#I'm too tired to paint his hat sorry

[amongthereeds]

For the person that said he looked great in the last piece, I wanted to try and learn how to draw him properly this time.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Kalim, Vil: Pyrite, Prince, and Pauper

Wah 😭 I really love the initial art!! The water shimmering and making a rainbow… ✨ (Not used to seeing Kalim without his headscarf though, feels weird to see him bare!)

A Tale as Old as Time.

If Kalim had to pick one word to describe what he was looking at, it would be celebration.

It was both humble and extravagant at once—the city streets, the venue, livened up with flags, confetti, and fanfare. A large elephant fitted with a vest and hat towered over the gathered townsfolk. Seated upon him was a young man in a turban and glaringly white robes, an arm extended to the sky.

A grand party for the public, and all were invited. Children and adults, animals and humans, nobles and street rats.

Kalim broke out into a wide smile. “Wow, it looks like everyone’s having so much fun!”

“You never seem to tire from the idea,” Vil commented dryly.

The supermodel patiently tapped a manicured nail against his arm. “I suppose a host showing his best face to the public is far from undesirable. I’ve certainly been to my fair share of events where the host was less than that.”

“Gahahah! You’re famous, so it makes sense you’d be in high demand at parties. Jamil told me about that red carpet you walked a little while ago. I managed to catch some of it on TV!”

Kalim’s garnet eyes glinted with excitement.

“You were all sparkly and the crowd was so happy to see you! You’re like the prince in this painting, hyping everyone up.”

“My, thank you for your support.” Vil’s lip curled. “I’m sure you’re in high demand as well… albeit for different reasons than I. Many would love to have the attention of the Asim heir on them.”

The third year chuckled, a hand tucked under his chin. “It’s only natural for people to be attracted to that which shines.”

“Shines, huh…”

Kalim folded his arms, inclining his head to one side. His mouth pinched slightly, disrupting the arc of his smile.

“… Hey, Vil. Can I ask you something?”

“You need not request for my permission.” Vil waved a hand. “Continue.”

“Do you really think I shine? Like, on stage.” A pause, then he quickly added, “And you can be honest with me. Please… be honest with me.”

“What’s this now?” Vil planted his hands on his hips. “Certainly, you’re not ordinary by any means, but I’d hesitate to call you a refined gem. A one month boot camp isn’t enough to polish your singing and dancing skills to that of a pro—but you’re not talking about VDC, are you?”

“Ahahah… Looks like you caught me.” Kalim let his arms fall to his sides.

“You can’t fool this actor’s eyes,” Vil said simply. “So? What is it that you’re actually after? It’s not like you to talk in circles.”

“It’s nothing. I… A lot’s been on my mind since winter break. Too many things. When I think about it for too long, I start to wonder if I’m really what people say I am.”

You’re so talented, Kalim-sama.

So handsome.

So smart.

So kind.

The very best.

“Sometimes...” He tugged at his collar, watching how it sparkled and shifted as he maneuvered the fabric. “it feels like I'm all dressed up with nowhere to go. Or like my clothes don’t fit me right.”

The golden boy, the prince to make way for, the sun all looked to. They were the roles he wore, but suddenly they felt hollow.

Lies set adrift on an errant wind.

Dust of pyrite, fool’s gold.

Am I pretending to be something I’m not?

“… I’m not making a lot of sense, am I?” Kalim laughed softly, forcing a smile. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have made today feel sad.”

“On the contrary,” Vil tutted, “I understand all too well. All the makeup in the world, the nicest clothes, and the most skilled stylists cannot make a pauper become a prince. A pauper is a pauper, no matter how they present.

“However… a perfect little prince is not all that has value. I’ve played enough parts and been in enough productions to know. There are swash-buckling pirates, daring space heroes, dastardly villains, and, yes, even clever, honest street rats who find themselves in the public eye. Perhaps they did not start off as diamonds, but in the end they proved themselves to be diamonds in the rough.”

Vil lifted his chin—indignant.

“Regardless of how others perceive you or what ensemble you wear, you remain yourself. So long as you hold true to your own moral compass and principles, you shall always be someone who shi… Ough!!”

He could scarcely finish his sentence before he was tackled. Kalim was embracing him tightly, only pulling back when Vil muttered that he was creasing both of their suits.

“Thanks, Vil!! Talking with you made me feel so much better! You’re really not as bad as they say you are.”

Vil frowned. “I’m aware that I have my detractors, but you must learn to be more tactful with your choice of words.”

“Tactful, right! Got it! I can do that.”

Kalim released him and spun around, splaying his arms out. He pretended to present the painting with a flourish, looking back at Vil.

“Someday, maybe I’ll be as sparkly as he is here!”

So I can meet everyone’s expectations. Talented, handsome, smart, kind, better.

But no matter how I might change, I’m still me.

Still Kalim Al-Asim.

And that was something worth celebrating.

[careforpears]

Illario was certain that Neve Gallus knew something.

By the time she, Rook, and Lucanis—whole and freshly back from the dead and with a beard—arrived at the Crow's nest of the Cantori Diamond, Illario was exhausted. He had spent the last several hours dealing with the aftermath of Caterina's immaculately staged murder, including making a show of standing frozen before breaking down to weep over the body with its face cut up and burned well enough that no one would be able to identify it, until Teia and Viago dispatched Crows to take her remains to Villa Dellamorte. He allowed Teia to comfort him, allowed her to fetch him water and then something stronger, allowed her to rub her hands up and down his arms as if trying to warm him. He grew silent and somber, gathering himself as she and Viago discussed next steps in low voices.

"Maker—" Teia gasped, and he heard Rook's footsteps, the detective's, and then the voice of his cousin.

"What happened here?"

He pounded a fist against the table once and recited a carefully rehearsed line with just the right amount of frustration and grief turning his voice ragged. Then he turned around.

The raw confusion on Lucanis' face was almost too much. A well of emotion took him by surprise, startling in its intensity and variety. Guilt, anger, relief, contempt, and the deadly certainty that he was going to make Zara pay.

Rook was beside Lucanis, and Illario could see the way they glanced at each other, already in sync. And behind them was Neve Gallus, the detective that had gone with Rook to the Ossuary, looking straight at Illario with dark eyes shadowed by her ridiculous hat. It felt like she could see into his soul.

Like she knew that two days ago he had been in bed with Zara Renata, unaware that Lucanis was rotting in a Venatori prison. Like she could smell the blood on him. Like she could look into his memory and see the way Zara ran her pointed, painted fingernails down his back with vicious intent, like she could see through his clothes to the raised welts left on his skin.

Illario fought down a strange surge of panic. That was ridiculous. She knew none of those things. He positioned himself so that she couldn't see his face.

Neve was quiet as they talked, as Illario learned that Lucanis planned to leave Treviso immediately. Planned to leave him to clean up the mess while he buried himself in his new contract. From Caterina's lapdog to Rook's, how predictable, how boring.

That thought was uncharitable, but it gave him a dull satisfaction that cut through the sting of abandonment.

Neve's stare was like a brand he could feel on his skin even as he avoided looking at her. When Lucanis and Teia left to gather supplies for him and Rook followed like a little terrier at their heels, Illario finally turned to her.

The detective had a hand resting on her hip, which was cocked to one side so that her weight was off of her metal leg. Her one boot was damp and crusted with sand, and her robes were a fashionable Tevinter style that wouldn't look out of place in Minrathous' upper city. She was curved and sharp all at once, beautiful in a striking way rather than the vacuous prettiness that he was usually drawn to in women. Under the weight of her hawklike gaze, his palms felt suddenly clammy.

"I'm sorry about your grandmother," she offered, and it sounded genuine and more gentle than he expected.

"Thank you," he returned, injecting it with what warmth he could. He sounded tired, and it wasn't an act.

"Did they leave anything behind?"

"What?"

"The Venatori." She looked him up and down carefully, eyes cataloging.

"Blood. And my grandmother's body," he snapped, then reined himself in. "My apologies, it's been... a long evening."

"I'll just take a look around before we leave if you don't mind?" Though it was inflected with a question, she was already doing it, metal leg tapping against the wood floor as she circled the large table to the seat at one end, where Caterina had been sitting. How did she know?

"Of course," he bit out, watching her with wary eyes.

Neve examined a tiny scrap of red fabric on the floorboards. She followed the trajectory of bloody footprints, gears working behind her gaze. Her hand traced a long scorch mark on the table.

"You think they were working for Zara?" The detective's tone was neutral.

"Who else?" In truth, they answered to him. A handful of agents whose loyalty he had secured as Zara had become more unhinged, more prone to sacrificing on a whim the cultists who worked for her.

Neve made a noncommittal noise, peering at broken window panes leading onto the roof.

Illario's heart rate ratcheted up, and he gritted his teeth. There was nothing for her to find, he reassured himself. But he still stepped forward, compelled to distract her from her careful inspection of the scene. He moved close enough that he could faintly smell her warm perfume oil and the hint of sulfur clinging to her clothes. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look up at him curiously.

"Before you go... thank you for bringing Lucanis home to me," Illario said fervently, holding a deferential hand in front of his chest. He knew his expression was warm and intent because it was one he had practiced.

"Sorry to be taking him away again so soon," she said, rueful. "He's not one to take any downtime, is he?"

"No. He never has been," he rolled his eyes affectionately.

Neve's gaze was already drifting back to the windows like she was thinking about venturing onto the rooftop.

Illario gently clasped her hand where it was resting on the tabletop. Friendly, not too much pressure or contact, but with a lingering swipe of his thumb against her skin that should raise goosebumps on her arms. Her eyes snapped to his, and he found that he liked the intensity of her attention in that moment.

"Truly, I am in your debt," he murmured, voice husky and catching with feeling.

He could see her discomfort the instant it bled into her eyes and stiffened her posture. Not at his closeness, he was certain, but at the emotion in his voice and the weight of his gratitude. He felt a little thrill of satisfaction.

She cleared her throat and drew her hand away from his to straighten the front of her robes. Neve didn't, to his pleasure, step away or become shy despite her sudden awkwardness. She held his gaze coolly and deflected. "Rook's the one you should thank."

"And I will," he assured her. Unable to resist, a heady urge infecting him, he leaned closer to her, eyes half-lidded and his voice low and deep. "But if there's some way I can repay you, personally..."

Neve tensed, and her face went from neutral to stony, baleful. She looked at him like one might look at a large, very repellant insect.

That sent a surprising, giddy thrill through Illario, along with the way her pupils dilated just slightly.

"Let us know if you find any intel on Zara's whereabouts. I'll let Teia know how to contact us," she told him stiffly and ducked around him to leave.

Illario smiled to himself as he listened to her footsteps fade steadily, and drummed his fingertips on the tabletop. That one was going to be trouble.

[cattlemons]

hi :)) a bit of a personal request but could i get wanderer comfort for a fem or g/n reader? (your choice) i have a...difficult relationship with my father. when he's sad/angry/upset he usually takes his frustration out on me by yelling at me and calling me names and other hurtful things. then when i cry he tells me that I'm pretending to be a victim, and blames me entirely for his feelings. i just had a sitution like this earlier tonight so its on my mind :) anyway, could i get wanderer comfort for a situation like this? or if this is too specific maybe where reader just doesn't get along with their father? thanks sm <33333

A Salve For Unhealed Wounds

TW: Toxic dad, name calling by a parental figure, emotional distress and familial conflict, crying in public, there's a swear word in there, 1,5k words

a.n. Nonnie, sorry for the wait :( I had an exam and couldn't be on here at all (also left you a short message at the bottom)

It happened again. 

The man you were supposed to trust with your life yelled at you again. Your heart aches at the implication that the weight of his love for you changes depending on the emotion reigning his mind and heart. Your mind crumbles when it recollects the words he spat out so easily when red paints his iris. 

It wouldn’t have hurt as much if he’s always this way. It hurts because you’ve seen the smile that escapes his guarded heart on rare occasions. You’ve also heard him say good things and do good deeds the way an honorable man would–when he’s not mad that is.

It’s unfair that he can’t always be that way with you.

You took off towards the Puspa Cafe, hoping the bustle of Sumeru evening would be the cooling salve you need to soothe your battered mood. 

Yeah, that’s a good idea.

Entering the establishment, scents of coffee and spice filled your nostrils as ease settled between the spaces of your bones. The balmy yellow and brown hues greeted your weary state as the inviting warmth of the cinders burning in the oven beckons you to rest. You made the right call to come here tonight.

Or, so you thought.

Despite being on good terms with the otherwise lonesome man, you did not want to see the infamous hat guy; not tonight. It’s less about his presence and more about yours. The dynamic between the two of you is akin to that of a flying serpent and a scorpion. You’d take frequent jabs at each other, flinging teasing remarks and poking fun at one another but somehow, in a very weird roundabout way, there’s always a sincere sort of care behind it all. 

Right now, however, you don’t think you have it in you to take what you know he can dish. You did get lucky and got a secluded seat, you just hope he does not notice you here. 

“What are you doing here, prickly bush,” he called out to you just as your train of thought chugged away to somewhere beyond the oak doors of the cafe.

Right, so much for peace of mind.

You turn towards him, the frown that began dissipating moments ago returning in full force. Grumbling before speaking, you let out, “Not today, please, I’m not in the mood.”

“Oh yeah, someone’s definitely a prickle bush right now.”

You were at a crossroads between telling him to leave and bursting into tired tears when he asked, “What’s wrong?”

Your eyebrows scrunched as he sat across you. You looked at him but his eyes were trained away from you, staring at some other patron sitting at the wooden bar just a bit away from the both of you. 

Since when was he a caring man?

Your thoughts and confusion settle into a prolonged silence. You half expected him to grumble out an insult along the lines of “Are your ears clogged” or “Need help finding a hearing aid” but he, surprisingly, sat still; eyes now hopping over to a woman by the door having a conversation with a balding man. 

