#so to avoid inking i painted instead

[darkwingsnark]

DUCKVEMBER 26: Tranquil Duck

Walkappa is kinda a hot mess... but he is my son, and I love him. [Whisper appears to have other opinions...]

[dabeth-is-dead]

Would you believe me if I told you this was originally X Files fanart?

[fallenprophets]

◦⭐︎・love lost

Ekko x reader

Summary: once a Firelight and Ekko's partner, you are now a mercenary, dragging yourself through jobs to make enough money to pay for food. After one too many drinks, you take a job you can't handle, and get hurt. It's no shocker who comes to your rescue.

Set at undefined time, no use of Y/N, gender neutral reader

Warnings: gore (not too bad but be mindful), swearing, mentions of death/welcoming death. 3.2 K words (oops), not proofread as always

A/N: icl guys this is one of the longer fics I've written, and definitely the angstiest one. Again, for my best friend, @sahxrii (go check out her recs, they're SO good) who I do everything for, lets be honest.

You have always prided yourself for knowing your limits; stopping when you need to stop, being reasonable about your own abilities. This has kept you out of quite a lot of trouble- avoiding fights you could not have won, not provoking people who were clearly able to whoop your ass. 

This, however, is very different, and not a common occurrence. 

First of all, you might be a little drunk- you’ve just had to numb the sting of your day with a drink, just a small one, in a tiny grimy bar run by a tall man with bright orange skin. Second of all, you’re running on two hours of sleep and painkillers (the painkillers are slowly wearing off, to make matters worse). 

And lastly, you’re in a really bad fucking mood. 

So, when your handler slides you a note with a name and address written in ugly red letters, you think fuck it, and take the job. You should’ve known this was stupid- you should’ve done what the sober, not exhausted version of yourself would have done. But instead, you accept with a bleary nod, because, to be frank, all you want at that moment is to break something. 

So you take the note, drain your drink, and leave the bar, shrugging on your worn coat. Adrenaline is already starting to buzz beneath your skin, your knuckles tingling softly in anticipation. You had never been this excited about violence when you were younger- in fact, people might have described you as gentle, even. But now, with all the things you have witnessed, all the people you’ve lost, hitting people brought a kind of release you could find nowhere else. 

Besides, there’s no one who remembers you as that gentle person left, anyway, so who are you disappointing? Yourself? You chuckle drily into the cold air, thick with gas. 

You stop in front of the building, your hands tucked into your pockets. It is big, red, and ugly (like the ink the name had been written in, you thought), bright colourful light shining from the broken windows. A Zaunite haunt, typical for a wannabe drug lord- the kind of man you were often hired to beat up or kill. You kick into the dirt at your feet, take a deep breath. You have hardly sobered up on the walk here, so your vision is still somewhat blurry, everything swimming around you like you’re underwater. 

Broken memories of swimming in an underground lake with him flitter through your mind, and you dismiss them, muttering a curse between your teeth. You roll your shoulders and make your way inside, striding in like you own the goddamn place. 

“You can’t be here,” a goon dressed all in black calls from the top of badly painted stairs. You look at him, an ugly grin splitting your face. 

“Kick me out, then,” you say, your heart already beginning to beat a little faster. 

Before you know, goons are coming at you from the sides, cracking their knuckles. The twat at the top of the stairs sneers down at you, his teeth oily and black. 

“You don’t wanna do this,” a woman on your left growls. She’s twice as big as you, her arms covered in bright red, winding tattoos. 

“I think I do,” you answer, raising your hands, which are already curled into fists. 

She lunges first, and you catch her with a right hook in the jaw. She hardly falters, but you drive your knee into her stomach. Now, she stumbles, and you leap up, narrowly avoiding an attack from another goon. You grab goon number one- the woman- and smash your forehead into her face. Her nose explodes, red and white flying all over you as she falls backwards. You spin and grab the nearest object- a stool- and bring it smack into the second goon’s middle. He collapses, and you walk over to him, drop the stool on his head. He stops moving. 

You turn to the giant of a woman, who is standing and looking at you with pure, unadulterated hatred. Her face is broken into bits, blood and spit dribbling down her chin. “Come on, then,” you say, cracking your already sore knuckles. 

She throws herself at you, twice as angry as before. You dodge, but she catches you in the shoulder. Excruciating pain shoots through you, and you realise too late that she has wicked little claw-like contraptions on her fingers. She comes at you again, slashing wildly. You jump out of the way, once again catching a claw in the face. It slices open your left cheek; pain explodes all through the area, but you grin. A challenge- you’ve always liked that. 

Somewhere in the back of your mind, a child’s voice screams at you to stop, to leave, to give up. The goon from the top of the stairs is gone. You falter when you notice this- he must be warning his boss, who is your target. You double your efforts, lunging at the woman. You manage to punch her in the stomach, but your second hit, aimed at her throat, is knocked out of the way as she drives her claws into your wrist. You scream, not really in pain but in sheer shock at the sharp metal slivers protruding from your skin. 

“Should’ve left,” she sneers into your face. You spit into the bloody mess that was her nose and wrench your arm back, kicking her, hard, in the sternum. She stumbled backwards and you pull your weapon- a machete, sheathed against your back- out, spinning it around. She assesses you for a moment, with what you realise now are robotic eyes. 

Oh. 

Oh, fuck. 

You are not fighting a person, you’re fighting a robot. Or something that’s half half- the blood spilling from her face gives you the idea that she might be made of flesh and bones, but those eyes- you’ve seen them before. She’s assessing your fight patterns, and she’s going to win. 

You duck out of the way of another attack, but she manages to graze your neck with her claws. You slash wildly with your machete, to no avail- she avoids each blow easily, and the ones that do hit, she ignores happily. 

Finally, one of your attacks hits- you aim the blow upwards, and the machete carves straight through her face. Blood, huge quantities of the stuff, gushes all over you, bone shattering under the power of your blow. You yank the machete out, momentarily stunned as she stumbles to her knees, eyes fizzing out. 

“Fuck,” you pant, stumbling backwards, “fuck you.” 

Your victory is short lived. More goons are coming down the stairs, armed to the teeth. You raise your weapon, ready to fight them all if it kills you, when you feel something strange. Your shirt has been sliced open- cold hair breezes around your stomach. You look down, and are somewhat horrified to find blood; your own blood. 

All at once, you feel nausea hit. You stumble to your knees, gasping for air. She got you- you feel the pain shooting through now. She managed to sink her dirty claws into your stomach as if you were made of mist and gas. 

Everything flickers in front of you as the last few days finally hit. You’re in so much pain, it’s almost incredible- had you been an author, you would have liked to write about this one day. It’s like your insides have been ripped out (they kind of have, you suppose) and set on fire, stomped on, pissed on- you almost laugh at the thought as your head hits the ground. 

You can’t remember when you fell. 

Your vision goes dark, flickering in and out. You see the goons approach you, pick you up unceremoniously. You are outside your body, floating somewhere beyond, watching through your eyes as they drag you outside. It is raining- you wish you could feel the raindrops on your face, one last time. 

You laughed, holding out a hand. It had been a while since you had experienced rain- in the Firelights hideout, you are protected by the huge leaves of the tree; and the Firelights hideout has everything (and everyone) you could wish for, so why would you ever go outside? 

But, after hearing you sigh softly and murmur something about the only thing you miss about your old home being the rain, Ekko made it his mission to bring it back. As soon as it rained again, he took you by the arm, promising a wonderful surprise. He offered to blindfold you, but you kindly refused when you saw that he intended to take you up the tree. You had climbed together, him guiding you gently upwards; and as you’d ascended, you had heard a beautiful, soft patter; a sound that made your heart beat speed up and your throat close. Finally, you had reached the top, and he had lifted the leaves to reveal a little area above the canopy, partly shielded from the rain with a makeshift structure made of leaves and cloth. 

Now, you sat in this structure, your side flush against his, a hand held out to the pouring rain.  

“Do you like it?” He asked softly, looking at you. 

“Do I like it?” You cried, almost incredulous. “Yes, Ekko, I love it!” You turned to him, grinning so widely it almost hurt. “Thank you,” you added after a moment. “Thank you so much, Ekko.” He smiled too, and you took his face in your hands and kissed him, and Gods knew you’d never been happier. 

You’re lying in an alleyway. It’s like you can physically feel the blood leaking from you, your life draining from the gash in your stomach and the holes in your arm. The goons have left, convinced you are dead- why didn’t they check your pulse, stupid bastards? 

It has stopped raining, but you’re soaked to the bone, lying there in the dark. Someone has stolen your jacket and your machete. 

You groaned as you lifted the jacket up to the light. A bright fabric, the colour of the sunset, now stained with dark greenish grey goo. You should have known that wearing your favourite jacket down into the mines was a stupid idea, but you’d done it anyway. 

“Stupid,” you mumbled to yourself, dropping the jacket into a heap on the floor. You wondered briefly if it was salvageable, but deep down knew it wasn’t. You’d have to find a new one, which would be nowhere near as nice. 

Someone knocked on your door, and a soft voice spoke your name. 

“Come in,” you called, still staring sadly at your jacket. 

Ekko stepped inside, his presence like warm sunlight. Despite the grief caused by the ruined jacket, you smile, turning to him instantly relaxing as he wrapped his arms around your waist. 

“I hear your jacket got ruined,” he said softly. 

“Yeah,” you muttered in response. “Upsetting.” He laughed. “I have something for you.” You pulled away, moving your hands to his biceps and looking at him. “What, Ekko?” You already knew what he was going to show you, but it warmed your heart all the same. 

“It’s not exactly the same colour,” he said apologetically, “but-“ 

You put a hand over his mouth, beaming. “I don’t care,” you said. 

He smiled back at you, releasing you to pull something out of his bag. It was neatly folded, but he held it out to you. You shook it out, and found a jacket, almost identical to the one that you had just ruined; it was a slightly lighter shade of orange, and the pattern on the back was a tree instead of the flowers you’d had on your last one. 

“You’re insane,” you said, in awe. You put the jacket on- it was a little too big, but who gave a shit? It was your jacket, gifted to you by your boy. 

You blink back into consciousness, and almost screamed. The pain coursing through you is like nothing you’d ever imagined; like being electrocuted and burned and drowned all at the same time. Despite the gaping hole in you, you want to curl up, to shield yourself from the wet and cold and pain. 

“Please,” you whimper into the ground, “please, no.” 

It’s not that you don’t want to die. In fact, you welcome death- you see it as a release more than anything else, from the bullshit life you lead. But dying here, like this- 

You start to cry, and you gag and retch as tears spill mercilessly. 

You are about to give in- you have given in- when a bright light seems to fill your vision. It is green and orange and yellow and pink and warm and fills everything around you. For a moment you think you’ve died, and this is some kind deity welcoming you into the next life, whispering I forgive you don’t worry as it carries you away. But no, the truth is much harsher than that. 

A face hovers into your field of vision, and warm hands tug your shirt upwards. You want to protest, but your throat is dry from all the retching and sobbing you’ve been doing. A cloth presses down into the wound in your stomach and you howl, eyes rolling back in your head as the pain grabs you by the throat and fucking throttles you. 

“Stop,” you manage to whimper. “Why- why are you doing this?” Your voice is hoarse, you’re crying again as you try to shut out the pain. 

You hear shouting- words like help and home and quick- and black out again. 

When you come to, you are no longer lying wet and dying in an alleyway miles from home (where even is home anymore? It’s just you, and that orange jacket, which you don’t even have anymore). 

Your surroundings slowly swim into focus (swimming, your brain sings, swimming in an underwater cave, hands on your waist, kisses all over). You are lying down, mercifully dry and warm. Pain pumps through you in waves, mostly coming from your wrist and your stomach. You wonder, again, if this is some afterlife- if so, it is far less cruel than your parents described. 

But then, you turn your head, and pain sears through you. 

But that is not what makes you cry. 

He lifts his head instantly as he hears your quiet sobs, and he’s at your side, a hand carefully gripping yours (he’s avoiding the bloody bandage wrapped around your wrist, you realise), the other gently brushing soft fingers over your bruised face. “It’s okay,” he says, even though you think he doesn’t mean it. It’s not okay- you ran away, got yourself beat up, almost killed, and he’s had to rescue you. Of course it’s not okay.

“Ekko,” you whimper. 

“It’s okay,” he repeats, stroking your hair away from his face. Instinctively, you curl away, wanting to hide your injury from him. He shakes his head, his eyes brimming with tears (or maybe you’re delusional, because who would cry over you?) 

“I-“ Your words are lost in a pathetic sob, and you turn your face away from him. 

“Don’t,” he says. A pause. “How are you feeling?” 

You croak out what should’ve been fuck but instead comes out as a bad imitation . You would’ve laughed, in any other situation. 

“What happened?” His voice is so soft, so kind, it makes you want to rip your eyeballs out and stuff them into your ears. 

You shake your head. You don’t want him to know what you’ve been up to since you left the Firelights. 

He lets go of your hand, and for a moment you think he’s leaving you. It wouldn’t surprise you, to be honest. But no, he doesn’t leave you. Instead, he leans over, inspects the bandages wrapped around your midsection. Your mind instantly flashes to him prodding it, digging his fingers into your wound and calling you names. You wouldn’t blame him. 

“You’re an idiot,” he says finally, still glaring at your bandaged stomach. 

“Excuse me?” That is the first full statement you manage to force past your shredded throat. 

“You’re an idiot,” he repeats with just as much gusto. “I mean, how could you just go and do this?” He gestures at your injuries. 

