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naffeclipse · 4 months ago

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Paper Burn

Animator!Reader x Ink Form!Sun and Moon

Commission Info

I'm not normal about @pure-plum requesting a little hurt/comfort moment from my BATDR DCA AU called The Jester and the Tagalong! I also have to thank Plum immensely for teaching me about animating and what a character like the reader in this instance would do with their work! It was a great help and made the fic so much better for it! Enjoy an inky world that you and the jester are determined to endure <3

Content Warning for self-neglect, pain, and angst.

———

Your inky hands twitch after you jot a number down in the corner of the animation page. A cramp shoots a spasm of pain through your drawing hand and you’re forced to lay down your pencil, then catch it again before it can roll off the uneven table—the muscles at the base of your thumb ache. Sucking a breath between your teeth, you slide the pencil into the front pocket of your jumper.

It’s not enough. The sprawling stack of thin paper lies empty and the few pages you dare to spare for a rushed storyboard are almost crumpled in your offhand. You force your fingers to unfurl and slowly, methodically, fold the storyboards into your front jumper pocket. At least you can take a moment to flip what you do have. Inwardly, you cringe at the inconsistencies you’re sure to find among the pages, spurred on by attacks and sudden escapes to another workstation.

This is the roughest you’ve ever done storyboards and animating with pencils. You have no x-sheet, no light disk, and no peg bar. Inking will be an entirely different hill to climb, but you’ve done it before. Ink the lines and paint the colors, and then you’ll need to find cels. This is stepping farther and farther out of your realm of skills, but the robotic jester promises you that you both will find a way.

Desperation and urgency drip into you until panic overflows into your veins. Just the same, weariness fills your bones after animating for the better half of a day—if such a place as this possesses hours and minutes. The sepia and shadowy colors of Fazbear Studios stain every wall and crevice. You’ve memorized the routes through the sprawling building, each department a massive expansion to work and craft a proper cartoon.

There’s another part of this world you and the robotic jester avoid as much as possible. The Mega Pizzaplex. A living realm for the inky form of cartoon characters to stalk through, beings which you vaguely recall, mostly in keynote frames and final animation sequences.

No place is safe. Only safer.

A heavy pounding steadily expands behind your eyes as taut muscles in your neck protest the improper angle at which you work. Moon had found an animator’s desk for you to work at, but the inky monsters that sprawl over every inch of this world with gaping, multiple mouths sliding around their glutinous forms, and violet, piercing eyes with vague shadows of bunny ears destroyed it.

This table shoved into a far, forgotten corner of the studio with cobwebs and spilled ink is as precious as each animation paper you’ve collected in runs for supplies. You need it. You need it as much as you and him need your happy ending.

Exhaustion creeps up your back. You close your eyes, rubbing along your temple once to coax away the pain. You cannot stop. There is no luxury for a break. You aren’t certain when more dark, tacky creatures will spill into your hiding hole and sweep away all your hard work in one breath. Worse yet, you must be vigilant for Vanny and Inktrap.

The former is a dark disciple of the rabbit demon, and she works tirelessly to hunt you and the robotic jester down with the intent to offer sacrifices to Inktrap. The dreaded being also prowls the halls in search of you and your companion.

Nothing terrifies you more than hiding, caught tight in Sun’s arms as he presses you deeper against the shadows of a wall, shielding your body with his as you both hold your breath. The trembling presence of Inktrap stalking near. You fear if he can’t hear your breath, he will sense the drum-like beat of your heart.

But he has yet to catch you and the jester. Both of you will get out of here. The cycle will end.

There will be a happy ending for you both.

Don’t stop, you tell yourself. Keep going. Staring down at the current page, there are three figures scribbled in pencil. Two men and what you think—hope is you. The two men are vague recollections from your dreams, possibly memories. One wears a flat cap hat and the other has wild, unruly hair. You press your tongue to the inside of your teeth, overwhelmed by the many more frames you must capture of their figures. It has to be right. You straddle the line between quality and speed, and you just might fail both.

You want to remember more. Vague visions touch you as if you walked through strings of spider webs, invisible, but there, ghosting over your skin. You can feel it, but you can’t find it.

Tears threatening to push past your eyelashes. No. You swallow down the tightening in your throat and slide your pencil out of your pocket.

The first few lines are smooth, practiced, and settled into your muscle memory, but then the cramp returns with a vengeance. You bite your bottom lip and keep drawing. Another line. Pain spasming through muscle, turning to wobbling waves. Your hand closes in the ache. The pencil almost falls from your fingers.

A creak of hinges announces the door opening to your hideyhole. Your head snaps to the entrance. A tall shadow falls inside. Your hands immediately fly to the stack of animating paper, prepared to stuff them into your jumper and then free the gent pipe from where it hooks onto your waist, but the shadow becomes a sharp-tooth grin. Half dripping in black and stained in sepia, Sun strides into the room. He swiftly swings the door shut without taking his glowing yellow eyes off of you.

“There you are, calico," he says as if he didn’t leave you with strict instructions to remain here until he returns. The sound of his voice calms your nerves. His cords are familiar and strong. He possesses such life and heart to his tenor, and you’ve found he can only manage a stage whisper when he desires to be quiet while speaking. You like that. You like a lot about him.

Sun. One half of the robotic jester who stays by your side, surviving with you.

“Hi, Sunny.” You slowly sink back onto the stool which is a touch too high to sit properly with the table you’re bent over. Setting the stack of animating paper back down, you regard him with a smile that takes far too much energy to summon than you like. “Did you find anything?”

He strides inside, moving one crook of his arm and shifting whatever was stuck underneath his armpit into his two clawed hands. The ink of his mouth is dark and lined with sharp incisors curved into a constant grin. Half of his face drips dark ink. His long, lithe body reaches you in moments.

“Yes, and you won’t believe what I have for you,” he grins, bolstered, even in the depths of this sepia-colored purgatory. “I present dinner!”

Your mouth gapes open at the box, realizing the markings upon it are designated for such an entree. When he lifts the lid, you never thought the constant yellow-ting and black colors would ever look appetizing on food, but the full diameter of the pizza, uncrushed and toppings spared of smearing, triggers salivation to flood your mouth.

“Oh my goodness.” You want to touch it, to hold a slice in your hand, but a cramp returns, and your fingers cringe. Sun’s eyes dart sharply to the motion. Quickly, you lower your hand, “Can you feed me while I work? I don’t want to get grease on the papers.”

Sun’s eyes shift, narrowing before he closes the pizza box and carefully sets it on the table, away from your supplies.

“I have a better idea,” he says cheerfully. He takes your wrist and slips his other arm around you, sliding you gently off of the stool and onto your feet.

“Sun, I can eat and work,” you protest. Vague recollections float in the back of your mind through a fog of memories of late hours and coffee cups. Crunch time. “What are you doing?”

“Come here, sweetheart.” He eases you further away from the table. The room is long and narrow, but there’s enough light from overhead to cast your shadow alongside Sun’s. “You’ve been working really hard and we admire your dedication to the perfect sequence, but you need a break.”

“No, there’s no time.” You try to tug on your wrist but he doesn’t budge.

You watch as Sun takes you by the hand. Gently, he spreads open your fingers as you try to hide the slight ache in the movement. He sets his yellow digit into your palm and begins massaging the pinched muscle. Your eyelids flutter underneath the sweet, almost painful relief from the cramp.

“We will make time,” he declares robustly. His gaze falls over you, softly glowing. “You’re going to save us. The least I’m going to do is take care of you before you run yourself into the ground.”

His fingers begin working over the rest of your drawing hand. His metallic fingertips knead gently into your inky skin, caressing softly over your joints and along the bones of your wrist. The ache calms under the gentle workings of the jester.

Though you long to stay very still and soak it in, you can’t.

“Sunny,” you protest softly. “Please. Let me do this.”

“After some rest,” he says gently but firmly. He boops your nose and then twirls his finger. “Turn around for me, calico. There, that’s it.”

He guides you by the shoulders, softly turning you in place. You do so reluctantly, and with your back to the jester, your eyes fall upon the pages and pages of animation you must fulfill. You must make it perfect. You must make it soon. Your breath picks up in the slightest, anxious, before Sun’s large hands fall upon your shoulders.

The tension in your neck compounds until the pads of his thumbs, careful with his claws, begin digging into the taut cords of muscle bunching along the top of your spine. A soft groan leaves your lips against your will.

“Sounds like I found a tender spot,” Sun chuckles softly, but there’s an edge of concern cutting underneath his tone. “We should have made you stop a few hours ago.”

“I’m fine,” you swear but it comes out tired. You would have lost so much time and there’s no telling when another wave of monsters will slip under the door and attack with yellow fangs and inky claws. Even now, you worry about precious seconds. You can lose all your progress in the blink of an eye. Sun and Moon would have to wait even longer for their happy ending.

But Sun continues unraveling your soreness with rhythmic presses and releases, up and down your neck and over your shoulders. Gently, he turns you back to face him. Your heart beats heavy within you as he takes your hand.

“Sweetheart, if you burn yourself out, you won’t be able to animate, and you won’t be able to make our happy ending.” He lifts one hand to cup your chin. Lifting your head slightly to study you, his glowing eyes miss nothing. He brushes a thumb along the bottom of your lip. You want to sink deeper into his palm until you no longer hold yourself up, but you have to resist. You have to keep going.

“Now, how about some pizza?” He asks in a way that’s not asking as he guides you to the floor. “Come sit on my lap.”

There’s little arguing when he’s made up his mind. You want to fight but the thought of working up all your energy to take on an uphill battle when you’re hungry and exhausted and even the pounding behind your eyes is begging for relief is too much. It’s as if the entire world is against you.