Is he patient now? What kind of patron-saint bullshit is he pulling?

Not that you’re complaining, though. You much prefer this despite the weirdness of it all; or rather the newness. 

“I’m fine–”

“Don’t lie, if you can’t lie,” he interrupts as he points at your fingers curling in on each other. 

He sure is perceptive when you don’t want him to be.

Silent gathers the both of you in its arms once more as you think of a response to give to him. He’s being kind right now but you don’t feel like divulging everything to him. Your friendship is just beginning to stand on two feet. It’s taking baby steps at best. You don’t want to scare him away by dumping all your shit on him. By the abyssal name, he probably carries more baggage than you and you don’t see him throwing them around.

“You don’t have to tell me, don’t get all constipated just because I asked,” he said before continuing even softer, “You seemed down, just thought it’d be helpful to ask.”

Though you did not notice it at the time, your heart slowly began to lay down the walls you raised from the events that transpired earlier under the roof of your father’s house. 

Perhaps, he can help.

The wanderer was about to take his leave when you whispered with a certain weariness he found familiar, “My father isn’t always a nice man.”

He sat back down as quickly as he could. He probably sat on one of the ornate hanging detailings of his hat or on that long sleeve of his but he couldn’t be bothered by it. Though his eyes look past you, you know his focus is solely on what you have to say.

So, you told him. At first, you tried to be as close to the baseline as possible, choosing to speak of the basic details but soon you choked up and told him everything. Your thoughts, your fears, even your longing for a better version of the father you wanted to look up to, bubbled out of your tired heart. As the night sky grows darker outside, you find yourself slightly teary-eyed as your long story comes towards its end. 

Your eyes were still on your hands that laid on your lap, palms now sweaty from excessive nervous rubbing. You stole a glance at him and, just like you, he barely moved from his previous position. He’s still not looking at you, almost like he’s not listening at all but you know he is. 

It took a beat or two, almost like he was waiting to see if you had more to say before he opened his mouth to speak. 

“You’re kind, you know?”

What?

“I don’t get it. What do you mean ‘I’m kind’?”

“Just that. You’re kind, maybe even too kind.”

You fully looked up at him now to see that his eyes were already on you. 

“I listened to you tell me about the horrible things that man says to you and, yet, you still call him by a title he doesn’t deserve,” before you can question him, he answers, “A dad.”

You’re silent as he continues, “This cruel world decides to give him something so precious and he decides to lie and say all these shitty things. He’s not a good man but he’s dumb too if he’s got something so precious and decides that the best course of action is to call it untrue names. Does he not realize the power a name holds?”

Wet droplets stain your hands and lap as tears fall from your eyelids, lungs heavy, and muscles sagging. 

Taking a look at his surroundings he sighs before taking his hat off and placing it on you.

“I’m sure you don’t want anyone seeing you like this and speaking about it tomorrow, here.”

The tenderness of his voice and action winds your heart up as more choked sobs gurgle out of your throat.

Your neck tightens in protest as you try to speak but you fight the pain of your contracting muscles as you force out, “On a good day I… I know that he's lying… but sometimes I can’t help but think he’s right,” you sniffled and let a wave of uncontrollable sobs pass you by before continuing, “I mean there’s only so much… so much… I can deny before something false starts feeling real.”

Your admission broke the puppet's imaginary heart as he wills himself to hold back his instinct to swing insults and fists at your father. Instead, he chose to let what he supposes are comforting words drown your sorrow. It’s rigid and almost primal the way he tries to soothe your sadness but it's tender and warm in its own way, just as he is. 

“Are you… are you sure he’s wrong? How can you… you be so sure?”

The staccato of your unsure question is met with unwavering eyes as he nods. 

“I’m sure. I wouldn’t have said what I said otherwise.”

You hid your face with your hands as your back slumped forward. The wanderer could see the heaving of your shoulders and he could only comfort you by repeating his praise for you. Much like a devotee chanting his faith, he whispered kind words in hopes that by repeating it, you will believe this too. He hopes he’s done enough to override the names your father engraved into you with angered frowns, at least temporarily. The road to recovery winds away and is far from linear but he's ready to accompany you if you want him to.

As you continue to let out the emotions you thought dried up years ago, you hear him say, “Even if you forget again, just tell me and I’ll remind you that you’re nice, you’re smart and you’re so, so kind.”

Nice, smart, and kind huh? 

You don’t think you can believe it right now but slowly, you hope you will.  

Part two (not really that intertwined but I made it with the same characters in mind) To Nonnie, I'm sorry you have to go through this. I hope this little piece of fiction brings you some comfort, even if it might not fully capture what you're feeling. If there's anything more I can do to help or if you just need someone to talk to, please let me know.

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

VII ║Fleabitten

Jack Daniels x f!reader

{ Part 6: Mustang | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E

Summary: You and Jack spend your last night together in the mountains - for now.

Warnings: Mentions of food and cooking, angst, feelings, flirting, insecurities, very light soft!dom overtones, sexual innuendoes, handjob, risky unprotected sex (wrap it up, kids!), dirty talk, language, no use of Y/N

Word count: 4.2k

Notes: I know I made you guys wait for this one, I'm sorry it took so long! It's no secret that I'm dragging my feet because I don't want this packtrip to be over, but we all have to brave and face the inevitable 🥺 I hope you enjoy spending the last night in the mountains with Jack and his Darlin' ❤️

Fleabitten: A colour consisting of a white hair coat with small pigmented speckles or freckles.

You’ve never considered yourself a creature of habit. 

You have your routines, of course. But habit is more. It’s a dependency, emotional and physical. It’s something that’s hard to give up. It’s a prickle under the skin that is only soothed when said habit is fulfilled.

Surely, habit is hewn over time. A quiet, imperceptible chipping away at your bones until it becomes part of you. It must take more than a week to make a habit out of something. 

Except, it feels a lot like habit when you wake up to pink skies and take your first breath of sweet mountain air to start the day. That first mug of coffee warmed over rekindled embers from the night before. How Scotch always prances into a little canter to warm up when you hop on, but not until he knows you’re fully sat with the tips of your toes through the stirrups irons.

It’s the way you angle the brim of your hat and flip up the collar of your shirt even before the sun hits just so. It’s the all-consuming awe that pins you to the spot, wherever you are, whatever you’re in the middle of, when the sunset paints every inch of earth in rose gold.

And for the past three nights, it’s the assuring weight of strong arms around your waist that has lulled you to sleep, the kiss of warm breath on your temple - a familiarity that runs too deep in too short a time for you to comprehend.

Habit.

It’s the sixth day of the pack trip - first thing tomorrow, just after breakfast, Jack will be leading you across the mountain, back the way you came, to get back to the ranch by mid-afternoon.

Words are scarce when the two of you approach the last Statesman campsite on the trail, the neat stone pit now a familiar sight.

Even the horses are subdued. Scotch stands obediently, flicking his tail while you untack him, when he would usually be nudging at your hands with his velvety nose, snickering for a cheeky apple slice before supper.

It’s second nature to you now, hanging the sweaty saddle pad on a low-hanging branch to dry before setting the saddle and bridle on the wooden post for cleaning. Jack follows, standing on the other side, handing you a wet rag. You get to work, scrubbing out the grime and sweat from the well-worn leather.

His eyes are on you, a phantom weight on your shoulders - they’re not exactly sore, having grown used to long hours in the saddle over the week, but you are tired, albeit the good kind. One that a good, long soak in a hot bubble bath would fix, with a certain cowboy in the same tub -

‘Whatcha smilin’ ‘bout, Darlin’?’

Glancing up, you match his arched eyebrow with one of yours, planting your elbows on the spine of the saddle and standing onto your tiptoes to brush your lips against his. Well, a portable shower ain’t the same, but -

‘Shall we clean up, cowboy?’

Jack groans deep into your neck, the taste of soap thick on his tongue.

‘Is this how you jerked off thinking about me that first day?’ you tease, your grip sliding slickly along his cock.

‘Oh fuck,’ he pants, brow scrunched up in pleasure-pain, scraping his teeth on your collar bone. ‘Didn’t feel half as good, darlin’.’

A moan slips from you when one large palm finds your backside and squeezes, his fingers digging into the plump flesh as he whimpers by your ear. Bowing his head, he takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking on your sensitive skin until you arch into his mouth.

It doesn’t take long for him to come all over your hand - sticky, milky strands slipping thickly down the gaps of your fingers, stringing between them like spider webs. You’re reluctant to let go, humming soothingly into his ear as the last of his orgasm shudders through his body.

He holds you tight, his heart a sharp staccato against your chest, as the slow trickle of lukewarm water washes away all traces of him.

Once the portable shower is empty, you take your time getting dressed. Jack wipes you down with your towel while you rub his hair dry with his. Walking back to camp hand in hand, you grin when the horses come into sight, chasing and egging each other on like puppies at the dog park.

Thousand-pound puppies, more like. 

Dropping the dirty laundry by a tree to be packed later, he whistles with his fingers. ‘C’mon boys, supper time!’

The trio line up smartly by the wooden post as Jack preps the feed, measuring out the grain and hay pellets by sight, filling their buckets. Their nostrils flare and ears prick up at the sight of their dinner, but other than a stray nicker or two, they remain impressively patient.

Their buckets are dropped in front of their hooves when he’s done, and you may be imagining the sharp intake of air as the horses await the okay from their cowboy.

At his nod, all three practically lunge at their supper, munching happily. You laugh, and Jack watches on proudly.

A quiet desperation slinks in when you’re not looking, winding tighter and tighter around your ribs like a vice that leaves you short of breath as the minutes and hours slip by. You’re restless, your legs bouncing in agitation, your eyes darting about, frantically trying to commit everything to memory, yet never lingering anywhere long enough to do so.

But it’s not really about the things you can see. It’s the bitter bite of smoke in the clean mountain air. It’s the orange heat of the campfire that you wear like a favourite cardigan. It’s the simplicity of getting from point A to point B, with nothing but grassland and forest in between.

But real life isn’t simple. Things that you vowed to push to the back of your mind at the beginning of the trip bubble to the surface for an unwelcome moment. You have bills to pay. You have a deadweight of a house to sell. You have an ex not pulling his weight -

‘Darlin’?’

The white noise that you weren’t even aware had filled your ears subsides, and your gaze snaps up to Jack, blinking. The weight of the knife in your hand comes back to you, and you glance down at the bell pepper you were in the middle of dicing up.

You give him a shaky smile and carry on with your errand. ‘Sorry.’

He brushes a thumb on your cheek. ‘You were thinkin’ mighty loud.’

Not wanting to dampen your last night together, you shake your head and lean over to kiss him. You huff, ‘Just hungry. Get cooking, cowboy.’

Jack knows you’re fibbing, but he says no more. He can admit to himself that you’re not the only one struggling with loud thoughts tonight.

You’re right, he should turn his focus to making dinner instead - chili and cornbread, classic southern comfort food. Lord knows the both of you can do with some comfort tonight.

‘Want to help me with the cornbread?’ he asks, knowing you’d want to keep your hands busy.

‘Damn, I sure miss the days when you insisted that I shouldn’t help with anything at all,’ you tease, which makes him chuckle.

‘C’mere, darlin’.’

He’d measured out the dry ingredients for the cornbread back at the Halfway House and tipped it all into a mason jar - flour, cornmeal and raising agents. You whisk the batter with a fork as he cracks in three eggs and pours in the milk (he usually uses buttermilk, but it has to be shelf stable milk on the trail) until it’s smooth and thin. You carefully pour the mixture into a well-oiled cast iron skillet, which he then nestles in the heart of the fire. The batter bubbles like slow-burning lava as it cooks, the savoury sweetness filling the evening air.

‘That’ll cook in a half hour, so we should start on the chili,’ he says. ‘I normally simmer it for at least an hour, but I think we’re both hungry, right?’

‘I’m fine with express chili, cowboy.’

Jack sets a deep-set saucepan on the pit, drizzling in olive oil to preheat it. He knows the recipe by heart, but with no fresh beef mince on hand, he has his usual substitutions when cooking it on the trail. Into the pan goes finely diced cured sausage, onion, red bell peppers, peeled carrot ribbons and celery.

‘Is that Poppy’s recipe?’ you ask, tummy rumbling at the vivid scents as the pan sizzles.

‘It’s my mama’s, actually,’ he smiles, stirring with a wooden spoon. ‘It’s the one recipe Poppy allows on the trail that is not hers.’

‘If that isn’t a stamp of approval, I don’t know what is,’ you chuckle. ‘And where’s your mama?’

‘Still lives with my old man back home in Kentucky,’ he answers, scraping in minced garlic, a good squeeze of tomato paste and one big can of plum tomatoes, which he crushes one by one with the back of the spoon.

‘What do they do?’ you ask, genuinely curious. His family hasn’t come up in conversation in the past few days.

Jack is happy to indulge you. ‘Pop used to run a little corner shop in town, but he’s retired now. My ma’s an equine veterinarian, used to have a practice, but she shut that down a few years ago and is mostly a lady of leisure nowadays.’

You nudge his shoulder with yours. ‘Horses run in the family, I see.’

‘Never stood a chance,’ he jokes. ‘She still helps out on my uncle’s farm if they need an extra pair of hands. My cousins mostly run the place nowadays.’

The saucepan sputters at the generous pouring of barbeque sauce (homemade of course, Poppy’s secret recipe) that goes in next, followed by a can of beer, a beef stock cube (crumbled), Worcestershire sauce, balsamic vinegar and honey.

‘Are your parents from the same town?’

‘No, ma’s from the city, moved to the backwaters to marry my country bumpkin daddy,’ he replies, flashing you a meaningful smile. 

Your cheeks heat up unbidden, and you bite your bottom lip, the shyness that rears its head  feeling very alien after being so comfortable around this cowboy for these few days. You meet his eyes though, cocking your head to one side. ‘Is that so?’

