#i am so rusty with lining and shading

[rosynova]

just a quick reminder that i love and miss toasty very much

[renonv]

Hello I love your art so much especially the watercolour brush you use! If you dont mind, could you tell me what program you use and what the brush is called? Ty 🥰💕

AUGHHHHHH thank you!!! And I don’t mind at all!! As long as you don’t mind me throwing in other brushes in this ask jskdkd I had another person ask me which brushes I use and I am an ass at answering so… two birds w one stone 😭🙏

So the water color brush comes from MaxPacks!! That’s my go to shading brush, but you should play with all of the other brushes in the pack!! I’m still figuring them out akdndk but they are funnn

The lining/sketching brush I often use is Rusty Nib #3 from the Debaser pack! They also have paper textures which I sometimes use!! I have a few of their packs sndnddn

Then there’s Funny Haha Brush I use for lineart and the procreate pencil brush 🫡 sometimes I use it to sketch sometimes to line or to shade!!

[soufcakmistress]

In the Heat of the Night

A/N: Babies what is good!!!! I am so rusty but I’m so happy that I got this out for yall. Yall know I love me some Jonathan Majors, but I don’t write for real life folks. That’s just MY preference, no shade to those who do. Please comment and like and reblog to let me know how yall feel. Let’s get into it!

The south side felt different duting the summer. Kids were out of school, frolicking in the streets and turning on the fire hydrants. The ice cream man made several stops throughout the neighborhood, the old heads played their card games and dominoes until the wee hours of the morning, and the bars stayed packed with ladies and gents to take a load off. Summertime Chi felt larger than life.

Delphine Freeman sat up in her bed and stretched her arms to the sky. Looking behind her, she saw an empty bed with nothing but a small note on her husband’s pillow. “Picking up some things for breakfast. Be back soon, my love.” She picked it up and held it to her heart. That man of hers.

Delphine remembers the first time she encountered Atticus. Her family had just moved from Virginia, and she was totally new to the Midwest. At first, it was hard making friends at a new high school in a new place. Her accent and bumpkin ways attracted the wrong kind of attention among these city folks, so she kept to herself. Until one day when Atticus was helping his club attract new members, and he passed a flyer to her in the hallway. “You should come. Who knows, you might find a friend here.” He had her, hook line and sinker with his gentle way and sweet smile.

Atticus looked like 6 days of beautiful creation from God above AND the seventh day of rest to her - she missed seeing his face this morning. Delphine laid back against the pillow that smelled like him and reminisced on their roller coaster ride of a relationship. Fighting entitled white people over magic and who it really belonged to and his birthright, his trauma from Korea and monsters straight out of a pulp book— nobody with sense would ever believe it. The storm was over now, and her and Tic lived in peace, as well as holy matrimony.

The memory of her betrothed looking so debonair in his suit on their wedding day made her heart palpitate. Her legs squeezed together, recalling those shoulders filling out that blazer and kissing those lips as they said ‘I do’. She especially loved the surprise on his face when the ceremony was over and she slipped her hand in his pants right outside their wedding suite and him allowing her to take what was hers. “Oooh, I love that man.”

She was feeling frisky now. The window was cracked with a moderate breeze flowing into the room but Delphine’s heat couldnt be contained. Flashes of him saving his entire family from catastrophe, him shirtless and bespectacled reading aloud one of his favorite pulp books while he laid in her lap, the look of adoration and love when they bought their home on the South Shore. Tic was all man….and all hers.

Sweat dripped between her large breasts, her coochie ached in the best way and she couldn’t take it anymore. Delphine took Tic’s pillow and put it in between her legs. The reflection of her in the vanity bureau with her slinky nightgown raised up on her hips made her feel like she was a bit unhinged. If she didn’t cum now, she would lose it. So she rode that pillow like its name was Atticus Freeman and he was the only thing that could satiate her.

Her clit hit the seam of the pillow so precisely, it almost took her over before she was ready. “Shit, shit….oooh Tic baby…damn..” She pushed the straps down from her nightgown to expose her breasts and she really got to moving.

The key in the front door lock clicked with Tic lumbering in with a couple brown paper bags of breakfast stuff. He went to the kitchen to put everything away, but could have sworn that he heard something from the shared master bedroom. He got the baseball bat they kept in the coat closet and inched toward the room. Tic pushed the door in slightly and what he was met with could have knocked him on his back.

His sexy ass wife rubbing her pussy in figure 8’s on his pillow. Tic made sure to be quiet putting the bat along the wall, and rubbing his crotch slowly to take Delphine in. He knew when she showed signs of her incoming orgasm— shaking her head back and forth, fingers tangled in her hair, stomach fluttering…..she was almost there. When she finally shouted in delight, he couldn’t take it anymore.

The sound of a zipper coming down and broke her out of her trance. Delphine gasped when she saw her fine ass husband staring with bedroom eyes and pouty lips that made her wanna howl to the moon. “Looking for this?” He pulled his dick out of his pants and a deluge of fresh slick coated the meeting place between her legs.

Delphine almost started up again on the pillow but when the object of her deepest affections was just as hungry for her, it would be criminal to not take advantage. “Damn straight. Bring yo ass over here, four eyes.”

~

BB King played on the kitchen radio, and the lovely couple made breakfast together. Tic already put on a hot pot of coffee, and he sipped on a mug as he fried up some bacon. Delphine stood next to him in one of his shirts and panties, making her famous blueberry pancakes. Both hummed along and caught cute ass glances at each other, floating on their sensual high. It felt so good. Not having to worry about what the next day held and being allowed to just live.

The phone rang while Tic started cracking eggs, and he wiped his hands on the tea towel. “Freeman Residence. Lester, my man! What’s shaking? Nothing much brother, just me and the Mrs. making some breakfast. She’s doing VERY well, I’ll let her know you asked about her.” Delphine turned around with feigned shock when he said that, knowing his subtext and that he blew her back out for the ages just twenty minutes ago. She walked over with a huge smile and popped a blueberry in his mouth and kissed his lips.

He pinched her butt when she went back to the stove and finished chatting it up with Lester. “Sunday? We’ll be there brother. See ya then.” Tic looked at the calendar on the wall next to the phone, to see if there was any extra obligations needed for the guidebook and his aunt Hippolyta. He also did some math and tried to remember his wife’s last cycle. “That’s why she’s so frisky…”

~

Lester had a block party over where he stayed in Bronzeville, and it was jumping! All kinds of rhythm and blues and guitar singers filled the south side with a plethora of food to choose from. Little girls playing jacks and double Dutch, little boys doing bike races, the teenagers making googly eyes at each others and the elders trading recipes for lemonade and greens. Everybody would pitch in and bring something for the community to enjoy. Delphine took all of Friday to make 5 sweet potato pies from scratch and Tic grilled so many slabs of ribs, it was insane. Irene, Lester’s wife was tight with Delphine; her and the other young women gossiped while sipping beers on their stoop.

“Uh oh, ‘Phine. Tic is over there getting rowdy at that card table.” Irene loved to tease—he was putting them back and with each hand he won, the louder his voice carried. “Oh hell. Lemme go feed my baby.”

Delphine made Tic’s plate with everything he loves — ribs, chicken, potato salad, cornbread, sausage dog with relish and an ice cold Budweiser. “Hey baby, you been doing a whole lot of drinkin but not a lot of eating. Come on now.” Tic acquiesced and moved with her away from all the men. She sat on his lap at an empty table and fed him some of the food before he took over, and started feeding her too.

Tic’s skin was all tan and his arms and pecs were bulging in his shirt. He didn’t even have to try to get her riled up. Delphine rubbed his back, and absentmindedly played with his ear. “All right now. You know that’s my spot.” They both had their fair share of alcohol that evening, and Delphine usually would have to beat Tic off with a stick. The shoe was on the other foot now. “Tic……I don’t have any panties on..”

He almost choked on his beer when his minx of a wife started talking so salacious like in his ear. “I like this Delphine. She takes what she wants. What you trying to do? Only if you say it, will you be able to get what you want.” Delphine’s skin pimpled because he meant every word. All the ruckus and commotion around them meant nothing in that instance. Just her and her husband. “I want you to take me in that alley…..and do whatever you want to me..”

That sinful jawline clenched, and she knew he would do just that. Wasn’t any more talking. He drained his beer, and dragged her down a few streets to a secluded alley. Delphine stood at the brick wall, flushed with the strap of her linen dress down her arm. Tic cradled her face and they kissed each other so deeply that they breathed for each other. She undid his pants letting them fall to his knees, and he picked her up.

Delphine was so wet, the slick was almost to the inside of her knees. Tic’s thrust was so strong, they both gasped aloud. “Yes Tic, fuck me hard!” His face lived in the crevice of her neck, licking and kissing. Just like every muscle on his sculpted body, Tic was rock hard and filled her up so deliciously. The same BB king song from the other morning played and they were able to hear it still. Everything swirled around the both of them and yet nothing at all mattered. His low grunts were so sexy and she could tell he was about to cum.

“Oooh I love this pussy baby, I love this pussy….I fuckin love you!” Atticus filled his wife up all the way that it spilled down her legs and the heat of it all triggered her to orgasm. She pulled him in even more and he expelled more of his love inside her. Tic brought her down to her feet, and she stumbled immediately. Tic steadied her and stuck his tongue down her throat yet again. “Atticus Freeman….the man of my dreams..”

~

The guidebook was doing so well.

Atticus and Hippolyta had been able to come to an agreement on operations; Atticus would be able to make final edits and handle submissions to the publisher and Hippolyta would be able to do most of the trips to update the stops. She acquiesced to Tic’s request that he would join her to assuage his nerves if she went more than 3 states away.

