#THAT VERTICAL HALO

[thebirdarts]

Pose<3

[doom-dreaming]

One of my favorite concept arts :)!!

It's one of my favorites too :)

[starguider]

watching this in 2160p 4k LOOKS WILDLY GOOD. I am gobsmacked at this trailer. Its beautiful THIS is what i've been stubbornly saving my gems for.

[bluukive]

no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, experimental, logarithmic, while i gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cow girl, doggy, backwards, forwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick throbbing, first clenching, ear rining, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling. teeth jitterbug, mind blogging, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy, moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip bitting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, cant walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail stractching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell desolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magniticent, unique, extraordinary, slendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tangos, he could put a nuclear bomb inside me and i'd still ride it and I would give this man the sloppiest, wettest, creamiest, soul taking, slimy, life changing, death DROPPING, heaven sent, flabbergasting, hypnotising, ungodly, astonishing, leg trembling, back arched, hands desperately grabbing the sheets, legs stretching out again and again, toe curling, voice breaking, whimper causing, waist slowly moving up and down, small heavy breath " I can't take much more of this", breaths getting quicker, twitching, throbbing, eyes shut, lip biting, edging begging for relief, warm hot rush bubbling up, spit upon the tongue twisting ground tip-talking against the mouth, sideways spit from the end and lick from the bottom to the top then spit and lick to the bottom, deepthroating, thrusting slower then faster, faster, FASTER twisting mouth around each side, spiritually enlightening, chakra aligning, mangekyo sharigan unlocking, golden light like a halo, noise from the very edge of his throat for the final, hardest release ever....and THEN I'd let him pound me so FUCKING HARD UNTIL HE IMPREGNATES ME WITH HIS BABIES.

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

if no one's watching.

[ Sylus x Zayne ] (Art made by @yvilonion )

a/n : This fic was born out of pure, unfiltered pettiness. After getting hate for writing one SnowCrow fic (yes, one), I thought to myself: you know what would be fun? Being a petty little bitch and writing another one—except this time, let’s make it soft, slow, and devastatingly intimate. So here you go. Two men. No shame. No apologies. Just love written in silence and breath. To everyone who sent kindness: thank you. i love you! To the rest? I hope this fic ruins your whole afternoon. 💋

summary : On a rain-soaked night heavy with everything unspoken, two longtime roommates tiptoe around the truth they’ve buried for years. In the hush between words and touch, desire unfolds—not as confession, but as instinct. What begins as silence ends in something unmistakably real: love finally allowed to breathe. cw/tw : Repression and emotional denial, slowburn queer intimacy, explicit sexual content (consensual, emotionally charged). archive of our own : [ Press Here! ]

IT WAS RAINING...again.

Not the kind of rain that fell in orderly vertical lines, but the slanted, disoriented kind—like even gravity had grown tired of holding everything together. It clung to the windows in thin streaks, barely audible, yet inescapable. The kind of sound that doesn’t fill a room so much as echo inside your own head.

Rain against glass. And the occasional creak of floorboards expanding into silence.

Sylus stood in the kitchen, barefoot, cradling a mug of lukewarm water he hadn’t meant to drink. The stove light above him buzzed softly, flickered once, then held steady. He didn’t look up.

His gaze hovered somewhere past the sink, out through the narrow window where the city melted into a thousand wet halos—orange, white, indistinct. Cars ghosted by like memories. People didn’t.

In the living room, Zayne hadn’t moved in over an hour.

He lay curled at the far end of the couch, a book splayed open across his chest. Not asleep, not awake. Limbo. One leg tucked beneath him, the other stretched half-heartedly toward the edge of the rug, like he might get up—but never did. His socks didn’t match. One was black. The other had a hole near the toe.

Sylus had noticed it earlier. When Zayne arrived soaked and shivering, shaking his umbrella out over the entryway like a man trying to purge more than just water.

They hadn’t spoken much since dinner. Not out of anger—they rarely fought. But silence could belong to a hundred different things. Some of them gentle. Some of them not. And on nights like this, the silence felt braided: part fear, part distance, and something else entirely.

Sylus finally moved.

He set the mug beside the sink without drinking from it. The ceramic met the countertop with a soft clink. Rain swallowed the sound.

He walked toward the couch—slowly, as though unsure where his body was carrying him. Not directly to Zayne. Just... in that direction.

As he passed, Zayne’s eyes flicked up, then down again. The page didn’t turn.

Sylus didn’t sit. Instead, he drifted to the window, folded his arms, and leaned one shoulder against the cold pane.

"The streetlight's out again," he said.

Zayne didn’t answer.

Sylus hadn’t expected him to.

He watched the space where the streetlight used to glow. It had once cast a soft gold puddle onto the balcony, breaking gently against the railing. Now, it was nothing. Just darkness—a patch darker than the rest. A silence nested within another silence.

Then: Zayne’s voice, from behind, quiet enough to be mistaken for thought.

"You think it'll flood?"

Sylus turned his head, just enough to catch Zayne’s reflection in the glass. Dimly lit by the oven’s glow. Unreadable.

"No," he said. "Not enough rain for that."

Zayne nodded, slowly. His eyes weren’t on Sylus. Not on the window either. They lingered somewhere just beyond the book’s spine. Toward the untouched mug on the coffee table.

And there it was again. That third presence.

Not quite tension. Not quite emptiness. Something unnamed—but heavy enough to warp the air.

He used to call it loneliness. That aching inertia of sharing space with someone without actually reaching them.

But this—this wasn’t clean like loneliness. This was messier. Wetter.

He didn’t know what Zayne thought about during silences like this. Did he feel the same static between them? Did his shoulder graze Sylus’s in the kitchen by accident or design Did the pause before “goodnight” mean nothing? Or everything?

Sylus pressed his fingertips to the glass. The chill made his skin ache.

"I think it's supposed to rain all night," he said.

A hum from behind him. Low. Unbothered. Almost tender.

Something shifted inside Sylus’s chest.

But he didn’t turn around.

He let his hand fall from the windowpane. It dropped without ceremony, curling against his side like it no longer belonged to him. His fingers were colder than they should’ve been—forgotten by the rest of his body. Behind him, the kitchen light hummed on, painting everything in soft amber. He didn’t move.

Then: fabric rustled.

Nothing urgent. Just the sound a body makes when it forgets it’s being heard. A shift of weight. A sigh whispered into cotton.

"You didn't each much," Zayne said.

His voice held no judgment. No edge. Just a note of observation, soft and bare, like dust in a shaft of light.

"I wasn't hungry," Sylus replied.

A pause followed—not the kind that asks for anything, but the kind that simply is.

Zayne exhaled again, slower this time. "You always say that."

Sylus didn’t answer. There was no lie, and no truth, to offer.

The room pulsed with presence. Two gravitational fields that didn’t quite orbit—just drifted. And yet, something subtle pulled at them. Not intention. Not desire. Just that unspoken tilt toward closeness.

Sylus stepped away from the window. Not toward Zayne. Not toward the kitchen. Just into the hollow between both.

He hovered there—arms loosely folded, eyes unfocused.

Behind him, the couch gave a soft creak. Zayne’s weight shifting again.

"You don't have to stand like that," Zayne said, quieter now. "It's weird."

Sylus glanced over his shoulder. Just enough to see a partial view: Zayne reclined, head resting against the couch arm, knees bent loosely. The book lay beside him, discarded. His gaze rested on Sylus. Not piercing. Not demanding. Just... watching.

With a breath that barely moved his chest, Sylus crossed the final space and sat—opposite end of the couch.

Not far. But not close.

Between them: a cushion and years of practiced restraint.

The silence returned, but this time it ticked. It breathed. Something alive, with a pulse.

Zayne bent one leg, letting the other dangle over the edge, toes brushing the worn fringe of the rug. Sylus leaned his jaw into the cradle of one hand, elbow perched on the armrest. In the corner of his eye: Zayne’s outline. Familiar. Too familiar.

The television murmured low across the room—something dubbed, unintelligible. No one was watching. But it filled the air enough to explain the silence. Enough to pretend neither of them noticed how loudly the other breathed.

Outside, the rain shifted. Not heavier—just different. A gust swept through the alley, lifting metal. It clattered. Neither of them flinched.

Zayne’s voice again, casual but strange. "You ever notice how this place always smells like something's burning?"

Sylus blinked. "No."

"Huh." A shrug lived in the syllables. "Maybe it's just me."

They fell quiet again.

Eventually, Zayne adjusted the throw blanket over his legs. The motion displaced a pocket of warmth, spilling it subtly across the cushion beside Sylus. Not contact. Not quite. Just the ghost of presence.

Without knowing why, Sylus shifted. An inch. Maybe two. Not toward Zayne. Just… into the warmth.

