#a meal in monochrome.

[nightmaretist]

PARTIES: Kaden @chasseurdeloup & Inge @nightmaretist LOCATION: Kaden's head TIMING: When Kaden was afflicted by the mimes CONTENT WARNINGS: This nightmare contains dipping bread in blood (and eating it), murder and grief. SUMMARY: Inge visits one of Kaden's recurring nightmares of Damien's murder, only to find everything is in greyscale. Weird! She decides to run with it and both parties have a nice meal.

There was something very wrong about this scene. It wasn’t the contents of the scene itself, those were interesting — a woman holding a knife against the throat of a struggling man, who sometimes seemed more wolf than man, and her sleeper being panicked by the scene. It lacked color, this scene: and not in the sense that Inge thought there needed to be a change of decor, but in the sense that everything seemed black and white.

Did this man dream of his memories the way shitty TV shows depicted flashbacks, with a filter over them? Was this even a memory, or just a very gauche nightmare? Either way, the woman was too stunned to nightmare. Inge watched as the knife slit over the wolf/human neck, producing a healthy and thick flow of blood.

There was something to be said about messing around with the color of blood, making it something oily and tar-like, or even dark and rotting-green. But this was all wrong: this blood ought to be red. Inge let shadows fall over the scene, as if all the light sources were out and took the couch, the man watching, the murderess and the victim to somewhere else. Everything and everyone stood in the same positions as they had before, but now they were in an abandoned, dried out field that stretched out forever. No dice. Even in a scenario of her own creation, there was no color. 

—

The doorway felt wider and narrower than he remembered all at the same time. The space between was black, a void of nothingness. It didn’t matter, his focus was only on one thing, the scene set in front of him. The same one that was set over and over again. Keira with a knife to Damien’s throat, but this time, he was transforming into the wolf. His fingernails were claws, his teeth fangs, and his eyes a glowing yellow. There was blood spilling everywhere, but Kaden couldn’t tell if it was from the gash to his throat or from the bite to her arm. It was all a mess, a tangle of violence and gore. 

Only, it was all in black and white. Everything. The horror remained the same. Kaden couldn’t reach them, no matter how far he ran, he couldn’t get any closer, couldn’t stop it.

The world went dark. “No.” Where did they go? He had to find them, he had to stop it. He scrambled, trying to feel around in the dark, but there was nothing. He couldn’t even find the ground, though he was standing on something. 

The light returned and he was surrounded by grass, gray and lifeless. The couch and the scene was still there, still out of reach. The meadow they stood in wasn’t peaceful, it was stagnant, like standing water, everything still and decaying. He looked around for any sign of life. All he found was a figure. One he didn’t recognize. His brow furrowed. “Hello?” he called out.

—

There was something very wrong with this man, this night or herself. Ingeborg didn’t want to believe there was something amiss with herself, but the sheer concept of it was enough to make her distracted. Why wasn’t the blood red? What was the point of a memory of a gruesome murder if there wasn’t that horror-ish stream of blood, thick like tar but as red as poppies?

Her sleeper, a man with a thick beard and pleasant features, scrambled in his search. Inge watched the blood flow from the throat, increased the flow and tried her mightiest to make it red. To fill the gray field, gray sky, gray scene with nothing but red until it coverited everything and raised like water. Sticking to their ankles. They could drown in it, but only if it turned red.

And then he was talking to her, her presence known – which wasn’t how it was supposed to be! – and Inge opened her mouth. Her attention was no longer on the couch-scene, but herself — and as she spoke it wasn’t with a human mouth, but a bird’s beak. Sharp, black and crow-like. Why would she be herself, especially here? “His blood’s all wrong,” she cawed, screeched, bellowed, “Where’s the color? Why’s his blood all wrong?” 

—

This was wrong somehow. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Kaden knew this scene, he knew the fear, the liminal space, even the lack of color reflected what he was used to seeing by now. But there was an unsettling presence, more than usual. The blood kept flowing and flowing, the screams continued, the growling and snarling, too. Still, the color all around them remained gray and drab. He couldn’t tell if that made the scene worse or not. 

He turned back to the woman who was now part crow and he stumbled back, slipping and falling into the river of blood. His sister’s blood. His friend’s blood. Maybe even his father’s. He could feel it rising steadily and he could feel his limbs pulled under when he attempted to stand again. The blood was going to drown him, he was sure of it. Even if it wasn’t red, he could smell the iron. “Wh—what?” He asked as she squawked at him. “Why is it wrong?” He looked around at the scene. “I— I don’t know. The color, uh…” He tried to remember, tried to piece things together. “The mushrooms. It’s the mushrooms.” It was then that he realized the whole time, his lips hadn’t been moving and all of his words had been echoing in his mind to hers. Putain de merde. 

—

He wasn’t speaking but he was, his lips sealed together but his voice loud and clear in her head and all around him. Was he colorblind? That was certainly an option and it would be intriguing to know that colorblind people dreamed without color too. Some neuroscientist would probably be jumping at that knowledge, but Inge didn’t care. It was wrong. Besides, he mentioned shrooms. “Wait, you’re tripping right now?”

The bird cackled, laughing in its animalistic form because Inge was laughing. Of course she ended up in the dream of someone who just took shrooms. Maybe she’d even stay a bit, see what his own subconscious would throw at her. But the scene remained relatively tame, the field still dead and gray. That was until a creature slithered towards her, a literally snake in the grass. Interesting. What was more interesting was that it wasn’t a snake, it was a baguette. And it wasn’t just a baguette in gray tones, but it was striped. She laughed again, bending down. None of this was real. The bird-woman picked up the snake around its neck, wiggling it in the sky. “Who’s this?”

—

“Tripping?” Kaden’s confusion was overshadowed by the fear of it all. “No, not those sorts of mushrooms. These were… They were striped. Like maybe a–” Even though he wasn’t speaking aloud, the presence of something slithering stole his words away. Like a drain had been opened up below him, the black and white blood seeped away into the ground, leaving the ranger covered in gray goo and lying in the grass. The scent hit him before he saw it. The scent of freshly baked bread.

The baguette slithered towards him and was just about to strike when the strange bird or woman or whoever, he couldn’t tell, swooped in and grabbed it. “Good question.” As he said that, he could smell a whole bakery in the distance. “Baguettes. Evil baguettes. I don’t fucking understand but we have to–” Kaden pushed himself up and started to run away, as fast as he could through the sea of never ending grey grass. It was like he was running in place no matter how fast he moved his legs. Knife. He just need a knife. And with a flash of white, lightning struck and Kaden was face to face with Damien’s dead body, slumped on the floor. The knife covered in his blood was there next to him in the grass. The ranger only needed to reach out and grab it, but instead he collapsed under the weight of the grief he was carrying with him. 

— 

So there was no color and no sound coming from his mouth, but there was smell. Even Inge wasn’t completely immune to the smell of freshly baked bread, and through her bird’s beak she sniffed the snake/baguette in her claw. Part of her considered taking a bite, letting herself have her fun with this ridiculously wrong dream, but she thought better of it as she felt herself grow more satiated with actual nutrients. The sleeper was scared. He was running. She smiled. 

She ripped the snake in two and it broke like a baguette would, revealing airy bread inside. With bird-like speed she fluttered over to the dead body and the knife. A lot of people in this town have murdered loved ones, Inge thought. She joined the scene of mourning and extended a bird’s claw to the other, in which she held half of the baguette/snake. “Here,” she said, dipping the other half of the bread into the dead man’s blood as if it was some kind of sauce. Tar-like, black sauce, because there was still no color. It might as well be a chocolate sauce. “EAT.” A demand, now, ripping off part of the dipped-bread-snake with her beak and gesturing at the other to do the same. 

— 

Kaden jumped when a bird’s talon reached out to him. Looking up, he saw the bird lady was there in front of him, standing over Damien’s dead body and holding the pieces of the snake baguette. She sopped the bread in his friend’s blood and even though it was all black and white and everything looked and felt wrong, Kaden could feel his stomach churn. And she commanded him to eat as she did the same. 

The ranger was about to push himself off the ground, to run away again, but when he looked down, his hands were holding two pieces of the strange bread. Blood was seeping out from the baguette and his hands were covered in it before long. He tried to drop them, to shake them away, but the bread stayed put. The blood didn’t stop flowing, either, dripping down and coating his wrists and his arms. “EAT,” he heard echoing in his head. “N-no,” he tried to say, but his hands moved closer to his face, as if they were under someone else’s control. “No,” he tried again but it wasn’t doing anything to change the fact that the blood soaked bread was only getting closer to his mouth. 

This couldn’t be real. Even in this town, this couldn’t be real. Putain, he hoped this wasn’t real. 

—

He was terrified, she could feel it. She could feel it feeding her as she munched on the dream bread, as she watched him be moved by some kind of invisible force to eat the bread. Inge could fathom, somewhere, that this was a horrifying thing to make someone do — but that was the point, wasn’t it? To inspire terror. To push people’s imaginations further than their own mortal subconsciousness could. 

Maybe she should be affected, though, by his pleas. But she wasn’t forcing his hand, that was all him — or at least some fucked up part of him. “Bon appetit,” she said, using a clawed hand to tap the bread from its bottom, so it was forced against his lips. Inge waited until his mouth made proper contact with it all and then she decided it was enough.

He was getting distracted. They always got distracted when it became a little too scary or confrontational for them, and that was often a sure sign that they’d wake up. Inge had no interest in seeing her sleepers frozen in fear, so she returned to where he was resting and then fled, into the astral, wondering when she’d revisit this strange man.

—

As the taloned fingers pushed the bread towards his mouth, it all became too much. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. This was a dream. The bird lady faded away and the rest of the world crumbled around him. Everything went black just as Kaden’s eyes opened and he sprung up off the air mattress. 

Putain de merde. Another fucking nightmare. At least he didn’t scream when he woke up this time. Granted, he couldn’t even whisper at the moment thanks to the damn mushrooms. The whole thing was weirder than normal, though. Who the hell was that bird woman, anyway? He was pretty sure it wasn’t anyone he knew. Maybe it was someone he saw in the shelter the other day. Kaden ran his palm down his face, rubbing his eyes and accepting the fact that he likely wasn’t getting any more sleep tonight. 

The wind whistled through the window that had been left cracked to let in the night air. It was almost too cold now so Kaden turned and reached over to shut it, not noticing the break in the salt line sprinkled along the window sill. Even if he had, the only salt on his mind at the moment was the salt he planned on putting on his eggs. If he couldn’t sleep, he was declaring it time for breakfast. If nothing else, he needed a way to wipe the memory of iron soaked bread lingering on the tip of his tongue. 

[tegaki-desuno]

Large plastic bottle [ペットボトル（大）]

🌸 Today's featured illustration 🍒 https://regeld.com/desi/2020/07/12/post-0-193/ (250106-0807) mk

[bread-crum206]

A Game of Hearts

Chapter four: Beneath the Surface

Summary: Y/N’s father is a VIP for the games, he makes a deal with the Frontman that if he marries his only daughter that he will continue to sponsor the games. However, Y/N is not fond of this decision as she loathes the games and in turn, loathes the Frontman as well. Will she grow to love him? Will he let his walls down?

Pt 1 P t 2 Pt 3 Pt 4 Pt 5 Pt 6 Pt 7 Pt 8 Pt 9 Pt 10 Pt 11 Pt 12 Pt 13 Pt 14

Mornings were always the worst; waking up to the cold, sterile room with only the faintest trace of his presence lingering in the air. He was always gone before you even stirred, disappearing into the depths of the compound to handle whatever dark business his role demanded.

You had yet to share a meal together, much less have a conversation that didn’t feel forced or terse. The tension between you was thick like a string pulled taut, just waiting to snap. And yet, nothing changed.

But today felt different.

You heard a knock at the door, and your heart pounded as you made your way through the common room to the entrance.

You muttered under your breath, “Since when did he knock before coming in?” Convinced it was your husband on the other side, there was an unfamiliar stillness in the air, an almost tangible sense that something was on the verge of shifting.

You opened the door, coming face to face with a man in a pink suit. He wore a black mask with a large white square painted across the front, adding an air of mystery to his appearance.

“Mrs. Frontman,” he addressed you, handing over a small stack of neatly arranged white papers with elegant black lettering. “These are the documents you’re expected to review regarding the VIP room.” His voice was rough through the mask, betraying the fact that he clearly didn’t want to be the one to deliver them. He would much rather be doing something more interesting than talking to his boss’s wife.

You nodded politely. “Thank you.”

You watched as the man retreated down the vast hallway, his footsteps echoing in the distance.

The silence that followed felt heavy as your own footsteps echoed across the room, the sound unnervingly hollow as you crossed the threshold into the sitting room. This room has quickly become your favorite. It was the one space in the complex that felt almost warm. The view outside the large windows was serene, and the only color in the otherwise monochrome apartment came from the beautifully patterned brown and beige rug.

You sank into the cushioned chair by the small table in front of the windows and peeled the paperclip off the stack of documents. You glanced down at the first page.

VIP Room (Very Important People)

This document outlines the private quarters of the VIPs and the central room.You will decide the theme of the room. You will choose the furniture. You will ensure that all the needs of the VIPs are met.

You flipped to the next page, which listed the current contents of the room. From the light switch covers to the diamond chandelier, everything was detailed. The following pages were filled with names of contractors who could be hired to renovate the space, should you decide a change was necessary.

You frowned as you scanned the list. The gold-and-black jungle theme had always felt suffocating, and you especially hated the naked models that stood on display in the corners of the room, meant to entertain the twisted men seated in the center. You thought it was disgusting.

Your mind began to run wild with ideas. How could you change it without being ridiculed? You didn’t know if you could stomach another round of the garish gold accents on the walls.

