at all.”

“your expression says otherwise.”

“um, it was just a bit bleak, i guess.”

you let your arms droop way over the railing, fingers wading through the autumn air. you’d never really taken the concepts of soulmates to heart. it was romantic bullshit put out by somebody looking for a fantasy to indulge in. out of seven billion people, there could hardly be a singular person made for you. people aren’t born for other people. if that were the case, it wouldn’t be a rose-tinted fantasy. it would be suffocating. where’s the freedom in love?

“most people always answer like you these days anyway.”

“oh, sorry.”

he looks up at you, tilting his head.

“no, don’t be.”

back to a default mute, left with nothing but the faint chitter of overhead swallows and the odd rumble of cars passing by.

“tooru.” he states, after a while.

“what?”

“tooru. my name is tooru.”

“oh, okay.”

“oikawa tooru.”

‎your fingertips have become flushed. maybe you’d pressed a little too hard on that cold surface earlier. now that all your blood has come rushing back, the tingling sensation feels foreign.

his name slips of the tongue rather easily, don’t you think?

“nice to meet you, oikawa tooru.”

“it is nice, isn’t it?”

for the first time, your gazes meet properly and you offer him a crooked smile.

“i suppose so.”

off the side of the canal, almost right under the bridge, a small cluster of ducks have gathered. adult ducks tend to be considerably larger than its offspring —as is factual with any animal— so it’s easy for you to tell that there’s only one parent there, along with three of its ducklings.

people like to come to the canal to feed the ducks bread, though you’d heard somewhere that it’s actually quite bad for them.

you wonder. do ducks care particularly if one of its ducklings die? will it do something with the body, cry out, hurt?

or is grief exceptionally human?

“i don’t actually have a girlfriend, by the way.”

he sifts out his phone, tapping the screen and sliding it open. you watch him turn it to its side, before leaning over to take a picture of the depths below. you just watch.

“oh, okay.”

he doesn’t elaborate, focused intently on his current task. your attention returns to the shape of the birds, bobbing up and down rhythmically.

there’s only so much you can say about the canal. yeah, it’s beautiful. you don’t have the right vocabulary to describe the way it makes you feel. honestly, it feels abysmal to even try. you’re convinced though, that you’re in love with the way the water moves. you’ve always appriciated it whenever you walk past, told yourself jokingly that you could die there if you had to.

funny, that.

beautiful things tend to hurt in an unbearably amplified manner.

“say, tooru?”

“yeah?”

“if i climbed over the railing right now, would you stop me?”

you’re both fixated on the paddling now. his phone is back in his pocket, elbows propped up. he hums, taking his time to think over your question.

“most likely.”

your fingers meet one another and the tingling spreads to your palms.

“i’m thinking of jumping, actually.”

“oh.”

“yeah.”

“my joke earlier...”

“yeah.”

his fingers drum rhythmically on the slender poles under the rail top.

“then i’d jump right in with you.”

the corners of his mouth tug slightly at your perplexity, supressing a chortle. he’s not laughing at you, though. it’s more a gesture of understanding. this tooru doesn’t know you at all, yet he gets it. he gets it all too well.

you get that he gets it.

tooru clears his throat. “bad day?”

“that’s an understatement.”

“well, you’re not a bad person for feeling the way you do.”

by now, the ducks have swam away, you can make out the general shape of them, melding into the distant, mute colours of the bankside. the sky look minutes away from being set alight. time has never been your friend, you see.

“i feel crazy for trying.” you’re rather blunt about it.

“fair enough.”

“…is that all?”

“well, do you want me to tell you that you’re not crazy?”

you lull into silence.

“i don’t know.”

with that, you shift to angle yourself so that he’s in your immediate peripheral, the thought of gawking at him seems ridiculous but you want to look at him. you find it hard to do it up front for some reason.

“i’m no suicide expert, but it’d probably be lonely doing something like that by yourself. wouldn’t it be comforting to know someone’s falling with you?”

your fingers run absently across the jagged surface of the rails, the old paint has been chipped away at, after all its years of protecting. in all it’s history, had anyone else hitched themselves over this very rail?

were they asking for the same answers as you?

god. that’s awful. you don’t want to think about that.

you catch each others’ eyes for a second but you resign quickly, focusing as hard as you can on the flecks of black on your thumb.

“that would be selfish of me.”

“not if i’m offering.”

you scramble to look anywhere else, abruptly turning. you’re facing away from the canal, stomach fluttering a little as you fall onto the rail’s length.

in all your time by yourself, you’d never been given an irrefutable reason to ‘be’. it’d always been a live-for-the-day type of experience. if a day is good, you’re utterly blissed out by it, totally in love with life. if it’s bad, you have little reason to go on. nothing particularly interests you enough to dedicate your days persuing it. fame seems tedious, looks are temporary, a six figure career sounds like emotional jail-time, or a slow, schedule-filled trek to death. whichever description sounds more sufferable.

you see, in essence, we all get off at the same bus stop. some journeys are simply shorter than others.

“you’re guilt-tripping me out of it.”

“i’m not!”

you’ve never stopped to ask yourself what it is you want.

death interests you, you suppose. though, you don’t see the reason to wait around and pretend to ignore it until one day it drags you kicking and screaming.

“oikawa tooru, don’t you have better things to be doing than offering to jump off bridges with strangers?”

that coy smile tugs at his lips once more. nothing you say seems to phase him. it’s like he knows you. he’s thinking: yeah, this isn’t anything out of the ordinary for them.