The television flickered on the far wall, casting pale, intermittent light over their faces.

"You okay?"

The question floated between them, steady but delicate.

Sylus didn’t respond immediately. His eyes found the spine of a book on the coffee table. One they’d both read, but never talked about. Its corners were bent. A receipt stuck out halfway, curling at the edge. Not his.

He swallowed. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Zayne didn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, his head tilted, eyes now on Sylus—open, unguarded. Always too bright, too knowing. But in that moment, soft.

Sylus felt it—not the gaze itself, but the change in weight. The difference between being seen and being looked at.

And he made the mistake of glancing up.

Their eyes met. And held.

Only for a second. Less.

But long enough.

Something sparked. Dry paper. Too close.

Zayne looked away first. Not ashamed. Not afraid. Just—gentle. As if maintaining the look had cost something, and he wasn’t sure what was left to spend.

Sylus let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His shoulders dropped, barely. His fingers curled tighter against the seam of the couch—small, invisible. A warning to himself: Don't.

The air between them warmed, subtly. Like the room had shifted one degree toward something dangerous.

Then Zayne moved again.

Just slightly. His knee angled inward, brushing—soft, accidental—against Sylus’s thigh.

Neither of them moved.

The contact was nothing. Less than nothing. A graze of fabric. A shared inch of cushion.

But it lingered. Not by force—by stillness.

Sylus didn’t breathe differently. Not on the outside. But something internal gave way. Quietly. Not a shatter. A slackening.

Zayne hadn’t looked at him again. He was facing the screen now—or pretending to. His features calm, unreadable. Like that accidental touch hadn’t shifted the atmosphere.

Like the air wasn’t denser now.

Sylus’s fingers—resting idle on the armrest—shifted by a fraction. Not a reach. Not a retreat. Just a quiet twitch. A reflex of awareness.

The space between them wasn’t space anymore.

It was a membrane.

Thin. Breathable. One motion away from dissolving.

Zayne adjusted, slower this time. The blanket slipped lower, revealing the cut of his ankle. His foot tapped once against the rug. Aimless. Then he stilled.

Sylus became hyper-aware of his own body. The way his shirt clung where it brushed his ribs. The curvature of his spine against the couch. The weight of one shoulder slouched slightly behind the other.

The heat near his hip—Zayne’s warmth—barely there, but impossible to ignore.

He didn’t look.

Even a glance felt like trespassing.

Time passed like breath held underwater. A minute. Then another.

Outside, a car passed. Tires whispered over shallow puddles. Headlights crawled across the ceiling like a slow breath. Touching nothing. Leaving everything changed.

The room returned to silence.

Zayne’s breathing had shifted. Not louder. Just steadier. Controlled. Held too carefully.

Like someone hiding their own heartbeat.

Sylus closed his eyes. Not in retreat. Not in surrender. Just to listen.

And in the darkness behind his eyelids, the touch became clearer. Not sharper—just more real. The press of a knee, the hum of nearness. Not touching, but felt. His whole body attuned to the parts of Zayne that hovered at the edge of contact.

When he opened his eyes, Zayne hadn’t moved.

It rested now on the cushion between them, fingers relaxed, as if forgotten there. Not a gesture. Not a question. Just… placed.

Sylus let his gaze linger on it. He didn’t trace it upward. Not to the wrist, or the arm, or the line of Zayne’s jaw he sometimes dreamed about.

Just the hand. Still. Breathing its own silent, trembling invitation.

He didn’t answer it.

Not out loud.

Instead, his own hand moved—drifting downward, slow, unintentional. His knuckles brushed fabric. Near. Not on. Just near.

No skin. No contact. Just the awareness of how little distance remained.

Zayne didn’t move.

The silence thickened again.

Not heavy. Not oppressive. Just warm.

Like the breath that lingers between two people who aren’t speaking because they know.

A flicker moved through Zayne’s shoulders. Barely a ripple. The faint tremor of someone swallowing a thought too large to name.

He exhaled—softly. Not out of weariness. But uncertainty.

Then his fingers curled. Not toward Sylus. Just inward.

Like something small and vulnerable folding back into itself.

Sylus felt it. Not in his chest. Lower. A shift in the stomach. Not hunger.

Recognition.

As if something inside him had just pointed at the shape of the moment and said: This. This is what it's been.

He let himself glance—just once—toward Zayne’s face.

Zayne didn’t look back. His gaze was still on the screen. But his eyes weren’t tracking anything. His expression was still. But not serene.

There was tension there. Just beneath the cheekbone. Like he was listening for a line that hadn’t yet been spoken. Like he didn’t know what came next.

Sylus turned his hand. Slightly. Palm-up. Resting beside Zayne’s.

Not touching. Just waiting.

He told himself it didn’t mean anything.

That Zayne wouldn’t notice.

That the night would pass, and sleep would come, and no one would speak of it in the morning.

But then—

Zayne’s pinky twitched.

And didn’t move away.

The motion was so small it could’ve meant nothing. A twitch. A balance shift. The ghost of sleep passing through a limb.

But it wasn’t.

Sylus knew. In the way the hairs on his forearm lifted. In the way his heartbeat caught, then stumbled like a misstep in the dark.

He didn’t move. Not from fear.

But because movement would mean belief. And he wasn’t ready to believe. Not yet.

The space between their hands felt different now. Not in distance, but in intention. An unfinished sentence. A question, unsaid.

Zayne shifted, almost imperceptibly. Shoulder dipping, head tilting—like the couch had betrayed its shape, or like his own skin had turned unfamiliar.

His hand didn’t move.

That smallest finger—barely bent, still close—held the gravity of a thousand silences.

Sylus let his own finger drift nearer. Not touching. Just enough to echo the closeness. A breath’s worth of nearness.

Zayne inhaled.

Not a gasp. Not surprise.

Just a breath turned over in the body, like a page in a quiet room.

The sound of it passed across Sylus’s cheek like mist. When he realized what it meant, he almost stopped breathing.

Zayne had turned his face toward him. Not all the way. Just enough to abandon pretense.

The television murmured in another language—meaningless. The rain had thinned to a whisper, dissolving into fog.

The world outside had vanished.

All that remained was the air between two men. And the charge that neither could name.

Sylus looked. Not at Zayne’s hand.

At his face.

Zayne wasn’t looking back. His eyes rested somewhere near Sylus’s collar. Not bold enough to hold his gaze. Not distant enough to claim indifference.

The flicker from the television lit the ridge of his nose, caught on the curve of his lip. His mouth wasn’t tense. Wasn’t relaxed either.

It looked— careful.

Sylus shifted. A small rotation of his hips. One knee brushing lightly against Zayne’s.

No words. No contact, not really.

But the room felt closer now. As though even the air had begun to fold inward.

Zayne wasn’t breathing evenly.

Sylus could feel it in the shape of his silence. The way his chest rose—not with the weightless drift of sleep, but with the careful breath of someone standing at the edge.

Ready to fall. Or run.

Zayne’s hand curled inward again. Then relaxed.

It stayed close. Sylus’s hand stayed open.

The tension between them wasn’t sharp. It was unbearable in its gentleness.

No urgency. No heat.

Only the slow gravity of two bodies fluent in a language they'd never been allowed to speak.

Sylus didn’t know who moved first.

Maybe neither of them did. Maybe it was just the couch collapsing under the weight of unsaid things.

Their heads tilted—forward.

Not far. Not enough to kiss.

Just close enough that their breath mingled. That the space between their mouths fogged like glass.

Zayne’s eyes were half-lidded. Lips parted—not in invitation, not in refusal. Suspended.

Sylus didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

His voice had abandoned him somewhere between intention and ache.

Zayne blinked, slow.

And for a moment—there was no history. No room. No rules.

Just this.

This strange, reverent quiet pressed between them like folded hands.

Sylus leaned in again. An inch. Maybe less.

Zayne didn’t move. He didn’t have to.

Their foreheads touched. Soft. Weightless.

A contact so restrained it felt like apology.

Zayne exhaled.

And that was the betrayal.

Because in that breath—all the denial unraveled.

It was too tender to fake. Too vulnerable to disguise.

Sylus’s hand turned.

Palm-up.

Beside Zayne’s. Not touching. Just waiting.

Their lips hovered—still inches apart. Eyes half-closed, fragile with questions.

But the silence had changed.

It was no longer still. No longer safe.

It trembled now— on the cusp of becoming.

Sylus’s breath hitched—caught between ribs like a thought that should’ve stayed unsaid. The air in his chest wasn’t air anymore. It was weight.

Zayne didn’t move back.

Didn’t move forward either.

He just stayed—face hovering close, not with purpose but with gravity. The kind that forms when silence stretches too long and begins to collapse under its own density.

The space between them had turned unbearable. Not emotionally. Not metaphorically.

Viscerally.