“I didn’t-“ 

“What, think? Yeah, I can tell.” His face is partly obscured, so you can’t tell what face he’s making. 

“I-“ 

“You’re so stupid. I mean, did you really think you could survive taking on all of the goons in that building?” He snorts to himself. “At least tell me the pay was worth it.” 

You’re somewhat incredulous. All the time you’ve known Ekko, he’s never been this outright mean to you. 

“What-“ you sputter, unable to find the words. 

“Did you not think for a moment that you might get killed?” He puts extra emphasis on the word killed, and it’s like a punch in the gut. When he turns his gaze onto you, you think you’d prefer to have the goons rip you apart than see him look at you like this ever again. 

“I’m sorry,” you manage to say through a fresh tightening in your throat. Your eyes sting and you’re about to turn away when you see his expression. 

He’s smiling. 

“What?” You almost choke out. “What is it?” 

His smile is the softest thing you’ve ever seen. It’s the sunlight, shining through the leaves of the tree; it’s the rain gently pattering on the roof of your childhood home. It’s the smell of old books and wood. 

It’s so painfully home. 

Your eyes sting, and you turn your face away from him, swallowing the bile rising in your throat. He still smiles at you like that, after everything you’ve done. 

He takes your hand again, his other beginning to gently trace patterns on the bandage on your stomach. It’s such a soft, kind gesture. He used to do that, you remember with a pang, when you two would lie in bed together: draw little patterns on your back with his fingers, when he thought you were asleep. 

“It’s okay,” he says, and for the first time, you wholeheartedly believe him. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, because those are the only words your throat will allow out. “I am.” 

“I know,” he murmurs. He hesitates, then leans forwards, kissing your forehead gently. “Just…” he trails off, his gaze now focused back on your bruised face. “Don’t do that again.” 

You promise him. Not with words, but with the feeling in your chest, the loosening of your lungs and throat as you watch him watch you. You promise him with the way your knuckles have stopped aching for more skin to break, with the way your eyes water again. 

You promise him with all that you have, because that is the least you can do for him. 

“I love you,” you mumble, almost sheepishly. 

“I love you too,” he answers; there is no hesitation, no layered but only if… behind the words. He says it back with the same confidence he gives orders, the words more of a declaration than softly spoken pretty things. 

“I’m sorry,” you add, after a few moments of just watching him breathe. 

“I love you,” is his answer. 

You shut your eyes, and he squeezes your hand. 

[yufei]

Recently I tried to learn how to paint with watercolor and what better to use for lineart. I found the little tutorial on pin to test it, but was too lazy to sketch a proper bird, so each bird became a wonky birb instead. They kinda crack me up xD

1. The ink wasn't waterproof so it bled.

2. It was a liner pen, but I forgot how to use it, so the lines were as wonky as birb.

3. I used colored pencils and so far this is the best way for me to do lineart.

Now I need to actually be patient enough to let each layer dry completely so I avoid blooms.

[pedrosman]

Can we perhaps at some point get a Marcus Moreno x chubby male reader? Like 2 hours before their wedding sneaking into the readers room and fucking him senseless before the wedding? Fetishes like blindfolds, choking, pit worship, body worship, silencing the bottom(hand over mouth or underwear in mouth), hickies, biting, hair pulling?

I'm On my Way.

paring: Marcus Moreno x male!reader

summary: It's near the time of you and Marcus's wedding. Missing him, you sneakily invite him into your room, where the two of you finally have some alone time.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, Marcus Moreno, unprotected sex, bot! reader, first person, p in a, kissing, swearing, anal, fingering, choking, creampie, partial nudity, dom Marcus, sub reader, aggressive, overstimulation, hickeys, body worship, hair pulling.

a/n: Thanks so much for the request anon! Although it did take me a while for a oneshot fic, I quite enjoyed it. Whilst this isn't my best work, I'm pretty happy with it.

I also noticed that the request held similarities to another Marcus, so I'm tagging @slutdilf as you really should also read that Marcus fic too!!

word count: 4700

You hated Marcus’ choice not to see you the entirety of the day leading up to your wedding. The salt in the wound was his decision of a sunset dinner, forcing you to go “cold turkey” from his presence. The morning was unbearable, Marcus’ noticeable absence beside you, the sheets still warm. You had wrapped yourself in his presence, your body cradled by the sheets that still smelled like him. Usually, you wouldn’t mind being alone; you weren’t clingy, but the deliberate distancing felt cruel, a methodical deprivation you despised. Your close friends attending played into this gleefully, planning your movements carefully to avoid the two of you even locking eyes across the sprawling villa that Marcus had carefully chosen to be the venue. 

Now, you sat on the edge of your bed, staring out into the bridge between the capacious sea and the never-ending sky. The horizon had dropped a few shades in recent hours, nearing the time of the ceremony to start. Above it, the sky was a watercolour painting, hues of pink, blue, and orange pushed across the canvas, the hollow colours sprawling across the empty space like ink on wet paper. 

Yet you barely noticed it. 

You could only yearn for Marcus. 

You needed him in this moment. 

You longed for his soft touch, his calming eyes, his love.

The day had been too stressful. You had been jostled about by seemingly everyone around you, pulling you in for photos, then pushing you into your room to hibernate. Then they would burst in, bombard you with last-minute changes, all of which you waved off with an “it’s fine.” Then they would disappear again, and then your aunt would burst in, and then your cousin. You felt as if you were in a daze, every small moment of peace a facade. You just wanted Marcus. His calm would save you, his shit humour and clumsiness would respark the glee in your eyes, his arms around you would make you feel ready for this. 

But you shouldn't. He wanted a more traditional wedding. 

He wanted to see you for the first time with your suit on, a flower in your blazer pocket, and with your ring in his hand. 

Instead, you curled into your bedsheets, grasping for his fading scent. You just needed him.

Fuck it.

Unlocking your phone, you immediately opened Marcus’s number, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. 

“I miss you,” you sent, immediately turning off your phone and falling back onto the bed. You closed your eyes, anxiety bubbling in your throat. You felt bad, disliking his plan, but you'd much prefer to spend your final few hours before the wedding with him than by yourself.

The muffled ping to the side of your right ear jolted you upwards, and you practically leapt for your phone, opening his message with a knot in your stomach.

“I’m on my way.”

A small smile found its way to the sides of your mouth, his immediate response a comfort you had missed.  Your body shivered with contained excitement, a childish glee that filled your body. You moved out onto the balcony, resting your arms on the railing. You steeled yourself in the cool breeze, its soft touch liquifying your loose shirt, its form pulling away from you.  You indulged in the stillness, your chest lighter, and your head quieter.

Marcus’s arms wrapping around your waist reeled you in from the breeze, centering yourself in his touch. You remained silent, instead moving your head to touch his, acknowledging his presence. He returned the gesture, his head resting on your shoulder, his stubble nuzzling against your neck. You both remained, still, watching the sea slowly creep over the sand, the methodical galloping of the waves a chorus of small cheers.

Grabbing your hand, Marcus guided you to face him, your lower back resting lightly on the railing. He wore his suit, not the whole thing, just the shirt, tie, and trousers, yet he still took your breath away. He looked so fucking good. The light blue of the shirt gave him a soft glow, his olive skin a radiance with the afternoon light. His tie, a deep blue, hung loosely around his neck, the unbuttoned collar a peek at his chest. His arms bulged against the sides of his shirt, his biceps a sneaky eye candy for you. Only you. His hair was combed, his beard and moustache slightly trimmed. He looked so proper. So humourously unlike the late mornings you had found him wrapped around your body, naked below the waist, his hair a complete mess. You loved his dualities in appearance, constantly finding yourself falling for each version of Marcus. And this time was no different.

He stepped between your legs, bridging the distance between your bodies. His hands found themselves at your waist, their warmth emanating across your body. He looked at you, really looked at you, his eyes transcending into yours as you smiled sheepishly up at him.

“Hey,” you began, words slowly forming at the roof of your mouth. However, as your lips parted to speak, his words interrupted, quickly cutting you off.

“Don’t say anything,” he began, “Not yet.”

Instead, he placed a hand on your cheek, his coarse fingers running along your skin, prompting shimmers of energy to ripple across your face.

“You don’t need to explain anything,” he continued, “I missed you, too.” 

His face looked regretful, his eyes deep with loss. They danced across your face, your lips, your eyes, your neck. He cleared his throat with a small cough, looking up into your eyes.

“You’re going to be the prettiest groom,” he whispered.

“I’m not even in my suit yet,” you replied with a tease, your hands tugging at the sides of his waist, pulling him even closer.

“But you’re still the prettiest,” he finished, a large smile beaming across his face. Sheepishly, you planted your head on his chest, to which Marcus wrapped his arms around your body.

“I can’t believe you’re going to be my husband,” you whispered.

“I can’t wait,” he replied, his voice soft and comforting.

Looking up at Marcus, you struggled to remain composed. He was bathed in the late afternoon light, his features smoothened, his eyes somehow even more expressive than before, a traitor against his steeled face. Within them, you could see the flash of want and need, his lips parting slightly as he took you in.

Silently, Marcus dipped his head, now mere inches away from yours. His forehead rested on yours, a grounding gesture sweeping you in a calm. His lips quivered slightly, jolted by a  small, shaky exhale. 

Closing your eyes, you lifted your head slightly, grazing your lips against his with a soft kiss. His lips were slightly chapped, but with a fullness that cushioned yours against his. His moustache tickled slightly against your top lip, its coarse ends eliciting shivers on your face. You held your lips against his, savouring the stillness of the movement. You ran your hand down his arm, feeling the strain of his biceps against his shirt. He seemed to shimmer under your touch, the fabric rippling under you like water. Feeling slightly giddy, you teased him, biting at his bottom lip, pulling it playfully.

Marcus’s eyes fluttered open with a look of bewilderment on his face, quickly swapped with a dead-set look of determination. Suddenly, his hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you in for a deeper kiss. You jumped slightly, but welcomed his advance with a small chuckle, your laughter hindered by his tongue darting between your lips. He kissed you with a fury, a desire to absorb your very spirit. His hand was tight around you, constantly pulling you into him, negating any distance between your lips. Every small movement of his tongue was electric, the way it danced alongside your tongue making your legs weak. You leant into him, his strong stature holding your weight comfortably, his other hand wrapping around your waist, feeling along the top of your trousers. He ran his fingers underneath your clothing playfully as you kissed, his warm fingers a burning touch against your cold skin. His hands were tucked comfortably, locking the two of you together. 

As you continued kissing, you felt his body begin to move backwards. He pulled you with him, leading you to your bed. In unison, you both fell onto it, resting side by side with each other. Marcus’s hands moved to your growing bulge, pawing at it while you kissed him desperately. He fumbled at your buttons on your trousers, finally freeing you from the confines of the fabric, the tent in your boxers fully exposed. He gripped it with a heavy hand, eliciting a small moan from your body. He stroked you over the fabric passionately, the shock and pleasure dimming your mind. He continued stroking as you kissed, the pleasure forming a wet patch on your boxers as the feeling slowly rose across your thighs and into your arms. 

The intensity of Marcus’s hand quickly pushed you closer to an orgasm than expected. The pleasure was building in your head, and you found yourself grinding into his hand incessantly, animalistic lust taking over instead of reason. You were panting heavily, your kisses broken by your small whimpers as the pleasure continued to build.

“Marcus-” you huffed, your body breathless “stop, im getting close-” your words were a whisper, transcending into his mouth. Quickly, Marcus ceased his movements, his hand resting on your bulge as it throbbed heavily from the lack of completion. He chuckled heartily as you recovered from the burst of pleasure, his eyes twinkling as he watched your desperate state. 

“Okay. Your turn,” you stated, more of a confirmation for yourself than his. You planted a final kiss on his lips, and moved off the bed, kicking off your trousers that now rested at your ankles, and situated yourself on your knees at the edge of the bed, his legs on either side of you, his evident bulge directly in front of your face. Immediately, you ran your hands along his cock print, and undid his belt buckle. You pulled at his trousers, the silky fabric falling away from your fingers. 

Finally, you managed to pull them down to Marcus’s knees, his tent partially obstructing your view of Marcus’s face. Rising slightly, you looked up to him as you began planting kisses against his boxers, his mouth falling agape from your soft touch. You ran your hands along his thighs, slipping them under his boxers as your lips pawed at the fabric. His small grunts from your teasing throbbed your cock every time, your lust-driven state making you even more desperate for him. Your teases could only last so long before you would fall and submit to him, and both of you knew that. It was only then that Marcus’s more aggressive demeanour would emerge, his pent-up state driving him to the depths of desire. 

Under his boxers, you could feel the heat emanating from his member. Within the fabric, you felt at his sack, cupping it in your hand, feeling the weight they held. Marcus moaned at your touch, his hands above his head, his fists clenching and unclenching from his faltering composure. You slowly began to trail your fingers along the underside of his throbbing cock, marvelling in its sheer mass and presence. You could see its defined print against the tight fabric, his veins bulging out against the sheer material. 

You quickly pulled down his boxers, his cock slapping hard against the bottom of his shirt, leaving a small streak of precum. His uncircumcised head throbbed a deep red, covered in a slick sheen that made your mouth water. Hair covered his pelvis, sneaking up further into his shirt. His member ached with a need, his balls hanging low down between his legs. They twitched with anticipation, desperate for your touch. 

You marvelled at the wet patch forming where his cock head was, your growing need breaking down the little patience you held. Your mouth longed for his sweet taste, feeling the enticing wet patch calling you in to push things further.

Fuck it.

