#me when sun and moon imagery...

[kosmicprlz]

gentle moonlight, scorching sunlight

@thanzagweek day 2: sun and moon!!!!!!

made this with having the day 1 alt option: devotion/worship in mind as well..!! im also of the opinion that thanatos has wings like how they depict him in mythology (^_^)b

[kismetmoon]

The False Shepard, Here To Lead Our Lambs Astray

[ID: a digital drawing of an original, stylised Flatland character named Elizabeth.

Elizabeth is a vaguely humanoid character. She is depicted here with a seven-point star head with an eye in the centre, a clawed right hand and a left arm that is cut in half at the elbow - leading onto a white geometric hand. She has a broad chest that narrows into a thin torso. Her legs are cut out of frame - her body is only shown from the waist up.

She is stood in the centre with her arms held perpendicular to her body and the palms of her hands facing upwards. Over her right hand hovers a white crescent moon with a black earth shadow. Over her left hand hovers a black four-point star. She is smiling and staring slightly upwards. Her body is made up of black lines that get denser at the edges of her head, the bottom of her body and on her forearm.

The background is a stained glass window. There is a yellow and orange sun behind Elizabeth’s head with grey and pale blue glass around it, that fades to purple further down. Faint rays of light also shine out from the sun and into the corners of the canvas.

End ID.]

putting the background story and symbolism about this piece under the cut bc i feel like it really deserves an in-depth explanation

i can’t believe i’ve never properly discussed it before, but Liz’s main goal is to stop Chief turning out like his father.

after she tries and fails to kill their Chief Circle and instead kills his guard in Atlas’s defence (and i’ve decided that this is the incident where she loses her arm), she can’t risk taking any more blows like that. so instead of resorting to physical violence, she instead tries her hand at ‘positive manipulation’ to tear her problem from the root up.

she makes sure Chief has enough emotional ties to the lower classes (Atlas and Vance), irregulars (Ruth and Elijah) and lines (Liz, Ruth, Stella and Irene) for him to reconsider everything he’s been told about them. this is all to make sure that when Chief Sr. kicks the bucket they have a somewhat more progressive next-of-kin lined up to take his place. this works for her as Liz first meets Chief when he’s only about 15, so he’s still pretty young and an impressionable teenager.

but Chief Sr is still alive so boo. he has a strong grip on everything and has Chief Jr pinned under his thumb out of fear. while he doesn’t know about Stella, he does know that this ‘false shepard’ is up to something that involves his son. again, he still doesn’t know exactly who Liz is but he’s working on figuring it out.

so this image of Liz - a large, dark, looming, unnerving figure - is made to fit the circles’ depiction of her. how the next Chief Circle and his daughter are locked in her clawed grasp, and she smiles almost mockingly about it. her prosthetic is replaced by a white geometric hand and it sticks out like a sore thumb, as though it makes her ‘unhuman’ - but easily identifiable. her body is made up of a mass of lines, joined together in their force (danger !! women !!). the glass is only coloured around her head (the sun is the same as her colour palette when she’s not greyscale) and at her ‘feet’ (it’s more like the bottom of her torso but you know what i mean) which is mostly shaped with triangles - as if she’s breaking their world of grey out over the blood of the circles (again, i use purple as circle symbolism). the sun is rising in the sky, as the dawn of a new day and a new era begins.

essentially, she’s a revolutionary of the lower class, and a tyrant to the upper classes.

[evevolution]

tag drop!

[professorcalculusstanaccount]

Tintin Tarot, part 2 - the Fool's Journey Continues. Part 1 can be found here! Me and @josephscoat came up with a list of Tintin characters assigned to the major arcana cards in a tarot deck after she realised how well Tintin mapped onto the Fool.

The Hanged Man - Sacrifice, martydom and hesitation. Frank Wolff's death in Explorers on the Moon really stuck with me. I watched the 90s cartoon adaptation of it with a friend recently and even though I knew what was going to happen, it still hit very hard. I replaced the living tree, which represents the potential for growth and knowledge on the original card, with the planet Earth.

Death - New beginnings, metamorphosis, fear of change and decay. Even just for the imagery I had to use Rascar Capac. His use in the narrative seems to demonstrate a fear of the unknown. As the Hierophant and the child from the Sun card appear on the original Death card, I opted to use Rascar Capac as he's in the same story as the Prince of the Sun and Zorrino, who we assigned to the Hierophant and the Sun respectively! Professor Tarragon replaces the dying person on the ground in the original card, and Inti the Incan sun god watches over the scene.

Temperance - Middle path, patience, finding meaning, but also could mean excess and a lack of balance when reversed. Haddock is famous for his tendency to fly off the handle at a moment's notice. But Haddock also has endless patience for Tintin's bullshit. His character arc is one of finding meaning in his life after hitting rock bottom. He is pouring bottles of Loch Lomond, as seen in the Magician card.

The Devil - Addiction, lust, materialism, playfulness. Who else is more devillish than Tintin's arch nemesis, Rastapopoulos? His schemes grow wilder and larger as he pursues wealth and revenge. While sexuality is famously absent from the Tintin series, Rastapopoulos and his associates certainly lust over money and control. Tom and Allan are held in chains, though they are clearly removeable. The choice is theirs if they wish to walk away.

The Tower - Sudden upheaval, disaster, but also an avoidance of disaster in reverse. Calculus' reusable nuclear powered moon rocket was literally ahead of its time, representing a huge shake up in technological advancement in the Tintin universe. However, the moon mission attracted a lot of sabotage and disaster which was narrowly avoided. While the characters had to rely on the rocket for safety, it's not necessarily predictable.

The Star - Hope and rejuvenation, but also discouragement and insecurity in reverse. The phostile meteorite ushered a global wave of panic and speculation initially, but once it landed it became a beacon for competing factions to get to in time. It has a property that allows living things to grow quickly and abnormally large, representing the abundance the Star card is supposed to signal. The Star is supposed to follow the trauma of the Tower. Picking the rocket and meteorite felt thematically appropriate as both have associations with space, a relatively new frontier.

The Moon - Illusions, intuition, fear, confusion, misinterpretation. Professor Phostle jumps to conclusions and makes wild predictions from shaky calculations. He's also conveniently moon shaped.

The Sun - Inner child, joy, truth and liberation from struggle, or sadness and self doubt in reverse. Zorrino escapes the torment and bullying in his village and joins the Inca. Haddock and Tintin are immediately protective over him, with Zorrino being a little younger than Tintin.

Judgement - Releasing baggage, call to action, renewal, moving forward. Ramo Nash breaks free from Rastapopoulos' grasp and saves Tintin's life. I decided to depict the final confrontation scene from Alph Art where he pushes Rastapopoulos off a cliff, to his end.

The World - Culmination, success, completion, but stagnation in reverse. The Fool has seemingly completed his journey - Tintin has it all, a successful fulfilling career, friends who care about him and a manion to live in. But he is, by design, stagnant. Forever a cherub faced boy, stuck in an episodic serial by nature, Hergé wanted to kill him off by sealing him inside a resin statue, freezing him in place for eternity. He will forever be the Boy Reporter.

I dressed him as a Morris dancer because I thought it would be funny

[yourtamaki]

rip my ribcage open (devour what’s truly yours)

zoro x f!reader

word count: 2.1k

warnings: tummy-pusher zoro, squirting, oral (f!receiving), overstimulation, prone bone, chokehold, slight breath play, creampie, violent imagery, religious imagery, bit of aftercare.

zoro thinks you might be trying to say his name.

he’s knelt between your legs, sitting back on his haunches and rocking his hips just enough to fuck you with the fat tip of his cock. there’s a rhythm to the unsteady rise and fall of your chest. short inhale, long exhale, the same way you always sigh his name when he’s reduced you to this.

tears dotting your lashes, drool seeping from the corner of your mouth, hips bucking mindlessly trying to get him to slip in deeper.

fuck, you’re hungry for it.

zoro is not a man of many indulgences. he doesn’t allow himself to be. having too many vices can only lead to a weak mind and an even weaker will. he eats but he does not savour, he sleeps but he does not dream.

but he’d be a shit swordsman if he didn’t understand the balance in all things. denying himself all of life’s comforts would make for a rigid spirit, brittle and easily broken. so he’ll sip on some sake and enjoy its fire in his belly, he’ll nap on sunny’s deck so when he wakes, it’s to the sight of his crew set to the backdrop of the setting sun. and when the sun dips below the horizon, there’s nothing to stop him from finding you in the dark and pulling you into a hungry kiss.

that balance is what makes nights like these all the better. knowing that having you like this, spread open and vulnerable, is good for him. that you’re making him a better man, a stronger man, just by letting him take you apart and make a mess out of you. there’s no need to resist the temptation now of bending low to press his lips to your trembling ones in a slow, ravenous kiss.

you taste like need and the sweetest of sins and he licks at the roof of your mouth, knowing he’s damned himself long ago to crave you for as long as he lives.

"if you want something, you have to ask,” he says, pulling back and idly groping at your tits, pinching your nipple when you don’t answer. you throw your head back at the sudden sensation and a wild heat blooms in his chest at the sight, scorching his ribs. how easily you bare your neck for him. how thoughtlessly.

"please, zoro, please. want you deeper, i wanna feel you here,” you take his hands, sliding them down your body until they come to rest on your lower stomach. irritation, sharp and sudden, cuts through his haze.

“don’t fucking beg,” he says, low and even, “you don’t have to beg. ever.”

it’s so far beneath you to plead, he has to swallow down the growl building in the back of his throat. zoro would topple empires for you, would cut the very moon in half if you asked, and you think you have to beg him for anything?

he doesn’t wait for you to nod before he starts pushing in. it doesn’t matter if you understand yet or not, he’ll fuck it into you until you do.

there’s a moment after he’s bottomed out inside you where neither of you move a muscle. he grits his teeth from the effort of holding on to the frayed rope that is his restraint and letting you get used to the wide stretch of him. ages pass before you reach up, slowly as if to not startle the beast above you, and cup his face in your soft palm. you stroke your thumb across his cheek, just on the edge of his scar. your touch is warm and gentle and cracks something inside him wide open.

the rope slip from his fingers. he lets it.

there’s no warning, no build-up before he’s pressing both palms down on your stomach and fucking into you. you reach up to hold on to any part of him, settling around his neck, a balm on his flushed skin even as your nails dig and bite into him.

“you feel that? hmm?” his smile feels jagged and sharp, more demon than man but you only moan at the sight of it, “you feel me in there?”

it’s a strange sensation, feeling himself carve a space inside you, the push and pull. it’s filthy and more intimate than it has any right to be and he fucking loves it.

“fuck, feel you i feel—” a rough thrust cuts you off and when you catch your breath, you’re still rambling, “—so good, you’re so good.”

zoro’s been called many things in his life but good isn’t one of them. it’s never bothered him before. good men don’t claw their way up in the world and leave a trail of slaughter in their wake. good men don’t scream at the heavens and demand to be heard.

zoro is not a good man. but he can be good. to you. for you.

“breathe, baby,” he says, “don’t forget to breathe.”

he presses down a bit harder and your reaction is instantaneous, legs kicking out, the tears that have been threatening to spill over since he stuffed a pillow under your hips finally sliding down your cheeks. you take him so beautifully and something barbed wraps around his heart and squeezes at the sight, shredding him to bloody pieces.

he knows you’re close before your eyes start to flutter, can feel it building like a storm inside you and chases your pleasure with reckless abandon.

“zoro.”

short inhale, long exhale. his name a sigh on your parted lips as you clench tight around him and cum. he doesn’t stop moving for a second, doesn’t let up the pressure even as he feels you gush all over him, soaking his cock, his thighs, his stomach. his strokes stay sure and steady as he fucks you through your high.

you shudder beneath him before relaxing back into the bed and he slows to a stop to let you catch your breath. it hurts to look at you, all divine and fucked out. it’s a sight too holy for a hellbound man like him to behold but he drinks it in anyway, burns it into his mind. 

what’s one more sin to a demon?

zoro slips out of you with a hiss through gritted teeth, taking a moment to admire the creamy ring around his base, your arousal and cum still dripping off him. you’ve marked him as yours and yours alone without even trying and his cock twitches at the thought.

“no why?” you whine as he pulls back further, “give it back.”

“turn over,” even as he speaks, he’s manhandling you until you’re laid out on your stomach, hips propped up with the pillow he takes care to push under you. zoro kisses down your spine before settling between your spread legs and greeting your cunt with a broad stroke of his tongue, “i ever tell you that you taste good like this?”

“like- mmm fuck,” you say, all breathy as he circles around your swollen clit, “like what?”

“stretched out,” he murmurs, “open.” 

you’re past the point of words as he grabs two handfuls of your ass, spreads your sticky lips open with his thumbs and buries his tongue inside you. he savours the sweet little gasps you let you like the finest sake, groaning into your pussy as you start to rock your hips and grind your clit against him. he can’t catch a full breath, thinks he might be suffocating, and moans a bit louder.

a swarm of words bubble up hot and fast in his lungs, taking up space where breath once lived. half-formed thoughts try and fail to take shape in his mouth, weighing down the tongue that makes you writhe in the sheets. 

he can’t bring himself to speak but if he could, he’d show you. zoro wants to crack his ribs open so you can see the bloody wreckage you’ve caused, let you crawl in and keep you safe next to the heart that’s always, always, been yours. he’d probably burst into flames with so much goodness inside him but that’s alright. at least he’d keep you warm.

the words stay trapped where they are though and all he can do is all he’s ever known how to. he goes to work. zoro is singleminded in his task, fingers digging into the fat of your ass to keep you still while he devours you whole and it doesn’t take long before he’s pushing you off the edge he never let you stray too far away from.

he laps at your folds until you start to squirm away, crawling up the bed and away from him. he lets you put a bit of distance between you, lulls his prey into thinking it’s escaped before he pounces. between one breath and the next, zoro’s on you, draped along your back, licking at the sweat that beads down the nape of your neck. you arch into him, pushing back against the hardness digging into your ass before he rests his weight down on you, forcing you flat on your front.

“where do you want me, baby?” he asks, kissing behind your ear, “tell me where you want me.”

in this moment and in all others, zoro would do anything you told him to. you could make him hump you like an animal until he cums and lick your skin clean or stand across the room and jack off by himself with nothing but the lingering taste of your pussy to help him get off. he’d do it and he’d do it without an ounce of shame.

“want you inside,” you slur, “wanna be full.”

his entire being in the palm of your hands and you choose to be merciful.

“you sure?” he lifts up off you just enough to get a hand around his base and nudge his tip against your clit, “not too sensitive?”

“yeah, pl- i can take it.”

his grin is all teeth when he hears you correct yourself, “that’s my fucking girl. stay still, baby. let me take care of you.”

you’re soft and slick from his spit and two orgasms and when he bottoms out all at once, it’s with a low groan in your ear that echoes behind your breathy moan. sinking back inside you feels like rapture, like something he’s done nothing to deserve but basks in anyway with an endless greed.

he wraps his arms around you, one across your front groping at your chest while the other hooks around to put you in a headlock, keeping you pressed flush to him as he starts to rock into you. zoro is quiet in his worship, purposeful, and you’re nearly as quiet in receiving it, the room filled only by your soaked cunt and ragged breathing. though you don’t say anything, he can hear you loud and clear.

short inhale, long exhale.

a holy call he’s helpless to answer.

zoro fucks you to the rhythm of his name, short, devastating thrusts with his whole weight thrown behind him. he wants to live in this moment, could spend the rest of his days with his cock dragging along your walls slow and sure, relishing the way you tighten like a vice around him every time he flexes and cuts your air off mid-gasp.

but he swore an oath at your altar and zoro has always been a man of his words.

he cums with a sigh of your name, spilling inside you for what feels like ages before he collapses over you boneless and spent, his softening cock keeping you plugged nice and full just like you asked so sweetly for.