Zayne’s eyes lifted—just enough to find Sylus’s. And then—

A breath. Barely shaped.

"...Sylus."

It wasn’t a question. Wasn’t a confession.

It was a name—spoken like it had been kept behind clenched teeth for years.

Sylus closed his eyes. His throat worked once—dry.

Then: "...Zayne."

Soft. Like surrender.

There was nothing else to say. They had lived too long in the pause between names.

His mind flickered—uninvited—through moments he had long buried:

The time they’d brushed shoulders on the fire escape, too tired for words. Sylus had felt Zayne’s thigh press against his and hadn’t moved for the entire length of a cigarette. The stars had seemed unreal that night. As if even they were holding their breath.

Or the day Zayne returned from a funeral, tie askew, jaw tight with grief. Sylus had set a glass of water in front of him. Zayne had looked at him—really looked. Like if Sylus left, he might fall apart. Sylus hadn’t left. Zayne’s pinky had brushed his then, too. Just once.

Another night—winter-bitten and brittle—when the power had gone out. They’d shared a blanket. Nothing had happened. But Zayne had dozed off against Sylus’s shoulder. And Sylus hadn’t slept at all. Couldn’t. His body had burned in stillness, every nerve awake with fear. Not fear of Zayne. Fear of being seen—by himself.

At the time, those moments had seemed small. Incidental. Forgettable.

But now they came back—not as memories. As debts. Unpaid, and suddenly due.

Zayne moved.

Not boldly. Just enough for their foreheads to brush.

No lightning. No soundtrack. No sweeping cinematic blaze.

Just skin against skin—a contact so fragile it echoed louder than sound.

Sylus didn’t know if his eyes were open. Didn’t know if it mattered.

He could feel the shape of Zayne’s mouth—without even touching it. The warmth of breath. The nearness of something long withheld.

Zayne moved again. Slower this time. The tip of his nose grazed Sylus’s.

Their lips hovered. A breath apart.

Then—

Zayne tilted his head. Not much. Just enough.

Sylus didn’t pull away. Didn’t lean in.

They met somewhere in the middle.

The kiss wasn’t sudden. Wasn’t wild.

It was quiet.

As if their mouths had been waiting—patiently, stubbornly—for a moment like this to finally exist.

Their lips met like an answer. Soft. Known.

Zayne’s mouth trembled slightly against his—like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.

Sylus pressed forward—just a breath’s worth—and that was enough.

Zayne exhaled. It shivered between them.

They kissed again. Deeper. But still unhurried.

No hunger. Only release.

Years of restraint peeling back, like wallpaper in an empty room.

Sylus’s hand rose—tentative—until it found the side of Zayne’s neck. His thumb grazed the hollow beneath his ear.

Zayne’s hand lifted in turn, curling into Sylus’s t-shirt—clinging like someone grounding themselves.

The kiss lingered.

Not out of fear. Not out of desperation.

But because stopping would require naming this. Would mean admitting what it had always been.

What it could no longer pretend not to be.

Zayne moved first.

Barely.

His hand tightened at Sylus’s waist—not to pull, not to possess. Just to be there.

His knuckles grazed the hem of Sylus’s shirt, where cotton met skin. They stayed. That was all it took.

Sylus’s breath shifted—shallower now, uncertain.

The room felt smaller. Not claustrophobic. Just... full. Every inch humming with the gravity of permission.

Zayne kissed him again. Softer. Then firmer. Not rushed.

Searching.

His mouth moved like he was tracing the edges of a dream—one he’d visited often, but never dared touch.

Sylus’s hand slid along Zayne’s back, open, exploratory. He didn’t guide. He followed. Every breath. Every held tremor beneath fabric.

They still hadn’t spoken. But everything in them was speaking.

Zayne’s thumb found a bare patch of skin just under the hem of Sylus’s shirt.

He paused there. Didn’t press. Just rested.

That single point of contact unraveled something inside Sylus—something ancient and aching.

He lifted his arms—slow, unsure. And Zayne understood.

He tugged the shirt upward, careful not to shatter the rhythm they’d slipped into. It caught briefly at Sylus’s shoulders, then came free.

Cool air. Bare skin. Goosebumps bloomed.

Zayne didn’t gawk. Didn’t freeze.

He looked.

Not with hunger, but with reverence. The kind of look you give the edge of a cliff you’ve stood at for years—never daring to jump, never quite walking away.

Sylus didn’t speak. He leaned in instead, mouth brushing Zayne’s jaw, then his throat.

It was part instinct, part apology.

His lips parted against skin, and the sound Zayne made wasn’t loud. It was close. A breath caught in the hollow between want and awe.

Zayne’s hand pressed lightly to Sylus’s chest. His thumb swept over bone and muscle like he was tracing something half-remembered—something sacred.

The tension didn’t break. It deepened.

Sylus reached for Zayne’s shirt. Fingers slipping under the hem, the fabric warm, worn.

He lifted it slowly, watching Zayne’s face for any flicker of hesitation. There wasn’t one.

The shirt joined Sylus’s on the floor.

Zayne’s skin was warm beneath his palms—solid and soft all at once. Sylus traced his side, his hand resting against the curve of his ribs. Zayne’s breath caught—but he didn’t pull away.

Then—closer.

Their bare torsos pressed, breath moving between them like tidewater—gentle, rhythmic, necessary.

Zayne’s hands slid to Sylus’s back, wide and open, not pulling with desperation but certainty. Sylus folded into him—arms around his shoulders, lips finding his again, deeper now.

They kissed like men who had denied themselves too long.

Not from shame. From necessity.

And now— that necessity was gone.

The couch groaned softly beneath them as they shifted.

Zayne parted his legs slightly, and Sylus moved with him—slotting into the space like something inevitable.

Their foreheads met again. No sweat yet, but the heat was rising. Their skin slick with anticipation.

Zayne’s fingers followed the line of Sylus’s spine—tentative, slow. His mouth moved lower, to his jaw, then down—to the hollow of his collarbone.

The kiss there was open-mouthed. Unsteady. Aching.

Sylus gasped. Not from surprise.

From the sheer weight of finally.

Zayne paused. Let the breath settle. Let his lips stay.

Sylus’s hands, trembling now, found the waistband of Zayne’s pants.

He didn’t undo them. Not yet.

His knuckles brushed fabric—careful, reverent. He looked up.

Zayne was already watching him.

No smile. No hesitation.

Just yes.

The sound of a zipper echoed in the room—slow. Deliberate.

It filled the silence like punctuation.

Not a beginning. Not an end.

Just the natural sound of two bodies, long kept apart, finally allowed to want in the open.

No rush.

Only inevitability.

Zayne shifted—hips lifting slightly—as Sylus eased the fabric down, careful not to shatter the fragile stillness between them.

The denim gave way with quiet resistance. The weight of it slipped from skin that had never been touched like this.

Not by him. Not like this.

Not with meaning.

Zayne leaned back into the cushions, one arm resting loosely behind his head. His gaze didn’t waver. Didn’t scan. Didn’t retreat.

He simply watched. And waited.

Sylus paused. Not from hesitation—but reverence.

His hand lingered at the hem of Zayne’s last layer, thumb grazing the edge. His fingers trembled—not from nerves, but care.

That rare, trembling awareness that the person before you is no longer theoretical. No longer a question.

But real. Breathing. Letting you in.

"Okay?" Sylus asked—his voice low, roughened by the weight in his chest.

Zayne nodded. "Yeah." A beat. "More than okay."

Sylus exhaled—quiet and uneven. Relieved. Unsteady.

He leaned in and kissed just above the fabric, at the curve of Zayne’s stomach.

It wasn’t practiced. Wasn’t precise.

Just lips to skin, tentative and real.

Zayne exhaled. Slow. Measured.

His hand rose, resting on Sylus’s shoulder like punctuation.

When the final layer was pulled away, Zayne lay bare beneath the dim, flickering light. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t cover himself.

But his chest paused mid-breath—as though his body hadn’t caught up with what was happening.

Sylus sat back.

He looked.

Not with hunger. Not with claim.

But with awe.

Then came the shedding of his own clothes. Fabric pulled over limbs in quiet, untheatrical motions.

Not display. Not seduction.

Just the removal of armor. Layer by layer.

When he was fully bare, he didn’t reach for Zayne. He simply let himself be seen.

Let fear sit beside him in silence, naked and shared.

Zayne looked at him—not with appraisal.

With reverence. As though he hadn’t believed this moment would ever truly arrive.

Sylus moved back over him slowly, skin meeting skin in scattered points—thigh, hip, rib, forearm.

Each touch unfolding like a sentence too long held in the throat.

When their chests met, bare and warm, Zayne made a sound that lived somewhere between sigh and prayer.

His hand slid to the back of Sylus’s neck, fingers threading through heat-damp hair.