“should i? you look at that water like it’s someone you hate. or love. maybe both. i got curious.”

“curious?”

“yes. and quite frankly, you’ve left me curious. practically starving. you haven’t even told me your name.”

“my name doesn’t matter.”

“boo. that’s not true at all.”

his tongue pokes out, tugging at the corner of his eye. you shake your head, genuinely unable to hide your amusement, turning to him properly this time.

and really, it’s like the canal side and oikawa tooru were made from the same stardust. he blends right into the picture, as effortlessly pretty as the rest of it.

the strands of hair out of place, a little disheveled from the breeze. the scarf buried into his nose, glasses a little misty from the heat of his own breath but when they clear, you see his eyes all too well.

you’d like to tuck those strands into place, they’re bothering you just a little.

“(y/n).”

your brows furrow a little.

really, this could all very well be some sort of fantastical dream. as nice as it all is, it feels painfully unreal. boys don’t look like that on autumn evenings or offer to die with you.

that’s it.

tooru must be a figment of your imagination.

no. wrong. not a dream.

this is a corner of your mind you haven’t ventured into yet, psychologically, some kind of safety net. a sliced off piece of reality you’ve come to hide in because you’ve utterly lost your mind. he is nothing but a part of you that makes you feel at ease as you come to terms with your self-destruction.

god, that bothers you more. you are crazy.

your hand extends, reaches out all on its own.

you just want to know if he’s real.

oikawa tooru glances down for a moment, he’s probably wondering about you, what’s left you in such a state. though, he’s happy to slide his palm against yours, latching onto it. he shakes once, twice. a little more. tightens his hold a bit.

the weight of his fingers as they brush lightly against your palm is fantastical. he’s so warm. you can feel it spread through you from the pads of your fingers.

he’s very real.

tooru has rather pretty hands.

the contact makes you feel kind of delirious, a produce of being utterly touch-starved. just a simple touch. you’re embarrassed to say it but it takes everything inside of you not to start weeping or hold on frantically in case he does disappear, do something bizzare that’ll scare him away forever.

hey, tooru. are you made of honey?

“well, (y/n), i’m offering you my life right now.”

the sun has set foot on the horizon, plunging in ever so slightly. as a child, the thought of night scared you, feeling largely betrayed by the sun’s farewell. now, it’s a unique kind of comfort to see the moon. it’s as lonely as those who lay their eyes upon it.

“i don’t want it.”

his fingers slip downwards against the dips of your palm.

“you don’t?”

“no, i mean... i don’t want death. not right now..”

you don’t even want to think about it anymore. funny, how things like that work. you were so sure of it. today was the day. your dark rendezvous. weren’t you itching for it?

this bastard.

this man you’ve never met. he clasps onto your hand once and suddenly he stops your nauseating rollercoaster of thoughts and leaves you wondering if, actually, you’d like to see the canal-side again tomorrow, or in fifty years.

who are you really, oikawa tooru?

“no?”

“yeah.”

“then what do you want to do?”

“stay right here, i think.”

your fingers curl, maintaining your hold on him. you should be shy or awkward about this whole ordeal but so you’re desperate for that warmth to continue.

you both stand there, facing one another, hands extended. it’s a little robotic looking. you’re pretty stiff but very sure this is what feels right.

to you, existence is based solely on feeling your way through stages of life. that sickeningly sweet innocence of youth. childhood memories that to you, are dwindled husks of gold, valuable in some aspects but almost meaningless in others. to laugh or to cry allows an individual to create a deep-set connection to the environment around them. it is no longer passing scenery but a moment in your life you once lived through.

that’s beautiful, isn’t it?

unfortunately, emotion provides both a living fantasy and the potential for agony. life is not sweet, nor innocent. it is what you make of it.

it is what your mind is forced to make of it.

and as much as one wishes they were as coddled and loved as they were children, life beyond those years is lonely, difficult and more than you were ever capable of.

were you weak? perhaps.

but maybe people aren’t built for life. we’re all weak.

and realistically, if you are unable to clamber over one obstacle after another -established by those before you- you’re doomed to fall behind.

that will hurt. you will hurt unforgivably because self-worth is no longer a beautiful gift of internal discovery and love but another way to be measured and downsized externally. a practice that leads to hatred. a desire to die.

that’s really where it all began for you. a romantic, a poet at heart, living inside your own, kinder world. that is until reality knocked on your door, invited itself in, just to set the entire thing on fire and leave you as vulnerable as the day you were born.

you aren’t allowed to hide. it comes looking for you eventually.

your stance on life hasn’t changed, afterall, you’ve spent nights mourning over how much it can hurt to live. to fall asleep exhausted with yourself, only to wake up and do it all over again. what you do know, however, is that droning, lonely feeling isn’t there right now. that ongoing, battering ruckus inside your head has ceased. tooru, the strange magician, has left you thoughtless and a little dumb.

you like being this stupid. for once, there’s nothing intrusive prodding the inside of your head.

it’s frightfully quiet, actually. you don’t know what you’re feeling right now. how much time has passed since he’d made that awful joke?

his gaze is on your lingering contact, before lightly pulling you closer, twisting his wrist down so you’re holding hands. your gaze moves to the bankside. you feel comforted. maybe it isn’t death, maybe all you want is a hand to hold.

probably not. that is a stupid, sappy thought. you’re still fanatic about ending your life.

you were so close to doing it, without even really understanding what you were doing. the canal scenery is overpowering, numbing, if you will. without oikawa tooru, you may well have kissed those fishs’ fluorescent scales with your own two lips, as cold as ice with some unfortunate early-morning runner discovering you by twilight.