He grins, stirring the chili as he continues. ‘My papaw Henry nearly disowned her, didn’t even go to the weddin’, but he came round when I was born. Turned out he got on with my other grandpa Noah like a house on fire. They used to come and spend a week in the mountains with Champ and I every year before Henry passed.’

You reach out and squeeze his free hand. ‘And where is Noah now?’

‘He lives in a little cabin off the main house with my uncle. Can barely walk, but he still rides every morning,’ he shakes his head fondly, tipping in the drained kidney and black beans.

He’s quiet for a moment as he studies the chili, simmering away, then gives you a sidelong glance. Despite a deliberate attempt to keep his tone light, the weight of his words cannot be erased by simple inflection. ‘I’m sure they’d love to meet you, darlin’.’

But as soon as he hears himself - the absurd wishful thinking in it - he shifts in his seat awkwardly, clearing his throat. You fuckin’ clown. How is this appropriate conversation when he’s known you for six days? Hell, you’d only just started sleeping together what, three nights ago? Fuck, has it only been three - ?

Two gentle fingers hook under his chin, turning his face towards you, cutting off the jumble of voices in his head. You shuffle closer so that you’re pressed right up against his side, warm and soft, and when you kiss him slowly and sweetly, it tastes like reassurance. 

‘I’d love that too, cowboy.’

The chili is the best you’ve ever had - smoky, spicy and balanced out with a touch of sweetness from the barbeque sauce. The cornbread fresh from the skillet is so moreish, there’s nothing but crumbs left in the skillet when the two of you are done.

You’re close to bursting, sprawled lazily on your sleeping bag, your back propped up against a log. The fire has died down to a low-burning flame, and you’re right on the brink of nodding off. 

But as it turns out, Jack still has a trick or two up his sleeves. 

He reaches over you to grab one of the saddlebags, rifling around and you laugh as he unveils, one after the other - a bag of jumbo marshmallows, Graham crackers, and a bar of dark chocolate. 

‘Can’t say I pegged you for a s’mores kinda cowboy,’ you tease as he lays out the ingredients on the ground. 

‘It’s a Statesman tradition, we always close out a pack trip with s’mores. C’mon, I’ll show you how to make a proper one.’

You huff a laugh. ‘Oh, are we really going there?’

He feigns ignorance. ‘Whatever do you mean, ma’am?’

‘The shortest way to an argument is anything to do with s’mores.’

‘Don’t worry darlin’, I’m sure we’ll kiss and make up.’

Jack gets up and steps briefly out of the orange halo of the campfire to rustle up a couple of sticks for the marshmallows. Knees creaking as he sits down next to you, he pulls out the knife from the holster he wears on the back of his jeans, sharpening the wooden ends with a telling familiarity.

The chocolate bar is wrapped in fancy, gilded packaging, the words organic and bean to bar glowing gold in the firelight as you turn it over in your hands. ‘Huh. No Hershey’s?’

The cowboy waggles one perfectly pointed end of a stick at you in warning. ‘Rule number one - do not mention the H word in front of Poppy. You will be evicted and barred from the state of Wyoming till kingdom come.’

‘Oh, I believe you,’ you chuckle, tearing into the packaging and breaking up the chocolate into tidy squares along the grooves.

Sheathing his knife, Jack reaches for the saddle bag once again. ‘Can’t forget the secret ingredient.’

You blink in incredulity at what he brandishes, the familiar whiff registering. ‘Is that - applewood?’

He winks, testing the weight of the logs in his hands. ‘The applewood infuses the marshmallows with a sweet smokiness - I’m tellin’ you, the Statesman s’mores is somethin’ else.’

With a shake of your head, you grin. ‘Alright cowboy, show me how to make some proper s’mores.’

Twenty minutes later, you wish you could take it back.

‘Scientific’ doesn’t even begin to describe Jack’s process. You’re huddled in a blanket, hugging your knees, watching as he turns over the marshmallows with methodological precision and infinite patience - neither of which you possess. He’d confiscated yours when you tried to stick them straight into the flames, declaring that you’re unfit to make your own s’mores.

The night air is singed with the delicate note of apple blossoms, while four chocolate squares slowly warm on graham crackers where they sit on stones around the campfire. 

You sit poutily, glaring at the fluffy white blobs that look just as pale as they were straight out of the bag.

‘I could’ve made about three s’mores by now,’ you gripe.

Jack doesn’t look up from the fire, but the corner of his mouth curls in amusement. ‘You’re on holiday, remember? Relax. Patience is a virtue, darlin’.’

You tilt your head in a challenge. ‘Do you really think I give a damn about virtue, cowboy?’

His grin turns brash, eyes crinkling mischievously at the corners. ‘No, ma’am, and I thank my lucky stars that you don’t.’

‘C’mon Jack,’ you whine. ‘Let's just eat the stupid s’mores and go to bed.’

‘Good things take time,’ he says simply. And then, with the minutest flex of his tone, he changes tact. ‘Will you be a good girl for me and be patient?’

You watch his smile widen as he obviously hears your breath hitch.

Biting your lip, you goad him, ‘Oh, is that how you’re going to play it, sir?

The gentleman in him recedes, and the rake glimpses through in the way he eyes you with a deliberately smarmy want. ‘I don’t hear you complainin’ when I take my time with you, darlin’.’

Your mouth hangs open in affront. ‘Are you seriously comparing me to roasted marshmallows?’

He leans over and purrs into your ear. ‘Well, your pussy is just as sweet, and soft, and warm -’

You groan and push him hard on the shoulder. ‘Thanks ruining marshmallows for me, cowboy!’

With a laugh, Jack nods towards the fire. ‘Grab the graham crackers please, darlin’. They're done.’

Sure enough, while you were distracted, the fluffy white blobs are finished with a perfect, golden crust, but have enough structural integrity to hold shape on the ends of the sticks.

‘You ready?’ he prompts.

A graham cracker in each hand, one with chocolate and the other without, you admit, ‘I hate this part, I always make such a mess.’

He smirks, ‘Didn’t think you minded makin’ a mess, darlin’.’

You roll your eyes at him, with no real annoyance. ‘You’re insufferable, cowboy.’

Cushioining one marshmallow on the chocolate side of the cracker, he instructs, ‘Now put the other one on top and grip the whole stack firmly. Got it?’

At your nod, Jack carefully extracts the stick, wriggling as he goes, one thumb against the end to keep the marshmallow from sliding out.

With a dramatic flourish, he ta-das. ‘There you go, a Statesman s’mores for my cowgirl.’

Something in your brain short-circuits at him calling you his cowgirl. 

Not just his. 

But the cowgirl to his cowboy.

Unable to conjure up any words, you fixate on the melted marshmallow on his thumb. Grabbing his hand and bringing it to your face, you wrap your lips around it, sucking the sweet smear of residue right off his smoke-tipped finger.

His gaze is dark even as the red and yellow flickers in his eyes when he swipes his thumb across your bottom lip, his voice a soft rasp. 

‘Good girl.’

‘So - what happens tomorrow?’

Your question is quiet, half murmured into the hollow of his neck in the twilight zone, on the cusp of sleep. Your head is tucked under his chin, his arms around your waist under the blanket.

‘We’ll get back to the ranch around three. The team will get the horses settled in, unpack everything, and you can have a nice hot shower. Then we’ll have sunset drinks and dinner.’

You hum noncommittally. The silence cackles for a beat, before you venture, ‘And then?’

For once, Jack doesn’t have an answer.

He doesn’t sleep that night. 

He holds you close, running a calloused palm against your back when you shift restlessly in your sleep, feeling the rise and fall of your chest against his own.

The sun rises pink and gentle. This camping spot was a deliberate choice - it hangs over a small slope, facing east with an open view of the plains below, where the horses are dozing, the Bighorn rising from the horizon straight ahead. 

He must have drifted off without him noticing, because he wakes up to your lips on his.

He blinks, lids heavy with slumber. ‘Mornin’.’

You smile through hooded eyes, cording your fingers through his hair. ‘Morning, cowboy. It’s a pretty sunrise for our last day in the mountains.’

‘Who says it’s our last, darlin’?’

His challenge lingers between you, the tension sinking its hooks into his skin and pulling - until you close the gap and kiss him. 

It’s sloppy, clumsy, teeth clunking against teeth - it’s too damn early - and he pushes you back to nip and suck his way down your neck, undoing the top three buttons on his flannel that you’ve taken to wearing to bed before pushing it over your head.

‘Jack,’ you whine as his hands push your tits together, smearing open-mouthed kisses all over them.

‘Fuck,’ he grunts, the harsh sound catching in his throat. Grinding his cock between your thighs, his big hands push your panties down in a hazy frenzy, followed by his sweats, which he kicks off blindly.

‘Please,’ you choke out, voice breaking as your soft, naked body arches into him.

He hushes you, breath hot and heavy in your ear, teasing his length slickly between the wet lips of your pussy. ‘Yeah? Desperate for this cock, are you, darlin’?’

Through a broken moan, you whimper, ‘Yes, please please please, Jack -’

‘So pretty beggin’ for me,’ he grins, but he knows it probably looks more like a pained grimace as he trembles above you. You're soaking the curls at the bottom of his cock even though he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

‘Please, want you inside me, cowboy -’

He holds out, letting the arousal swell and mount between you with a recklessness that is unlike him, demanding, ‘How, darlin’?’

‘Hard, want you to fuck me hard -’

Rolling you onto your side so that he brackets you from behind, he opens you up with one hand under your right knee, pushing it against your front so that he can see your dripping cunt. Running his thumb over it, you jerk in his hold, moaning for him. ‘Jack, please -’

‘What did I say about patience bein’ a virtue, hmm?’ he teases through gritted teeth, dipping one finger shallowly into you, which is enough to make you keen.

You’re babbling incoherently as he lines himself up against your entrance. ‘Fuck me, please, need you inside me -’

You break off into a strangled sob when he pushes the blunt tip of his cock into you, a hoarse groan in his windpipe as he feels you stretch around him. It feels different, more intense, but his sleep-clouded brain can’t grasp why. He pumps into you slowly and deliberately, eyes screwed shut as your cunt squeezes him, his fingers sure to leave marks where they hold onto the swell of your hips.

‘So - so good, Jack,’ you pant.

‘Yes, darlin’,’ he rasps into the back of your neck, fucking you in firm strokes now, palming your tits from behind. ‘This gorgeous pussy grippin’ me so tight, gettin’ so wet on my big cock.’

‘Only for you,’ you declare, rolling your hips so he hits a particularly deep spot inside you.

‘For me,’ he echoes with a groan, planting one foot on the ground to fuck into you harder.

Snaking one hand between your legs - hot and sticky - two thick fingers find your clit, drawing back the hood to rub circles where you can really feel him.

‘Fuck!’ you exclaim, almost bending backwards.

‘Good girl, takin’ me so well,’ he cooes into your ear. ‘She’s goin’ to cum on my cock, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, Jack,’ you whine, getting impossibly wet now. You leak messily down your thighs as he feels you begin to clench around him, your voice running ragged. ‘Please, sir -’

He fucks you through it, jaw clenched so hard he’s surprised it doesn’t crack under the pressure, his hands holding you down as you buck and writhe.

‘That’s it, darlin’,’ he growls into your cheek, his pace slackening to a languid rhythm. ‘Do you hear yourself? Hear that drippin’ pussy when I fuck it nice and slow?’

Turning over your shoulder, you kiss him, pupils completely blown as you slur drunkenly against his lips, ‘Yes, cowboy. S’ fucking good.’

Jack smiles and he sucks on your bottom lip, you’re so wet that he barely has to roll his hips to sink deep into you.

But even as he lets the moment consume him, something niggles at the back of his mind. It feels too good, as if there's some detail he’s missing - 

And then it strikes him, like lightning on a clear day. Every joint and muscle in his body locks up when it does, and he feels you stiffen instantly in response. His words tumble out in a panicked jumble. ‘Oh fuck, oh fuck! I forgot the condom, shit, I’m so sorry darlin’ -’

When he tries to pull out of you, you hook one foot around his shin and stop him with a hand on his hips. ‘Wait, Jack - just wait.’

He shakes his head in confusion. ‘Wait - why?’

Twisting around so that you’re looking him in the eye, you tell him quietly, ‘I got tested after my ex and I broke up, and - I haven’t been with anyone since.’

While he takes a moment to process, his cock throbs almost painfully inside you. He answers, ‘I haven’t had unprotected sex since my last girlfriend, and I got tested afterwards as well.’

You smile, one hand finding his and slipping your fingers into the gaps between his. ‘I’m just - I’m not on the pill, so we can keep going as long as you don’t cum inside me.’

‘Fuck, darlin’, it's dangerous, talkin' about me cummin’ inside you like that,’ he chides, brow creased in mock reprimand.

You wink. ‘We’ll save that for next time, cowboy.’

‘Next time,’ he promises, with a determination that soothes the anxiety in him.

And so your breaths mist and intertwine, catching the morning light as he thrusts into you, again and again. He doesn’t know where this will go, except for the vow of a next time, but he knows he has this -

The orange wash of dawn over you, his spend on the soft skin of your stomach and your beautiful tits when he cums, his heart beating - hard and sure - with what has deserted him for long years.

Notes: I didn't have as much time to edit this chapter, and I'm still trying to get more comfortable with spending less time overall on both writing and edits, and being more ok with mistakes/typos. The flip side is that what goes on the metaphorical paper is more spontaneous.

There will only be two more chapters before Palomino wraps up. Thank you for sticking around and for being so supportive despite the slow updates recently. It's strange that we're approaching the end for real now, excited isn't quite the right word, but I am looking forward to giving this story the ending Jack, Darlin' and you guys deserve ❤️

Thank you for the love. Comments, reblogs and asks are always appreciated, as always 🥰

Update: I can’t believe I forgot to mention a huge thank you to everyone who gave me all the cool tips for the s’mores and ideas for their last dinner on the trail! This one is for you guys 😘

[r0tting-rat]

DCA PROMPTOBER 2024

I should go to sleep. Not proofread so sorry but I'm so tired so pls don't mind the errors.