No, not Sun. Never him and Moon. They are always with you.

“You can feed me while I work,” you give but it comes out weakly as Sun’s long arm slides the box off of the table. Settling you into the comfortable fabric of his striped pants, he balances you on his legs and the pizza in the other hand.

“How about I feed you and let you rest?” His voice calmly darkness into something rumbling and sinister. The yellow glow within his gaze vanishes for a brief moment.

“Sun,” you say softly, but watch him go.

Your heart used to clench at such a sight. A constant fear of being left here alone in the never-ending cycle has never quite fled from the depths of your core, but you’ve learned to wait as Sun’s face begins to bubble with thick inky blots. His entire face darkens like a new lunar cycle until out of the melting dark ink manifests a crescent moon face. His pants shift from stripes to stars, and his claws slip lower, wrapping around your hip to hook you in place. A nightcap sits on his head. The end of it drips with ink.

“Hi, Moon,” you say softly.

A low rasp, sinister and dramatically enchanted as if to be upon a stage, drops from the new jester. “Eat. Before the pizza gets cold.”

His voice might scare children, or maybe just enhance how villainous he could be, but to you, his voice is comforting. You feel safe.

“It’s already cold,” you point out. There is hardly any temperature in the food here. Everything edible has sat and turned stale long before either you or the jester can scoop them up for a meager meal later. You’d rather not think about the number of lukewarm Fizzy Fazs you’ve drunk.

Even the prize of a full, un-squished pizza is still little. All the more reason to escape the cycle.

You wonder if Sun and Moon like hot pizza.

Moon uses his thumb to flip open the box and reveal the greasy sliced food. Even at room temperature, the pizza makes your mouth water.

“It’s good for you,” he grumbles gently like you’re a naughty child. His grip on your hip holds tight as he sets the pizza down and tears off a slice. The cheese thickly tears and you spy glistening, wet sauce underneath. A treasure, truly, no matter how old.

Your heart, however, squeezes tight. Emotion cakes your throat and you try to find the right words.

“Moon,” you say, “Let me up. I need to keep animating.”

“No.” He holds up the slice. His head, sharp teeth grinning, dripping ink down faces you. “You will only work yourself to the bone, doll. Eat.”

You push his arm away but you feel the tension underneath his metallic limb, how he only falls back because he lets you push him, not because you truly have the strength to stop him. His eyes narrow further. You hold his gaze, bottom lip trembling.

“You and Sun protect me while I work. You get hurt. You risk your own lives. This is too important,” you whisper. You clench him tighter in your grasp. “I can’t stop until it’s done.”

Moon slowly lowers the pizza back into the box. His hand, slick with ink, cups your chin. You find your hands falling onto him, holding on as if you might fall. The pressure behind your eyes becomes explosive. The few wet drops upon your eyelashes turn everything blurry save for the piercing glow of his yellow eyes.

“Listen to me.” His voice lowers, intimate and sharp, all at once. “It is not more important than you. You are ours. You are what gets us through this. We won’t let you burn yourself out because you want to keep us safe.”

There’s something there, on the tip of Moon’s tongue. You wait for more but instead, he leans back slightly, as if he already said too much.

“We will take care of you,” he says instead.

“But,” your voice cracks, “but it’s not fair.”

“None of this is,” Moon’s voice softens. His thumb softly slips along your cheek and swipes away an inky tear. Even your weeping is stained by this world. “Please. Eat then rest, doll.”

Another protest is on your lips, but the sob filling your throat cuts it off. Moon caresses your cheek. Weakness overtakes you, the threat of becoming extinguished before you can finish all the pages. Before you can animate yours and his happy ending.

You’re so scared and exhausted. It spills out of you in dark streaks that stain your sepia-colored cheeks until Moon wipes them away. He starts humming, softly, sweetly, and you lay your head on his shoulder. He pulls you closer until he cradles you in his arms. A hundred things long to fly from your lips. A promise that you’ll do it. You won’t let yourself fail, and the desire for reassurance. That it is okay to rest, just for a moment.

“It’s okay, doll.” Moon murmurs as you weep into his ruffled collar. “I’m not letting you go.”

“Oh, Moon,” you wail, and it sounds so pathetic. You are wasting time. Yet, you have no strength to pry yourself from his embrace—as if he would let you.

“Shush,” he murmurs and kisses your jet-dark, shiny hair. “Calm down. Breathe. When you’re ready, the pizza will be here.”

You hiccup once. You nod, still hiding against him like a child. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“Will you sing me to sleep?” you ask, soft and breathy.

He pauses once. The tapered yet careful points of his claw stroke down your hair, and he breathes a heavy breath. You think he finds it hard to tell you no, at least when it concerns matters such as these.

“I’ll sing,” he decides, “After you eat.”

You nearly wince, but it’s only fair. Slowly, you straighten, still sitting in his lap. Pushing your hair away from your eyes, you nod. Moon gently catches the remaining tears staining your cheeks. A murmur falls from his constant smile that he doesn’t like to see you sad. You tell him the same.

With a gentle hum, he picks up the pizza slice he left and holds it up to your mouth. You let him feed you, taking a bite and chewing slowly. Moon turns the slice to his sharp-tooth mouth and bites off a chunk. In his harmonic quiet, the two of you slowly eat through the pizza, your energy returning and your mind softening with the comfort of a full belly.

It’s the best pizza you’ve had in the cycle.

His fingertips slowly work against your hip, rubbing the bone softly through your jumper. Before you can consider asking him to let you return to work, your eyelids grow heavy. Moon’s voice lifts to a gentle bass.

He sings you to sleep.

#naff's writing commissions #the jester and the tagalong #ink form!sun #ink form!moon #animator!reader #i loved writing this so much #and bringing in all the aspects of this au like the lost memories and the anguish of being trapped in the cycle #but there's a way out—you will make sure you and the jester get a happy ending #naff writing

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here1snyan · 3 months ago

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Here's my take on a human(ish) Bill Cipher! I wanted to keep him more abstract, very shaped and *weird* just how he likes it

I'll write a few extra bits of info down below 👁️

I wanted to keep this version of his design linked to the Nightmare Realm rift, so that when I eventually make drawings of him in the Theraprism, I'm taking all those away! His X eye will go solid black, and he won't have "glitches" in his hair

I think it'll also be pretty funny, when I get around to Theraprism stuff, to give him a regular ass jumper to wear, so now his arms dont look cool and float-y anymore since they're covered

Speaking of "hair", I'm keeping it ambiguous as to wether or not his head is one solid piece. I like how it looks! Makes him look like a mural which is neat

His right hand is fucked up from the deals he makes, of course. My sister actually gave me a great idea that it could be charred black from the flames, so I remixed that idea into the final version!

#gravity falls #the book of bill #bill cipher #gravity falls bill #bill cipher human #more like human ISH hes very abstract-#reference sheets #put some cool details in here too yeee

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cuubism · 11 months ago

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@prismaluv I promised an actual eon ago that I would write something for Dream and Desire, and here it is, though I fear I haven't landed exactly where you were aiming for...

It has come to Dream’s attention that something is… wrong… in the Threshold.

It is not usually for him to take note of his siblings’ affairs. Particularly when said sibling is Desire. He would sooner let them wallow; perhaps it would teach them a lesson. But the malady, or irritation or scheme or whatever it may be is now seeping into the Dreaming, and so Dream must determine if it is intentional or not and what, depending on the answer, he must do about it.

The Threshold naturally shares a border with the Dreaming, for, to Dream’s chagrin, dreams and desires do find common or contested ground in love and ambition and other feelings besides. And those desirous dreams have been sickened. Corrupted. Dreamers see their lovers’ ravening maws and wake nauseous from what should have been visions of lovemaking; children’s songs curdle mockingly in their ears as light expands beyond joy beyond pain beyond burning. These dreams are not serving their purpose and Dream must put a stop to it.

“Sibling,” he calls, and receives no reply, but the Threshold allows him in, when he steps from the border of his realm into Desire’s.

The long pathways of Desire’s body are empty as ever. A mockery of blood vessels pumping nothing. Dream walks the known paths, alert in the silence, past the lungs with no breath, to the heart with no beating.

He steps into the curving chambers of that heart, the center of Desire’s power in the Threshold. His steps echo on the hard walls.

“Mmm,” comes Desire’s voice, slurred with malaise, echoing from deeper within, “come to gloat, have you, brother?”

“I have come to determine your purpose in poisoning my realm,” Dream says, following their voice. “I warned you not to toy with me again.”

Desire lets out a disgusted sigh. “Not everything I do is about you.”

“Recent events would suggest otherwise.” Dream finally reaches the central atrium of the Threshold’s heart. Desire is sprawled out on a chaise lounge, head pillowed on their arm. Their eyes are closed, their clothes wrinkled and ill-fitting, their hair lank. They appear to be wearing Despair’s ripped and stained jumper. Dream frowns.

“Go awayyyyy,” Desire complains. “Leave me to my misery.”

“What afflicts you?” Dream asks, standing over them. “Or are you simply experiencing remorse for your crimes, at long last?”

“‘Afflicts’,” Desire mutters, mockingly. “I am being persecuted and abused. Abandoned. Wasting away in apathy.”

Dream sits delicately on the arm of a chair by their side. If there truly is something wrong, and Desire is not just being melodramatic, or trying to annoy him, then they must take action. He will not allow the Dreaming to be harmed. “I fail to see how it could be persecution and abandonment at once.”

“Have you not seen them, Dream?” Desire complains, finally cracking one bleary golden eye open to look up at him.

“Seen whom?” Dream asks, with what he thinks is admirable patience.