“we can do that.” he hesitates. “if i’m honest, i would have been pretty scared to jump.”

“yet you still offered?”

tooru hums merrily in confirmation.

“why?”

“because you’re cute.”

you can’t believe your own ears.

“what? seriously?”

“yeah. originally, i wanted your number but things took a small turn.”

you burst out in gutteral laughter, free hand back onto the railing for support. for a moment, you look at him, shaking your head in utter amazement.

“you’re a piece of work, tooru, you know?”

“yeah, i know.”

he smiles back at you. the shadows cast by the setting sun only make him all the more enigmatic.

now that you think about it, you can’t figure this guy out at all. it’s like staring at a wordless piece of paper and trying to find something legible.

“how do you know i won’t come back and repeat all of this tomorrow?”

tooru tilts his head ever so slightly, observing you. his eyes flutter down to your lips, speaking like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“because you told me your name.”

“what does that have to do with anything?”

“well, now that i know that, you’re no longer just a beautiful stranger.”

you understood now. he hadn’t just offered you his life, he’d offered you him. by living on, you’d accepted graciously. he knows that if you visit the canal side again, you’ll only remember this moment.

a bad moment that he, in all his glory, turned into a good one. the day you two first met.

oh, clever boy. he saved you.

though you must say, oikawa tooru, you’re very much mistaken.

you are the beautiful stranger.

a tear runs down your cheek, a little warmer than you could’ve expected.

one turns into two, slipping more and more. eventually, you’re standing over the canal, hand in hand with oikawa tooru, sobbing quietly as the water runs peacefully below the both of you.

[babbushka]

Open Heaven’s Gates

Ancient Emperor!Kylo Ren x Goddess!Reader x KOR

3.2k - Content Warnings: Mentions of pregnancy/pregnant!reader; Graphic descriptions of violence and gore against a minor character (mutilation, torture, human sacrifice); NSFW (gangbang, double penetration, blow jobs, hand jobs) 

Dedicated to the very patient @safarigirlsp​, thank you for inspiring this oneshot! 

Available on AO3 

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

It is the darkest hour of night, in your temple.

The window to the heavens has been opened wide, and as Kylo looks up through the marble pillars, as he casts his gaze towards the stars and sees how brightly they shine, he feels a shudder of divinity rush through his body.

Clothed in nothing but jewelry made of gold and precious stones, he opens his blood-slicked palms to the pitch-black sky. It is the darkest hour, and yet the Empire is wide awake, has filled this temple to the brim. The lamps are all lit, flickering flares of warm yellow light cast stark shadows across the walls of your temple, across a thousand faces. Citizens are quiet as they watch, as they bare witness to the events which are about to take place, the sacrifice which must be made.  

They too are watching, they are listening, the Goddesses.

They watch, and they wait. 

Kylo will not disappoint them.

Kylo kneels before the statue made of marble which he has come to worship. As crimson drips down his back from lashes he’s carved himself, he prays – until the touch of your soft fingers brushes across his shoulders, and his eyes snap open.

“I can feel it.” You hum, your hands fully cupping his shoulders, massaging the muscles there. He is so tense, a low hiss of air puffs out of his lungs while you tip his head back to rest against your pregnant stomach. He regards you, beautiful as ever even though you are upside down, as you ask, “Are you ready?”

For a moment, Kylo is lost in your eyes. There is a knowing depth there, something ancient and new all at once, a millennia of knowledge behind fresh irises. Through you and you alone, the Goddesses speak, and through you and you alone, may they be appeased.

“I’m always ready for you.” Kylo bites at his bottom lip, before coming to his full height and facing you. He relishes in the way you have to crane your neck to look up at him, he loves how you love to look at him. Kylo does not break eye contact with you as he raises his blooded fingers to your cheek and shouts loudly so that all may hear, “Bring him in!”

A dozen of the high guard rush the temple, carrying high above their heads a bound and gagged man. They throw him to the floor with little elegance or grace, not that he is deserving of any. This man is one that Kylo recognizes as one of the lower guards. He is of middle age, his eyes an unnerving shade of blue. They are bloodshot red, a sign that he has been crying. Let him cry, Kylo scoffs to himself, a thought that you seem to echo as you appraise him.

“Stand tall, pig.” Kylo’s voice is booming, commanding, deep as it rings through the temple. “Stand before your fellow citizens of my kingdom and hold your chin high, let them see who is to be sacrificed tonight.”

“I – please, your majesty – please -- !” The ex-guard scrambles to his feet to the best of his ability, and though he is tied by ropes and chains, he manages to his feet.

The empire casts judgement down onto him, for they have been told of his crimes, they have been told of his violence and cruelty against the innocent women in this village. They shout and spit from their seats, jeers and boos and hisses, rage restrained only by Kylo’s hand.

They have no sympathy for this man.

Neither do you.

“Begging will do nothing for you now.” You give him your most stone-faced glare, and before the ex-guard can even reply, Kylo has his teeth bared.

“Look upon the scum which walks among us.” He bellows, back bleeding steadily from where he has given himself the ceremonial lashes. The Empire is in a trance at his words, they are bloodthirsty, they seek violence. “Cast your eyes down to him, so that he may be filled with shame for the actions he has committed.”

The shoutsjeersbooshisses only increase in volume, as the citizens play their part for this ritual.