“you okay?” he asks, pulling out as gently as he can and helping you roll over when your trembling arms make it clear you can’t do it on your own.

“mhmm,” you pull yourself up until you’re nose to nose with him. zoro holds still as you scatter kisses across his face like stardust. his temple, his scar, the corner of his mouth. there’s no order, no pattern he can discern to the affection you bestow but he accepts it the way all blessings should be received. with silent gratitude.

“nothing hurts?” 

“no. but you’re carrying me to the bath.”

“okay.”

you tuck yourself into his side, reaching up to idly roll his earrings between your fingers, “and washing my hair.”

“okay.”

“and i’m gonna wash your hair.”

“okay.”

“say something else.”

he thinks for a moment, thinks of all he could never put to words and lets them stay as thoughts. instead, he meets your eyes and settles on a simple truth, “you’re beautiful.”

a smile, radiant and bright, breaks across your face. what happens, he wonders, when a demon is the cause of something as divine as your smile? it’s a question he doesn’t mind spending his life searching the answer to. 

dedicated to: mah wife @katslutski and the loml @saotoru

[houseofaegon]

ENCHANTRESS ╱ BOB REYNOLDS/VOID SERIES

✷ ─── +18 MINORS DNI 𓏲  ◟ ♡ ˖ ࣪ dark themes, witchcraft, mentions of trauma, grief, mentions of character's death, blood & ritual imagery, possession, morally gray characters, violence, sexual tension, slow burn, nsfw smut scenes, chapters with explicit sexual content will be tagged and rated accordingly. each chapter will include specific warnings.

✷ ─── AUTHOR'S NOTE. this series is my love letter to witchy women, lovers of fleetwood mac and mother stevie nicks, and misty day devotees. this is for the ones who speak to the moon, pull tarot cards, carry crystals on their purses, and leave salt at the doors just in case. arabella montenegro is an original character born from my obsession with witchtcraft, feminine rage, tarot cards, and folklore. she's not just a witch, she's a girl with a monster inside of her who still dares to love deeply and profoundly. i also craved a latina!oc for bob reynolds bc yes—latinas for bob reynolds. let's be for real right now, bob needs someone who can hex him and heal him at the same time. thank you for reading and giving this series a chance. reblogs are always welcomed and deeply appreciated, comments warm my heart and inspire me to keep writing, so thank you for always supporting me! lots of love, bri.

✷ ─── ENCHANTRESS SERIES. chapter one: beauty in tragedy. chapter two: the devil you know. chapter three: the witch. chapter four: moonlit waters. chapter five: divine hunger. chapter six: to burn & be burned. chapter seven: of teeth & tenderness. chapter eight: bound by blood. chapter nine: ashes between us. chapter ten: salt in the wound. chapter eleven: blood moon. chapter twelve: whispers in the dark. chapter thirteen: the witch and the void.

⠀‘  ݁  ִ ׂ  ̧ ִֶָ 𖥔 ࣪ ˖ 

���⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ prophet girl, ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀chosen by the sun, ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀do you hear the gods whispering ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀those silent stardust words?

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀cursed daughter, ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ uttering insanities no one believes ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀do you regret taking the vow?

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀‘  ݁  ִ ׂ  ̧ ִֶָ 𖥔 ࣪ ˖ 

♱ ˖ ࣪ .  ARABELLA MONTENEGRO was born under a blood moon, marked by old gods, bound to ancient magic, cursed and chosen all at once.

A witch.

A weapon.

An Avenger once, before the world became too loud, and her own shadows grew teeth sharper than anyone could control.

They called her The Enchantress, not realizing that name belonged to something else—the other half of her.

The darkness that lives beneath her skin.

Not evil. Not good. Just ancient, and waiting to be let out.

Now, Arabella walks barefoot through the Watchtower—salt at her doorways, obsidian rings on her fingers, shadows whispering her name like a sacred incantation. Her tarot cards never lie. Her shadows never sleep.

After the near-destruction of New York by the Void, she's called back to a world she tried to leave behind, she’s called back to the fight—to the Thunderbolts, to Bucky, to the ghosts of who she used to be.

And to BOB REYNOLDS.

The golden god with too much power, and too many fractures.

He is power incarnate.

And Arabella is the only thing he cannot destroy.

But the Void sees her too. Wants her. Recognizes the entity buried inside her—the one who looks back when she stares too long into the dark.

Because inside Bob, something dark stirs.

And inside her, something just as dark answers.

Arabella Montenegro doesn't believe in salvation. Not for herself, not for anyone else.

But somewhere between salt circles and moonlit rituals, between banter, bitten lips, and stolen touches—the witch and the void begin to burn.

And when they finally touch, the world will never be the same.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ROBERT 'BOB' REYNOLDS ╱ THE SENTRY/VOID

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ARABELLA MONTENEGRO ╱ ENCHANTRESS

 

𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐅𝐀𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐍 © 2025. DO NOT STEAL, REPOST, OR COPY THIS STORY TO TUMBLR, WATTPAD, AO3, OR ANY OTHER PLATFORM. Moodboards and graphics made by @houseofaegon DO NOT repost or reuse without credit. chain divider by @cursed-carmine

♱ ˖ ࣪ . taglist: @the-a-word-2214 @favestxrboy @uraesthete @abbysbenchpr @sammystarswrite @pey2618 @qardasngan @lunaoieoie @orithyia-eriphyle @amatiswayland @madzzz6958 @all-by-myself98 @dark-silhouette @ghost-ghost-13 @wyvernthekriger @gayfiretruck @watermeezer @lvmxla @novausstuff @mommymilkers0526 @natureartisian @feralgoblinbabe @misaki-evans (if you would like to be added to the taglist, please let me know in the comments. love, bri.)

[madaqueue]

FALL FROM GRACE

do not desire her beauty in your heart, and do not let her capture you with her eyelashes. put to death that which is earthly inside you.

pairing: priest!sunday x succubus!f!reader

themes/content: dubcon (char!receiving - he says "stop" and it's basically ignored, and there's some heavy coercion/corruption stuff going on here), somno depending on how you look at it (succubi technically visit people in their dreams, so he's asleep ? sorta?), lots of religious guilt around sex, heavy catholic religious imagery (literally straight up bible verses). smut. handjobs, fingering/masturbation, p in v. i wanted to explore the rigidity and internalized shame sunday feels so uh . here's this ! (wk: 3.6k)

a/n: me when he's burdened and tormented (also i had to put my religious trauma somewhere ! hope it's yummy) :3333

The first night is always the most fun.

They never wake, not on this visit; the mind is a simple thing to trick, eager to make excuses for the gentle touches trailing over one’s torso, down their chest. A dream, they call it, a ready and waiting path to forgiveness.

The second night is usually the same - feather-light hands, breathy kisses - but you find Sunday to be a near-impossibly light sleeper when he begins to stir beneath you. Pinned under thighs that straddle his waist, his eyelashes flutter, nearly roused; his lips part, almost a sigh. It’s an uncanny thing to be so beautiful and so unaware; you wonder if he’s grateful for this gift. With a quick peck, you send him back into the waiting arms of slumber.

The third night you visit him, his eyes open slowly, still clouded by dreams. It’s rather obviously unexpected to be found in this position, with a stranger resting over him, smiling, trapped beneath their weight.

“Who are you?” he breathes, barely above a whisper. There’s no fear behind his gaze, only shimmering curiosity.

“Who do you think I am?”

Your fingers trail lower, tracing circles into his abdomen. It’s a fitting pattern for what you’ve seen of him: controlled, precise, predictable. No hard edges or uncertainty, just smooth and calm. Something about a vow, you think, has made him like this. Poverty. Chastity. Obedience. A promise to a power too self-righteous for your taste.

His eyebrows furrow as he attempts to focus upon you, vision still blurry. The most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, curves casting shadows under the fading starlight, black lace and soft skin. Then, there’s a flash of horns, a flicker of your tail, the markings below your abdomen pulsing through the dark. He swallows. “What are you?”

Ruby lips spread into a grin, one that veers sinister - he’s such a cute little thing, a chocolate covered strawberry, all sweet and flesh and blood. “An angel.”

The silk pillowcase rustles as he shakes his head, too innocent, too naive to do anything but be truthful. “No, you’re not.”

“No,” you lean forward, feeling his pulse thrum below your palm. “I’m not.” You kiss his cheek, and whisper a goodnight.

The fourth night, he’s more awake, but less verbal. Instead, sun-bright eyes follow your movements, the crackling fingerprints that travel his skin. He lets you touch him, lets you trace out the muscles lying below the surface, feel the nerves and arteries that quicken under your touch. Drowsy little whines leave his throat, barely a sound, as you work. Up wrists, over shoulders, to collarbones, counting ribs and diving into his hips, along his thighs, and back again. It’s a beautiful routine, just light enough to keep him half-slumbering.

From there, it’s mostly the same - you touch and trace and tease him, and he watches, silent and mostly unconscious. A week passes, maybe two. The time doesn’t matter, not to you, not really. What matters is the way his skin sparks beneath your fingertips, the way his eyelashes flutter under the moon’s silken glow.

You aren’t granted the privilege of visiting him awake, not yet, at least. There’s no way for you to see the way he pours over text, books with cracked spines and dusty pages, to find the source of these…dreams, of the being that visits him and steals him from the respite of sleep. The word succubus is heavy in his mouth, more bitter than communion wine, with no unleavened sanctity coming after to dull the taste.

On the seventeenth night (you think, if your count is right), he wakes in a notably different position, no longer cradled by the mattress upon which he put himself to bed. Under the mottled moonlight, he finds himself sitting upright, the bare skin of his back resting against something much warmer than the wooden headboard.

“Good morning, Sunday,” you purr into his ear from behind.

He murmurs something, slowly turning over his shoulder to face you. For the briefest moment, you think you catch the flicker of a smile.

“Good morning, demon.”

“Oh?” you let out an airy chuckle. “So you’ve figured it out then. Good, I was worried all you priests were nothing more than fools.”

The lightest laugh brushes past his lips, allowing his eyes to rest for a moment. “I’m no fool. Now tell me, why are you here, demon?”

Through a feigned pout, your hands make their way back to his chest. “What, are you sick of me already? You don’t like me, is that it?”

“I have no particular feelings towards you.” He’s quick to respond, quicker even to remind himself of his place, of his duties, as your palms threaten to burn through his skin. Poverty. Celibacy. Obedience. Important ideals. Good ideals. Holy ones, at that.

Through a hum, you travel lower over his body. It’s a test, really, to see if he’ll stop you, grab your wrists and yank you from behind him and banish you from this place forever. It would take so little: a splash of holy water, or even a simple curse, and he’d be rid of you. Surely he found that little fact in his readings.

And yet, he simply follows your path downward with his gaze (you can’t say you’re truly that surprised - it has become your routine, after all. And Sunday cherishes his routines).

“No feelings for me, you say,” you say, pensively. Lower, and lower, and lower.

Just as his lips open to speak, to throw some calculated retort, your fingertips brush between his legs and the sound twists into something else, something needier, a noise he couldn’t have controlled with all the constitution in heaven.

You gasp at the response, too, awe bubbling inside your cheeks.

“Oh, Sunday,” you breathe. “You poor thing, you must be so pent up.”

“I- mmm.” With a second run of your palm over his hardening length, his eyes dance shut, his entire body shuddering.

“Don’t they allow you to touch yourselves here?”

It’s evil, this touch, coursing with sin and dark, dirty blasphemy. He ought to shut his mouth, rip out his vocal cords if that’s what it takes, and wait. Perhaps a blood smear above his lips would protect him, make you pass him over tonight and all nights thereafter.

“N-not in the monastery,” he chokes out. “It’s against the rules.”

He grants you the privilege of grazing his warming skin, before letting out a shaky breath. Thou shalt not covet. Dispel desire.

“You…you should stop.”

“Stop?” The absurdity leaks into your voice. “You’ve given up so much for this silly church, don’t you think? Why give this up, too? Don’t you deserve it?”

A pause, a steadying breath, to quiet your dissatisfaction disguised as rage.

“And besides, look how badly you need this. It feels good, doesn’t it?” An angel, caught in your trap; to think you may not even have to clip his wings. “Don’t you want to feel good, my dear Sunday?”

Eyelashes delve into the creases of his eyelids as he tightens them closed, lips pulled into a gasping frown. Everything in his mind, in the years of his training, of memorizing verses and teachings and sermons and rules and rules and rules, tells him to say no, to force a stop to this nonsense.

“And,” you perk up at his hesitation, “it won’t even be violating your so-called ‘rules’ if I’m the one touching you, right?”

Even through the feather-light touches, Sunday worries he’s losing his mind, like your fist might as well be piercing through his chest and ripping his soul from it, dragging it into hell with you. The thoughts that make it up his spine are too blurry with lust to let the more sluggish Reason through.

“Right.”

Smiling into his neck, you feel his carotid jump under your teeth. “Good, good. So just let me do this, okay?”

So put to death the sinful, earthly things lurking within you. Have nothing to do with sexual immorality, impurity, lust, and evil desires.

He says the words over, and over, and over in his mind.

Do not be greedy, for a greedy person is an idolater, worshiping the things of this world.

He knows better than to make idols.

And yet, all he can do is nod his head.

He doesn’t face you, of course, buried under the shame of it. If the church was any older, he’d worry the brick would collapse in on him at any second, to punish him for the sin he was too weak to avoid committing. Perhaps he should be turned to salt, a fate befitting of his pathetic disobedience.

“Okay.”

It’s immediate, the way he relaxes when you finally reach below his boxers. The heat of your touch melts him, his throat craning as it releases strained whines. He’s heavy in your hand, a weight his so-called gods would surely commend, if they could spare such thoughts. Soft skin, unsoiled, untainted. Utterly holy.

As you stroke him with a tenderness only known to the clouds of salvation, he looks nothing short of angelic, the arch of his spine making space where wings ought to be, the tickle of his hair soft like a crowned halo. And you, wrapped around him like a flame, carry him through the air. Lower, and lower, and lower. To soften the blow when one falls from grace.

It takes so little for him to shake, to shudder and cry and bend, until you worry his shoulders may snap if you weren’t caging his torso against yours. His head falls back, slack-jawed and awe-struck, as he releases into your palm, pumps of white coating your hand.

It’s a beautiful thing, the sounds he makes, the purity of it. White and cream and gold, just as you’d imagine heaven to be.

There’s waves of pleasure, his stomach clenching with each one, pushing him further and further into you, and you swallow him whole, welcoming with open arms.

Slowly, you press your lips to his cheek, scalding hot.

“Goodnight, Sunday.” And he falls into your chest.

It grows increasingly difficult for him to hide the dreams (at least, that’s what he would convince himself they are). It’s been months now, although truthfully, you’ve stopped counting.

Every night, he falls into a troubled, humid sleep. Every morning, he wakes to a mess, still half-hard and panting.

And yet, he’s more relaxed, his shoulders less tense. When he turns to the parish, his neck moves more easily. As a well-educated (well-trained) man, he assumes he hides it well, but his relief is palpable, a taste too thick to anyone who knows him.

“You seem different lately, Sunday,” Father Wood observes casually.

With his back facing him, Sunday conceals the way his spine tightens. “How do you mean, Father?”