“The people! Nobody wants anything. Not in a way that matters. Oh, it’s too easy. It’s too easy to take shortcuts. They don’t understand desire anymore.” Desire clutches their heart dramatically.

“I have not the faintest clue what you are talking about,” Dream says.

“I am a starving and bottomless mouth,” Desire tells him, looking up at him with both shining eyes now. “See, my teeth.” They bare their teeth at him. Their incisors are very sharp.

“I am aware of this.”

“And they think they can feed me with tiny little candies like a yapping chihuahua that’ll finally shut up. They’re poisoning me. They’re starving me. They’re glutting themselves on whatever makes the brain chemmies go weeweeweeweewoo for a second and look— look.” They drag down the hem of Despair’s jumper, peel back a layer of skin. Under it is not flesh, nor blood, but void, an expanding, hungry, agonized void. Dream stares into it, alarmed.

Desire lets their ‘skin’ snap back into place. “What does it even mean, Dream?” they ask rhetorically. “Nothing. It is all fleeting. Nothing deep about it. No one yearns, Dream. No one YEARNS!”

This is said in a despairing wail. Cautiously, Dream pets their hair.

“You crave deep and abiding wants and there is a glut of trivialities and distractions,” he summarizes, and they nod, teary. “Would it appease you if I removed all memory of mobile phones from the face of the earth?”

It doesn’t appease them, but it does make them laugh. Desire laughs, choked and teary, clutching at his hand. “God, I forgot that you’re actually funny when you’re not trying to be.”

It is strange, after all that has transpired, to have what could be considered a civil conversation. Dream still does not forgive them for anything they have done, and perhaps never will, but he sees, for a moment, a much younger year, when they were, in a fashion, friends.

“Many deep desires live in dreams now, for they have little hope of fulfillment,” he says. “But these small morsels, candies as you say, these are not dreamt of, except perhaps in nightmares of eternal wasting. It is still what dwells deepest in the heart that drives dreaming.”

“Are you trying to tell me that I matter?” Desire bites, and Dream simply says—

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Desire seems genuinely disturbed; perhaps they really did think he came to revel in their misery. Perhaps Dream did. But one of his siblings struggling in their duty can only have ill effects on his dreamers, and on their waking selves besides. Dream would be incredibly remiss in not addressing it. Or so he tells himself is his reasoning.

“I do believe there are still fierce desires in this world, though perhaps they have become buried. Usurped,” he says. “Disconnected from the body which is, as I understand it, their rightful home. Though addressing this is not something with which I can aid you.”

The body of living creatures is far outside Dream’s purview, and not something he well understands, except as it manifests in dreams—of hope of change, of twisted horror, of curling heat. And even then, it is far from him.

“I can’t believe you’re giving me advice and it’s not just telling me to go fuck myself,” Desire says faintly. Dream begins to protest, but they continue, “Not that you’d ever use those words, Your Highness.”

“It serves no one if one of our realms is in disarray,” says Dream, and if there is a sharp point to it, a reminder of exactly the damage Desire had so carelessly wrought in Dream’s realm, all the better. “I cannot assist you in managing it, only offer the perspective of dreams. If it proves good counsel, then I will be glad.”

“If it proves good counsel,” Desire mutters. “Fuck you, you superior prick.”

But it is not as sharp and cutting as it might once have been.

Dream abruptly realizes his hand is still touching their hair, and removes himself. He stands, arranging his cloak around him.

“Well,” says Desire, craning their neck back to look up at him upside down, “you must be right on one count. Lingering about here is doing no good.” They stretch, arms above their head, spine cracking. “I suppose I will go stalk the outside world and see if I can’t stoke their desires from ember to inferno.”

“I am certain you can, if you feel that will achieve your aims,” Dream says. Desire’s ability to draw out human wants and push their pursuit is not in question, their mere presence in a space accomplishes that. Whether that will turn their charges away from passing, unsatisfying trinkets and to deeper pleasures is another matter. “Meanwhile, please withdraw your malaise from the borders of my realm. The small children are being hypnotized by dreams of meaningless drivel and it displeases me.”

“Should’ve known you wouldn’t like YouTube,” Desire sighs. They maneuver themselves to sitting in a slanted, tired lean. For a moment, the silence lingers, stretched between them like syrup.

Finally, growing uncomfortable but stiffening his spine, Dream says, “If you are not going to imminently fall apart and cause havoc, then I will take my leave.”

“I love how much you care,” says Desire, sarcastically. Then, tilting their head, “You do care. Just a little bit. Don’t you?”

Dream does not respond to this.

“You could have simply disentangled all your little dreams from my realm and instead you came to check on me,” they say, with glee, and Dream glares. And Desire, apparently sensing a fight, subsides.

“Always lovely when you come around, dear brother,” they say, reclining back against their chaise lounge, eyes glittering despite the neglected state of their form. “Do come again.”

“If you remedy your affairs, then I will not have to,” says Dream curtly, and steps backwards into the Dreaming.

Desire does so love to press buttons at moments when they have almost reached an accord. Desire, once his most loved sibling. Those days are gone now, and Dream does not see them coming back.

#desire versus the plague of phone addiction #desire yelling into the void: STOP PLAYING CANDY CRUSH AND GO HAVE MESSED UP SEX YOU WORTHLESS THINGS #desire of the endless #dream of the endless #my writing

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lokisgoodgirl · 2 years ago

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A Clandestine Christmas: Clandestine F*cks [Avenger! Loki x Fem.Reader]

Part of the Clandestine F*cks Collection Part of the Winter Warmers Collection A link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: Off the back of a stunning festive revelation, Loki shows you a hidden room in Stark Tower. Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Smut. Language. Patchy historical references. Humour. (w/c 2.9k)

It was mid-December. The communal quarters of Stark Tower were being adorned furiously in winding wreaths of pine, gold ornaments flashing in the afternoon sun through the panoramic windows. You stood back from the tree in the corner, fluffing a branch absent-mindedly. You could hear the low conversation of the Asgardian brothers behind you, enjoying the rare hum of interaction untinged by sarcasm or pointed barbs. “...Stark said the belt he shall be fashioning for my Yuletide gift will be the perfect thing to contain my unrestrained godly manhood. A contingency if you decide once again to withdraw the phallus enchantment at a time which is of life or death importance.” You heard Loki scoff, as Thor continued. “You know... if it is necessary for critical missions. First dates and suchlike.”

Your lover made a sharp intake of breath, a scathing and very un-festive comment sure to follow. "Like a ladies sport brassiere, but for your ridiculous penis?" Loki goaded. You rolled your eyes, fluffing the branch a final time before turning to prevent the exchange escalating further. “-Guys, Morgan’s coming over later, so no talk about Santa being fake or anything alright?” Your intended audience remained silent. The brothers were perched at the breakfast bar; Thor enjoying a well earned break from helping assemble the decor ahead of tonight’s party. Your boyfriend, not so much. They were both dressed snugly in hand knitted jumpers, a gift from Scott's grandmother to the whole team. Thor’s was bright red, two candy-canes woven in a haphazard ‘T’. It was far too small for him, the weave stretching dangerously with every movement of his broad shoulders. It won’t last the night, you thought with a smile. Loki’s was a rich green, a sprig of holly resting on the tip of a white ‘L’ emblazoned garishly on his chest. It fit perfectly, because of course it did. The blonde’s face turned pale, his eyes widening. You noted his sudden panicked gaze shifting towards his brother, flicking through a magazine and munching carrot sticks. He showed no signs of interest. “Santa?” Thor mumbled, brushing invisible crumbs from the counter-top. You mean, Santa...Claus? ‘Sinterklaas’? ‘Der Weihnachtsmann’? ‘Père Noël’? ‘Noel...Baba’?” An awkward silence followed; your eyes narrowing as you regarded them with increasing suspicion. “That nonsense is still circulating this realm? How quaint.” Loki smirked, flipping the magazine closed and folding his arms on the counter. Thor grimaced, closing his eyes. “What do you mean?” you said, tilting your head. Loki's smile broadened, leaning forward on the counter-top, his beautiful eyes glinting. “My brother doesn’t like me talking about it. Top secret Asgardian business, you see.” He winked, tapping his nose.

Thor huffed, encircling a strand of bushy tinsel round his neck. “Well if you insist on being so forceful, Loki…” he said, resting his hands on his meaty hips. “Loki is at fault for this realm’s obsession with this ‘Santa Claus’. There, I said it.” “I invented him.” Loki said proudly, picking up another carrot stick. “You most certainly did not brother, he was invented by father and myself to prevent mass rioting within the realm at your hands.” The dark-god grimaced, rolling his eyes. “So dramatic, brother. It was just a bit of fun.” Thor toyed with the tinsel around his neck while Loki crunched the carrot elegantly poised between his thumb and forefinger. Seconds passed in silence. “So...is no one going to tell me what actually happened?” you said slowly, sliding on the barstool opposite the brothers. Thor opened his mouth, silenced by a sharp ba-ba-ba from his brother. “I think not. You will taint the glorious details of the original story with your bias.” Loki said between gritted teeth, turning back toward you with a renewed spark. “Bias...” Thor scoffed, throwing an end of tinsel over his shoulder like a scarf. Loki cleared his throat. “A while ago, my brother and I were spending some regrettable time on Midgard-” “-Father was tired of your childish antics, Loki. It was a time-out.” “Hush.” Loki sniped, rolling his eyes. "We were marooned in the old countries and I was feeling rather affronted by the whole situation and may have spun some yarns to a few curious children who passed our way in a moment of uncharacteristic bitterness.” “How long ago are we talking?” you said warily, as Loki’s smile grew. “About a fifteen hundred years, give or take.” he said coyly. Thor grimaced at the memory. “Loki told a group of naïve village youngsters that in several weeks hence, during the lowest point of winter; gifts would appear if they left their fathers boots outside their dwelling. A ridiculous notion.” “It was just a bit of fun.” your lover repeated innocently. “There was nothing else to do, and those little shits were asking for it. They made fun of my helmet.” “You intended to thieve the boots of those villagers, brother. Do not deny it.” Thor grunted, throwing you a knowing look. Loki huffed. “Well, regardless...by the time Thor found out, the rumour had spread so that every child within a hundred miles seemed to know about this miraculous benefaction and so action had to be taken... apparently.” “Father was furious, thanks to that brown-nose Heimdall.” Thor grimaced, the memory clearly etched deep. “He summoned us back to Asgard immediately-” “-and I was, naturally, delighted. It meant no more dreary, mirthless winter dearth on this sub-par terra.” Loki busied himself with a loose strand on the sleeve of his jumper, before looking up doe-eyed. “No offence, darling.”