“Kneel!” Kylo procures a long blade from a small table which has been set up for the evening’s events. He slices the back of this sacrifice’s kneecaps, and down he goes with a guttural scream as blood streams from the wounds. “Kneel before the glory of the Goddess who stands before you.”

You are shocked and offended, when the sacrifice turns his gaze towards you. Those eyes are too blue, blue but blank. This is not a man who is sorry for his actions, but rather a man who is fearful of the punishment which comes with getting caught.

“How dare you look at her as if you are worthy of her visage.” Kylo catches him once again, for Kylo did not say he may look at you.

With the very same blade, Kylo carves deep gashes into the man’s skull. His strong thighs hold the man steady as those blue eyes are ripped torn sheared away from the writhing thrashing screaming body below him. The citizens cheer, they applaud and clap their hands, stamp their feet, whistle.

Chest heaving, naked body stained deep red with blood, Kylo holds the eyes out to you for your inspection.

Blue, too blue. You hate them.

“It is time.” You nod.

You kneel underneath the portal to the heavens, that window which has been carved from the roof of your temple. Kylo is slightly behind you, for he never dares to be ahead of you in any way, he is far too reverent, he adores you, worships you too strongly to put himself ahead.

“O heavenly bodies above us, hear our plea,” Your voice is loud and clear, and all silence themselves to hear you. “Take this man as a sign of our devotion, may the blood that spills echo that of our enemies. We offer him to you, one of our own for one of theirs.”

“An eye for an eye.” Kylo gets up then, places the eyes in a small basket on the altar, the statue of you which stretches far up into the air, nearly touches the Goddesses themselves.

He turns back to the blinded man, stabs the blade through his chest and plunges his hand inside the wound, tears out the man’s still beating heart as he screams and screams and screams. You wonder when the shock will kill him, when he will be silenced forever more.

“Pulse for pulse.” Kylo shakes with rage, blood splattered in beautiful arcs across his cheek, spattering up the scar which bisects his face. The heart in his hand stills, and he places the organ in another small basket next to the eyes.

Kylo passes you the blade, and you slit the sacrifice’s throat and wrists. He bleeds out onto the marble tile flooring, hemorrhaging, voids where his eyes should be black and red. It brings you great satisfaction to see him suffer this way, after he put the women of your care, of your Empire through so much suffering himself.

“I invite the people to rip this man limb from limb, a display of our power and a vision of victory! Show the Goddesses what we intend to inflict upon our enemies.” Kylo finally allows the citizens to pour onto the temple floor from their seats. “Come down and steal the last breaths of life from he who I may not give the dignity of calling a man.”

You grin, and with a small golden bowl which has been set on that very same small table, you pool up some of the blood that gushes from the wounds on the sacrifice. Handing the bowl to Kylo, your fingers brush against one another, and you can only smile wider.  

“Follow me.” You whisper.

As if he were in a trance, Kylo walks behind you, hot on your heels, never wanting to be so far from you. You lead him through a back door behind the statue, his hands soaked with crimson, trickling and streaming down his arms, dripping in little spots on the floor. The citizens behind you are in a frenzy, the sound of cracking snapping bones and happy cheers masquerading that of the door closing.

It is like another world in here, in this back room.

Kylo performs many rituals with you here, bloody and clean alike. A thousand candles are lit against the circular wall, the ceremonial bed is freshly made with clean linen sheets. With the door closed this way, the noises from beyond the walls are muffled. You release a deep breath, and Kylo trains his eyes on you, on your magnificence.

Standing in place are the Knights of Ren. Five large men, naked aside from the helmets they wear and jewelry which adorns their body. You do not acknowledge them, though you know they are there, your thighs already clenching because you know why they are there.

And oh, you cannot wait.

“Undress her.” Kylo orders, and softly, slowly, they do as they are told.

You do not wear much, a single layer of fabric draped beautifully, intricately across your shoulders. A belt made of braided gold is unclasped from your waist, and the Knights are reverent, their heads bowed, as they lift the rich purple silk away from you. Their hands are like ghosts, barely there and yet your skin turns to flame in their wake.

Kylo walks around and around you, keeps close to the curved walls. He appraises you, takes your pregnant body in. The harvest ritual had been a success, the Goddesses had blessed you with a child – that had been a success, and Kylo was determined for this to be a success as well.

The Knights caress you, worship you the way Kylo worships you. You smile at him, at Kylo, where you know he is hiding in the shadows of the candles.

“Lie down, beloved.” Kylo instructs, and before you can take so much as one step, the Knights are there with their arms around you.

Lifting you off the floor, they carry your naked body to the bed. Though this is a sacred space, a blessed space, your feet are too precious to touch the floor. You allow yourself to be laid down, the bed soft and comfortable, sheets cool to your overheated skin.

Kylo steps forward then, the golden bowl in his hands. He has a paintbrush, and your thighs quiver, legs falling open for him as he comes closer to the bed.

Even strokes decorate your flesh with the blood, as he writes across your skin.

Kylo is methodical, careful, as he dips the end of the brush into the bowl and soaks the fibers through, smearing it in intricate letters and sigils.

It is a prayer for victory, one that he hopes by adorning your body with, it’ll be even louder heard up in the heavens above.

“My body is their body,” Your eyes slip closed, remaining as still as possible while Kylo decorates you with the calligraphy. Your voice is not barely above a whisper, but it sounds so loud in this small room. “Revere me as you revere them, pleasure me so they may be pleased.”