You muttered aloud to the empty room, “Maybe I could add more plants… Or maybe introduce some new architectural elements…”

You sat at the table for a few hours, brainstorming, sketching out ideas on the margins of the pages. Eventually, you sighed and set the papers down, walking toward the window. The incoming storm was slowly swallowing the sun, and you stood there, staring out into the gathering dark. Even though it was still mid-day.

———————

You were still standing by the window, watching the rain cascade down the glass, when you heard the door creak open behind you.

At first, you thought it was your imagination—an echo from the distant hallways. But then you heard it again: the soft sound of boots on the polished floor.

You turned, and there he was, The Frontman, stepping into the room. His posture was rigid, but there was something different about him today: an edge to his movements, a subtle exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin.

“Didn’t expect you home so early,” you said, the words slipping out sharper than you had intended.

He met your gaze, but said nothing for a long moment. There was no greeting, no acknowledgment of your biting tone. He simply walked toward the side table, setting his mask down with deliberate precision.

“I had a few things to take care of,” he replied quietly.

You nodded, unwilling to let the silence stretch between you. “And?”

He hesitated, as if weighing how much to say. The stillness hung thick in the air, and you found yourself stepping toward him, closer than you’d planned.

With a huff, you muttered, “You don’t need to explain yourself.” You turned away, but there was a crack in your voice you hadn’t expected. “It’s none of my business.”

He was silent for a moment, before speaking, almost too softly to catch.

“It’s all your business now, whether you want it to be or not.”

Your breath hitched in your chest. His voice, raw and unguarded, struck you. You turned toward him, wanting to catch a glimpse of the vulnerability he’d let slip. But by the time you reached the entrance to the common room, it was gone. He had returned to his usual mask of stoic detachment, his eyes cold.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you said, your voice low, harsh. “I didn’t ask to be part of this twisted… thing you’ve built.”

He locked eyes with you, and for the first time in a long while, you saw something in his gaze that wasn’t just resignation or indifference. There was an ache there, something deep, something that mirrored your own. But before you could latch onto it, he shut it down.

“I know,” he replied simply.

———————

Fourth chapter!! Get ready cause more are coming!!! :) Thank you for all the support 🫶

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[watcher7-9]

Sunday is the type to...

He’s the type to hold your hands when you are outside. Or always having a hand around your waist when you two walk. When you two aren’t together he’ll let someone follow after you to keep you safe. Always reassuring you that he’ll be there for you and that he’ll protect you from harm

He’s the type to be such a gentlemen when you are with him. Holding the door open for you when you two enter a store, never EVER letting you pay when you are around him. You once told him you could pay and he looked at you with the most wide eyed expression before shaking his head

He’s the type to give you all types of nicknames but the ones that stuck out the was probably “my dear” it isn’t too cute like sugarplum but it’s slightly more formal in some way. It isn’t too flirty or sexy but addressing someone you adore

He’s the type to always make breakfast for you in the morning. He doesn’t care is he has urgent matters he’s gonna make breakfast even if it’s simple. Always make sure you have something to eat and informs you where he’s going anywhere. If you’re asleep he’ll gently shake you awake before murmuring “My dear, I’ll be leaving for a bit but I’ll be back soon. Text me when you wake up alright?”

He’s the type to now check his phone 24/7 just to see if you texted him. Even if he’s in a meeting he’ll find in opportunity to take a sneak peek at his phone to see if you texted him. His wings would droop slightly if he sees he didn’t get a text from you. Immediately texts you back when you text him and his mood brightens up

He’s the type to love spending time with you at home. A lot of home dates as well. Whether it’s snuggling up while watching a good movie or show to lighting a candle and dimming the lights to enjoy home cooked meal. Actually a really good cook and bakes like a pro chef as well.

He’s the type to spot you in a crowd of people easily. It’s as if he’s got a tracker or something on you he can easily find you amongst everyone else. When you asked him he only chuckled before telling you, “In my monochrome and dull world, you are my colors. My guiding light.” To say you did indeed blush a bright red afterward

He’s the type to always solve arguments without getting too loud or physical. He think that arguments are just misunderstanding that are pieced together with over thinking. He tries to avoid arguing so he explains everything to you in detail and always stick right next to you when you two are together. Hates leaving arguments to marinate overnight and will make sure it gets solved the day of

[eqt-95]

chapter 1 is up on ao3!

A hangover. It had to be. There was no other earthly reason for the throbbing head, her impulsive hatred for existence, and the wave of nausea that demanded Big Belly Burger stat.

There was just one problem.

This wasn't her couch. Hell, this wasn’t even… her fingers brushed the ground and met… dirt. Why was there dirt? Why was it so hot? And why - she squinted, blinking and flinching until her eyes adjusted to the brightness - why did this look like a desert?

Lena groaned. It came out like the croak of a sad frog.

Cotton-mouthed, head pounding, and feebly hoping this was a bad VR trip, she curled to sit up. Vertigo would be better than whatever this was. She pressed a sympathetic hand to the bridge of her nose and noticed the maze of red sand lines against the deep burgundy fabric of her three-piece suit. The suit she was wearing the night before. The power-suit she had chosen to increase her confidence for when…

A shiver crawled across her skin. It was as welcome as it was unsettling, though before Lena could think much about that, it was sapped by the sun baking down on her. She closed her eyes though that wasn’t particularly useful at shutting the world out.

“End simulation.”

A beat. 

Nothing.

Two beats.

Nothing.

Lena’s itty bitty flicker of hope extinguished. It was a feeble, desperate, aspirational attempt anyway.

She swallowed, feeling an entirely different wave of nausea strike.

Eyes flicked open and scanned the horizon. Face already contorted in a scowl, it quickly deepened.

It was a vast sea of nothing. So much nothing. Not a single cloud interrupted the blanket of sky. Not a single hue contrasted the monochrome palette of reds and orange. Not even the hiss of a reptile rippled across dry, cracked earth. The most interesting thing was the dots of rocks sprinkled across the ground like decorations on the world's driest cupcake. The horizon was cloaked in haze and, if the glistening line of sweat on Lena’s own brow was any indication, it wasn’t the wet kind that brought cleansing rainfall.

Well done, Luthor.

Shaky knees were forced into action, though standing was no more enlightening than sitting. It took a staggering second before she found her balance. For added helplessness, she spun uselessly in a circle to discover everything looked exactly the same in every direction.

The sun hung overhead. Odd how it felt larger in a desert. Lena half-wondered why vultures weren’t also in the sky, circling their next meal.

A meal. She’d give up half her L-Corp shares for a burger. Better yet, she’d give up half her shares for a genie to grant three wishes: a burger, aspirin, and sunglasses. She wasn’t asking for much - just a few simple comforts while she shriveled into nothing.

Hand cupped over her eyes she scowled toward the sky, half-hoping one might suddenly descend from it. And for all her luck, there was something floating. It was a speck, a shadow of something, a rendering error. And it was getting bigger. She hoped it wasn’t something designed to kill her.

It was.

It wasn’t.

“Of course it’s you,” Lena sighed. It was a sigh meant to express her general disgruntlement for her situation, for Supergirl, for life in general. It did its job well. Her arm dropped in defeat. 

“Were you expecting someone else?” 

The cape. The flowing blonde hair. The hubris.

read the rest on ao3

[wowcatboys]

i rlly like your work, heartsteel needs more content tbh,, so ty!! ANYWAY,

i liked the general relationship/kiss hcs w kayn, would u be able to do that for the other two as well?? if that makes sense

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♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

HEARTSTEEL YONE: RELATIONSHIP HEADCANONS ♡ Gender Neutral ♡ SFW, with light touching/sensuality ♡ TW: Some alcohol usage/food mentions ♡ I've done Sett's kisses here (X) and relationship HCs here (X), and Yone's kisses here (X) ! (will I remember to come back and edit those links in??? only time will tell)

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

YONE

No matter where you go, Yone brings you on fantastic dates. It's never popular tourist-trap type outings, either. If you ask how the hell he even found out about your date locations, he smiles coyly and says he can't reveal his sources. Regardless, expect lots of breathtaking, original dates—hidden trails that spill into breathtaking clumps of wildflowers, a hole-in-the-wall burger joint with the best fries you've had in tour entire life, tiny sculpture parks with some truly absurd statues (he absolutely refuses to delete the unflattering pic of you squatting next to a caked-up stone Sasquatch).

He isn't on his phone often, so don't be surprised if Yone doesn't text you back quickly or is overly-formal with his messages. Wild horses couldn't drag a silly emoji or a meme out of him. If you're lucky, you'll get a red heart, but that's about it. He tries not to make you feel neglected just because he's a dry texter, though. Especially when he's on tour, he calls you to check in whenever he's got a spare moment.

Yone's a chronic meal-skipper so he really appreciates if you share your food with him. Be warned, though, if you force him to step away from work and sit down for dinner you're either getting five minutes and a cup of instant ramen, or he's cooking you a three course meal complete with different appetizer, entree, and dessert wines. There's no in-between.

While Yone's not a fan of PDA, he holds your hand through every big event you're forced to attend. He doesn't appreciate the attention and flashing lights, but your warm, reassuring grip keeps him calm and relatively content.

Matching outfits are a little bit too much, but Yone is all for wearing clothing that compliments yours. Think similar textures, colors, and cuts. If you're wearing athleisure, he'll throw on a pair of stylish sweatpants. You're rocking the all black fit, so is he (with a pop of color in his earrings, probably—if he's completely monochrome, Kayn accuses him of "stealing his look"). Though he thinks it's a little cringy to be exact matches, he's definitely down to coordinate.

Whenever Yone makes himself a coffee, he whips up a glass of your favorite beverage as well. Nothing is too complicated—if you want a latte, he can make any flavor, and he'll pour the foam into a heart shape on top. Boba? No problem, he's got tapioca pearls in your favorite flavor and large straws on hand, to boot. A mimosa? Okay, he might raise his eyebrow at that one and point out that it's like eleven A.M.—nevertheless, if it's a mimosa you want, then it's a mimosa you'll get. Part of this is because he loves you, of course, but also? He hates sharing his coffee and figures that you won't ask for a sip if you've got your own drink.

Yone absolutely melts when you take care of him. He's used to looking after everyone else's wants and needs, so it's a pleasant surprise when someone extends that same care and attention to him. Cook him his favorite meal or take care of his laundry when he's been extra busy, and he looks at you like you're the eight wonder of the world. "You didn't have to do that for me," he cups your face gently, sweeping an appreciative kiss over your forehead. "But I'm glad that you did."

Chivalry is not dead and Yone's the man giving it CPR. Count on him to be the perfect gentleman. He opens every door for you, takes your coat whenever you drop by his studio, and no, under no circumstances will he let you pull out your own chair.

Yone's pet-names are sweet and classic. Most often, he calls you 'my darling', but he'll occasionally pepper in a 'dearest' or 'lover' for variety.

One of Yone's favorite ways to spend a free evening with you is sneaking into underground music shows. The two of you will turn up to somebody's house where the living room has been cleared to throw together a makeshift stage, or an abandoned warehouse with people clustering together and swaying to synthetic beats blasting through mid-grade speakers. More often than not, the musicians aren't that good (but that's par for the course with these kind of shows). The atmosphere can't be beat, though. And, when you do stumble upon somebody's garage band that actually goes hard, it's always an exciting surprise. Yone always keeps cash on him in case somebody's selling merch. He snags two stickers, one for you to keep and one to paste on his guitar case. What better way to commemorate shitty bands and crowded house shows than with matching stickers?

If you tag along with him on tour or business trips, Yone's first mission is to scout out a good coffee shop. Of course he takes you along, and buys you whatever little treats catch your eye. Sweets, sandwiches, snacks—anything he notices you ogling behind the glass, he orders for you.

Even with his massively packed schedule Yone NEVER, EVER forgets an important date. Expect gifts on birthdays and anniversaries, and extra love and support on dates that might be difficult for you.

Since Sett's a master crocheter, Yone pays him a frankly absurd amount to make you a plushie that looks like his fox mask. Yone knows that it can't be easy for you, with him away touring or on business so much of the time. The stuffed snuggle-buddy, he hopes, can ease your loneliness when he's away. Before he sets off on a long trip he makes sure to spritz your stuffie with his cologne, so that you can squish it in your sleep and dream that he's right there with you.

Yone's not a huge cuddler. Too much physical attention can make him feel smothered. The exception is when you sit on his lap. He loves when you settle onto him while he's working. As long as you're quiet and still (he doesn't want you to disturb his flow, after all), he basks in your comfortable warmth and the adorable way you tuck yourself into his chest.

[cochineal-leviat]

Sweet Dreams, Stardust

Okay, so I have a lot of feelings about In Stars and Time. But let me say first, wow, this game irreversibly changed my brain network. For anyone who is considering buying this game, please do. I don't think I've had a story touch my heart and mind like this for a long time. And that goes without mentioning the stunning visuals and entertaining battle system. (Be careful, though, because this game handles heavy topics regarding mental health)

If you're still hung up on buying it but are curious, there is a free demo on Steam if you like to try.

Thank you, @insertdisc5, for this gem of a game. I will be turning it around in my head like a microwaveable gourmet meal for months to come.

Technically the illustration has no spoilers (unless you count Siffrin having a good nap as a spoiler). But I will be going into heavy spoiler territory under the keep reading since I need to get my thoughts on this game off my chest.

And a monochrome version because you know me, I can't help myself. Even in black and white art pieces, I will put in some colour.

And a very tiny Loop

Initially, I was going to do a piece with a theatre stage and the cast (Siffrin, Mirabelle, Isabeau, Odile, Bonnie and the head house maiden) taking a bow and finally leaving the spectacle to a life not controlled by a script and Wish Craft. But it was more fitting to put my feelings into creating a peaceful scene. Like, oof, I needed this very badly. I used sepia to make the painting warmer and added some more details like headcanons. The stars/colours might be remnants of Siffrin's transformation. Or maybe they were always there, but he never paid attention to it. Who knows.