“A lot has changed in a thousand years.” you quipped, seeing another smirk tug at his lips as you said it. “If you say so, my love.” he murmured, sarcasm hanging in the air like the scent of cinnamon as he snapped the rogue thread and made it vanish. Thor leant forward, his voice deepening as if recalling a battle tale. “Father demanded that Loki and I fulfil the oath we made to the children of the old country-” “It was no oath.” Loki snapped, jawline flashing in the glow of the twinkling lights surrounding you all. Thor chuckled incredulously, his eyes widening in disbelief at his brother’s selective memory. “Did you not swear to them by the Nine that it was true?” he said, raising his eyebrows. Loki folded his arms. “Potentially. But it was just a bit of fu-”

Thor waved a hand, silencing his brother’s protestations. “Father insisted that Loki fashion trinkets enough for a nation of children, it was...oh, thousands. You should have seen him, Y/N...tinkering away for ten whole days and nights using all manner of magic to fashion carved animals and rudimentary affectations.” Thor became glassy-eyed, his annoyance turning to nostalgia. Large hands grasped at memories of the presents, twirling the imagined items through his fingers; the twinkling lights from the tree reflecting in his wide, excited eyes. “Little dolls and hoops and boats, oh brother, do you remember the hours you spent in the palace workshops with only candlelight for companionship?” “And you, as I recall.” Loki said, his own indifference softening. “Not that you were much help.” Thor let out a pffft, shaking his head with a smile. “You know very well Father forbade me from assisting.” He swivelled on the barstool, facing you across the breakfast bar once more. “My role was to be more logistical, you see. Loki was to create the gifts, I was to deliver them.” “Deliver them?” you gasped, leaning forward in amazement. “Oh yes, Y/N.” Thor nodded solemnly. “But Father concocted a bit of a ruse. It was during the changing of the guard in terms of religion and all that malarky so we had to be...subtle.” “Clandestine.” Loki corrected seductively in your ear, his unexpected warm breath making you shiver. “Not my brother’s strong suit, darling.” You jumped as his hand slid around your waist, resting of your stomach. You hadn’t even seen him move from across the breakfast bar and circle behind you. His firm chest pressed against your back, feeling yourself melt against the rough wool of his jumper. Your eyes fluttered shut, before Thor cleared his throat. “Yes, well...enough of the old lore was in circulation that we couldn’t stir the metaphorical pot much to my dismay. Father was adamant. So Loki was in charge of disguising me in a more...unrecognisable form than my typical unique brand of perfection.” “Ruddy-cheeked and old and soft in the belly. And a wholly ridiculous beard.” Loki smirked against your cheek, his eyes trailing his brother’s face. “I may have used a certain someone for inspiration, considering his interference.” he purred, making you giggle. Thor huffed, “Like I said, unrecognisable brother.”

Loki kissed your cheek, his sultry tones entirely unnecessary to the situation. “There were too many gifts to manage in one trip through the bifrost, so we saddled a chariot to Sleipnir and one enchanted sack later, our plan was in motion.” Thor cleared his throat again, fiddling with the sleeves of his jumper as Loki’s kisses worked down your neck; a small whimper escaping your lips. “Delivery was rather swift if I do say so myself, minus one or two...setbacks.” the blonde muttered, as Loki erupted in a gruff snort of laughter against your skin. “Setbacks? You mean your clumsy attempt to gain access to ill-gotten snacks on your journeys through the Norwegian tundra?” Thor shrugged, pulling a thread from his chest. “I hear that in future years the people of the realm started leaving said snacks out in anticipation of such a need.” “Yes, brother. To avoid their dwelling being raided through any available opening. I mean really, that year how many chimneys did you find your festively plump arse entrapped in, brother? Seven? Any other fool would have stopped after the first. A ridiculous display.” Thor stood, his finger waggling in Loki’s direction. Your dark lover rested his chin on your shoulder, stooped flush against your back. The feeling of his warmth against you was one you never wanted to lose. A smile pressed against your cheeks as you bit your lip, Thor’s indignation in combination with his ridiculous sweater building a bubbling roll of laughter in your belly. “So...how many years did you do this?” you managed to choke, squeezing Loki’s arms tighter around your midriff. Thor shrugged. “Five or six...dozen, perhaps...and then the parents of this realm sort of, took over gradually. Good thing, too...the way it’s spread.” “Thank the Norns.” Loki huffed, burying his face in your hair. You could feel him sigh against your skin, inhaling your scent theatrically. Thor cleared his throat louder, averting his eyes from the sensual scene unfolding in front of him. “All this talk of snacks has found me rather peckish I’m going to...to…” Loki’s hands wandered, his thumb grazing the curve of your breast through your own initialled Christmas jumper. The world faded as Loki’s mouth found yours with a quiet groan, his tongue slipping between your parted lips. From beyond the haze, you heard the kitchen door swing shut as Thor departed. Alone, at last. “Come here” Loki growled, his eyelids heavy with simmering lust as he pulled you down from the stool. You giggled, casting a glance around the living room sparkling with festive cheer. The warm glow of fairy lights nestled in vibrant pine cast shadows on Loki’s features, the corner of his eyes creased with the same mischief tugging on his lips. God, how you loved him. He led you across the room towards an inconspicuous door you had always assumed was a closet, a small ‘No Entry’ sign placed centrally upon it. A wave of citrus and pine hit you as Loki turned the handle and opened the door, revealing a small but perfectly formed room. Soft lighting flooded the opening, the warm glow reminding you of a fireside. Rolls of festive wrapping paper hung on the walls, exquisite ribbons draping downward from spindles in fluttering splashes of gold, red and green. Neatly packed boxes of bows were stacked on shelves, divided by size and colour; labels and a selection of fountain pens lined perfectly against the wall on a solid mahogany desk.

You gasped, “Is this Pepper’s wrapping room? I thought it was a myth.” “Hidden in plain sight, darling.” Loki winked, pulling you inside and closing the door behind him with a soft click. His hands ran over your hips, manoeuvring your ass back against the solid desk. “Loki, we shouldn’t…” you murmured between his ravenous kisses, the words sounding even less convincing in the air than they did in your head. “Correct.” Loki growled, unzipping the side of your skirt with devastating slowness. “But when has that ever stopped us, my love?” The fabric slid down, pooling around your ankles. Loki’s fingers toyed at the waistband of your thick pantyhose, rolling them below your hips. You sat back on the desk, extending one leg as he slid the 200 denier down your thigh, raising your calf and placing a deep kiss on the bare skin. He did the same on the other side, his piercing gaze never leaving yours in the low light. You could feel a sea of wetness pooling in your panties, the need for him growing with every intentionally teasing touch of his fingertips. You crossed your arms across your chest, tugging the jumper upward. Loki pushed them gently down. “The festive sweaters stay on, love.” he purred with a wink. The god sank to his knees, widening your legs. He hummed, sliding a wide palm up your naked thigh and trailing a finger through your glistening folds. “Darling” he growled, “it’s been over a year, are you truly still this desperate for me?” Before you could answer, two fingers slid inside you; making your head fall back with a groan. “Yes, Loki” you gasped, as he pumped them firmly back and forth, his thumb circling your swollen clit. "Lucky me." he murmured, before his lips fastened to the centre of your desire. He lapped at the trail of sticky arousal smeared against your skin, caressing every crevice. Muffled approval rumbled in his throat as he slowly removed the fingers, his tongue delving deeper into the warm heat he craved. You grasped the sides of the desk, resting back on your elbows as you balanced your feet on his thick thighs. Loki shook his head gently back and forth, nose grazing downward as he pleasured every inch of you with whoreish abandon. Even his eyelashes would be wet. “God...baby, yes..y-es, f-fuck…” you sighed, feeling his fingers tighten around the soft flesh of your spread thighs. He suckled gently, wide strokes of his tongue rolled over your slit. You would never know how he could be so fucking good at this. A hand wound in his hair, pushing him deeper against your needy cunt. He growled, the vibration against your clit making you pulse. In a flash, he rolled you backwards, pushing your calves backward so you were completely exposed.

Flat on the table, you craned forward to watch his tongue work your pussy; every lick accompanied by a dark, delicious moan. His eyes were closed in blissful concentration, strands of long hair trailing against your bare skin. The furrow of his brow betrayed the lust you knew was straining against his trousers out of sight. He was always so fucking hard for you. So fucking hard for me, you thought; whimpering as you watched him work with your mouth open. Panting. Loki sucked your clit gently, sending jolts through your body, legs twitching. “Loki…” you keened, trying to thrust your hips upward. He chuckled against your plump lips, sucking them between his teeth in response. Your lover pulled them back gently, releasing them with a wet slurp. “Come in my mouth, goddess.” he whispered, placing another languishing lick up your centre.