Pensively, Father Wood lights the altar’s candles, an honor given only to those most highly ordained, an honor Sunday used to dream of performing (now, of course, his dreams are consumed by other desires).

“Just…different, is all.”

Sunday’s attention falls to the flames before him, to the way they dance nervously despite the still, stagnant air inside the church. Perhaps they know something he doesn’t.

“I’ve been spending more time in the library lately. Perhaps my reading has enlightened me.”

“Perhaps,” Father Wood echoes. With quiet purpose, he lights the final candle. “This church is your home, my boy. You had nothing before you came here. I remember the day we took you in, the day you were saved.”

There’s a pit in his stomach, one that grows and grows and grows; he’d expect it to taste like acid, but all he gets is honey. “I remember it, too.”

Father Wood hums, facing away. “‘If our minds are ruled by our desires, we will die.’” A pause, a flickering flame. “Sunday, I trust you not to forget the oaths you swore.”

A shiver runs up his neck. Poverty. Chastity. Obedience. “Of course not, Father.”

That night, you meet Sunday in bed. Normally it’s little trouble to untuck the sheets, to find the welcoming skin of his thighs, but tonight he seems determined to bury himself within the blankets.

“Sunday,” you say. He fails to respond, but his ears twitch. “Sunday, I know you’re awake.”

One eye slowly cracks open, revealing the sun behind his eyelids. “Go away.”

“Excuse me?” you choke a laugh. “You want me to ‘go away’?”

Closing his eyes, he hums in affirmation.

Within your chest, your heart flutters - he’s so cute when he thinks he’s in control. Perhaps that’s why you chose him (the chase is always the most fun, the tension of it all; you think Eve’s first bite of the apple must have been underwhelming compared to its weight in her palm).

Perhaps your routine will bring him back. Slowly, you trail a finger along his collarbone - before he pulls away. Curling himself onto his side, he tucks his knees to his chest and shuts you out.

This is certainly a novel development. And it certainly will not do.

“Fine then,” you state, leaning back to the corner of the mattress.

In response, his left ear twitches, but he gives no other response. So be it.

Against the wooden footboard, you open your legs, visible if he were only to turn towards you. With well-practiced hands, you easily slide the black lace panties down your knees, letting them fall at your ankles and leaving you bare (it requires few garments to do your work successfully, after all - they’re made for this).

Silently, you spread your ever-wet folds open. With your other hand, you draw circles around your clit, slowly, tauntingly. Delving into your own heat, a sound of relief comes as an exhale, one that finally has Sunday’s gaze peeking from between his eyelashes.

“What are you doing?”

“If you don’t want me to touch you, I guess I’ll just have to touch myself instead,” you say. The words flow easily, thick like milk and honey, something sweet, something to help him sleep.

This time, his eyes remain open.

His mouth does, too.

Silent except for the ragged breaths coming past his lips, he watches you pleasure yourself, the way your fingers curl, knuckles disappearing only to reappear shining. The inky pattern adorning your womb morphs and glows; a spot of saliva catches in the dim light, and he makes no move to wipe it away.

With an arch of your back and a tilt of your head, you beckon him closer - always such an obedient little thing, your Sunday (he was praised for it, once); he slowly rises. The mattress shifts beneath his weight, holding it unsteadily, as he crawls towards you. Unwavering attention held raptly between your thighs.

“Sunday,” you say, to snap him out of the trance that pulls him towards you. He says nothing, a small trail of drool spilling from the corner of his perfectly eager lips. “Sunday.”

His eyes snap up to yours, the sun eclipsed behind the growing shadow of his pupils.

Your palm cradles his jaw, thumb wiping away the glistening desire. “Are you going to behave now?”

A blank stare.

A fragile nod.

“Good.” Your grin splits the earth open with wicked flames, poking between your teeth. He drinks in the heat with a starving throat, ignoring the way it burns (or reveling in it).

A sparkling star shines in his eyes, nearly glowing. You pull the two fingers from your cunt, still warm and sticky and sweet, and hold them before his face.

You don’t even have to tell him to open his mouth - obedience is such a lovely thing.

When your taste lands upon his tongue, he releases a moan like molten gold. His lips close around your fingers and he sucks and licks the essence from them, hungry and gnawing. Your fingertips glide over his molars and he fights the urge to bite, to claim (a well-trained dog is still just a dog, after all).

There’s a half-hearted whine when you remove your skin from his, one that makes your cheeks ache.

“Tell me what you want, my dear Sunday. Anything you want.”

If our minds are ruled by our desires, we will die.

Perhaps dying here tonight, with your taste still lingering in his throat, would be a graceful demise. A martyr of his sacrilege.

Already, he looks ravished, his cheeks dusted red and eyes wild and unfocused. The pretty ones are always the most fun to ruin, to dirty with desecration; they look so beautiful as they fall.

“I want-” there’s a lump in his throat where his servitude lives, where the years of holiness coalesced and stayed. He swallows heavily. “I want to feel good. I want you to make me feel good.”

“Ah,” you breathe. “I suppose I can do that.”

“But-” he catches himself. Rules, and rules, and rules. They clog up his esophagus, his vocal cords straining to get past them.

With a gentle finger, you hush his worries. “Just let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good, okay?”

He exhales, a shaky sound. “Okay.”

It takes little pressure to recline him onto the bed, the sheets already dampening from the sweat collected in the hollows of his back. He lets you undress him, lets you place scalding kisses into his skin, soft and sweet as a fig. Ripe like one, too.

Only two pumps of your fist up his length and he’s already leaking, twitching and aching.

“So eager,” you coo when his hips rut into the air, chasing your touch.

“M-my apologies,” he says weakly.

“Nothing to be sorry for, my sweet Sunday. Pleasure is a thing to be worshiped, don’t you think?”

They’d bury him for this. The other priests would crucify him and leave his body out to rot. He’d deserve it, he wouldn’t even complain, he’d be perfectly obedient until his very last breath.

As your thighs encase his, as you line his tip to your entrance, as you sink down, slowly, slowly, slowly, until you’re flush with him, until you’ve swallowed him whole and nestled him inside of you, his vision goes white and he feels the warm smile of forgiveness.

“Yes.”

From behind, your tail twitches into his peripheral vision. A cruel reminder, a crash and burn. Melted wings and the sea. But then your hips circle, once, twice, and he forgets himself again, he enjoys the fall.

His hands fly to your waist, before they’re swatted away with a click of your tongue and a sparkle in your eyes. “Ah, no touching me, remember? Those are your rules, after all.”

“Right.” Instead, his fists dig into the sheets, knuckles turning white.

With each plunge of your warmth up and down his cock, he’s reborn, fresh and gasping, each breath burning like the first. Crescent moons carve into his palms, and he groans.

“Is this…is this real?”

A chuckle bubbles from your throat. “Do you want it to be?”

He hesitates for a moment, lets your hand rest on his unsteady heart, lets your skin stick to his. Just below it, a knot forms, the strings tightening and tightening and tightening under years of strain.

“Yes.”

You fill his vision, all-consuming, eating the space between you with sharp teeth. When you speak, it’s a low sound, a rumbling purr. It makes his stomach clench. “Good.”

His breaths come in faster, now that he knows it’s real, that the heat creeping up his neck and down his legs is real, that this is happening. That something exists that feels this fucking good.

And then, all at once, the knot unties itself. The moans he releases are holy, more beautiful than a choir with all its ordained voices.

Damp palms grab at your hips, and you let them. With greedy fingers he holds you in place, fucking himself up into you. Tears well in his eyes and in the blurry haze, he thinks he sees heaven. It opens itself before him, warm and beckoning, in the space between your thighs.

“God, fuck,” he exhales, and you grin.

“How blasphemous, Sunday.”

If he hears you, he gives no indication. Curses tumble from his lips, raw edges cutting his lungs.

He chases a high with urgency, with uncoordinated thrusts and a too-tight grip. His dedication is truly a virtue.

It’s only a moment before he stills, eyes widening, jaw falling open to release an angelic cry. Truly beautiful as he falls, as he comes undone. In the space below his arched spine, you swear there’s a momentary flutter of wings.

Eyelashes open and close, as if to prove that this is not, in fact, real. But the heat still encircling him is proof enough. He shivers.

“Fuck,” he whispers, more to himself than anything.

“Oh Sunday,” you hum, fingers tracing ribs that rise and fall unevenly. There’s a twinge of something mixed into the pride, something sadder, something longing. “This certainly has been fun.”

“Fuck,” he says again. Dread settles on his shoulders, heavy, heavier than duty or scriptures or a grave, than a cross. “Will I…?”

“Be excommunicated for this? Probably not,” you smirk.

Weakly, he shakes his head, sweaty strands of hair sticking to the pillowcase below. “Will I see you again?”

The question makes your heart flutter. How cute.

“If you’d like to, my dear.” With a gentle hand, you brush the fringe from his forehead. “Anything you want.”

At that, he relaxes, his shoulders sinking deeper. With heavy eyelids, his blinking slows. “Good.”

How beautiful he looks like this, half-conscious and spent, utterly debauched. Utterly holy.

“But for now, get some rest.” Warm lips press into his cheek, and he leans into them with a hum. “Goodnight, Sunday.”

[gasolinecookie]

☆•° SHADOWMILK FIC BELOW!!! °•☆

k so this is my first time posting my fanfic onto tumblr. farts. lmk if i need to do anything special or not

Content; soul jam freakery, pwp, non-penetrative sex, switch shadow milk, switch pure vanilla, cookiefucking ig, brief mentions of purelily(?), 3k+ words :3

Pure Vanilla stood in a glade of flowers. As far as the eye could see, there were hills lined with hundreds and thousands of flowers. A shy moon peered over a hilltop, stars winking playfully across a picturesque, midnight-blue sky. For a moment, he just observed them.

On one hill surface, it was all coated in brilliant yellow and white petals. Yellow carnations, baby’s breath, chamomile, daisies, honeysuckle, white hyacinth, white roses. A beautiful cloud, light shining through each split where the sun kissed the feathery vapor.

Another swath of blue flowers lined another hill. Hydrangeas, irises, delphiniums, hyacinth, and morning glories. As Pure Vanilla heaved a relaxed sigh, inhaling the sweet scent of the floral arrangements around him, he noticed but a single flower at his feet.

A forget-me-not.

The rest of the flowers in the field burnt up, despite there being no fire present. They simply crumbled on their own, squeezing into themselves and turning into blackened char. The sweet smell of pollen and nectar and the midnight stars was replaced by the acrid stench of strawberry jam and burnt leaves. Ah. This must be a dream.

"Y'know, my silly little Vanilly, this has been in your cards for a loooong time coming," came a playful voice, an idle teasing to it, as if it were a conversation between old friends. Pure Vanilla didn’t bother to turn around towards it. In a way, it was really a reunion of sorts. “Have you missed me?”

Pure Vanilla stayed staring, fixedly, almost mechanically, at the single, twinkling flower before him. He wouldn’t give Shadow Milk the satisfaction of seeing him look startled, or even seeing his face at all. “Not in the slightest,” he replied with a sigh, the forget-me-not dancing in the painfully burnt nighttime air.

Hands wrapped around his eyes.

He resisted the urge to immediately elbow the foe behind him, or thrash out of the (admittedly gentle— why was it so gentle?) grasp of Shadow Milk, but he steadied his will, staying perfectly still. A warmth, a slow embrace, spread across his back as Shadow Milk pulled himself flush with the back of Pure Vanilla’s robes.

“Vannilly…” Shadow Milk cooed in a drawn-out tone. “If you want to look at anything ever again, look at me. You know that I can hear what you’re thinking. You can’t ignore me forever!”

Pure Vanilla sucked in a breath. He knew reading cookie’s minds wasn’t impossible— he himself could do it if he tried. Yet, he wasn’t sure if Shadow Milk truly knew how, if he was bluffing, or if you even could read one’s mind inside of a dream.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to risk it.

“That power is not yours, beast.” Pure Vanilla didn’t utter another word, keeping his lips drawn tightly together. Shadow Milk simply wouldn’t earn it from him, no matter how much he toyed with him.

When the ravaged flower field disintegrated around him, and reformed into a chapel, and Shadow Milk vanished from his back to reform in front of him, Pure Vanilla felt almost let-down, as ridiculous of a notion that it was, that Shadow Milk hadn’t tried harder to make him speak. Two rows of pews lined the rectangular room, highlighted by the beautiful moonlight coalescing through the windows. It streamed through blue, stained-glass windows— no doubt, they bore imagery of the wielder of the Light of Deceit.

Pure Vanilla felt a tightness about his limbs, and suddenly he noticed tendrils creeping around the floor, darkness forming and deforming vague shapes of tentacles as they wove between the pews. As he glanced towards the throne, between his bangs, there was a beast hovering above him, a sadistic grin twisting his cutesy, mis-matched features into a mockery of a cookie's face. Shadow Milk cookie, a tyrannical creature born of lies and falsehoods. There were many ways to end a dream, so Pure Vanilla quickly shuffled through his options, mentally. He didn’t want to even give this creature a chance to speak more. There was a war to fight, and it needn’t be distracted with silly things like dreams.

"Now, quit it with that look. We all know you can't do anything to escape from this dream, now! Stupid 'Nilla!" Shadow Milk cackled, as if he really could hear Pure Vanilla’s thoughts, and sure enough, more mysterious darkness rose from the floor, binding Pure Vanilla by the ankles. They slithered up Pure Vanilla’s slender legs, tracing his figure, wriggling across each inch of his dough. "Hey, didn’t you say you were going to protect everyone? That you didn’t have things like nightmares? You're the worst liar of us all. Which is why I'm going to take my Soul Jam back from you, Vanilly.”

Pure Vanilla glowered at this foe. He may have a point-- Pure Vanilla was not always the most truthful, as much as his jam implied it. Yet, every time he lied, it was in the name of justice. In the name of keeping the peace, and ruling over what he needed to protect. So, that was different. It certainly wasn't the shameful secret that Shadow Milk was making it out to be. If it was leveraged against him, though... he wasn't sure what he'd do. He just had to escape the dream before it got to that point.

Then, of course, in his moment of distraction, Shadow Milk took it as an excuse to approach Vanilla, looking down on him as the tendrils suddenly squeezed around his dough, crumbling the surface ever-so-imperceptibly. It burned. There was truly nowhere he could go, as far as his eyes could see, no way to fight against this darkness— he was caged in like a feral animal, and felt merely inches away from being provoked to fight like one.

Shadow Milk stepped towards the altar, finally lowering himself to standing height instead of floating. The porcelain tiles hissed as his feet touched them. With a gentle motion, he ascended the half-stairs, and settled atop the marble altartop. With one hand, he beckoned to Pure Vanilla, and he was dragged forward and onto his knees by the shadows binding his legs. Shadow Milk gazed down at him, cooing softly as one might to a stray animal. Pure Vanilla resisted the urge to growl at him in response.

"Don't worry, silly. This won't hurt a bit, okay? I'm gonna warm your jam up... bet no one's ever done that before, hmm, tightwad? Ahaha!" Shadow Milk cackled, and slowly rolled his sleeve a bit further back up his arm. His forearm was littered in hundreds of tiny scars that Pure Vanilla elected to ignore. This psychopath's sob story was worthless to him; he had probably just gotten into fights, or ran through brambles in boredom.

It was just as meaningless as the rest of his deceitful actions.

The shadows yanked Pure Vanilla upwards, suspending him off the floor by their grasp on him, and giving his knees an air-borne surface to rest upon. Being pulled forward so that his chest was level with Shadow Milk’s knees, he glanced up at the beast who held him in place. “Oh, my. Now that’s a sexy face on you, Vanilly. You look so angry…! What, going to crumble me with your teeth?” Shadow Milk offered with a smirk that only surfaced more and more suggestions in Pure Vanilla’s mind.