They kissed again—deeper now.

Teeth brushed. Mouths parted slowly. Tongues moved with precision born of restraint.

It tasted like release.

Zayne broke it first, forehead resting against Sylus’s. Breathing shallow.

["I don't know how to do this," he said, almost smiling.

Sylus swallowed. "Me either."

Zayne met his eyes—lit softly by the television’s glow, raw with something gentler than fear. "Then let's not do it right."

A quiet laugh slipped from Sylus—unguarded, small.

He kissed him again.

This time, their hips moved together—slow, uncertain, but aligned. Zayne arched into him, the motion wordless, instinctual, and full of ache.

No one led. No one followed.

They moved.

Sylus’s hand drifted down Zayne’s side, fingers grazing hip, then lower—finding want where it lived, where it waited.

Zayne gasped. Not from surprise.

From awe.

He met the touch with his own. Mirroring. Learning.

Their hands became language. Their mouths the reply.

And through it all—

No words. None needed.

Only breath.

Only sound.

Only two men, no longer pretending they didn’t ache.

Zayne’s forehead rested against Sylus’s temple, sweat gathering between them like truth surfacing—slow, undeniable.

His breath was broken now. Staggered. Shallow.

The sound of someone losing a battle they hadn’t meant to fight.

Sylus’s hand stayed steady. Not coaxing. Not claiming. Just present.

Their bodies rocked together in a rhythm that hadn’t been taught— slow, uneven, unchoreographed.

It wasn’t performance. It was discovery.

Each movement answering a question neither had dared speak aloud.

Zayne’s voice cracked. Just one syllable—unformed, unintelligible—spilled into the hollow above Sylus’s collarbone.

His arms were wrapped tight around Sylus’s back now, as though letting go would unmake the moment.

As if there were still something outside this they might fall back into.

But there wasn’t.

This was the room. This was the world.

Breath shared.

Nothing else existed.

Sylus moved with him, building pressure not with friction, but with closeness.

His pleasure rose not from sensation alone— but from Zayne’s sounds, the tremble in his spine, the small betrayals of control.

Every signal whispered, I see you. I feel you. I want you still.

He wasn’t used to being this seen. To wanting and being wanted in the same breath.

It overwhelmed him.

Still—he didn’t stop.

Zayne clawed gently at Sylus’s shoulder as his body arched, mouth falling open into something raw, unnamed.

Sylus felt it crest—not just physically, but in the way Zayne’s silence cracked open—every breath a breaking point.

And when Zayne came, buried against his neck, shaking but silent—

It felt like truth rising from where it had been buried too long. Gasping for light.

Sylus followed— a quake through the center of him.

No sound. No flourish.

Just breath— deep, shaking, endless.

A letting go.

They collapsed inward. Not apart.

Arms still wrapped. Bodies still suspended.

There was no sound, only the hum of their bodies settling. Heartbeats. The hush of skin cooling where sweat had once tethered them.

Zayne’s eyes were closed, his face pressed against Sylus’s chest, cheek resting just above the sternum—as if he’d always belonged there.

Sylus stared at the ceiling, breath slowing, every muscle gradually relinquishing the weight it had carried for years.

Outside, the rain had stopped.

The world hadn’t.

But here— in this room, in this breathless corner of dim light and tangled limbs— time had fractured.

Zayne’s fingers trailed along Sylus’s ribs. Not with purpose.

Just to stay.

Just to remind them both this had happened. That it wasn’t a dream.

Sylus turned his head and pressed a kiss to Zayne’s temple. Barely.

More intention than contact. A punctuation mark. A promise.

"I didn't know," Zayne whispered—his voice rough, like it had traveled too far to reach him.

Sylus didn’t answer right away. Words felt too fragile. Too small for the moment.

"Me neither," he said at last.

It wasn’t a confession.

It was a fact.

Zayne hummed. The sound frayed and quiet.

"I thought if I let it in... it'd ruin everything."

Sylus closed his eyes.

"It didn't."

Zayne exhaled. Something like a laugh buried beneath exhaustion.

"No. Just... changed it."

They lay there. Not gripping. Just close.

Legs tangled. Skin cooling.

The silence now wide enough to hold them both. Without crowding either.

Eventually, Sylus shifted, reaching for the blanket draped over the back of the couch.

He pulled it over them—fabric worn, scentless.

Familiar.

Zayne turned his face into Sylus’s chest. Not to hide.

To rest.

"You cold?" Sylus asked softly.

"No."

A pause.

"I just want to stay here."

"You can."

Zayne found his hand beneath the blanket. Their fingers laced.

No trembling. No question.

Just warmth. Just presence.

Nothing about the evening. Nothing about what this would become.

Only this.

Two men— no longer half-alive— finally learning what it means to be touched, and known.

— © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐛𝐲 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰

[mrs-weasley-reid]

DOCTORS ACROSS THE HALL

Spencer Reid x psychiatrist!reader

Synopsis: Sleep-deprived and traumatized, Spencer Reid attempts to pin the blame on his innocent new neighbor (he can't). Word Count: 2k+ Warning: meet cute-ish(?) fluff(?) i'm not sure anymore, lol. light mentions of death and trauma. a few curses. not proofread !!!! A/N: inspired by S2 x E14 & 15, we all know what i mean hehe

Spencer Reid's eyes are dry.

Each blink is a terrifying journey. Afraid that he'll go back in the past—in that hut—in between the millisecond of closing his eyes.

He's seeing nothing but blurry darkness, and yet he can still feel Tobias Hankel's shaky palms across the skin of his arm.

"It helps."

"Trust me."

The same four words ring in Spencer's ears, encouraging pain—paranoia.

"It helps."

"Trust me."

With every breath Spencer takes, they hitch in the middle of his throat. Forever stuck and dies there with no trace of hope for the next generation of traveling air.

Hope that he'll be able to breathe without tugging aches all over his chest is long gone.

No man would ever be the same had they been in the situation he went through. He can't help but feel weak. And it's eating Spencer alive to the point of deliberate insomnia.

He doesn't remember the last time he'd ever slept like a normal person.

"It helps."

Knock, knock.

"Trust me."

Knock, knock, knock.

Spencer opens his eyes. He's not sure when slumber took over his mind or if he even participated in sleep at all. Chances are he was too dissociated from reality that he's left his body frozen for a while. Nonetheless, in the little time he spent in serene blankness, only one emotion brews in him.

Anger.

Who in their right minds would go out knocking at—Spencer glances at the clock on his nightstand—2 AM?

Knock, knock, KNOCK—

It stops.

A creak echoes in the hall as muffled voices scratch Spencer's ears. He can't make out the words, only the wave of the softest and gentlest whispers he's ever heard.

On a different day, he may have let it go. Hell, a different him would have let it go.

The Spencer from one week ago would have let it go.

The Spencer who never felt so nauseous at the sight of his own blood along the canvas of his temple. The Spencer with an awkward grin without the baggage of Tobias Hankel's torture over his shoulders.

The Spencer he used to be.

But despite everyone's loving support. Despite the bragging rights he gained for surviving a serial killer. No one can loosen the throttling chokehold of trauma around his neck. Not even him.

Spencer catches himself clenching his fists too tight. Crescent indentations sting on his palm—nostalgic and unsettling. He only grits his jaw at the thought. And comes in the invigorating vibrations all over his chest.

There it is again.

The useless anger.

A loaded gun with no target.

The man is dead. Tobias Hankel is dead.

Spencer wonders about the use of his boiling anger when the person he loathes is already rotting in his grave.

Without any other outlet to unleash the colossal mass of suppressed rage brewing inside of him, Spencer makes good use of one of the most common defense mechanisms: displacement.

Maybe screaming at someone will deflate the tightness across his chest and clear his mind a bit in the form of self-loathing after he realizes the grave immaturity of his plan.

He lifts his body off his mattress, swinging his legs on the side of his bed as he methodically rubs his eyes against the lamp's brightness. Strands of his hair go array around the vertical circumference of his head like an electric halo.

A huff pulses off his lips. He swallows a lump of thick air as he weighs his next moves.

Part of Spencer died in that cemetery. What difference does it make if he screams at the world? If he screams at—

His brows furrow, eyes narrow, and ears perk.

It's different this time.

Irritating knocks. Opening door. Muffled whispering. Closing door. Then quiet for an hour.

That has been a constant for the past five days. A constant routine that he felt indifferent about but somehow grew annoyed by.

But it's different this time.

The door across the hall didn't close.

And it's been five minutes.

Before Spencer knows it, his hand turns the knob and swings the door open.

Two women across from him. They are in the middle of what seems to be a tight hug before one bids her goodbye and lightly runs down the stairs.

Spencer watches as the other disappears down the lower level. Anger morphs into confusion.

"Did we bother you?"