The book was flying off the shelves and Hippolyta had been able to meet some publishers in Kansas City and Detroit to put in some local Negro owned shops and apothecaries. It was the second Saturday in August, and the entire South Side would be at Washington Park for the Bud Billiken parade and festival. Delphine and Tic packed up their station wagon with fold up chairs, a cooler full of beer and pop, and more food to last a winter. Dee was finally feeling better and she rode with you guys to the Bud as she was Delphine’s favorite little cousin.

Everybody was rocking and rolling to the marching bands and majorettes. Delphine and Dee looked at all the floats and picked their favorite one. “Oooh Dee, you see the grand marshal? That’s a good lookin man!” She made sure to say it in earshot of Atticus; she loved him a bit jealous and possessive. He cut his eyes at her, smirking behind his beer. “All right now, don’t get in trouble.”

“Baby, there is nothing more that I would love to do than be punished by you.” Delphine stuck her tongue down her husband’s mouth, and Dee gagged at the public display of affection. “Y’all are so gross I swear!”

The grand marshal announced who had the best float and the best marching band in Chicago, and the party went on until late in the night. “Come on, dancing queens, let’s get y’all home.” Atticus loaded the car up and Delphine and Dee fell asleep in the backseat holding each other. Atticus looked in the rear view full of gratitude and unbridled joy at his two girls. He stopped at Hippolyta’s house and carried Dee inside.

Delphine moved to the front seat after and waited for her husband to drive them home. The angles of his face illuminated by the streetlights made him even more handsome in the low light. She couldn’t help but to stare. That same feeling from that other morning came back with a fierceness. He felt her eyes on him and winked at her. “You looking like you still hungry for something…..”

“That mouth on my body…that’s what I need.” Delphine sat with her back to the door and lifted her dress, pulled her panties off, and put them in his lap. Tic took them and sniffed them and was instantly engorged. That station wagon moved a little quicker then.

Fireworks were being shot near the lake and Tic and Delphine had a clear view from their balcony. “Ooooh let’s see baby! Her ass clapped in her dress and Tic had to grip his meat walking after her. “Lemme make sure the shoggoth is okay first. Keep it tight for me baby.”Tic went to the basement and fed the shoggoth and calmed him down since they were gone all day. He had it down to a science now. Feed him a racist white man a day, and he would cooperate.

Delphine was out on the balcony totally enthralled. She jumped like a little kid when several popped at once, entrancing her with the bright colors. Standing at the window, he just gazed upon her. How did he get so lucky? Tic joined her on the balcony, wrapping those muscles around her waist. All the kisses behind her ear made her giggle just like how he intended. While she was off guard, he unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, and lifted her dress in one motion. “Now what you doing back th—OH!”

He slipped right into her pussy with the most earth shattering intrusion Delphine could ever experience. “Shhhh shhh. We have to be quiet. Now Mrs. Freeman…..I think I know what’s gotten into you cuz I did the math. It’s that other time of the month, ain’t it?”

A breathy yes fell from her lips and it clicked for her. She was always incredibly horny and with shiny hair and skin at this particular point of the month. “You tryna have my baby?” Tic whispered in her ear, and pinched her nipple as his hips stroked back and forth. “Delphine, are you tryna make me a father?”

She loved when he got rough with her, especially when they were at risk of being seen in the act. “Yes, Atticus give me your baby.” His hands gripped hers on the railing and he let her have it. Delphine had already came twice but Tic was always generous; he wanted his wife to be satisfied. “Here it come..” Atticus held her right to his chest and gave her devastating thrusts and came deep inside her. Her head rolled back on his shoulder and they stood together still united as one as the fireworks show gave the finale. “I love you so much” they both said in unison and gazed at the sky.

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[aphroditestummyrolls]

Wylan Whump Fic bc i am predictable af xD

My friend! ❤️ I’ve been working backwards through the second chapter, but I wrote the beginning of it just for you!

The darkness was an oppressive thing. It weighed down his eyelids. His blood felt sluggish and thick in his veins.

And when he finally managed to pry open his eyes, the light felt like daggers.

All that Jesper knew in that moment was that his fucking head hurt. It throbbed like it had its own heartbeat, white hot pain radiating out from his left temple. Up was down and down was up, he could scarcely even tell where his feet were. Was he lying down? Had someone sat him up? It left him fumbling and disoriented, made his gut roil, flipping and twisting– it was only by some minor miracle he hadn’t been sick.

He breathed through a long few seconds with his eyes screwed shut, just barely squinting as he adjusted to the lamps in… wherever he was.

It wasn’t the Slat. It wasn’t anywhere he recognized.

If he could think logically– or see normally– he’d be rolling his eyes at how dim those painful lamps actually were. Their ember-like glow wasn’t from any type of window or opening, emanating instead from dusty looking, cracked sconces fixed to the walls. They were nestled between dug-in shelves. Dug-in because, the more he blinked the world into focus, Jesper could tell they were made of packed earth.

This was some type of cellar. The world was coloured in shades of shadowy brown and grey, and it would be hard to see even if he was in the best of conditions– something he was not. But he could feel the soil under his hand, caking itself under his nails as he clawed weakly into the floor where he had been dropped. It smelled like a cool spring night on the farm– tilled earth, a fallow field with nothing planted yet. What was different, though— made his lungs feel tight and ache for home— was the musty, recirculated quality to the air. It was cold, but still. Stagnant. Like Black Veil.

Jesper shivered even as he felt something warm drip down his cheek, and wondered idly if he was sweating or bleeding.

His brain stayed a foggy, thoughtless thing, for even longer than his eyes stayed bleary and burning. It wasn’t until his body adjusted to the new, elevated baseline of pain that the throbbing started to ease off. Dimly, he acknowledged his own body, taking stock— his hat and gun belt were gone; he was stripped down to his trousers, waistcoat and shirt, and it made him shiver. Whoever had taken him had thrown him carelessly to the dirt floor, leaving him a heap on his side. There was no doubt that he was already bruising. And then there were his hands and feet— his wrists and ankles felt heavy and rubbed raw, but he hadn’t thought about it too hard. Not until just then, when a feeble kick of his legs sounded like clinking metal. He blinked down to where he’d dug into the dirt, and his followed the chain of his shackled hands.

Shit.

He remembered the acrid tang of blood and smoke, chemical compounds tingeing the air as he pushed open the workshop door. The apology he was rehearsing abruptly trailed off as he took in the state of the place.

And the state of Wylan.

Wylan.

Across the small room, crumpled into a dead-looking heap of scrawny limbs and singed curls, was a body. A Body. The thought was unthinkable but he couldn’t turn his mind off of the terrible chant of it– dead, dead, he’s dead, his brain uselessly supplied. The body was so still, one ghostly pale hand laying limply out toward Jes with something rusty smudged into the fingertips. The body was still faceless, fully hidden in the crook of an elbow and a careless flop of curls– but Jesper would know him anywhere. That unmistakable, untamable hair; that too-big overcoat; the slender line of his hand with those precise fingers.

It had to be some trick. Some terrible trick by some… who would do this? Any of it?

“Wy—“ his voice was nothing but a ragged croak, but there wasn’t much moisture in his throat to help him clear it. It hurt, fuck, everything hurt. “Wylan, Wylan! Wake up! WYLAN?”

Yeehawwwww hopefully the chapter will be up soon! Thanks for playing! ❤️❤️❤️

[dragonsoftheeast]

Heart Strings

Written for the Helaemond Soulmate Event

The twenty-second day of the fifth month, their shared death day.

read on Ao3, tw: suicide

One night, when Helaena was very small, a comet flew over King’s Landing. A falling star bleeding crimson light across the blue.

“Meleys and her red banner,” Aemond told her, when they climbed to the tips of the dome of the Dragonpit to take a closer look. “It marks destiny.”

When she looked back to that day, nothing remarkable stood out to her. Only that she and Aemond had looked on in jealousy as the dragonriders took to the sky, Aegon and Rhaenyra and Jacaerys and Ser Laenor, to get close enough to touch.

And even then, it was so far out of their reach.

It was that night that remained in her memory. That night, she dreamed she was tangled in red. Red threads, in all shades, from the darkest maroon that unwound from her belly button to the palest pink thread dangling from her ankle. She pulled and pulled, as a fly stuck in a spider’s web, and yet the threads of Meleys’ banner tightened around her, and she could not escape.

When she woke, the threads did not fade.

She greeted her mother and saw the spool of maroon furl her in, belly to belly. Now in the light of day, the thread looked worn, but she was sure that any shear that tried to cut it would shatter before it parted a fiber.

The palest thread ran around her ankle to the Dragonpit, but her heart knew it was not time to follow that path yet.

And on her finger was a loop of thread tied neatly, a bow red as heart’s blood.

No one else had the strings. At least, none that she could see. Just her, at the center, knotted up.

Sometimes, she looped those threads around her hand and tugged, just to see what would happen.

She learned quickly that pulling on her mother’s string would cause the Queen to reach for her, to hold or touch her, and so that stopped in short order. Pulling on the rusty colored cable around her wrist, which only ever seemed to tighten, brought Aegon stumbling home, tugging at his collar. A pluck on the bright pink twined in her hair meant a letter from Daeron within the week. And sharp yank on the thread along her ankle meant a dragon’s roar was never far behind.

I am here. Don’t you remember me?

Aemond always remembered her.

And when he held her, her back to his belly, she loved to hold his hand, her left to his, it felt right. The thread that bound them, finger to finger, instead of shortening to accommodate the closeness between them, spooled around them, draping across their bodies, matching the marks they left on each other. The most complete she would ever be.