Shadow Milk’s hand found the side of his face, and it cupped his cheek. Without missing a beat, and keeping eye-contact with Shadow Milk, Pure Vanilla parted his lips and put his mouth around Shadow Milk’s hand, as if to bite it open. If this went as planned, Shadow Milk would surely become distracted and lose his grip on Pure Vanilla’s dream. What he didn’t expect, somehow, was the look of sheer masochistic elation that crossed Shadow Milk’s features, like a cloud crossing over the path of the sun and darkening a summer day.

“Does that feel good?” Vanilla asked in utter disbelief, whispering the words across Shadow Milk’s dough, far more sensually than intended, as he fixed him with a stare. “Ah, you’ve always been strange…” he continued, “but truly, I could never have expected to what degree.” He just had to keep throwing Shadow Milk off of his game. Then, he’d be able to slip away.

Then, unexpectedly Shadow Milk brought his other hand (not the one cupping his cheek) up to Pure Vanilla’s upper chest, and began to toy with his Soul Jam, grazing his finger crossed it’s blue surface. It was an overwhelming sensation, causing him to cry out— ah, why was that so sensitive? Vanilla knew they were connected to their senses, as his own had flickered when he was in pain, but he didn't expect it to literally feel like his soul was being stroked along the edge by Shadow Milk, a wanton noise peeling itself from his lips. It was a tightness and blossoming in his chest, all while Shadow Milk's multi-colored eyes, on his face and on his body, seemed to be watching the faces he was making with curiosity raptly.

Pure Vanilla did try to reign in his expression, concealing his faint noises of surprise by biting his lower lip. It was made vastly more difficult by the fact that his legs were restrained and he couldn't simply run from this.

Normally, the moment before the villain could enact their awful plan, a hero would come bursting into the room, and save the hostage just as it started to look hopeless. Well, it seemed futile to resist, to Pure Vanilla, and there was yet to be another cookie within sight. No, it was all those piercing, mis-matched eyes.

Mis-matched eyes that were gobbling up eyefuls of Pure Vanilla's pathetic condition greedily, lustfully. "I just love how this looks on you," Shadow Milk whispered, sultry, to the distressed monarch before him. It was a new thrill to have this brilliant leader finally subjugated before him, finally brought (literally) to his knees by Shadow Milk's plans. It's not as if he couldn't have potentially seen it coming, but there were so many possibilities for losing or capturing Pure Vanilla every day that Shadow Milk cookie had simply taken to ignoring them.

He stroked along the edge of the Soul Jam with one pallid blue hand, the other halfway covering the flustered face of Pure Vanilla.

"Shall I keep going?" Shadow Milk offered with nothing short of a insane grin, just feeling the waves of pleasure rolling off of his body from just the blonde’s expressions. Yet, that grin was just the sort of thing that would perfectly throw Pure Vanilla off his game. "Seems like you're plenty ready for the warm-up, needy-Nilly.”

"Don't do this," Pure Vanilla said, eyes furrowing— though, it just looked like he was relaxing into the pleasure even more, "I'm not going to do whatever you want." Oh? Shadow Milk smelled a Class A lie around those words, like curdled milk atop an otherwise perfect latte. All it took was a little teasing to bring out the deceitful side of the blonde, and Shadow Milk had yet to tell even a single lie. Frankly, he knew which one of them deserved the Soul Jam more, based on that.

Teasingly slow, Shadow Milk reached a blue hand deep into the jam on Pure Vanilla’s chest, sinking into its substance like a cushion; the tone of his dough and the surface of the soul were the same color, as if they were always meant to be put together this way. He slowly pushed in, first inching in his fingers, then his palms, and then the beginnings of his wrist. It pulsated around him— it wasn't meant to be touched like this, but nevertheless, it burned in a way that was both painful and pleasing. It seemed almost to him as if he had stuck his arm into a pocket dimension somehow contained within Pure Vanilla's body. He would’ve been curious as to how it felt, if he hadn't tried such a thing with his half of the jam. And by his own experiences, he knew exactly how overwhelming it was.

“How’s that…? You know, this is why you’re mine. Without me, you wouldn’t be able to feel this way. Without my Soul Jam on your body, you’d never have known this pleasure,” he cooed, leaning down to speak into Pure Vanilla’s ear as he slowly began to swirl his hand and the tips of his fingers around inside of Pure Vanilla.

Pure Vanilla suppressed a strangled moan at the intrusive feeling, immediately attempting to further cover his mouth with one of his own hands. Not that it lasted long, with one of Shadow Milk's tendrils quickly ripping it away, but an effort had been made to at least save himself part of the humiliation. "Please..." Pure Vanilla whispered, not being quite sure what he was begging for, other than that Shadow Milk was sure not to provide it, if he asked.

Shadow Milk made a satisfied grin and hum as Pure Vanilla's mouth was re-uncovered, wriggling his fingers inside the goopy substance of the jam until Pure Vanilla couldn't help but moan out again. It felt like someone had reached directly into his chest and was playing harp with his bare nerves; too overwhelming to form words, but still amazing.

"Oh, wow!" Shadow Milk giggled, tensing his fingers to squeeze the surface of the Soul Jam's glistening tension. "I can feel it, pulsing. It wants us to do this, doesn't it? Just think of how powerful we'll be together, Nilly..."

Pure Vanilla full-body shuddered at the nickname, feeling a familiar, aroused tingle in his back from the jester's rough voice; somehow, that managed to be almost more intimate than Shadow Milk's fingers inside of his soul. "It's too— too much," he finally managed, squirming away from Shadow Milk.

That's when it happened: Shadow Milk curled his hands through the jam, grabbing it like a handle from the inside, and yanking Pure Vanilla forward by it. The utterly debauched sound that fell from Pure Vanilla's mouth was both a shriek of pain and a guttural cry of pleasure: he wasn't sure which part was more earnest. "No running away, now! We've only just started, Vailly!"

With that, he pulled Pure Vanilla up against him into his lap, still holding him by the inside of his jam. This time, Pure Vanilla managed to keep it at a controlled yelp, but it did nothing to diminish the lustful burning he felt in every inch of his dough. He saw his Soul Jam faintly flicker with burnt out light— he was suffering, and he couldn't help but feel as though his perverse pleasure derived from it was a betrayal of everything his Light stood for, everything that he and the others like White Lily had fought for.

Just as he made the thought, Shadow Milk tsked aloud. “Don’t think of her. I can see it on your pathetic face— she doesn’t own you, I do. She wouldn’t make you feel like this, right…?” he asked, relaxing his grip on Pure Vanilla’s jam and returning to stroking it gently from the inside. It felt like stepping into a hot room on a cold, winter’s afternoon— it tingled all over Vanilla’s body, causing him to emit a soft squeak as the feeling bubbled up into every square inch of his vanilla dough.

"Now that you're up here..." Shadow murmured into Pure Vanilla's ear, pulling him closer to his chest. Vanilla couldn’t help but smell the faint aroma of blueberries on his skin. He managed to grasp onto Shadow Milk’s shoulder, bracing himself through his panic at being pulled, and steadying his pleasure. "Let's try something, okay? This'll feel even better than just my hands," Shadow Milk promised, and then their Soul Jams gently touched together as he pulled Pure Vanilla up closer into him, engaging him in a sloppy kiss.

Pure Vanilla could suddenly feel everything in Shadow Milk’s body and nothing in his own all at once. He was somehow two sets of lips, locked in an embrace that smeared frosting lewdly across faces, he was the future, he was the past, he was Blueberry Milk and he was being torn apart in luxurious torment and lust.

After either all of time, or just a second, Shadow Milk shoved him away with a sudden gasp, multichrome eyes going wide. His face was brushed in a dark blue flush, giving him a healthy looking bake, for once. He panted, licking his blue lips, causing Pure Vanilla's smudged off-white frosting to smear slightly across them both. "Woah there, Vanilla! Getting ahead of yourself!" Shadow Milk chuckled, his eyes slightly too wide for it to really come across as a properly controlling order. Had he really not predicted what this would do? Had Shadow Milk truly been unable to predict how this would feel?

That, or he was simply more sensitive than Pure Vanilla. When was the last time Shadow Milk had touched another cookie, dough-to-dough, after all?

Shadow Milk was overwhelmed. When he had touched his own half of the Jam, it hadn’t felt even half that intense. No, that was a splash of cold water, and this was a dunk in the ocean. Oh, God, he felt so one with Pure Vanilla. What had he been thinking? He needed… Vanilla to become him, not the other way around…!

Pure Vanilla's grasp on Shadow’s shoulders tightened, sensing his weakness like blood in the water. "Isn't this what you wanted? Isn't this what you forced me to do?" Pure Vanilla spoke forcefully, his voice carrying more venom than he ever let it have. Vanilla was purity, he was a figure of angelicness, forgiveness. Yet, now that he had felt what it was like to be him, he had a taste of being like Shadow Milk, feeling how Shadow Milk felt; a lingering flavor of blueberry and strawberry jam on his tongue.

He found he liked it.

He found it was the bit of Deceit inside of him, that sort of sadistic joy he found at Shadow Milk's startled expression, the nervous twitch to his pupils as they raked over Pure Vanilla's body. Glancing down to where Shadow Milk's eyes were fixed, he saw that his Soul Jam was... slightly melted, in appearance. Bits of it dripped loosely in comparison to its typically crystalline appearance, and Shadow Milk eyed it with trepidation, yet enthusiasm.

"Again," Pure Vanilla found his voice demanding, despite originally being the one who disagreed with this whole arrangement. Surely, it was the pieces of Shadow Milk's Soul Jam that were simply combining with his own. They were extended body parts, nervous systems— as if a second brain purely to use magic existed in the beasts and the ancient heroes.

After all, this was just a dream. Pure Vanilla could do whatever he wanted with this blue freak; he had given up on escaping. He’d have fun until Shadow Milk had enough and ended the dream. It was his domain, after all— it’s not like Vanilla could do anything that Shadow Milk couldn’t escape from at his very own will. Besides, when was the last time that Pure Vanilla was allowed to have fun?

With a sudden lean forward, Pure Vanilla caught the dough of Shadow Milk's neck in his mouth, dragging their Soul Jams into another gooey connection. Devouring him, tasting the faint flavor of blueberries and darkness and sweet, fresh milk, on his dough. It made a frankly lewd sound, and Pure Vanilla could feel himself losing his purity yet again, slipping into the body and mind of the insane man before him as if it were his fine Sunday clothes. A gratuitous moan rippled from Shadow Milk's lips. "Oh, Vanilla..." he managed, trying again to pull back from their embrace.

No, that wouldn't do. Pure Vanilla ran his hand up the back of Shadow Milk's head, feeling emboldened by the Light of Deceit that was flowing through him, the contradicting nature of the powers within him. He grabbed a fistful of Shadow Milk's hair, and gave it a harsh tug as he bit down more harshly on his neck. The resulting sound was something Pure Vanilla wished he could hear for the rest of his life. A debauched shriek, rough in the quality of the jester's voice, of his own name. "N-Nilla...!"

Pure Vanilla paused for just a moment, teeth in Shadow’s dough, paralyzed by the intoxication of lust. With that, he was giving Shadow Milk another chance to struggle against him, but it was futile in earnest. Shadow was only doing it for the fun of it: both of them knew he could run whenever he wanted. Two-toned eyes gazed up at Vanilla in all of their sex and pain-tinged glory. "No running away. We're just getting started." Shadow Milk’s expression grew even more lustfully destroyed with the idea of Vanilla echoing his words, his earnest expression, with just the faintest hint of a smile on his blue-smudged lips.

☆°•~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~●°☆

OKAY BYE THATS ALL THANK YOU

Gasoline Cookie OUT !! (feel free to send me requests in asks!)

[scliffe]

I know of at least one instance. You know what else happens at dawn?

It's interesting to know that Ciel named Sebastian at the crack of dawn, and yet Sebastian swore his commitment to his name by the moon.

I like to think that he vowed to the moon once his devotion to Ciel was more ingrained, at a later time.

Dedication to one's Master is obligatory, contractual. But it being Sebastian's choice to commit to his role more verily, swearing to the moon, seems to me sentimental at the very least. (I like to think him just a little sentimental when need be. Just a little).

It's nice to think that further along their contract, Sebastian decided on this.

He thought his Master was worth swearing to the moon.

[aedearly]

✎ㅤ. . .ㅤ𝑾𝑰𝑻𝑯 𝑹𝑬𝑫 𝑯𝑨𝑵𝑫𝑺.

₊˚⊹ ㅤa collection of loose verses taken from songs by precious pepala. writing/roleplaying prompts. some contain religious imagery and/or topics. most of these are angst, but some can be fluffy! feel free to edit these as you see fit.

❝ fill my lungs with holy water. ❞ ❝ memories... memories. i'm not sure. were they ever real or were they forged? ❞ ❝ have i been deceived by the light? ❞ ❝ should i even grieve? ❞ ❝ what if it was all a lie? ❞ ❝ give me a reason to say it's not me, it's you. ❞ ❝ give me a reason to leave. ❞ ❝ i promise i won't be sad if i catch you with red hands. ❞ ❝ i'm on my knees praying, you're the devil in disguise. ❞ ❝ if i get to those golden gates and he turns me away... oh, then you can say i told you so. ❞ ❝ i’ll burn forevermore like the sun that will rise even after i die. ❞ ❝ please, can't you see you're killing me? ❞ ❝ smother me with loving hands. ❞ ❝ secrets that i keep? oh, they’d keep you from sleep. ❞ ❝ i'm just a black sheep. ❞ ❝ so cover me in wool and pray, maybe i'll change. ❞ ❝ throw me to the wolves and say you're not to blame. ❞ ❝ i feel like i'm falling from heaven to hell. ❞ ❝ found the apple of my eye in you, and i want to take a bite. ❞ ❝ maybe you can call me eve; standing here under the forbidden tree. ❞ ❝ this love isn't holy. ❞ ❝ father, forgive me, for i don't know if i can change. ❞ ❝ i feel like the angel who fell. ❞ ❝ maybe i want to bring the devil to dinner one day. ❞ ❝ once in a blue moon, i let my guard down for someone like you. ❞ ❝ too many times, i've been left with scars. ❞ ❝ i will keep my cards close to my chest. ❞ ❝ heart ain't on my sleeve, you will never gonna see how i really feel. ❞ ❝ these tears are for my eyes only. ❞ ❝ my heart is made of glass—half empty and smashed. ❞ ❝ don't leave me alone with my head when i'm hanging on by a thread. ❞ ❝ this silence is heavy and it might be the death of me. ❞ ❝ the monsters from under my bed now live in my mind, and they're not very kind with me. ❞ ❝ don't leave me, don't leave me alone. ❞ ❝ oh shucks—i think i've gone and said way too much. ❞ ❝ i think i should've kept my mouth shut. ❞ ❝ i will hold out my hands, i'm ready for the cuffs. ❞ ❝ what are you laughing at? ❞ ❝ prepare yourself to live it again, and again and again. ❞ ❝ speak the truth you know they want to hear. ❞ ❝ tell a lie enough until it feels real. ❞ ❝ pray and everything will be alright... what a lie! ❞ ❝ hide the wounds and never let them heal. ❞ ❝ i'm getting butterflies, but they're not the good kind. ❞ ❝ the knot in my chest is getting too tight. ❞ ❝ this must be what it feels like to have a good time. ❞ ❝ mmmm, i want a bottle of wine… ❞ ❝ having fun yet? ❞ ❝ take a deep breath… ❞ ❝ i declare a thumb war (just so i can hold your hand). ❞ ❝ wrap me around your finger. ❞ ❝ 'guess i like when we play rough. ❞ ❝ break down my walls, and i'll sit right in the palm of your hand, darling. ❞ ❝ i need you to stay, need you to stay. ❞ ❝ i feel like you can't feel the way i feel. ❞ ❝ i'll be messed up if you can't be right here. ❞ ❝ when i'm away from you, i miss your touch. ❞ ❝ you're the reason i believe in love. ❞ ❝ you know that i know that i can't live without you. ❞ ❝ i'm a moth in a room of butterflies. ❞ ❝ don't say you miss me. ❞ ❝ i'm the death of the party. ❞ ❝ i know you all too well, but can't call you a friend, because friends don't make you feel this way. ❞ ❝ the devils i'm afraid to face resemble you more day by day. ❞ ❝ all i ask of you, let go. ❞