He jolts back, snapping his gaze to the woman across. "What?"

You smile apologetically, "I'm sorry about the noise—"

"Dr. Spencer Reid," He spits. Spencer's forehead creases. He wonders what prompted his mouth to openly provide his full name to a stranger, specifically when the information was not asked for.

"Oh," You blink, lightly jumping on your toes. An unseen glint sparks in your eyes. You introduce yourself as a response, a lot less threatening than he did but equally awkward. You smile again. Sweetly, this time. Like you're looking at a puppy.

Spencer's brows bounce over his forehead as the hand over his doorknob loosens. "You're a doctor?" He inquires.

You nod, "Mhm, what are the odds, right?" You chuckle. The sound echoes around the quiet hall.

"11.76%."

"What?"

"The odds—" Spencer scratches the back of his neck, "—it's 11.76%. There are fourteen tenants in this building, including you. We both found out we're doctors, and I know none of our neighbors are. Most of the neighbors are living alone besides the old couple on the first floor, but I know none of them are doctors. That's two in fifteen people. So 11.76%. But now I realize you weren't being literal about it..." Heat rushes against the skin of his face.

Silence hovers between the two of you. He feels more awake than he was minutes ago for an entirely different reason—embarrassment. Spencer wishes that some sort of earthquake would open up the floor and swallow him.

"Interesting," You finally speak, changing the leg where you placed your weight. "I tried calculating it myself and got the same result. You were right."

His mouth falls agape. A surge of warmth strikes his chest. "You were calculating?" Spencer squints, rubbing an eye out of habit due to his current predicament and baffled by your antic all the same.

You nod again, "Just cause you're my neighbor doesn't mean I'll just take your word for it, you know. But I have to admit, it was cool that you figured that out in a second. You have my respect." You flash a playful smile, hugging your chest at the sudden draft.

"Ahh," Spencer steps back into his apartment. The tinge of giddiness is quickly replaced by sleep deprivation and anxiety. A hand throws itself into the cavity of his eye socket, pushing it close to remove the pain that's settling in.

Flashes of bright light blind him in the dark shade of his eyelids. Frustration swiftly creeps over his shoulders. Like he's drowning above water, tied down, and has no air to gasp for. Panic begins to paralyze him. All seems lost, and darkness slowly—

"Would you like some tea?"

Spencer blinks, lifting his gaze back at you as your soft smile slowly adjusts his sight.

"I have a new brand of tea I've been dying to open. Would you like some?" You repeat, tilting your head a bit as you await a response. When you don't get one, you add, "I promise I don't bite." And your heart flutters at the little twitch at the ends of his lips.

He concludes you're roughly two weeks fresh from moving in. Here you are, inviting a stranger in the middle of the night to enjoy tea inside your home.

Seems reckless.

Idiotic.

But Spencer doesn't say no.

He walks towards you like he's leaving a world to explore another. Anxiety slowly dissipates with each step he takes. A contrast of what he feels each second that passes while he lies awake.

You step aside to give him way. "Grab a seat—" you gesture towards the kitchen -island-slash-dining-table, "—The girl you saw usually stays longer, so I already heat some water. Is chamomile okay?" You talk as you maneuver around your small kitchen.

Spencer finds a seat closest to the door. For all he knows, you're the serial killer on your end of the skeptical assumptions in his head.

"Nice apartment," He says out of the obligatory guest etiquette. Spencer takes in every bit of your reflection in your home.

It's inviting. Warm and cozy. The hint of oat and lavender whiffs past his nose. Your place is adorned with small, warm lights, brightening each corner with sunset tones.

Your chuckle brings his attention back to you. "Don't be shy, Dr. Reid," You glance at him over your shoulder. "It's messy. You can say it."

"If a couple of books on your table is messy to you, you should see my side of the building."

Spencer straightens up as confusion spreads over his face.

How do you do that?

Make him feel comfortable with words and a gentle voice. Everyone on his team has been doing the same exact thing, but somehow, you get something out of him without further prompting.

The image of your coffee table pops in his head. Cultural Psychology. Learning Psychotherapy. Trauma and Dreams. And a few more books that clocks his interest in you further down the rabbit hole.

"You're a psychologist," He announces into the air.

"Psychiatrist, actually," You place a mug in front of Spencer, finding a seat across from him. "But what gave it away? The tea or the messy apartment?" You ask into your mug that says 'you're purrfect' in pink lowercase and has a cat’s paw under the lettering. A playful smile is curving your lips.

Spencer accepts the blue mug, brows rising at the police box outlined image over the blue stain. He wouldn’t have expected you as a fan of Doctor Who, but who’s he to judge? A part of him wants to discuss common interests, but he doesn’t feel comfortable enough to change the subject.

"T-the books." He says hesitantly, uncertain whether the art of observation has marked him a creep right at that moment.

You hum, "Thought I would've been more mysterious than that." You chuckle, pulling a leg against your chest. "And you?" You inquire back.

"I have three PhDs," Spencer shares shyly, breaking eye contact masked as drinking your quite tasteful tea. He notes to ask the brand you're so enthusiastic about later on.

"Three?" Your eyes glisten under the warm light.

He nods.

"Let me guess, 190."

"190?"

"Your IQ," You lean back against the table, "My guess is you graduated young. Went to high school, college, and graduate school as a puppy." You add, amping with adoration over the new information.

"A puppy is a strong word, but yes," Spencer blushes now, hoping the small lighting leans in his favor to hide the red tint over every bit of his skin. “And just 187, not that big of a deal.”

"Just 187? You're just being humble, right?" You giggle, "I bet some prestigious agency hired you at a young age, and you're called the genius kid." You jest, genuinely interested in him more than ever.

More like the boy genius. But can’t possibly expose himself more than you already did out of sheer lucky guesses. Spencer avoids meeting your eyes like it's the plague. "You awfully guess a lot..."

You gasp, placing your mug on the table, "Shut up! I was close, was I? Oh my gosh!" You're laughing now, utterly comfortable to show quirks that people you just met shouldn't see yet. "I'm good at this. I think I'll be okay later, then." You say to yourself, nodding in satisfaction.

"For what?" Spencer chimes, troubles slipping away to the back of his mind and the sound of your hush laughter lulling him. It might be the tea or the possibility that you'd drugged him, but his body felt light for the first time in weeks. He doesn't have any complaints.

"I moved here for a job," You start attentively, making sure that you don't share too much. "But I have people. They'll search for me in case you turn out to be a serial killer."

His brows jump, "How do I know you're not the serial killer? Women can be one, too. And statistically, women who are serial killers are attractive."

"Are you saying I'm attractive, Dr. Reid?"

"I—" Spencer freezes, heat flowing to his ears. "I-I was making a point—" He cuts himself off. He wonders when the earthquake he's wished for earlier is coming to save him from embarrassment.

You stay silent, reveling in his stuttering voice.

"Is that coffee? I thought you made tea." He changes the subject—poorly.

You don't mind it one bit, indulging at the sight of his pinkish ears covered by his unruly hair. "I invited you for tea. I didn't say I'll drink one with you." You take a sip of the caffeine, rubbing the idea on his face.

Spencer responds with a subtle roll of his eyes that makes you chuckle more than intended. "Why coffee at three in the morning?" He asks gently, not wanting to step over any boundaries.

"I'm supposed to start my job later. I heard my patients need a lot of assistance, so I need to study and make sure I give them the right help."

"That sounds noble," He yawns, the first of many.

Spencer never thought your smile could get any sweeter, "I haven't officially met them yet. So, I really wish it goes well."

It might be the chamomile tea with a hint of honey finally working in his veins, but Spencer thinks you're beaming like an angel descending from the skies.

He yawns, and you giggle once more, "I think you should go to sleep, Dr. Reid."

“Yeah, yeah, I should,” Spencer’s eyebrows collide at the sadness in his chest. His body feels comfortable in his seat. Getting out of it feels like torture. 

You both stand from your seats, walking him towards the door. 

Spencer turns around before he closes his, a sleepy smile on his face. "Thanks for the tea," He yawns, a hand covering his mouth.

“You’re— hold on, give me one second,” You turn around and back inside your apartment. He can’t see you but can hear your light footsteps on the floorboards as you run to your coffee table and back inside the frame of your front door. 

Spencer patiently waits as you walk to his end of the hall, take his hand out, and hand him a heart lollipop. 

“Take this. They help with the bad craving,” You advertise as you walk backward. Before he completely shuts the door, you call for him, "Oh, and Dr. Reid."

Spencer swings the door open back wider, "Yes?"

"I think you're attractive too."

reid masterlist | masterlist

[hiaennyddei]

is the King in Yellow phallic or yonic ? Discuss. [i am sent to the Dreamlands for 20 years]

Design notes under the cut !