Your head fell back against the desk with a thud, hands gripping the edge beneath you. Hot cum flooded Loki’s tongue, his moans of pleasure matching your own as you juddered like a dying thing beneath lingering suckles. You saw stars, murmurs of his name all you could muster as you felt a glow of seidr radiate from his body. He rose above you, his huge cock standing proudly up against the comically unsexy green sweater. You laughed, covering your mouth as he bent over your body; silencing your mirth with a hungry kiss. “You dare laugh at a god’s attire? How rude…” he purred playfully, running a hand down your thigh as you wrapped your legs around his waist, drawing him closer. You both groaned as he entered you, the veins of his thick manhood rippling across every inch of your channel, fizzing with post-orgasmic bliss. Your hands slid up his cheekbones, the perfect symmetry of his features dazzling as his face twitched with the need to thrust deeper. “Loki?” you murmured, making him pause. He looked down with concern, eyebrows slanting. “...I love you.” you said, as his features softened. “I love you too, my precious one.” he whispered, placing a kiss on your forehead as you thrust your hips upward; sheathing him to the hilt. He moaned loudly, a guttural grunt of your name. “F-fuck, darling…” he gasped, beginning to pump in and out of your soaking core. Every hit of his pelvis was magic, every pulse sending new sparks shooting through your blood. His hips met the backs of your open thighs with wet slaps, hot breath mixing with yours; the two of you panting in rhythm. Loki’s thrusts became sloppy as you tugged the back of his hair, a dark growl thundering in his chest as he buried his face in your cleavage hidden beneath the fuzzy jumper. “Do you want me to f-fill you Y/N?” he asked through staggered breaths. You nodded frantically, the angle of his heavenly cock making your back arch against the wood. “Will you ever tire of having your god’s seed..uhhh, yes...d-dripping down those exquisite t-thighs?” His voice quivered with the effort of forming words, the rhetorical question hanging in the air; buffeted between grunts and whines of feral desire. Loki tumbled over the precipice of orgasm with a deep moan as you squeezed your walls tight around his girth. He bottomed out as you rocked back and forth against his hips, feeling the thick slick of his cum spreading along his length before he collapsed against your chest. The sound of his heavy breaths filled the small space, your heart soaring as he raised his chin to rest above your heart. “You are my everything, darling.” he whispered, placing a kiss on your parted lips before sliding out of your pussy and waving his hand. The familiar feeling of his magic rolled up your lower body as he made both of you presentable once more. “Now remember, you don’t know this place exists – alright?” he winked, helping you down from the desk. You brushed a strand of tinsel from his chest, your fingers lingering on the firmness snug beneath the garish festive sweater. You took the few steps over to the door, opening it a crack and peering out to make sure the coast was clear. “Shit.” you whispered, whipping back to Loki with a wide-eyed stare. The door swung open. “Pepper can never know about this.” Tony said gruffly.

His eyebrows rose sceptically as he stood with his arms folded, resting against the sofa.

You and Loki looked at each other, as a smirk curled the corner of Tony’s mouth. “Honestly, how you guys got away with this shit for as long as you did is beyond me. Maybe you’ve lost your touch.” A burning heat spread over your cheeks, hearing Loki chuckle incredulously beside you. "We were simply..." he began, promptly cut off.

"-I think that particular ship has sailed, folks." Tony sighed, pushing himself away from the sofa. "Sailed and sunk. The SS Sinking Sluts..."

You pursed your lips, as Tony straightened. “Just do me a favour, Laufeyson...make sure you didn’t leave a present of your own in there." he murmured theatrically. "I could handle Steve and the car with the whole racoon business- but Pepper...?” Tony pointed knowingly at your lover before spinning on his heels, walking leisurely towards the door as Loki rolled his eyes. “No Asgardian stuffing on my wife’s ribbons, Laufeyson. Check it once, then check it twice. That’s an order.” he shouted with a casual wave, before disappearing around the corner.

A/N: Thank you @lokischambermaid for concocting the intricacies of Thor's 'magic' belt with me🤣 @lady-rose-moon @gigglingtigger @holymultiplefandomsbatman @muddyorbsblr @xorpsbane @lokikissesmyforehead @simplyholl @fictive-sl0th @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @loopsisloops @thedistractedagglomeration @loveroflokiforpoeticjustice @123forgottherest @joyful-enchantress @sititran @jaidenhawke @silverfire475 @mrsbarnes32557038 @michelleleewise @vbecker10 @imalovernotahater @thomase1 @morriggannlostinfandoms @ladylovesloki @marygoddessofmischief @ravenwings73 @filthyhiddles @peacefulpianist @maple-seed @yelkmelk @wheredafandomat @mistress-ofmagic @five-miles-over @goblingirlsarah @ozymdias @peaches1958 @your-taste-on-my-lips @lokisgirll @lokidokieokie @kikster606 @peachyjinx @peachyymallows @soldeloki @tbhiddlestan83 @trickster-maiden @trojanaurora @ladyofthestayingpower

#loki laufeyson #loki x reader #lokismut #loki smut #loki x yn #loki fanfic #loki fanfiction #loki x reader smut #loki x yn smut #loki x female reader #loki x female reader smut #loki odinson #avenger!loki #avenger loki #clandestine f*cks #winter warmers collection #loki x you #loki x you smut

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thenightfolknetwork · 2 months ago

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I wish I knew why so many sapios and even many of our ilk are so insistent that the world make sense to their requirements of "sense" (of what little of that they actually possess) rather than the only sense that the world has is none at all! I only wish to help guide travelers along the paths they should take, and help them understand that they are as mad as everyone else, that the rules they and others set are as confusing and contradictory as I am. But I just can't seem to stop people from losing their heads! I would blame the queen, but I'm starting to realize I may be the connecting string in this little jumper. I can warn about the dangers of the queen and her guards, but when you don't know where you want to go, you don't know where you will end up! I'm not sure if it's my smile or the fact I'm not all quite here myself, but I am worried that I am sending these poor folks to a different doom than I intended! Please help, kindly and mad Presenter, and do send my regards to your friend who is both more than a friend and isn't. And let her know she's more than welcome to stop by for tea next time she is in my lack of neck of the woods.

I worry you may be taking on responsibilities that are not necessarily yours, reader. You cannot hold yourself responsible for the actions of others, even if those actions are rather drastic.

You have been doing your best to warn visitors to your realm about the dangers they may face. You are communicating as clearly as you are able – even if “as far as you are able” is not quite far enough.

Regular readers – and listeners – will know that I am a great proponent of embracing change, both within ourselves and in the world around us. If you wish to change this situation, I see no reason why you couldn't. You will have to put in a great deal of time and energy, but with some hard work you might well be able to improve your communication skills and express yourself more clearly.

But frankly, reader, I don't see any particular desire in your letter to make those changes. You identify other people's inability to embrace their own insanity and abandon “sense” as the reason you are unable to communicate with them.

To be clear, I'm not shaming you for that. As I said, I hardly think it's your fault how this queen of yours behaves, and I believe you are doing the best you can within the limitations of your current abilities. But you do nobody any good by beating yourself up about this situation without taking any action to rectify it.

You need to make a decision. Are you willing to do the hard work of meeting your audience where they are, twisting your understanding to their limited ideas of what makes sense? Or are you going to let your queen's actions speak for her, and her alone? The choice is yours.

Finally, I have passed on your regards to my… companion. She sends her best wishes, and says she intends to stop in for tea at her earliest convenience.

[For more creaturely advice, check out Monstrous Agonies on your podcast platform of choice, or visit monstrousproductions.org for more info]

#answered #the nightfolk network #monstrous agonies #literary references #fantasy #urban fantasy #fiction #short fiction #short story #writblr

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queerofthedagger · 2 years ago

Note

Here to take you up on your ficlet offer (pls send me a prompt if you like we can have a tiny fic exchange 💜) with this prompt from the "types of kiss" list:

One person stopping a kiss to ask “Do you want to do this?”, only to have the other person answer with a deeper, more passionate kiss.

For Dream/Hob or Arthur/Merlin, whatever speaks more to you. My ao3 is softestpunk 💜

Thank youu, I hope you'll like it! 💙 This is a bit later than it was meant to be, so happy belated Christmas? 😄<3

build your heart a home

Hob trips on the last step up to his flat. Dream reaches for him before he has made a conscious decision to do so.

It earns him a smile, which almost makes the failure to anticipate his own actions worth it. Almost.

“Still can’t believe you actually agreed to spend Christmas with me,” Hob mumbles as he tries to unlock his front door.

His words are slightly unsteady. Not slurred yet—he isn’t drunk in the unfocused, frenetic way that Dream is familiar with from the dreams that drift into his youngest sister’s realm—but he is tipsy. Tongue loose and hands a little lazy. Dream rather likes him like this, the thread of carefully concealed caution that Hob tends to display at all other times unspooled and tangling.

Dream swallows the repeated insistence that the concept of Christmas means little to him. When Hob finally pushes the door open, he says instead, “It was important to you.”

The hallway, when he follows inside, is dim; the only light comes from the yellowish gloom of the streetlamps outside, and the electric candles on Hob’s Christmas tree in the next room.

It feels awfully close to home, in the way that throughout the last year, Dream has spent a number of evenings here that he has lost count of long ago. In the way that he can hear Hob’s fond demand to leave his shoes in the hallway, and how he has a side on the sofa, now. How the tree—rich green and still smelling of pine—may be more dream object than real, because Dream had drawn the line at carrying a tree. Up the stairs.