[truevedicastrology]

Zodiac Musings

🔮 Libra in the 5th house often leads to a love of hosting parties and bringing people together for creative pursuits

🔮 Synastry aspects between Uranus and personal planets can create electric, unpredictable connections

🔮 Cancer sun individuals may have a strong resemblance to their mother or maternal figures

🔮 Aries risings often face challenges with impulsivity - learning patience can be a key to their personal growth

🔮 Those with Vesta in Leo tend to be deeply devoted to creative self-expression and performative arts

🔮 Saturn at 2° or 29° in any sign can indicate early responsibilities or delayed rewards in that area of life

🔮 People with matching Mercury signs often finish each other's sentences or have telepathic-like communication

🔮 I once met someone whose voice instantly calmed me - turns out their Venus was conjunct my Moon

🔮 Air sign placements might develop intense intellectual curiosity about their romantic interests, leading to deep research

🔮 Fire signs are more likely to experience early onset gray hair, especially in times of stress

🔮 Those born on the 11th of any month often have a knack for networking and forming influential connections

🔮 Capricorn and Cancer placements are often perceived as nurturing, even when they're being stern

🔮 Leo rising and Scorpio rising individuals may be prone to eye strain or vision issues

🔮 In synastry, Mars square Jupiter can create a dynamic of overenthusiasm and potential burnout in shared activities

🔮 Individuals with Neptune in the 3rd house often have a gift for poetry, storytelling, or creating evocative imagery with words

🔮 Taurus, Libra, and Pisces placements are often found in visual artists and designers across various mediums

🔮 Capricorn individuals, despite their reputation for practicality, can be deeply sentimental in their private lives

[moonsaver]

Morning Sunlight

What are mornings like with the mysterious Head of the Oak Family? Not many know. But you, his lover, has the pleasure of knowing how to answer that question in many ways. One memory of dozens comes to mind.

A/n; just a drabble I wrote about mornings with sunday because i wanted some slightly domestic fluff. Its very small.

Cw/tw: implied to be bad at cooking (reader) body pain (reader), mentions of chest but no mentions of boobs (you're welcome), sunday being clingy, overall fluffy. Just 2 mentions of peeing.

Mornings with sunday are fortuitous

And by that, you mean, you get to see the elusive, prestigious head of the Oak family sleeping.

And you get to spoon him.

Isnt this lovely?

Your nose is tucked into his blue hair, a few strands stick up and tickle your face. You shift, to which Sunday responds by burying his face deeper into your chest, adjusting the hold of his arms around you.

You blink your eyes open, slightly blurry still from last night's sleep. You reach up one of your hands to gently pet the top of his hair.

You've recently taken to calling him "star" as a joke. You just called him "Sun" initially as a form of endearment and shortened his name, then simply resorted to calling him star. Although, you suppose he's more like the moon. You should ask him when he's woken up.

You shift again in bed, before stilling,

Ouch.

Something just pulled in your back.

"[Name]?" Sunday's muffled, soft voice curiously speaks,

Oops.

"Did I wake you?"

You whisper back to him, one of your hands immediately going down to sift through his feathers, soothing his fluttering wings as he stirs awake. He lifts his head slightly. Golden, half-lidded eyes look up at you.

"Not at all. Did you sleep wrong?"

One of his hands moves up your back, going over to your side and resting there, his thumb massaging the outline of your shoulder blade.

"I might have. Probably pulled a muscle?"

Sunday's head gently dives down, taking shelter back into the haven of your chest. He stays still for a moment before his body pushes, and his hand stretches out to reach the drawer behind you. You look over to see shaking, outstretched fingers barely make it to the handle, and stifle your laugh. It escapes as a snort.

Sunday stills for a moment. Then sighs, before pushing further and managing to open the drawer. You see his hands teeter around and feels the various items before landing on a pain relief tube.

He pushes the drawer close, and returns to his original place, the force of his body retreating from you.

You close your eyes, burying your nose into the top of his head again. He smells nice, you note.

You hear the faint click of a cap, and it's not soon before Sunday's deft finger crawls under your shirt and over the skin of your back. It presses the gel on the outline of your shoulder blade, and firmly presses into the cavity beside it, massaging it well. Once he's done massaging it for a few minutes, his finger retreats, and his hand returns to its place on your back. His thumb caresses the outline of your shoulder blade again.

“Planning to wake up anytime soon, handsome?”

“A few more minutes, dear.”

He shifts again, his face moving from the home of your chest to the curve of your neck, and he presses soft kisses on your skin. Everything about him is warm. You scrunch your nose as the feathers of his wings slightly tickle your nose.

“Star.”

“Mmh?”

His hummed response reverberates slightly in your neck,

“I need to use the washroom.”

“My condolences.”

“Sun.”

“Truly unfortunate.”

You sigh. Sunday softly chuckles, the noise muffled.

“5 more minutes.”

“I won't have to go if you keep me here that long.”

“3.”

“Cutting it close.”

“That's fine.”

“Sunday.”

It's his turn to sigh, except, he doesn't. He stays quiet for a few minutes. When he doesn't shift or respond, you get nervous,

“Sunday?”

…

You try again,

“You're so quiet.”

“I've heard acting dead can deter brown bears from attacking.”

The imagery is too bold in your mind as he says so.

“Now, now.”

You tap the top of his head, trying to get him to budge.

“Were you implying something with that?”

“No. But, do you think I'd survive, if I acted dead?”

“Perhaps.”

You push against Sunday, again.

“Sunday, it's been 5 minutes”

“2, to be precise.”

“I'm gonna pee in 2 more.”

“Tragic.”

“Sunday.”

He stays quiet again. Then shifts with a sigh, moving off of you and onto the other edge of the bed. Is he pouting?

–

Your morning is now well under way. The sizzling in the kitchen is loud in your ears as you handle the pan over the stove.

A pair of white wings cover your eyes. Slightly damp at the edges, you note. His face presses up next to yours, the skin cooler in comparison. Sandalwood fills your nose and the kitchen.

“Done, hm?”

You chuckle, as his wings retract.

“I'll manage the rest, dove.”, his voice is clearer than before. You admit, to a degree, you miss the sleepiness in his voice.

He cups your face, both of his thumbs coming up to soothingly run along the edge of your eyes,

“My eyes are really crusty.”

“I'm trying to help.”

“Not gross?”

“Not at all. I don't mind.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“What about my cooking?”

Sunday gently pecks the corner of your mouth.

“Go wash your face, angel.”

You laugh a bit. The sound echoes in the quiet of your kitchen. The air is fresh and still from the morning, sunlight pours in from the open windows. And Sunday treasures the isolated sound, repeating in his mind.

–

[becausebuckley]

michelle's buddie fic recs: week 7!

in which i handed in a thesis proposal, caught a cold, and read some lovely fics... it's been a wild week lol

this is a mix of fics with all ratings, so some include NSFW content. please take a look at both the ratings and the fic tags before reading! some might also contain spoilers for season 8.

if you come across something you like in this list, remember to show some love to the author by leaving kudos and a comment!

baby that's why i fell into you | playinginthunderstorms/@playinginthunderstorms | 1.7k | GA

Eddie has amnesia, Buck struggles. genuinely one of the best love confessions i've read in ages <3 this had me smiling so much!!

call me what you will | ameliahart | 5.9k | E

A  continuation of 8x06 where Buck pouts, Eddie feels joy, and they fuck about it. genuinely i will eat up any and all post-8x06 fics and this is no exception... love the eddie characterisation here!!

faded from the winter | Daisies_and_Briars/@cal-daisies-and-briars | 9.9k | T

Eddie struggles to bounce back after the shooting. Buck starts leaving him with his service dog, Cranberry. cranberry fic!! i love this series so so much <3 especially love the eddiemaddie friendship in this one!

golden morning sunbeams | Buddiesmutslut/@buddiesmutslut | 10.3k | GA

As Eddie is debating his move to Texas, a few texts from his son in the middle of the day set him on a course to getting everything he's been wanting. such a fascinating look at the whole chris in texas/helena and ramon doing whatever the fuck it is that they're doing plot! so good!! and buck here is just <3

hopeless, breathless, burning slow | mostardent/@laracrofted | 14.9k | M

After the coma, Buck struggles to feel real and unofficially moves in with Eddie. there's some gorgeous gorgeous imagery in this one <3 one of the best post-coma fics ever!!

let me give you my life | paleredheadinascifi | 6.4k | T

another take on what happened after the couch scene. Eddie *wants*. They're both brave about it. they're so brave about it <3 wonderful fic!!

slaughterhouse | kithmet/@kithmet | 21.3k | E

Eddie announces he’s leaving. Buck, naturally, begins a slow descent to madness. such a stunning fic it genuinely left me speechless... the most beautiful codependent freak4freak buddie <3 an immediate bookmark for sure!!

take two falls out of three | doitgently/@doitbuckley | 16.3k | M

Eddie tries to go to Texas. What do you get when you cross a man and an eighteen-wheeler truck? such a fantastic look at chris and eddie's relationship <3 beautiful writing!!

the moon like a spotlight | dykeries/@buddiesbian | 4.7k | E

Three months after Eddie moves to El Paso, Buck comes to visit. this is sappy and soft and also funny (the starnaming!!) and just so very perfect <3

the rainbows we chase | timeshareindestin/@timeshareindestin | 5.8k | M

buck accidentally makes an appointment for their first kiss. the proposals!! i love the proposals!! love is stored in the calendar indeed <3 so so good!

too far from the sun | idiotsinkdaisies/@idiotsinkdaisies | 9k | M

Where Eddie Diaz spends time in El Paso, and handles it fine. Buck is back in Los Angeles, and Eddie does not feel the hundreds of miles between them like a physical ache. (He might be lying to himself.) blanket rec for an author whose work i've been LOVING this week!! this one has the most stunning writting and eddie characterisation and i love it so much <3

u/fuckley's reddit post history. | dylaesthetics | 7.9k | M

the emotional rollercoaster of Buck’s Reddit posts throughout the history of knowing Eddie. this is such a brilliantly formatted fic!! i read this on a cold dark bus back home and it was exactly what i needed <3

what if all i need is you | serenelystrange/@serenelystrange | 3k | GA

“Eddie doesn’t even like men,” Buck says with a frown. “I asked.” “Of course you did,” Chim says, dropping his head into his hand with a murmured whisper of *Jesus Christ*. another blanket rec for an author who's been posting some truly brilliant works <3 this one is soft and fun and has such lovely firefam interactions!!

with a little water and a little bit of sunlight | teaspoonmoon/@young-waverer | 4.7k | T

The one where it's not Homes.com but it's also not porn on the iPad. such a lovely alternate ipad-scene <3 so sweet!! i love the dialogue here especially!

[he4dliner]

A Battle in the Sky- jason todd x reader

cw: (778) no warnings except for imagery of shel silverstein's face on a book

a/n: did anyone else get scared by the giant photo of his (silverstein's) face on the back of books? i would genuinely be unsettled as i child lol

© HE4DLINER on tumblr. Do not copy, repost, or translate any of my works without my permission. Do not use my ideas without credit.

you’d only been doom scrolling in bed for a bit tonight (like three hours), waiting for your boyfriend to get home. and finally. 

“hey, baby,” came a murmured voice, followed by rough but gentle fingers stroking your head, “why’re you still up?” 

“it’s only 1.” you replied, turning over in your shared bed. “and I was waiting for you to get home.” you smiled sleepily at the large figure above you who sighed at the response. “yeah, it's one in the morning,” he snorted.

“you should be getting a full night's sleep, baby.” jason added, glancing over his shoulder as he turned to his dresser, changing into a pair of fuzzy Robin pants. (ones that you bought him and wouldn’t stop cackling about when he’d opened their box).

you retorted, “says you,” as he removed an earring, eyes scanning over his bare torso. 

“don’t start.”

“…okay.”

you watched as he roved through the giant full-wall bookshelf the two of you had. after a minute, he picked up a book and crawled back on the bed beside you. 

“scoot, baby.”

you did, letting out a tiny grunt at having to move, but settled easily into his burly arms that quickly found themselves wrapped around your waist. 

he gently kissed your shoulder. “bedtime story for the princess,” he murmured with a low chuckle, sending a small vibration down your back as you leaned into his chest. 

“ooh. jane eyre?” you hummed, looking up at him instead of at the book in question. “nah.”

his response prompted you to direct your eyes to the book, and you maybe you jumped slightly at the black and white photo of shel silverstein’s face printed on the back cover of it. “gonna read you my favorite poem from this one,” jason pressed another kiss to your head, nose staying in your hair for a beat. “then it’s bedtime.”

you yawned without meaning to. “…alright.” 

“you comfy, sweetheart?” he asked, leaning back a bit more, setting the book on the fluffy comforter for a moment to reach to the side and dim the lamp on the night table. 

“mhm,” came your response, cheek smushed against his bare chest. “…you’re so warm, jay.”

“i know, honey, i know.” 

jason smiled at your sudden drowsiness. “you’re all sleepy now, huh? you can’t sleep without me, baby?”

he felt the small nod you gave. “can’t sleep without you.” you reaffirmed, smiling into his chest. “bed’s too cold.”

“… i am flattered to be your bed warmer.”

you poked his firm bicep with a finger. “you should be. it’s a highly sought-after position.”

he laughed quietly, sending a soft breath down your neck. “okay, okay, hush, it’s almost 2.”

you just hummed in response, watching jason open the book to a poem near the end. 

“a battle in the sky.” he murmured into your hair, letting the words float through the air for a moment before reading. 

“it wasn’t quite day and it wasn’t quite night, cause the sun and the moon were both in sight. a situation quite alright with everyone else but them.” jason made sure to speak softly, stroking your cheek with a free finger. “so they both made remarks about who gave more light, and who was the brightest and prettiest sight.”

already your eyes were drooping, a side effect of being held by your heater of a boyfriend. he noticed this too, and while whispering the next verse, shut the book and clicked off the lamp completely. 

“and the sun gave a bump and the moon gave a bite and the terrible sky fight began.”

“you have this memorized?” You asked softly, (you really asked “you’av is semoriye?”) to which jason nodded, stroking your temple. “shh, baby.” you easily obliged, letting your eyes shut. 

“with a scorch and a sizzle, a screech and a shout, across the great heavens they tumbled about…” 

you didn’t notice when you fell asleep, as one tends not to. but jason did, a gentle smile at his lips when he felt you grow heavy in his arms, heard your breathing grow slow and rhythmic. he gave a final kiss on your forehead, “goodnight, baby,” pulled you in closer, and fell asleep with you tucked under his chin. 

bonus : in the morning, jason slipped out of bed to pee, which had woken you up- not a problem really, but you decided to quietly pad over to the bathroom and stand in the doorway behind him. 