Marcus looked down at you expectantly, resting on his elbows as you watched your lips slowly wrap around the head of his cock. He threw his head back with a satifying moan, his hips rhythmically thrusting into your face as you began to suck. You struggled to fit his girth in your mouth, his member pressing against your lips, forcing them wider. As you slowly lowered your head around his girth, you ran your palms along his furred thighs, cupping his balls and teasing his taint. God, he was intoxicating. You worshipped Marcus’s cock as if it were a deity, savoruing his sweaty flavour, the sweet aroma that clung to his skin. You moaned, as did Marcus, as you finally managed to press yourself down to the base of his cock. He filled your entire mouth, muffling your strangled moans as your hips bucked, devoid of touch. 

Marcus’s hands moved from his position, instead placing them around the sides of your head. He lifted you off his cock, watching with a grin as the spit on your lips connected to the head of his cock.

“Good boy,” he whispered as he lightly slapped the side of your face. Firmly, he pushed your head back onto his cock, locking his fingers around your hair as he bobbed your head on his cock. He pulled you by your hair, forcing you into a fast rhythm that evoked guttural moans from his body. His cock was leaking like a geyser in your mouth, the taste of his precum an overpowering toxin that was unignorable. It's sweet flavour turned you on even more, your cock throbbing with a small jab of pain. 

Your breathing was rushed, too focused on his cock and his pleasure to regulate yourself. You were so obsessed with his cock, his outward reaction to your efforts that you could not slow at all. Marcus was in control, and you loved it. He jacked his cock with your face incessantly, his hips grinding into your face as you were moved up and down. With every thrust, his furry front was thrust into your nose, his scent clinging to your skin like smoke at a bonfire. You felt branded by him, exclusively owned by Marcus. His musk clung to you, a personal cologne that defined you as his.

You could not get enough. Pushing your head off his cock, you lunged forward to his face, planting a deep kiss on his face before frantically unbuttoning the top of his shirt. You struggled with the tie, so he removed it as you worked at the buttons. When there was a large enough gap, you plunged your face into the opening, inhaling his sweaty scent emanating from his pits. His hair was covered lightly in sweat from the summer heat, and you buried your face in it, indulging in his masculine scent. As you did this, he flexed his arm around you, locking your face in place. Your breathing felt slightly restricted, but you embraced the small dizziness it brought, feeling even more drunk under his scent. 

He chuckled as you buried your face in his armpit, his hand pulling away at your boxers, moving lower to begin feeling at your tight hole. He traced his finger around your entrance, pushing at it slightly, pulling you away from your pit-heaven. Removing yourself from under his shirt, you looked deep into his expressive eyes, now darkened by lust and desire, mirroring your own.

“I need you in me,” you whispered into his ear. In response, he grabbed the lube on your nightstand and began lathering up his finger as you watched. 

Running his fingers around your hole, your breath caught at the cold liquid, a stark contrast to the stuffy heat of your bedroom. As Marcus inserted a careful finger, your entire body shook with anticipation. You buried your face into the side of his neck, steeling yourself for his careful thrusts. With each small movement of his finger, a small parted from your lips, wrapping itself around Marcus’s ear. With each of your involuntary noises, you could feel Marcus’s cock grow harder agaisnt your stomach.

Suddenly, you felt Marcus’s lips latch on to the side of your neck, throwing your back into an arch, grinding your cock into his. He sucked you like a vampire would, lips pulling your skin from your body, bruising your skin. The pressure was immense, Marcus marking you like this, that you could feel your cock growing achingly closer to orgasm as you grinded on him, like an uncontrolled animal in heat. His kisses were tight, his lips locked around your skin as your body swirmed under his touch. He finger fucked you with intesnoty, pressing into you as his lips pulled at your skin with fervour. His cock throbbed against your own, the lube boiled by the heat on your skin into a oil-like substance falling past your balls and taint ont his and your cocks. They swam together with a fury, an unbroken embrace, heightening your sensitivity and neediness. His touch drove you crazy, your lips departing with a charged moan each time Marcus pushed another finger into your hole, stretching you open until your bottom finally took each finger with ease, ceasing just below his knuckles. You were tingling in anticipation, your body overwhelmed by the balance of pain and pleasure that Marcus inflicted.

Suddenly, you felt a rush of air into your hole. Marcus fumbled around below your ass as he continued to kiss you, before stopping and pushing you lightly back onto your knees, looking up to you. 

He placed a hand on your thigh, slowly pushing you downwards as you felt the tip of his cock brush against your hole. You felt his waist rise slightly, pushing the head of his member a little deeper inside you.

“Push down slowly baby,” he whispered, commandeering your body to fall onto his cock. With every inch you suk back, his cock sent your skin ablaze, the burning and tingling sensation an exploding firework within you. He burned so good, his cock pressing you open as you struggled to lower yourself fully. You faltered, his cock pressing so deep into you and still not being fully in.

“Just a little more, beautiful,” he urged, his fingers glancing at your hole as you willed yourself to take more of his girthy cock. You felt a resistance within you, stopping Marcus from entering fully, until you heard a distinct squelch, the resistance crumbling away, and hte rest of his cock slid into you, driving deep up you. Your face was a perpetual look of pleasure, your breath stolen away from your lips as you dropped down onto his last few inches. His face mirrored yours, his mouth agape as your interior clung to his cock, squeezing into it as if it were trying to drain it.

You remained still for a few seconds, your breathing heavy as you felt Marcus twitch inside you. Slowly, you began to straddle him, whimpering his name as his cock slowly moved in an out of you. Your hands rested on his chest, covered in a light dusting of hair, his pecs defined and his nipples at attention. You pinched them as you rode him, feeling how his hips would buck at every small pull. You felt high, his insatiable size dizzying your head, clouding your thoughts. You rode him with your back arched, his hands running up and down your sides as he cooed your moans of discomfort.  Your legs shook as you struggled to consistently straddle his size, stopping at the base of his dick to adjust to his size.

“Marcus,” you whispered, “I can’t.” 

“That's okay”, he responded, eyes filled with consideration, “let's try a different position.”

Instead, Marcus slowly pulled you off his dick, pulling you down onto the bed as he stood, pushing your legs up, exposing your hole at the edge of the bed. He rested his weight lightly onto your legs, adjusting his cock at the enterance of your hole. He inserted himself slowly, stopping when you moaned a little too hard, until his entire length was inside you again, devoid of the intensity prior. He fit in you properly. You had adjusted, finally. You gave him a small nod, to which he responded with the flash of a cheeky smile. He slowly began to pull his length backwards, and you could feel the grip your entrance held over his member, pulling away from your body along with his dick. As he began to push back in, you felt the burst of pleasure along the inside of your hole. A whimper escaped your lips, causing Marcus to look up at you, his sympathetic face burning into you. 

You chuckled, endowed by his empathy towards you. 

“It’s good. Im okay,” you assured, “go faster.”

He shook his head in disbelief, repositioning his body before thrusting into you with greater intensity, throwing all the air from your lungs as your back arched. You revelled in the feeling, pulling the side of his leg deeper against your skin. He began to fuck you faster, your growing cock slapping against your skin, the precum glossing the underside of your stomach. His cock began to move faster, grinding up against your prostate. Your hole clung to his skin, pulling it in and out as he fucked you faster. You struggled to remain composed, staring up at Marcus’s reddened face as he pounded into you. The room's heat had diminished the effects of the gel in his hair, leaving it to fall onto his face messily, shrouding his eyes. You could only see his nose and lips, breathing heavily, his lips taut in determination.. He grabbed at the sides of your waist, gripping onto you with his coarse hands. He pulled you closer into him, pulling you onto his cock as he thrust, pushing himself deeper. The burning in your insides began to falter slightly, replaced by the building sensation of bliss. You steeled yourself, but barely, the pleasure overstimulating your cock and hole. Your legs shook as Marcus rammed himself into you, your chest rising and falling rapidly from his cock. He chuckled at the sight, your face red and sweaty, your cock desperate and leaking, your hole pulverised, opening easily now to take his full length. Teasingly, he continually pulled himself out and thrusted heavily back in, evoking needy moans from the back of your throat. Your eyes locked for a brief moment, yours full of dizzying pleasure and weakness, and his full of lust and amusement. He loved seeing you like this, diminished to a cock slave, needing his cock deep inside you, breeding your cunt until you felt pregnant.

Suddenly, he stepped back, his cock throbbing angrily from the denied pleasure. With a heavy hand, he grabbed your back and ass, moving you onto your hands and knees. Marcus stepped up onto the bed, crouching slightly, until you felt his member thrust into you unprovoked. He kept it there whilst adjusting his position, before ramming his waist against your backside, penetrating your ass with vigour and anger. He fucked you as if you were an object, leaving you moaning wildly, your body falling out of formation with each thrust.

With a small huff, Marcus stopped, pulling back slightly to reach something out of your vision. It wasn't until it was wrapped around your neck that you realised that it was his tie, the wedding tie. He roped it around your neck, creating a makeshift leash. With a firm grip, he began to continue fucking you, keeping your upper body in place as he pushed with strength. With the tie around your neck, you struggled to breathe, your head feeling rushed and tight. In your woozy state, you felt high, the rush of pleasure from your anus overwhelming your body, leaving your cock dripping with precum. You felt as if you were being milked, Marcus’s cock physically pushing out any drop of semen within your body, only for him to eventually deposit his load in you.

Yet Marcus held on even tighter, ignorant of the tightness of your throat, or the proximity you were to having a full-blown orgasm. In this moment, you were a fucktoy, a hole to use for Marcus. Even still, you loved it and adored the feeling he evoked. By the sound of his heavy pant, you could tell just how much Marcus loved fucking you like this. Sure, it wasn’t romantic as such, but it got both of you off, and the intensity felt fucking good. Marcus could use you as he would his hand or a pocket pussy, and in return you would get the fuck of a lifetime. And this certainly was that. Your hole felt loose, oblivious to the onslaught Marcus was exposing your body to, instead welcoming his cock, accpeting his heavy stance, his galloping stride, his attack on your prostate. You really were made to take his cock. 

Behing you, Marcus’s thrusts increased in intensity, his moans growing louder as his cock attacked your insides. As he barraled his cock into you, your whimpers grew louder, hindered by the tie around your neck. Your moans drove Marcus deeper into you, his free hand held heavily on the side of your bottom, keeping you taut as he fucked you sensless. His cock rammed into your prostate with every thrust, swelling your cock, pushing you a whispers distance away from the edge. Behind you, Marcus felt close too, his thighs clenching harder by the second, pulling more time away from his inevitable orgasm.

“In me. Do it,” you pleaded, your voice strangled and hoarse.

Without a word, Marcus pushed deeper than he had before, fully submerging his entire length into you, before releasing a river of his seed within you. You groaned in ecstasy, your cock spasming in orgasm as his hot sperm pushed against your prostate His member throbbed within you, stimulating you simultaneously, overpowering your body completely. You fell under him, your head swimming as his seed dug deeper into you. Your breath was completely lost, your body overthrown by the white hot bliss enveloping your entirety. You struggled even to fathom the waves of pleasure rolling over you, unmoving as he dripped out the sides of your hole, plugged by his cock.

As the ride finally slowed, you took a shaky breath, regaining your composure. Thankfully, Marcus had already removed the tie, instead moving his face to your ear.

“I’m going to pull out, okay?” he whispered, the fuzz on his softy scratching your skin. With a small nod, you felt his member depart from you, leaving a gaping hole from which you felt his seed slowly start to drip. He moved next to you, lying on the bed. Instinctively, you pulled him closer, resting on his chest as you began to recover. You and Marcus remained there for a few minutes, absorbing in each other’s silence, still reeling in awe. He ran his fingers through your hair, a grounding gesture that calmed your senses, dulling the slight throb at your behind. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, his voice soft, nurturing. “I really can’t wait for you to be my husband.”

You chuckled at his cute gesture, looking up at his face. You took him all in, his messy hair, his deep moustache, his small beard. His watery eyes, the depth they hold, two dark orbs against olive skin, cloaked by the shadows of his brow bone. He was all yours. 

You moved closer, planting your lips over his with a long kiss. You indulged in the softness of his lips, the scratch of his moustache on the tip of your upper lip, the small moan that resounded around your face, pulling you even closer. 

Begrudgingly, you pulled your face from his, your eyes fluttering open to stare directly at Marcus. With a small smile, you gathered your words, plain and simple:

“Me neither.”

[fleetingcalypso]

Cain's daughter.

≋ And so she held him down into the river, shaking hands and all. For one moment of her wretched life, she felt truly alive. ≋

≋ Camilla Macaulay. ≋

≋ Word count: 1071 words.

≋ TW: Dead dove do not eat, mentions and description of inc*st scene.

≋ CW: Misogyny, mentions of body horror, allusions to sexual themes and actions, mentions of "sins" and therefore catholic guilt. Please note that this is not a "x Charles" or "x Henry" by any means, despite the characters being portrayed in it. This is simply Camilla Macaulay.

≋ Hello, my heroes. I have not written in some time and this work was originally going to be discarded, but I thought some of you might enjoy it. I do love Camilla with all my heart. No reader needed for this one.

Sometimes Camilla wishes she weren’t a woman. 

Womanhood feels like a fleshy cage: tight, throbbing and unwilling to ever let her go. When a stranger calls her “sweetheart” or “honey” she curses the gold that frames her face. When the men that are supposed to be her friends trail their hungry eyes over her body in a not so subtle way she curses the subtle curves that were gifted to her by the universe. When her brother pins her onto her soft bed sheets she curses her angelic reflection. When she finds herself enjoying his touch more than she should, she curses the way her arms slot so nicely around his neck; it’s a habit, she tells herself, it’s just routine.