Hob had laughed at him, and then his eyes had gone soft when Dream arrived with this one. Dream had rather liked that too. He rather likes all of it an awful lot.

When he looks at Hob, he finds him already watching, dark eyes fixed on Dream as if there is nothing he would rather look at.

“It was; you made a difficult night not only bearable but warm,” Hob says, voice soft.

Dream cannot remember ever having been called warm, and it unsettles something within his chest that seems impossible to thrust back into containment.

“I am glad,” he says. His fingers itch to reach out; he allows them to brush the sleeve of Hob’s jumper.

Between them, the air seems to shift, and Dream is not sure he could look away from Hob even if he wanted to.

The odds that, after months of this, Hob can read it all on his face are infinite. And yet.

As if to prove that point, Hob steps closer, certain despite his unsteady feet, and curls his fingers around Dream’s hipbones. There is a dare pressed into the slope of his mouth that Dream desperately wants to answer.

He fists his hands into the soft, well-worn fabric of Hob’s jumper and tugs.

Hob goes willingly; of course, he does. Dream cannot bring himself to feel anything but terrified awe at it.

“Stop thinking so much,” Hob murmurs, vowels tripping and swallowed, and then he presses his open mouth to Dream’s as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

Perhaps it is; Dream’s pointless heart is thrashing inside his chest, and he sways on his feet. Thinks that if he is made to give this up, he might as well take the world down with him because what is the point of it if Hob’s lips are not pressed to his? If Hob’s tongue does not meet his, clever and certain, as Dream can feel barrier after barrier inside of him crumble?

Dream has been here before, though. He forces himself to pull back, to frame Hob’s face between his hands and look at him.

Hob does not seem willing to wait, pushing forward again, his mouth finding Dream’s, and it would be so, so easy to let himself drown in it. It would be so, so easy to believe that perhaps this time, it will be different.

When he pulls away from Hob a second time, Hob lets him.

The hallway is still dim and quiet around them. The tree still twinkles in the living room, and the world has not yet begun to collapse around them.

That is… promising.

“Are you sure that you want this?” Dream asks, and he does not rush the words, but it is the closest that he will get.

Hob laughs, a low, incredulous sound. It curls fondly around Dream’s bones as Hob simply kisses him again—with more force this time, teeth sinking into flesh and nails finding skin.

“If you leave again,” Hob breathes, eyes closed, “I will find you, no matter where you are. I am not letting you go again.”

The affection spills into Dream’s mouth so sweetly, there is nothing he can do but draw Hob impossibly closer and pour it down his throat.

Breaking the kiss again is inconceivable, so Dream does not. The words, when he thinks them, sink their way right into the marrow of Hob’s bones.

“I will not take my leave of you again,” he says, biting the vow of it into Hob’s tender mouth. “You will have no need to search for me.”

The sound Hob makes in response is beyond pleased; Dream rather plans to build himself a home out of that, too.

#the sandman #dreamling #dream x hob #sandman fic #mona's writing #they can have a little obsessive co-dependency; as a treat<3 #december gift-ficlets

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agatharkn3ss · 8 days ago

Text

Locking my finale predictions

Here we are, one last time.

GENERAL BINGO MANIFESTATIONS:

it will be epic

the episodes better be 1h each

I will probably start ugly crying early on

Agathario kiss

Agatha will talk to a goat

Someone will say something in Spanish

Jen will be the first one to loose her cool

Billy will have another "bratty teenager" moment

We will see more references from Billy's bedroom

Agatha will cackle

Jen will say something snarky but brilliant

We'll have another version of the ballad (maybe not in a song form though)

THE PLOT KEY POINTS PREDICTIONS: My overall theory about the plot is laid out in this post here, if you fancy a longer read. The main points:

Back to my original theory that the Witches Road has always been a con created by Agatha herself. She and Rio have always been the Death Wish on the road that killed the witches

Agatha met Lorna Wu and wanted to con her into the Witches Road, but saw little Alice and spared her. Lorna was so taken by the myth that she wrote her own song.

In turn, Lorna's song was the one who influenced Billy and his wish to walk the Road. It is what ultimately pushed him to think of the Witches Road and he wished it into existence.

Billy's jumper pattern changes the second they enter the Road - some of the runes turn upside down.

The Road events actually take place under Westview at first, but after first trial Billy says "I wish we could go home", and so they actually make their way back to Agatha's house. The last trial is in the basement

Mrs Hart lives because after the trial Billy actually sends her back to Westview (and also she expressed the with before "I hope this is the end") - when he said that Sharon was dead, his sweater actually looked momentarily "the correct way up", the same pattern he had in Westview. Also, Agatha knew Sharon wasn't dead/real because why would they have to even dig her a grave when they could've just let the ground "swallow her" like it tried in previous episode? Sharon's dead body must have been an illusion

The tunnels have only been opened by their summoning spell in ep.4, and it's a realm between life and death - they have a Path Behind, the Road and the Path Ahead - Jen will use the Path Ahead to get out as she knew about the tunnels before

Billy will simply be able to wish his way out of the Road spell

Agatha's locket protects her from Death but also prevents her from telling anyone about Death or even say her name. That's why she had to con Rio into telling the coven her intentions in the sound booth.

in the Earth trials they will be in a morgue but to pass they will need to find the answers where the truth is buried - i.e. inside each others minds. So Jen will have to realise she is not bound any more. Billy will realise/admit he is the one behind the road and he will accept that he is both Billy and William. Agatha will have to give up her locket so she can reveal her truth about Death and The Witches Road con

As Billy and Jen get out of the Road, Agatha will face Rio

Agatha will die by syphoning Rio's powers. But in the end it will be Rio who dies and becomes one with Agatha, so that she is never alone again. Rio says in ep.1 that she can make Agatha wish she was dead - maybe Agatha makes that wish, or maybe Rio wanted to die all along because she hates her "job" and is lonely without Agatha

Alice will take over as Death, guarding the doors between life and death - she will be back to her role as a security guard - talk about typecasting!

There is some timey-wimey time loop/illusion going on and Billy could be trying to repair the past events, reliving the trials over and over - e.g. by putting a pentacle sigil on the basement door and by using new spell to release Agatha (the spell was left to him by Lilia), but it's Agatha who always messes something up

So Agnes O'Connor in ep.1 is actually investigating Agatha's death and trying to remember what happened on the Witches Road - the mention of ravine/creek is a nod to Rio, who at this point is actually already dead/inside Agatha. Agatha is the only one that can "solve the case"

Rio's first appearance is actually in ep.7, because Lilia finally accepts Death's presence. Then she instructs Rio to go and warn Agatha in Westview about Salem Seven coming in ep.1

At the end we will all cry and be mentally broken because it won't be clear if Agnes O'Connor actually solves her case or not.

I honestly tried to make it a short post, but it never works!!!!!

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bubblytarts · 6 months ago

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I can finally release my pieces for ep 9 of Realm Jumper!!! I had a super fun time drawing the silly fish and designing the student!

Reminder that Realm Jumper is back on a regular release schedule! Episode Ten releases this Saturday - May 18th! Join us on YouTube - Link to the channel is pinned!

#character design #realm jumper #my art #artists on tumblr #gilligan suntide #nemo suntide #indie web series #indie podcast #podcast #youtube

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crowvaarts · 7 months ago

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My pieces for episode 9 of Realm Jumper!

I really love all the work that I do for this show and I am so glad to finally be back from hiatus!

Watch Episode 9 The Long Road Home Here!

The casting call for season two is still open! We have over 100 submissions already and we really cannot thank you enough!

#crowva #realm jumper #realm jumper show #gill suntide #nemo suntide #rj show #art #illustration #art direction #art director #podcast #youtube show

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anatthema-art · 7 months ago

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I can FINALLY share my piece for @bubblytarts show Realm Jumper Episode 9!!! This is one of my fav pieces I've done for the whole show so far, gotta love some cityscapes and bisexual lighting! I HIGHLY recommend checking out the episode! It's got some real good feels in it this time!

#art #my art #artists on tumblr #illustration #webseries #realm jumper

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maelstroms-blog · 2 years ago

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Another dabble.this time I subject Dream to PTSD nightmares.

Enjoy

Tw. Ptsd nightmares, panic attacks

Hob had gotten used to sleeping alone. The one constant in his long life was the prospect of a cold bed. After Eleanor passed, he just couldn't bear the thought of sharing his bed with another. Whether it was in a wooden cot, a pile of hay, or especially in a ditch, he would be alone.

Hob made peace with it.

Until, Dream returned.

37 years late, the word friend offered readily from his lips. And that friendship blossomed into something more. It only took a month [and 4 bottles of wine] before feelings were admitted.

Dream, in his usual stilted way, looking like an abandoned soggy kitten. Hob's answer came in the form of a hug, strong enough to sweep Dream of the Endless off his feet.

He didnt know he could blush like that.

And with that, Hob relearned the joys of sleeping with someone else. Not just the carnal side, but the tender side. To turn over and have someone there beside him, to hold, to hug, to whisper sweet nothings into his partner's ear. And the sight of Dream, swaddled in his old jumper, curled up next to him, he would treasure for the rest of his immortal life. Especially when he stretched out, arching his back before snuggling back in.

King of all cats indeed.

And Hob, a man to act first, ask questions later, reached out and tucked a strand of black hair behind his ear.

Dream, as if sensing his touch, hummed in his sleep, and leaned into the touch.

Hob's heart fluttered. He couldn't resist placing a light kiss on his cheek. Undeterred by the cold, marble-like skin.

It wasn't unpleasant. It was like the chill that came with sticking your foot out from under the bedcovers.

Fitting, really.