Aemond always came to her. To her chambers, to her bed. To all the hiding places she tucked away in when the world became too loud, drowning out her thoughts.

She never pulled that red thread on her little finger. She never had to. Only wound it ever tighter around her palm, weaving it between her fingers, wrapping it round and round until the string was a glove around her hand and she felt her pulse in her fingertips. And then she would unwind it again and see that no mark had been left on her skin.

Now the string was as taut as it had ever been, a straight line out the tower window. No slack, not enough to wrap it around her hand even once.

And she tugged on it every day, hoping to see Vhagar darken the sky. It was better to look up. Better to look up rather than at her belly, where two maroon threads hung limply, clouds of wool trailing from the ends. Too early. Not a clean cut.

The strings were so tight, now. As tight as they had been in her dream. They pulled her every which way, and she could not even bend her little finger anymore. So tight, except for those loose strings that had attached her to her children.

But the threads, they webbed across her dreams, too, the burning dreams, the dragon dreams.

Once, in the dead of night, sitting at the foot of her daughter's bed, in a brief attempt at comfort, she had told Jaehaera of how Meleys tied people together. She told her of Elenien and Jōzepa, and how Elenien had followed his string through the places of the dead to find his lost love when she had died before her time. From Meraxes' high hall of valiant dead to Vhagar's deep caverns of ghosts, he searched, gathering loose thread as he went. And finally, when he reached Balerion's black hearth, he found her, but Balerion would not release her. But, impressed by his devotion, he offered to let Elenien return to the land of the living. But they would not be parted. And so, they sat side by side, together, until their spirits burned away, as their bodies had.

There, she told Jaehaera, you only go when you're ready. You'll have all the time you need to be with your brother again.

How different that was to the waking world.

She did not tell her daughter about what she saw in truth, of how the strings fell when there was no one on the other end. Best to stay with the stories, where death was a place. 

She had seen enough. Helaena had seen enough.

The dream came to her, though she was not tired.

The sun was setting, and the sky was on fire. A sapphire eye was closing, its violet twin not far behind.

And when she woke, she was on the windowsill. It was the barest relief, to be a little closer to Dreamfyre, to feel the wind in her hair, as if she was flying again, unencumbered. She did not look down.

Helaena held up her hand and looked at it, at the string around her finger. She pinched it between her thumb and her forefinger and gave it a tug. Once, twice, thrice.

She fell before she had to see the line slacken.

[unknownako]

Commissions open

Hello, I am opening up my coms as I am in need money. I am opening 5 slots, my com sheet is out of date of what I will and won't do so I'll put them here. I take Venmo, PayPal, and Cash app. Check ins at sketch, line art and color. TAT- 3 days - a week or two, depending on how busy I am and the complexity of the drawing

(Examples)

🌺DO'S

-LGBTQ+

-humans

-gore (soft, medium and heavy)

-fandom Ocs

-fan art

-fandom ocs shiped with cannon (ships for Boruto are closed as I don't need spoilers on characters)

-NFSW

-MLP (I'm a little rusty)

💔DONTS

-Mechas

-country humans

-realisum

-feral animals

-Godzilla shipping

-furry art (just becuse im very rusty and am not comfortable with my furry skills at the moment)

What I offer:

Full-body (sketch/doodle)- $15

Full-body (flat)- $35

Full-body (color and shade)- $45

Half body(sketch/doodle)- $15

Half body(flat color)- $20

Half body(shade and color)-$25

Head shot (sketch/doodle)- $5

Head shot (color flat)- $10

Head shot (shade and color)- $15

I also offer reffsheets for $30! That includes;

-3 to 4 headshots of emotions (your choosing)

-front and back view

-one object (with reference)

-anything extrea will be around $5-$10 depending on complexity and such

If interested please comment or send a DM! (All art by me)

[flowersarefreetherapy]

Can’t Have Mistakes

(So . . . Bungo Stray Dogs is the new special interest. . . Enjoy the random fixation fueled mess??)

CW: blood, knife wounds, suicidal intentions, thoughts of suicide, abuse of power, creepy whumper

“A mistake.”

“Yes, boss.”

Metal scrapes against metal. The filing drawer opens, light flashes off a thin blade. “You know I can’t have mistakes.”

“Yes, boss.”

He doesn’t apologize. There would be nothing to be gained by doing so. He stands in the middle of the dingy room, hands at his sides, coat hanging heavily off his shoulders. Sunlight fights to break through the layers of grime covering the windows. Dust floats through the air.

The chair shrieks as it turns. A smile sharp as the scalpel held to the doctor’s face. He points the tip of the weapon to a chair.

“Sit down, Dazai.”

Silent footsteps carry him to the chair. Dust poofs into the air as he sits, clenching the faded cushion as the doctor stands, lab coat brushing against his sides as he walks over. There is no hurry. They have performed this dance far too many times.

He sighs as he rolls back his left sleeve, folding the too-large shirt up to his elbow. The doctor’s thin, cold fingers close around his wrist, holding his arm in place. The scalpel’s point presses into the dip of his elbow, applying the first promise of pain.

A single, practiced slice. He flinches as cool air rushes over his skin. The bandages flutter to the floor, patterned with rusty stripes like a tiger’s back.

“How many operatives were lost?”

He doesn’t answer, turns his gaze to the cold floor. The slap is expected. It still brings tears to his eyes.

“How many operatives? I will not repeat myself again.”

“. . . seven.”

“Seven of my best men.” The light hits his eyes at an odd angle, turning the dark irises into an unnatural shade of purple. “Your mistake cost me seven of my best men.”

“We were given faulty information! There is no way I could have known-”

He throws his head back with a sharp cry. The scalpel cuts through flesh and muscle with ease, carving a path across the inside of his elbow joint. Blood runs down his elbow, drips to the floor. He digs his head into the back of the chair, biting his lip to hold back a scream.

“You will always know,” the doctor whispers in his ear. His thumb rubs small circles on his wrist in an almost comforting pattern. “You must know. Excuses and mistakes are not tolerated. If you cannot predict and plan for every outcome, then you are no longer of use to me.”

Go ahead then. Kill me. The long familiar threat rests easily on his tongue. He’s asked for death several times now, often going out of his way to do so. But this time, he doesn’t. Maybe he cannot yet predict a battle, but he knows humanity and he knows what the answer will be.

“There will be no death.” A script they both know by heart now. “You still have use for me, regardless of your dreams otherwise. But I believe a reminder is needed.”

Another line drawn across scarred skin. He clenches his other fist, sucking in deep breaths through his nose. Tears well in his eyes. He blinks rapidly to hold them back. This one cuts neatly across his forearm. He knows the exact position and how long it is, how deep, how much it will bleed and throb late into the night. Never bad enough to need stitches.

The next cut is shallower, but nearly encircles his wrist. He chokes and a tear slides down his face.

“Shh,” the doctor breathes, pushing back his hair from his face. “You know better than that. This is your fault. Your mistakes have to be paid for, otherwise there is no place for you.”

“I’m-I’m sorry, boss,” he whispers, meeting the doctor’s gaze. There is no pity or compassion to be seen, just a mirth that sends chills down his spine.

“I know you are, Dazai. Which is why I am so disappointed in you. I know you can do better, so why do you insist on being so stupid all the time?”

He tips his head back, closing his eyes with a sob. Cool fingers slide down the side of his face, wrapping around his throat and gently pinning him in place. There is no fear in the contact. After all, what is there to nullify? The scalpel and the pain have nothing to do with the doctor’s ability. Using his own would only lead to exertion.

The fourth, fifth, and sixth cuts are made in relative succession. They fade into the phantom pain he always remembers, blood pouring red over the white scars from all the times before. With a hum, the doctor traces the scalpel down the length of his arm, but doesn’t break skin.

“Take this off,” he orders, tapping the bandage on his cheek.

“M-”

“If I have to repeat myself, then I will see whether you are of use to me without your eyes.”

He whimpers, but reaches up with shaking hands. The tape tugs painfully on his skin as he peels the bandage off.

“Good boy.”

The scalpel presses into the corner of his eye. He inhales, keeping his head tipped to the side. Blood pounds in his ears, overriding every other sound. He smells copper, swears he can taste it. All over, filling his mouth, lungs, body, until he is nothing more than a bleeding vessel.

Until he is no longer human.

The pain doesn’t register until warm blood soaks into his collar. He winces, cries out as the cut shifts and stretches. It's directly over his cheekbone, small, but very deep. If he had received it in battle, there would have been stitches. No treatment of that kind is coming his way this time.

“Go clean yourself up,” the doctor orders. His hand moves off his throat and he hears him step away. “Then I want you to write the obituaries for those men, along with condolences to their families. When I next see you, I expect you to remember their names and all they did for us.”

“Yes, boss.”

He slumps forwards, watching the blood roll sluggishly down his arm and onto the floor. Absent-mindedly, he traces the one around his wrist, smearing the blood further.

“Dazai.”

“Sorry, boss.”

He doesn’t bother with trying to keep the blood off the floor as he limps from the room. He needs bandages. He can get those later. The pain is his remainder. Reminder of his failure, reminder of his place, reminder that he is still skin, flesh, muscle, blood, bone.

He is still human.

[jackgoodfellow]

COMING SOON TO A LESBIAN HEADCANON NEAR YOU!!!

So because I am capable of being Completely Normal about Red Dwarf, I challenged myself to draw every character from this show and also an evil version of every character! (Or, you know, several dozen evil versions. I am a simple gay. I saw Low!Rimmer and my little brain fully fucking broke.)