I'm going to keep this brief. Otherwise, this post will take way too long.

I adore Siff's character. It's perfect for a game and narrative such as this. I saw a post not long ago on Tumblr going into depth about how their role as the rogue and not the hero works so well, so I won't linger on it for long. But how they would rather listen and fade into the background perfectly aligns with the player's experience of being the silent observer. (And the nodding off that changes into zoning out. It took me way too long to realise that small but essential narrative change) Oh, and the portrait change! It flew over my head until I was staring at the game menu. I was so confident Siffrin had a mischievous grin and not a frown. I always feel slightly surprised when the party asks for Siff's opinion or mentions that they have been too quiet. I felt Siffrin's excitement like my own when he got excited at finding clues to end the nightmare they were in. So I knew it would end up falling on their face because they were too excited. I just had this bad gut feeling the whole time during Act 4.

And oh boy, speaking off acts. I thought it would have been the standard 3. Boy, I was wrong. Whenever I felt I was nearing the end, I was thrown back at the start with more mysteries than answers. It made exploring the game intriguing since there is almost no information about it online (at the time of writing this post). There is the Discord, but I didn't know about it until I finished it.

This game has a lot of secrets, and I had a lot of fun uncovering them. The looping mechanic works so well in discovering little details and further leads. (even though my stubborn arse kept trying to do everything in the least amount of loops as possible. I thought the ending would be different if I exceeded a 100. My final number is 59. I am still not sure if I should be mad about it not being a rounded number like 60 or that I went over the 50 threshold)

However, it is a good thing that only some mysteries were solved. Like, what's up with colours in this world? Everyone sees in black and white, and the idea of shades and colours is only spoken of in scientific studies. They do exist and are not a part of the disaster that happened to Siffrin and their land. But there is definitely something mysterious about it. I adore how the dialogue reflects this, as the characters do not speak of shades or colours. Isabeau expresses surprise to see a streak of red colouring the sky in Act 6. It makes you think about how colour is perceived and how you describe it. (The lore inside this game is immaculate. I eat this shit up)

We never find out the name of the country north of Vanguard or what it was like. We can only infer that the beaches had black sand, with shells that shine like stars, high-reaching mountains, forests and plains. Which is vague and yet intriguing enough to make you wonder. It connected me to Siff and King because I also wanted to know. I was desperate to know. I needed to know. But in the end, we never will know because that is not the story's point. Siffrin even says in the game, that King should let go because he is hurting everyone and everything, including himself, in his desperation to preserve Vanguard. This is all the more ironic when Siff accidentally does the same with his family and the loops. I might gush more about what the country might be like and their technology in another post. This game makes me want to theorise. This is the first time I've wanted to write and post theories. ISAT fucked me up good.

Which, by the way, was genius. Siffrin and King are mirrors of each other. Siff does not have King's disastrous ambition, but their love/obsession will be the downfall of both of them. They have more than being each other's countrymen in common, and I imagine Siff despises that.

I love the fact King's question to Siffrin before the showdown was/could never be answered. Usually, in a game such as this, you must figure out how to solve everything, especially for the big bad. But that was never the goal. King is a delusional monster who will not stop before achieving his dream. He will raze everything to the ground and hurt many people because he must succeed. It is what he desires. Nay, the universe wills it. What a witless excuse that can easily be made into someone's truth. Especially to somebody who is driven mad with grief.

How King's character's done is so excellent. Because, at first, I wasn't scared of him at all. He was just the big bad, and I felt nothing much but the glory of victory when Siffrin outsmarted him by looping and making sure Mirabelle learned the shield spell that would protect the party from freezing in time. But each time you fight him, you get more frustrated until Siff figures that talking to him might be fruitful. It does, but unfortunately, you and Siffrin leave yourself emotionally and mentally vulnerable. King stops being a one-dimensional villain and changes into an actual person. Someone you can sympathise with and possibly mend peace with without fighting. You and Siffrin opened his heart for a kindred spirit and got hurt.

King stopped being a monster and became human. And while monsters are wretched, humans have intent behind their cruelty. I felt so betrayed, so angry, but most of all - terrified. I felt it when Siffrin spiralled when fighting King again after their actions caused such a catastrophic turn of events for Bonnie. Every time after that, the fight with King felt tense and nerve-wracking in a dreadful way. Because even victory could not soothe the dread I felt. (The track 'It's finally over" will forever haunt me. I already feel anxious whenever it cycles to that when I listen to the playlist)

He was not, however, the final villain, even though everything that happened was King's fault. You were always your greatest enemy (or Siffrin in this case, since you are supposed to be Siffrin). I never could have guessed that the whole reason why Siffrin could not escape the loops was because Siff accidentally wished to never let go of their friends. This reminds me of Modaka Magica, where (spoilers for the OG anime) Homura goes back in time so much that the universe ties itself around Modoka, making her a waiting egg whose wish and magic will be massive when she becomes a magical girl. The one thing Homura was trying to prevent.

(Siffrin and Homura are identical in that sense. Shy characters who are loyal to a fault but are rendered into something cold, bitter and cutting by their traumatic experiences. Only Siff has people who care about them and would do anything to save him, too, whereas Homura never lets go, making the world a worse place to live in. Yes, I did go into doomed Yuri. That anime lived in my mind rent-free in my mind for years)

The Head House-maiden not being the villain was also a great touch. I am used to the apparent antagonist turning out not to be the big bad and the trusted, friendly character ending up being the evil one. Twist villains no longer work when everyone expects them to be villains.

That was my biggest theory as I played. The second biggest being that Loop is someone who enjoys Siffrin's suffering. I am so glad that was also not the case. They are apathetic but not cruel. Never intentionally, anyway. They were like the player, urging Siffrin to go deeper into the mystery to solve it. Ultimately, I chose and made cold and cruel decisions simply because I wanted to see what would happen. So yeah, I warmed up to this cosmic star thing as the game went on and even started trusting them. Act 5 really is a punch in the gut. I am so sorry, Loop. Thank you for coming through in the end.

Oh man, this is so long, and I haven't even gone into the main cast. I will leave that for another post. They are such great characters, as are the people of Dormant and the House. (Don't think I don't see the wordplay in this game. Very clever)

Going into this game completely blind was the best experience I could have had. I felt anxious, happy and scared so severely that my neurons were rearranged. I don't know if there are more endings (aside from the obvious action of attacking Odile in the True(?) ending of the game), but I am taking a break from it to make art and write for this game before I dive back into despair-o-land.

Anywho, thank you for coming this far and reading my ramblings. Have a fantastic day or evening further! o(*'▽`*)ブ

[madmanii]

Thank u for this year 🖤❤️

After a year of thinking it was it for my art and thinking there's no hope for me to draw again, remembering Shin and Freeza suddenly returned my drive to me, full force, giving me will to live again, as to me, doing art is equal to breathing

Now the year's ending I just wanted to commemorate dears that accompanied my ravenous posting and some have always stuck to me constantly liking/rebloging without fail to each of my post and making my heart warm each time nd feel seen in the the void of nothingness that is online i often feel absolutely fearful to post on, giving you all my love ❤️🖤

Thank you @monochrome-night precious 🖤❤️

Thank you kitty @snapecentric dear❤️🖤

And everyone else I didn't get to tag x'

Thank you @wafflepopbeerus for giving me pleasant jump joys ( as in, not jump scares heh) for drawing and respond-drawing to my art and silliness, literally maked my week ever time, and it forced a smile on my face to see your adorable art every time I open my journal cuz i saved it there

Thank you @lilfriezatyrant for always reblogng with a scrumptious word meal I feast hungry on, and for matching my energy, I love how write and I just LOVE when ppl screaming with mee about mutual passion AAAAAAAgh D"x ❤️🖤

And a ginormous endless thank you for the precious dears who supports me on Kofi or commission, they are allowing me to be here— able to pay for net Nd sometimes have small life pleasures, you're everything ❤️🖤❤️🖤 🙏🏽@sailorcat-gar @mrs-snape5984

And last but not least, thank you to all my 150+ followers and everyone who enjoyed my art enough to reblog and liking it :'

i wish next year be kinder and filled with hope and me drawing more of my stacking-sky-high ideas and continue to foster a safe haven for art, special interests and wholesomeness , hehe

All the best from Mani <3

[ieatangstforbreakfast]

Pairing ೃ⁀➷ 𝐄𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝟒𝟐! 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 x Fem! Reader

Summary ೃ⁀➷ Lovers have secrets of their own, no matter how much they come to trust each other, whether it be a past mistake or an unspoken trauma. For you and Miles, however, your secrets came in the form of hidden identities— one being a masked vigilante, and the other a mastermind.

Genre ೃ⁀➷ Forbidden love, mutual pining, angst♡

Tags ೃ⁀➷ Both are artists, reader is from a very wealthy family, both are living double lives, underaged smoking, reader is female and uses she/her pronouns, forbidden love (ish?), swearing, daddy issues, mommy issues, reader is unhinged, both are mentally unstable, lots of flirting.

Author's Note ೃ⁀➷ WHY IS THE HALLOWEEN CHAPTER PUBLISHED ON DECEMBER IDK IM SLOW, also politics yay ig— MENTIONS OF MY COUNTRY! 🇵🇭💥🇵🇭💥💪💪 Also uh VERY long chapter

Tag list ೃ⁀➷ @sakura-onesan @coffeeandtealol @luvjunie @noetophat @proudgojofucker @adorefavv @l0starl @depresssedcowboy

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟎: 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐭

Summary ೃ⁀➷ You and Montrell seem to share a few qualities. In the midst of talks of politics with Miles, you find yourself parted from the reality you were raised in, instead finding a new world in Spirit Halloween.

This chapter is not sponsored.

FIC MASTERLIST

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

".. You should've definitely worn a coat over that."

You fiddled with your sleeve, staring comfortably past the window and out into the shining streets of Brooklyn. The comment was unnecessary , but it didn't entirely fly past your ears— in fact you swallowed it like a bad egg, making your stomach churn. As you turned your head away from the window, you're brought back to acknowledge your brother, Montrell, sitting beside you with his hand over the wheel.

"I like it as it is." You answered. "It's soft, fluffy, and big. Fragrant too." Because it belongs to Miles.

"It's the first time I've seen you wear something so.." His words trace away, but even without finishing the sentence, you knew what he meant. Unsophisticated— a little too boyish in comparison to your usual, refined clothes. The classic sort of unrefined your dearest mother taught you not to embody.

"What? It's comfortable." Was your attempt of a justification. Montrell shrugs, and you catch a twitch in his eye.

Your family had similar, refined tastes. Montrell, like you, was taught to imbue stylishness in every aspect of his life. He was often Armani-clad. Brunello Cucinelli, Hermes— and every other European household name you could recall. But in special events, he usually sported suits specially tailored to his tastes. His palette was consistently ashen, monochrome, with hints of cherry red. Like his car, which had been only recently cleaned after the staff was updated with his upcoming arrival, a slick, grey Aston Martin. It was likely the peak symbolism of his tastes.

You were never really fond of vehicles, particularly their strong, Italian leather scents (Or stench, as you called it). It was because of your sensitive nose that you often requested the seats to be replaced with anything but leather. Scentless polyester was your more preferred option. Leather alone was enough to urge your stomach to clear out your last meal, by ascending to your esophagus.

"I'm not insulting your tastes. I'm glad you're exploring new aesthetics." He manages to lure out his teeth, a compliment— a not-so-good one at that. "What is this?.. Like, street style? Grunge?.. What's that other one— e-girl, I believe? Or was it Emo?"

"You sound not twenty-five years old."

"Don't be mean. The idea of it is new to me, okay?" He clears. "I haven't seen you in three years. The last time I saw you, mom was the one in charge of your wardrobe. I only ever saw your pictures and you seemed more high-end. Saint Laurent, Dior, Dolce Gabbana."

"Those are my brands, I'm just taking a break. I'm not a walking advertisement. I don't want to get robbed in the middle of Brooklyn either."

With a three-second pause, Montrell looks at you and queried.

"Does that jacket belong to a boy?"

You sit right up, ready to defend yourself when Antonne adds. "You would have to introduce him to me immediately— I won't stand aside while some boy prances around your presence. You're sixteen, and that's a prey-able age for stupid and good-for-nothing men… Unless,” He pauses. “You’re gay.”

"What— What are you talking about!?” You feigned ignorance. “I'm not g— this is— it doesn't belong to a.. Well, it does belong to a boy, but it's my friend's jacket okay?"

Oh, the way Miles would glare at you had he been there.

"Don't try to outsmart me." He shot back. "You’ve got little to no friends.”

You parted your lips. “You’re being mean.”

“I’m only stating the truth.” He sighs. “You’re too condescending, and you hate people.”

“And your sources are what? A small interaction I had when I was twelve?”

Montrell grows uneasy a bit, tapping his nails over the thinly veiled compartment. ".. So who is he?" He starts. "From which family? Who are his parents? And how did the both of you meet?"

"That's none of your business, Mon." You sighed, running a hand across your face. "I'm not seeing him, I'm simply hanging out with another friend. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Well, it surely wouldn't hurt for me to meet this friend of yours, then? If he's not a boyfriend."

Your mouth hung open, a steady sigh escaping your lips while you sink a little deeper into your seat. As a hand runs across your cheek, you looked at Montrell as he eases the car down to a red light.

"He doesn't know that I'm a Chávez."

ＢＥＥＰ

Suddenly, you're jolted to a sudden halt— nearly flying out of your seat upon Montrell's way of hitting the brakes. You grabbed onto the board before you with widened eyes and a curse in your mouth.

He remains calm, but slightly irked.