“will you finish the poem from last night?” “a- jesus!” he groaned. “i thought you were asleep.” 

you giggled. “don’t pee on the floor.” 

“gee thanks,” he muttered, “get back in bed, baby.” 

“‘kay.” 

okay…. so I may have written this because I couldn’t sleep but I was genuinely cackling at remembering shel silverstein’s face in greyscale…. just as the back cover of a book… thank you for reading <333

and as always, reblogs and feedback are so super appreciated <3

[naffeclipse]

Charm Brought It Back Pt. 2

Reader x Witches!Sun, Moon, & Eclipse

Commission Info

Whoo! The darling @jackofallrabbits has all my thanks for the continuation of the DCA Hocus Pocus AU! The boys want every piece of the historian reader, and they have no time to lose! The sun is rising, and they must prepare the ceremony, and you realize that your dear friend Michael has arrived at the witches' home. Very poor timing, on his part. Enjoy the flirts and curses!

Content Warning: Suggestive themes, heavy kissing, heavy touching, injury, disturbing imagery, and fear.

———

The witch carries you across the room, clasping you tightly within a cage of his claws. You’re frozen in his embrace. His towering height and lithe, long limbs make you feel incredibly small, like a mouse before a hungry cat. His extra set of arms disappears into the shadow of his dark cape. How did he summon them so effortlessly? You tilt your head back to gaze up at Eclipse’s face, the eldest brother of the hanged brothers. They should still be dead—they were for almost four hundred years.

His face is inhuman. The markings and color stain his visage in a midnight-red crescent, and a blackened shadow swallows it. His eyes, bright yellow and predatory, glance down at you. A grin splits his lower face with wicked teeth. He runs his tongue over his bone-white fangs.

Your stomach flip-flips within you.

Candlelight flickers ominous over the colonial home as the cauldron continues to bubble in the fireplace. The other two, Sun and Moon, watch you. Their wide eyes gleam in the firelight: one of pale pools of feverish desire and the other glint in scarlet, roiling with appetite.

You cling tighter to Eclipse’s shoulder. A childish desire to bury your face in the crook of his shoulder almost takes hold of you.

“Where are you taking me?” you whisper into Eclipse’s cape.

“To the parlor,” his voice is soft as dusk, and the vibrations through his chest sink into you with a gentle rumble. “The main hall is hardly a place to hold a ceremony.”

Your eyes widen. He strides past the tables with the many candles aflame in a thick, waxy cluster. His claws flex against your shoulder and around your thigh.

“What ceremony?” your voice climbs into a squeaky pitch.

A chuckle echoes behind Eclipse’s shoulder. You turn your head to catch Sun and Moon following behind, and the latter’s lips curl into a sinister smile as his shoulders shake with amusement—as if he finds you utterly adorable.

“Little mouse, there’s nothing to fear,” Moon soothes, almost in a sing-song voice.

“It will be wonderful,” Sun clasps his hands together. Eagerness streaks through his face like falling stars at sunrise. “You’ll see, sunshine.”

A thickness coats your throat. When Eclipse asked you to stay, did you agree to something far more sinister? Do they intend to use your soul or your life to grant them greater power or something else just as nefarious? 

“Wait.” You tremble. “Wait.”

“Little comet, we still need you,” Eclipse says firmly but gently. His yellow eyes narrow in the slightest, glancing at the black ribbons on his wrists. “The bells will ring for us at dawn unless we perform the ceremony. You must be part of it. You must speak the vows.”

Your heart scampers within your rib cage.

“Wait,” you say again, panic slithering up your spine. He continues onward.

Eclipse easily unlatches an almost hidden door in the back of the main hall while balancing you in his arms. Cobwebs tear apart as it swings open and he enters a smaller but no less intricate room. A window overlooks part of the road cutting through the thick forest. A few shelves are covered in dusty bottles of glass and woven baskets. Ancient and dried fronds, stems, thorns, and petals are stored on wooden tables.

In the corner of your vision, the white rabbit darts inside the room. The one that spoke with a woman’s voice. She bounds across the space, knocking into a small stand that topples over a jar of powder. Sun curses, his voice growling demonically. The claws holding you tense as Eclipse glowers. You shiver under sharp talons pricking into your sweater.

Moon leaps forward and cuts the rabbit off in her destructive path. His eyes, glinting with bloodlust, follow her like a hound eager to tear apart a fox. He steps across the room, into her path, and forces her to correct her race. Her hind legs kick out. Her fluffy body arches smoothly through the air but she lands too close to the door and clips her front foreleg. She topples over, sliding across the hard floor and back into the main room. 

With a flick of his wrist and a dark murmur, Moon casts the door shut without laying a finger upon it. It slams close, rattling the walls and causing you to jump in Eclipse’s arms. 

“It’s alright, little comet,” Eclipse purrs. 

“We now have privacy,” Moon declares with a rasp. He eyes the door with a branding glare as if daring the rabbit to intervene again. 

A faint scratching is heard at the bottom of the door.  You clutch your hands into small balls of anxiety.

“I’ll rid us of the little beast after the ceremony,” Sun promises as he steps closer, laying a hand upon your arm. “As for you, my little ray of sunshine, we must get you ready.”

“With haste,” Eclipse speaks, and his brothers listen. You snap your head from one witch to the other. Gently, Eclipse sets you back on your feet. You sway, clutching your chest and twisting your fingers into the knitwork of your sweater.

“This is all happening fast,” you say, breathless. The room spins slightly in your exhilarated state. You start to inch away, back to the door with the soft sound of claws gouging into it.

“We apologize, mouse,” Moon whispers as he steps to a black wood cabinet and pries open one low door. “But necessity calls for it.”

“When we have the luxury of time,” Eclipse speaks while approaching a small table where a stack of books resides. His black claws draw slowly down the spines, “We will have a proper ceremony, with all the decorations you desire and a feast that could gorge a village.”

A shudder falls down your back. The chill sinking into your bones is numbing, and fear creeps deeper into your mind, plucking at every wild and frantic thought. Are they going to cook you up and eat you? Are they going to cast a spell to turn you into a toad? This wasn’t part of the fabled story of their return, was it?

You’re not certain you want to find out any more. Are your questions worth your life? They’re being so cryptid, so rushed.

You shuffle further back, away from the focused witches and their enchantments. What are they capable of? If only you could make them stop for a moment and answer you.

“Sunshine, darling, where are you going?” Hands slip down your arms and over your wrists.

A gasp falls from your mouth, quiet and quick. The hands, pale and yellow, with scarlet ribbons tying golden bells to his wrists, lift your hands into the air. You’re not so different from a little ballerina figurine being posed, forced to dance endlessly in a music box.

“I’m not sure I want to stay,” you breathe, frightened. The rate of your heart picks up in tempo, banging like a drum against your sternum.

He leans over your shoulder. His wicked smile fills the corner of your vision. Eyes, pale and gray like mist, hold you captive.

“There’s so much we can show you,” he says. He trails the tips of his claws down your sleeves, and the layer of separation causes your eyelids to flutter. “There’s so much we can do for you. What would you like, my poppet?”

You’re locked in his spell. Did he cast magic or is it simply his touch? Your arms stay in the air as his hands fall down your sides, rubbing slowly over your ribcage before settling on your waist.

“I want to know.” You stare ahead at Eclipse and Moon as they set a blackwood altar in the center of the room, before the window. “I want to know everything about you and your lives.”

Sun’s teeth graze the curve of your shoulder. His breath is warm against the side of your neck, and the air rattles out of your throat.

“You will have it all,” he answers, and whisks you off your feet in a spin. The room blurs before he stops you, hands holding your own as you’re locked in a dance with the witch. His cape shifts over his shoulder, revealing the deep opening of his flowy, white shirt. Your cheeks burn. Flustered, you jerk your head up, tearing your eyes away, and almost become ablaze as you find his cheeky smile.

“I do mean all,” he winks, coquettish and wicked.

You balk.

He takes your hand and presses it to his chest, right above where his heart would be. His skin is smooth and pale, split into two colors of yellow and off-white down the middle of his torso. You feel a strange hum instead. Not a beat, but a constant buzz of energy. Magic, perhaps.

His footwork guides you around the room in a sweeping circle. As he twirls you, one hand on your waist and the other holding your arm above your head, you catch a glimpse of old and age-stained pages fluttering open. Eclipse sets the book on the altar. He bows over it, his eyes roaming over the archaic writings.

Beside him, Moon holds a silvery veil in his arms. He murmurs something to his elder brother, who dips his head in agreement.

You almost stumble as another shock of fright seizes you.

“What is that?” you ask as Sun reclaims you, pulling you flush against his torso—your middle bubbles at the contact. 

He simpers with a low hum.

His mouth opens but before he can speak, bright headlights cut into the room from the window. The diamond-patterned panes slice the room into shapes of light and shadow, and you inhale sharply. 

A car. Who’s here? The owner of the property? 

“What is that?” Moon hisses, his hood falling deeper over his face as he slinks into an alcove of shadows.

“It’s like the sun.” Eclipse lifts his arm to shield his eyes, peering around the blinding high beams. 

“No.” Sun’s brow narrows. His arms lower around you, tightening around your waist until you gasp. “It’s unnatural.”

You peek over Sun’s shoulder, pushing up on your tiptoes to see a familiar build of the vehicle just behind the lights. Michael’s car.

What is he doing here? Did he suspect you would come here alone, against his advice?

What will the witches do when they realize your friend is here?

Your gut clenches. You have to warn him. He has to stay away before they try to throw him into their cauldron or turn him into a fox.

A shiver falls down your back and down to your toes. You turn your head to find Eclipse’s wide eyes cutting into you, and you freeze. He couldn’t know it’s your friend, could he?

“We have an unwelcome visitor,” Eclipse declares. The corners of his mouth tug downwards and he promptly slaps the book close with a heavy, dusty thud. “Brothers, what shall we do with him?”

“Let’s cast him into a carrot and feed him to the rabbit,” Moon suggests.

“No, no, I was of the mind that we could make a new rug out of his skin,” Sun muses, his fingers stroking the small of your back, much to your terror. 

Michael’s voice rips through the house. Muffled by the door, his shouts turn quick, frantic. You clamp your mouth shut. A horror so cold slips into your veins, and you tremble. He can’t be here. 

Eclipse lifts his hand, a hum filling his throat as he stares down the door. You cry out a soft, “Please, don’t!”

His wide yellow eyes turn back to you, surprised. The next moment, the jarring thud hits the wood of the door and cracks it by the wrought-iron handle. Splinters fly outwards. 

Michael shouts your name, then commands, “Don’t make any vows!”

Your mind turns blank. What?

A snarl rips from Moon’s mouth. You flinch, the sound right at your shoulder as you realize the hooded brother has joined you and Sun. His clawed hand falls to your shoulder, talons almost digging into your collarbone.

“Who is that?” Moon’s scarlet eyes flash in demand. “How does he know?”

Another kick flies into the door. The entire house shudders as the wood buckles and a boot chops through it. Immediately, you watch a familiar hand snake its way inside and throw open the mangled frame of the door. In the threshold stands your friend.

“Michael!” You stare, stunned. “What are you doing here?”

His eyes widened upon the scene. His dark jacket catches splinters of wood and his unruly hair is extra ruffled from the effort of breaking the door down. Immediately, a white rabbit darts inside. Michael lands on the witches and their snarling, teeth-bared expressions before finding you. His fists clench at his sides.

“Get away!” He dips a hand into his jacket pocket and hurls a handful of small, dried lavender petals. 

As if struck with a blade or bullet, the witches all recoil as the flowers rain down. Sun’s and Moon’s hands disappear from you. Backing away, Eclipse almost stumbles into the altar before he rights himself. A hiss, furious and demonic, roll off his tongue. You flinch. Lavender flowers litter the floor.

The white rabbit rushes for you, stopping only to stand on her hind legs and press a foot to your shin. Her green eyes shine with desperation. “Stop standing there and run!”

There’s no thought but of terror. You reach down and scoop up the rabbit just as Michael steps towards you. He grabs your arm and half dragging, half guiding you through the witch’s house, the three of you rush for the exit.

“Little comet!” Eclipse cries. His voice tugs on your heart, but you twist and refuse to be pulled back into his orbit.

A growl follows from Moon, and a mumbling of something wicked and furious slips from Sun’s mouth, but you can’t look back. Through the candlelit main room and out the door, Michael races. His grip almost crushes your elbow.

“I told you not to come here! I told you not to come here without me!” Michael boils. You shrink slightly as he reaches for the passenger side door, uncaring for the rabbit you clutch against your sweater.

“I didn’t—I didn’t know,” you say quietly, defenselessly. 

The rest of your rebuttal doesn’t leave your mouth before a familiar and haunting voice shouts, amplified like a poltergeist screeching into your ear. Michael immediately forces you to duck, pushing your shoulder down until you’re crouched behind the car, him protecting you with his own body. Gravel shifts underneath your shoes.

Michael’s car begins to groan. You lift your head tentatively, then gape. The frame of the vehicle begins to twist and rust, curling at the edges and darkening with burnt-orange marks. You hear a strange, hissing sound, then realize the tire you’re hunched beside is leaking air. As the car withers, glass cracks then pops. You yelp under a shower of shards but Michael’s jacket shields you from the sharp edges. The rabbit in your arms struggles for a moment.

“We have to keep moving! Go to the cemetery,” she demands.

“Right,” Michael mutters. His eyes land on the rabbit you shield in your arms, and his expression only shifts in the slightest at the human voice emerging from the rabbit’s mouth.

Likewise, she stares back at Michael. You pet her fluffy white fur as your fingers tremble. Her hide is soft and her body is warm and comforting.

“You’re an Afton, aren’t you?” she says softly, almost as if she were seeing an old friend.

Your brow furrows. How could she possibly know his last name? Is she a witch too?

“I am.” Michael stares down at her, his grip shifting as he looks forlorn to his car and then back to the house. His mouth twists in a grimace. “I read about you in my ancestor’s journal. You’re Vanessa. I thought… I hoped it wasn’t true.”

“Vanessa?” you echo in your whiplash confusion.

The rabbit’s white ear flops back slightly before she presses a foot to your chest.

“We can’t linger.” Her green eyes flash to you, scathing as she remarks. “The witches want the virgin for their ceremony. We can’t let them complete it.”

Michael’s grip tightens upon you, and you make a sound of discomfort. His nostrils flare, his breath running harsh and heated. You’ve never seen Michael so upset, so close to violence.

“What is going on?” you gasp, clutching Vanessa tighter to your pounding heart.

“I’ll explain later.” Michael moves away, shaking glass from his jacket and jumping to his feet. He surveys the house. You can hear footsteps, curses, and something sweeping the floor. “Follow me. Run as fast as you can.”

“Michael—” you start but he’s already pulling you back to your feet. Vanessa leaps from your arms. She bounds across the road and into the tree line. Michael follows the white rabbit, and you try to catch your breath as the darkness becomes absolute as you try to keep pace.

You have to trust him. He and the talking rabbit. You follow, your feet pounding over pavement and then dirt and leaves. Branches scratch at your sleeves; you’ve long forsaken your poor sweater to being snagged and ruined.

Laughter cracks overhead like black lightning. The echo isn’t too far away, and you shudder at the thought of what spells will allow them to catch you. Witchy howls of both amusement and anger snake through the half-dead canopy of trees. The midnight air hangs heavy. Michael bursts through the treeline to an open field of dead grass with you hot on his heels before you spy what he’s running you toward.