Dream hummed and curled in further to Hob's side, seeking out his warmth. Hob pulled the covers up further, until only his pretty little face poked out.

Soon, his own eyelids grew heavy, the Dreaming pulling him away, though he tried to fight it, wanting nothing more than to keep staring at Dream's face. Th e pull proved too strong.

In his sleep Dream's lips twitched.

[Stubborn as a cat]

He finally closed his eyes, wondering where he would meet Dream tonight.

He never did.

Hob barely closed his eyes before something roused him again. He wasn't sure what it was at first, the hot puff of air on his neck, the rustling of sheets, no, it was the other sound, a sound that sent a spike of fear into his heart.

A whimper.

He turned and saw Dream, still asleep, but having some sort of fit. Dream lay beside him, still bundled up, writhing, as if in pain. Trapped by the sheets, his movements hindered, and in the moonlight shining in from the window, tears glittered on his pale white skin.

Hob knew instantly what was wrong. A nightmare. Dream continued to writhe, eyes still shut, nowhere near as serene as before. His pink lips parted, and a single sound escaped, one that an awake Dream would never utter.

A sob.

'Dream?'

Hob risked everything by reaching out, trying to find his shoulder. Dream didn't answer, twisting away from his touch. Under the thick cocoon of blankets, Dream's chest heaved, followed by another strangled sound.

Like he was struggling to breathe.

Hob frantically pulled away the blankets, it didn't help. In fact, it seemed to make it worse. When the cold air hit, he cried out again, curling into a tight, little ball, his thin frame shaking.

'Dream?' Hob tried again, 'Dream love, wake up.'

Dream just shuddered, his lips moving breathlessly, and yet, Hob could make out one word.

'Please...'

It was nothing like the deep baritone he knew and loved, not the voice that lulled sleepers into his realm each night. This voice was brittle, sharp, scraping its way out of Dream's throat. Cold hands surged forward, grabbing onto Hob's shirt, clenched hard enough to make the joints crack.

'Dream please!'

Hob sat up, desperately but gently, trying to rouse his lover.

After what seemed like an age, Dream's eyes shot open. Hob managed to catch a glimpse of a distant pair of stars before he shot up. He gasped, clutching his chest, still struggling for air he didn't need yet somehow couldn't get enough of. With his free hand, he reached out, blindly searching for something.

Logically, it would have been his bag of sand.

Hob didn't like to use logic.

On instinct, he reached for Dream, sliding slender fingers into his own hand.

Dream didn't notice, didn't even look at him. He just stared, stared at something Hob couldn't see. His mind somewhere Hob couldn't reach.

But maybe his words could.

'Dream, love, you're OK, you're safe,'

Dream gasped,

'You're here with me, Hob Gadling. We're in bed, it's a Monday night, we drank some wine and then you stole my socks. You know, my favourite pair? The one with ducks?'

Dream just gasped, but his breathing was slowing. Hob brushed his thumb against his knuckles, waiting for him to return. Again.

The stars blinked, once, twice, then faded away completely. Replaced with shiny blue eyes, shiner than usual.

With a motion that looked painful, he turned to look at Hob. Rigid and awkward, like a wooden puppet.

'Hob?' His voice, still thready, cracked. As if he couldn't believe Hob was beside him. Gently, Hob raised Dream's hand and invited him to touch his face,

'I'm here.'

Ice cold fingers graced his skin, soft as a whisper.

Before Hob could open his mouth again, Dream's eyes, still glistening, finally succumbed. He frantically knuckled his eyes but it was too late, the dam broke.

The tears came thick and fast, his shoulders shaking from the force.

Hob didn't bother asking what was wrong, he didn't try to say anything, no words would help.

Instead, he wordlessly opened his arms, waiting for Dream to notice the gesture. It took a minute, his vision blurry, then he looked at Hob. His brow furrowed, the blank look on his face spoke volumes, and further broke Hob's heart.

Then, slowly, surely, like a cliff weathered by a storm, Dream edged closer, shooting Hob quick glances, still unsure of what was real and what wasn't. Dream eventually closed the distance, laying his head against Hob's shoulder, he waited a beat, then wrapped his arms around him.

It was like hugging a tree. He could feel every bone and joint on Dream's slender frame. He felt his hands, faintly rising and bunching in Hob's shirt once again, seeking out whatever comfort he could get. Hob was more than happy to oblige.

He waited, silent, even as the tears returned, muffled now by Hob's chest. He ran his hand up and down Dream's back, softly, held him close and gently swayed.

It was a familiar gesture Hob realised. When he held Eleanor after her own nightmares, with Robyn after the passing of his mother, and when there was no one left to hold, he held himself, hugging his body tight, watching his son be lowered into the grave. Even when his own vision blurred, and sobs wracked his body like the cruel wind of winter, he kept his arms around him.

A poor excuse for another's embrace.

Hob wouldn't allow that to happen now.

As Dream's tears slowed, Hob didn't loosen his grip, he held on, pressing his lips to soft hair.

Finally, Dream pulled away, wiping his cheeks one last time and resting his elbows on his knees. He wouldn't meet Hob's eyes, that was fine, Hob could wait.

Dream blinked, then, with a sniff befitting a king, he cleared his throat.

'Apologies...' he spoke in his usual somber manner,

'I-I did not mean for that...to happen,'

Hob raised an eyebrow, of course.

'Dream, it's OK,'

'It is not!'

Hob blinked at the sudden change, Dream's voice like the crack of a whip in the quiet night.

Dream's eyes shined, not with tears, with fury.

'It. Is. Not.' He repeated, 'This should not have happened.'

He glanced down at his hands, glaring as if they were at fault,

'I am the Nightmare king. I should not be afflicted by my own creations. I should not be slave to my emotions. I should not...' his voice faltered,

'I should not- should not....Still be ...affected by-by...'

Dream faltered once more, lips pressing into a thin line.

Hob didn't ask, he didn't need to.

'I can still....' Dream stopped, swallowed, then spoke again,

'I can still feel the cold.'

His hands were trembling now, even when Hob held them.

He was right. His fingers were ice cold.

Slowly, he brought them to his lips and gently breathed on them, rubbing to try and get some feeling back to them.

Dream just sat there, looking on as he did it.

'Do you want a cup of tea?'

Dream shook his head,

'Do you want anything to drink?'

Again Dream shook his head, followed by a tremble,

'Do you...do you want me to hold you again?'

Dream looked up, as if startled, he pressed his lips into a thin line again. With a resigned sigh, he rested his head against Hob's shoulder once more.

'...yes.'

He sounded hoarse again, Hob gently shushed him,

'You don't have to speak if you don't want to, you don't have to explain anything, ok? You already did and you do not have to try and make any excuses for how you're feeling.'

Carefully, he tilted Dream's head, raising it so they gazed into each other's eyes. Hob saw a number o f things in those eyes, he always did. Distant galaxies of stars, the possibility of the impossible, now, there was a tiny nugget of hope sparkling somewhere deep in those baby blues.

'I will hold onto you for a long as you want, until you eventually get sick of me.'

A watery huff was his only answer, Hob counted that as a win.

'Come on, duck, lie down with me.'

Hob lay back down, Still cradling Dream and pulled the covers up over them. Shivers continued to wrack Dream's body, the vibrations travelled all the way to Hob's teeth. With a few more sweet words, and Hob's warm embrace, they soon stilled.

Dream was quiet, for a moment, Hob thought he went back to sleep, then, Dream shifted slightly, turning to look at Hob.

It happened in a flash but Hob saw it.

A quick twitch of Dream's lips, though it was sudden, Hob saw the emotion behind it.

Relief.

He pressed his lips to Dream's head, keeping them there, long after the sun rose. Hob watched through bleary eyes as Dream stretched in the morning sun, basking in its warmth.

It was a beautiful sight.

#the sandman #the sandman fanfiction #dream of the endless #morpheus #tom sturridge #hob gadling #ferdinand kingsley #dreamling #hob x dream #hob x morpheus #the sandman netflix #dream x hob #panic attack #trauma #sandman fanfiction

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inevitably-johnlocked · 2 years ago

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Five Fics Friday: March 31/23

Happy Friday Everyone! It’s the end of the month and the end of the week, so let’s start off the new weekend and the new month with some new fics!! Enjoy!

RECENT MFLs

Sherlock Holmes and the Curse of the Were-Kitten by Iwantthatcoat (G, 2,991 w., 1 Ch. || Cat Sherlock AU || Fic Remix, Magical Realism, First Person POV Sherlock) – The problem with the maxim, ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,’ is that, over time, one discovers there are a surprisingly large number of improbable things, and fewer and fewer which could truly be said to be impossible. Take me, for instance. Would anyone in their right mind say that transforming into a tiny black kitten at every full moon is improbable? No, certainly not. That would fall into the realm of the impossible, surely. And yet…

On Holiday in Soft Jumpers by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for (M, 4,190 w., 1 Ch. || Fluff and Smut, Humour, Friends to Lovers, Awkward Flirting, Mutual Pining, Vacation, Massage, Jumpers, John’s Imagination, Inconvenient Erections, Soft Sherlock) – When a case in the Alps turns into an impromptu holiday, Sherlock and John slowly let their guard down, relaxing with drinks, massages, and soft jumpers, finally confessing their romantic feelings for each other.

Spin The Bottle by helloliriels (M, 8,120 w., 6 Ch. || Drinking Games, Calls/Phones, Strip Games, Truth or Dare) – Have you ever played this game before, Sherlock?

The Green Carnations by SilentAuror (M, 19,394 w., 1 Ch, || HLV / S3 Fix It, Mary’s Infidelity, Janine POV) – When Janine met Sherlock at John & Mary's wedding, she thought she knew what sort of a man Sherlock Holmes was. So it was a surprise when he called to ask her out for coffee not long after. Set during and after His Last Vow.