At that moment, he pulls a finger to his lips as if to hush you. He signals with another finger as it leads up to boost the music from the radio. The song blasts, and swiftly, he takes his jug hidden by the side of his seat, unscrewing the top before pouring some of the water onto his palm, flicking at the air conditioner.

Oh, he was checking if the car was bugged.

You hold out your hand, gesturing him to give you some of the water. Together, the both of you took care of the recording devices, from the front of the wheel to the back of the car. Upon gathering all of them, you stuffed it all inside the water bottle, permanently eradicating its usage.

Finally, Montrell places his hands on the wheel and speaks.

“I want you to be honest with me, [Y/n], and cut out any of the bullshittery.”

You feared that at that moment, you and Montrell weren’t brother and sister, but rivals in a battle for power.

ＳＨＯＵＬＤ ＷＥ ＥＡＴ ＹＯＵＲ ＢＲＯＴＨＥＲ？

Your finger twitches.

Wait.

“Does he make you happy?”

The question comes off a little too similar to tasteless poison. It’s a gamble in itself— and it leaves you sitting upright and crossing your legs.

“He makes me feel alive,” Was your starter. “That’s a power no other boy could do, and it’s a rarity, since I’ve always lived for other people, but he makes me feel like I’m living for myself.”

A short hum exits his lips. “And your happiness? Does he make you happy?”

You harshly swallowed. “What difference would it make if I tell you that he does make me happy?”

Montrell’s gaze narrows a bit, the heel of his boots pressing against the gas as the green light shone. “… I ought to applaud you for your sneakiness if by now, dad still doesn’t know anything about his existence.. Unless,” Gulp. “He ordered you to spy on him.”

“And for what reason?”

“It could be anything,” His grip on the wheel tightens like the coil of a noose. “Hostage, information, any of the latter. I’m not sure why father would send you off to spy on a fifteen-year-old boy, but I’m sure the truth’s far deeper than petty business rival bullshit.”

Your mind blanks.

“It’s nothing like that. I just.. Like him, that’s all.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why would I lie to you about how much he means to me?”

“Because we’re not just siblings, [Y/n],” He whispered. “If anything, we’re not a normal family, but, I’m here for you because I think you’re a good kid, even if everyone else says you’re not.”

“Cease the speech, Mon. I’m not a good person. Stop romanticizing me.”

“But why?” He adds. “Is it because you managed the media and the hotel?”

And hearing those words, you come to face the fact that there was a reason Montrell was your father’s favorite. The effortless way he’s able to read every situation, the effortless way he managed to read through your emotions. It was a talent you could only wish for.

“It was so obvious, you know.” He chuckled. “I knew— I already knew before I came home.”

“Why?”

“Because Antonne handles things messily. He makes decisions without thinking about the consequences, and he despises planning things on the long run. Dad wouldn’t trust anyone outside the family after what happened with Mom, nor would he allow just anyone to handle such shaky affairs. It’s not like it’s beyond father’s morality to hire his own children and calling it practice.”

“What evidence do you have?”

Montrell took one look at you. “The Warehouse. It’s said that it was recently burnt, and that Antonne had to fight the Prowler, but Antonne wouldn’t have had the time to take care of all that because he was investigating you.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” You spat.

“Also, no one but family takes care of the Warehouses.”

“No— I know that, fuck that. You were going to find out one way or another, but what the fuck was Antonne investigating me for?”

Your brother simply shrugs, his shoulders dropping comically.

“It was about that boy.”

“What!?” Your voice breaks a little. “Jesus fuck, what is wrong with him!?”

“Evidently, he’s worried about you.”

You snorted. “Worried!? Worried my ass!” The vulgar way you spoke caught Montrell so off-guard that he had to look at you twice to check if you were still the same person. “I’d rather believe the world’s ending. Antonne and I stopped being siblings the moment he dropped responsibility for all those who were killed, forcing me to step up and do damage control because Dad stopped trusting everyone else.”

“Well, that’s understandable.”

“Plus, there’s nothing to be worried about. The boy I’m meeting he’s.. He’s just.. I like him. That’s it. I know it’s hard to believe since most of the time I’m a conniving bitch, but I genuinely, wholeheartedly like him. Like how a normal teenage girl ought to like a boy.”

Montrell hums. “… Alright, I’ll believe you. It’s not too far off from unusual, when I’m also facing a similar issue.”

You blinked. “What do you mean by that?”

“… You see, [Y/n], I’ve got also got a girl for myself.” He announced so suddenly. “Met her at Oxford. Like your boy, she bore no idea of who I was.. Who I am, and understandably, and I know you know about this too— but it’s a refreshing feeling to not be recognized as the potential inheritor of a business empire.”

You part your lips, processing the information with confusion all over your expression. “But— there were no reports of you being in a relationship.”

“Of course there weren’t,” He laughs. “I had her carefully hidden from everyone’s sights.”

And that could mean two things. You didn’t want to think of the latter.

“Maybe it’s genetic,” Montrell added, turning the wheel. “Father, mother, me, Antonne, you. Making stupid decisions for stupid ideals— rather, stupid romance. It’s frightening to think how Malachi’s going to inherit our tendencies.”

“I’m not,” Your heart raged within the cage of your ribs. “I’m not like that to him. I can never allow myself to trap him.”

“You can either be one of them.” Montrell sighed. “Mom or dad, I mean.”

The good ol’ bird or the cage.

“But I won’t be able to stand by and watch when that does happen,” He straightens his lips. “I can’t let anything happen to you.”

You can hear the voice whisper back in your mind.

“Which is why I’ve got to meet.. [Y/n]?”

Your hands slithered up against your ears in an attempt to block out the voice.

“[Y/n], are you okay?”

You gasped for air, a familiar voice taunting you like the one from your dreams. Except, this one didn’t speak like the voice of the symbiote, rather, it endowed this sweet allure as though it could sing you a lullaby to sleep.

Before the symbiote, there was someone else who plagued your thoughts and mind and actions.

Before the symbiote, there was your mother.

“Stop the car.” You croaked, palms still over your ears. Montrell speaks, but his words were blurred out into the void of nothingness. The more he speaks, the more your mind shreds itself into pieces. After a long second of thinking, Montrell finally pulls up by the sidewalk, taking his hands off the wheel and pulling one in front of you. He waves it hesitantly, snapping you from your thoughts.

“Breathe, [Y/n], breathe.”

“I-I,” You lengthily stammered. “Mon, I’m sorry, but can I go?” As he’s about to answer, you add. “I’ll introduce you another day, I promise, I just, I need to be alone right now.”

“But isn’t it unsafe? We’re in the slums, you’ll never know how—“

“Mon, I can fight.” You ended the conversation with that alone. Hesitantly, he nods and unlocks the door. You reach for the handle, moving along with the click as you turned to leave.

“Can you at least message me when I can pick you up?”

You looked over to Montrell.

“… Okay.”

ＳＬＡＭ.

“Miles!”

And he could already hear you from a block away, jogging with steady and loud steps.

Without even looking up from his phone, he unconsciously opened his arms to welcome you with an embrace— closing in immediately upon your arrival. You felt like you were going to stain his jacket with your glossed lips, but you barely managed to care anymore at this point, as this hug was beyond a need. You clung onto his neck, burying your aching head into the nape of his collar, taking in this familiar scent of spice and wood. A subtle homage, or a reminder of your older brother, Montrell.

What was it about men and their perfume?

It felt like you hadn’t seen Miles in such a long, long time. It was like you were a child who’d parted from their favorite blanket for a little too long that it made you uneasy. You liked the world and space you had between his arms— it was your warmth, your only true home, and it was yours.

All yours.

“What’s wrong?” He cooed, simpering around with you in his arms.

“I just want to stay like this for a moment.” You whispered. “I need to steal the warmth off of you.”

“Well, nena, why are you only wearing my hoodie? It’s so cold out.”

“It’s not that.”

Miles’ ears metaphorically perked up upon hearing you sniffle.

“Who the fuck hurt you? I’ll kill ‘em.”

Your lips curved into a smile.

Oh, Miles, you can’t possibly kill off a multi-million dollar industry.

“Can you kill a car, then? My brother drove me here and his car’s smell made me age twenty years,” You grumbled. “I’m boutta die at thirty-seven, I swear.”

“Your brother?” He lightly jolts away, eyes journeying from road to road in search of him. “God, where is he? Is he here?”

And at that moment, Miles subsequently fixes his posture, his words suddenly endowing some strange sort of politeness. You nudge at his shoulder, “I told him to drop me off somewhere else. I didn’t want him to meet you yet.”

“Awe,” He pouted. “Well, that’s aight. I’m gonna dress up real nice when I meet your family.”

“Uhuh,” You laughed. “And what are you going to be wearing?”

“I’m gonna borrow my unc’s suit, and I’ll talk business with yo father.”

“Only business you’ll be discussing with my father is your damn funeral, Miles. My papa don’t want me out here dating, that’s why he put me in private school.”

“With a face like yours?” He smugly grinned. “Your daddy’s kinda underestimating the power of your pretty face.”

“Oh, so you like me ‘cause I’m pretty?”

“Pretty fucking unbearable, that’s what you is.” The boy joked. “M’just kidding. I like you because you’re pretty much everything to me.”

Despite the fluttering of your stomach, you persevered with your little game. “Doesn’t answer anything— what do you like about me? Did you like my face or my personality?”

“I liked you ‘cause of your pretty face, and stayed for your amazing personality.” He answered as though he’d been preparing for the question his whole life.

“Amazing personality?”

“Extravaganza bonanza personality.”

“I’m not a banana split sundae, Miles.”

“Might as well should be with yo damn split personality.”

Your hands dangle away, Miles unconsciously attempts to reach for it but instead accepts defeat when you held his hand. “So where are we going for halloween spirit, exactly?”

“Halloween spirit?” He queried.

“Yeah, didn’t ya mention something about being in halloween spirit?”

Miles paused, holding back a loud laugh in the middle of the street. “My girl, I said I was in Spirit Halloween.”

“What the fuck is a Spirit Halloween?”

“Holy shit,” He verbalized. “You’re in for a scare, nena.”

And he meant those words a little too literally.

Growing up, it wasn’t within your household to make halloween one of your yearly traditions. Your father deemed it unnecessary, while your mother was anything but fun (Same difference, really). Your brothers have celebrated halloween, one way or another, but since you were the child closest to your mother, you were anything but free of her beliefs.

So being greeted with a large, bloodied skeleton first-thing upon entering the building was a first for you.

“WHAT THE HELL IS EVEN THAT!?”

Miles simply explodes into laughter, holding his phone up just to record your reaction. You fall right back, hand still holding onto his. “Come on, nena, you can do it, let’s get past the entrance.”

“Miles, what in THE FUCK is that!?”

“Don’t be mean to your brother, ma.” He attempts to drag you inside as you sat down by the floor with petrification scribbled all over your face. “[Y/n], come on, introduce me to the rest of your family.”

“FUCK YOU!” You whisper-yelled.

“It’s not even moving yet, come on, [Y/n].”

“THAT’S SUPPOSED TO MOVE!?”

After managing to drag you past the animatronics (Which Miles described was a work out in itself), the both of you marveled at the isle where all the costumes were, skimming through the racks and looking at each and every picture. “Oh, Miles— look at this,” You pluck one out, the hanger dangling from your fingers. “It’s Emily from the corpse bride! Shit, I haven’t seen the movie since I was eight.”

“Look at this one, Ma, this shit’s so you.”

He pulls out an Elsa costume.

“Even got the white ass wig and everythin’.” He giggles as you playfully smacked his arm. “Let it go. Let it go.”

“Shut up.”

“Can’t hold this shit anymore!~”

“MILES.”

“LET IT GO!”

You tried to hush out his horrible singing, but the way he giggled was so infectious that you couldn’t help but giggle yourself. When bystanders started walking past the both of you with weird ogles in their gazes, you couldn’t help but put your hand over your mouth to muffle your laughing.

“Puñeta,” Miles added, pulling out a fucking teenage mutant ninja turtles costume. “You’ve got to fucking try this, ma.”

“Miles—“ You couldn’t even continue a sentence without wheezing.

You did eventually find a costume— unlike the original plan, the both of you couldn’t find a medieval patient dying of the bubonic plague, but Miles did manage to find a dark priestess costume along with a plague doctor costume.

“We’re like business partners. The patients go to me, and when they die, you send them off.” Was what he said.

“Wouldn’t that make you a really horrible doctor?”

“Doctor’s still a doctor, ma. I mean, it’s the police’s job to protect all of us but if that’s really the case, they’re doing a pretty fucking horrible job at it, but hey, we still call them the police.”

You looked at the mirror, watching the confusion materialize over your face as you heard Miles’ rant behind the curtain. As you clumsily tried on your costume inside the changing room, you couldn’t help but ask. “What makes you say that? That they’re doing a horrible job at protecting y’all?”

As you zipped up the bolero, you hear Miles’ curtain open.

“Well, Ma, brutality’s been upper than hell compared to the last few decades, so’s poverty. For the last four years, the economy’s been going downhill, which made us have a recession. ‘Cause of that, a lot of the cops had to kiss up some of the wealthy folks’ asses to keep their jobs.”

“So that makes them corrupt?”

“That makes them desperate,” He alluded. “No one wants to die of starvation, and they all have families to feed. It’s divide and conquer, really.”

“Divide and conquer?— oops,” You pick up the fallen headdress from the floor. “Expand on that.”

Miles hums a bit. “Imagine the crab mentality. I’ve read about it before for a philosophy research, and it’s a term used in the Philippines. Put a fuck ton of crabs in a bucket. You’re gonna see the crabs drag each other down in order to pull themselves up, but in the end, none of them ain’t gonna reach the top.

Because the true problem was never the crabs, it was the person who put those crabs inside the bucket in the first place. Same goes for us, the poor. We all have to fend for ourselves so we put others down— because if we’re too busy surviving, we don’t have to pay no attention to the rich who put us all inside the damn bucket in the first place.”