An old wrought fence spans the length of a reclusive cemetery. It’s ancient, by the shape and crumbling aspect of a few of the headstones you spy on within the space. Your mind races to date the burial ground but Michael urges you forward just as a breeze cuts overhead.

You turn your eyes skywards just as Michael finds the corner of the overgrown and neglected corner of the graveyard property. A streak of movement interrupts the constellations of the night sky, and you almost stumble in dawning horror.

Flying just above the near leafless and dark trees are the witches. Brooms, elegantly carved and sleek, carry them effortlessly in the air. Their capes and cloaks billow like black manes to dark beasts behind them, and claws clutch tightly at their flying vessels. Teeth sharp, eyes glinting, their gazes meet yours. Eclipse. Sun. Moon.

Under their harrowing eyes, you feel no more than a mouse running from a cat’s pounce.

“Keep going,” Vanessa urges. Her white form dashes onwards, but she comes to a sharp halt and turns back, ears pricked.

Two stone pillars, cracked and faded from years of standing as sentinels mark the entrance to the burial ground. Michael ushers you into the cemetery. For one desperate moment, you wish you could study the history of this place, find out its name, who lies here, but you are torn from your brief musings.

“I know you.” Eclipse’s voice carries over the field. His black cap settles onto his shoulders as he sinks in the air to hover just above the threshold of the graveyard. “Your kind are all the same, witch hunter.”

Michael stands between you and the witch. His gaze is hard, unyielding. You clutch at his jacket, fearing the lack of barriers.

“What did he call you?” you breathe out. “Michael.”

He huffs at Eclipse as Sun and Moon settle on his flanks. Moon turns his hungry eyes upon you, glinting like blood. Sun strums the staff of his broom. His claws catch on starlight.

Eclipse tilts his head and bares his fangs in a taunting smile. “Do you really think you can keep our lovely little virgin from us?”

You shiver violently. What do they want?

“I’ll watch all three of you return to dust and ashes,” he promises. Vanessa slips against your ankle, pressing close as if she were a guard dog instead of a rabbit.

All three of the witches burst into laughter, wicked and harsh before they rise and fly over the gate, deeper into the cemetery.

Michael pushes you further down an unmarked and overgrown path. “It’s alright. They can’t set foot here. I’ll take care of them.”

“Wait,” you gasp. You stumble as Michael urges you onward. “Wait, don’t hurt them!”

“They’re witches,” he snarls so viciously, it makes you jump. He stops, finding a row of headstones with tall and web-cracked faces. “You have no idea how dangerous they truly are. I will explain everything once they’re gone. Stay here. Vanessa?”

The rabbit hops up beside you. Michael again pushes you down by the shoulders until you curl up in the shadow of a colonial headstone. He stands over you, glancing this way and that to the sky. A few large and overgrown trees cut into the skyline through the burial grounds.

Vanessa noses her way onto your lap. You open your arms and she hops on, her small feet pressing on your jeans. 

“Listen to him,” she speaks sternly. “He knows what he’s doing.”

“But—how? Michael? Where are you going?” you call, your voice cracking, but he’s already rushing away from the grave you’re hunkered near. He rushes into a flat, open plot of land filled with weeds and dead grass. Michael looks to the midnight sky.

You peer over the headstone. Vanessa hits your shoulder until you slink back down, but you catch a glimpse of Eclipse emerging from behind a black, dead tree and sailing through the air. He bows low upon his broom, eagerly stalking Michael. Your friend withdraws a cylinder from his jacket pocket. Popping it open, Michael quickly sprinkles something white around him—salt. 

Your heart climbs into your throat. You long to call out, to beg Eclipse to spare him, but Michael whips out what appears to be an old charm made of leather. Upon it are scratched archaic symbols you have never once glimpsed before in your historical studies. A few small bones dangle from where the leather is tied with cord.

Your eyes widen as Michael holds it high. Eclipse stops, leaning back and tilting the broom away until he comes to hover. Then, he laughs. Michael remains unmoved, though his brow furrows in the slightest.

A disgusted sound leaves Vanessa’s voice.

With a point of Eclipse’s finger, the charm ignites into flames. Michael yelps, dropping it to the ground and clutching at his hand, no doubt burned by the spontaneous combustion.

“Little mouse, where are you hiding?” A low voice calls, rasping out like a lover searching through the dark. Moon.

You stiffen. Vanessa’s ears pin flat against her skull. You press your back against the headstone, hiding yourself in its shadow. A soft breeze touches your hair, tugging strands across your face.

“We can play so many games when it’s only us.” Moon’s broom appears just a row down, scanning the fallen leaves and grave markers. He perches low, his shoulders shifting under his cloak like a tiger ready to leap upon prey. “Come on out. Let me take you home.”

Your blood runs cold. The ghost of his hands is still upon you, and you wonder if it would be so terrible to return with them. They would leave Michael and Vanessa alone, wouldn’t they? 

Moon slips slowly through the air, his broom black as night and silent, and his head lifts. He inhales deeply. Under the brim of his hood, his eyelids flutter. 

Then his entire head snaps to where you hide. You squeak in fright.

“There you are.” His jaws split into a ravenous grin as he reaches out a hand, flying over a gravestone just to where you kneel on the ground.

“No!” Michael shouts. “Get back!”

You jerk your head to him and watch as he steps away from the salt he just spilled. 

“Michael, don’t!” Vanessa warns a moment too late.

Eclipse sneers. Extending his hand, he speaks. His voice becomes of tongues, lapping and overtaking, but mostly devilish. The air turns sharp and tangy, and the wind picks up, twisting leaves around Michael’s feet. His eyes widened at his mistake. 

A flash of horror cuts through you just as Eclipse hurls out a curse.

Michael drops to the ground and begins writhing. You can only catch glimpses of him between rocky headstones, his body twisting and his flesh turning dark and rancid. His body convulses. 

A scream tears out of your lungs. You jump to your feet, clutching a hand over your mouth as you witness Michael suffer. Eclipse’s eyes immediately snap at you. Close beside you, a hand brushes your sleeve, cool and blue. Moon. You can’t move.

“Oh, how I’ve yearned to curse your ancestor.” Eclipse leans low, lording over Michael’s writhing form with little more than a delighted glint in his gaze. “He forced my brothers and I upon the gallows. He let us hang slowly. We convulsed and gagged for air, and then we died.”

Eclipse leans closer, hanging over Michael in a taunt. “This is the least I can bestow upon you. Never fear, there is far more punishment to be delivered.”

You’re rooted to the spot. Ice water flows in your veins.

“Come here,” Moon murmurs close beside you. His hand begins to circle your wrist.

“Don’t let him take you!” Vanessa’s voice cuts through the hazy terror fogging your mind, and you jerk back to alertness. You shake off Moon’s hand. His sharp breath of frustration follows as you take off over the graveyard towards Michael.

“Stop it! Whatever you’re doing to him, stop!” you cry out, reaching one hand out. You’re not sure who—Eclipse or Michael. 

Eclipse straightens upon his broom. His expression brightens into a pleased, unholy smile.

“Little comet,” he purrs, opening his arms.

“Eclipse, please—gah!” Arms grab you from behind. You hear Vanessa’s voice calling out, furious and demanding, but your feet leave the ground and in a heartbeat, you’re airborne.

“Sunshine, there you are!” The cheerful voice falls over you. Sun continues, “The wretched rabbit is getting her fur all over you! I never did like her, not even as a vermin.”

Large hands maneuver over you, pulling you onto his lap and balancing you in his hold while the broom rides faster, racing over the cemetery and away from everyone else. You gasp. You immediately twist and cling tightly to his shoulders. His hands surround you. His palms rub slowly along your back.

“I’ve got you now,” he declares. His breath, warm and misty, tickles your cheek. “One would think a person would be lonely and bored watching our home for all of these years, but that was what she did when she was mortal at her master’s request. So really, isn’t our curse just a lovely gift for her?”

“Sun!” You tremble. The wind tears at your clothes. You watch the ground become a blur underneath you, and a sickness stirs. “Please, set me down.”

“Not yet, sunshine.” The air changes, and the broom gains speed, pressing you deeper against his chest. “I want you for only a moment. You can say ‘I do’ can’t you? I’ll do the rest.”

“What—wait, wait,” your fingernails dig into the fabric of his cape hanging over his shoulders. The flight is far too fast and you feel far too vulnerable, seated upon his legs as your only insurance you won’t fall to your death. 

“Although,” Sun’s fingertips slip under your chin and tilt your face up, “it’s not fair that Eclipse kissed you and I haven’t. We can steal one before the ceremony, can’t we?”

Your tongue becomes heavy in your mouth. You can say little, caught in the torrent of the breakneck speed of the broom as well as the Sun’s sultry eyes devouring you whole. He lowers his mouth to your neck. His other hand caresses your thigh, fingertips touching your flesh with reverent want. Heat waterfalls into your middle. He lowers himself to your shoulder and grazes his teeth against your neck.

You inhale, your breath rattling at the touch of a warm and wet tongue dragging over the tips of your collarbones in the hollow of your throat.

“One kiss,” he half pleads, half demands. His lips brush your jawline in their climb upwards. 

“Too fast,” you utter. The world spins and blackness swoops in on your vision.

“I can go slow,” he assures, but when he lifts his head, his smile drops from his lips. “Sunshine!”

The world tilts, and you think of very little as hands grasp at you, but the broom rocks and you slide out of Sun’s hold as a curse rips from his throat. A wretched call rattles your darkening visible, and then, you’re falling.

Your eyelids flutter, and you hardly have a second to scream before a second pair of arms catch you and pull you against a cool chest.

“You buffoon!” Moon snarls right beside your ear. “You dropped our virgin!”

A numbness clings to your limbs. You’re still reeling, slumped in his lap as he rides on his broom at a much safer speed.

“I would not have let death take away our chance at happiness and life and love,” Sun shoots back, not unlike a sibling retort in an argument. 

“Go help Eclipse deal with the vermin!” Moon demands in a low growl. Sun snarls something back, but his voice fades in the distance.

You feel the wind shift, slowing down until you’re left to hover in the air. Eyes closed against Moon’s chest, you breathe rapidly. Your shaking hands press tight to his white shirt.

“I will keep you safe,” he murmurs softly into your air. “Step here, little mouse. This mausoleum wasn’t blessed, and it lies outside of the cemetery's boundaries.”

“Okay,” you murmur listlessly. You lift your head, trying to stop the spinning from within. Your legs shake like a newborn fawn but you feel dead grass underneath your shoes as Moon holds you up on your feet. His broom lowers gently to the ground and falls still as if there were no magic to the black wood staff at all.

“Breathe.” He moves you slowly, carefully pressing your back to the solid brick of a small, gray mausoleum. “Apologies for my brother. He is eager to make you our bride.”

Perhaps it only houses a small family. What is their history? Your brain churns over senselessly while the oxygen returns to your head. 

Did he say bride?

His hands find your shoulders and pin you in place. Chest heaving, you gaze up at the witch now hovering over you. There is no escape. You smell midnight and something herbal and sharp upon him.

“The vows,” he says. His eyes hold you captive. “You can say the vows to marry us.”

“Marry?” You’re breathless, but you ask all the same, “Why am I marrying you?”

“To have us,” he says, low and husky. He presses closer, caging you with his body and holding you hostage against the cool stones at your back. “You will know everything soon. There is so little time—the witch hunter and the rabbit are trying to spoil everything. Little mouse, look at me.”

You try to avert your gaze, turning your cheek, but his command causes you to buckle. 

“I will begin the vows.” Moon presses in closely. His chest is flush with your own, and you fear he can sense the wild fluttering of your heartbeat. You are not cool and suave, and you are still falling, falling, falling. 

“Will you take me to be your husband?”

“Moon,” you whisper. “I… I… I…”

His teeth flash. Then, he leans in, pressing close to your ear. A soft flick of his tongue against your cheek draws out a breath from you, just before he begins nibbling on the soft flesh of your earlobe. You gasp. Your hands find him, clinging tightly as flutters begin in your middle.

He releases your ear from his teeth but his mouth remains pressed close to the shell of it.

“Will you take me, so I will obey, serve, love, honor, and keep you in sickness and in health?” 

Your knees sink deeper but he refuses to let you slip out of his grasp. His claw hooks the collar of your sweater and stretches it, exposing your shoulder to the starlight.

His mouth lowers there. The press of his lips is soft and cool like a stone smoothed by a river. Your stomach burns with a flame you cannot name. He slowly opens his jaws, first licking your sensitive flesh until goosebumps run down your arms, then ever so delicately pressing his teeth into your shoulder. The tease of fang marks. The promise of more. He does not break the skin, but you mewl under his controlled bite.

He releases you. His hand cups your cheek as he straightens. 

“And forsaking all others,” he rasps, “keep you only unto me and my brothers, so long as we both shall live?”

Your bottom lips tremble from emotion. Confusion spins you.

Can you say ‘I do?’ Should you?

Moon softly caresses your cheek with his thumb. His eyes are gentle like pools in the starlight.

“I swear to love and cherish you,” his voice softens.

Your fingers curl around his wrists. He lowers himself to you, and your eyes flutter as his lips brush against yours—

“Get away, witch!”

Your eyes flash open. Moon’s gaze narrows into slits as he turns his head, pressing harder against you and trapping you against the mausoleum until you squirm. 

“Michael?” you gasp, peering over Moon’s shoulder, only to choke on your breath.

Over the slight hill from the true cemetery, a creature shambles. Purple flesh clings to bones, arms extended. Shuffling over the gnarled, dead grass, you watch as flesh splits and hangs by threads across his cheeks, exposing his molars. His nose is little more than a nasal bridge and two dark holes. His hair is dark and greasy, and his eyes are sunken, barely left save for black orbs and a single pinprick of light in each, like a lone flame of candlelight. 

“What did Eclipse do to you?” You feel faint. “No, no, no, change him back! Moon, please!”

“No need,” Moon steps forward to face your zombified friend. You almost drop to the ground when Moon’s hands leave you. A cold fury radiates around the witch’s cloak.

Bounding over the top of the hill, Vanessa appears. Her white fur is now smeared with dirt and her breaths are sharp and quick. She hops over to you. 

“Get up! Michael’s lavenders won’t keep the other two back for long!” Vanessa pushes against your leg, her tiny bunny body doing little to bring strength back to your limbs.

“Michael,” you whisper, clutching your mouth where the witch almost kissed you. “Eclipse has to take away the curse. He has to.”

“He won’t.” Vanessa’s eyes are dark, and hard. “We have to go.”

Your chest is hollow and your head swims. You watch Moon approach Michael in swift, sure steps. Michael’s arms are stiff and crooked, but his rotten fingers curl into a fist. Moon strikes and gouges his claws into Michael’s throat. You watch in muted horror as Moon rips away purple flesh and sinew. A rancid smell spills into the air. You gag, then scream out Michael’s name. The pale, bony column of his throat is exposed.

“You’re interrupting my wedding,” Moon hisses slowly at Michael before lifting his other hand.

Unphased, Michael throws a punch at the witch, and it hits with a burst of lavender petals. A screech drawls out of Moon. He falls backward. You hear the faintest sounds of Moon’s wretched snarls as Michael then awkwardly runs. His leg drags at the shin as if it were broken. You realize it is. Moon howls, clawing at the petals and trying to remove them from his person.

The witch calls out your name. You look back. His red eyes are furious, then desperate as Michael cuts in between the two of you. He brings his good foot down hard on Moon’s broomstick, and it snaps.

Moon screeches and writhes on the dried grass.