Sometimes, during those nights where Charles falls asleep by her side she sneaks glances at him and, if she’s lucky, she can pretend she’s looking in a mirror instead of another living and breathing human being. Their hair falls on their forehead in the exact same way, the slope of their noses were built from the same mold, the gentle downward tilt of their pouty lips is identical. While the blunt nail of her index trails down the delicate curve of his neck she swears she can feel it, the beating of his heart. It would all be so much easier, if she could climb into his ribcage and pretend she never existed in the first place.

What a dream it would be, and only a dream it is at the end of the day. How disappointing, that she is indeed Cain’s daughter.

She could not even begin to count the amount of times Bunny has ignored her words simply because he could. Her lips, painted by a pretty nude lipstick, could move and speak irrefutable facts until they fell off and he would not dare even acknowledge her truths because well, women talk too much. Camilla, though, has never considered herself to be a chatterbox. She’s a profiler, an analyzer. She’d rather sit back and evaluate how to behave rather than speak with just anyone. There are some people, out there in the world, that quite frankly do not deserve to hear her voice.

When the sky is bathing in midnight ink she has to turn over, tug the blankets over her body, tune out her brother’s soft sleepy breaths to avoid thinking about it.

Less rare are the times where during class her eye falls to Richard. The way he uncomfortably snaps his gaze away the instant she makes eye contact with him should feel like flattery, it only makes her tense up and cross her arms over her chest, overtly aware of her femininity. His flushed cheeks, the way he rearranges his seating position, his slender fingers twirling a pencil around and Adam's apple bobbing in his throat are all pretty obvious signs. He wants her, badly, and she’s not so naive a girl to be oblivious to it. He’s not worthy of her fear, however. 

Even Francis takes advantage of her kisses and hugs, whenever he can. He just can’t help himself after all, bless him. His lack of attraction to women, alas, does not change that he is indeed a man.

One night she sits in Henry’s bathtub, knees brought up to her chest with the moonlight filtering through the window, the freezing water sending shivers down her pale naked body. She can’t bring herself to step out, wrapping a towel around her drenched self would mean acknowledging the gentle slopes of her figure - the very same that trustworthy hands have caressed what felt like forever ago but was in truth only mere moments- and she doesn’t know if she’s strong enough for that. 

She slides further down the pale ceramic, her thin pale legs stretch out in front of her. Twin tails of wishing stars that lead up to a gift from the sky. Down, down, down until she can feel the waters’ embrace all around her, until she’s enveloped by the stillness of the artificial lake. It’s like being back in her mother’s womb, only this time, she’s alone. No one to share her space with, or her air, or her body, or her mind. She wishes this could count as a second baptism and for just a second she convinces herself that it can be, despite the unholy bruises that litter her thighs.

There’s not little guilt to be found in how much she enjoys it. She could spend an eternity like this.

That night in the dead silence of Henry’s bathroom, when a blond girl is reborn, it’s not with a sharp cry or with a scream, but with a gasp and her head thrown back as her empty lungs gulp in as much air as they can, wrinkled fingertips grasping onto the edge of the tub .

The bathroom floor almost floods when she stands in a hurry, wanting nothing else than to find solace in sleep. The droplets sliding down her face blend in with her tears, trailing along the crook of her neck, down her breasts, her waist until they reunite with the ripples by her shins.

It’s not enough, trying to wash away her sins can only do so much. It’s not enough and she knows it. It will never be enough. No matter how many times Henry’s kiss marks cover Charles’, no matter how many times she pretends not to spot Richard’s hungry gaze. It’s no use. 

And so, on this night, where Henry has long fallen asleep by her side, she sneaks glances at him and she wants to want him. While the short manicured nail of her index trails down the strong curve of his jaw she swears she can feel it, the beating of his heart. It would all be so much easier, if she could climb into his ribcage and pretend she never existed in the first place.

Sometimes Camilla wishes she weren’t a woman.

She doesn’t even know what she’d like to be. 

An erupting volcano, destroying one civilization after the other. An earthshaking tsunami dragging cities down to the sea with her touch. A gentle shower of rain to hydrate the poppies. A leaf big enough to have a snail take a nap on it. That one breeze of cool air when the summer is in full swing. 

A beautiful butterfly, with her hours counted and a whole world to explore.

[princessseeun]

You Were More Than A Muse

pairings: sion x m!reader

genre: fluff

🎵ZOOM UP! - Kahimi Karie🎵

a.n : banner was not loading so...

It started with a forgotten notebook.

Not on purpose, of course. M/N was many things—quiet, observant, the kind of person who got lost in margins and daydreams—but careless wasn’t one of them. Except maybe just this once.

It was a Tuesday. The final bell had rung, students flooding out of the classroom like water through a broken dam, and in the rush to tuck away his pencils and sketchbook, M/N didn’t notice the smaller, well-worn notebook slip from the stack.

And of all people who could have picked it up, it just had to be Sion.

Sion, with his annoyingly perfect smile and the habit of poking fun at M/N every chance he got. Sion, who always sat one row over and one seat back, close enough that M/N could feel the weight of his gaze even when he wasn’t looking.

Sion, who flipped open the notebook the moment he realized it wasn’t his.

He meant to return it, really. But a glance turned into a page flip, which turned into an entire chapter of doodles and small, careful sketches.

Of him.

Sion’s breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a quiet, stunned exhale. There he was, inked into the pages in every expression imaginable: yawning in first period, laughing with his friends, leaning back in his chair, smiling like he didn’t have a care in the world. All drawn with such gentle attention to detail it made his chest ache.

And in the margins—tiny hearts. Some dark and full. Some faint and half-finished.

He closed the notebook and held it to his chest, eyes wide, lips pressed together to keep them from curling too far upward.

Oh.

The next day, M/N was a mess.

He tore through his room twice before realizing he must have left the notebook at school. He spent first period clutching his bag to his chest like a lifeline, second period staring blankly at his notes, and third period avoiding Sion’s gaze so hard it looked painful.

Sion noticed.

Of course he did.

At lunch, Sion found him alone in the art room. M/N looked up like a deer caught in headlights, eyes wide, panic painted clear across his face.

“Hey,” Sion said, holding up the notebook.

M/N froze. “You—”

“Yeah,” Sion said, voice softer than usual. “You left this.”

M/N reached out, and Sion didn’t let go.

“I looked inside.”

M/N stiffened. His hand dropped back to his side. “Oh.”

Sion waited. And when M/N didn’t say anything, he offered a small, almost sheepish smile.

“You draw me a lot.”

Silence.

M/N wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

Sion scratched the back of his neck. “So, uh. Should I start charging you a modeling fee, or…?”

M/N looked up sharply, mortified—but then paused.

Sion was blushing.

He wasn’t teasing. Not really.

“I didn’t mean for anyone to see it,” M/N mumbled, voice barely above a whisper. “I was just… you kept showing up in my head. And then on the page. I couldn’t help it.”

Sion stared at him for a long moment, like he was trying to memorize every word.

“Good,” he said finally.

“What?”

“Good that you couldn’t help it. Because I kept noticing you, too.”

M/N blinked.

Sion took a step closer. “You’re quiet. You always look like you’re thinking a hundred things at once. I thought maybe you didn’t even know I existed.”

“That’s… impossible,” M/N whispered.

Sion smiled. “Apparently not. And now I know you think about me. A lot.”

“Stop,” M/N muttered, hiding his face in his hands.

“No,” Sion said, laughing now. “Because I think about you too. And if you ever want to draw me again, maybe next time, I could be there on purpose.”

M/N peeked at him through his fingers.

Sion grinned.

“Like a date,you know.”

M/N’s heart tried to leap out of his chest.

He nodded.

And this time, when Sion handed over the notebook, he let go.

Only to reach for M/N’s hand instead.

[antlered-prince]

The ValRayne Faeu Masterpost

Decided to finally make a masterpost for @owl-bones and I's fae au! This will be updated when I remember and contains all the relevant info and designs you might want (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

You can find more under the #valrayne-faeu tag on both of our blogs. Feel free to also use this tag or tag either of us in anything you make!

Last updated: 2/7/2024

Designs

Finished Dream (full body soon) Blue (will get a slight revamp) Ink Nightmare Killer (will also get a small revamp) WIPs Horror Dust (wings) Cross Error (wings)

How tall is everyone?

World Building

Designing OCs/Self-Inserts - ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR Can a human become fae? And visa versa? What kind of insect wings are associated with each court? What determines which Court you end up in? Rejecting becoming fae What if a fae tears off their own wings? Trying to return to the mortal realm early after being trapped Primary rules of interacting with the fae How big are the fae? What does the fae realm look like? How do you get to the fae realm? What might the fae find intriguing enough to take someone to their realm? Is there something unpleasant about the fae realm? Why wouldn't people enter the fae realm willingly? What would happen if you trick and fae instead? If a fae steals a concept can you trade it back? Iron, rowan and four leaf clovers What if a mortal manages to escape? Can fae and humans have children? Changelings Can fae be killed in some way? Do the Courts overlap our world? How knowledgeable is the average mortal? How do fae feel about Integrity souls? What is the aspect of Integrity souls that fae share? Why do fae trick people? Do fae normally have so many names? Enemies/Predators of the fae? How is a fae born? How were Dream and Nightmare born? Who is the most dangerous? Where do Dream and Nightmare stand in regards to each other?

Character Specific Asks

Dream If you can't lie, why avoid eye-contact? (Art) How can we trust you if you could be lying? Some insight on Fae Dream If Dream finds humans so interesting, why does he change them? Bird MC Drabble (ft Dream & Nightmare) Bird MC Drabble - Does Dream feel remorse? Bird MC Drabble - Can we make him understand the culture difference? Bird MC Drabble - Is there anything we can say to change his mind? What would Dream do in exchange for affection? (Art) Why is affection a big deal? Anonymous Dream Drabble He's totally non-threatening guys (Art)

Blue Blue and his conflicting values and nature (Art) I'd let him trick me (Art) I want to hug him! (Art) Who did this to you? (Scar)

Ink I'd use him as a model for painting (Art) What can I get with..... (Art)

Nightmare What is Nightmare's goal? Does Nightmare have a favourite trick? What would happen if he met his match? What's the best deal Nightmare has made? (Art) I would die to get my hands on that book What flowers are in the book? Nightmare's favourite flower? What would he want in exchange for a kiss? (Art) If we stay, would he be willing to give us information instead? If I stay for the (eternal) evening, where would I stay? What happens if we fall asleep in his library? (notes on Dream's garden & library) Nightmare would move us? (Library) If I asked for a hug, would he give one? Can I pet his wings? What is Nightmare's favourite noise/sound? Nightmare's wings (Art)

Killer What's Killer's favourite trick?

Dust What is Dust like?

Multiple Characters Who stole the ability to lie? Who is the liar theory (Art) Who would appreciate mortals being hard to trick? Names that Dream and Nightmare have collected Any Papyrus-type fae? (OG AUs design ideas) Can I hug Dream and Nightmare? Dream and Nightmare - Someone who didn't want to leave (Abusive family) Which fae are most likely to accidentally in-debt themselves? Someone staring while they talk because their voice is pretty (Reactions)

Other helpful refs

Beetle wing origami

[rabbits-bad-habit]

Kappa Headcanons- SFW & NSFW

TW: Manipulation, drug usage, breeding kink/pregnancy (I tucked it at the very end of you want to avoid that one)

A/N: I rewatched this fuckers five minutes of screen time so many times to write this. For a character who barely exists I have many thoughts. Enjoy the. Thoughts. This is not good lolz.

Sfw-

I know everyone writes him as being this aggressive, dominant to a fault, type but I think y’all have misunderstood him. I will be elitist and pretentious about it thank you. (Said very lightheartedly, do whatever you want.)

That man is a damn hippie, a pretty on the nose one at that- violence isn’t quite their deal. He may go to extremes in ways of his cause, but I doubt he’d get violent with anyone in his day to day, especially his darling partner. It doesn’t help anyone, and resorting to unneeded violence won’t get his point across. Him and his guys don’t necessarily want to be rough, however they will if it’s necessary and do not hesitate when it comes down to it. There’s a difference between speaking with violence and taking action with violence, and he’d prefer to avoid the former.

He’s extremely protective of what’s his. His partners, his followers, his beliefs. Once you are considered his, he’s always got eyes on you. Always watching you and what others do around you. The type to keep you in his lap when you’re sitting casually with others, arms around your waist. He may insist on carrying you on his back when you’re walking somewhere. Of course he loves holding hands, but he’s more so a fan of hooking a couple fingers into your belt loop or even the chain of a necklace. Not so tight that he’d trip or choke you, but just enough to remind you, and everyone else in the vicinity, that he’s there.

Like any good man of the 60s, he dabbles in drug use. Maybe a bit more than dabbles, he’s almost always under some form of influence. He takes to the shrooms and weed, in particular. If it requires a ton of work to get it to a usable state, he’s not reaching for it very often, if at all. He doesn’t prefer anything that isn’t provided by the earth itself, for that matter. The only real exception is coke, which he will do if he’s not the one who has to obtain it. He thinks of nearly all of his plans while high, however he’s always sober while carrying them out, he knows his followers need direction. He’s usually unwilling to share, but you’re an exception if you’re looking for it. Anything for you, of course.