The way he described it was so familiar.

It was like he was describing you with your siblings.

ＨＥ’Ｓ ＳＭＡＲＴ. Ｉ ＬＩＫＥ ＨＩＭ.

Hearing the symbiote’s approval echo in your mind, you couldn’t help but smirk.

He’s not just smart. He’s a genius.

ＤＯＮ’Ｔ　ＯＶＥＲＰＲＡＩＳＥ　 ＨＩＭ,

ＳＷＥＥＴＨＥＡＲＴ

Don’t call me that, ever.

His experiences and your experiences were similar despite being so contradictory, and it didn’t make sense. You were rich, so extraordinarily wealthy that the recession was never a part of your problem, hell, the decline of the economy was never your problem— and Miles was struggling along with his family to keep themselves afloat.

And you could never put yourself in his shoes, as you knew nothing of the loss he felt.

But the both of you were kids in line to shape the future, and if the generational trauma ever continued, you’d only end up the oppressor, but you knew, Miles was going to tear himself apart from the title of ‘victim’, and he was going to stand up against you— maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow,

But soon, as villain versus hero.

You pushed the curtain away, unveiling the costume to Miles.

But rather than seeing him, he was nowhere to be found.

You lifted the veil, stepping out of the dressing room to take a peek at him, but you couldn’t find any trace of his broad-shouldered figure anywhere. You softly called out for his name, head spinning from constantly turning. Your feet took you forward. You try ignore the giggly and bloodily-clad animatronics whose haunting stares scared you far worse than any unwanted confrontation with any of your family members.

And there he was, talking to a girl.

That sort of closeness— the way they spoke. Laughing, catching up, or something like that. Acquaintances? Friends, maybe?

Something ugly pricked at your skin from within.

ＨＵＮＧＲＹ.

Montrell’s words began to spiral inside your mind. ‘Father, mother, me, Antonne, you. Making stupid decisions for stupid ideals— rather, stupid romance.’

ＨＵ���ＧＲＹ.

The feeling seared your veins, making you dig your nails into the bed of your palm. Your knuckles quivered from the intensity, like a sort of anger you felt when you saw any of your elder brothers being praised for the bare minimum, except.. This one felt different.

ＨＵＮＧＲＹ.

You watched the way her braids fell, wondering if you could pull it off with such grace. High society’s always been too picky, which forced you to drown out most of your interests, but now you couldn’t help but feel a little envious. You wanted to wear the clothes you wanted to wear, try out the makeup you wanted to try.

It felt like your mother’s shadow was being cast on you, making you embody the very phase you feared, your mother’s daughter—

and like your mother, you were quick to get jealous.

And it devoured you, whole.

You faltered, taking a step back before fully pivoting your heel and running off back to the dressing room. You shut the curtain behind you, only now finding the symbiote staring right at you through the mirror— its grotesque body mirroring your move.

“For a girl who knows how to handle most of her emotions, you can’t seem to handle jealousy well.”

“I’m not jealous. I’m just tired.”

“And I’m Sofia Vergara.“

“How the fuck do you know who Sofia Vergara is?”

“Memories, my dear.”

You felt a surge of panic take course of you.

“This is unhealthy. I can’t be like this, I don’t even know who she is.” You exasperatedly murmured. “I need to calm down— Miles and I aren’t even official yet.”

“Exactly, so be the lady that you are and introduce yourself, damn it. You have no friends.”

“I have friends.” You seethed. “I’m popular as hell in Acadia.”

“If I had a dollar for every friend you have, I’d be the one giving you a poverty rant.”

“[Y/n]?” Miles pulled you out of your thoughts yet again.

“Y-Yeah?” You called out, whipping your head back. “You done?” He asks, shuffling a bit. You hesitantly open the curtain to reveal yourself, your sights eventually welcoming the image of Miles dressed in all black— with a long, beak-like mask over his head. As you were too busy trying to find his little acquaintance, Miles gawks at you from behind his heavy façade.

The faux black silk draped over your curves seamlessly, the crimson of the bolero gleaming beneath the light as it contrasted against the dress. You lifted the veil past the dark crown like a bride, lashes fanning up to meet him by his gaze.

“Oh, wow.” He sighed. “Wow, you— the woman that you are.”

There was something about the way he looked at you.

It was like you were all that consumed his mind and being. Nonetheless, it was the truth.

But even now, as Miles held out his hand for you to hold, you couldn’t help but wonder how many times he’ll look at you like this until it manifests from love into something else.

“It’s a halloween costume, Miles, not a wedding dress. I can’t possibly be lookin’ all that great.” You took his hand, drawing closer to the mask. “God, you look like a big bird.”

Lost in the way you looked, Miles’ hands unconsciously trailed around your waist, looking down on you with a dumb stare that you couldn’t fathom. Suddenly, the both of you were disrupted by an abrupt cough. You both turn your heads, finding the same girl you’d seen him talking to just a few minutes ago.

“Hey,” She beamed, waving her hand at you. “Hope I ain’t disturbing anything?”

“You definitely were.” Miles’ gaze narrowed. The girl laughed, her white grin wide like a crescent moon. You couldn’t help but think, she’s got such a pretty smile.

“Mind introducing me, Miles?”

With a hand still on your waist, Miles gestures towards you. “This is my lady,”

“[Y/n],” You held out your hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Both Miles and the girl stared at your open palm.

“Wow, ain’t she prim and proper? Like a princess.” She teased, accepting your hand. “I’m Amadi, nice to meet you too.”

Her palm was warm and smooth, decorated by the lacey sleeve of her periwinkle sweater. She stood in heeled boots, a couple inches taller than you— an inch or two off of Miles’ height. As she shook your hand, the girl couldn’t help but helplessly marvel at you as though you were a statue carved from marble.

“God, how in the hell did you land on Miles? You’re just,” Amadi’s hands airily traced your figure. “You’re just wow. I-Is Miles keeping you hostage or sum? You don’t look nuthin like human. You look outta this world.”

“Thank,” You stifled a laugh. “Thank you?”

“I can hear you, Madi.” Miles churned.

“M’just stating truths ‘cause—“ She clicks her long, acrylic nails. “Why she be lookin’ outta this world while you’s lookin like you snuck onto earth?”

You placed a hand over your mouth, trying your hardest, you very hardest, not to laugh. Miles pulled you back away from her with a disintegrating glare.

“Tu puta madre,” He spat. “.. Go back to Monique.”

“Monique?”

“Mi novia— love of my life, we’re off halloween shopping too. Gotta big date tomorrow, we gon be watching horror movies n shi.” Amadi added, decisively looking around. “Speaking of which, Ionno where she went.”

“She might be with Voshon.” Miles piqued.

“Voshon?” Your head started to spin with the amount of new names you were processing. “That’s a.. Interesting name.”

“Mama was gonna name him Joshua, but my dad wanted to combine or grandparents’ names together, so— Vaughn and Shontelle.. Voila, Voshon.”

“Oh, he’s your brother?” You queried. Amadi hums. “Unfortunately. I mean, I’d always preferred being an only child but we all don’t get what we want most of the time.“

“Oh, I definitely get that.”

“No way, you got brothers too?”

“Yeah, I’m the only girl.”

“Can’t imagine the mess in your house, damn.. Hey!”

Amadi soon joins a pair, one with a much brighter and pinker style and the other satisfied with a mere hoodie for marking a fashion statement. You fiddled with the skirt of your dress, evidently nervous as a million thoughts flooded your mind. You weren’t the friendliest person out there, nor were you the most likable out of all your siblings.

It was never easy for you to make friends. Too many found you overbearing, the rest condescending. Your position was overwhelming enough for any other person your age, and those who knew about you were ambitious to make connections and forge deals.

What if they won’t like me?

What if I mess up?

What if I come off as too condescending?

But Miles took your hand, grabbing your attention from the spur of your overthinking. He took off his mask, easing you with the familiarity. One look at him and home found its way back to you.

“You wanna meet ‘em, ma?” He asks.

With an anxious smile, you nodded.

“Of course.”

And like a whirlwind into the night, you were off.

For the first time, you part yourself entirely from the world you knew and entered Miles’ world.

“Oh, hello!” Bubbly and sweet, Monique greeted you with such warmth that it melted away all your previous worries. “Oh my god— don’t tell me,” She glances over to Amadi for confirmation. “Are you the [Y/n] Miles always talks about!?“

“Nica— please—“

“You ARE!”

She spoke of you as though you’d been a legend told to the latter, like a tooth fairy. “It’s so nice to finally meet you! We’ve been dying to meet you and– wow, you’re gorgeous.”

“Thank you,” Your cheeks were bound to be flushed. “I think you’re very pretty too. I-I really like your hair and your makeup, it’s super well done.”

“Awe, thank you so much!” She placed a hand over your heart, wholeheartedly touched by your compliment. Monique looks at Miles with a pout.

“… Miles, can you fight?”

“Fuck you mean ‘Can you fight?’, I will square you the fuck up r’now.”

His friends were sweet— welcoming without the need of a surname. Monique, with her free and silk-like curls, was a firecracker who liked glitter on her lids and her nails and her clothes. Amadi was ever-so loving of her, despite preferring black and chains for her aesthetic. The two girls were a stark contrast of one another— and unsurprisingly, Monique already had her mermaid costume prepared and was just helping out Amadi pick her Dracula ensemble.

Voshon, although quieter, was one you recognized as similarly withdrawn and reserved like Miles when the both of you first met. Amadi described him to be a total nerd, and quirky— later proven when he and Miles chased each other with fake swords, running across the aisles while exchanging hits.

When Voshon tosses over the sword to you, however, chaos truly ensued.

“GO GET HIM!” The girls cheered as you and Miles managed to create a questionable chase scene of a Priestess holding a Minecraft sword chasing after a Plague Doctor with a scythe. Onlookers couldn’t help but watch on as the both of you squabbled.

Like a livid cat and its cheesy mouse.

“Esto en un mamey. You too fuckin’ slow!” He teased in between a heave. “Can’t catch me for shit!”

Shit went down as you bent over to take off your boots.

“That ain’t changing, nun— aye puta.” Miles narrowly avoids one of the shoes that came flying at his direction. He looks over like a child in awe, head following the direction of wherever it went.

“I never knew you were Latina, mam– MIERDA LOCO, CEBOLLA COÑO!” And a couple other curses exit his tongue as you tackled him to the ground with a loud crash.

You let a hearty, chesty giggle escape your lips. The adrenaline got you cackling like a comical villain, that even Miles couldn’t help but laugh helplessly along with you. Seeing you like that, with your hair all wild and your smile at its wildest, it softened his whole being.

“… You’re so pretty, mami.” He airily sighed with a cough to the side.

“.. Sure.” Was all you could answer.

And of course, after getting an earful from the staff, you and Miles finally ended your tiny sword-fighting sequence. After changing out of the costumes, all five of you prompted to test out the animatronics.

It was about taking turns.

“AYE, MAMAHUEVO.”

And it was also when you realized, Amadi was Dominican.

You learned a lot of Spanish that day, especially from one step of a button to activate an animatronic.

Everyone’s mouths were.. Extraordinarily filthy.

But you liked it— from watching bursting and spinning animatronics screaming bloody murder at you, to going around talking about all kinds of things with his friends.

“God, I’ve always wanted one of those.” Amadi points at the lace parasol one of the mannequins were holding. “It’s so Morticia Addams.”

“Well, maybe you should get it.” You suggest. “It’d look great with your vampire costume.”

Amadi sighed. “I only got money for the costume, can’t buy sum like that. Maybe I’ll just DIY it with my nana’s old umbrella.”

You squinted a tiny bit, eyeing the sign that announced in bold lettering: $16.99.

And for privileged little you, the sixteen was just change for a hundred dollar bill, which made you inadvertently blurt out. “I can pay.”

“Nah, girlie, it’s gon’ take me whole two to three months ‘fore I can afford to pay you back.”

“I mean, it’s fine—“ You realized just how spoiled you were sounding. “I recently got my paycheck so I guess I can buy you something.”

“Where do you work, though?” Monique added, clinging onto your other hand as the left one was occupied by Miles. “Like do you work at a café or a restaurant?”

“Family business,” You vaguely replied. “Boring stuff. But my dad pays me well enough, so I guess I can live with it— so maybe I can pay for that.”

“No, no, no.” Amadi answered, accent thick. “Really, we can pay for it ourselves.”

But you couldn’t ignore it. Not when you could see Miles openly contemplating on buying the costume or not— as he’s been fiddling with the price tag the whole time you two were walking. And you’ve seen the way Voshon’s been eyeing the diamond sword for a while now.

So you made up your mind.

“I’m just gonna go to the bathroom for a moment— can you hold this for me, Miles?” You gently nudged your costume towards him before walking away without another word. As you did so, the group gawked in confusion.

“… Where’s she going? The bathroom’s that way.”

Ring. Ring. Ring.

“Hello, this is Mr. Chávez’s office, how may I help you?”

A simple, roundabout greeting, said over and over for the last few years. Usually followed by a “No, he’s not available at the moment” or a “I’ll take word”, but for the first time, the secretary stammers in embarrassment with her nails clutching onto the phone for dear life. The old man behind the wide, glass doors took note of his poor assistant’s sudden faltering, yet he maintains naturally unfazed.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll put him on the phone with you right this instant.”

Stumbling in her high heels, the secretary staggers inside the man’s office with the whole telephone in her hand.

“Sir, you’ve got an important call.”

“I’m busy, Nicole.”

“It’s your daughter— Miss [Y/n]?” She uttered your name as though you’d materialize out of thin air after chanting it three times. She was horrified of you.

With a click of his tongue, your father picks up the phone.

“What do you want?” He instantly asks of you.