The brush tickles your arms, the secret parts of your sides, your large round stomach, your soft thighs, the arch of your foot. He spells it out in the languages of old, the ones only you and he and the stars know. You are divine, you are sacred, and he takes his time to get these words right, these sigils must be drawn perfectly, or else this will have been for naught.

“Pleasure me, and be pleased.” You say again, this permission being given to them all, to the Knights.

They are hesitant for just a moment, because they know Kylo will kill them with one wrong move. They may be the most elite warriors and his most trusted guards, but they are replaceable, expendable. Everyone was, everyone aside from you.

With their helmets on, you do not know who is who. One of the men climbs onto the bed, you sit up to make room for him on the narrow mattress. He lifts you so that you straddle his hips, sinking down onto his cock with ease. You had spent the day getting prepared by your husband, he who had made sweet and passionate love to you to warm you up, stretch you pleasantly so that you might take these men with ease.

“Ohh, yes,” You sigh, settling down onto it.

Leaning against the chest of the knight underneath you, a second one climbs onto the bed and moves forward, hooks his arms underneath your knees and bends them up so that he can sink his cock into your pussy alongside his partner.

“Yes – more, I want more.” You moan, your head tipping back and eyes closing. The stretch is unbelievable, and your ribcage expands as he shallowly thrusts himself inside, his cock working alongside that of the knight underneath you.

A third kneels over your chest rubs the head of his cock against your tongue. You take a deep breath through your nose and he pushes his dick down your throat in slow little thrusts that have your throat stretching around him. Kylo’s much bigger, and you’ve swallowed him with ease, you are not so concerned about this man’s.

“Be careful with her.” Kylo demands of the knight down your throat, and you hum around the length which is stuffed in your mouth, hum in thanks.

The final two men each claim one of your breasts into their mouths, guiding your hands to their hard erections to jerk them off as they crowd against you on either side of the mattress.

“Good.” Kylo says, as he watches these men take you.

You know he’ll have his turn with you, he’ll have the final turn, the only turn that matters. But you need to be properly fucked out, blissed out of your mind, overstimulated, and this is the fastest way to accomplish that goal.

It very quickly becomes overwhelming, the pleasure from all sides, all avenues. You drool all over yourself as the cock in your mouth fucks your skull, hard hard hard and fast, tears hot and stinging the corners of your eyes. Your pussy is stretched and hot, wet and slick, so slick that the sound of their dicks rubbing against one another inside of you fills the room loudly.

“Feel this, Goddesses above.” Kylo whispers as he comes to the top of the bed, his hands warm and wet with blood cupping your cheeks where you rest on the shoulder of the knight below you, that shoulder acting as a pillow for your beautiful head. “Feel how full she is, all for you, everything for you.”

Hands are all over you, they’re all over, bending you and moving you in ways that give you more pleasure, give them a deeper better angle so that you might cry out for the Goddesses to hear. Your stomach is rubbed, caressed, the bump which juts out beautifully is lavished with attention. They rub the blood into your skin, smear the sigils and the letters which Kylo so carefully painted – but this is the point, the purpose, and they do their job well.

As do you, your hips widening for the pounding they give you, the muscles under your breasts flexing as your nipples are sucked and pinched and licked, your throat relaxing and tightening as need be. The grunts and groans and sighs and moans above you make your clit throb, and you don’t know how many fingers there are, pressing and rubbing and smacking at it for your body to shake and tremble the way it does.

“Good girl,” Kylo whispers still, hands cupping caressing stroking your cheeks, your jaw, as your mouth is stretched wide to be fucked, “Beautiful girl, bring us to victory.”

Like this you are reduced to nothing more than the sensations of pleasure. Your body sings, chants, begs and pleads for more more more, and they give it to you. Hands and dicks and tongues and teeth are all over you, marking you, giving you what you desire. Your limbs shake and shudder violently as your nerves grow alight, as sparks fly behind your eyelids.

Your back arches and you come with a shattering orgasm, you come so hard that your jaw moves to snap shut, and the knight in your throat must pull out quickly so he isn’t severely injured.

“Ohhh!” You shout, your vocal cords free, gasping in breaths quickly and harshly, your back arched and your toes curled, your entire body trembling as you shout, “Kylo! I want you Kylo.”

At once, the bodies which have surrounded you are pulled away. They are all still hard, no one but you has come yet, just as is intended. They leave the room to give you both privacy, and to take care of themselves alone.

No one is dared allowed to come inside you, no one but Kylo – and even he feels unworthy as he rests you softly, sweetly on your back, pushes his cock inside your aching throbbing drenched pussy.

“I want you to come in me.” You wail, hiccup around his lips as he kisses you, as his tongue wriggles hot and wet against yours.

He holds you steady as he thrusts evenly into you, your legs wracked with tremors as he smears the last of the blood. You are gorgeous, divine, glowing from the inside out, your eyes rolled back into your head, all knowing, all seeing.

And then, just then, as his hand is placed on your stomach, he feels something move inside you. A kick, he thinks, the gentle nudge of life that he himself has helped you to conceive, and before he even knows what’s happening he is doubled over you, collapsing as he comes hard.  

“Thank you,” He whispers, as his cock throbs and tears stream down from his eyes. He does not know to whom he sends his thanks, all he knows is that he hopes they hear him, so he says it again and again, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Your breathing is beginning to even out, even as your body shivers and jolts from pleasure. Kylo’s hand drops to your clit and he swirls little zig-zags and circles, pinches and presses at it, wanting to keep you in bliss, wanting to keep you warm and wet and filled with come.