I stand by the idea that they had some sort of commune or communal property. Out in the middle of nowhere, living off the land as much as possible. That’s what it’s all about, right? Following nature and using what’s given? Helping your neighbor and all? It may not be big or grand, but I know for a fact he’d have his partner share a room with him, if for no other reason just to have access to them. He’s got a bit of an extravagant decor style, but it’s in a way that feels quite cosy. Instead of painting walls he prefers to cover them in tapestries and sheets, he also has plants everywhere. He also definitely has a wicker hanging chair somewhere or other, he’s the only one that’s allowed to use it because he doesn’t trust anyone else to not break it.

Despite his beloved greasy appearance, he’s actually really particular about cleanliness. He may bathe a bit too much, which results just as much in his unkept appearance. He’s not a clean freak by any means, he just can’t stand the feeling of grime, especially his hair. Something about it is distracting. He can and will drag you into showers and baths with him. He’s doing it every night anyway, it’s such a nice form of intimacy. He likes washing your hair a lot.

Kappa writes. So much. He has stacks of journals filled with his philosophy, all written in black ink pen. Of course as a cult leader he has his own thoughts and agenda- naturally his thought process is how he gained a following in the first place. He likes to keep track of it all, though, keep his ideas in check. He’s got a typewriter he’ll pull out occasionally, too, if his thoughts run faster than his hands. He has a ton of other people’s books, as well. He’s not big on fiction at ALL, but he reads so much about science, wildlife, and world history. 

Often spends time in nature, in any way he can. He tends to drag the group on hikes, and nearly always ends up finding some pond to skinny dip in. It is absolutely not a sexual thing for him, it’s more of a devotional act to Mother Nature than anything, he’s not opposed to it ending up hot and heavy though. That’s just as much a part of the world to him, if it happens, he will certainly not complain. 

Big on pet names and nicknames. He’s got real specific ones for everyone in his group, based off things relevant to them. Things he associates with each of them. When it comes to partners, sexual or romantic, he gets extremely into pet names. “Sunshine”, and “babydoll”, and “darlin” all said like it’s absolutely nothing in the sweetest tone he has. Can’t forget the classic “sugar”, as well.

Quite the Prince Charming, he’s suave. He knows what to say to get what he wants out of something, just what words to use to make someone comfortable. Whether that’s manipulating followers, or just knowing how to make his partner feel nice, he’s quick to come up with something good to say. He’s also extremely skilled with deescalation and comfort, always knowing what words will trigger what emotions for what person  

He has the most calm, reassuring voice, too. For a man that can be so abrasive when needed, his resting voice is so sweet. Smooth, and almost gentle in nature. At times it comes across how you would speak to a child, but it’s not patronizing, it’s comfortable. He sometimes puts on that preacher-like tone if he thinks it will get people listening more, it fits his voice a little too good. Back to his deescalating skill, when a situation happens, a part of what helps him calm it so quickly is certainly his voice being so grounding. It’s a helpful skill to have in a space with so many people. 

Nsfw-

As stated before, I just don’t think he’d be this aggressive, overly dominant, guy. Not that he isn’t dominant, because I absolutely cannot see him doing anything else. He’s a leader, and good at barking orders, and his favorite thing in the world is being obeyed. Seeing someone under him. Of course he’s dominant behind closed doors, with you. However, I don’t think he’d be outright violent, not with his partner. It’s more about the mental manipulating, the hold on your brain he knows he won’t let go of.

He has a thing for control in general. At least playing the role of such, he could never take your full autonomy away, especially in such an intimate spot, but letting him control you is his favorite. He absolutely thrives on it. Telling partners what to do and going through with punishment when they don’t follow exact as he asked. Being the reason they reach an orgasm- or don’t. Even down to deciding when you breathe at times, hands on your throat, the cold metal of his rings being the only thing to ground you. You’d think he gets enough of it running a whole cult out there, but no, he’s gotta bring it into the bedroom too.

I can see Kappa, like many of the time, not having a preference for the gender or number of people he gets with. He can only put up with one romantic partner at a time, though, when you’re his you’re his but inviting others into play is something he is far from opposed to. He doesn’t mind who his partner hooks up with, and he would hope they don’t mind all the same. In fact, he thinks it’s hot to see you flirt with someone else. He’s not afraid to “we saw you across the bar and liked your vibes” someone if he can tell you’re into someone. He’s secure about his relationships. His only rule is no true sharing, he’s not fucking you with another person. He enjoys watching, he enjoys ordering, but if he’s inside of you it’s him alone.

Back to the aforementioned nickname pet-name thing, he has some he only uses on you when things get sexual. It’s partly a manipulative thing, a pavlov. That way when you’re out and about doing completely day to day things, he can pull an “angel’” or “honey” or “sweet thing” and suddenly you’re worked up. Maybe you don’t even realize that’s the reason why, ideally you’d never even notice. It’s no accident either, in fact he hand picked which names he’d use, things he thought fit his love.

Kappa loves dumbing people down, removing every thought from their brain. Overwhelming them until they become incoherent, knowing he’s the cause. Telling you all about how much smarter he is, how he just simply knows more. How you shouldn’t be thinking anyway, especially not when you’re alone together. It’s part of the control thing, but all the same, he just thinks it’s sweet how much people put trust in him for these things. They believe in him so much they’d go brainless under his touch, they’re willing- they want to so badly. He can’t help but get so incredibly worked up even thinking about it.

He’s got a corruption kink that could kill. Nothing turns him on more than finding some sweet thing, and slowly introducing them to the way he lives. The things he does in a day, the people, the things he’s into. Feeding them his beliefs, and giving them the impression that he knows something they don’t. He does, of course. Charming them into bed- maybe things start normal, but before you know it, he’s added in all these things you didn’t even know existed let alone knew you liked. Needing him more and more, desperately clawing at him, falling apart under him. He wouldn’t be able to contain himself if he god forbid found out you were a virgin, no matter how long it took, that would be his. He’s a man of the long game, every aspect of it is delicious to him.

Adores making sure that everyone in the room knows that no matter what you may do behind closed doors with others, you are his. He is absolutely not afraid to show affection in a group, especially in front of his followers. This includes sexually. He has been known to have you nearby in a common area, and let his hands wander. Groping your chest, hand down your pants, fingers gripping your hair. Leaving hickies all over your neck and chest, as if anyone needed more of a confirmation of who you belong to. Making you cum in a room full of people, all while he never breaks the conversation. He doesn’t need to do any of this, but something about how utterly flustered it makes you, and the power he feels drives him crazy.

Fiend for face fucking. He’s strangely gentle about it, only going for it if you bring it up first. Despite his needs and preferences, he’s aware of how this action in particular could be seen a degrading and as such he won’t even try to talk you into it. He wants you to associate it with pleasure, with feeling as good as he is, so you’ll opt for it more. Another subtle form of manipulation. Eventually you’ll realize that he falls apart if you offer to let him use your mouth when he’s angry or upset, which is a rare and quite beautiful sight. Of course you’ll start asking to help with his stress, over time maybe asking him to use you just for the sake of it, even.

He’s so incredibly good with dirty talk, to a degree that his words seem scripted. He will talk you through it and more. “Cmon, darlin’ you can go longer, yeah? A few more for me, hm?” and “Sweet thing, you are something else, do you see how worked up you get me?” and “Oh, honey, I know. It’s all so much. Stop fighting it, just let go f’me.” He lets whatever he knows will make you need him more come out of his mouth. He’s not incredibly vocal otherwise, though, just sharp breaths and quiet groans mostly. If you can get him to a point that he actually makes real noise, you know you’re doing something right.

Unfortunately strong breeding kink with this one, too, and not inherently in the form of “breed no pregnancy”, either. You think the leader of a spiritualist cult in the 60s doesn’t have a few kids? You’d be wrong, he can’t get enough of the idea, actually. It’s a possessive thing, a way of claiming. Not exactly the pregnancy aspect, just putting his seed inside your body is enough. Doesn’t even matter your anatomy, hes putting you in a mating press and mumbling about putting a baby in you. Even if he biologically can’t, he’s gonna fill you up. He’s never exactly trying for a baby, either way he’s getting his fix, but if he actually gets you pregnant? It almost makes the problem worse. He’s not backing off because he thinks you’re gross or something, he’s not a coward. He’ll take you all the same.

[cherryblossomcowgirl]

loml

*Taylor Swift inspired*

Glen Powell x popstar!ex!reader

WC: 1.8k

WARNINGS: breakup; angst; swearing; jealousy

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.

The Awards Show crowd is buzzing. I take a deep breath backstage and stare at the lone piano sitting before me. Would Glen be in the crowd? Would he realize I didn’t write this song for the movie? It’s about him, but it just so happened to fit perfectly with the biggest movie released this year. So here I am, getting ready to perform it live in front of a room full of Hollywood’s greatest. The lights begin to rise and the announcers voice booms over the speakers, “Ladies and gentlemen please welcome Y/n Y/l/n to the stage. She will be singing her hit song ‘loml’ from the movie ‘Fragments of Us’.” I steady my breathing while I walk to the piano, smiling out at the crowd. I am careful to not look closely, too afraid I will find his green eyes. Adjusting my dress, I sit down at the grand piano. My nerves settle as soon as my fingers graze the keys. I close my eyes for a moment, then I begin.

“Who's gonna stop us from waltzing

Back into rekindled flames?

If we know the steps anyway

We embroidered the memories

Of the time I was away

Stitching, "We were just kids, babe"

I said, "I don't mind, it takes time"

I thought I was better safe than starry-eyed

I felt aglow like this

Never before and never since”

The crowd is locked in to every word falling from my lips.

“If you know it in one glimpse, it's legendary

You and I go from one kiss to gettin married

Still alive, killing time at the cemetery

Never quite buried

In your suit and tie, in the nick of time

You lowdown boy, you stand up guy

Holy Ghost, you told me I'm

The love of your life

You said I'm the love of your life

About a million times”

There are teary eyes throughout the room. I quickly turn my gaze back to the piano, fear bubbling up inside of me.

“Who's gonna tell me the truth

When you blew in with the winds of fate

And told me I reformed you

When your impressionist paintings of Heaven

Turned out to be fakes

Well, you took me to hell, too

And all at once, the ink bleeds

A con man sells a fool a get-love-quick scheme

But I felt a hole like this

Never before, and ever since

If you know it in one glimpse

It's legendary

What we thought was for all time

Was momentary

Still alive, killing time at the cemetery

Never quite buried”

As the song progresses, I play with more intensity than before. My voice follows suit. Every emotion I felt while writing this song is hitting me 10x harder in this moment.

“You cinephile in black and white

All those plot twists and dynamite

Mr. Steal Your Girl, then make her cry

You said I'm the love of your life

You shit talked me under the table

Talking rings and talking cradles

I wish I could un-recall

How we almost had it all

Dancing phantoms on the terrace

Are they second-hand embarrassed

That I can't get out of bed?

Cause something counterfeit's dead”

I look out at the crowd during the piano part. My eyes meet the green ones I have been trying to avoid. I thought they’d be clouded with a look of anger or resentment, but instead I see genuine worry and sadness. Tears well up in mine, filled with the pain of seeing him. He looks polished. Perfect. Hollywood’s favorite movie star. The cracks that formed in my heart months ago spread rapidly. I sniffle and stare down at my hands playing the keys subconsciously. A single tear spills over and runs down my cheek.

“It was legendary

It was momentary

It was unnecessary

Should've let it stay buried

Oh, what a valiant roar

What a bland goodbye

The coward claimed he was a lion

I'm combing through the braids of lies

"I'll never leave" ...

"Never mind"

Our field of dreams, engulfed in fire

Your arson's match your somber eyes

And I'll still see it until I die

You're the loss of my life”

The final note simmers and the crowd erupts. Everyone is out of their seats, applauding and wiping tears. I stand up and bow. A quick glance at Glen tells me he is standing as well, applauding. His eyes are usually so bright and happy, but there is a cloud threatening to turn into a storm at any moment. I turn around quickly, heading back to the green room. Seeing him hurt isn’t easy. I want to comfort him, but I can’t. He left. He left me and maybe my song was a bit harsh, but it was the truth. Maybe I am overthinking it all and he thinks it is just for the movie. I sigh and throw myself onto the couch. My brother/head of security, Scott, opens the door, “Y/n, that was great. Have you decided which after party you want to go to?” I shake my head and wipe a tear that fell before he sees it, “I’d like to just go home, please.” He nods and steps into the hallway.

Glen rushes up to find Scott texting the driver to bring the car around. “No.” Glen sighs, “Please Scott. I need to see her.” Scott shakes his head, “Not a chance.” My brother hears my voice from inside the room, “Scott, I’m ready to go.” He turns towards Glen, “You need to let her move on. She’s been coming back piece by piece. I can’t see her broken again.” Glen is speechless, walking back to the main room. He continues about his night. All of the schmoozing and smiling for photos doesn’t distract him from the feeling in his stomach. He needed to see her. Glen calls his driver, praying that old apartment is still her hideout.

Scott kisses my head, “Call me if you need me, okay?” I nod, “Be safe. I love you.” He smiles as he shuts the door, “Love you more.” I look around my apartment. It’s nothing crazy, just a studio with the same furniture from when I first moved here. I’ve kept it all these years because it reminds me of… me. I doze off on the couch surrounded by my favorite candles and cuddled under a cozy blanket. A knock on the door makes me jump up, rubbing my eyes before looking through the peephole. I sigh. Glen clears his throat, “Please Y/n, I just want to talk.” Opening the door, I motion for him to come in. He follows me to the couch. I yawn, “Do you want tea or something?” Glen shakes his head. There’s a stretch of silence. I look at his green eyes, “You wanted to talk?” He stares down at his hands in his lap, “Is that really what you think of me?” His voice is barely above a whisper. I nod, “Yes, Glen. It is.” Tears flood his emerald eyes. He turns to me, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” A dry chuckle escapes my lips. A wave of hurt crashes over me again and I can’t hold it in any longer, “You said I was the love of your life. You showed me a kind of love that I wasn’t sure even existed. You promised me a lifetime. You told me you would never leave and then you left. Don’t sit here and tell me that you didn’t mean to hurt me, because you did. You hurt me, Glen.” He is silent as tears run down his cheeks.