Day 24 - Error

Pairing: Glitch!Eclipse &/x GN reader Warning: None Words: 2000+ Summary: You found an interesting game and decided to fix it up a lil. What could go wrong?

-Oh, come on!- Your fingers pressed the buttons insistently, trying to reanimate the arcade machine you were working on without succeeding. -Everything was fine 5 minutes ago, what the fuck is wrong with you?!-

Of course, the machine didn’t give you an appropriate answer, it just zapped you as soon as you tried to put your hand in the open hatch in its back. You winced and waved your hand in the air as an attempt to make the pain fade away while staring down at the arcade game in front of you. You had found, a few days prior, that old—no, ancient—arcade in the back of an abandoned pizza place. It was a weird sight, that blue machine painted with red borders and white clouds, looking so innocent and peaceful between debris and trash. You had decided to take it home and see if you could make it work once more, despite its age, but as soon as you had managed to clean most of the shit off its surface you had realized that you had made a mistake. 

One day, in the middle of the night, the arcade machine had turned on randomly without being plugged in, scaring you shitless. You had placed it in your basement, refusing to keep such a nasty thing in your living room, but you found yourself thinking about it constantly. You couldn’t get the Balloon World out of your mind no matter where you were or what you did, so you decided that you were not only going to fix the game but also win it. 

Finally, after hours of replacing parts and wiping gunk, you managed to turn on the machine successfully. Rejoicing, you jumped up and immediately hit play, excited to see if the game was really worth the work you had put into it, ignoring the oily stains you were leaving on the buttons with your dirty fingers. In white letters over a dark screen, you read “insert coin” followed by the classification of all the different people that had played the game before, so you slipped in one of the many coins you had prepared and started the game. 

The starting screen of the Balloon World arcade machine showed the game’s name in red and yellow letters floating in a bright blue sky. Next to them was a little kid holding three balloons in his hand; one red, one blue, and one yellow. In the background, you saw some kind of circus, depicted with its stereotypical white and red tent and colorful balloons, while in the top right corner, through the mountains, was a smiling sun. It was kinda disturbing, in your opinion; its eyes were white and its smile was way too large, but you ignored it. The main focus of the game was the little boy, right? The one with the propeller hat. You pressed start and began playing, finding “yourself—the propeller hat kid, to be specific— on top of a red platform. As soon as you began playing, you immediately understood the goal of the game: don’t fall, collect the balloons, and evade the obstacles. Easy peasy, you had played much more difficult games, except something about this specific arcade game unnerved you. It was probably the ever so constant presence of the smiling sun—which was much bigger than before—staring at you through the screen like a maniac. Still, you refused to let it faze you and continued playing, successfully gathering 3 balloons and moving on to the second phase of the game. 

The second phase was so much worse than the previous. The sun had left, the sky had darkened and was now littered by stars, and on the top right side of the screen you found a smiling and horrifying moon. Its creepy red eyes were staring at you insistently, like it knew you found it disturbing, and its smile was much worse than the sun’s. The night level had multiple bats coming at you, which you had to dodge, hitting a few in the process, but after a while of cursing you managed to enter the day level once more, followed by a second night level. That game wasn’t that hard, to be honest. You were almost beginning to get bored, until with the corner of your eye you saw something—a glitchy purple texture in one of the tree logs at the bottom of the screen.

-What the fuck…?- you whispered, staring at it, and as soon as you spoke you felt something zapping your finger, -Ow, shit!- 

You release the button, falling with your character right on the glitched log and losing a life, but immediately you regained control of the game and went back up. Too bad, as soon as you did the game glitched, becoming a red, black, and purple mess. The sky was crimson, the stars were orange, and the sun had been replaced by a terrifying version of it: black with yellow rays, eyes, and sharp teeth. Unable to take your eyes off the screen, you stared at the flickering chaos in front of you, confused and scared, until the world map literally ended in front of you and your character remained stuck in the air, completely still, in front of the glitched sun. You released the button and stared into the sun’s eyes, not sure what to do. Did the game just… freeze?

-Oh, come on!- you gave the side of the arcade a light slap, but almost immediately it zapped you back, -What the fuck is going on with you?!-

Honestly, you didn’t want to play anymore, not at all. You were freaking out, so instead of manually turning off the game like you should have, you went to pull out the charging cable from the wall. When you turned back around, the game was still on, and the sun’s face was covering the entire screen. Your balloon boy character had vanished and the rays of the sun were spinning around its head, which meant the game was still working completely fine.

“Ṯ̶́ ̴͑R̴̸͓̃ Y̵̴͇̿̚  A̶̕ ̷̱̃G̵̛ ̶͈͠A̵ ̷̬͋I̴ ̴̢̌N̶��” was written on the screen in bold purple letters. It wasn’t a question; it was a statement, an order. The game was telling you to keep playing. 

-No thank you,- you said, beginning to walk up the stairs of your basement and towards the door, -I’d rather not, you creepy fucking thing!-

You didn’t believe in ghosts, but when your hand closed around the knob of the door which you knew had been open only 2 minutes before and twisted, you began to believe in them just a little. Another twist, but the door didn’t budge. 

-What the fuck…?- you whispered, looking down at the knob. Could a draft have closed it? No, it was a hot summer day and the slightest breath of wind was a luxury you had stopped believing in. The light above your head flickered before suddenly turning off with a click, and no matter how many times you pressed the light switch, it wouldn’t turn on.

-Shit, shit, shit!- Turning back towards your basement, you saw that the colorful screen of the arcade machine was the only source of light in the entire room. The machine hummed and buzzed, inviting, beckoning you closer to its buttons and joystick. The red and black sun had been replaced with the starting menu, which looked completely normal if that terrifying face hadn’t been staring at you in the top right corner, from beyond the mountains and clouds, and if the words “BALLOON WORLD” hadn’t been replaced with purple bold letters. 

“P̵ ̶̔͜L ̵̢̾A̷ ̶̤͘Y ̸̤͘ W ̴̫͆I̶ ̵̛̻T ̸̮̽H̵  ̷̿M ̶̬̇E”

You didn’t want to play, no, fuck, you didn’t want to play at all! What had you done to deserve such a treatment? You just wanted to restore an arcade game to its lost splendor, that thing should have thanked you for doing that! Could it be that you had awakened some kind of electric paranormal presence?

-Can I leave once I play?- you asked, not knowing how to act with a sentient machine. The words on the screen disappeared for a moment before coming back three seconds after. 

“O̷ ̴͇̽F ̶̣̈ ̵̗͂C̶ ̶͚̓O̴ ̴͝U ̵̮̉R̴ ̸̳̏S ̴͕̂E̶  :)”

Hesitantly you walked back to the game, still unsure if you actually wanted to touch it, but you were suddenly pushed—violently too— against it by an invisible force behind you, sending you against the machine. The moment your hands brushed against the glitchy screen the game started without you having to press anything, forcing you to scramble back up into a standing position to avoid making your character fall. You noticed that this round balloon boy didn’t look as happy as he was before; his face was turned to look at you, his blue eyes were full of distress and his smile had turned into a pained grimace. He looked terrified, but you weren’t sure if for you or for himself. 

You were sweating as you began to play, missing many balloons due to your shaking and causing you to hit many obstacles on the path. You lost as soon as the day turned into night for the first time. Sighing, you ducked your head, begging your heart to stop beating this fast, almost like you feared the thing inside the machine could feel your fear and decide to never let you go. 

-S-Shit, sorry, I don’t know what came over me,- you tried to excuse yourself, -Next time I’ll… I’ll pay more attention, now I really need to…-

You were interrupted by the purple words reappearing on the screen.

“T̶ ̷̰̄H̷ ̴̿A̵ ̶̨͌T ̸̰̕'̵ ̶̰͒S ̸̧̛ ̷̲͂F̴ ̴̝̉I̸ ̶̤̕N̷ ̵͔̈́E ̶

̶̾E̸ ̵͓̔V̶ ̶͓̇E̵ ̶̘͠R ̵̞͒Y̸ ̵̈B̵ ̷̨́O̸ ̸̼̓D̶ ̸̗̏Y̸ ̴̬̊ ̶̍M̵̕ ̷̠̆A̸ ̸͕̕K̷ ̴̧̒E ̶̯̈́S ̸̯̏ ̴͌M̴ ̶I̶ ̶̏S̶̒ ̵̘̀T̷̈ ̵͝A ̴̯͛K̷ ̶͈̽E ̵̨̒S̶”

The machine brought you back to the start of the game, to the red platform where the first day begins.

“P ̸̠̅R̷ ̸̱̒A ̷̨̓C̸ ̶̩̑T̴ ̸͔͛I ̸̘̕C̶ ̵̛͙E̵ ̵̪̊ ̵̹͑M ̶̬̓A̵ ̶̡̈́K̵ ̶̫́E ̸̣̔S̵ ̴͉͑ ̵̰̈́P̴ E̷ ̵͚̚R̵ ̸̮̋F̷ ̷̮̈́E ̷̘̎R̵ ̸̛̗C̴ ̶͐͜T̶”

The message was clear. Play again. And again, and again, and again. You didn’t know when you started crying, maybe around the third or fourth death, all you could remember of that night were your fingers locked over the buttons, unable to pull away, stuck over them like they had been grabbed by an unspeakable force. When you died the fifth time, you started to sob uncontrollably. 

-P-Please!- you begged, -Let me go, please, I d-don’t want to play anymore!-

Finally, the game froze, making your heart stop beating as well in fear of what was going to happen to you. 

-Let’s change game, Firefly,- spoke a rumbling voice from behind you just as a pair of long and slender fingers wrapped around your throat and tilted your head backwards. Under the creature’s touch, your skin burned and reddened, creating long-lasting marks on your flesh. -What do you think about a round of Tag?-

Behind you, pressed against your back and towering over your very human frame, was something that you couldn’t describe with words. All you knew, all you could see and think, was that the thing holding you by the neck had the same face as the sun inside of the Balloon World game, except this one was tangible and real. Not a picture on a screen, not a grinning image you could ignore, this one was inching his face closer and closer to you while emitting a low rumbling sound from the depths of his chest. 

-Start running, Firefly, or I’ll catch you before you even leave this basement,- he laughed, and the sound moved something inside of you—a primal feeling of pure and abject terror. The ape inside of you woke up, screaming at you to run for your life, and that’s exactly what you did the moment the “ghost” released his hold on you. You ran, out the basement and then out of your house, finding no locked door to stop you in your tracks. You ran, but despite everything, you could still hear the sun’s rattling laughter echoing in your head. 

“Hop, hop, little bunny! Hop, hop jolly high!”

[ribbonsaikeaux]

Mirror Marionette

I play with my hair nervously, staring at the door in front of me. Shifting on my feet, I raise my hand to knock, but lose my nerve, anxiously starting to pace on the porch of the witchs' house.

"You can do this, Mandy. You can do this..." I whisper to myself, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath.

Once again, I raise my hand to knock, but I'm startled by the door opening before I can make contact. I look around, confused as I see no one at the door.

An amused giggle reaches my ears. "Down here silly!"

My eyes dart down and are met with the sight of a diminuitive doll. It smiled up at me, still giggling. The small thing was adorable, dressed in a pink maids' dress with deep purple frills; its tightly curled tresses perfectly framing its smiling face.

" Well don't just stand there! Come in, come in!" It said cheerily.

I nod, still dumb foundes. I had heard of these dolls, but I'd never seen one before. I take my tentative first step past the threshold, taking in the decor. It was much more plain than I had expected. Simple furniture, beige paint on the walls, white baseboards. It seemed a fairly normal house, save for the herd of dolls running around.

The doll closes the door behind me.

"Hi! This one is called Needle! Its a pleasure to meet you." It smiles, taking my hand. "Hurry now, hurry! Miss doesn't like to be kept waiting! She got tired of you lingering outside, pacing the porch so she sent this one to get you!"

"Oh, okay." I say as Needle drags me through the house. "My name's-"

"Mandy! Yes! Miss told this one before sending it to grab you!"

We arrive at,what I assume, is the study. I'm actually amazed at the size and elegance of this room. Its much larger on the inside than it would appear. A crystal chandelier hangs from above, casting rainbows theoughout the room. Lining the walls, theres shelves and shalves of books, reaching from the floor to the ceiling and wrapping all around the room. Sitting at an intricately carved onyx and ivory desk, sits the witch, her brow knittes in focus as she read from a weathered tome.

Her dress is beautiful. A shade of purple that matches the purple on Needles' dress, trimmed with black. There's black and purple ribbons tied around her hands and a matching witchs' hat sits on her head.

"Hi Miss! This one brought in Mandy like you asked!" Needle announced.

The witch blinks, shaking her head, seemingly pulling herself out of deep thought. She stands and smiles, walking over and patting Needles' head.

"Thank you little one. Youre such a good doll~ Run along now sweetie" she told the doll.

"Okay Miss! Thank you!" Needle said blushing, turning on her heels.

"Oh, Mandy! This one welcomes you!" It tittered before skipping away.

That was... odd, I thought to myself.

"Not all that odd, really. I assure you." The witch said.

My eyes widened in surprise. "Y-you can-"

"Hear your thoughts?" She interupts with a laugh. "Of course dear! Now come, have a seat." She says leading me over to a black leather loveseat, her hand on the small of my back.

"Now," she started "I know why youre here, and rest assured, I can grant your desire." Her eyes narrow and her voice takes on a serious tone. "However, if I do, there will be no going back."

I nod, fidgetting with my hands as my nervousness spikes.

"I-I understand um," my eyebrows knit in confusion. "I'm sorry, I didn't get your name."