John :

his coat has 2 layers. the outside is always the same shape, the inside is a mess of fabric that doesn't make much sense and whose shape changes depending on what he needs.

his outer cloak separates in 4 large ribbons that act more or less as legs. they're very strong but not very agile.

there's a darker ribbon going from his hood down his back that acts roughly like a tail. he uses it for balance (like a cat), mobility (like a snake), or attack (like a scorpion) depending on what he needs

thin ribbons float and wrap around his arms, and some more can come from his inner cloak. they act as precision limbs.

his hands look human-ish, but very bony and with short claws. the skin feels like porcelain.

he usually has 4 hands out, but can remove or add some as needed.

the brooch on his cloak has the same sigil than the one on his book

the teeth in his mouth are ivory-white

some areas of him are always in complete darkness (the inside of his hood, the deep folds of his cloak). you can only ever see the outline of his face.

the cloak is part of his body as much as the arms, possibly more so

the halo/crown melts more the more he strays from godhood. it is always tilted towards Arthur. (it built back up to an extent during his stint in the dark worlds in s3, then started melting again)

the crown's spikes always point straight up, regardless of how tilted the crown is

King in Yellow :

Some common points with John : hooded cloak with sharp tails, yellow, ribbons/tendrils, vertical mouth, crown, jewelry, bony arms, some areas are comletely in darkness, obscured face, glowing eye(s)

Some differences : John's yellow is warmer ; John has fancy embroideries, King is much more uniform ; John's cloak has natural folds, King's looks more geometrical ; John's eye is bright all the way in, King's is dark at the center like a black hole ; John's hands are human-like, King's has two opposable thumbs like owl talons

Generally they have similar building blocks (cloak, yellow theme, ribbons/tendrils...) but John is warmer, has more human traits, and is generally more organic/more natural-looking.

The King's crown has two points broken off (one for John, one for Yellow)

If you stand in front of the king it always looks like light is coming from behind him, so the side you see is always is semi-darkness and the cast shadow is always on you. If you could circle around him, the shadow would follow you like a compass

The hands are more "puppeted" additions than actual body parts

Yellow :

Basically the King in Yellow forced into a situation of weakness and fragile humanity

Shade of yellow is closer to the King's than John's

Coat's cut has the sharpness and geometry of the King's, but it's imperfect and has visible folds

Crown is broken as representation of his weakness, but unlike John's it's forcefully and neatly broken instead of melted

Him having hands is representative of being forced into a human, but they still take inhuman shapes with two opposable thumbs

Makes a point to keep up appearances, hence the jewelry and coat patterns, but doesn't have the King's glory

Has two eyes because he has Arthur's

Has the king's monstruous tendrils, but a lot more disorganized and more fabric-y than shadow. They spill out of the area where his coat's symetry is broken.

[elixara]

im so feral for phainon he looks good in this art 😩

nsfw below 😁 might write smth abt this

no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponent al, logarithmic, while i gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cow girl, doggy, backwards, forwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the ool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick thribbing, first clenching, ear rining, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling, mind blogging, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy, moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip bitting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, cant walk, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail stractching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell desolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magniticent, unique, extraordinary, slendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tangos, he could put a nuclear bomb inside me and i'd still ride it and I would give this man the sloppiest, wettest, creamiest, soul taking, slimy, life changing, death DROPPING, heaven sent, flabbergasting, hypnotising, ungodly, astonishing, leg trembling, back arched, hands desperately grabbing the sheets, legs stretching out again and again, toe curling, voice breaking, whimper causing, waist slowly moving up and down, small heavy breath " I can't take much more of this", breaths getting quicker, twitching, throbbing, eyes shut, lip biting, edging begging for relief, warm hot rush bubbling up, spit upon the tongue twisting ground tip-talking against the mouth, sideways spit from the end and lick from the bottom to the top then spit and lick to the bottom, deepthroating, thrusting slower then faster, faster, FASTER twisting mouth around each side, spiritually enlightening, chakra aligning, mangekyo sharigan unlocking, golden light like a halo, noise from the very edge of his throat for the final, hardest release ever....and THEN I'd let him pound me so FUCKING HARD UNTIL HE IMPREGNATES ME WITH HIS BABIES. from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the church, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, while i gasp for air and scream the lord's prayer.

[apoemaday]

Monet Refuses the Operation

by Lisel Mueller

Doctor, you say that there are no halos around the streetlights in Paris and what I see is an aberration caused by old age, an affliction. I tell you it has taken me all my life to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels, to soften and blur and finally banish the edges you regret I don’t see, to learn that the line I called the horizon does not exist and sky and water, so long apart, are the same state of being. Fifty-four years before I could see Rouen cathedral is built of parallel shafts of sun, and now you want to restore my youthful errors: fixed notions of top and bottom, the illusion of three-dimensional space, wisteria separate from the bridge it covers. What can I say to convince you the Houses of Parliament dissolve night after night to become the fluid dream of the Thames? I will not return to a universe of objects that don’t know each other, as if islands were not the lost children of one great continent. The world is flux, and light becomes what it touches, becomes water, lilies on water, above and below water, becomes lilac and mauve and yellow and white and cerulean lamps, small fists passing sunlight so quickly to one another that it would take long, streaming hair inside my brush to catch it. To paint the speed of light! Our weighted shapes, these verticals, burn to mix with air and changes our bones, skin, clothes to gases. Doctor, if only you could see how heaven pulls earth into its arms and how infinitely the heart expands to claim this world, blue vapor without end.

[peekofhistory]

What are, in your opinion, the most iconic hanfu for men and women from each dynasty?

Hi! I'm so sorry this reply is delayed, I had to do a quick trip abroad and didn't have my laptop with me, also wanted to spend some time finding photo examples for this :D

OK! Here we go!

Qin/Han Dynasties (Pic 1, 2): Quju (wrap-around) and Zhiju (straight-edged) are what I think of for this period. Both men and women wore these robes.

Weijin/ North-South dynasty (Pic 3, 4): This is hard...xD Too many styles to pic from OTL I do LOVE the drastic long sleeves of this period, the robes get split from one long robe to the top/bottom separated Ruqun style. Men and women shared most fashions during this period too. For women, the hair styles start evolving in complexity, a lot of gold hair pieces (no flowers yet). The clothing starts looking more "flowy" compared to the heavy, serious robes of Qin/Han.

Tang Dynasty (Pic 5-8): Tang was a period of dramatic economic growth, it was also when the Silk Road flourished so there were merchants coming to trade and do business. It's difficult to pick one "iconic" style, but for women I usually think of dresses that tie around the bus with either a form-fitted, thin shirt underneath, or a larger-sleeved robe worn over top (pic 8). This bust-tie style wasn't seen before this period. OR, a form-fitted top, maybe with a little vest over top, and a waist-tie skirt (pic 7) (this is a good style to go on outings, easy movement).

There was also a particular group of ladies who wore these long, dramatic head pieces that almost formed a giant halo around their head (pic 6). I'll talk about them in a later post too.

For men, the round-collared robes became popular, with these bumpy looking "hats" (the vertical portion and the portion wrapped around the head are actually separate pieces so it's not really a hat, I'll explain more in later posts).

Song Dynastyn (Pic 9-12): In my mind, Song's style was a lot more gentle and soft compared to the lavish, bright colours of Tang. Song was a dynasty that focused on the arts, Song dynasty's emperors were all very artistic (they tended to lean away from focusing on military defense which, unfortunately, led to the dynasty's downfall).

So I think of soft colours during this dynasty, simpler hair styles. A wrap-around top with a waist-tie skirt, topped with a loose outer robe (pic 9). For men, Song dynasty is famous for men wearing flowers in their hair or adorning their hats (pic 10, 12). The work hat also developed these giant, loooooooong sticks from the side (pic 11) which is great for social distancing xDD

Ming Dynasty (Pic 13-15): The biggest change to Ming dynasty's hanfu is we go from soft, flowy silks to thicker brocades, this makes the clothing look "stiff" and allows for clear-cut shapes using pleating (if you've ever worn a Ma Main Qun (horse-face skirt...wtf are these translations O.O) you know what I mean.

The collars for the tops also develop these high-rise styles (although they can be criss-crossed styles or round-collared too). I absolutely HATE these high-rise collars because my neck is short and anything wrapped around it makes me itchy (I can't even button the buttons, my neck is too chonk). Whenever I buy one of these robes I have to move the buttons down so I can flip the collar down otherwise I can't wear them T__T

So I usually think of a short or long "Ao" (top) paired with a Ma Mian Qun for women (pic 13, 15). The Ma Mian Qun (horse-face skirt) is recognizable by the pleating, it shot into into the spotlight in China in July 2022 when a lot of Chinese Hanfu-hobbyists noticed Dior had a skirt that was constructed the same way, only the length was shorter. It was a whole big controversy with people accusing Dior of copying the style without giving credit, so now most people in China know of this skirt (I'll post a pic below of Dior's version). It's not uncommon to see people wear it paired with a cute, modern-top in China

For men, one of the most iconic clothes for men in this dynasty is the "flying fish robe" (pic 14). These were worn by imperial guards and named for the pattern of the brocade. Because the guards need easy movement, the robes cut off around the calf, and the sleeves are tightened using arm cuffs.