In the stretch of silence my mind races. I need to know why he did it, it’s haunted me for months. I muster up the courage, “Tell me why. I deserve to know.” Glen’s eyes meet mine, “You wanted a husband. Kids. The house in the suburbs. After each big premiere I thought okay this is the time, but then another movie would come along. How can I be the husband you deserve when I am never home? I wanted you to be happy, even if that meant it wasn’t with me.” I bury my face in my hands and he leans in, rubbing my back. His touch is comforting, but I wish it wasn’t. My voice cracks through my sobs, “I don’t just want a husband and kids. I want you to be my husband. I want to have our kids. I don’t care if we are all around the world working, I just want to know you’ll always come home to me. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” He gently pulls me into his chest. His scent surrounds me, warm and inviting. We sit in the silence for a few moments. “Y/n, do you believe me when I say that I never stopped loving you?” I take a minute to think. In the past few months, I haven’t seen any photos of Glen out. That was one of my biggest fears after the breakup, seeing him with someone new. I look up at him, “I believe you.” He takes my hand in his, “Did you stop loving me?” I shake my head, “No. I wrote that song the night you left. I was so angry and confused.” His look of understanding starts to melt the ice that has accumulated around my heart. He runs his hand through his hair and chuckles, “I can’t lie, when I saw you doing the press tour for the film… I got jealous.” I giggle, “Of Chris? Or Pedro?” Glen sighs, “Both. But mainly Pedro.” We both double over laughing. Once I catch my breath I look down at my hands, “He was actually a really good friend to me. I cried on his shoulder… a lot.” A wave of sadness washes over Glen’s eyes. He gently grabs my chin, pulling my face up to him. His voice is soft, “Will you give me one more chance to be the man you deserve?” I take a deep breath, “You have to promise me something.” “Anything.” I search his green eyes for insincerity, but I can’t find any. My voice is shaky, “You have to promise me forever. No running away. Just you and me.” His smile lights up his entire face, “Deal.” “Just like that?” He nods, “Y/n, I have been lost without you. Seeing you up there tonight… hearing how you felt about us… it broke my heart. I tried to find you right after, but Scott wouldn’t let me.” A chuckle escapes my lips, “I spent a lot of time crying on his shoulder too.” Glen pulls me in close and his arms feel like home. I listen to his heartbeat, strong and steady. He takes a deep breath, “I know I’ve said it a million times, but you are the love of my life.”

[temis-de-leon]

Dear MC... My Beloved MC...

Characters: Satan x gn!reader

500 followers masterlist

Main Masterlist

Prompts used: confession + accidental confession + sneaking glances + love letter

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You’re being obvious.

Too damn much.

MC’s words repeated in their mind for well over an hour, but nothing could stop them from ignoring the book on their lap to look at Satan instead. Thankfully, he was distracted with the latest edition of Every Devildom’s Cat Enthusiast’s Encyclopedia, but there was still a thin line between discreetly checking him out and blatantly staring at him for a whole evening and MC would soon cross it if they didn’t control themselves.

But how could they?

Trying to ignore his presence after all they discovered was humanly impossible and, unfortunately, they were very much human.

But something didn’t make sense, not coming from him. If MC had to use a word to describe Satan, that would be blunt. Sure, he was intelligent, pragmatic and quite adorable when it came to his dear feline friends, but above all, he was direct and unafraid to share his true thoughts. That didn’t mean he was inconsiderate, however. On the contrary, he made them feel seen and heard, ensuring they were well cared for and happy.

The words in his letters said so. His wish was to see them thrive and to be by their side the whole time, sharing memories and holding each other. MC wondered, feeling both guilty and honoured, how much of his expensive stationery he had wasted in writing all those confessions only for them to end up covered in blots of ink and discarded under his bed and his endless pile of books.

Although they had to admit, their name was prettier in his handwriting, even when crossed out.

Satan gasped in the chair before them, suddenly breaking the peace of the library and making MC’s heart beat its way up their throat. They looked at him with blushed cheeks, afraid of the possibility of having been caught, but the demon was purely focused on his encyclopedia. His eyes were wide open in fascination, no doubt marvelling at the discovery of a new cat fact.

“Look, MC!” he shouted in a whisper despite them being the only ones in the room. MC could only watch and hope the chimney explained the warmth in their cheeks as Satan got up and sat on their chair’s armrest. He showed them a picture of a medieval painting. The ugliest rendition of a cat stared, with what looked like existential dread, at MC’s soul. “Do you think there were cats that looked like this back then?”

“I sure hope not” they mustered, not moving their sight out of the picture to avoid his gaze. “It looks like Belphie drew it”

The breath of his chuckle reached them and MC had to force themselves to not get startled and recoil, even when their shoulders ached to shrink and hide their exposed skin. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to realise that.

“Are you liking the book?

“Hm? The book…?”

Oh, yeah.

The book.

The whole reason why they went to his room in the first place.

In reality, MC already had said book and so did the bookshelves in the library, just not the same edition as him, which had the hand-written letters the characters themselves sent to each other in the story, maps and author notes regarding the lore and the investigation behind it.

It was a murder mystery fused with an impossible love. Also, the protagonist had a playful, yet lazy cat.

It was right up Satan’s alley.

And he had wanted to share it with them.

However, he happened to forget about his own love letters, thrown across the floor of his room in frustration and visible to anyone who dared open the door.

“You know I already like it” said MC with a nervous laugh, thankful for already reading the book days ago. “Though, I admit, the cover is beautiful”

“I’m glad you agree! I know the artist who did it, actually”

Now, why wasn’t that surprising?

MC fondly smiled as they listened to him, not so subtly studying his features, illuminated by the fireplace, and the curve of his smile when he talked.

“His wife is his muse and he uses flowers for hidden meanings. These on the cover mean something like undying love and trust; the dog represents loyalty, but I think a cat would’ve been better”

That managed to finally make them laugh, which caught his attention. He stared at them in surprise and poorly hidden tenderness, leaning over them to put his arm behind their back. MC tried to stare back, his written words reverberating in their mind more than any other time during the evening, but the weight of the silence was too much to bear.

“So what’s your…”

“I have to tell you…”

MC stopped talking, cheeks flushed in deep embarrassment as he also stayed quiet and nodded his head to ask them to continue, but it was like they’d forgotten how to talk. What was he going to say? Was he going to keep talking about the book? And what were they going to say?

Yeah, so I have to tell you something. When I went for this romance book to your room I saw all the different ways you love me. Isn’t that cool or what?

They’d rather die.

“You have to tell me…?”

“Nothing!” they interrupted him in a hurry, drowning even deeper in shame when his face contorted in surprise, eyes open wide and eyebrows raised. Lowering their face to avoid looking at him, MC grabbed the book until their knuckles turned white and got up, back facing him the entire time. “I’m going to get a shower; talk to you after dinner”

They were lucky they didn’t trip on the carpet, seeing how fast they fled the room. Falling in front of him after all of that was truly the last thing they needed, but they hoped an entire waterfall of warm water and a homecooked dinner would be enough to help them relax and think straight before coming clean to him.

.

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Except they didn’t even get to dinner.

Perhaps an hour after the mortifying situation, MC found themselves staring at their blurry silhouette in the foggy mirror while tightening a towel around themselves. They were trying to enjoy the remnants of the warmth, vapour still floating in the air, but their mind was too busy and their heart was about to go crazy.

The ink from their name bleeding on the paper as Satan’s indecision had stopped him from finishing the letters remained in their mind, mixing with every part of their body and making them smile like a child with an earnest crush. A part of them regretted ever entering the room, consequently ruining the surprise of being confessed to, but the relief of knowing he loved them back was bigger and more powerful.

Oh, how they wished they could ignore everything and let him confess when he seemed fit, but witnessing such a vulnerable part of him without his knowing left a sour taste in their mouth; the best MC could do was admit what they’d seen and confess their own feelings while they were at it.

With a sudden sense of courage, they got out of the bathroom, immediately jerked at the coldness of the room, and went straight to their closet to get dressed. No one would care if they had dinner in their nightclothes; worse things had happened in that house. However, as soon as they finished and closed the drawer, a pounding rattled the door.

“MC!”

It was Satan, and he sounded impatient. Not like they could blame him.

What would it be better, open the door for him or allow him to enter? In that case, should they welcome him standing or sitting down? On the bed, the table? Cross-legged…? Would he think they were mocking him if they smiled? Should they stay serious?

“Are you there?” he asked with a tinge of nerves. A couple of seconds later, the doorknob slightly twisted, a sign of someone on the other side hesitating to open.

“Yes!” answered MC, rushing to let him in while mentally scolding themselves for the impulsiveness; but just as they were about to grab the knob, the door came right at them and a flash of yellow and green appeared in their vision, blue eyes in the midst of it all.

There were a few moments of silence between them and MC used them all to study his expression. Embarrassment, apprehension, hope… His cheeks were blushing furiously and he was avoiding eye contact, just like they had done to him at the library before.

“I won’t dance around the subject” he said. Blunt. Satan took a hand to his chest as if trying to subdue the beating of his heart and finally asked the dreaded question. “You saw the letters, didn’t you?”

It was only fair to be direct as well.

“Yes”

“So you know”

That wasn’t a question, but MC still felt the need to confirm it.

“I do”

I do too, they wanted to say. I love you too. But Satan beat them to it, closing the door behind him to give them more privacy.

“This wasn’t how I envisioned it, you know? I was just practising because I wanted it to be perfect, but nothing sounded right. Why I fell for you, how I feel for you, what I want for us… There were too many things I tried to say, but I feared it would be excessive for a letter and I kept correcting it. I realize now that I should’ve been more direct in my approach, so, MC: I love you. And I always will. I can only wish you feel the same”

His sincerity was overwhelming and it covered them in a coat of warmth. His eyes were glossy with hope, but his lips barely formed a smile, not daring to get ahead.

“Tell me all those things” finally said MC as loud as they could manage, barely a whisper. “I promise it won’t be enough”

They just hoped no one would come and ruin the moment.

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Taglist: @ilovecandys2010  @ollieoven @kingofspadesdelusion @whimsybloom @tinyweebsstuff

@ay-chuu 🫶🏻

[venomwrites]

She is trying to remember where the kitchen is when she hears the sound. 

Sobbing. 

Vi is at the door instantly, ear pressed against it. It’s so faint. Before she can think too much she twists the doorknob and prepares to put her shoulder through the door. But the knob twists and the door opens as Vi throws herself into the room. She was going to avoid it as long as possible, the weight of what they planned in this room is still crippling. Her eyes fly over to the wall where they planned all their sins. She’s had so many fucking nightmares about standing here. Agreeing to everything, suggesting shit. All of her home was displayed on the wall and she focused on it being there like it belonged. Like she could belong. Instead of focusing on what really mattered. 

The plans litter the floor now. 

The have been torn down frantically. The long map clings to the wall with a single pin and falls to the ground. The edges are torn and pulled apart, some of the layers almost translucent. The magnifying glass is laying cracked on the ground, like a split eye. When Vi steps forward glass crunches under her boot. Pins scatter the floor as well. Some puncture red string. That’s not the only red. Blood dots some of the paper as well. It’s fancy paper, something Vi had no idea existed. It feels heavy in your hands and it’s just thick enough that if you run your fingers along it wrong it slices them. Caitlyn’s too practiced to slice her fingers on paper. Or she was. 

Above it all, Caitlyn stands by the fire.

Weeping. 

Blood from her cut fingers streaks down her face. Some of it mixes with her tears and paints pink streaks down her cheeks. Vi has spent months dragging grease down her own face, painting black lines where Caitlyn now cries pink. Her hair is wild and unbound. If Vi had to guess there’s blood there too. Vi knows she shouldn’t be here. Caitlyn looks at her in tearful shock when she throws herself into the room. But she’s so worked up that even if she fights it, her inhale is shallow, hitched and wet. Her next exhale is a sob. 

That breaks Vi’s stupor. 

She crosses the room to Caitlyn and bands her arms around her. Caitlyn tenses and then melts into the embrace. Her fingers clutch the back of Vi’s shirt as she wails her grief and anger into Vi’s chest. They’ve been here before. They were so different back then. So much has changed between them. But not the way she brings her shoulder up and tucks Caitlyn’s head against her cheek. Not the way Caitlyn lets go in the safety of her arms. It’s not a few sobs this time. This is months of pain and rage and grief. This is the bridge, the way her mother’s eyes stared up at her unseeing. The way it felt like the wind had been knocked out of her like she fell. 

Vi pulls Caitlyn with her to the couch and draws her into her lap. Caitlyn goes willingly, fits herself around Vi and just weeps. She sobs ugly, guttural sounds Vi didn’t even think Caitlyn was capable of making. She soaks Vi’s shoulder and the crook of her neck. Vi can feel wetness travel along her ink. Vi’s tattoo was a promise wrapped in grief. Now Caitlyn adds hers to it. Vi imagines the pink tears turning the flare smoke violet. Her hope for her sister meeting the very real consequences of her actions. It all bears down on Vi’s shoulders. But Vi’s been training her entire life to cary the weight. If only someone will give it to her. Caitlyn chokes on a word and Vi cups the back of her neck. 