“Win this war for me.” You say, words slurred from how drunk off the pleasure you are. “Win for me, for our Empire. For our son.”

“It’s a boy?” Kylo wrenches his salt-stung eyes open to stare at you imploringly, pleadingly.

Your eyes are lidded heavily, but you grin wide and that grin is dazzling in the light of the candles. Kylo has not cared one way or the other, he will love this child just the same no matter how they come, but the knowledge of a prince fills him with such joy he cannot help but weep.

“Win, and return to me to find out.” You tuck his sweaty hair behind his ears with a pleasure weak hand, and Kylo hopes beyond hope that what you have done together tonight will be more than enough, to secure such a victory, to open heaven’s gates.

[baoshan-sanren]

Chapter 52

Emperor Wei WuXian And His Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Birthday

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 Part 1 | Chapter 8 Part 2 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 Part 1 | Chapter 15 Part 2 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 Part 1 | Chapter 22 Part 2 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 | Chapter 30 | Chapter 31 | Chapter 32 | Chapter 33 | Chapter 34 | Chapter 35 | Chapter 36 | Chapter 37 | Chapter 38 | Chapter 39 | Chapter 40 | Chapter 41 | Chapter 42 | Chapter 43 | Chapter 44 | Chapter 45 | Chapter 46 | Chapter 47 | Chapter 48 & Chapter 49 | Chapter 50 | Chapter 51

“Perhaps I do not actually require a palace,” the Royal Companion says.

XiChen hears the words clearly, each one perfectly audible over the sounds of the guqin. The Rogue Prince had taken his leave only moments ago, but Lady Jiang is still present, having settled at the head of the bed. The Royal Companion had settled at the bottom, with an ease that suggested he had done so frequently in the past.

The words sounds nonsensical to XiChen’s ears, but the atmosphere in the Imperial chambers noticeably shifts, the Emperor stiffening in WangJi’s arms. A silence descends, just as incomprehensible as the words had been. XiChen is not familiar with the Royal Companion’s mannerisms, but the young man is holding himself stiffly as well, his lazy posture doing little to conceal the tension of his muscles.

Perhaps the sentence is a code that only the Emperor and the Royal Companion understand?

Still being held up by WangJi, the Emperor turns his head and whispers softly, words that are clearly meant for his brother’s ears only. He is reclining easily in WangJi’s arms, their heads close together, their cheeks nearly brushing.

XiChen turns his gaze back to the guqin.

It is not uncomfortable, precisely, watching his brother be so easily intimate with a person he cares for, but it is very much out of the ordinary. WangJi’s cool demeanor conceals a heart prone to excess of emotion, a depth of feeling that has always existed beneath the surface, rigorously concealed from the world. To see the Emperor so easily coax that emotion out into the open is miraculous, but it is also unsettling; XiChen does not know if the Emperor comprehends the true extent of WangJi’s affection, or how precious and rare it is, to have it so visibly displayed.

“Young Master Lan,” the Emperor says, startling him out of his thoughts.

Lady Jiang and WangJi are helping him shift into a better position, propped up against pillows and covers, no longer having to rely on WangJi for support. Despite his obvious physical weakness, the Emperor’s tone is clear and forceful. It is a skill, the ability to don a mantle of power and authority all while being maneuvered about one’s bed in such an undignified manner. XiChen both respects and envies this ability.

“Your Majesty?”

“I am grateful for your assistance, but I believe you are long overdue for some much needed rest. Would you be so kind to escort my shijie back to her chambers? Lan Zhan will continue the Cleansing in your place.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

Of course, the insistence that he pass his duties to WangJi and rest, is nothing more than a polite method of removing him from the Emperor’s chambers. Any doubts he may have had would have been dispelled by WangJi’s vaguely apologetic look as he replaces XiChen at the guqin.

XiChen does not require an apology. He is tired and restless, his aching wrists welcoming any interruption of the tedious task. The two Imperial guards at the entrance are also ordered to take their duties outside, leaving WangJi and the Emperor alone with the Royal Companion.

In the hall outside the Imperial chambers, Lady Jiang smiles, “I hope you are not offended by such an abrupt dismissal, Young Master Lan. I am sure, once the situation at court has been stabilized, the Emperor will properly express his gratitude. We are in your debt.”

“There is no need,” XiChen says, realizing that he had not expected gratitude, nor does he know what to do with such a sentiment, “I am sure anyone would have done the same.”

“They would not have,” Lady Jiang says easily, her tone unchanging, “but thinking so does you credit. Please do not feel obliged to provide an escort. I am sure the Imperial guards will prove equal to the task, and my chambers are not far.”

Taken aback by the frankness of her words, he only bows in response.

He had not yet considered all the political repercussions of the Lan Sect having saved an Emperor who is so frequently a subject of assassination attempts, but Lady Jiang’s words raise many questions he cannot answer.

What will be the consequences of the Lan Sect aligning themselves so firmly with a Divine Ruler who does not intend to father an heir? Will their actions, committed over the course of the last day and night, be seen as monumentous as the assassination of the Empress had been? Can any succession of honorable deeds ever erase the dishonors of the past?

At this very moment, uncle has many more pressing issues to consider, and will doubtlessly remain occupied by them for days to come. But XiChen wishes he could simply yield to his uncle’s understanding of the matters, as he often had in the past, without having to reason out the answers to these questions on his own.

Chagrin immediately descends, propelling his restless feet to move, as if urging him to run away from such uncomfortable thoughts. XiChen is to be the future Sect leader, to occupy the same seat that uncle now holds. He should never shy away from being guided by those who came before him, but his deference has always been a little too excessive. It is a frequent source of his brother’s frustration, XiChen’s insistence on ceding ground to avoid disharmony and conflict.