So, there's my "iconoic" hanfu for every dynasty. That was hard T__T I wanted to pic so many xD Oh, and here's Dior's skirt:

Left is Dior's, right is a Ma Mian Qun. Ma Mian Qun's pleating style is quite unique, I don't have one on hand to take photos but here's a video of someone twirling in one and you can kind of see the pleating. Some people speculate maybe Dior saw these skirts on Taobao or something, thought the design looked nice and took it without realizing the historical significance of the outfit. I don't know the details, I only heard about the controversy very briefly (back then I hadn't really dived into Hanfu yet).

[sky-is-the-limit]

no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponent al, logarithmic, while i gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cow girl, doggy, backwards, forwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the ool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick thribbing, first clenching, ear rining, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling. teeth jitterbug, mind blogging, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy, moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip bitting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, cant walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail stractching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell desolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magniticent, unique, extraordinary, slendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tangos, he could put a nuclear bomb inside me and i'd still ride it and I would give this man the sloppiest, wettest, creamiest, soul taking, slimy, life changing, death DROPPING, heaven sent, flabbergasting, hypnotising, ungodly, astonishing, leg trembling, back arched, hands desperately grabbing the sheets, legs stretching out again and again, toe curling, voice breaking, whimper causing, waist slowly moving up and down, small heavy breath " I can't take much more of this", breaths getting quicker, twitching, throbbing, eyes shut, lip biting, edging begging for relief, warm hot rush bubbling up, spit upon the tongue twisting ground tip-talking against the mouth, sideways spit from the end and lick from the bottom to the top then spit and lick to the bottom,

deepthroating, thrusting slower then faster, faster, FASTER twisting mouth around each side, spiritually enlightening, chakra aligning, mangekyo sharigan unlocking, golden light like a halo, noise from the very edge of his throat for the final, hardest release ever....and THEN I'd let him pound me so FUCKING HARD UNTIL HE IMPRENATES ME WITH HIS BABIES. My prayers for you be like no lube, no protection from the condom or the lord, all night all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the church, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, while i gasp for air and scream the lord's prayer, YOU sir can OBLITERATE me and uses no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponent al, logarithmic, while i gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cow girl, doggy, backwards, forwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the ool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, he could put a nuclear bomb inside me and i'd still ride.

[luvlucia]

no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponent al, logarithmic, while i gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cow girl, doggy, backwards, forwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the ool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick thribbing, first clenching, ear rining, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling. teeth jitterbug, mind blogging, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy, moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip bitting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, cant walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail stractching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell desolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magniticent, unique, extraordinary, slendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tangos, he could put a nuclear bomb inside me and i'd still ride it and I would give this man the sloppiest, wettest, creamiest, soul taking, slimy, life changing, death DROPPING, heaven sent, flabbergasting, hypnotising, ungodly, astonishing, leg trembling, back arched, hands desperately grabbing the sheets, legs stretching out again and again, toe curling, voice breaking, whimper causing, waist slowly moving up and down, small heavy breath " I can't take much more of this", breaths getting quicker, twitching, throbbing, eyes shut, lip biting, edging begging for relief, warm hot rush bubbling up, spit upon the tongue twisting ground tip- talking against the mouth, sideways spit from the end and lick from the bottom to the top then spit and lick to the bottom, deepthroating, thrusting slower then faster, faster, FASTER twisting mouth around each side, spiritually enlightening, chakra aligning, mangekyo sharigan unlocking, golden light like a halo, noise from the very edge of his throat for the final, hardest release ever....and THEN I'd let him pound me so FUCKING HARD UNTIL HE IMPRENATES ME WITH HIS BABIES. My prayers for you be like no lube, no protection from the condom or the lord, all night all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the church, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, while i gasp for air and scream the lord's prayer, YOU sir can OBLITERATE me and uses no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while i gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cow girl, doggy, backwards, forwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the ool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, hecould put a nuclear bomb inside me and i'd still ride.

[dazedlvrboy]

no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while I gasp for air, scream, and see the light. Missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, doggy, backwards, forwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, having the most toe-curling, back-arching, leg-shaking, dick-throbbing, fist-clenching, ear-ringing, mouth-drooling, ass-clenching, nose-sniffling, eye-watering, eye-rolling, hip-thrusting, earthquaking, sheet-gripping, knuckles-cracking, jaw-dropping, hair-pulling, teeth-jittering, mind-boggling, soul-snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy, moan-inducing, heart-wrenching, spine-tingling, back-breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip-biting, gravity-defying, nail-biting, sweaty, feet-kicking, mind-blowing, body-shivering, orgasmic, bone-breaking, world-ending, black hole-creating, universe-destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body-numbing, bark-worthy, can’t-walk, head-nodding, soul-evaporating, volcano-erupting, sweat-rolling, voice-cracking, trembling, sheets-soaked, hair-drenched, flabbergasting, lip-locking, skin-peeling, eyelash-removing, eye-widening, pussy-popping, nail-scratching, back-cutting, spectacular, brain-cell-dissolving, hair-ripping, show-stopping, magnificent, unique, extraordinary, splendid, phenomenal, mouth-foaming, heavenly, awakening, devil’s tango. He could put a nuclear bomb inside me and I’d still ride it. I would give this man the sloppiest, wettest, creamiest, soul-taking, slimy, life-changing, death-dropping, heaven-sent, flabbergasting, hypnotizing, ungodly, astonishing, leg-trembling, back-arched, hands-desperately-grabbing-the-sheets, legs-stretching-out-again-and-again, toe-curling, voice-breaking, whimper-causing, waist-slowly-moving-up-and-down, small heavy breath “I can’t take much more of this,” breaths getting quicker, twitching, throbbing, eyes shut, lip-biting, edging, begging for relief, warm hot rush bubbling up, spit upon the tongue twisting ground tip-talking against the mouth, sideways spit from the end, and lick from the bottom to the top, then spit and lick to the bottom, deep-throating, thrusting slower then faster, faster, FASTER, twisting mouth around each side, spiritually enlightening, chakra-aligning, mangekyō sharingan unlocking, golden light like a halo, noise from the very edge of his throat for the final, hardest release ever…and THEN I’d let him pound me so FUCKING HARD UNTIL HE IMPREGNATES ME WITH HIS BABIES. My prayers for you be like no lube, no protection from the condom or the Lord, all night all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the church, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, while I gasp for air and scream the Lord’s Prayer. YOU, sir, can OBLITERATE me. He could put a nuclear bomb inside me and I’d still ride.

[bluukive]

•VOLUME 29 SUKUNA•

no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, experimental, logarithmic, while i gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cow girl, doggy, backwards, forwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick throbbing, first clenching, ear rining, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling. teeth jitterbug, mind blogging, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy, moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip bitting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, cant walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail stractching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell desolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magniticent, unique, extraordinary, slendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tangos, he could put a nuclear bomb inside me and i'd still ride it and I would give this man the sloppiest, wettest, creamiest, soul taking, slimy, life changing, death DROPPING, heaven sent, flabbergasting, hypnotising, ungodly, astonishing, leg trembling, back arched, hands desperately grabbing the sheets, legs stretching out again and again, toe curling, voice breaking, whimper causing, waist slowly moving up and down, small heavy breath " I can't take much more of this", breaths getting quicker, twitching, throbbing, eyes shut, lip biting, edging begging for relief, warm hot rush bubbling up, spit upon the tongue twisting ground tip-talking against the mouth, sideways spit from the end and lick from the bottom to the top then spit and lick to the bottom, deepthroating, thrusting slower then faster, faster, FASTER twisting mouth around each side, spiritually enlightening, chakra aligning, mangekyo sharigan unlocking, golden light like a halo, noise from the very edge of his throat for the final, hardest release ever....and THEN I'd let him pound me so FUCKING HARD UNTIL HE IMPREGNATES ME WITH HIS BABIES.

[noneorother]

The art director & the Good Omens book cover tier list of doom, part 1

part 1 l part 2

This is going to have to be a multi-part series because there are *checks notes* 64 different covers that I've found so far.