“S-she said—she said maybe I was strong e-engough to forgive,” Caitlyn gasps around sobs, “I don’t!” She lets out a wordless wail, “it hurts—“

“I know, I know,” Vi says. Caitlyn lets out a sound that might be a protest and starts to tense, “my parents,” she reminds her, “Enforcers.”

Caitlyn collapses back against her at the reminder. The fresh wave of tears spread to Vi’s spine and drag down her back along the tower. Down to the base of her spine like the base of the Lanes. Where she came from. Even though Vi has spent her entire life trying to go back to a place that no longer exists, she has gone home. And each time, each fucking time, she finds Caitlyn there. Each time Caitlyn hefts her over her shoulder and each time they fight their way out. She would have bet money the last time was the last time. But she thinks now if she were to run back there again, somehow Caitlyn would find her eventually. They would fight their way back together. Caitlyn takes another great gasping sob and lifts her head to look around at all of their sins. But Vi slides her hand up and guides her back. 

“Not now,” she says.

“But—“

“It’s not going anywhere.”

The guilt is a knot in her own stomach. She went along with this when she knew better. When she thinks back it makes her stomach crawl. Everything Vander said about being a leader rings false. Caitlyn was the leader but Vi feels the weight of their sins all the same.  She knows every paper that lays scattered around them. She pinned some of them up and told herself the feeling in her guts was guilt over what Jinx did. Not guilt over what she was doing. Jinx is the instigator but Vi was the shrapnel. Jinx builds the bombs and Vi hands her the crystals. And somehow Caitlyn is caught in that explosion. Jinx runs, Vi hunts and somehow the blood that winds up on the paper is Caitlyn’s. It doesn’t justify anything. Nothing can justify their actions. But the truth of it glistens up at her, bathed in the fire’s glow. 

Caitlyn weeps herself to the point of exhaustion. Until she’s too tired to do anything but rest her head against Vi’s shoulder and sniffle. She’s so tall but in that moment she feels impossibly small against Vi’s chest. Vi keeps one arm over her knees and the other curves around her shoulder, one hand by her elbow. The black turtleneck is pushed up and her pale skin is flecked with blood. Even though she has sobbed endlessly, tears still trickle down Caitlyn’s cheeks. The blood is dotted against her forehead. In a twisted way it almost looks like a crown. Or the edge of her beret. Caitlyn lets out another shaky breath but her inhale only has the slightest hitch.

“I thought she would stop me.”

Vi brushes her thumb against Caitlyn’s elbow. Her voice is faint and hoarse, she seems too tired to think about what she should say. The words just spill numbly out. Vi doesn’t know who is supposed to stop her. Before she can think to ask, Caitlyn squeezes her eyes shut and presses her face into Vi’s chest, her hand clenching the cotton. 

“She always stopped me when I went too far.”

Something in Vi’s heart cracks as Caitlyn dissolves into sobs again. She can picture Caitlyn’s mom so easily. The way she looked exasperated at Caitlyn staggering home dressed like that with a girl. Even then Vi got the distinct impression she was not the first girl Caitlyn brought in through the balcony. There had been love there. Even then. Even with all the wealth and privilege there was love between a mother and a daughter. But there had been something else. A string between them with a bead rolling towards Caitlyn. Caitlyn wasn’t just her mother’s daughter. She was her heir. Her mom didn’t just have to raise her, she had to make sure she was ready. She has no problem imagining Caitlyn’s mom looking at the map of Zaun Caitlyn concocted and scolding her for it. She’s dead, Caitlyn saw her body. And some part of her still believed her mom would appear when she went too far. 

“What would she say?” Vi asks as Caitlyn’s sobs turn dry and pained. Vi can feel the panic starting, “hey,” she says, trying to draw Caitlyn’s attention, “tell me what she’d say.”

“Really, Caitlyn” she mumbles into Vi’s shirt, “hasn’t this gone far enough?” Her breath hitches but she drags a proper inhale, “then she’d send me to go shoot while someone cleaned the mess up,” her fingers tighten in Vi’s shirt, “while she cleaned my mess up.”

Caitlyn can be so painfully young sometimes. Vi has spent her life vaulting over empty chasms with only the hard ground below. She has to land on the other side or her skull will be cracked open. That risk has never been a part of Caitlyn’s life. She’s always had safety net after safety net and somewhere below that is a soft mattress like one on her bed. The fear has never even crossed her mind. It’s never had to. As they sit there surrounded by Caitlyn’s blood and grief, it occurs to Vi that this might be the first mess Caitlyn has ever had to clean up on her own. Her father is a ghost, her mother is gone. Ambessa’s taunts are in the back of Vi’s mind. Her absence isn’t the only vacuum here. She sits with Caitlyn until her breathing is steady enough. No panic, no sobs. She stops rubbing her thumb along Caitlyn’s elbow and gives it a squeeze. Caitlyn shifts her head upwards. 

“Let’s clean this up,” she says. 

“No,” Caitlyn sits up and wipes at her cheeks, “no, I’ve asked enough of you. Gods—”

“Hey,” Vi puts her hand on her leg. 

Her fingers touch the scar she knows is hidden under Caitlyn’s pants. Caitlyn knows it too. She drops her hands into her lap. There’s fresh blood on her face now from her cut fingers. Her tears cut through some of it, but some of it stays. It makes the monster Caitlyn has become even more real. There’s no pretty lies here, no impenetrable facade. There’s just grief and pain and guilt. Vi uses her other hand to touch Caitlyn’s chin and bring their eyes together. The tears and the blood trickle along Vi’s knuckles. But Vi doesn’t care. Her hands have been bloody her entire life. 

“Lets do this together.”

Caitlyn hesitates for a moment and then finally gives a small, miserable nod. Vi pushes herself up before she can change her mind. They feed the fire with torn plans and photographs and bits of red string. Navigating on half memories Vi finds the small box and begins to drop the pins in. Caitlyn finds a bigger box and collects the pieces of glass. They work together quietly, mumbling warnings to each other when they discover something sharp. They work together and reveal the room hidden underneath the hunt. When the last pin is put away, the last sketch burned and the last piece of glass dropped in it’s box, the lean against the couch and look at the empty board. 

There’s still some glass dust on the floor, still drops of red, but it looks a lot better. Caitlyn holds the cracked magnifying glass against her thigh and rests he head against Vi’s shoulder. 

“It looks so strange,” she says quietly, “so—“

“Empty,” Vi finishes. 

The effects of the board still echo around the city. They will always echo around it. It seems unfair that what they planned here could have such an effect but this won’t. All the glass and blood and pins and the world outside the window is unchanged. Broken. Broken in the way that they broke it. But the board is empty now. Room has been made for something more. Something new. For the first time since she came back here, Vi feels something like hope start to churn in her gut. Her hand covers Caitlyns where it rests on top of the glass. 

The board is empty and there’s so much to do, but Vi lets herself wonder what they’ll put on it next. 

[sanhatipal]

"Noble d'Apchier"

A little watercolor painting of Chloe,with the Zorn palette! I found out about this palette a while ago and I really wanted to try it out! (More on that below )

Chloe's hair is something I adore, it's gotta be one of my absolute favourite character designs ever,I love how swirly and fluffy it is,very fun to draw. I've drawn her normally before,I wanted to do one with her vampire eyes and fangs too. I decided to try to draw a white fuzzy rim around the foreground against the plain background,for a change,like in some of the VnC panels.

The Zorn palette,or Apelles Palette was a colour scheme used by Anders Zorn in the late Victorian/Early Edwardian era. It ,or something similar,might have been used by artists of old civilizations too, because it avoids the use of blue and green entirely: which would eliminate the need for rare pigments . It's essentially a colour mixing challenge,to draw the entire paintings with 4 pigments,2 basic colours: Ochre yellow, Vermillion,and Black and white,which can be mixed into different shades. It can be an excellent exercise and means for portrait painting

Modern artists use red instead of vermillion,but the essence is the same. So that's what I did too. I considered using vermillion,but I realised that it would introduce a lot of yellow tint, making the picture very warm. Which is usually something I prefer honestly,but not what I was going for here. Also,I need to consider the fact that I'm a watercolour artist,which is very different from the original intended palette. Zorn used oil paints,but other artists use it fine for gouache and acrylic too, however,that too is different from watercolor, because instead of mixing with white, I'll be diluting with water,which changes the composition of the palette considerably. So I went with these supplies: ochre yellow and red watercolor pencils (for me, basically watercolor pigments,I don't use them to draw,I grind and dissolve them in water),white and black watercolor tubes,and white ink. In addition: lineart with sepia,grey and black brush pens,which are well within the bounds of the palette

To be honest,I ended up not using the white paint tube at all,water makes more sense to me. I didn't use anything else though,and stuck with the original materials.And the results:

Does it work? Hell yeah. It's not perfect,but I'm happy with how she turned out

Was it restricting? That's kind of the point,to paint with some limitations

Was it hard? Honestly? No. Not at all. It's definitely very different from what I'm used to,I use a lot of colours both as is and mixed,but this was surprisingly easy. Perhaps because of my subject,which didn't have much colour to begin with

Do I recommend it? If you want a small challenge,or to experiment or practice colour mixing,definitely

Will I do it again ? Absolutely. I feel like I haven't utilised much of the potential of this palette. I ended up using mainly red and black, hardly any yellow at all. So I'd like to do something more colourful with this palette, perhaps a sunny painting of a gingerhead girl with flowers,and for this I'll probably use vermillion,not red

Anyways, that's all! If you read all this,thank you for your time!!

[bardraelyn]

Hi, I saw your comment on a locked post about majoring in comic books, and was wondering would you be so kind please if you have a moment I would love to hear every single thing about that if you have any old info dumps that is so fascinating??

I was not aware that was something a person could do

Hi! Sorry for taking so long to reply; I don't check Tumblr very often.

You can absolutely major in comic books. At some schools, it will be listed as sequential art. That's how it's listed at SCAD, which is where I got my degree. It was the first college to offer a sequential art major; the other schools were comics-focused technical schools founded by comic book artists. Now there are more colleges and universities that offer courses, minors (often under an illustration major), or even majors in comics.

A major in comics covers a lot of different aspects of the comics-making process along with providing a solid foundation in fine art. I took classes in art history, drawing basics (that is, learning to see and render shapes and negative space, light and shadow, and local color, i.e. the color an object is without the influence of color in the light applied to the object), perspective drawing, figure drawing, human and animal anatomy, the history of comics, comics scriptwriting, penciling comics, inking comics, digital coloring for comics, painting for comics, comics cover art, comics lettering, and character design for comics and animation.

If studying comics is something you're interested in doing, there are a lot of options, but be forewarned that many of them are ridiculously expensive, and some of the schools out there are less than reputable. My advice would be to avoid any private for-profit schools, and look instead at public or private not-for-profit schools. Most public not-for-profits will be local colleges and state universities. Art schools typically fall under private for-profit (ex: Full Sail) or private not-for-profit (ex: SCAD) and are generally expensive. If you decide to go to an art school, get as many of your basic classes out of the way as you can at a state or community college before transferring, to minimize the amount of student loan money you borrow. Most reputable schools will work with you to help you select classes that will transfer, but you'll need to handle reaching out to admissions in both your starting school and your transfer school to coordinate.

If you are highly motivated, you can learn a lot of the same things I did on your own, without a degree program. You'll miss out on the feedback you get from professors and peers in classes, but it's a heck of a lot cheaper, and many early comic book artists started out in exactly that way. If you pair this route with a degree in business, you'll have the skills to market yourself effectively as an artist. And you can still get feedback if you reach out to artist communities online or in your area; it just may not be comics-specific.

The place to start learning on your own would be with all of the following:

Scott McCloud's series on comics, starting with Understanding Comics (literally the textbook for many of my sequential art classes, and it's written in comic book form), then Making Comics and Reinventing Comics.

The Art of Comic Book Writing: The Definitive Guide to Outlining, Scripting, and Pitching Your Sequential Art Stories by Mark Kneece. (Mark was my scriptwriting prof.)

The Essential Guide to Comic Book Lettering by Nate Piekos.

Perspective! for Comic Book Artists: How to Achieve a Professional Look in your Artwork by David Chelsea.

Any number of books on figure drawing (making sure to include books that specialize on hands and feet, heads, facial expressions, and drawing figures of differing body weights). Burne Hogarth has a pretty good figure drawing series, but there are many others. A lot of artists I know like the Morpho series.

And as I mentioned in that comment you saw, comics is definitely not a "useless" degree. However, how much use you can get out of it and what you can earn depends on how flexible you are with what you want do for a living. Getting stuck on the idea of only doing comics might make it challenging to build a lucrative income (hence the strong advice to avoid expensive art schools). I combined my art school degree with a degree in English, then took a circuitous route through teaching and other creative professions to eventually land a job developing corporate training content, which I enjoy and which uses my creative skills, but not in a way that burns me out, so I'm still able to apply those skills to my own passions outside of work. It also pays really well, but it took a while to get here, and I'll be paying off student loans for a long time to come. For me, it was worth the cost, but not everyone will feel the same.

I hope that covers everything you might want to know, or at least gives you a starting place if you want to learn more!

[howlsofbloodhounds]

I’ve already talked about how I think Delta tinkers with mechanics and engineering and how he helps the Stars upkeep their gadgets, armor, and weapons. And was thinking maybe Ink would wanna try giving this new form of creation a shot so they go to Delta’s garage, and the two of them try to put together a car together.