“Dad, remember how you’ve always claimed that the celebration of halloween is unnecessary?”

Without even uttering an answer, you decisively went on.

“Well, in November, there is a tremendously large spike of sales when it comes to anything horror-related. It’s always been capitalist to clad November as a scary month in order to convince people to buy into scary things—“ He hears something tumble in the background. “— and since late October to early November is usually one of the hotel’s lowest months, I figured my proposal would be a perfect proxy for my apology for the way I acted during dinner.”

You didn’t even know what you were talking about at this point, but you were willing to try.

“.. What are you talking about?” He snaps.

“Well, I—“ You hesitated a bit. “I researched a bit, and I’ve come with an unsure solution.”

“What is it?”

“… Can we buy Spirit Halloween?”

[anjelicawrites]

Pierced Through

Paring: modern!Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x reader

Synopsis: a late night between two lovers

Warnings: switch!Feyd, switch!reader, more dominant reader, kissing, oral (m and f receiving), p in v sex, kissing, biting, scratching, overstimulation, edging, fingering, titty pinching, titty sucking, sharing the same piercings as a form of love, getting pierced as a form of foreplay, loads of piercings, reader being called “good girl” a couple of times.

A/N 1: reader is AFAB, the only descriptor is that they have long hair, for plot reasons. Where needed, they/them pronouns used. 

A/N 2: this is a modern AU with random bits of our pop culture thrown in it. 

Squinting your eyes you start to remove the makeup from your face. It has been a sweet night out, you and Feyd finally alone, eating a nice meal and just walking around town to enjoy the soft spring, after a harsh, snowy winter, reconnecting after he’s been away for work.

You ignore the chiming of your phone, it’s either the group chat with the girls, or the one you have with Feyd’s exes, the self called Harpies.

“Is What If I Were Your Mother buzzing tonight?” 

“Oh, you need to keep yourself up to date baby, it’s Pick Me, Choose Me, Love Me now.”

“Am I supposed to get the reference?” Even without eyebrows you can see the muscles lift in silent judgment.

“Grey’s Anatomy baby. You watched it with me.”

“I dissociated most of the times.”

“Asshole.”

“You’re beautiful.” 

Feyd’s hands travel slowly up the silk of your nightgown and stop under your breasts, the whiteness of his skin contrasts with the black material hugging your curves; you love wearing colorful clothes and decorate your shared apartment had been a push and pull between his monochrome austerity and your explosive personality, you’ve only folded to his request that you wear black lingerie for him (that you use truly ridiculous stuff when he’s not around it’s a secret between you and the two group chats).

You lean against his naked chest, letting your head brush against the long column of his neck, reveling in the smoothness of his skin; you miss having beard burns between your legs, your Feyd makes up for it with the bite marks he leaves on your skin when he hungers for your taste, which is always.

“I know you’ve been a bad girl.” He drawls in your ear, part of his face hidden by your hair.

“You need to be more specific than that, ah!”

Feyd’s long fingers pinch your pierced nipples through your nightgown; he was with you when you had both done, he had kept his forehead against yours while the nice lady piercer did her part. 

He had kept the low rumble of his voice to a minimum, describing how he was going to pleasure you as a reward for your courage; you were so torn between fear and excitement that you didn’t really listen to him and if the lady piercer did, she ignored him. 

Now you two match and it drives you crazy that under the expensive clothes he wears at work, Feyd hides similar body mods to yours; you haven’t gotten used to yours yet and even if your nipples have healed nicely, they’ve become more sensitive, and Feyd loves using this against you.

“I’ve noticed the new books on your beside table, little dove.” 

His hands cup your breasts, chocking the answer in your throat.

“I… I have no idea what you’re talking about!” You try to keep hold of his stare through the mirror. “I’ve moved some old books I want to read ouch! Ah! Feyd please!”

Feyd’s fingers pinch the small barbells on your nipples, only to pull at them until you start whining pathetically.

“Do you really think I don’t know all the titles on you bookshelf, little dove? Britney Spears’s biography? Really?”

You don’t answer immediately, needing to catch your breath and he takes advantage of your silence to run the piercing on his tongue up your neck, his sharp eyes not missing the way your body trembles against his.

“Par condicio baby.” You finally manage to answer. “I have read her sister’s, now hers. I want to know every detail. All the tea, as the kids say.”

“You’re truly going to become the epitome of an old busybody.” He says, with genuine affection in his voice.

“And I will share everything with you. Because you are as curious as I am, my love.”

Gently, Feyd lets his hands run up your chest until he’s reached your head of hair. 

Not only the Harkonnens, but all the natives of Geidi Prime have been genetically modified to not grow any sort of hair on their body and yours still fascinate him after all this time together. Whenever he can, he braids them before you two have to leave for work and he makes a point of undoing all your hairstyles when you are finally home, just so that he can feel the texture of your hair against his hands and the smell of your shampoo in his nostrils.

Painstakingly slowly Feyd removes all the pins from your hair, freeing each lock until they all cascade down your back and he can grab your roots, reveling in the feeling against his hands; you moan at the way he massages your scalp, slightly pulling to make you moan at his leisure. 

Under the too bright bathroom lights he can absorb all your facial expressions, he can see your nipples push against the silk of your nightgown and his mouth waters at the thought that you must be wet already, for him.

Quick, so quick that your head spins, Feyd turns you around and sits you on the bathroom counter, back to the big mirror, the hem of your nightgown already brunched around your hips.

You don’t have the chance to realize what he’s doing that two of his fingers are already under your panties, playing with the wetness there; he can’t wait to accompany you to have your clit and labia pierced, this way you two will truly match (even though you can’t have your tongue done); you two will have to stop vaginal sex for a little while, but to the greater purpose of him torturing your pretty cunt for your shared pleasure.

“Up!” He orders and you comply, lifting your arse so that he can remove your lacy panties. “Good girl.” He drawls when you spread your legs for him even wider, to accommodate his huge frame.

“Are you going to take care of me, Feyd?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, electing to suck on the delicate skin of your tight, until he’s sure a nice mark will blossom; he loves keeping you on edge: perhaps he will torment you for his own pleasure, perhaps he will give it all to you, until the lines blur.

“Don’t I always, little dove?”

“I missed you, so much.” You say with a small voice, your hand cupping his smooth cheek.

“So I did you.”

There’s a dark smirk tinging his lips as he kneels between your parted tights, his big hands on your knees in a show of ownership that has your head spin and fall back against the cold mirror.

Feyd lips are so warm against your skin, and so soft as he kisses a slow path to your cunt, up, up he goes, until his hands can grab at your hips to still your movements and open your labia with his thumbs to make way for his long tongue.

His movements are slow, the barbell on his tongue cold against your clit as he slowly massages it, writing nonsense that has you keen already. He can’t help himself but suck gently when your ankles cross behind his head to keep him in place. Over the lecherous sounds of your pleasure he can her your nails scrape against the mirror in the vain attempt to gain control: not yet, now you are for him to torment.

His tongue slowly runs down to your hole and he moans at the honey he finds there: so much and all for him! 

Hungry his tongue fucks you, the piercing stimulating all your nerves all the more, his big hands clench on your hips when you try to squirm away from his nose; on instinct you arch against his intrusion, your ankles pull him tighter against you as you wail your pleasure, small sobs like pain that spur him on all the more.

You come all over his face and keen when he starts sucking on your clit again, overstimulated and delirious you try to push him away, only for him to growl against your sensitive skin, triggering a smaller orgasm that shakes you.

Feyd stares at you with enlarged pupils, his face drenched in your sweetness, his cock torture against the cotton of his bottoms.

“Feyd, please.” You say breathless.

With a fluid motion he stands up and carries you bridal style to the bed, where he sits you to help you out of your nightgown, before discarding his soiled pajama trousers.

His pierced cock stands proud, leaking from the head; you were scared the first time you’ve seen it, imagining how painful it must have been for him, now you’ve come to love every single piece of jewelry adorning his manhood. From the Magic Cross on the head, to the small Frenulum ring, down to all the beadings on his shaft and the small ring on his perineum, you’ve kissed and played with all of them, tormenting Feyd, until he couldn’t understand if it was pleasure, or pain that triggered his orgasm.

You can’t wait to go with him, have your own privates worked on, while he adds the last beadings to complete the whole shaft: you know that sharing this will bind you tighter than the ring he will soon put on your finger, and it both excites and scares you to your core.

Feyd lays next to you to lazily kiss you, his soft lips on yours unhurriedly share your heady taste with you. His hands are in your hair, your nails are scratch down his back: you’re so hungry!

The ping of the received message interrupts you two.

“Ah shit! I think I need to answer this one.”

Feyd doesn’t say a word, he simply stares at you, his non existed brows raised.

“Baby this might be important. It’s Alia.”

Of all his Atreides relations, his little cousin is the only one he can truly stomach; he’s not happy that Chani is one of your oldest friends and that you hang out with her and Paul so much, yet he accepts your friendship with weird and off putting Alia.

“What happened with her?” He asks, curious.

“Let me check my phone and I will be able to tell you.”

With a huff Feyd goes to retrieve your phone and kneels between your splayed legs as you unlock your screen.

“There! I knew it!”

“What did she do?”

“Not her, the guy she was messaging with. He seemed so nice, too nice, if you know what I mean: he sent her a dick pick and us girls are discussing how to retaliate.”

“A dick pic?” Feyd looks sincerely puzzled. “Why?”

“You should ask your male friends. I know I hit the jackpot with you, but most of the guys out there are useless pieces of shit. Hang on, let me send this quick voice memo.” You say locking your ankles against his back to pull yourself up and kiss his nose. 

“Girls, I say that the old fashioned guillotine gif is the best way to go. My favorite is the small one chopping off the wurst but I stand with whichever you want to send. Now I am going to disappear because I’m getting laid. Cheers girls!” 

For the hundredth time, Feyd wonders what horrors that chat contains; he is not sure his Harkonnen upbringing has prepared him to face them. A whole host of women let loose without any sort of filter? No thank you!

Using his own lack of concentration, you roll the two of you, straddling his still erect cock; you raise your eyebrow at him and he just shrugs: horrified or not, you’re still naked and he hasn’t come yet.

“Fuck yourself on my cock, little dove.” He drawls.

“Not so fast, baby. You had your fun.”

When he tries to roll the two of you again, you grab his wrist and push them against the mattress and ground your naked cunt against the ridges of his cock. From your vantage point you stare at Feyd: you know he can easily manhandle you, he has done so many times, the fact that he’s letting you dominate him, that he is willingly submitting to you, drives you as dizzy and wild pleasure, as his pierced cock is.

Feyd hips kick under yours, the jewels on his manhood only enhancing the torment you’re subjecting him to, your wet, warm lips envelop his erection and he fancies he can feel your hole clench around nothing.

You straighten your back and grab at your own hair with a long moan of pleasure, Feyd’s hands grab your hips in retaliation, forcing you to move even faster on his erection; he only wished he had put weights on your nipples, just to hear you cry out in pain.

Abruptly you plant your hands on his chest to rub your engorged clit on one of the beads on his cock; the pleasure you feel makes all your muscles tremble with the effort to move, your orgasm so close, so close!

You come with a scream, your nails stabbing Feyd’s pectoral, triggering his own release between your lower lips and his muscled abdomen; he growls at the pleasure and at the frustration of not spending himself inside of you, feeling his balls draw up with the force if his orgasm.

You fall in his arms, breathing fast as you kiss all the available skin your lips can reach.

“I’m not done with you, Feyd-Rautha.” You growl in his ear.

The sound that escapes his mouth is a mix between a whine and a groan, his cock still hard and pressed between your bodies; under you his long back arches when you start making your way down the planes of his muscles, your lips finding the small rings on his nipples, your teeth pull at the metal until he keens, the small pain exploding in his engorged cock.

“Little dove.” He groans.

“None of that, my love. I’ve missed you so much.”

Feyd moans at the heath in your words: physically he’s the stronger one, yet he knows you could destroy him with a snap of your fingers.

A long litany of moans spill from his parted lips with every lick and small bite, he feels his balls draw up again, ready to spill.

“Not yet, Feyd. I want you to come inside of me.”

He growls when your hand curls around his base, your teeth pulling cruelly at the ring on his perineum as he writes on the black sheets: he’s so ready to explode for you, paint your insides with his thick cum.

You can feel his long legs scramble against the mattress when your lips find his frenulum ring, your tongue plays with the small piece of metal and the small strip of oversensitive skin; despite your cruel hold, small beads of precome bubble and slide from his cock, meeting your curious tongue.

His taste explodes in your mouth, making you ravenous as you suck on his pierced head with thirst, your teeth playing with the delicate skin; he tries to call your name when your nails rake down the skin of his tights, tortured sounds escape instead, pulled forth by your teeth pulling on one of the beads of the Magic Cross.

With a lewd pop you let his erection fall against his clenching abs, to give him a modicum of respite before attacking him again.

You rise to your knees, your body framed by his trembling legs, simply to observe your handiwork: the marks blooming on his delicate skin, his pupils completely expanded and fixed on the patch of hair between your legs and on the wetness he can see.

“Shall I sit on your face, or use your cock for all it’s worth?”

For a second Feyd can’t answer, his eyes mesmerized by your hands caressing your body and massaging your breasts: he needs to suck on your nipples, or he’ll go mad!

With disconnected movements he pats his hip and you laugh at the way need robs him of his preternatural coordination.

“Say it. I want to hear it!” You command, your fingers still pinching your nipples.

Feyd licks his lips; the room is so saturated with the smell of sex that he fancies he can still taste you on his lips.

Without breaking eye contact, Feyd growls low in his throat.

“Come and use your cock, little dove. I bet your cunt missed it.”

“I think it’s you who missed me more.” You say, crawling towards him. “What are you going to do while my new piercings will need to heal? Go mad with need?”