She smiles reassuringly, patting my knee. "Now dont worry your pretty little head about that. You can simply call me Miss, okay?"

I nod, a light blush gracing my cheeks. "Oh. O-okay... Miss"

"There you go. Now, how did you hear about me?" She asked.

"Well, I was friends with Erica and Kimberly-"

"Oh! That delightful girl from that party!" She smiles. "Fond memories. How are they doing these days?"

"Oh, um, they moved to London recently..." i say, my voice lowering.

Her eyes soft, becoming sympathetic. "Oh dear. You're not too happy about that are you?"

"No, Miss." I say shaking my head. "They were my only friends and now I'm all alone and have a mountain of debt I could never hope to pay back.

"I see." She says, nodding sagely. "So you need an escape? A place to call home? A family?"

"Yes Miss..." I respond, nodding slowly.

She smiles, clapping her hands once "Well now, my dear, that can be arranged!"

"R-really?" I ask, excitement edging into my voice.

She smiles reassuringly, taking my hand "Of course dear!" She answers, her eyes taking on a serious glint. "However, I must ask again. Are you sure? There's no going back and you will be irrivocably mine."

I take a moment to ponder, sub conciously squeezing her hand. It was nice and soft. Gods it felt so nice to be touched. It had been so long.

She smiles and returns the squeeze. "Well, it seems you've made up your mind, but I need you to say it."

I blush, sheepishly lowering my head. "I-I'm sure Miss..."

She smiles, gently tilting my head up. "There, there dear, no need to hide your face. My dolls never have to fear," she says, hugging me. "They are precious and protected."

I nearly start sobbing, tears streaming down my face as I cling to her. "Th-thank you so much Miss."

She smiles, resting a hand on my cheek. "Of course doll~ don't worry, you won't have to be burdened anymore."

She leans back, holding out both hands. Purple ethereal strings snake from her fingers and attach to my limbs and head. A cold, yet comforting, feeling spreads through my body. I look into her eyes for reassurance and she returns my gaze with an adoring smile.

"It's alright doll, this won't hurt." She says as I feel the chill spread.

Looking down, I stare in awe as liquid glass spread acroass my body; my own face staring back at me. It quickly spreads, fully engulfing me and seeping into my mind.

She smiles, giving the strings a small tug. I stand, no... This one stands, its fear and loneliness fading from its mind. It catches a glimpse of itself in the mirror behind Miss' desk. This one is... beautiful. It sees itself reflected back infinitely in its own face. It sheds a happy tear.

Miss smiles at this one, embracing it tightly.

"Welcome to the family doll~ You'll be call Sunny, to remind you that you will always shine." Miss gently places a kiss on this ones' head. "Come! Lets intoduce you to the others!" She says, a broad smile crossing her lips as she leads this one from the study.

"Everyone! I need your attention!" She shouts out, causing all the dolls to instantly stop what they were doing, all eyes turning to us.

"We have a new addition to our family! That one is called Sunny!" She smiles, rubbing its back. "I want you all to make it feel welcome, okay?"

A chorus of "awawas" and cheers rand out through the house, all of the dolls rushing over to hug this one; all chattering at once.

Tears of joy started streaming down this ones' face. Finally, it felt at home.

Miss whispered into this ones' ear "You'll never be alone again, my dear Sunny." She said with a smile, sofrtly kissing this ones' cheek.

[ikilledjohnkennedy]

Natalie Rupnow and Colt Gray fight each other and then become Adolf Hitler's food

Natalie: Hi Colt what are you doing?

Colt in a bunny hat: yeah... n-nothing...

Natalie: Are you sending pictures to men on discord again? Do you remember the last time Adam Lanza asked for a picture of you in a wet white shirt?

Colt: You know what, Natalie? I'm tired of you bossing me around! You're not my mother, you're not my sister! We've only kissed once and you're not my girlfriend to boss me around!

Natalie: Apologize now

Colt: No...

Natalie: NOW!

Colt: I'm s-sorry, sweetheart, I promise I'll never fight with you again >_<

Eric Harris: What the fuck is going on between you two? You're the faggiest school shooters I've ever seen!

Colt Gray: Yeah! You're a stupid bitch Natalie!

Natalie: Look who's talking, the stupid faggot!

* Colt and Natalie start fighting, Eric Harris laughs at the two of them fighting and, meanwhile, Adam Lanza and Cho Seung-Hui try to take pictures of Rupnow and Gray at compromising angles *

Natalie: You look like a little woman, when I first saw you I thought you were trans!

Colt Gray: Oh... me? Little girl? Look Natalie, you asked for it...

Colt Gray gets down on his knees and mentalizing a powerful chakra, he summons the Sharingan in his eyes and, full of hatred and power, punches Natalie hard in the stomach, making her double over in the middle and brutally expel vomit. Colt turns to Adam and Cho and says: "and I saw you there! You assholes! You won't get away from me!". Meanwhile, Eric Harris smokes quietly, noting that Colt would never be able to hit him, because it was Eric Harris himself who was training Colt's powers. Meanwhile, Andrew Blaze was in a far corner of the room, painting his nails and looking at drawings, and started cursing Colt on his Twitter account for "making a mess of this boring faggot!". A few minutes later, while Natalie, Lanza and Cho are recovering from Colt's powerful punch Uchicha Gray, the stupid fucking ridiculous disgusting retard Dylan Klebold appears in the room, eating an industrialized corn snack with cheese, reeking of rotten jew and says: "You guys better pack it in.... Hitler's coming, and he's pretty hungry today," he says, giving a wicked little smile and turning his back to show his ass bleeding through his pants from being raped by Adolf Hitler, indicating to the others that this was going to happen to them too

[likesunsetorange]

lol i'm rewriting the club scene (mostly staying the same but adding a bit) and this little piece of dialogue made me chuckle i love making mikasa so funny she really is ruining eren's life lmao

“Hi, Eren,” she quips, the corners of her mouth upturned and the pink of her lips sparkling under the lights from her gloss, painting her words almost as pretty as she is. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” she adds innocently after in between absentminded stirs of her drink. It’s clear Eren’s presence poses no threat to her; she knows her fun is soon to come to an end, but it’s clear she’s enjoying this little tryst of hers. 

Eren can feel his eye twitch at her lack of gravity for the situation, he struggles to hold onto the last remaining bit of sanity he has within him. As someone who feels almost painfully apathetic about almost everything, he can’t remember the last time he’d felt so intensely about anything, but in this moment, Mikasa had him particularly vexed. In the week since meeting her, Mikasa had quickly become an expert in just exactly how to get under his skin, something few could truly do. 

Eren takes a deep breath before he speaks, trying not to let his jaw clench through every word—he had no desire to waste any more time for her silly games. “We’re leaving, Mikasa,” he orders, any previous trace of empathy within him nowhere to be found. 

Her face falls, eyes going a bit wide and her mouth forming into a pout—it makes Eren sick to himself how he almost wants to succumb to her petty wishes, too. “You’re no fun, don’t you wanna stay a while?” She muses. Her free hand runs along the curve of his bicep as she continues speaking, her eyes sultry, asking for him to cave in—she really is the devil. “C’mon, Eren, loosen up a bit. I think you could use a break.” 

Eren can feel the chills run down his spine at her touch, but he wouldn’t fall for her act a second time, no matter how pretty she may be. He shakes his head, attempting to regain clarity and remember why he’s here in the first place—she drugged him—the anger within him begins to resurface at the thought.

“You really think I want to just loosen up? You have a lot of fucking audacity trying to play these little games with me still, Mikasa,” he scoffs. “First, you spend the entire week insulting me and treating me like absolute shit. Next, you pretend to be nice to me, even bothering to give me a sorry ass apology, and then you drug me? And you couldn’t even bother to use something useful? Benadryl?” He says trying to be heard over the music, his words starting off in anger, but quickly transitioning almost into that of disbelief, an angry chuckle emitting from his lips.

“What? You didn’t want to be visited by the Hat Man? Heard it’s kind of fun actually,” she jests, clearly amused at his outburst. “Did he tell you anything funny? Or are you just still seeing all the black spots?”

He stares at her in disbelief, if he wasn’t so angry, he might’ve laughed at her joke, but the rage continues to push through due to her sheer level of audacity. “Not only are you terrible, but your parents are drowning in money, and you decided to knock me out with over-the-counter drugs? I guess I wasn’t worth the effort of seeking out actual drugs?” Eren says, clearly taken aback.

Rather than dispute him, Mikasa simply rolls her eyes before finally setting her drink onto the counter behind her, seemingly finally growing tired of her game and their petty back and forth. “Sorry for being considerate and not drugging you with actual drugs, Eren. Next time, I’ll remember to go for the hard stuff—don’t you worry.”

“Glad you’re so sweet, Mikasa. I should be so thankful to have a boss as considerate as you,” he pipes back, glaring down at her. “Now, let’s go.”

[renaisguy]

"oh, fordie. resting already? what ever shall we do with you?"

a good-natured laugh rings out as she watches him. though she tries to maintain a disapproving look, a growing grin betrays her amusement.

"then again, after all those trials and tribulations...i suppose we’ve earned a break." an over-exaggerated shake of the head. "i’ll make an exception for now, but don’t think i’ll go easy on you next time, hm?" dorothea's eyes flash mischievously. "you’ll have to show me your paintings sometime. and a lesson or two wouldn’t hurt, either."

her smile turns coy, hands fluttering to her hat to adjust it with a playful air. "or perhaps you'd like to use me as your muse? i've been told i translate well onto canvas."

"I'm awake, I'm awake..." Forde mumbles as he lies beneath a tree. Being scolded for taking a nap... it really felt like home. "I told you didn't I? I'm always tired. You should rest too, it's been a rough day."

He smiles at her suggestion, but with a sadness in his eyes. "I'll show you my paintings sometime. But sorry, I don't do portraits anymore." He opens his eyes slightly to look at her. "Even if I did, I doubt I'd be able to capture your full charm on my canvas."

He closes his eyes again. Is he still awake? Who knows.

[risunsky]

I was wondering how long it takes you to complete a drawing? Especially for some of the more complex/ detailed ones, how do you deal with not getting burnt out? Do you work on one piece until it’s complete or do you bounce around and work on multiple projects at once? Also I love your work. I think it’s so gorgeous and really powerfully conveys emotion 🖤

(sorry, it's a long answer again :x) My most complex drawings, such as the remake of the siege of La Rochelle or the one with winged Papa IV, took between 60 and 80 hours to complete. The Spillways one is probably a record-breaker because I had to start from the beginning several times.

It's also the time I need for a traditional A2 painting (like the one I'm planning to do this summer (wink wink) if the heat doesn't knock me out too much).

For simpler things like a portrait alone without background I try not to exceed 10 hours. Like Copia with his face hidden by his hat, or the one where he's holding a Grucifix. The one on the beach looks just as simple on paper and yet I think I spent more time on it, because I did some lineart to lay down certain details and I spent a lot of time refining the textures.

In any case, even for something very simple I rarely go under 6 hours, I consider myself a slow artist which isn't necessarily a problem, unless you want to make a living out of it.

- Avoiding burn-out is a difficult challenge. In 2020 I think I experienced it, it was my first A2 painting, there was a deadline, I was late and it was very important to me. I worked intensely on this big piece, I didn't do anything other than that, stopping only to eat and sleep. At the time I was having a great time, I was really enjoying myself, thinking I was experiencing the 'true passion of art' and I still have really good memories of that period of a few weeks. But once I'd finished I kinda fell apart, I was always tired, did an artblock for several months, it was difficult to get back to normal and it caused me problems for my job. It's thanks to doing ghost fanarts that I've managed to recover. I really don't recommend pushing yourself like that it's not healthy at all.

To avoid this happening again, I impose a schedule on myself. A break every 2 hours where I get up from my chair and walk around a bit. I don't work more than a certain number of hours a day (8~10) and I don't work at weekends. Well, that's the ideal, obviously it's hard to keep. When I get caught up in the enthusiasm of a project I have a bit of trouble controlling myself, it's like an obsession and nothing else matters.

There's also the fact that my interest in a project fades easily. I need to do as much as possible in one go so I don't risk giving up before it's finished. For commission I can work on several projects at once, jumping from one to another alternately, but I really prefer to be able to concentrate on one thing at a time. The more projects I have in the queue, the more scattered my mind becomes and I don't work well in that state.

Thank you so much for your interest! 🖤🖤

[virtuoso-spybot]

Its early in the morning, and Pascal has sat himself down in the middle of a field, doodling in his sketchbook as he did his best to ignore the pain in his chest. He was waiting for someone, someone who said they'd wanted to learn how to draw. Of course, Pascal just couldn't ignore him- He had the most innocent, most excited expression when Pascal said yes, and for the past few days they've been meeting up every sunrise.

"I'M HERE! I'M HERE!" A familiar accented voice called out, and in the distance Pascal could see a sniperbot running towards him as fast as his legs would take him.

"SAMMY!" Pascal shouted back, opening up his arms for a hug. "ITS GOOD TO SEE YOU."

He reached under Sammy's hat to give him a little pat on the head, which always seemed to get the other bot's engine revving in a comforting purr. The two of them sat down in the grass next to each other, opening up their sketchbooks as Sammy tilted his head at Pascal.

"HOW COME YOU'RE WEARING A HOOHIE?" He asked.

"ITS PRONOUNCED 'HOODIE' AND..." Pascal hesitated, knowing damn well he absolutely isn't gonna tell Sammy what really happened, he's too innocent for that.

"...YOU SEE, MY WIRES ARE KINDA SILLY, SO I START TO FEEL COLD EASIER THAN OTHER ROBOTS!" He said with a forced grin, making sure to be as gentle as he possibly can with the other robot. "ANYWAYS, ENOUGH ABOUT MY POOR FASHION CHOICES. HOW ABOUT YOU DRAW ME SOMETHING YOU SAW YESTERDAY? TO SHOW OFF YOUR SKILLS!"