Anyway, long story short, what if holovirus but less penguin puppets and more lesbians?? Everything about that sentence is gold. And so I am waiting on my call from the BBC now to beg me to write for this show. I shall graciously accept their offer when the time comes.

--

[ID: a digital illustration in the style of a horror movie poster, in shades of blue. In the foreground, Deb Lister from the TV show red dwarf is holding a flashlight in the dark and looking confused / concerned. She is in a rusty metal Corridor full of pipes.

In the background, at the end of the corridor in a misshapen doorway, Arlene Rimmer is standing in a wide aggressive stance and glaring at the unsuspecting Deb. Arlene is glowing with a green blue light and her eyes are fully white and Shining, giving off a bright glow.

Title text in blue reads: "The Girls from the Dwarf in:"

Under that, title text in holographic blues reads: "HOLOVIRUS II: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO"

Finally, in the upper left-hand corner of the image there is small translucent text reading: "Jack D. Goodfellow"

END ID]

[ID: three images. Identical to the first one, except without the title text. The last two images are closeups so the line art detail is more clear. END ID.]

[tianawarner]

From Fan to Forever Sneak Peek

From Fan to Forever is a sizzling f/f age-gap romance between a university student and a middle-aged actress who needs help preparing for her role in a movie. It launches on July 6 with Ylva Publishing, and today, I wanted to share a special sneak peek of Chapter 1 with you!

Pre-order From Fan to Forever

CHAPTER 1: Dragging Home a Moose Floatie

I’ve been away for one night, and in that time, my street has turned into a movie set.

Easing my car to a stop behind an orange-and-white-striped barricade, I gape at the crowds, white tents, and trailers filling the intersection in front of my apartment. A metal fence surrounds the area like a crime scene.

My gut twists and I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. On any other day, this would be exciting, but all I want right now are my bathtub, bed, and painkillers. Today is supposed to be a blissful day off before I have to start my master’s thesis research, not a daring crusade to get to my front door.

A crane lifts a camera high into the air, where ropes and wires crisscross above the set. Is that a zip-line leading into my favorite pizza place? What kind of over-the-top action flick is this?

My third-floor balcony is visible from here, with its two wooden patio chairs and the wilted hydrangeas that Abby and I never remember to water. In the window beside it, my dark bedroom curtains are shut, as always.

Staying home to spy on the set would have been more fun than that stupid-ass camping trip, but here I am, sweaty and hungover.

Scowling, I back up my rusty, old SUV and circle the block, searching for a way into the parkade.

In the rearview, my reflection is waxy and pale, and my short, sandy hair is so greasy that it’s a shade darker, like I’ve just come out of the shower. Self-loathing has sucked the confidence from my posture.

Yeah, I was an idiot, but in my defense, Julia was flirting with me and totally into it.

“ʻOoh, Rachel, let’s get naked in the lake together,ʼ” I say to the windshield, mimicking her sultry tone.

It’s hard to believe that the unspoken thing between us is over—late-night study sessions, hanging out after class, inside jokes, our shared suffering as we both go after master’s degrees in medical physics. She’d quickly become a good friend, and after she found out I’m a lesbian, she started asking questions about my love life and wanting to hang out more—like she was curious. Like maybe she thought she wasn’t straight and wanted to explore some things.

Months of anticipation, over in one night, leaving me hollow.

This camping trip was supposed to be a big end-of-term celebration for our department. For Julia and me, it was a culmination, an excuse to get drunk and spend a couple of nights together.

The tension between us was ready to snap, and it did—so hard that it gave me whiplash.

I rub my temple, weaving through the streets and trying to get to my parkade. The movie set takes up way more space than it has any right to, forcing me to make a wide perimeter. As soon as I figure out how to get to my apartment, I’m filling the bathtub and dropping in a glittery bath bomb. Since I left yesterday morning, I’ve swum in a lake, gotten sweaty, been briefly rained on, and walked through a lot of spiderwebs, so I need a good scrub. My skin is so sticky that my shirt is plastered to my back.

After circling for ten minutes, I resign myself to parking three blocks away. I drag my camping gear down the road—the bag of damp clothes, the cooler of food I never ate, and a mostly deflated moose floatie. The early summer heat wave adds more sweat to what’s already dried to my skin. I’d better not run into any neighbors in the elevator, or they’ll be in for a treat when they get a whiff of me.

I swipe my fob to get inside, and before I open the door, laughter erupts behind me.

I whirl around, ready to tell off whoever is laughing at me for dragging camping gear down the street, but the sound is coming from the movie set.

A metal fence separates me from the set—they have to keep us peasants out, obviously—and white tents block most of my view beyond it. Between two tents is a gap that tunnels my vision to a point.

My heart does a wild, out-of-control flip, knocking me off balance so that I have to grab the door handle to stay standing.

Cate Whitney is on the other side of the fence, talking to a tattooed guy with a boom mic.

Cate. Whitney.

I forget how to breathe.

In her early forties and well-established on the A-list, she carries herself with easy confidence. She’s rocking a badass black and brown steampunk outfit, including a corset, thigh-high fishnet stockings, a frilly skirt that exposes her thighs in front and hangs calf-length in the back, and a top hat with goggles resting on the brim. Her shoulder-length blond hair is in soft curls, and her white skin has a warm glow, like she’s been in the tropics. She’s wearing her signature mischievous smirk, her makeup drawing attention to her sharp cheekbones and ice-blue eyes.

How is it possible for anyone to be so attractive? I guess that’s why she ended up in Hollywood. She’s the type of woman who can rock a tux better than any man and a Valentino dress better than a runway model.

Seeing her in person sparks memories of pivotal moments in my life, making my chest flutter.

When I saw her kiss a woman in a 2000s historical drama, that was the moment I knew. Though the movie was fiction and the actors were straight, their love felt so real, sending butterflies through me. I wanted what those women had—their passion for each other, the connection that reached beyond friendship, the purity of their love.

I asked out my crush after seeing it, and she said yes.

On our fourth date, we watched that same movie together, and I made out with a girl for the first time.

So I’m not being dramatic when I say that Cate Whitney changed my life.

Now, standing with the poise of a goddess, that woman is ten feet away. She’s deep in conversation with the guy with the boom mic, but that doesn’t stop her from looking past him and meeting my eye.

Why? Why does she have to see me when I look like I climbed out of a dumpster?

Reflexively, I offer an awkward half-smile, which she returns.

My insides flip. This is either the greatest thing ever to happen to me or the worst, depending on whether she can smell me from this distance.

Regaining feeling in my legs, I whip open the door of my building and hurtle myself inside, then grab my camping gear and drag it in after me. The moose floatie smacks the door frame on the way in.

Cate freaking Whitney is feet away from me, filming a movie.

I hyperventilate my way up to my apartment and unlock the door with trembling hands. The familiar smell of home hits my nose—sweet-orange essential oil diffusing on the kitchen island, woven with layers of shampoo, burnt toast, and cheap coffee. Abby must be up.

I dump my camping gear and rush through the kitchen and living room toward the balcony. The apartment is as I left it, cluttered and full of low-maintenance plants. My laptop, heap of textbooks, and blanket nest are untouched on my side of the couch. Trinkets from travels, books, and pictures of friends and family take up every surface. It’s disorganized—Abby prefers the term eclectic—but it’s home.

I slide open the patio door and burst through to spy on the movie set.

The view is awe-inspiring. They’ve built a clockwork storefront over my favorite coffee shop. White tents and trailers, the back of wooden structures, and a lot of expensive film equipment clutter the intersection.

From the depths of the apartment, footsteps pad closer, and Abby says, “You smell like worn-off deodorant and sunscreen. I thought you weren’t coming home until tomorrow.”

“Cate Whitney is down there,” I whisper-shout, scanning the dozens of people milling about the set.

“Fuck off!” Abby screams, rushing beside me to peer over the balcony.

I clap a hand over her mouth. “Shh!”

Abby pries my hand off. “You saw her?”

“Right as I was coming inside.” I wrack my brain for the last headline I saw about Cate Whitney. “She must be filming Clockwork Curie.”

There she is. She’s with a group of people behind the cameras, pointing at a monitor and nodding. She’s easy to spot because of the outfit but also because of that abnormally attractive Hollywood look. What is with that?

“Clockwork what?” Abby says.

“It’s a steampunk movie about Marie Curie,” I whisper. “The scientist. We were talking about it in class not long ago.”

As if a high-budget movie about science hero Marie Curie isn’t awesome enough, they had to go and cast Cate Whitney as the lead. Excuse me while I cry feminist tears.

“Abby, she was, like, ten feet away from me,” I say, making sure she understands the situation.

I peel my gaze away from the set. Abby is wearing a smart navy blazer and no pants. Her thick, dark hair is styled to emphasize its natural waves, she’s wearing makeup, and her oversized glasses are unusually free of smudges.

“What’s up with you?” I ask.

“Virtual job interview.”

“What company?”

“Enough about me. Are you going to try and meet Cate?”

My heart jumps at the question like I’ve just been dive-bombed by an angry crow. “What? No. She’s working.”

“Girl, you’ve been obsessed with her since before you knew you were a lesbian. Remember the magazine pictures taped to your high school locker?”

“Shh!” I say, dragging Abby inside. I slam the patio door and round on her. “I can’t just walk up to her!”

“Sure you can. Rachel, this is the universe bringing you an opportunity,” she says, picking lint off her blazer. “Seize it.”

I rub my tired eyes. Cate Whitney really is a queer icon. Between her film roles, her wardrobe, and being an outspoken ally, I’m positive that if someone were to poll all of the lesbians and ask them to rank their top celebrity crushes, she would win the popular vote.