The idea of holding you while you get your clit pierced forces a shudder through his body: soon, it is going to be so soon!

“I can always play your arse.” He answers, burning with the need to breach you. 

“You’ll have to beg better than that.” You say, flicking his engorged head and earning a lovely yelp of pain.

You position yourself on his cock, you are both so wet you don’t need any more preparation and your cunt welcomes him with a slight tremble.

Feyd’s hands clench on your hips to help you ride with gentle movements that have your clenching muscles slowly relax around his cock, sucking him in until you’re sitting fully on him, feeling every ridge and modification against the velvet of your walls.

To give him a full view, you put your hands on his raised knees and use him for leverage. Slowly you lift yourself up and down, making sure he sees his cock, drenched in your juices, disappear where you two meet with lewd squelching sounds. 

You’ve thrown your head back, letting your hair touch his legs, and miss the way he looks at your body, how ravenous the sight of your combined comes around his base makes him. 

He groans when you bounce faster on him, beads of sweat roll between your lush breasts and he tries to sit up to suck on them, but a tight squeeze of your hole deprives him of all strength. 

“Tell me what you need, my love”. You ask, sitting firmly on his hips. 

Feyd's hands clench on your hips, your cunt is strangling him so perfectly his eyes cross. 

“You nipples…” He groans, almost in pain. “Let me suck on them!” 

Nonchalant you cup your breasts and lightly pull on the rings, not missing the way Feyd's cock twitches inside of you. 

“Do you want to suck on them? Cover all my skin with your marks?”

Feyd's body shakes under you, the wires in his head crossing with the need to taste you, and to come inside of you. 

“Yes!” He manages to groan, as desperate as a drowning man. 

Taking your sweet time to torment him, you push your weight forward and on your arms, your tits millimeters away from his hungry mouth; before he can latch his lips around one areola, you stop him. 

“What if I make you choose between my breasts and coming, tonight? What's your priority?”

Feyd's fingers stab your hips with the desperation he feels: he needs both! 

“You love my mouth on you, you never come as fast as when I fuck your cunt and pull on your rings.”

Desperate times need desperate moves. 

Pensively you cup your breasts again and start moving slowly, the cacophony of moans and sobs spurring you on. 

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, the powerful heir to his family fortune, reduced to a bitch in heat under you, begging for your body, beautiful in his need of you and of your guidance. 

“I think you’re right, baby. There's nothing better than your cock in my cunt and your lips on my tits.”

You lay on him again, letting his mouth latch around one pert nipple as his hips piston desperately inside of you; as much as you’re trying to control yourself, the precipice of another orgasms is closer and closer, aided by the delicious mods on Feyd's cock against your quivering walls, hitting everywhere all at once, battering all your nerves without mercy while his teeth worry and pull at your pierced nipple: pain and pleasure a blur in your mind and in his. 

Feyd's hips ram faster and faster against your G spot, spurred as he is by your show of dominance and control over him; he can barely contain himself when you squeeze tighter than ever. You haven't ordered him, yet: he can't come without your permission. 

“Now Feyd!” 

Your barked order dissolves any control he has on himself: grabs you and pulls you tight against his hips and comes, triggering your own orgasm. 

You grind against him, prolonging your shared pleasure until it hurts and you have to let his softened cock slip from your cunt. 

You can feel his thick cum slide from your overused cunt and you shudder on him, he simply cages you against his strong body until he feels your body relax. 

His hand goes to your head to knead the long tresses, one of his favorite post sex rituals as you leave butterfly kisses all over the marks on his neck. 

“You OK baby?” You whisper gently against his skin. 

“Yes, stay.” He adds when you try to go to the bathroom. 

“We're sticky, baby.”

“You smell like me. Let me enjoy it.”

You recognize his tone, he needs to be held more to ground himself back into control. 

“I'm not going anywhere. Come here.”

You tell him and he simply puts his head against your chest, letting himself be cradled by you. 

“Let's chill, OK? I missed you.”

He doesn't answer but you can detect how heavy his breathing is: he's going to fall asleep soon and you let yourself follow him. 

[galaxywrites]

Freed Revenants AU, Character Headcanons.

Includes some 18+ headcanons, mdni.

──────────────────────────────

Tomàš

🥀 There are burns scattered across his body which include on his face and his neck. As a result, he cannot smile properly-- nor can he laugh without it sounding low. The most Tomàš can manage is a crooked smile.

🥀 Tomàš is a horrible liar, so he has resorted to being mean with the truth.

🥀 Tomàš is a bottom.

🥀 Tomàš can't sit properly in a chair.

🥀 Tomàš is very good at using chopsticks, which is surprising to Kung Lao and Liu Kang.. until he reminds them that he grew up in a Chinese clan.

🥀 One of the ones in the group that has one of the highest alcohol tolerances, only surpassed by Jade and Kitana.

🥀 Tomàš is not allowed to drink energy drinks anymore. Nightwolf has forbade it.

🥀 Tomàš is a sleepwalker. When he was younger, he used to sleepwalk all over the temple, and he'd always somehow end up waking up in Bi-Han's bed. He never questioned it though.

🥀 Tomàš is the shortest of the group, standing at 5'4. He's also the youngest, having died when he was 24.

🥀 He has a very low singing voice.

🥀 Trans masculine.

🥀 Tomàš can drive (surprisingly)

🥀 Tomàš has achromatopsia, being only able to see in monochrome colors-- so grey, black and white.

Stryker

🪻 Sonya's older brother. Their mother took him when they were little, and moved to New York. She married a police officer, and changed both her and Kurt's last names to Stryker. His stepfather coerced him to join the police force.

🪻 Kurt regularly gives Kabal rocks that he finds interesting.

🪻 Chews his nails when he's nervous. He has to have Kabal or Tomàš pull his hand away from his mouth.

🪻 His favorite song is Dirty Thoughts, which he has sang to Kabal at one point.

🪻 Kurt has a very low alcohol tolerance, but an incredibly high spice tolerance.

🪻 Kurt wakes up November 1 and immediately starts decorating for Christmas. It drives Kabal up the walls.

Liu Kang

🔥 He gets chronic nightmares, always dreaming of the night he and Raiden came back to find most of their allies dying. Now he's mostly paranoid that something will hurt the revenants again.

🔥 Liu Kang sleeps in till noon. Being the champion, he was expected to wake up at dawn and train until dusk. So now, as the emperor of the Netherrealm, Liu Kang sleeps until noon-- or if someone else wakes him.

🔥 Steals other people's (Kung Lao's) clothes.

🔥 Liu Kang can play the kazoo.

🔥 Liu Kang cannot drive (don't let him anywhere near a vehicle please)

Kitana

💙 She sucks at saying tongue twisters. Tomàš had her say one once, and she lifted him in the air with her fans.

💙 She usually always has Jade and Tomàš by her side. Tomàš has become her and Jade's younger brother.

💙 No spice tolerance once so ever.

💙 Kitana needs a nightlight to sleep, so Liu Kang will light a candle before they go to bed.

💙 Tends to crack her knuckles very loudly. She'll do it just randomly, and it will startle at least three people.

Nightwolf

🐺 Nightwolf forgets to eat sometimes. When this happens, usually one of the others will make him a meal and have a glass of water when he wakes up.

🐺 The one responsible for getting the revenants a therapist, because god knows they all need one.

🐺 The oldest of the Earthrealmers, having been 42 when he had died.

🐺 Nightwolf was in a relationship with Fujin when he was still alive, before Shao Kahn's invasion.

🐺 Nightwolf is a top.

Kung Lao

👒 Kung Lao tackles and wrestles people to show affection!

👒 Afraid of doing anything without someone's permission. Too used to living in Liu Kang's shadow, and looking for Raiden's permission.

👒 Nearly drowned in a river once as a child. He has refused to go near any kind of water willingly since.

👒 Great short-term memory, but he has a terrible long-term memory.

👒 Kung Lao is a cat person.

👒 Kung Lao is aromantic.

Jade

💚 She likes to eat straight-up coffee beans. When she does this, she always gets a questioning glance from Kitana, and a look of "hurt" from Stryker, Tomàš and Kabal.

💚 She knocks people over when she hugs them. Poor Tomàš is usually the victim of her hugs, since he didn't get much affection in the Lin Kuei. Kitana knows how to dodge her hugs, and will only hug her if it is something she has initiated.

💚 Jade likes being alone to gather her thoughts, before eventually going to join the others in whatever they've gotten themselves into this time.

💚 Jade is the tallest of the group, standing at 6'4.

💚 Jade has picked up on the habit of telling dad jokes. Everyone else is sick of it.

Kabal

🪽 Kabal doesn't own a single pair of matching socks. It drives Kurt up the walls.

🪽 Being a speedster, Kabal cannot get drunk. And he has tried.

🪽 Kabal listens to 80s music. That is all he listens to.

🪽 Oblivious to any and all romantic interest that is shown to him. It took Stryker three years of flirting, before Kabal realized Kurt was hitting on him.

🪽 Back in the Black Dragon, Kabal almost drank the lethal dosage of caffeine once.

🪽 He was dropped out of a window as a child once.

🪽 He has an extensive comic book collection. Mostly consisting of Marvel and DC comics.

🪽 He ate cement once, when he was still in the Black Dragon. Erron had bet him twenty bucks he wouldn't do it.

[asher-agere]

PJSK agere headcanons!

First post, and it’s Project Sekai of course! I’ve written up headcanons for all the characters (Not the virtual singers), sorted by group, and wanted to share!

₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧ Wonderlands X Showtime ₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧

Tsukasa literally raised himself. He’d love being taken care of. Plus he’d ALWAYS put on shows for his caregiver, expecting praise. He loves any pet names relating to star, “My little star” “Shining like the bright star you are” “My darling star” etc. His caregiver singing is the most calming thing ever, or it’ll amp him up because he wants to sing along. He loves acting out stories! Makes bedtime not so calm, but who could be mad at such a cute little star? Probably regress to like 3-5, old enough to function well (For his shows of course!) but he still has the childlike whimsy

Rui best caregiver. He would come up with games for his little, he’d also make them things- Like oh my baby needs somewhere to store their stuffies? It’s ok he’ll make like a giant dollhouse. Need a playpen? Slide and tunnels included. Ball pit, trampoline. Only the best for his little one. He’s also an amazing chef. He’ll make the best meals ever, or if he’s not cooking he’ll arrange his little one’s plate to look absolutely adorable. Always creative with how he does everything

Emu I see either way. She’d either be the cutest little ever. Like 1-4. Almost always nonverbal and explaining with hand movements instead of words. When she does use words it doesn’t raspy make sense. Like, “How are you feeling today?” “Super wonderhoy wuper duper!” Like you can make sense of it but half of the words aren’t real words. Loves her stuffies, cuddle piles for the win. Or she’d be the most fun caregiver ever. Never letting her baby cry. She’s amazing at getting a smile back on that baby’s face if they’re sad, but if they’re sick or something she feels sort of at a loss. She still makes it all better! It just takes wayyy to long and her poor baby seems so uncomfortable

Nene again either way- She’d regress to a decently big age, like 4-7 but be nonverbal. Not because she can’t talk, she just doesn’t want to. Lots of naps and video games. She’d be a bit panicky as a caregiver? Like always worried about messing up and stuff like that. But she’d be so gentle and soft. The best cuddles. Always caring so carefully for her little one

ੈ✩‧₊˚ Nightcord at 25:00 ✩‧₊˚

Kanade would regress fairly big. Like 3-6. Lots of crying but quiet crying. She always wants to be working on something, coloring books are preferred. Very responsible, she can use a big kid cup and everything (Does need a straw though). Hates overly childish things. Don’t give her that overly cute stuff. Wants like old comfy clothes and stuffies. Stuffies that look like. Realistic? Like a cat stuffie needs to be a cat color. Give her a purple cat and she’ll hate it. Monochrome or dull colors like pastels, nothing like neon.