Immediately Sammy got giddy, and flapped his hands a few times to get rid of any excess energy before starting to draw, rocking back and forth and humming to himself while doing so. Pascal waited, staring up at the sky as the stars began to fade away and the sun rose, painting the sky in vivid shades of pink and orange.

"DONE!" Sammy shouted, and he excitedly showed off his notebook to Pascal. It was a drawing of a bird laying down on its back, with its eyes closed and Zs coming out of its mouth. "YESTERDAY I SAW A BIRDIE, AND IT WAS ASLEEP ON THE GROUND INSTEAD OF SLEEPING IN A TREE? I TRIED TO POKE IT AWAKE, BUT I GUESS IT JUST GOT REEAALLY TIRED."

Pascal paused. He didn't think he'd have to be the one to give Sammy this type of talk, but alas. He sighed and closed his own notebook, looking the fellow bot right in the eyes.

"SAM... CAN I BE SERIOUS FOR A LITTLE?"

"HUH? OF COURSE!" Sammy said as he closed his own notebook, sitting criss crossed facing Pascal.

"YOU SEE..." Pascal began. "WHEN SOMETHING HAS LIVED FOR A LONG TIME, OR GETS SICK OR REALLY HURT THEY..." He paused.

"...GO TO SLEEP FOREVER. NOTHING WAKES THEM UP."

"I BET I COULD WAKE THEM UP! I CAN YELL REALLY LOUD!" The sniperbot said excitedly.

Pascal cringed before speaking again. "NONO- BY NOTHING I MEAN ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. NO YELLING OR ANYTHING. WHEN THAT HAPPENS, THAT'S... THAT'S CALLED DEATH."

The two of them sat in silence for a few moments, Sammy taking his time to process this information. He nervously fidgeted with his hands as he looked down at the grass, realizing what happened to that birdie he saw.

"...WHEN DO THEY WAKE UP?" He asked, his tone still hopeful. Pascal again hesitated, he wasn't expecting this conversation to be as difficult as it was. He let out a mechanical sigh before responding:

"THEY DON'T, BUDDY... THEY DIE, AND THEY STAY DEAD, AND THEY NEVER WAKE UP."

Sammy again paused, looking upset at this information. "O-OH..." He muttered, playing with his hands as he began to look nervous. "IS... IS THAT GONNA HAPPEN TO YOU?"

Pascal was shocked at the question, and after a long while of thinking, he decided that honestly was the best route to take here. "YES. YES IT IS AND IM SORRY."

Sammy goes completely silent, absolutely horrified by Pascal's confession. He grabbed onto Pascal's hand and held it tight, like he wanted to hang on to his friend and never let go. "WHY??" Sammy asked. "WHY ARE YOU...?"

"WELL..." Pascal closed his eyes to try and find the words to put it as gently as possible. "I-I'VE BEEN VERY SICK TO PUT IT LIGHTLY. MY BODY DOESN'T WORK LIKE IT SHOULD, AND I DON'T THINK ANY MECHANIC, ENGINEER OR TECHNICIAN COULD FIX ME-"

"BUT THAT'S NOT FAIR!" Sammy shouted, causing Pascal to flinch. "I DON'T WANT YOU TO SLEEP FOREVER! I WANNA KEEP DRAWING WITH YOU!"

Pascal's heart shattered into a million pieces right then and there, seeing the heartbreak in the sniperbot's eyes. "I KNOW, BUDDY..." He said as he shuffled closer to Sammy, putting his arms around him in a tight hug. He thought about how to comfort the bot for a while, before coming up with an idea.

"HEY, SAMMY?" Pascal began. "YOU KNOW WHAT A GHOST IS?"

"Y-YEAH... WHY?"

"WELL, THOSE HUMAN PEOPLE SAY THAT WHEN THINGS DIE, THEIR GHOST GOES REALLY HIGH INTO THE SKY, AND THEY GET TO LIVE ON THOSE SOFT AND FLUFFY CLOUDS FOREVER AND EVER. THAT SOUNDS PRETTY COOL, DOESN'T IT?" He asked as he tilted his head to the side.

"YEAH... YEAH! IT DOES!" Sammy exclaimed as he looked up at the sky, at all the clouds that can be seen across the firey orange and pink sunset. "I'LL BE SURE TO WAVE AT YOU IF YOU GO UP THERE!"

It took Pascal everything to stop himself from becoming a sobbing mess right then and there, holding Sammy just a little tighter. "TH... THANKS, BUD." He said, hugging him in silence for just a few more moments.

..."DO YOU WANNA DRAW WHAT YOU THINK IT LOOKS LIKE UP THERE?" The spybot asked.

"YEAH! YEAH I DO!" Sammy replied as he excitedly opened up his notebook again.

And draw they did.

[kalpasio]

DID IT TAKE ME 10 DAYS TO WATCH THE GOLDEN COURTYARD EPISODES? YES. AM I LATE TO THE PARTY? YES, WHATS NEW. AM I MAKING AN ABSURDLY LONG POST ABOUT IT? YES, W H A T S N E W.

here's the play by play

I hate kosma without horns but the fact that he has a poster of Kalpas in his room is making up for it

the absolute cackle I gave when Kevin goes "yeah what part are they responsible for?" and Kalpas is beating the shit out of the dough 😭😭😭😭😭

I would die for griseo

aponia scares the shit outta me

I love Sakura 😭💖

I love vill-v 🧡🧡

why are aponia boobs so big?

I love vill-v 🧡

oh they're making kalpas face away from the camera to hide his fa-- IS HE CARRYING A PLATE OF FIRE??

I would die for this man

NOT THE FACE MASK

do you think Eden knows he has the face mask on

the little bonk Griseo gives kosmas dumpling

aponia really scares me ahahahahahah

100% Kevin went out an bought those

YEAH OF FUCKING COURSE HE DID

SUFFER

why is can so larg?

all the pillows 😭 and vill-v's hat 😭😭

also Kalpas doing The Squat (TM)

why is he playing on mobile oh my gosh I'm so concerned

kinda sad Rin isn't here 😔

not to be horny on main but vill-v pretty

all the little details they put into the background are so good and I love it

MEI with the 👍👍👍 and Kevin smiling...hhhh I know this man is whipped but like oof

do not let Kevin in the kitchen

they really did pardo dirty huh

THEY DONT EVEN GIVE THE KALPAS SNOWMAN A FACE REVEAL D A M N THEY ARE STINGY

I draw smiley faces like :> so the fact that Griseo painted on just made me so happy lmao

I started episode 2 which was a mistake I'm sorry

KALPAS BEING STRONGER THAN KOSMA AND KEVIN IS GIVING ME LIFE

NOT SU'S TREEEEEE

I am definitely not paused and trying not to cry on the hot spring picture. nope.

NOT THE SNOW

soldering isn't that hard, 100% trust vill-v with that. but uhhh. that hole is a little large to solder...

I love su. and hua too 😭🧡🧡🧡

your honor I think I'm in love with all the flame chasers except Kevin. fuck kevin

t tHe PHOTO ALBUM?!?!!?

MHY. DO YOU KNOW. HOW MUCH. I WOULD PAY????? like 2 cents because I'm a broke college kid but please I am begging you😭😭😭😭😭😭

Kevin's fucking haunted face lmao if I didn't hate him so much I would be tempted to make this a profile pic lol

why does Kevin stick his ass out like that?

what is THAT

SU OPENED HIS EYES OH FUCK

oh no poor baby griseo

oop. there she goes

OH NO THERE THE COMICS GO 😭

p pardo?

OH NO PARDO

please do not eat the very very old cup noodles. not only are they definitely expired, Kevin made them. you're going to get food poisoning

why is kalpas sitting in a corner alone 😭😭

the fucking Squat lmao

is he just staring at a magazine full of pictures of himself? because like I would tok but damn

we are only 6 minutes in oh dear

oh?! Eden finally makes an appearance? what is the deal with her helmet tho

also how is she not freezing with her boobs out like that? I am here to tell you, when it is cold, you cover that shit up

AND HER STOMACH?! EDEN HOW ARE YOU NOT DEAD

didn't they ask you to pick up flour Eden??

Kevin is already thinking of other places to live and he's just moved in lmao

APONIA MAKING A VERY GOOD POINT I TOLD YOU THEY WOULD KILL YOU

kalpas with his face in the floor 😭 su fucking meditating 😭 I am dying

AND THE BOOK ON HIS FACE AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH

pardo: I had this really horrible dream!

kalpas: ok, and? I'm fucking tired

the fact that they're all so supportive is gonna make me cry oh my gosh

where are the subtitles oh no

the scar 😭 please just give us the face reveal I am dying

kosmas little horns on his hat lol

"it's just a sunrise" hold on real quick I gotta take a pic for my gf

IN THE DREAM WE WERE HEROES. BUT WE WERE ALSO LOSERS

my friend quotes this to me daily but oh my gosh oooof

I just want them to be happy PLEASE

Griseo asking kosma his wish is 😭😭 she does so much to make him happy and it makes me so sad

THE ACTION FIGURES ME FUCKING TO KOSMA

Eden and Ely kinda gay ngl👀👀

why does Kevin get 3 wishes damn

I DIDNT EVEN NOTICE SAKURA'S EARS OH MY GOSH 🧡🧡

basically. I'm dying. why did you let me do this 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[careforpears]

Full version of the nevlario snippet I posted recently, ummm ok bye

read on ao3

Illario was certain that Neve Gallus knew something.

By the time she, Rook, and Lucanis—whole and freshly back from the dead and with a beard —arrived at the Crow's nest of the Cantori Diamond, Illario was exhausted. He had spent the last several hours dealing with the aftermath of Caterina's immaculately staged murder, including making a show of standing frozen before breaking down to weep over the body with its face cut up and burned well enough that no one would be able to identify it, until Teia and Viago dispatched Crows to take her remains to Villa Dellamorte. He allowed Teia to comfort him, allowed her to fetch him water and then something stronger, allowed her to rub her hands up and down his arms as if trying to warm him. He grew silent and somber, gathering himself as she and Viago discussed next steps in low voices.

" Maker —" Teia gasped, and he heard Rook's footsteps, the detective's, and then the voice of his cousin.

"What happened here?"

He pounded a fist against the table once and recited a carefully rehearsed line with just the right amount of frustration and grief turning his voice ragged. Then he turned around.

The raw confusion on Lucanis' face was almost too much. A well of emotion took him by surprise, startling in its intensity and variety. Guilt, anger, relief, contempt, and the deadly certainty that he was going to make Zara pay.

Rook was beside Lucanis, and Illario could see the way they glanced at each other, already in sync. And behind them was Neve Gallus, the detective that had gone with Rook to the Ossuary, looking straight at Illario with dark eyes shadowed by her ridiculous hat. It felt like she could see into his soul.

Like she knew that two days ago he had been in bed with Zara Renata, unaware that Lucanis was rotting in a Venatori prison. Like she could smell the blood on him. Like she could look into his memory and see the way Zara ran her pointed, painted fingernails down his back with vicious intent, like she could see through his clothes to the raised welts left on his skin.

Illario fought down a strange surge of panic. That was ridiculous. She knew none of those things. He positioned himself so that she couldn't see his face.

Neve was quiet as they talked, and Illario learned that Lucanis planned to leave Treviso immediately. Planned to leave him to clean up the mess while he buried himself in his new contract. From Caterina's lapdog to Rook's, how predictable, how boring.

That thought was uncharitable, but it gave him a dull satisfaction that cut through the sting of abandonment.

Neve's stare was like a brand he could feel on his skin even as he avoided looking at her. When Lucanis, Teia, and Viago left to gather supplies for him and Rook followed like a little terrier at their heels, Illario finally turned to her.

The detective had a hand resting on her hip, which was cocked to one side so that her weight was off of her metal leg. Her one boot was damp and crusted with sand, and her robes were a fashionable Tevinter style that wouldn't look out of place in Minrathous' upper city.  She was curved and sharp all at once, beautiful in a striking way rather than the vacuous prettiness that he was usually drawn to in women. Under the weight of her hawklike gaze, his palms felt suddenly clammy.

"I'm sorry about your grandmother," she offered, and it sounded genuine and more gentle than he expected.

"Thank you," he returned, injecting it with what warmth he could. He sounded tired, and it wasn't an act.

"Did they leave anything behind?"

"What?"

"The Venatori." She looked him up and down carefully, eyes cataloging.

"Blood. And my grandmother's body," he snapped, then reined himself in. "My apologies, it's been... a long evening."

"I'll just take a look around before we leave if you don't mind?" Though it was inflected with a question, she was already doing it, metal leg tapping against the wood floor as she circled the large table to the seat at one end, where Caterina had been sitting. How did she know?

"Of course," he bit out, watching her with wary eyes.

Neve examined a tiny scrap of red fabric on the floorboards. She followed the trajectory of bloody footprints, gears working behind her gaze. Her hand traced a long scorch mark on the table.

"You think they were working for Zara?" The detective's tone was neutral.

"Who else?" In truth, they answered to him. A handful of agents whose loyalty he had secured as Zara had become more unhinged, more prone to sacrificing on a whim the cultists who worked for her.

Neve made a noncommittal noise, peering at broken window panes leading onto the roof.

Illario's heart rate ratcheted up, and he gritted his teeth. There was nothing for her to find, he reassured himself. But he still stepped forward, compelled to distract her from her careful inspection of the scene. He moved close enough that he could faintly smell her warm perfume oil and the hint of sulfur clinging to her clothes. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look up at him curiously.

"Before you go... thank you for bringing Lucanis home to me," Illario said fervently, holding a deferential hand in front of his chest. He knew his expression was warm and intent because it was one he had practiced.

"Sorry to be taking him away again so soon," she said, rueful. "He's not one to take any downtime, is he?"