I guess I could try to say hi to my hero. The prospect sends a nervous thrill through my chest. “What would I even say?”

Abby opens the bamboo privacy screen we use as a backdrop during video calls, which conveniently masks the surrounding disaster. “I don’t know. Big fan of your work?”

“Ugh, that’s so normal.”

“If you want her to remember you for something abnormal, fine, but I think you’re better off sticking with something average here.”

“Fair enough.” I hesitate, heart thumping. Then I shake my head firmly. “No, I can’t. It’s too awkward.”

“You have to!”

Carefully, she places her laptop in front of the dirty dishes and unfolded laundry on the kitchen table.

“You just want me out of the apartment during your interview,” I say.

“Well, yes, but I also want you to seize the day. Do it. I’m not letting you back in until you say at least one word to her.”

“Excuse me?” I say, laughing.

“You heard me, Rachel Henrietta Janssen,” she says severely. “I’m shoving you out the door and bolting it until you succeed.”

“What if I’m not allowed on se—”

“I double dare you,” she says in a girly tone reminiscent of our high school slumber parties.

“Oh, shut it.”

She makes chicken noises and I throw a tissue box at her. It bounces off her chest.

“Did Amelia Earhart let people stop her from achieving her goals?” she asks, waving her arms.

“Amelia Earhart died while achieving her goal, Abby.”

“Beside the point. You’ll thank me later.”

I chew my lip. As uncomfortable as it would be to approach a celebrity, I would live my life in deep regret if I didn’t do it. Cate Whitney is more than a celebrity crush. She’s a legend, an icon who helped me discover my sexuality and come out.

“It’s not like you’re the only one. I saw a couple of girls leaning over the fence to get pics with the actors last night,” Abby says, a wry smile on her lips, like she knows I’m at my tipping point.

I can’t help it—my face breaks into a grin. “Dare accepted. I’ll ask her to sign the back of my phone.”

I grab a permanent marker from the jar on the counter.

“An autograph? What kind of person in this day and age—” Abby stops, probably remembering that the alternative is to ask for a selfie, and I hate having my picture taken. “I guess having Cate Whitney’s signature on the back of your phone would be cool.”

“Hell yeah, it would. Do I have time to shower before your interview?”

“Yes!” Abby squeals in excitement. She opens her laptop and settles into a chair, checking the position of the privacy screen. “You’ve got twenty-four minutes to get out of here. Why are you back early, anyway? How was camping?”

“Good luck with your interview,” I shout, racing to the bathroom.

My attempt to dodge her question doesn’t work, and she chases after me.

“How was camping, Rachel?”

“Fine!”

“Liar.”

Ugh, she’s too perceptive.

Before I can shut the door, she wedges her hand between it and the frame.

“What happened with Julia, Rachel?”

~

That’s the end of Chapter 1! Thanks for reading :) I'm so excited for this book launch! You can preorder From Fan to Forever now ✨

[nfkjournal]

Week 4 - 3D Content Clean Up

In this class we cleaned up our models using the Target Wield tool and Clean up tool. Unfortunately I had finished my models on my laptop in my flat and forgot to copy them onto my Falmouth OneDrive so I couldn't access them in this class but I had already attempted to remove any unneeded vertices and edges in the topology myself.

In this class Adam told us that we could colour in the model by using the surface shader, however I had already coloured in my model using a different tool which is the Paint Vertex Colour tool which I used for my submarine. For the cut in the middle created a polygonal cut and an edge in the middle and then extruded the edge inwards and used the move tool to move it in even further.

I am quite happy with these models as I believe they resemble the artist George O'Keefes' work and it replicates the Sea of Thieves style.

During the first week, we typed in words on Menti to describe the Sea of Thieves art style and most adjectives that we used were simplistic, exaggerated, blocky and rugged and rough. We also looked at character design and mostly described the pirates as being heavily detailed, cartoony, blocky, water coloured, angular, exaggerated and having motifs of harsh shadows, scars, bandages and X marks. I believed I have captured the exaggerated, blocky, cartoony and rough aesthetic of Sea of Thieves in my models as I believe I have added lots of character to them by adding chips, cuts and blemishes rather than just keeping them with tidy shapes and no blocky colours or tones.

For the tankard, I used the Paint Vertex Colour Tool and I used multi cut to split the tankard into many edges so that I could be able to colour each edge with a slightly darker or lighter tone of brown to be able to replicate the blocky, exaggerated and cartoony style of George O'Keefe. I also used lighter shades to colour in the chips of the tankard. I kept the opacity of the brush very low and I kept the brush's hardness on low while using the 'Accumulate opacity' tool to make it similar to shading and blending, and to also make it easier to keep the shades of brown not too dark or light from the shade next to it.

For the barrel I used a cylinder and I inserted two edge loops around the left centre and right centre of the cylinder and scaled them to be wider than the other edges of the cylinder so I could achieve the wider centre part of the barrel. I then used the pipe shape on both ends of the barrel, and also on both the left and right centre and coloured them all black using the vertex colour tool. I then used the multi cut on the centre black rings instead of using an edge loop for a straight line because the Sea of Thieves barrel isn't straight and has a chip in it. I also added multi cuts to the barrel and the black rings and added dull colours such as light grey and shades of brown as the barrel to achieve the worn out, rusty, dirty appearance. For the gaps in the barrel I selected the edges, detached them from the model and moved them inwards to create a gap between the two surfaces. I used multiple shades of pink/red to achieve the blocky style of Sea of Thieves and a more beige colour for the chips in the barrel. I used small pyramids and coloured some of it brown to resemble dirt and added them to the ends of the barrel. For the paper stuck to the barrel with the X mark, I used a plane and selected its edges and rotated it so it looked like it was stuck to the barrel and I created a polygon which resembles two bones shaped diagonally from each other to resemble an X. I slightly shaded this X with brown shades to resemble dirt like in the reference picture.

I am happy with both these outcomes, however I would change the method I used to colour in the models as cutting lots of different edges to colour using different tones is a long and tiring process and it also messes up the topology and makes it extremely difficult and long to fix and remove all the extra vertices after. However it still resembles the Sea of Thieves and George O'Keefe's (I am not sure who created the barrel model) style quite closely and I believe I have learnt a lot in the process.

This is relevant in the industry because you should be flexible with your skills because there are many different jobs whether its 3D or 2D and you are more likely to land one when you develop your skills in both 3D and 2D. It's also important to know the basics of 3D modelling and creating an asset which is suitable to be animated with.

Artist Research - George O'Keefe

George O'Keefe is a game environment artist and architect who is currently working at Criterion Studios and EA. He has had experience working at Escape Studios, London as a tutor and course developer, this is also where he studios MA Game Art in 2016. He has also had experience working at Rare LTD and Xbox Game Studios. He has experience with many programs such as Maya, Photoshop, Frostbite, Unreal Engine 4 and ZBrush. He has worked on games like Sea of Thieves, Battlefield 2042 and Need for Speed Unbound and is currently working on architectural designs like the Venice Canal and the Chapel Royale.

Artist Research - Andy Betts

Andy Betts is a 3D modeler with over 26 years experience in the video games industry. I've worked on a number of high profile, BAFTA winning titles using a wide range of software such as Maya, Photoshop, Zbrush, Mental Ray and Unreal. He has worked on games such as Sea of Thieves, Kinect Sports Rivals, Sonic and Sega All Stars Racing and Xbox Avatars. He is currently working at Rare LTD.

In general, pirates are present in many different types of media and are usually depicted in a villainous and comedic way for example Captain Hook in Peter Pan and 'One-Eyed Willy' in The Goonies. They are also particularly prevalent in video games like Sea of Thieves, Assassin's Creed IV: Black Flag and Assassin's Creed Rogue. In Sea of Thieves, pirates are inspired by the films The Goonies, and are depicted as people who sail around in a sloop, brigantine or galleon and have a job to either sail the ship, manage shooting the cannons, infiltrating enemy ships and scouting from the crow's nest of the ship.

Black Flag's focus is mainly a pirate called Edward Kenway and the main story is set during the Golden Age of Piracy from 1715 to 1822. Here piracy is portrayed in less of a comedic and light-hearted way and more of a criminal activity associated with people from a low social class background and looked down upon by the wealthy. It also looks at piracy in a more political and ideological way with the Republic of Pirates introduced in the game and refers to real life history like the Golden Age of Piracy unlike Sea of Thieves and the other films.

Assassin's Creed Rogue is like Black Flag but has more of a focus around assassins rather than pirates, however the gameplay is similar to Sea of Thieves as you sail a ship called The Morrigan and you can attack enemy ships with an air rifle, a grenade launcher and also destroy icebergs to damage the ships.

[punkrocker22]

Another Something-Same U-Imprisonment

In a meadow of tall grass, a young man sat cross-legged, his hands closed over his knees, eyes closed. A storm was brewing in the distance with preternatural black and indigo. A peal of thunder rumbled over the area. A heavy breeze blew through carrying the scent of rain. As the man opened his dark gold eyes limned in green, nine water spouts appeared in a circle in front of him. As suddenly as the columns of water appeared, so did they disappear, leaving nine men standing in their place. The men were dressed in ornate armor of various colors. At the center stood one man dressed in golden armor with draconic designs picked out in silver. To his right was a man dressed in armor of gold, deep blues, and rusty reds. Though his armor was not as ostentatious, his malicious and arrogant nature made it clear that he was the most dangerous threat. By contrast, the five men to the left were dressed more seriously for battle. Their armor, though of varying styles, was in several different shades of blue and green and of a lightweight but strong material that spoke to their efficient understanding of battle. The last two on the far right mimicked this same competent understanding but the arrogance of their compatriots had seeped through. Ornate dragons slithered their way in gold up and down their red and green armor. These sorcerers, the dragon kings of the eastern rivers and seas, stared at the young man seated before them. The sorcerer in gold, the Dragon King of the Yangtze, made to step forwards towards the man, but the sorcerer to his right, the Dragon King of the Huang He, arguably the most dangerous of these sorcerers, threw out his arm in front of Yangtze.