Only Ink keeps forgetting where everything is supposed to go, he gets distracted easily, and the lack of colors bores (unsettles) them, so instead Delta hands Ink some of some paper and pens and old blueprints of his own for Ink to use as an example and now Ink has the fun excitement of being able to use their art skills and passion to piece together a blueprint for a car that Delta can make them. And he even gets to paint and design the coat after!

Maybe it even becomes a group project of Dream and Blue using their strength to haul the heavy pieces over for Delta to put into place (he could help, but he prefers the actual putting together parts), and Ink, Core, and Sugar Plum (Lust, but I prefer to call him Sugar Plum) all sit off to the side to both observe the other three working and to help Ink come up with ideas to paint the car.

Ink, of course, has a tendency to ramble all of their ideas—sometimes he changes topic mid sentence and needs a moment to regain his chain of thought, sometimes he forgets what he was talking about and needs a reminder, sometimes he sprouts out new ideas that are hard for the others to keep track of their line of thought, especially with how fast they can talk—but they’re all good, attentive listeners who chime in their own ideas occasionally.

Delta relates to being excited about something you’re passionate in and being able to share that excitement with trustworthy friends, and the others all understand how important art and various forms of creation are to Ink, and none of them mind his ramblings even if it’s loud, hard to keep track of, and they might forget somethings (both Ink and themselves would forget.) They all find it various levels of endearing and are use to it by now.

He gets even more excited when the final piece is put in and the entire car is assembled and they get to finally paint it. The results were time consuming, very bright colors and seemingly random patterns, but all come together to paint a very beautiful, unique, but also thought out design.

Ink’s never really had a need for a car, least of all for himself, with their trusty Broomie around. But Blue agrees to drive them all around the Omega Timeline for a test ride and it’s one of the greatest things Ink can remember, they get so excited they even puke some paint up on the side of the road. Dream pukes too so Ink can only assume his friend was just as excited.

(Nope, Dream was carsick/motion-sick and terrified. This guy has never been in a car in his life, grew up in a time where they didn’t exist yet, and avoided them like the plague once exploring the Multiverse.)

[besideprimroseshade]

ᴳᵒᵈ ⁱˢʰ ᵀʷˢᵗ ˣ ⁱᵐᵐᵒʳᵗᵃˡ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ CH: 2

CH: 1

"I'm getting excited on the contrary"

TW: Suggestive comments

    Y/N's current alias:

    Ell Clocke

    Alias No. 161

    Date: 1300

    "Why would you pick that book out of all?  I mean, it's nothing more than some fanatic's fantasy.  Nothing worth contemplating about".  He sighs and you shoot back Will you shut up for a few minutes?  I'm trying to read, you know, do something actually productive.  Instead of listening to whatever crap that comes outta your mouth.  Idle chatter should I say?"  He huffs "Ugh!  This is why you dropped out of school, my professors would be sorely disappointed in such a lackluster person like yourself".  You remember what page you're on and set your book to the side "Good thing I don't suck up to professors then, unlike someone here.  People actually enjoy my presence, dunno if you've noticed, but everyone here would kill you if it were legal".  He blanches and mutters something "Y-you're wrong, such a notion is inconceivable.  The people adore me, a brain such as mine surely deserves respect!" you shrug "Tell that to the townspeople, everyone here fucking hates you, and the fact that you with your great brain can't see that your holier-than-thou attitude is the reason why you don't have anyone who would actually care if you died is something..."

    "Wait... are you revealing to me that you wouldn't care if I died?" he freezes, a sort of realization washing over him.

    "Wow, the great mind finally realized.  What did you expect?  Me to cry when you die?  The guy who said that I'll be nothing 'cause I got B's and not A+'s?  The guy who every day told me that my dreams weren't anything, that mom and dad just had me to compare my dullness to your brightness?  You should've been a comedian instead of a scholar, 'cause that's too fucking funny".  Your words cut like the sharpest of ice, frigid and unforgiving.  

    "I... I was joking!  Of course you couldn't take a joke, you're too sensitive..." comes the attempt to shake away the guilt.

  "At least I can feel things…” you quip back.     He takes a furious sip of his tea and coughs it out “W-what curious concoction is this?  This is surely not my tea!”.  Your eyes move to the snow white Persian cat in the corner of the parlor, lazing on her pillow.  Cotton, your mother’s most prized pet, a spoiled cat given as a gift from your father.  “Oh, Cotton peed in the cup, it must’ve slipped my mind to inform you…”

    The memory fades as you fade back to your tea, the faces swirling like the milk in the tea.  “That damned dipshit” you utter before grabbing a broom and flinging open your front door.  Your porch was decently decorated, with starch white paint on the walls and the beams supporting up the thing.  Thankfully the paint did not contain lead, or maybe it did, that might’ve explained why the townspeople avoided you like you were crazy.  A few plants in pots stood in neat rows by the front window, delicate little flowers grown from a variety of seeds.  But now was not the time to admire your handiwork.  Angrily sweeping your front porch and ignoring the clouds of dust that plague your vision.  Your brother never did get his dream…     You learned that for all of his labor, he was only remembered as a pretentious wannabe who tried so hard to make it big in the world of knowledge that he ended up only becoming famous for his attempts.  A local legend of your town.  After centuries of him being dead, you were still petty.       Continuing your furious sweep you barely notice the child staring at you from behind one of the poles.  Only stopping your sweep to take a few breaths, “What do you want kid?” You turn to meet their gaze.  A tiny lanky thing, who probably didn’t even reach your hip, with striking eyes the same shade as the blazing garnet ring your least favorite aunt always showed off.  Thick dark hair that reminded you of ink, silky and black, cut short above their shoulders.  Their outfit prim, with a neat white shirt dark brown pants.  Their ears confirmed that they were a fairy, small and pointed.       “You appear to be angered with something” they observe with a voice so quiet it seemed hardly a whisper.  They stand there, hiding, unsure of whether to approach the curiously angry stranger, or run off back into the forest.  “Just blowing off some steam” you reassure them before leaning your broom against the wall.  “I’m not gonna hurt you, ‘sides, you’d probably be more of a threat to me than vice versa” you admit, watching as their grip on the pole lightens, a few creaks from the wood reverberating off the porch’s roof.  “So uh… what brings you to my place?  Pure curiosity?  Or did I anger a fae?”  You continue, waiting for any sort of reaction.         “I hast stumbled upon your abode by chance, tis an interesting place.  Any sane human would place their home as far as possible from a fairy.  But your abode is right in the middle of our territory.  I can feel the magic everywhere” they respond at last.     

    “I’m not like most humans…” you say, half joking half seriously.  “I can feel that, there is something heavy around you.  Many feelings are wound up inside you, like a boiling pot of stew, ready to bubble over and burn at any second” comes their swift response.  “Thanks for the reading… but I don’t have anything to give ya’ unless you’re hungry for some leftover bread and cheese from this mornings meal” you admit.  They shake their head, “No thank you, my lady said to never trust strangers.  There is no shortage of people willing to take advantage of you”.  You nod slowly “Your lady is right, tis better to be safe then found dead in a ditch I suppose”.       “Shall I call you something?”     “Fae never give out their names”     “That’s right, you’ve got good instincts too”     “Are you going to give me your name?”     “Nah”

    That was the beginning of your encounters with that little faerie.  He never did give you his name, but simply told you that it was similar to a flower.  You ended up telling him your name though, so that he would stop calling you the ‘abnormal human’.  He wasn’t wrong though, normal humans weren’t immortal.  Normal humans didn’t challenge gods in hopes of death.  Normal humans didn’t use their fathers invitation to a school and assumed his identity.  You learned more about your little visitor.  He was a servant of nocturnal fae’s princess.  A little bat fae at the very bottom of the fae hierarchy, raised in luxury.  Trained to serve his lady’s every whim.  What a dreary existence… you thought. 

    In exchange for tidbits about his life you gave him some from yours.  How you challenged a god and got immortality in return.  “You are an idiot” he thought aloud as he took a spoon from one of your cabinets and grabbed a dish labeled for him.  “What is this?” He inquired suspiciously “A treat, leftovers from a friend’s party” you reply.  The little fae sniffed it curiously before digging in.  “Pear…” he said at last before finishing the dessert in a few seconds.       “Someone’s hungry” you grab a few cherries from a basket full of farmer’s market goods.  "That is none of your concern" he comments.  "Damn, you're quick to anger" you slightly tease.

    That was the last time you saw him that small, he never did grow much taller.  But there was something different about him, not just that he was visibly different.  But he seemed different, bore a different air about him, something sickening, but you could never put a finger on it.  It was unsettling, the curious gleam in his scarlet eyes faded away in favor of a hateful sheen.  His slit pupils constantly in a state of fury.  How he shook off your concern with a glare, was this how your parents felt with you?  His hair was now welcome to dyed streaks of red, a unique choice for sure. 

    You dabbed one of his more severe wounds with a cotton ball.  "Humans can never keep their hands to themselves" you mutter as you rub a salve on his injured arm.  Tone akin to a chiding parent's as you clean and bandage his arm.  "Tut tut, I told you not to play with those mean boys and their toys", the boys in question being men and the toys being weapons.  "You're not my parent dumbass" to which you shake your head teasingly "I know, but seeing you grow up to be such a strong fighter has certainly had some sort of parental affect on me".  He side-eyes you "That's so fucking sweet it's annoying...".  Playfully wacking the top of his head you smile "Language little one..."

"Fuck you" he mutters irritated.

"No one will sadly..." you respond with a sigh.

"I hate you"

"Such is the fate of every parent, I suppose.  Whatever happened to that sweet little faerie I encountered?  Now there's just this crass thing in his place"

   •✧• Centuries later •✧•

    Current Alias

    Hanakoto Y/N

    Orientation went smoothly, you personally didn't care which dorm you were placed in, so long as you'd be left alone for the most part.  You rolled your shoulders back as you stepped up to meet the gaze of the Dark Mirror.  For some reason the Ceremonial Robes felt heavier upon your arms.  As if they were weighing you down... pulling you away from your fate.  Feeling the hundreds of eyes staring at you with a variety of emotions.  The weight of their gaze not helping. 

    You stared at the Mirror as it boomed the familiar words to you that it had to many students before you.

   "The shape of thy soul is..."

   "Tenacious... therefore you are fit for Pomefiore"

    As you walk down the steps to the crowd of Pomefiore students, you hear a scoff.  Turning to face the student you're face to face with some pretty blonde student with tacky violet ends and amethysts for eyes.  "Is there a problem?" you scoff back.  He glares at you before turning back to see what new students would be joining him.  Grumbling about "potatoes".  You take an empty spot between a couple of fellow first years.  "The fuck is his problem?" you mutter glaring daggers at the back of his head. 

    Vil Schoenheit could feel holes being bored into the back of his head, probably from that insolent potato that he just bothered to stare at.  What was their problem?

   The dinner at your new dorm was luxurious, it felt like the dinners that fae had described to you, while the Queen of Briarland was entertaining nobles. There were plates piled high with delicacies, food that you had only read about, it was absolutely delicious, but that damned student from earlier kept shooting you glares.  As if everything you did earned his ire.  Like he was personally offended by your existence...  You were from a family of farmers but damn, his attitude towards you was worse than those falsely compassionately officals that pretended to take pity on the plight of farmers.  The same people that made it possible for them to stuff their faces with rich sauces and soups, those addicting desserts and prized drinks. 

    Not to mention that blonde with the bob who sat next to him kept smiling and complimenting him, lathering on the praise for him until it creeped you out.  You could've mistaken him for your brother, always showering famous scholars that he encountered with so much praise you thought that he was in love with them.  Those crusty old men who sat pondering alongside other crusty men who agreed with their every word.  This guy was more of a devout worshipper than fellow student.  What made him so good that someone would treat him like a god, or perhaps, what made him so rich?  So worthy of being praised, so worthy of being devoted to?  How curious...

    You were currently writing down your record of the first week of school, the classes, the teachers, the many students from all walks of life.  Finishing each sentence with a flourish.  You set your journal down.  You learned that the blonde with violet eyes was some model named Vil Schoenheit.  And the blonde with the bob was Rook Hunt.  Two insignificant people that you'd probably forget in a couple of centuries... or well, that's what you assumed at first...

    Resting your back against the wall you inhale quietly, your mind taking you back to the memories of a bygone era, a bygone you.  "Whatever became of that faerie?" you mutter standing up from your spot.  Stretching your arms you toss the journal into your bag.  You hadn't heard much about him after he left, you never learned his name after all, it was hard to look for someone when you didn't know a basic fact about them.  Did he die in the war?  Did he have a family?  Those questions would continue to go unanswered most likely.  You missed him, that nocturnal fae that you watched grow up, the fae brought up by royalty, a mere peasant by hierarchy's standards.  But status didn't matter to you, and he appreciated that. 

    That was then however, this is now.  Seeing the students rush to classes, take their time chatting with friends, and teachers exchanging lesson plans.  The similar sights of your school back when you were mortal.  You sat by yourself at lunch time, occupying yourself by listening in on the busy chitter.  Sitting silently as you picked at the your meal for today, pondering at the pangs in your chest that struck as you reminisced about a time no longer.  Idly poking at the lukewarm pile of mashed potatoes with your fork, taking small bites of the tender steak.  Too caught up in your memories to savor the flavors of the meat. 

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Author's Thoughts

Scarlet-eyed fae - 'A good kid. Deserved better in life'

Vil Schoenheit - 'Nothing worth mentioning, dunno why he's famous'

Rook Hunt - 'desperate, fucking desperate'

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A/N: thank you guys for being so patient!! have a wonderful day/afternoon/night :>