"No. He never has been," he rolled his eyes affectionately.

Neve's gaze was already drifting back to the windows like she was thinking about venturing onto the rooftop.

Illario gently clasped her hand where it was resting on the tabletop. Friendly, not too much pressure or contact, but with a lingering swipe of his thumb against her skin that should raise goosebumps on her arms. Her eyes snapped to his, and he found that he liked the intensity of her attention in that moment.

"Truly, I am in your debt," he murmured, voice husky and catching with feeling.

He could see her discomfort the instant it bled into her eyes and stiffened her posture. Not at his closeness, he was certain, but at the emotion in his voice and the weight of his gratitude. He felt a little thrill of satisfaction.

She cleared her throat and drew her hand away from his to straighten the front of her robes. Neve didn't, to his pleasure, step away or become shy despite her sudden awkwardness. She held his gaze coolly and deflected. "Rook's the one you should thank."

"And I will," he assured her. Unable to resist, a heady urge infecting him, he leaned closer to her, eyes half-lidded and his voice low and deep. "But if there's some way I can repay you , personally..."

Neve tensed, and her face went from neutral to stony, baleful. She looked at him like one might look at a large, very repellant insect.

That sent a surprising, giddy thrill through Illario, along with the way her pupils dilated just slightly.

"Just let us know if you find any intel on Zara's whereabouts," she told him stiffly. "I'll let Teia know how to contact us." She ducked around him to leave, their shoulders nearly brushing.

Illario smiled to himself as he listened to her footsteps fade and drummed his fingertips on the tabletop. That one was going to be a problem.

----------

Illario took several days to wallow, as would be expected of him. After ensuring that Caterina was sufficiently guarded and hidden at Villa Dellamorte, he could not bring himself to see her.

His only surviving family hung in a strange sort of limbo in his mind, one believed to be dead but locked away out of sight, the other proclaimed alive but under the looming threat of a demon they had no way to measure.

He spent a long, silent night in the guest house.

After that, he took to staying in a suite at the casino, which Teia was more than happy to provide. No doubt out of pity, thinking that the ghosts of his family home were too much for him. She wasn't entirely wrong.

He brought women to bed and dark corners for sloppy trysts, gambled obscene amounts of his money away at card tables, and drank until Viago had to clean him off the floor of the Cantori Diamond. Pretty standard stuff.

Then one morning he joined Teia and Viago for breakfast with a particularly nasty headache and shadows beneath his eyes. He had barely sat down before Viago dropped a missive into his hands.

"This is for you, assuming you're ready to make yourself useful."

"Vi," Teia admonished him quietly, and they exchanged pointed looks.

Illario unfurled the parchment, the wax seal already broken, to find that it was wrapped around a few sheets of elaborate notes and a handful of articles cut out of Tevinter and Antivan papers. The message itself was succinct and written in a neat, sloping hand.

'In case you need any leads, here's where I'd start looking for our mutual friend.

NG'

Illario stared at the initials. Neve Gallus.

She had outlined recent Venatori activity and connected events in the region. She had a witness who had seen a beautiful magister in an Antivan port weeks prior, and Neve had apparently spoken with locals in Treviso who had seen some strange things on the rooftops the night of Caterina's 'murder'. She had marked the sightings on a tidy little sketch of the city and connected possible routes with stark lines.

It felt like ice had been poured down the back of his shirt. It felt like a threat. Neve Gallus knew something.

He tossed the missive onto the table and could feel Viago's eyes on him as he poured himself a cup of coffee and spooned a dollop of foamy milk on top.

Teia plucked one of the newspaper clippings off the table, examined it, and hummed. "She's a clever one."

"She's nosy," Illario muttered, voice cracking with sleep.

"She doesn't waste time, unlike some people I know." Viago was scowling at him over his coffee.

"Whatever happened to a mourning period? Am I not allowed one?" Illario piled diced tomato and herbs over a slice of warm, crusty bread.

"You would be if it didn't consist entirely of debauchery and taking advantage of Andarateia's good manners."

Illario rolled his eyes and turned a simpering gaze toward Teia. "Teia. Am I taking advantage?"

"Of course not Illario, as I told you," she said gently, "you can stay as long as you want. And you," she turned pointed, fiery eyes on Viago, "can make yourself useful and stop pointing fingers."

"Yes, Vi," Illario drawled. "Aren't you a little too busy with the occupation to concern yourself with Dellamorte affairs?" And too busy drooling at the Seventh Talon's feet, but he bit back that part. He did, however, glance at her pointedly when she wasn't looking.

Viago looked from him to Teia, clenched his jaw, and set down his cup with enough force to spill a few drops of black coffee. He grabbed his cape from the back of his chair as he swept from the table and left them. He was so easy to rile lately. Especially around Teia.

Illario felt her looking at him as he ate. His stomach threatened to revolt but settled after a bit of food. When Teia started to speak, he cut in, "I'm sorting out my grandmother's accounts. And I have Crows looking for Zara. And looking into Viago's missing shipment. I'm expecting a report back today."

Teia leaned back with a smile, continuing to appraise him silently.

"Yes, yes," he relented, irate. "And I'll apologize to Viago. I always do." Illario was quite practiced in toeing the line with Viago.

"And write this one back," Teia tapped the missive from Neve. "We could use more of her."

Illario stared at the wax seal clinging to the end of the parchment, pressed simply and without decoration.

He needed to keep Neve Gallus as far away from his affairs as possible.

----------

A pristine sheet of fine parchment, folded neatly and tucked into an envelope, secured with a seal depicting a crow's claw:

To Neve Gallus,

Your expert opinion is greatly appreciated. Rest assured, the Crows will find our mutual friend. Should our allies require support in their endeavors, our network is at your disposal.

Please accept this shipment of supplies and goods as a token of our friendship, your companions looked to be in need of outfitting. Please alert me if there is anything else I may procure on your behalf.

With warm regards,

Illario Dellamorte

----------

Parchment stained with coffee rings, covered with scrawled notes on the back side, and a burnt edge:

Thanks. We could use more elfroot. Lucanis asked for olive oil.

NG

----------

A letter accompanied by a newspaper clipping, with a note crossed out and the cursive addendum, 'This one was a Crow contract':

To Neve Gallus,

Thank you for continuing to send your research and findings, Teia received your most recent batch this morning. If your attention is needed elsewhere, please do not feel that you are neglecting your allies here. Our spies, as you know, are the best in Thedas.

Warmest tidings,

Illario Dellamorte

P.S. I took the liberty of including a Rivaini tobacco for your enjoyment in our supply shipment this week.

----------

A missive on personalized stationery pressed with the Dellamorte seal:

To Detective Neve Gallus,

At the risk of sounding ungrateful for your relentless investigative prowess, please refrain from bribing Treviso urchins for information. Tailing Crows is a good way for them to end up on the wrong side of a dagger.

Cordially,

Illario Dellamorte

----------

Neve Gallus was following him.

It was insulting, to be honest, that she thought he wouldn't notice. Maybe she wanted him to.

Illario fumed. He had just left Lucanis and Rook at Cafe Pietra. Not only had they not taken his bait about Zara having gone to Vyrantium, but now he had Neve Gallus stalking him through Treviso's markets like an unwanted spirit.

She was, at least, not terrible at it. Each time he caught a glimpse of her, she was turned away, examining produce or textiles, observing street performers, or stooping to pet a stray cat so that it was near impossible to see her through the surrounding crowd of people. But the silhouette of her was too distinct to melt into the background here. She had removed her hat, but the pointed shoulder pieces she wore and the curve of her hips, and her slightly uneven gait were unmistakable.

Illario considered his options. He could lose her and check in at Villa Dellamorte like he planned to and hope that she didn't make her way there on her own. He could lead her back to the casino and let her waste her time watching him gamble and drink.

Or, he thought, while pausing to examine an array of fine glassware being peddled by an Orlesian artisan, he could remove her from the equation entirely. Get her into a shadowed alleyway, dispose of her body in the Drowned District, or just let her companions think that she had been mugged. He would never have to worry about Neve Gallus again.

Then again, he'd never seen her in combat, and she was a mage. It was difficult to know how much trouble she would give him. He only had a few poison darts on him if he wanted to avoid close contact, and he was out of practice with them.

Past the Orlesian wine glasses he was perusing was a stand with fresh-cut flowers and arrangements. He wandered over to examine bunches of fragrant lavender, tied together with twine. In his periphery, the streak of teal shadowing him lingered at the far end of the row of stalls.

He leaned in to smell the flowers just as two men stepped out into the cobbled aisle holding a large painting between them, blocking Illario from view.  It was easy enough to duck between the stalls, keeping an eye in Neve's direction to be sure her view was obstructed, and disappear into a narrow alleyway between two tall buildings. Out of sight, he scaled ornate masonry to the shadowed ledge of an alcove on the second level.

From there he could see Neve straighten up and casually turn her head one way and then the other, scanning, searching for him. When he was nowhere to be found, the detective crossed through the stalls to the other side of the market, body language relaxed, and looked again. He smirked when she grew visibly frustrated, a little line creasing between her brows as her expression pinched. At least she was entertaining, he thought.

Maybe he was thinking about this all wrong. He knew that he was a blind spot for Teia, Viago, Lucanis, and perhaps Rook by extension. Neve, distant and cold, could see him too clearly. Perhaps what he needed wasn't to keep her away, where she might observe unfettered, but to bring her close. Obstruct her vision.

He watched her amble through the stalls, persistent, like a shark lingering in blood-infested waters, like she could smell him nearby.

She wouldn't be charmed by pretty words, he thought, remembering the way she had turned stony and discomfited when he had been warm with her. And how quickly she had dismissed him when he had turned suggestive. 

He needed more information. He needed an angle.

Neve hovered at the edge of the alleyway he had disappeared into, eyes sweeping the shadows for evidence beyond her intuition. When she ventured further in where she wouldn't be seen, Illario dropped down behind her.

"What did I tell you about tailing Crows?"

She whipped around, retrieving her wand from her belt in a smooth, swift motion and brandishing it between them. The end of it glowed a faint, cool blue, illuminating their faces. There was something very attractive about the defiance in her eyes.

Illario brushed imaginary dust from his shirt, arched a brow at her weapon, and leaned against the building beside them with a casual stance, hands in his pockets. Neve lowered her wand slowly, recalibrating.

"You said it wasn't safe for street urchins. I'm not a street urchin."

Illario looked her up and down, smirking. "You are not. If you want to take a walk with me, all you have to do is ask."

"You left Rook and Lucanis at the cafe a little abruptly. Everything alright?" Neve put her wand away and rested one hand on her hip. She spoke neutrally as if asking him about the weather.

He slipped easily into the mask of put-upon, second-string cousin. "Lucanis is convinced we have a traitor in our house. And as usual, it falls to me to clean up the mess."

"You think he's wrong?"

"It's possible. It will take time to sort through all of Caterina's affairs."

"You weren't already involved in all that?" Her eyes were sharp as she questioned him as if he were a witness.

"Some of it. Caterina was First Talon, I was just a Crow."

"Do you want to be?"

"A Crow?"

"First Talon."

Illario smiled easily, eyes relaxed. "Of course. It's my family's legacy."

She frowned at him, obviously trying to puzzle him out. "Will you be?"

"There are more pressing issues to contend with right now, don't you think? Zara. Antaam. Risen gods," he ticked off each one on his fingers, then wiggled them at her.

There was no humor in her gaze, just a cool appraisal. "What do you have on Zara so far?"

"All you ever do is talk business. Aren't you tired of it?"

"Fine," she made as if to leave, her face a mask of that infuriating indifference.

He blocked her path, and brought one hand up to the wall beside them above her head, shifting so that she was boxed in. She gave him no reaction, but her eyes were flinty. He purred, "Why don't we take a walk? I'll answer one of your questions if you answer one of mine."

"You don't like personal space, do you?"

"I like your personal space." It was true. She smelled good, like jasmine and warm amber and a hint of smoke, and he was enjoying picking out the little unique features of her face from this close. Tiny scars and freckles he hadn't seen before, the slight crookedness of her mouth even when it was relaxed, the thin, precise line of kohl around her dark eyes.

"If you want to take a walk, you'll have to let me move," she said dryly, eyes flicking pointedly to his arm above her head.

Illario removed it promptly, proffering it instead for her to tuck her hand into. She didn't, brushing past him. He fell in step with her smoothly, positioning himself to her right as they made their way down the alley.

"Get on with it then, what's your question?" The bored impatience in her voice should have irritated him, but instead, he felt anticipation for the moment it would melt into something else.

"Was the tobacco I sent you to your liking?"

"That's your question?"

His only answer was a disarming smile.

Neve did not seem disarmed but relented after a moment. "It was very good."

"I will send more."

"Tell me about your relationship with Lucanis."

"That isn't a question."

"Tell me about your relationship with Lucanis, please?" Ah, she did have a sense of humor.

"We were inseparable as boys, more like brothers than cousins. We spent less time together as we grew older, but he's always been the person closest to me. No one in this world knows me better."

Neve seemed to take pause at his candor and the gentleness in his voice, peering at him out of the corner of her eye as they walked.

"What's your favorite drink?"

Her expression folded into mild discontent, the line between her brows appearing again. Illario felt the urge to reach out and touch it, smooth it down, so he tucked his hands behind his back and chuckled at her instead. "What? Too personal?"

That earned him a roll of her eyes. "I like gin. Or mulsum. Why was Lucanis Caterina's favorite?"

They were passing back through the market, and Illario edged closer to be heard over the crowd, hunching slightly to speak into her ear. "He's dedicated, stoic, skilled. The perfect assassin. But more than that, his mother was her favorite. She would have been the next First Talon. Favorite color?"

Instead of replying, Neve held up a hand to show him her nail lacquer, which was the same shade of bright teal as the scarf at her collar and her trousers beneath her robes. He was quick to snag her fingertips for a closer look, smiling helplessly when she frowned and snatched her hand away.