In a gruff, gravelly voice, Huang He muttered, "Hold here." Yangtze's face contorted in anger but he forced the emotion down, allowing Huang He to take the lead. Huang He spoke commandingly to the seated man, "Child, you challenged us to come here and fight to the death. Are you sure you are ready to die?" 

The young man replied in a low, clear tenor, "If it is my fate to die this day, then so be it. However, you should ask yourself the same question, Huang He. Are you ready to die this day? Have you made your peace with this world so you may calmly journey into the unknown?" He paused for a few beats before moving on. "You and your brothers have committed many terrible acts. You have harmed the poor and the innocent. You have lusted after glory and power and been ground down by greed. Do you expect to be able to leave here with these deeds unpunished? Or has the punishment already begun? Is it not true that you all have lost the ability to become dragons? Could it be that once you betrayed your wisdom and humility, you lost the ability to become the greatest version of yourself? Either way, I invited you here to meet your punishment, whatever form that may take. Are you ready to face that or have you left something undone that may come back to bite you?"

As the man gave his speech, the sorcerers felt their anger rise and the urge to kill the boy became almost unbearable. How dare he speak to them in this way? Them! The great dragon kings of this age who should be worshipped and revered for their greater wisdom and understanding. These puny people had no vision, no common sense. But the barb about their power to become dragons had struck home. They had hoped that they had been able to conceal this knowledge from everyone, but clearly the absence of their dragon forms had not gone unnoticed. 

Huang He, speaking through gritted teeth, replied forcefully, "Enough of this! Prepare yourself, boy, for this fight."

Calmly, the young man responded, "I am ready for what lies ahead."

Enraged, Yangtze broke the line, stepping angrily forward. Magic crackling from his body. "You want a fight, boy? I'll give you one." A shockwave of water burst out from Yangtze's body. The tidal wave of water crashed over the young man where he sat, as Yangtze drowned him in water. Two green lights, like eyes, shone through the dark water. After a minute, the water subsided, leaving the young man seated as he was before. Eyes glowing a deep bright green, the young man dug his fingers into the mud. Eerily, there began the sounds of bending and snapping before dozens of vines and saplings emerged from the ground, entwining and binding the sorcerers in place.

Eyes still glowing, his tenor voice now closer to a baritone, the young man, then known as the Student, spoke resignedly, "I'm sorry that you could not see reason and find your way back to who you were. This is the only way to mete out your punishment."

—

As the Student waited cross-legged in the grassy meadow, Seiriol, the lightning Wild Magicker, stood in the vast downpour that shielded him from view. The thunderstorm brewed and evolved around him, lightning struck so close he could feel his teeth jar from the impact. But Seiriol felt at home in this thunderstorm. It felt like a catharsis. Finally, he could release his revenge on the murderer of his beloved and beautiful wife. If the Student had not approached Seiriol with the plan to imprison the sorcerers, Seiriol was not sure what he would have done. The last year without her had been hell. He had never known anything close to the unremitting pain of losing her, the gentlest and only tree-mover fae. Seiriol regretted that they ever boarded that catamaran. Still, now he would have his revenge. The grief, the anger, the pain fueled his magic. It built into a ball of pure electricity between his hands as he wept and screamed his fury and pain in the massive thunderstorm. Faintly, he heard the sound of the gentle reed instrument of the Natia clan. Seiriol released the lightning and the thunderstorm swiftly followed, leaving Seiriol weeping as he kneeled in the mud.

—

Theia Natia, a spirit walker fae of much renown, blew into her bonded reed flute as soon as she saw the greenery emerge from the ground to hold the sorcerers. Her instrument sang a tale of a soul imprisoned for all eternity, a life of isolation and contemplation to punish wrongdoings. For so bleak a future, the sound was unmatched in its sweetness and beauty. It calmed and prepared the soul for a just fate. She felt her magic take hold of the sorcerers, and was momentarily startled by the feeling of utter wrongness surrounding Huang He's soul. It took forethought and patience to overcome the feeling that something was not quite right so that she could complete her task and not let the others down. As Theia blew the last note, she looked over to her left, anxious to see if her dear friend was able to make it through her own ordeal, the worrisome nagging over Huang He's soul never leaving her.

—

Sila, one of the few stone fae, felt the sweat drip down her brow as she drew the power of stone from the plates of the earth itself. Her eyes had the color and texturization of shale as she pulled hard on her magic. By far, she was the worst off of the four. She had the hardest job to do. She had to prepare the essence of stone to be formed to accept and imprison the souls of the sorcerers. Sila gritted her teeth as she fought the sleepy essence to make it hear her and obey or, at the very least, agree to her wish. She looked over at Theia, her outline blurred by the spirit realm enveloping her, shielding her from the sorcerers. The spirit realm heard and assisted its own with a willingness that Sila envied, though only for a moment because she knew of the toll it would eventually take on her dearest friend. As Sila heard the ending strains of Theia's song, the earth came awake and she sent its essence forth to the Student to shape. Her knees slowly gave way and she collapsed onto the ground, half sleeping as she fell. As Sila's eyes closed in exhaustion, she prayed to every god she knew of that their plan would succeed.

—

The powers of lightning, the spirit realm, earth, and the essence of life itself combined in the Student's vision, the magic colliding and coiling around itself as the Student shaped it. His eyes shone with an intensity that hurt to look at. The sorcerers had felt the spirit realm take hold and, though they continued to rip at and struggle in their bonds that continued to coil and grow around them, a calm acceptance of their fate settled over them heavily, gradually lulling them into a half asleep awareness. As a last effort, Huang He flicked out wildly at the Student, sending shards of river rock and ice towards him, hitting him on the temple, the shoulder, and the abdomen. Still the Student continued shaping the magic. With a final movement, the Student looked up at the sorcerers. The student was bleeding from where Huang He's attack hit him but it only served to make him look more fierce as he turned his gaze upon them. His green-glowing eyes pulled them, making them feel as if they were falling forward into his eyes and then the dark, stony embrace hit them.

The Student staggered as the magic released, hitting the dragon kings and turning them into the very image that had turned their humility into ego and vanity, a dragon made of stone, a remembrance and a warning. The Student sighed as he wiped his face. Looking at his hand, he was surprised by how much blood covered his hand. Slowly, he came awake to the pain, but he pushed it down and out. Physical pain had to wait until he had seen to the others. He turned and walked in their direction, making for Theia in the middle.

[starryoong]

|— ୨|୧ [ get to know me tag ] ୨|୧ —|

tagged by @bbyquokka (thank you !!) ‹3

1. Birthday?

October 16th!

2. Favorite color?

green and brown, especially sage/olive shades and a good earthy brown... mmm yes

3. How tall are you?

164cm (again, shut up snowy, I will jump up and bite your ass.)

4. How many pair of shoes to you own?

hmm, three? a pair of trainers, a pair of winter ish boots and my trusty pair of slippers.

5. Favorite song?

I always answer these with my current one, so Treacherous (Taylor's version) by Taylor Swift! One of my two favourites by her.

6. Favorite movie?

I honestly don't know? I haven't watched a movie in so long because my attention span goes feral.

7. Who would be your ideal partner?

someone who would challenge me, but still be a comfort place. I'm gonna be real sappy and say that Binnie would fit the role..

8. Do you want children?

nope, I've never wanted them ever since I was a wee kindergartener. It's just never been something I've wanted?

9. Have you gotten in trouble with the law?

nope.

10. What color socks are you wearing?

grey wool socks with little black moose on them hihi

11. Favorite type of music?

My favourites are definitely indie (especially scottish indie, take Vansleep for example, my beloved) and generally I find myself leaning more into anything that has solid rhythm sections, especially bass lines. There's just something about a bangin bass line, man..

12. How many pillows do you sleep with?

Usually one, but since I tend to move a lot, I fold it so it's double if it's not the right™️ height haha.

13. What position do you sleep in?

99% of the time I end up on my stomach with one of my legs up in some angle. Yes, I am aware that I'm very attractive.

14. What don’t you like when you’re sleeping?

I get so fucking stressed if there's movement or blinking lights around me when I'm trying to relax.

15. Have you tried archery?

no, but I wish!

16. Favorite fruit?

peaches <3

17. Are you a good liar?

depends? I don't like lying, but I also don't get the point in being brutally honest all the time if it's a taste thing and it doesn't really matter? Idk

18. What’s your personality type?

INFJ-T (twinning with bestie Aragorn hihi)

19. Innie or outie?

innie

20. Left or right handed?

right

21. Favorite food?

I like sushi and taco a completely normal amount. I vibe with food as long as it's not too spicy or hot (temperature-wise) and the textures are right™️

22. Favorite foreign food?

Sushi and taco, hehe

23. Are you clean or messy?

Usually? A very clean person. I love cleaning and tidying as it calms my anxiety, but when I hit my depressive episodes? Yeah, you can easily spot it from the state of my apartment.

24. Most used phrase?

slay

25. How long does it take you to get ready?

usually like 5-15 minutes?

26. Do you talk to yourself?

not really? not unless I'm really scared and have to physically remind myself of my checklists etc

27. Do you sing to yourself?

all the time.