I am your resident Art Director/Good Omens enthusiast, and welcome to my completely meta-free book cover tier list. Listen, making a book cover is HARD. I should know. But while we salute these artists for their hard work and time, I think we can all admit that once in a while, the vision is just not on. And on very rare occasions, publishers seemed to have managed to commission the cover art directly from hell... 1. The original UK cover

Ahh, the standard by which all shall be judged. We're starting off with a nice & easy cover, with adorable woodcuts of Aziraphale and Crowley flanking a custom Good Omens font! While I have to take a few points off for the terrible kerning of the word "GoOD", the blockprint vibes and general bitchiness of Aziraphale's teeny weeny wittle face, along with the sick colour palette puts the orignial in my good graces. Tier: Great

2. The duelling US covers

Progress! Hail to the designer who figured out trying to make "GoOD" and "OMeNs" fit the same width was a fool's errand, and even managed to IMPROVE on the original handmade title by adding a little halo and devil's tale to the design. Aziraphale and Crowley are facing each other, while also managing to serve absolute cunt. Aziraphale is wearing EIGHTIES SNEAKERS. Crowley's little snake boots have HEELS. They've managed to keep the woodcut vibes and colour simplicity, while balancing out the full title of the book. Both authors get to trade off on who's name comes first! Dare I say, this is a work of genius. I could dock some points for Crowley's sad bat wings growing out of his right clavicle, but who am I to question greatness.

Tier: Blessed by God Herself

3. The Halo Master Chief(?) cover

How the mighty have fallen... As a Canadian child, I was subjected to maybe the most horrifying ad in existence by the War Amps warning children about machine safety. This cover is the paper embodiment of that ad. I am confused by the purple haze. I am frightened by the seeming ethereal flatness of Adam and Dog. I am strangely aroused by Aziraphale's eyebrows, and intensely saddened by the terrible outline/drop shadow they had to inflict on the type to fit "Pratchett" in that god awful space. Tier: WTF

4. Germany, Ein Gutes Omen covers

This cover inexplicably exists in two colour ways: red and teal. I put the audiobook cover here so you could experience the full illustration, and also how fucked up it is that they cropped the book version to include three horse-people of the apocalypse, but cut off DEATH on the regular cover. Points must be given for drawing a pretty slick Bentley, but I think we have to take even more points away for turning Crowley into a Ray Charles/Mike Wazowski hybrid. The ducks are nice. Tier: Not so Good (Omens)

5. Germany, Ein Gutes Omen covers continued

I don't know if the German designer of this cover *knew* that they were using western yeehaw cowboy woodblock letters when they made this cover, but judging by how they spaced the rest of the text at the bottom, THEY DID NOT CARE. And that seems to be a running theme for this one. We get kind of a duality thing going on with the black and pink background, but it just seems like somebody whispered the general themes of Good Omens into a jar, and threw it down a well, and this poor chap came along and picked it up. The baffling choice to align every piece of text on the cover *except* Neil Gaiman's name which is right aligned and rotated 90 degrees (not even real vertical type) will haunt my dreams, I think.

Tier: Bad

6. US, UK The Traffic Jam cover

For the love of Good Omens, WHY. I can think of so many more interesting symbols to put on the cover of this book than the ODEGRA SIGIL TRAFFIC JAM. Props for keeping the good colours and type, but like, I think this cover was secretly designed by @amtrak-official, or someone who just really, really likes public works. Tier: Does the Job

7. France, De bons présages cover

Leave it to France to make sure people know that Aziraphale and Crowley fuck severely. While I can't condone leaving out half the title of the book (and thinking a red carpenter's square counts as decoration), I can begrudgingly acknowledge that Ron Pearlman and Benedict Cumberbatch's love child is excellent Crowley casting. I think I give this a solid dark academia/10. Tier: Good (Omens)

8. France, De bons présages covers continued

Just imagine with me, if you will, the absolutely hilarious reality that this cover posits: Good Omens is exactly the same in every respect, but Crowley drives a pink 1950s convertible. Why do all of the colours on this cover look like they've been pre-digested? Why are the font choices and placement so bafflingly bad. My face is the demon's face holding that car. I feel his pain.

Tier: WTF

9. France, De bons présages covers continued

Minus points for not managing to write the full title of the book once again. I don't know what it is with the French. They seem pretty set on Good Omens being demonic. While I do appreciate a good Bosch-style demon party, the dude in the middle confounds me. All-caps Museo Sans that isn't even *centred* in the frame is just so lazy. I am le tired. Tier: Bad

10. France, De bons présages covers continued

Uhh. The font. The font is okay.... I think? Yeah. The font and kerning are. Okay. OHHH GOD I LOOKED DOWN BELOW THE TEXT WHYYYY. Tier: WTF

END of round one. I need a nap.

[kanaevamon]

Tabris/17th Angel/Angelworu reference sheet 2024

Ref sheet for the current design of my take on Kaworu's Angel form

height chart alt / backview - Wings of Light alt

(infodump about his biology and design under the cut)

Disclaimer: all the information in this post applies only to my AU version of Kaworu, don't take this as canon info about his biology as an Angel.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

Feel free to take inspiration from the design or any other supplementary info in this post (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

Introduction: Kaworu Nagisa is a genetic hybrid of human and the 1st Angel - Adam, born as a result of the Contact Experiment. He has lived and looked like a regular human up until entering the Central Dogma. The proximity of another Angel (Lilith) has resulted in a sudden change in gene expression, activating dormant Angel genes. The result was some kind of a rapid transformation/metamorphosis from an almost fully human body to that of an Angel. It has been referred to as Tabris, the 17th Angel, with this particular form being described as the High Angel Gene Expression form.

Anatomy and physiology: Standing at over 3 meters tall, Tabris is the second smallest Angel after microscopic Ireul. Its limited growth compared to other Angels is a result of constraints put on its body by the human part of the DNA. In general proportions, Tabris resembles Adam and subsequently - the Evas, with the exception of its overtly elongated limbs. Like Adam, it emits light, though not nearly as bright, and sprouts Wings of Light, spanning over 18 meters in width with an additional tail-like structure

During the metamorphosis, its core has resurfaced to the center of the chest, changing its position from the one more akin to that of the human heart. The central core containing S² Engine is very tough and resistant to damage but very sensitive to touch. It can become malleable and flesh-like if the AT Field is lowered enough. Instead of beating, it produces a soft humming sound similar to that of the Sun. Two smaller cores underneath it seem to help redirect generated energy to the lower parts of the body.

Additional core situated inside the neck area works as a transmiter, condensing energy from the S² engine before relaying it to the head. Such adaptation is a result of a much higher and centralised brain function compared to other Angels, which requires more energy to work properly.

Excess energy manifests itself in a form of three halos - two vertical ones with spike-like extrusions above the head and a horizontal one around the neck core.

As a member of asexually reproducing species, post-metamorphosis Tabris lacks any sexual characteristics, both internal and external.

Due to the volatile state of its DNA, there is a possibility of further mutations occurring if not killed or removed from the Central Dogma in time.

With enough damage delt to the central core, the transformation can be reverted, though not completely. The resulting form known as the Low Angel Gene Expression form (sketch of this form) is almost identical to pre-metamorphosis Kaworu, with the exception of visible main core and red markings adorning his body (basically looking exactly like the draft sketch) It is a result of the damaged core not being able to provide enough energy to sustain its fully changed form.

Thanks to the extremely powerful AT Field, Tabris' main core can be completely destroyed only by either him voluntary lowering the AT Field or being pierced by the Spear of Longinus. Destruction of the S² Engine results in Angel’s death.

Design notes: It is by no means a wholly new design, just a mere evolution of the ones that came before it. Two main inspirations for the design (like always) have been draft sketches and Adam. With Kaworu’s body being that of a human and Adam being a humanoid entity, I've decided to stick with a clearly humanoid design for Tabris. As much as I love more abstract Angels, I feel like this Angel/human duality is essential to Kaworu's character.

The most drastic change in this instance of the design is its shoulder area. I think these pylon-like structures work much better than spikes as it likens Tabris more to Adam (from what I gathered, these serve as restraints for Adam and Evas but I don't really care :v). Same goes for the change in proportions. Lengthy limbs add to the uncanniness and distance the silhouette from that of a regular human.

Here you can check out my design inspo board I went for with this iteration of Tabris

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

Bonus info:

Here are some design explorations for Tabris that haven't been posted before + bonus Kawoshin :3

A few years back I've made sort of a rough storyboard for a short transformation animation, check it out here

At one point I had plans for a comic for this AU, which plot has been - I kid you not - revealed to me in a dream xD It has never come to a fruition because I suck at writing compelling stories

When it comes to its identity, Tabris would identify as agender and use it/its and he/him pronouns

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

That's it for this long-ass post, if you're still here thanks for reading :D If you have any questions and/or suggestions, feel free to shoot me a DM or an ask (I'll probably come up with some shit on the spot because there's no rhyme or reason to any of this lore, it's just a bunch of random ideas rattling around in my head xD)