It is not for the lack of firm beliefs that XiChen so often gives way. It is simply a habit, one borne of insecurity. In order to hold firm in the face of opposition, one must believe that their own understanding is impeachable, that their opinions have been properly formed, that they are indisputably in the right. XiChen firmly believes that Nie MingJue’s intentions are honorable and genuine, that his own affection is steadfast and unimpeachable, but he has never possessed the necessary self-confidence to insist on this belief in the face of uncle’s disapproval.

Lack of a spine is not a virtue, but XiChen had dressed it up as such, so that others may admire his amicable nature, while he, alone, is left to despise the roots from which it grew. He wonders how long he would have gone on this way, draping his self-doubts in a cloak of respectful deference, had Nie MingJue not entered his life.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Nie MingJue appears at the head of the hall, his stride quick and purposeful. Guards had been sent to inform him that the Emperor is awake, XiChen remembers, and the man doubtlessly expects to be admitted to the Emperor’s chambers without delay. XiChen is certain that Nie MingJue will be disappointed in his expectations. Any conversation that requires the removal of both Lady Jiang and the Imperial guards from the Emperor’s presence must be highly sensitive in nature, and is likely to go on for some time.

The General of the Emperor’s army is no longer wearing his armor, his Nie Sect uniform silver and black, the cut severe, clearly intended to project authority. In the early morning gloom, his face is a collection of shifting shadows, his mood impossible to discern. Faced with such a presence, the few servants finishing up their nightly tasks scurry out of the way with their heads bowed, the guards straighten their shoulders as if expecting to be scolded, even the walls themselves seem to stand at attention.

It strikes XiChen fiercely, how the attributes he admires so fervently in Nie MingJue are those he has always felt a lack of in himself. Even the man’s boldness, so often displayed in mortifying ways, is a trait that XiChen wishes he can possess. It has inspired a boldness of his own, although it appears pitiful when compared to MingJue’s. In the same vein, his own temperance is likely to have suppressed at least some of MingJue’s brashness. They fit, the two of them; one yielding while the other remains unmoved, one sure to hesitate while the other barrels bravely onward.

Do you truly think that there is a single part of you that I will not admire?

MingJue does not have a chance to express his obvious surprise at encountering XiChen during such an early hour, nor is he given an opportunity to ask any questions. XiChen is not certain what his course of action would have been, had MingJue resisted the firm grip on his wrist, had he refused to let himself be steered. To his relief, MingJue obediently allows XiChen to pull him aside, to push him past the unguarded doors of the Emperor’s study.

The room beyond faces south, the early morning light some hours away from reaching the single window hole. XiChen is relieved. He does not want MingJue to see the flush across his cheeks, or to discern the anxiety in his eyes.

Under his hands, MingJue’s braids are impossibly intricate, each one a tiny, delicate wonder. Under his mouth, MingJue is made rigid by surprise.

XiChen had not exactly expected an immediate response. This action, this impulse decision, it is so unlike himself that MingJue may as well think he has been accosted by a stranger. Still, each breath is centuries long, each one riddled with seeds of doubt.

Perhaps XiChen was wrong after all. Perhaps Nie MingJue does not wish to--

He is pulled forward with such force that he stumbles over his own feet. The cold steel of MingJue’s belt scrapes across the tender flesh of his stomach, an earth shattering contact even through two layers of robes. MingJue’s tongue, hot and insistent, licks into his mouth, sliding against his own. The sensation is a shock; XiChen feels it all along his spine, curving around his limbs, pressing into each sensitive stretch of his skin. He does not realize he had tightened his hold on the handful of braids until MingJue makes a sound, a pitiful noise that seems to border on pain. Even as XiChen struggles to release his grip, the arms around his body tighten, a searing hot palm pressed against his shoulder blades locking him in place.

XiChen has never kissed, or been kissed. The few times he had imagined such an act, it had been a rarely reached conclusion of some distinctly chaste fantasies, gone no further than lips pressing together, breathing each other’s air. He does not think that any stretch of fantasies could have prepared him for this.

He is certain that his lack of skill must be obvious. Yet, each hesitant lick of his tongue is followed by a series of shudders he can clearly feel cross MingJue’s shoulders. His own trembling, impossible to suppress, is made less shameful by the knowledge that MingJue is equally as affected. It seems impossible to concentrate on anything but the movement of their lips, the slick slide of their tongues, but XiChen manages to release the handfuls of braids he had gripped. MingJue whines softly, a noise that sounds suspiciously like a complaint.

When their lips part, XiChen finds himself struggling to breathe normally, his chest both too tight for the air he needed, and somehow larger than the space it must occupy.

“XiChen,” MingJue rasps.

His voice is raw and thick, the sound unexpectedly arousing. XiChen is moving to kiss him again before realizing that he has done so, and manages to pull back just in time.

Firmly placing his hands on MingJue’s shoulders, he tries to say what must be said, words he had avoided since his last argument with uncle, “You-- my uncle will only allow your presence at Cloud Recesses if I enter secluded meditation for the duration of your visit. I will not attempt to convince him to change his mind. He does not trust me to behave-- in a virtuous manner, nor do I intend to persuade him otherwise.”

MingJue makes a soft sound, but XiChen does not look up; he is embarrassed enough by the admission as it is, he does not want to know what expression MingJue’s face may hold.