The crowd of people around them thinned as they left the market. They made their way along a canal, the air open and cool. Illario positioned himself between Neve and the water as they walked, glancing habitually around at their surroundings and the lights of the city.

"Are you or Lucanis older?"

"Are all of these questions going to be about Lucanis?"

"Answer the question, Dellamorte."

"Illario, please," he prompted her, then gave a long-suffering sigh when she was silent. "Fine, Lucanis is older. By less than a year."

Neve hummed knowingly, gracing him with a little smirk and a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"What is that for?"

"Oh, nothing. I guessed right, that's all."

Illario opened his mouth to ask his next question as they rounded a corner, but he paused. Further down the canal, he spied a merchant with his boat docked, being interrogated by a pair of Antaam enforcers. He backpedaled a few steps, catching Neve by her elbow so she would follow, and ducked out of their eyeline.

"What is it?" she whispered, peering around the building.

"That's one of Viago's suppliers," he murmured, listening carefully to the guttural voices of the Antaam and the harried merchant. "They want to inspect his wares." Among the goods on the boat were no doubt a number of illicit substances.

"What should we do?" Neve asked in hushed tones, and he gave her a sidelong look. We?

"Intervening right now will make things worse for him, I'm afraid."

She didn't seem to like that answer, frowning up at him. Did she expect him to rush in like a hero and fight two Valotaar?

Suddenly he heard heavy, quick footsteps nearby, approaching through a connecting alleyway behind them. More Antaam. If they were seen skulking around corners like this, it was unlikely they would be able to avoid questioning. On his own he might abscond up toward the rooftops, but with Neve...

The detective sensed his hesitancy and took action. She grabbed him by the front of his samite shirt and hauled him toward a few crates alongside the canal. They were not stacked tall, so she yanked him down behind them until one of his knees scraped the flagstone. Off balance on long limbs, Illario fell backward and Neve toppled with him, still gripping his shirt. Her prosthetic bumped painfully against his shins, but he reflexively circled his arms around her so she wouldn't slip sideways and off the ledge into the water.

Neve struggled to right herself and stay hidden, and ended up hunched over with one leg on either side of his hips and her hands braced against his chest. Illario propped himself up on one elbow and left his other hand on her waist, raising his eyebrows at her incredulously. But she wasn't looking at him, she was straining to hear the Antaam passing their impromptu hiding spot.

Her profile was striking with her pointed chin and aquiline nose, lips parted as she struggled to breathe quietly. He looked down, lingering on the curve of her waist and the way his hand fit against it, then zeroing in on a button on his shirt she had accidentally wrenched off, hanging by a thread. Mierda.

"What are they saying?" Neve whispered, giving him a little shake.

Illario listened, still looking at her. He thumbed idly at the leather cincher around her waist, then drifted his hand down to the curve of her hip. She glanced at him sharply.

"There's a disturbance somewhere, they need reinforcements," he said in hushed, husky tones.

There was more Qunlat exchanged back and forth, but he allowed himself to be distracted by Neve's closeness, her thighs on either side of him, the press of her hands against his chest, the smell of her, and the puff of her breath against his face when she turned her head towards him. From the way she flinched, they were closer than she had realized. Illario circled his hand around to the small of her back, as if to keep her from escaping.

He opened his mouth to say something, but she shook her head and pressed a hand to his lips quickly as the Antaam marched past them, silencing him. Her touch seemed to burn. They stayed like that for a few moments, until the retreating footsteps faded and they could hear the merchant rowing his boat away.

"Did they say what the disturbance was?" Neve asked him, removing her hand so he could speak.

"I'm not sure," he said fuzzily, feeling the fabric of her robes between his fingertips and looking down at the curve of her lips.

Neve blinked, then she was scrambling away from him, breaking his hold on her and getting to her feet. She cleared her throat noisily. "Could be Rook. I should go."

Illario got to his feet and brushed himself off, looking ruefully down at the dirt on his trousers. "I'll accompany you."

"No!" Neve blurted, then said more softly, "No. I've kept you long enough. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?" Illario watched her walk a few steps, pause, and then turn back awkwardly.

"Yes. I'll... You—tell Teia to expect a missive from me tomorrow." Then she was striding away, metal leg tapping against the pavement.

Illario watched her round a corner, feeling unusually warm despite the chill of the night air. Although he seemed to have successfully thrown off Neve Gallus, he felt a peculiar urge to throw himself into the canal.

[novemquadragintillion]

I finished the Black Prism by Brent Weeks and I want to write my thoughts. Sorry to anyone who likes this book - I criticize it a bit.

[⚠️ major spoilers ahead ⚠️ ]

What I liked:

The parallels between how Dazen awoke his red drafting abilities and how Kip awoke his red drafting abilities. OUGH. Especially when we see many drafters using red for destruction in the story. The contrast..

So many misunderstadings and pain due to Gavin's secret about his identity (Liv please I promise, your dad isn't being blackmailed!!) (Kip, please talk to Gavin about the knife 😭)

Gavin's escape from the blue prison was the funniest thing ever holy crap. I was so seriously stressed about it throughout the entire book and then the author BAMBOOZLED me. I love Dazen lmao

I laughed when one of the characters called Lord Omnichrome "Lord Rainbow". amazing 😂 The guy wants such an oh so cool name, listing a few, but someone out there is calling him Rainbow because who tf cares about that guy and his silly self-proclaimed lord titles

I love when a main character has to keep their identity a secret and they feel deep isolation due to living that constant lie! Thank you author. I am a sucker for it

I like that there were adult as well as fat main characters (so rare in action fantasy, from my experience), who I ended up liking and cheering for

Love the title Black Prism!! I instantly think of that one Pink Floyd album cover with the prism and the rainbow of light, which is cool. I wish the story showed me why it is called that though. I learned what a Prism was, but what is a Black Prism? Someone who could draft in complete darkness or something?

Ok now I'm a bit negative here:

Why did all the main female characters have to be love interests or a part of some boring romance, and were constantly thinking about guys or how she looked? Stop it

Yet another fantasy story I've picked up in the past few years that have a war and a wall within the plot. I'm so tired of a wall that MUST be protected at all costs and wars!! I'm not looking for stories like this. Why do I keep picking them up by accident? >_< (I'm looking at you, A Court of Thorns and Roses trilogy, The Shadow of What Was Lost, and Fourth Wing) (btw I did not finish Fourth Wing, and I barely finished The Shadow of What Was Lost. Both I didn't really like). Maybe this is why I don't read american fantasy novels very often anymore 🤔

I didn't like that a lot of the chapters were dedicated to the POVs of other characters, besides the main character. Because, at least one of those other character's POVs I ended up disliking reading. I had a similar problem when reading The Shadow of What Was Lost and the Stormlight Archive series (I really liked the Stormlight Archive though). At least the chapters were short, so I didn't get bored too much

"And Karris had abandoned him. Damn it. What kind of woman abandons a child?" (page 582) You mean, what kind of ADULT abandons a child. The sexism throughout the story didn't have to be there

I picked up this book because I went on google, looking for recommendations on books with unique magic systems. I love creative thinking and loopholes within the boundaries of a rigid magic system, like Lord of the Mysteries, World Trigger, and Witch Hat Atelier's. I found a recc that was for the Black Prism, where I ended up reading. Although it does have an interesting magic system, it wasn't really what I was looking for I guess? So I was a little disappointed tbh 😂 I would've loved to see more characters playing and doing more with the system. Gavin's inventions was a good example, but I wanted to see more

I wish the magic, luxien?, was described a little more. Like when Brightwater Wall was built (freaking walls), what color yellow was it? (maybe I did read that but I forgot?). Since I wasn't sure about the descriptions of the colors drafted, I kept imagining the colors as straight-out-of-the-paint-tube, saturated, colors. Which made me really not like the images I was having in my head tbh 😂

I guess in general, the book was entertaining enough for me to finish, but I won't be reading the whole series. By not reading any more though, I won't find out all of Gavin's goals, which I was super curious about.

[petermonarch]

{CUT}

[ANALYSIS IN PROGRESS... AND... ACTION!]

Brandon wakes up on a beach. He turns in all directions to try to find his way, but nothing seems to be familiar to him. And yet... he feels that this place is of paramount importance.

- L-Laīka? It's you who...

- Yeah, it's me. Don't worry, this hospice just serves as a reference point. Don't dwell on it too much. Not that it is dangerous since there is nothing for the moment, but because this place has no significant importance in your history.

- Uh... ok. But if it's not important to me then why am I here then?

- Oh you know... the paperwork and everything and everything.

- The paperwork-?!

Brandon is startled when he sees a man in black, come out of nowhere. He even gives the impression that he was there from the beginning. He had a black hat, a black trench coat, black gloves, black pants, black shoes, a black tie, a black suitcase... everything black... except the skin. He also wore a pair of round glasses, which gave this man an even more disturbing look. Yet a certain sadness emanates from this individual. He looks at Laīka in an annoyed way. He clearly doesn't seem to appreciate his presence.

- Hi Alex! So how are you? You and the stars?

- What do you want, cosmic error?

- Ah ah always so insightful tells me. I came with the other pole there. Could you open a door for us please?

- Hmm... what is he?

- What do you mean? I am a human being. Like you... right?

- Huh huh... I see. So I'm sorry for you Mr. Parsh.

- Sorry but why? And I don't remember telling you my name?

- These questions won't help you cope, Brandon. Please take this door.

A door gusting from the sands, which didn't seem to impress Brandon surprisingly. It is a white painted wooden door, with a tired copper handle and a lock blocked by cardboard.

- And make sure to make me leave the view of this... thing.

- Hey! The thing is still there huh!?

- This door... I knew it... it's the one in my first apartment.

- Cool. I had always wondered what Mr. Parsh's first apartment looked like. Let's go see!

Laīka opened with curiosity mixed with impatience, the door of an apartment that Brandon had long abandoned for another.

Laīka took the cartoonist's hand and dragged him into the door.

The apartment is modest. The cracked gray paint, the furniture covered in dust, a broken sofa bed, a messy desk, a damaged console... a real little world that Brandon lived.

- Now that I see it like this... this apartment was more of a slum than an apartment. You surprise me that I moved.

- Is that really why you left?

- Yes... and also because... I...

- If you don't want to say it, don't say it, you know.

- A heartate. It was for a heartach that I left.

- Ouch. What happened?

- Well... I'm not sure-

The front door opens abruptly. An effeminate man with a angry step, slaps Brandon so violently that he falls on his back to the ground. He didn't expect it. Laīka did not move. He observes the scene with an attentive eye.

- BRAD! You motherfucker! You promised me not to start again! But what the fuck took you!?

- Huh? B-what are you talking about, Gaël?

- Ah! Don't you see what I'm talking about?! I'll show you it will be easier I think.

Gaël goes with clenched fists towards the desk of the messy cartoonist. He violently opens the lower shelf of the furniture. And he took out a board that Brandon had finished. He looked at him carefully. And seemed even more enraged. He then went to the library. He took out a comic strip from the furniture and came to land in front of Brandon sitting, who was holding his painful cheek. He planted an inquisitive look at her, opened the comic on a page. He showed the board and the said page to Brandon.

- And there? You still don't see the problem honey?

- There may be some similarities but...

- It's decaled Brad! Stupid and nasty copy and paste!

- It's just a reference darling. Nothing stupid or mean. Nothing in any case to get angry like that.

- If I get angry like that, it's because they canceled our series!

- What?! B-but they don't have the right... w-why?

- W-w-w-why!? But for exactly the same reason that I come to put you under your stupid nose! They also discovered how much you were a cheater and less than nothing!

- Hey... wait... that's not at all what he told me...

- A grumbling selfish shit who is not fucked up to open a book to properly learn human anatomy!

- That's enough...

- You suck as a cartoonist, you suck as a graphic designer, you suck as an author, you suck at the bed, you're a zero point Brad!

- SHUT THE FUCK UP!

Brandon unhooked a right hook to Gaël's face. The blow was brutal enough and surprising that Brad's colleague, not having seen it coming, fell upside down, hitting his back skull on the edge of the desk. It seems half in the vapors, because these eyelids are still open.

- I'm probably not famous in just about everything you've noticed... but believe me that I'm very clearly not going to miss THAT. At the same time, any human can do THAT.

Brandon took a knife in the kitchen, grabbing it fiercely with both hands, he plunged the blade into Gaël's throat. But to the surprise of a bloodthirsty Brandon, he noticed that the blood that expected to spring from Gaël's throat... is not coming. Even the blow given seemed hollow by the way. As if we had hit a bag of soil.

But the most worrying thing was to see that Gaël was completely out of phase by this forbidden act.

- But look at me how proud my brave cheater is. Cheater and murderer. You're ashamed of nothing pal.

- Fuck off. You never loved me... but only the success and notoriety that I can enjoy. As if you didn't give a shit that I cheat or not. As long as it can end up in your wallet. Sad for you because in what fucking world a cartoonist can have a decent life and so money ?

- Maybe... but the murder attitude worries me a little too much all the same.

- Don't be stupid, Gaël. Or rather should I say false Gaël. Everything around me doesn't exist. I never took my hand or worse, on you. Even if sometimes I want it so much believe me.

- What has prevented you from doing so far?

-... Love.

- Huh huh I see. Bon finito for this part.

- Huh?

Gaël gets up illico presto, grabbing the knife planted in his throat. He withdrew with difficulty because like a latex disguise, Gaël's face was completely torn into pieces. Leaving room for that of Laīka.

- So? Brad... we'll have to calm down these murderous impulses.

- I just told to Ga... to you that I will never get into such manners like this. In reality anyway.

- Yeah... Well, we'll take stock later, okay?

- Okay as you wish.

- Brandon…

- Yes?

- Do you... Do you lo... No nothing.

-...

- End of the [CUT]