The Case of the Dancing Cameras by Kr_Nl (E, 54,091+ w., 10/11 Ch. || Post S4, Dancing Men Adaptation, Case Fic, Angst, Slow Burn, Massage, UST/URT, Homoerotic Literature, Angst, Slow Burn, Fake Relationship, Scars, Humping, Masturbation, Flirting, Almost Kiss, Pining Sherlock) – The case in which John gets to be a massage therapist for a case and Sherlock gets to be massaged against his will (not really). Taking liberties with The Adventure of the Dancing Men of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Or the case in which John discovers Sherlock turns himself on with homoerotic literature.

#johnlock fic recs #my fic recs #five fics friday

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mrcompass · 8 months ago

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The Antichrists of Beyblade (Part 1): Damian the Deceiver

Damian's character shares many similarities with the concept of the Antichrist found in the Bible as well as popular culture. This will provide another perspective on the character in relation to previous analyses I have made on him, as well as on other characters. The Antichrist is a concept that has been applied to many characters, but it is generally tied to the idea of an entity who deceives humanity in order to attain and usurp a position he doesn't deserve or wasn't meant for him. Damian embodies that concept particularly well.

The name Damian means to subdue or dominate, which is what he attempts to do during Metal Masters as he asserts his superiority over his opponents. It is also reminiscent of the purpose of the Antichrist, to dominate the minds of humans and subdue the world. Damian is also tied to Demeter, goddess of agriculture, whose daughter Persephone became the queen of Hell. Damian, unlike his team members, is more tied to Hell, and it is more difficult for him to escape this reality, the realm of Hades Inc. Finally, the name "Damian" sounds similar to the word "demon" in English, which is why it was apparently chosen as the name of one of the most famous fictional Antichrist, Damien Thorn.

Both are tied to Hell, possess a hellhound (Kerbecs for Damian), live with wealthy people (the Thorns and Ziggurat), and abuse their powers by harming others. Additionally, there is the chorus that plays each time they use their special abilities. Finally, the name "Damian" is also tied to the patron saint of doctors, Saint Damian, who shares this patronage with his colleague (and sometimes brother), Saint Cosmas. They used to heal people without asking for anything in return, which is the opposite of what Ziggurat does: he always tries to gain something from someone, and the results of his healing are somewhat dubious. What is interesting is that "Cosmas" (which means cosmos, synonymous with universe) can be tied to Gingka, who has (in the dub) Cosmic Pegasus and whose name itself means galaxy (something that is part of the cosmos). This illustrates Damian and Gingka's duality and the ties they have to each other as opposite figures.

Damian's design is very atypical compared to most characters; it looks closer to what a Burst character would wear. @mach-speed-spinh-speed already made a compelling post about Damian's design, which gave me ideas, here , I will not describe everything about his design, so I recommend you check the post.

Damian's cap and jumper suit are a little reminiscent of Ryuga's own design, who also employs black and white as dominant colors. Damian also wears armor, which makes him appear bigger than he actually is and more threatening. In a way, this design is made to lure us into thinking that Damian is similar to Ryuga in the sense that he is the main antagonist and the main threat, but in the anime, he is not. The color choice is interesting because the exterior is white and gold, almost heroic in a way; it seems like Damian tries to appear as a sort of hero or rather to eclipse the hero of the story by appearing as the incarnation of the concept of the chosen one. Indeed, his attire makes him stand out from the rest; he is not like anybody else; he is special. Or rather, that's what the writer wants us to think. His hair is quite peculiar; they look similar to Ziggurat's in terms of style. They look like horns or ears of dogs (fittingly, Damian has three pairs of spikes usually like Kerbecs has three heads, so three pairs of ears).

The Antichrist receives power from the devil and manages to miraculously heal itself. Damian received power from Ziggurat, who represents the devil, and he managed to endure many special moves throughout his fights (such as Black Excalibur, most of Kyoya’s arsenal, etc.). Everyone was surprised and, in a way, mesmerized by his power, even Gingka himself was shocked until they were told that it was the arrangement system. Furthermore, Damian managed to win against Julian, who called himself an emperor, the highest-ranking title of a monarch in Europe. And the Antichrist is described as a beast with crown, symbols signifying its power and authority. Damian's victory against Julian in a way establishes him as a threat but symbolically his authority and fake superiority over all bladers.

Finally, the Antichrist desribed as a beast in the Book of Revelation comes from the seas, and the first appearance at Hades Gate and Kerbecs (who is also a multiheaded beast) is at the same time the stadium is filled with the Cetus’s water, giving an impression of the gate rising from the sea. In the gates, a winged Cerberus is explicitly shown during its first appearance. Wings are often tied with Gingka's Pegasus in the series. However, this surprising association reflects an appropriation by Kerbecs of something that doesn't belong to him, almost like he is trying to usurp Pegasus. And that's what Damian is trying to do; by winning the match against Gingka, he would have officially become the strongest blader in the world, but he wouldn't have earned that position because of the fact he relied on the arrangement. Ryo and Hikaru also strongly insisted on the necessity for Gingka to win because they needed a true blader to show the world what beyblading means. Damian shouldn't have succeeded at any cost because it could have created a precedent which would have irrevocably harmed the world of Beyblade. Also, Damian, like the beast described in the Book of Revelation, insults people. It's not blasphemy, but he called everyone weak, even people as hardworking as Kyoya and Julian.

Despite his seemingly godly power, Damian is chained to Ziggurat and to a life he didn't choose. The Antichrist is merely a pawn to the devil to enact his plans; it cannot change nor deny its destined path. However, the entity finding another path is a theme that was explored in other works of fiction, such as the Good Omens series, in which Adam Young, the Antichrist of the series, is swapped with another baby and ends up living in an English village instead of inheriting a life of luxury as the son of a wealthy American diplomat (the name Damian was also put forward for him).

He ends up in a family with loving parents who put limits on his behavior; he has a bunch of friends whom he plays games within the woods. What is important is that Adam has had a fulfilling childhood with actual parenting, and in the end, he rejects his father (the Devil) arguing that Satan was never there for him, unlike his human father, and that he is obviously only concerned with using his power. The reason it ties with Damian is that he was (probably) raised by Ziggurat, who is by all accounts a sociopath, who hates children and, most of all, encouraged Damian's sadistic nature, calling the "results" against Excalibur "outstanding." Also, Damian is very pale, more than other characters, and he is only rivaled by Rago, who seemingly spent a significant part of his life in a closed room. He doesn't know what dirt is; in the Japanese dub, when dirty, he said: "What is this?". Damian lived in a very controlled environment, in total opposition to Gingka, whose father faked his death to send him on a journey. Damian's situation is best symbolized by Kerbecs's beast, which only appears when the gate of Hades appears or inside of it (except once, but very briefly in episode 94). He probably never really had a childhood and never experienced the outside world. He also doesn't seem to know what the concept of fun is and is more concerned with competing in his job, arguing that he is destined and chosen to do beyblade, like the Antichrist is destined to bring the world to its end. Damian can't escape Ziggurat or that path that was chosen for him because he obviously didn't have a choice and didn't question the doctor's motives. Damian doesn't have friends like Julian to support him and help him find a better path.

In a recent post, I put forward the possibility that Damian's flashback/backstory happened more recently than it seems, which would also mean he is younger than many think. I still believe in this since Ziggurat said he started the conception of the arrangement system after the end of Battle Bladers, Damian's physical changes can all be explained by the arrangement, he didn't grow taller... The reason I'm bringing this up is that even if true or false, this is another deception; we don't really know how old he is, and I genuinely think the writer made it unclear. Damian looks bigger and more threatening than he actually is, and even though he hurts people physically and mentally in the most horrendous ways, he is Ziggurat's victim as well as his creation; his behavior is the result of the arrangement but also of his education. In a way Damian acts a lot like the doctor. They both like to feel superior to others, they use others as test subjects for their inventions/power, they deny reality in equal measures, they are sadistic and manipulative... Damian is a child who doesn't know any better and who has a warped sense of reality because Ziggurat really believes in all the things he says about the arrangement. Which further deceives Damian and drives him further from the truth that he can't understand anymore. He deceives others into thinking he is strong, big, and powerful, but he also deceives himself. Ironically, he told Julian and Kyoya to stop their "tough guy act," but he is the one doing that.

During his final in episode 100, Kyoya managed to break the hell dimension before damaging the Hell/Hades fusion of Kerbecs and leaving the room full of cracks. This represents how this battle, more than the one with Gingka, impacted and literally shattered Damian's worldview, or rather the one that was forced upon him by Ziggurat. He escaped the fate of sinking to the abyss with the demoniac doctor and his city, but in a way, he is still punished for his actions. He who liked putting others in despair is driven to despair as he lost everything of value to him; he called people weak, he will become weak and powerless without the arrangement, he thought of being the chosen one, he will completely disappear, not even mentioned by anyone. This is Damian's tragedy; his bey is the only one whose constellation doesn't exist anymore; he doesn't shine like the others. Like Cerberus, the only world in which he belongs is Hades, but it was destroyed. Being freed could have been an opportunity for his character to build his own identity, but he wasn't given his chance.

Like the Antichrist, Damian seeks to subdue others with illusory through deception, but in the end, he was the one who was the most deceived.

#metal fight beyblade #mfb #damian hart #beyblade metal masters #gingka hagane #ginga hagane #dr ziggurat #kyoya tategami #Julian Konzern #damien thorn #adam young #the omen #Good Omen #beyblade

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