28. Are you a good singer?

idk? I used to sing in choirs and weekly one-on-one training from 4/5 to 16, but I'm pretty rusty these days. I have a goal to join a choir again this year 🤞🏻

29. Biggest fear?

two potentially very triggering topics that I'm not gonna air out on the internet. oh and also eels. cannot stand the fuckers.

30. Are you a gossip?

oh god, I hate gossip culture so much. I come from a town where everybody knows everybody and I hate it.

31. Long or short hair?

short

32. Favorite school subject?

norwegian, english and psychology

33. Extrovert or introvert?

a massive introvert ;-;

34. What make you nervous?

anything involving people. the fact that I am an adult supposedly able to take care of myself when I feel like a traumatised eight-year-old still.

35. Who was your first crush?

I didn't really do crushes, but I remember wanting to be paul waaktaar-savoy so bad

36. How many piercings do you have?

none right now! I've had my nostrill, septum, vertical medusa, medusa, smiley and earlobes pierced before, but I took them all out to heal last year. I wanna start fresh this year, bridge and some ear piercings are on the list.

37. How many tattoos do you have?

I've genuinely lost count.. A lot <3

38. How fast can you run?

very slowly.

39. What color is your hair?

a weird mix of semi-blonde, brown and my natural brown-blonde-grey ish colour.. idk man.

40. What color are your eyes?

blue/grey

41. What makes you angry?

mostly societal injustice. atm, I'm fucking fuming at the national healthcare system in my own country for refusing to offer non-binary folks help because we're not "trans enough".

42. Do you like your name?

I feel disconnected from both my deadname and my new name. Slowly unpacking that with my therapist. Starry feels more like a safe space though.

43. Do you want a boy to girl as a child?

I don't want children, but if I were to have one - it would honestly not matter. I would try to treat them as genderlessly as I could until they could choose for themselves, so it genuinely doesn't matter.

44. What are your strengths?

right now, I don't feel like I have any tbh. but normally, I think I try my best to make people feel seen and heard?

45. What are your weaknesses?

we're not gonna open that door right now

46. What’s the color of your bedspread?

white with brown/red lines

47. What’s the color of your room?

where I am now, white. in my apartment, light grey.

I'm too tired to tag anyone right now, but feel free to say I tagged you if you want to do this! 🫶🏻

[wytfut]

3

I’m most likely stereo typed as an old blue collar red neck. And I most likely put off that vibe ... By looks and actions.

Manual labor most of my career. Big Motorcycle. Old rusty Fords. Huge dogs. A few guns. Large mustache and or beard. I don’t wear sport type clothing, never have (love bib overalls).  Live on a run down acreage, with assorted junk here and there.

Retired volunteer fire fighter/EMT. Retired Certified Youth soccer coach. Climbing instructor. First Aid instructor. CPR instructor. Black powder gun builder. Excelsior Henderson hack. Shade tree mechanic. EMT. Fire Fighter 1.

Those probably put a twist on it... LOL....

and this is starting to sound pretty narcistic.

Not the point.  I’m today going for why I am sitting down and writing .... why? 

I like to write. I really do. I don’t think I’m any good at it, but have received compliments thru out my life time on certain items I’ve written. Its a great way for me to stress relief, and a lot of times I’m just bubbling with stuff I want to put down “on paper” as it were. I truly feel an accomplishment and goal was attained when I’m done. And I don’t really care if anyone ever reads it. I know, weird shit...

Back when I was on facebook, there is a part of your own page, called “notes”. I wrote many times in there. Some of it was my best stuff. When I got off facebook, I couldn’t down load any of it.... I’m have very crude computer skills, so, all lost for ever.

Sometimes when I proof something I wrote days before, I can’t believe such nonsense/petty/narrow minded came out of my head. But this is interesting, as well, maybe something was really boring into my head and I couldn’t let it go. Good or bad. 

Yes... my writing is MY opinion. But it doesn’t mean its the correct/right line of site. It just means its my opinion. No laws of society, biblical, norms, and such.

I’ll be continuing, especially now I have a place to do this. I suspect, a lot at first. Not sure at this point whether I’ll be telling anyone that I’m doing this or where I’m doing this. 

This place to do this, has my head in between writing,... boiling with topics I wish to talk about ... 

Well we’ll see how it goes... 

[yong-hae-sook]

A Garden and No End in Sight

Jan Creutzenberg (theatre scholar)

Mirrors offer a simple yet empirically sound proof of existence: I move there, hence I am here! In the post-truth era we live in, it thus doesn’t surprise at all that mirrors of various kinds abound as once clear-cut certainties blur. When we look into a mirror, though, we rarely see more than ourselves.

In her recent work, Yong Hae Sook has arranged slightly angled stainless steel pyramids according to celestial constellations. In these ‘supermirrors’ one’s own face is hard to find and when the searching gaze is caught by the polished triangles it tends to multiply. Unlike her earlier panorama series, where people and their actions were central even when looking away, her new photos – likewise wide-scoped but now reflected by a supermirror – bear no trace of human acts, let alone faces. The six works on show in “Endless Garden” present the nature of Hongcheon county, mirrored and cut-up as if seen through a kaleidoscope. Only when looking closer, it becomes clear that these images break down not only landscapes, but various visual traditions as well. Projected onto the flat picture plane, the reflections of Hongcheon’s greenery create an odd 3D-effect that turns heaven and earth upside-down. Plein-air cubism through the looking-glass, so to speak.

What kind of garden can we see?

The artificial vanishing points evoked by the triangular mirrors’ edges retain the illusion of eternity but rarely allow the mind to wander like it is used to. The horizon, reflected beyond the frame, is ungraspable. A garden contained in its own image, yet without an end in sight. But the lush greens turning yellow, the hundred shades of pink, or the rusty-white purples suggest otherwise. The trees, bushes, and flowers, like all plants anywhere, still live but their life is cut short. Their foretold death is due to the transience of nature and its colors, as well as the medium of photography itself, but more specific symptoms can also be found in the images: the cranes that loom large in the background of one, the power lines and the barbed wire that criss-cross others.

These details raise another question: Whose garden is this anyway?

Amongst traces of human intervention visible in some triangles, like trash left by the wayside of a road trip, stands out the eye of the camera that turns ever-changing nature into a still image. Erected amidst folded foliage and logged wood, on crippled legs and unmanned, the artist’s stand-in is a constant reminder that this scenery is of our own making, a product of our idealizing yet fragile gaze. This garden may indeed be endless, but only in the self-reflection of mirrors, an effect that can be experienced in the exhibition as well. Withering heights that used to inspire artists now face the jagged shards of a portable mirror. In this sense, the oxymoronic title that couples utopian allusion with marketing speech – Hongcheon county used to be branded as “Garden City” before becoming a “Health Playground” – only adds to the irony.

Renaissance man Leon Battista Alberti suggested that every garden mirrors its owner’s character. If the whole countryside has turned into horticultural display for city-dwellers, urban gardening notwithstanding, then Yong Hae Sook’s photos are more than portraits of a perpetual periphery or still lifes of a fractured landscape in full bloom. They are oversized selfies of our own, unlimited egos.

►Yong Hae Sook 2022 solo show catalogue “Endless Garden”

[boytouya]

૮ᏊWEATHERING WITH YOU— GOJO SATORU

a/n: to the anon who asked for this, if you’re still here, the 🎐 emoji is all yours. first fic of the year and it’s angst..it’s kinda rusty but i really liked this concept. this took me forever to finish. i am so sorry. the ugliness of my writing does not reflect the beauty of this man.

tags: angst, soulmate au (red string of fate), not proofread, flirty gojo, male reader, manga spoilers, past satosugu.

wc: 2.2k

He has been, and always will be, an extension of his own wickedness. Despite the many lives he lives— at home, he is Satoru. At work, in public, he is Gojo. To his students, he is their Sensei. Eventually, the lines begin to blur into an alarming shade of red. Burning, scarlet and untouchable, invisible strands of thread travel through the alleyways of Kawasaki City.

At home, he is Satoru. The notorious heartbreaker, the ‘soulmate’ to many— he has the red strings to prove it. He stares into his reflection, pulling at the pale skin encasing his soul. It feels forlorn, his body is not his own. The distorted image of himself stares back at him, cerulean eyes wide and sunken, completely unblinking. He tries to put on a smile, figurative chains pulling at his cheeks and leaving indents that mock him endlessly.

At home, he is Satoru. With gangly limbs and unruly hair. His blindfold, tussled between white bundles, remains over his eyes as he brushes his teeth. The bristles swipe over his gums, across each tooth, and metallic blood finds itself enamored with his toothpaste. He spares a second glance at his reflection.

He’s never felt so tired in his life.

In public, he is Gojo. He steps into the crisp, winter air with festive bags draped over his strong arms. Railings are decorated with a frozen chrysalis, and Gojo catches sight of himself. His pale skin is flushed, a blotchy shade of pink that clashes with the rest of his face. Even then, he smiles through his black, cloth mask before picking up a phone call. He is respected— respectable, as a man, because of his ability to masquerade, he supposes.

In public, he is Gojo. No one bats an eye as he flirts, slinging his winter coat over his shoulder as he opens a door for the prettiest person he can see within a five mile radius. He responds to flushed “thank you”s with a cunning smile and a gentle wink, later sliding passed with his hand ghosting over soft waists.

He’s never felt so tired in his life.

To his students, he is their Sensei. Idealized, omniscient, indomitable. His abilities are uncanny, the weight of Six Eyes diminished and underestimated— because Gojo, Satoru, a mentor at Tokyo Jujitsu High, a special grade sorcerer, is the perfect fit. His Six Eyes tell him he’s unbounded, but his soul knows otherwise. Tinted red strings tie themselves to each of his fingers, each tighter than the rest— but only one burns brightest.