“You had said once that your situation is not nearly as inflexible as my own. If you are still willing-- to offer me a lifetime, I am ready to listen.”

He has hardly finished speaking when MingJue’s mouth finds his own again, infinitely more careful this time, the act very close to the chaste kiss of XiChen’s fantasies. XiChen is the one who presses closer, deepening the kiss, feeling brave and reckless in the wake of his confession.

Perhaps he may never possess MingJue’s boldness, but he has managed to find some of his own in the process; as paltry as such a thing may appear to be, if it serves to ensure him a lifetime of happiness, he will never again view it with scorn.

[keyofjetwolf]

HEY HEY HEY LET’S TALK ABOUT HOW THIS IS GETTING WORSE FOR EVERYONE AND HOW EXCITED I AM

We’ll start with Usagi, who’s not having a good time, but in a wonderfully mundane way. To her, it’s no more than two of her friends not getting along, and Usagi desperate to make it better. Of course there’s the whole “Senshi” thing, which is making Usagi defend Ami extra hard, adding in an additional layer of difficulty and confusion that can’t actually be discussed and cleared up, AND THAT’S USAGI WITH THE EASY PART

That element’s making it so much harder on Naru though, who KNOWS there’s something not right about Ami, who has a thousand warning bells screaming at her, but without a single thing she can definitively pull out and explain to anyone. All she has are these gut feelings and weird encounters, none of which prove a single thing, and despite her knowing she’s right -- AND I WANT TO REITERATE THAT SHE IS VERY MUCH RIGHT -- she keeps coming across as a jealous insecure bully picking on the innocent defenseless nerd. And it looks to Naru like Usagi’s feeling that way about her too! SHE CAN’T KNOW THAT USAGI IS JUST AGGRESSIVELY TRYING TO DEFLECT AND HANDWAVE THE SENSHI STUFF

Which brings us to Ami. If there’s any “bad guy” in this situation, it is unquestionably Ami, who is the only one here with all the information, who understands the source of everyone’s actions and could immediately clear this up in a half dozen ways, but stays silent.

AND OKAY LET’S TALK ABOUT THOSE WAYS THEY’RE SO GREAT OH AMI YOU’RE BEING TERRIBLE I FUCKING LOVE IT

Obviously there’s the part where she could pull away from Usagi socially. Ami has an entire lifetime of experience in the fringes, she could effortlessly slip back there. Talk to Usagi in private, establish a boundary, say it’s too much of a risk to their Senshi lives to publicly change this dramatically, take the burden of trying to cover all this from Usagi, stop painting Naru into a corner she’s done nothing to deserve. That would mean, though, that Ami would have to accept an Usagiless world outside of Crown(**), go back to being the friendless outcast with only her books to keep her company. And Ami WON’T. At least not without mining out every nugget of that rich sympathy, not without Usagi seeing her for the martyr she is most definitely crafting herself to be.

** It’s in Ami’s power to change this, of course. She’s already learned so much, she could slowly, organically, break out of her shell, make friends unconnected to Usagi, expand her world in a way that wouldn’t raise any alarms or look suspicious. It’d be easy enough from there to connect back to Usagi, it’d probably seem more suspicious if she didn’t!. But as I said, Ami’s drunk on all the emotions, and so young and impatient and AFRAID, I’m not at all surprised she doesn’t even think about going here, all she can see right now is what she’ll lose.

AND I SAY THAT WITH LOVE. Oh it’s not a good look, it absolutely makes Ami look terrible, but in a way that’s not only fascinating, but entirely human. Ami’s never had anyone give a shit about her like Usagi does, never had anyone make her feel loved and valued and wanted. She’s drunk off it, she’s addicted, and it’s only made her painfully, staggeringly aware of how lonely she’s been. More than anything, Ami doesn’t want to go back to that, and it’s making her scared and selfish. It’s not good, but it’s REAL, and I really cannot say enough how fucking THRILLED I am that PGSM seems to be committed to going here. I’m getting to watch unfold, before my eager little Jet Wolf eyes, the less sunny side of Usagi’s love, the way she’s touched the lives of these girls society neglected, and by bringing them from the shadows, also exposed the parts of them damaged and ugly.

Wait, there’s more! Usagi’s light shines on the beautiful and ugly parts alike, AND AMI’S GOT TO SEE THEM TOO. Ami is the only one with the full picture of what’s happening, and that includes HERSELF. She can fix this at any time, the power is hers. Remember when Ami discovered her new talent for lying? Remember the show very specifically showing us that? REMEMBER HOW SHE ISN’T USING IT? Ami’s had plenty of time to think about all this and put that powerful brain to use to explain things. This could so easily become something she and Naru laughed about later. But that would mean including Naru, that would mean accepting Naru as Usagi’s friend, her BEST friend, and being able to set aside her own jealousy and insecurity about that. Once again though, fixing this requires Ami to give up something. She knows that, and is CHOOSING NOT TO.

When Ami was sad and lonely and in her own head, she could craft whatever narrative about herself she wanted. She could think about what she’d have to offer someone, what they could give each other, how sweet and wonderful and generous a friend she would be, if only given the chance. Now that chance is here, and Ami has found she’s not these things at all, Or, at least, not only these things. Never having anything to lose, could she have realized the depths of her selfishness? There’s so much new Ami is coming to learn about herself, and so little of it is good. She recognizes it, knows she could change it, feels shame that she hasn’t.

Then Usagi defends her again, and Ami feels that warmth and the pull of being wanted, and stays silent.