“Go,” Michael croaks. You stare at his gaping open neck but he takes you by the arms and hauls you back up to your feet. The scent of death is thick. “Now!”

You stumble, tears filling your eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “I’m so sorry. I’ll make them change you back.”

“Just run,” Michael huffs, half decayed and struggling. “We have to get to town. We have to lose them. They only have until sunrise.”

Sunrise.

And a ceremony they wish to perform. 

[bitdemonic]

⋆.˚𝕭𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐘 𝕱𝐈𝐋𝐄:˖ . ݁𝜗☠︎︎𝜚. ݁₊𝕻𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐀 𝕬𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍

𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐒𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐘 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐋𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐏𝐎𝐏 𝐂𝐔𝐋𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄. 𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐔𝐏, 𝐅𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐎𝐍, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐒. 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐈𝐒 𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐓 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍. 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐍𝐉𝐎𝐘.

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓 𓆩ψ𓆪 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 [𝐓𝐈𝐏𝐒]

↓

𝐁𝐈𝐎

Born July 1st, 1967, Pamela Anderson is a Cancer Sun, Aries Moon, Gemini Rising native (57 years of age). Her planet dominants include being Venusian, Mercurial, and Uranian ruled, a sum of how wild and untamed her celebrity became under the spotlight. Coined the blonde bombshell of the 90s, Pamela's impact is prominent in areas related to fashion and makeup, as her signature looks are referenced heavily today.

𝐏𝐇𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 ⟶ 10 OF CUPS RX

Definition: Unhappiness, feelings of loneliness and disharmony in emotional aspects of life (relationships, home, personal). In terms of appearance, this is someone who's pain is evident; suffering is a part of their day to day living, ultimately their legacy or public image. Pamela's beauty had been bullied and misjudged, something she's felt since childhood [as told her memoir]—10oC can be the details of her distinct features, but it's very heavily connected to her past wounds.

Interpretations

ཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮 This card makes sense to me, because Pamela's upbringing was both tumultuous and traumatic, eventually leading her to modeling as an escape. Spotted on the jumbotron of her hometown's stadium led to being scouted by Playboy, otherwise her first taste of freedom (liberation). During this era, she'd made the decision to dye her once brunette hair to platinum blonde [which is told by the number 10, her whole identity changed with the color].

ཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮 "Bad girl", heartbreaker kind of beauty; barbed wire tattoo, fuller breasts/lips, and the classic Pam Anderson updo. I'll even connect the Cups to how voluminous and soft her hair looked; it reminds me of having golden ringlets lol. These features emulate the energy of what this card indicates as far as romance and relationships—despite being in "love", she looked the part of being hard to tie down. Goes hand in hand with her overall appearance being in tune to match her partner's, she'd emulate their vibe as far as being a couple [even when unhappy].

ཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮 Less is more would be the underlying definition of this card, which can be applied to Pamela's thin brows, petite frame, and tighter fit clothing—she found this to be who she was, internally and externally, but could've been judged for "breaking the mold" (i.e. norm). Considering that she just recently started exploring more with her appearance, it's safe to say that she probably never thought to step outside this comfort zone.

I'll even go so far as to say that 10oC ↺ is the ridicule and hate she was prone to receive going on live television or radio shows, it's adding onto the fact that she felt like she couldn't do/be anything right under the spotlight. Holding up appearances and feeling distress are a part of its themes, she felt humiliation all the time and felt she couldn't stop it. Defending herself was frequent back then, which inevitably led to public outbursts and meltdowns out of exhaustion (I feel for her so much man).

ཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮 Want to connect the card's imagery to the oceanlike solemness of her eyes, they've cried many tears and evidently hold lots of secrets (essentially, she's been through a lot and more often than not you can tell how much). In certain pictures her eyes are widened, almost surprised to be hurt, or sad. Could be her eye color in general, just because they're almost* the same shade. Thinking that her eyes are her best/favorite feature because of the depth they hold; definitely a profound stare that touches everyone with their stories.

Bonus: Big pointer to her current decision to abstain from wearing heavier makeup in public. In reverse, it's basically the catalyst to Pam outgrowing how she used to present herself, now opting for a more comfortable essence opposed to what we're used to. Public opinion could wane, but the whole point of 10oC is having emotional fulfillment made from emotional decisions; she did this for her, nobody else.

𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐔𝐏 ⟶ THE HANGED MAN RX

Definition: Indecisiveness, remaining stagnant, nothing different about a challenging obstacle, circumstance, or situation. With this card, we're able to understand the lasting impact and influence of Pamela's signature look; thinly arched brows, heavily smoked out shadow, glossy finished pigmented lips were a key component to her sultry glam appeal. Each step was perceived as unlocking our inner femme fatale, so much that even today her 90s era is practiced for wear.

Interpretations

ཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮 Feelings of being trapped [or "held at her will"], may've felt that she couldn't break free of an image, or like she was always going to be seen one specific way (e.g. being trashy). The Hanged Man ↺ is responsible for staying in the same place because you're actively choosing to ignore discernment (intuition); she was likely to accept the hatred and belittlement, before realizing her voice mattered most.

ཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮 It wouldn't be surprising if Pamela was quite stubborn about the way her makeup was supposed to be done, considering resistance and blockages are prevalent—either she had the formula down pact, or she's kept the same makeup artists(s) for majority of her career. The Hanged Man ↺ is also an indicator for deep colors and winged liner around her eyes but done in a precise manner (none of her makeup is out of place, smudged, or over excessive), lots of focus around her head/face area in general.

ཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮 Neptune is the ruler of this card (illusions, fantasies, things that aren't "there") which speaks to Pamela's beauty having influence over the masses, both makeup and sex appeal. I wouldn't say this is a good thing, because we've been eyewitness to the harassment (misogyny) she's been subject to, it's a telltale sign that she wasn't seen as a person let alone worthy of respect (Hanged Man hanging upside down by the foot). On the other end however, this speaks for her makeup technique still being on trend despite when it first originated—timeless energy, even after our generation grows old.

ཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮 Indication for the use of contour/bronzer to emphasize the structure of her cheekbone area, using enough that her face gave off the impression of being snatched. Intimidatingly daunting sometimes, she likely challenged her haters or men for the power she evoked. Her step by step could actually be quite simple, otherwise not needing many products or directions to execute it; Hanged Man ↺ showing that she's the original that others use for inspiration.

More often than not, her beauty and makeup were perceived well before her actual outfit (albeit cute). Her glam could've been a standalone in the 90s (i.e. no one else was wearing it) and it gained lots of attention or publicity. "Traction" is being channeled, which is alluding to Pam's makeup in/for "Barb Wire" earning lots of popularity for its allure (she definitely started a new wave lol).

𝐅𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐎𝐍 ⟶ THE STAR

Definition: Inspiration, happiness, spotlight or limelight, renewal (transformation/rebirth). The Star is our indication of Pamela's inner happiness spilling out into her appearance, something that she's prone to do and go all out in when she's at her best. Her clothing pieces and outfit choices set the stage to her personality [which makes sense seeing that she's Leo Venus; the Sun is its ruler and is our outlook on the world].

Interpretations

ཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮 One thing I noticed about Pam's choice of fashion is that she typically stays comfortable no matter what she has on. She doesn't necessarily have a specific aesthetic, more so clothes that mesh well with the vibrant aura she withholds; the Star is ruled by Aquarius, the sign of originality and innovation, and she's been prone to stand out for clothes that accentuate her "vibe" [and current era]. Indicator of being capable of pulling off anything or wearing something without letting it 'wear' her.

ཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮 The Star can represent self or the essence of who you are at the core (like stars, constellations that burn off their presence in the sky), which translates into Pamela's femininity being a key to how she brought an outfit to life. In many of her pieces worn onstage or on the carpet, Pamela had a way of bringing attention to how daring she was as a celebrity [early 90s - 2000s]. More than anything this is shown in her profile of photoshoots and model campaigns; she's quite literally a star on any cover, she's effortlessly photogenic [which is another indication of this card]. Makes sense she's still dominating the camera in her mid-fifties—she'll never lose the potential to turn heads.

ཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮 Not the biggest staple in terms of what makes her stand out, but I wanted to mention that I noticed Pam has an affinity with wearing pitch black (or dark) shades depending on her choice of dress. I feel like they add to the mystique she carries and if anything, the sunglasses emulate the side of herself that she's taken back from the public [after having her boundaries constantly overstepped]. The Star is something/someone that can't go without some kind of notoriety or attention, to me Pam's fashion has transcended past negativity and bullying, I feel as if you can see her today and know that things are much different than earlier in her fame. Glasses remind me of being a girlboss, and this card confirms that she's respected for it.

ཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮 This was a download as well as an observation, but Pamela would often match her style to the aesthetic of her partners; most famous would obviously be her flame with Tommy Lee (no free promo for a weirdo). Considering the Star speaks about the renewal after a difficult time and most of Pam's iconic moments are shared with him, it's safe to suggest that her fashion is connected (remembered) alongside their relationship. It may've been a larger influence on the masses more specifically during that era, not nostalgia, but a capsule to that transformative time period. Not to mention that Tommy was ultimately her breaking point—her first awakening was likely after their invasion of privacy.

Bonus: Couldn't resist inserting a few example pics of what I meant when I said she's working the camera and extremely well for her age. Mini prediction, but I wouldn't be surprised to see her on different types of magazines and runways after more recognition for "The Last Showgirl", she's going to be a goldmine in terms of bringing back certain pieces ("last minute touches") to modern day magazines ("prints"). She's entering a new season for sure, I believe she'll make every second or step count. Channeling the word untouchable.

𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐋𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 ⟶ 6 OF PENTACLES RX

Definition: Lack of generosity or charity, pettiness, abuse of authority over those with none, strings attached, undervalued. Ironically, Pamela's hand in pop culture wasn't properly recognized up until recently (past decade) and it's due to society devaluing her worth in light of scandals and modeling. This card would be representative of her quote unquote disappearance from the spotlight albeit her valid reasons why.

Interpretations

ཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮 Downplaying Pamela's popularization of the TV show "Baywatch" is something that's argued a lot for being so "controversial" (or unlikely), when the truth is that introducing her character CJ Parker quite literally boosted the ratings; classic red bathing suit, emerging from the water in that* scene, and overall being a beautiful girl with a personality to match, CJ cemented the show as an American television staple. This role alone surged Pamela into sex symbol status [albeit not a good thing], her credibility and name were on the verge of being taken seriously.

6oP in ↺ drives home the point I brought up earlier, how Pamela's acting career didn't take off due to how the public sexualized her own freewill. The number six in tarot correlates to adjustment, sympathy, and comfort which are interpreted in a negative [or challenging] sense due to the card's position—a reversal in this context indicates Pamela's presence shifting the world's view onto the wrong things. Instead of viewing CJ from the storyline's perspective, society chose to sculpt her into another sexual caricature from Pam's past (Playboy), in turn pivoting her starlight into an unwanted direction.

ཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮 "Barb Wire" was another form of media in which Pamela's most iconic moments (looks) can be found, but with the 6oP in ↺ it wasn't seen as such during the time of filming; might be a stretch but I feel like this card can indicate going back in time, considering the number six is connected to themes of recovery and pentacles are physical/time related, Pam's significance wasn't properly recognized up until the latter half of her acting career (i.e. ignoring her relevance during filming, 1996). I suggest all this because back then Pamela had already faced backlash and disrespect over the leak of private property, hence connected to why the movie tanked.

I'm snowballing this observation, but I did read that onset she had basically been non-prioritized and treated like a prop. Directors were watching her home tape before she arrived, her boundaries were borderline overstepped, and all in all she'd won "Worst New Star" at the Razzie Awards (nominated six times). This card is apparently the definition for why Pamela was constantly dragged for participating (exchange, 6oP) in a project versus applauded for what she did right. The film wasn't Oscar worthy, but other factors that deserved recognition didn't happen due to harsh criticism; costume design and makeup department deserved praise, as well as Pam's dedication to the premiere [and job overall], but alas.

ཐིཋྀ It's kinda difficult to get an actual grasp on this card and Pamela's influence in a positive sense, but I feel as if that's the reality of her situation—public attention wasn't a friend, so for the longest she had the short end of the stick, even apart from how she shifted her chosen industry/career projects. Ultimately time was a reward (fast forward to the way she's currently flourishing), but much of her time as a celebrity was shroud in disdain. To be honest I'm even channeling that she's behind a few trends [from today or back then] and we just don't know anything about it; not that she's erased, but Pam's significance is a lot more profound than we've been told.

ཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮 Not going into great detail, but 6oP in ↺ is definitely connected to the loss of millions from Pam and Tommy's privacy; a lot of struggle and hardship went into lawsuits at their expense, they practically went to war for their personal life (which was bullshit). Pamela doesn't revisit that point in time rarely at all, but whenever the topic arises, her first response is that she didn't receive/earn "a single red cent" from the invasion. I tried to dodge discussing that considering it's trauma and old wounds (news), but this card drives home the fact that she was barely considered and acknowledged with respect, nonhuman and only an object of desire at the worst times.

𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐄𝐑𝐀 ⟶ KNIGHT OF CUPS

Definition: Offering of peace, restoring faith and happiness, taking action (following your heart), vulnerability (empathy). Pamela's "comeback" has been one that is apparently made with love and appreciation for self, for her fulfillment with life as her own person [and not who she was painted out to be]. Knight of Cups is the beauty behind each step and thought she makes; we're witnessing a rebirth and its testimony.

Interpretations

ཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮 Knight of Cups coming out for this era of her life honestly made me smile, it's because this confirms her contentment with all opportunities that present themselves. Her mindset [and perspective] on the world around her is renewed; her outlook, perspective, and ideal view have been aligned to match her beliefs (i.e. happiness is key). I also feel like this is being presented as her wardrobe or color palette—creams, light pinks, baby blues, florals, etc. Cups are emotional, lightweight (with context), and essentially carefree, this card is Pamela's outer expression in a brighter light and on a higher frequency.

ཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮 I keep being brought to the fact that her new movie is out and in theatres ("The Last Showgirl"), so I can only assume that this project is monumental, or really profound, to Pamela's growth in all things she invests in emotionally. Work, relationships, interests and hobbies, etc. Focus may be locked into those areas for quite some time and it's simply because she's appreciative of the bond she's made with them—connections are of the utmost importance, hence the movie earning a spot in her heart. She's going to be singing praises about the things she's learned onset, how they've helped her understand womanhood ("femininity"), and what it means for her future as an actress, mother, or individual. This energy is really promising and sweet, she's meant to find herself in new experiences and people.

ཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮 Could indicate a new partner? Or someone from the past that she'll let back into her life, might be open to giving out second chances (feeling old co-worker director vibes, work is related). She's definitely in an era where forgiveness is allowed, I'm honestly picking up on an old connection being resuscitated and for the better; it doesn't have to be romantic, but more so a close friend (before or after reconciliation). This can also be consideration for herself hence the bullet points before; incorporating more affirmations or enlightening ways of thinking to further propel the spiritual journey she's embarked on [or "will embark on"].

ཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮 Not channeling much as far as her current era goes and part of it is making me think it's because she's still exploring. Knights in tarot represent an individual [typically between 20s - 30s] that're using resources and their own knowledge to elevate into a King/Queen. Essentially, the energy these cards bring are understudy willing to take more classes or learn under a mentor (depending on the suit ofc); in this case, Pamela is extending herself into an area of career that makes her feel worthy of accepting love as herself. As I said, she's doing so much on her own and for her own happiness, she's proving to herself [and herself only] that she doesn't need to rely on anyone that doesn't understand her most intimate parts (self). Spiritually and emotionally inclined time that we're seeing, it'll propel her into another side of life that she had to discover through healing. Love that so much for her lol.

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