Invisible strands of thread travel through the alleyways of Kawasaki City, tying Satoru down to an unreachable, desolate, cliff. Undisclosed loneliness gnaws at his abdomen, and chips away at his liver until it grows back the following morning. He wonders who feeds on his very being, who tugs at the strings tied down to his long, cadaverous fingers.

Snow falls onto wet concrete, January air nipping at your fingertips. It’s a fruitless effort, huffing into your palms as your brisk stride carries you through a damp alleyway. Despite the many lives you live— you’ve always been honest. Some part of you, you suppose, will always be left upon your sleeve. whether you spend sleepless nights trying to mend that or not. The day flies past you in a blur, stuck on autopilot, until you realize you’ve smacked your hand against the register.

Before you could succumb to the rabid evil of your mind, a new customer drops a nauseatingly sweet treat onto the worn conveyor belt. The arrangement of sweets seem to be leftovers from the store’s bakery, wrapped delicately with bows and intricate wrapping paper. Your arms ache with fatigue, though you’re still grateful for the distraction.

The cash register mocks you with your very own reflection, and as the sweet is pulled forward, you catch yourself frowning at the dull depiction of you. The distorted image of yourself stares back at you, tired eyes sunken in and exhausted. You try to put on a smile, eyes flickering up to meet the tall man with an insatiable sweet tooth.

You’ve never felt more tired in your life.

A mosaic of effervescent, electrifying, hues of blue cluster in your vision, indescribable shades blurring together. Hauntingly— painstakingly, beautiful.

Then, almost immediately, you’re overwhelmingly warm and gaping in unfiltered awe. His grin is just as bright as his eyes, your heart buffering before you can register your facial expression. Looking up to the stranger in front of you, you exhale breathlessly and shove the sweets into the recyclable bag.

He’s beautiful. Unapologetically, unconventionally, irrevocably, beautiful.

His eyes are blue; sunset lit and sparkling with shades that remain nameless to this day. His hair is the cleanest tinge of white you’ve ever seen, brighter than the snow blanketing the rooftops and streetlights. His glossy, rosy, lips curl into a cunning grin.

You’re quick to ring him up, clenching your jaw as your fingers struggle to separate each end of the plastic bag. With the man hovering directly parallel to you, an anxious tremor racks your body. At this angle, shadows meet to frame him perfectly. The curve of his face, the slope of his Adam’s apple, his silhouette blanketed by a ray of sunlight that peeks through desolate clouds.

“Is that— Will that be all for today?” You clear your throat, leaning against the register stand with fabricated confidence. You watch him readjust his sunglasses, his plump lips jutting out as he thinks over his purchases. Despite the coy display, his long fingers slide out of his pocket with one languid motion. He pulls out a card, shiny and gleaming with wealth you could never begin to comprehend. Not while you work 9-5, anyway.

“Well, when you put it like that it’s kind of embarrassing!” He huffs dramatically, waving the card between two manicured fingers. He taps it against his bottom lip once, then twice, and leans over the register— seemingly taller by the second. With zero comprehension of personal space, he tilts his gaze down from your lips to the cash register pin-pad. His breath smells of mint and chocolate chips, but it’s the smell of his expensive cologne that curves your judgement. For a moment, you consider what it’d be like— being wrapped up in his honey-smooth scent. His voice lowers to a whisper as he tilts his head, “Don’tcha think?”

“Uhm,” You mumble, hushed. There’s an impenetrable force compelling you to step forward, bask yourself in his congenial warmth, despite only having seen him a handful of times here and there. You’re breathless, completely discarding the question all together as you watch him fix his posture. Somehow, he seems even taller, as if his legs have no end. “Excuse me?”

His omniscient grin wavers, only slightly, and if you weren’t studying his expression with intense care you're not sure you would’ve noticed it. His eyes, blanketed by dark shades, trail down to his hand, across your bicep, and back to your ring finger. His smile tightens, but he clears his throat to speak nonetheless.

“[Name], is it?” His saccharine smile twinkles as he changes the subject, blue eyes rereading your name tag. “You hit your hand awfully hard just a second ago. I don’t usually flirt with boys, but...”

His hand travels to meet yours, gentle and soft despite rugged scars that litter his palm. With Six Eyes he can see it all much too clear— a blazing red string that ties himself down to you. But this has to be some sort of dream—it’s all too sudden, all too real. His fingers cascade across the tendons of your hand, where you’ll be sure to bruise later. He inhales sharply, intense crimson spreading throughout his warm fingertips, with heavy cotton in his head. Selfishly enough, he hopes the forming bruise will be the only thing connecting his soul to yours.

Oh..” You respond, swiping his card with trembling hands. “It’s nothing, really.”

You take in the sight of Gojo (you’d learned his name a few nights ago) under streetlights, his glossy irises bouncing yellow hues off it’s surface. He holds onto your hands like he’s known you forever, leading you down the cold streets of Kawasaki City. Lilliputian sheets of black ice blanket the open street— which remains unusually quiet for the late evening. His stride never wavers, despite stepping on ice several times. His gaze is shielded, but his shoulders remain dropped and weary, and you can't help but wonder about his story. You hope to have the chance to discover who he really is, behind those glasses, but your thoughts collide before you can sort yourself out.

His reciprocated gaze is full of fascination, uncharacteristically speechless and— wounded. Almost like he’s watching himself in the reflection of your eyes, his lips split into a bittersweet grin. There with you physically, his mind seems to have drifted off elsewhere. The whirlwind of emotions welling up in his head jostles him with whiplash..the image through his eyes seems hypnagogic, almost like he’s looking right through you.

“Satoru?” You ask, expelling his name much too warm for his liking.

Hearing his name repeated so sweetly, like it had been so long ago, makes a heavy lump of bile form in his throat. This moment he’s sharing with you— it belongs to someone else. Tears form at the corner of his eyes, and Satoru blinks rapidly behind his disguise. Holding hands under the pale moonlight, keeping the other warm with residual body heat… This moment belongs to happiness. Happiness, found in long, dark hair and eggplant eyes. Found in smug remarks and tangled hair bands. In Suguru.

And you..you are not Suguru.

“Hm?” He inhales sharply through his nose, an even sharper crack exuding from his lips. Your gaze follows his movement, frantic and confused as he pulls himself free from whatever internal conflict just flickered across his face. He traces something you can’t quite comprehend, moving alongside it as if there’s an invisible line that’s caught in knots and tangled past reconstruction connected to your fingertips. He shakes his head, a rancorous snigger escaping past his shiny lips. “Oh, nothing! I was just thinking…”

“The moon is beautiful tonight, isn’t it?” Is what you thought you’d hear— somehow, somewhere, beneath a vast kaleidoscope of blue hues.. you found yourself selfish enough to hope for more. It was fate that brought him to you, a diverging path of the unknown haunting your loneliest nightmares. And you’re delighted, delighted to have met Satoru. With striking eyes and unruly hair— large palms and a contagious laugh. To you, despite only knowing him for a short amount of time, that was happiness.

Knowing it’s not reciprocated, even in the quietest part of your mind…

“…Anyway,” Satoru carries on with the insatiable need to satisfy his use of phrases. You hadn’t noticed it before, but the man’s desire to fill silence is almost deafening, as if the moment he stops speaking he’ll burn from the inside out. Like a short fuse, ready to burst at any moment. “It’s getting pretty late.”

There’s a collective pause between the two of you, a silent orchestra of contemplation as the night grows colder.

“Did I do something wrong?” You ask, and his demeanor shifts, much colder than before, as he stuffs his hands into his coat pocket. The lingering idea of being an afterthought, a rebound, threatens to tear you apart from the inside out. You laugh, bitter and distorted enough to sound like a strangled cry.

And, ironically enough, misfortune held your hand through it all. Gracing you with this man; a sorcerer, a mentor, a respected name, it breaks your heart. You didn’t know him like the back of your hand, but no matter where you went, he was there. To pick up the pieces, to apply the bandaids over your scraped knees when you pushed yourself too hard.

Believe it or not, when you were with him, you felt whole.

“What? Of course not!” He promised himself he’d be better. He’d love despite the strings tying him down to countless others. Despite the string pulling him toward an empty, nevertheless marked, grave. Alongside his best friend he’d bury his doubts, his soul crushing anxiety that came with yielding Six Eyes. “I was just thinking about where we should eat!”

Being the strongest man in the world can be so, so lonely.

He promised himself he’d be better. The first few times the desk seated next to him was empty, he told himself it was nothing. Because of this, his own selfishness, he lost what could have been. And for that reason, and that reason alone, Satoru will always be the weakest man in the world.

He promised himself he’d be better. The first few times he ran into you at the grocery store, he told himself it was nothing. The red strings connecting him to high school sweethearts and some of his closer acquaintances were nothing. The matted and tangled strings that seemed to never stop growing…were nothing.

And the universe’s divine hands must be incomparably cruel, because from nothing comes everything.

His shoulder bumps against yours as he smiles at you, January air jostling you about, but somehow missing the teacher completely. Lingering tension evaporates into the air as you nod in acknowledgment before hooking your arm around Gojo’s.

At home, he is Satoru. The notorious heartbreaker, the ‘soulmate’ to many— he has the red strings to prove it. He stares into his reflection, pulling at the pale skin encasing his soul. It feels forlorn, his body is not his own. The distorted image of himself stares back at him, cerulean eyes wide and sunken, completely unblinking. He tries to put on a smile, figurative chains pulling at his cheeks and leaving indents that mock him endlessly.

But with you, he is a fraud.

taglist:

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