Mafuyu is a baby. Like 1-3. She doesn’t express her needs at all, no crying, no tantrums. She’ll respond to questions but won’t express a need. Like if you ask if she’s hungry she’ll say yes, but she’ll never ask for food. She expresses things on a temperature scale, warm is good, cold is bad. It’s the only way she understands

Ena regresses pretty big 4-6. DRAWING. She expects her caregiver to draw with her, wants her drawings hung up, all that. Give her praise she’s a happy baby. She gets really bratty sometimes though, tantrums are very common. Sometimes she needs to be set down for a nap even if she says she’s fine

Mizuki is just a sweet little girl. Gender affirming nicknames are golden “my good girl” “baby girl” “princess” etc. everything cute, everything pink. Outfits are very important, loves playing dress. Wide age range 2-6. Not embarrassed at all once her caregiver knows, but before that she’ll hide it like her life depends on it. Needs reassurance her caregiver won’t leave constantly

⊚⃝⸜(｡∵｡) ⋆｡°✩ Vivid Bad Squad ⊚⃝⸜(｡∵｡) ⋆｡°✩

An could go either way honestly. Like she regresses but not often. When she does it’s because she’s overwhelmed with self doubt. Regresses fairly big 3-6. She needs praise all the time. If her caregiver makes mistakes sometimes that honestly helps. Makes her feel less behind. For example she loves singing, and she’ll pick songs not in her caregivers vocal range to hear their voice crack

Akito overworks himself and usually drops forcefully. Better watch him or he’ll drop in public, my man does not monitor his own mental state. He’s a big boy like 4-6. Mega brat, insists on having his way. Refuses to do anything productive. Walk to the kitchen for a snack? Nuh uh his caregiver can get it for him. Need to go take a bath? Maybe later. No shame whatsoever either. He can throw an hour long tantrum and won’t even apologize

Toya’s just a baby, 2-5. He’ll try doing work, don’t let him. He’s not allowed near the piano. He’ll get really upset if he doesn’t play something perfectly. Baby needs spoiled. Sweet snacks, a bunch of stuffed animals. He collects pacifiers. He needs them all. REFUSES to let Akito pick his outfits. He will not be looking like a fashion disaster (I love Akito but the three jackets-). Also Toya has a surprisingly good vocabulary. He talks like a big kid then you ask his age and he’s like “Uhm. 3”

Kohane is a caregiver through and through. She’s willing to go along with just about anything her little one wants. She’d not great at offering her own ideas though. Always good at giving options “This or that” “Point to what you want” etc. She will learn ALL the lullabies to sing to get little one. Her voice is so soft and gentle it’ll help anyone sleep. Really bad at saying no, even when she knows she has to. Her little one wants to eat an entire bag of chocolate chips? Better look away from those puppy dog eyes before she finds herself saying yes

.☘︎ ݁˖ More More Jump .☘︎ ݁˖

Haruka I see as a caregiver??? Like yes she overworks herself but like. Idk I just can’t see her regressing really. Always performs concerts for her little one and lets them participate. Plans them a regression schedule and activities. Snacks are prepped for easy access. Always has a bottle or sippy cup ready to grab and go. Carries a pacifier just in case. She’s so responsible

Minori is a caregiver. She’s her little’s biggest fan ever. Anything her little does it met with applause and praise. Loves hanging up their drawings, keeps one in her wallet even. She’s really creative in making up stories for stuffed animals to act out but she can literally only do one voice- She’s so bad at voice acting but she tries

Airi I feel like is just a sweet little thing, 2-4. Mostly non-verbal BUT she will talk and talk and talk for her stuffed animals. Amazing at all the different voices. Doesn’t wanna sing, just hums and dances. She loves sweet snacks but gets anxious it’ll ruin her figure. She likes listening to music and making up dances, but really really likes it if her caregiver dances and she can copy them

Shizuku is a tiny baby, 1-3. No thoughts in her head, just baby. Non verbal but will babble her caregivers ear off. She doesn’t do anything the requires thinking, no games, do dancing, no drawing. She will color, she will watch shows, she loves listening to stories and watching her caregiver. Also LOVES nap. This baby is a napper. Give her a bottle of warm milk and she’s out

✩♬ ₊˚. Leo/Need ✩♬ ₊˚.

Ichika is a tiny one, 1-4. She’s a nervous baby, never wants to be a burden. She cries a lot and has the sweetest softest little voice. Very clingy, she loves getting attention. If her caregiver seems upset sometimes she’ll force herself out of headspace because she feels like she needs to comfort them. This leads to yucky side effects like headaches and sudden uncontrollable drops

Saki is a big girl! 3-5, she wants people around. Play dates are her favorite thing ever. Loves anything she can do with people, games, coloring, singing, you name it. Loves messing with her synth settings to make funny noise’s. She always wants to go places and do things but her caregiver has to stop her because people outside can be judgmental ):

Shiho is tiny and more consistent with her age range, 2-3. Mostly nonverbal but pretty good vocabulary, just chooses not to talk. She’s pretty self sufficient, but she appreciates the help so much. A simple thing like her caregiver holding her bottle for her means so much to her. She mainly just wants to go to sleep immediately, not really one for just hanging out in headspace

Honami is a wide wide range, 2-6. She always tries taking care of her caregiver in the cutest little ways. Feeding them her food, offering them her drinks, always wrapping them in blankets. Likes playing doctor a lot. Overall just a happy girl. If she’s sad she cries a bunch but praise her and she’ll be all smiles soon enough!

Sorry if this is OOC! I thought I did a pretty good job, but I haven’t read all the stories yet. Might do this with BSD next? If I do that’ll be in multiple parts though…

[tegaki-desuno]

Sushi / Gunkanmaki Natto [寿司 軍艦巻き 納豆]

🌸 Today's featured illustration 🍒 https://regeld.com/desi/2019/07/17/post-5970/ (250104-1427) mk

[unhinged-summer-fun]

the foolish heart's guide to not repeating history - chapter 7

Pairing: Dream of the Endless "Morpheus" x F!Reader

A/N: Thanks so much for keeping up with this fic! We have one more part I'm posting tomorrow - the epilogue - and it'll be finished! I might upload my other Sandman fic next, and might start a Din Djarin fic I've had in the chamber for more than a year. Who knows. I might even post common grounds. Happy Holidays everybody!

series masterlist

chapter 7: a valediction forbidding mourning

“Can I kiss you, darling?”

It had been thousands of years since you’d been kissed. It isn’t like riding a bike or breathing. It’s one of those things you actually can forget how to do.

And you’d never kissed anybody but Dream.

The time between those beautiful moments was so long that each time always felt like the first, and the last always felt like the final.

But here and now, this kiss feels like no other.

Pressing closer to him, your mouths meet in a nervous, shy touch, just the slipping step before the fall. He’s so warm against you, the sunbaked kind of warm which permeates the Dreaming. Of course, he’d be as warm as this. Gasping a little at the brief brush of lips, you wrap your arms around him and kiss him again, deeper this time.

His hands rise to the back of your neck and the small of your back. His lips, soft yet fervent, burn with a desperate need to be closer, to merge his soul with yours. It’s a kiss that speaks volumes in a tongue of its own. Fluency has its perks: you know him, and somehow, he knows you.

A soft groan leaves his throat, a deep, shuddering exhale, and it rattles your self-control. You answer with a soft whimper of your own, hands clutching his cloak with primal urgency. His grip flexes against you, as rattled as you are.

“You’ve flipped my life upside down,” Dream breathes against your mouth. His words come in stilted, stunted bursts, interrupted by the unchallenged urge to kiss you again. “I do not… I do not dream freely in my realm. Naught for one day in a century. I have never—mmm, I have never known this feeling. You make me dream here and now. Right now.”

Your heart flips in your chest, and tears burn in your eyes. “You made me able to dream. And all I ever wanted was to dream of you. That’s all I ever wanted.”

He hushes you, his hands coming to cup your face. The position keeps you close but allows for words to pass coherently. His eyes burn with starlit intensity, an angel’s fervor. “You made yourself dream. I simply suggested you could.”

“How about we say we both had a hand in it?” you compromise with a huff, yanking him back in to kiss you again.

His laughter brings song from the crystals hanging around you.

Some kissing and a meal aren’t all he intends to show you tonight. He brings you onto an outdoor balcony, the longest one you’ve ever seen. It loops and whorls in on itself like a mind-boggling puzzle, but the only thing making you feel dizzy is him. “Do you like to dance, darling?”

“I’m sure I’d be terrible if you tried to dance with me.”

“That’s not what I asked,” he says, a little teasing.

Your face heats some. “I’d like to like dancing. I’ve never actually tried with anyone else. There was never anyone who wanted to dance with me.”

He stops you both at the admission, a look of repressed fury passing over his features before smoothing out again. His depth of feeling makes your heart race more than his control over it. “Never dreamed, never danced. What a gift I’d get to see you do both today.”

“You’re awful presumptuous,” you grumble to yourself.

Dream leans against the balcony rail with a self-satisfied grin.

The night sky of the Dreaming is much more colorful than an average night in the waking world, and this fact is made more stark by the study in monochromes before you. The stars outline his form like he belongs among them.

You’re sure he does.

“I have seen the Fates weaving strings and stories, strands of life. Do you touch fate like that?”

It’s a valid, if surprising, question, but the Hum is all too excited for you to answer. You shake your head. “It’s more like a song I can’t tune out. I call it the Hum. It tells me what shall be or the truth of every question asked of me.”

“Each time?” he asks, smile dropping a little. Realizing he’d just asked a question, he winces.

“Most of the time. I’m used to it, though. Don’t worry about me.”

“We’re past the point of you telling me not to worry about you,” he says, inclining his head and reaching for you. You join him on the rail, facing the castle and counting the windows. Like this, you’re almost in a mirror of how you’d stood on the castle wall, watching sky-pirates.

His nose gently brushing over your temple gives the scene a much different light.

“Can you ever tune out the Hum?” He asks, voice tickling your ear.

“With effort, or with peace.”

“How do you find peace, darling?”

You shiver a little, but not from the cold. That’s the third time he’s called you that.

Destiny calls you star-treader. Death calls you meddler. Destruction has called you countless terrible endearments. None before have called you darling.

“I find it daunting.”

He groans a little in annoyance. Were you more familiar, you’re sure he would have bitten your ear. You giggle at his frustration but relent.

“I find it in the morning light in my kitchen. In my friends’ laughter. When cats come up and demand attention. I find peace when I think of belonging. When I sit in the feeling that nothing will move me from the place I’ve made for myself. Most often, I feel peace when I’m beside you. The Hum sings for you.”

He takes in your words, your confession that lay in the space between breaths and the things left cautiously unsaid. You admitted already that you love him—many times to many people. You need not speak the words again unless he asks for them. He does not need to speak them back to you for you to hear them.

“Can you listen for a specific fate in the Hum?”

“I could. Why?”

“What about mine?”

The Endless rarely, if ever, let themselves fall under the eyes of the Fates. The first Despair had loved the Fates passionately, and her heart had spelled her doom for it. Hubris, perhaps. But you’d only listened for Dream’s fate when it was too late. By then, the mournful lament of a grief-stricken father had led him straight to a lonely ledge in Nightmare. And then onward to the End of the Story, where he still remains.

Dream catches your expression when you cast your eyes out—not to the north, where that ledge stands, but to the west, the twilit lands of the Soft Places and what lay at the edge of the edge. “Do they frighten you? The Shifting Zones?”

“No. I’m not frightened of anything in the Dreaming.” This one, at least. “I am frightened that things will still end the same way, for all I’ve done to try to outsmart the universe. I fear that no matter the turns taken and the moves made, I’ll still lose.”

A hand comes up, and his finger and thumb turn your head from that terrible compass point in your grief. He tilts your head up to look at him.

“And what if you’re wrong? What if things are different this time?”

He’s got you there. You smile nervously.

Everybody guides their own fate, girl.

Live in the now (or at least the soon).

Assume everything will turn out for the best.

Trust all joy.

You take a steadying breath. And you listen.

It is jarring to listen for the faint, wailing notes of grief and to be met with swelling strings and complex melodies of a vibrant life. Multiple instruments that sometimes clash and clang over one another all manage to find the rhythm together—drums, guitars, and a wordless, ancient voice that sings in laughter. Among the discordant chaos, you hear one riff triumph, a sweeping romantic melody that brings a smile to your face and makes you shed a tear.

“That bad?”

“No! It’s just… it’s happy. I think your fate is happy.”

“Then why cry?”

“I’m asking myself the same thing,” you grouse.

Gentle lips press against your cheek, jaw, nose—he’s kissing away the tears. Your face burns.

“Hm,” he hums thoughtfully. “I think we may not be even anymore.”

“Quick, embarrass yourself.”

“Another time, darling.” He brings his hand up to rest at the small of your back. “Come with me. Have you been to the Gallery?”

“This is still technically my first day in your Dreaming. No, I haven’t seen the Gallery.” You cast a mournful look back at the reflectory.

“I can take you back up there anytime you like. Every night, if you want it.”

Once inside, you realize how chilly it had been on the balcony. Luckily, Dream has led you to a sitting room of sorts. A fire crackles merrily some feet away. Beneath a grand ceiling showing a tiled, glittering starscape is a room that defies what you thought you knew about the universe.

He asks you a question, but you’re not paying much attention. You’re too busy with the revelation that this is his Endless Gallery.

Where there was chill, there is warmth. Where there was stiff formality, there is comfort and worn familiarity. Though there’s a little dust among the stone flags, plush rugs show signs of being well-walked, the same wear shown on the armchairs atop them. This is no dank, impersonal dungeon. This is a parlor for a king ready to receive guests at all times.

A small end table shows a book half-read, a novel by an author—a dreamer—gone too soon. You wonder why it hasn’t been reshelved in the Library downstairs, but Dream unwittingly answers your question before it’s asked.

“My sister likes to come here to read when her duties allow it. She and Lucienne have something of a book club.”

“That’s lovely,” you say, looking up at him with a smile. “I’m so sorry, you asked me something.”

“Would you like more wine?”

“Perhaps one more glass. I had a drink before I came here. Or well, he had a drink.”

“Oh?”

He hands you your glass, fingers brushing yours with a heart-pounding gentleness.

“Not for any want of courage,” you assure. “For want of clarity. And closure.”

He leads you once more to where he wants you, this time to a different cluster of settees.

It provides a good view of the sigils on the wall: a book, an ankh, a mask, a heart, a ring, and a nebula.

Wait.

“Why’s your sigil like that?” You ask, leaning forward.

Typically displayed in stark austerity with the long spine-tusk pointed down, his helm is flipped like a tarot card in its frame.

“Consider it my… phone off the hook.” He drinks and considers you instead of the object of your interest. “I’m still reachable should they need me. I’m just asking that they call on someone else first.”

“That’s not a phone off the hook. That’s a sock on a doorknob.”

He sputters into his wine, and you grin a little viciously. He’s so often comported and collected, and to see him be surprised, made to look a little silly, it’s nothing you’d ever seen. You receive a withering look you can only cackle at in return.

“What clarity were you seeking?” he asks, sprawled out in his armchair like it’s as good as his throne. You suppose that for him, any chair’s a throne in the Dreaming.

“Yours.”

He goes still. The softly ticking grandfather clock in the corner ceases. The wine which had been settling in his glass suspends itself against one side. Even the fire freezes, a strange not-heat rippling from the hearth. It’s just for a moment, but the tension remains high in the room even after time resumes.

“And what did I have to say?”

Earlier that day, 3000 years from now.

The universe was colder than you remembered. The forbidding nausea of not belonging felt sharp against the shored-up walls of your heart, and as you stepped onto the eastern shores of the Dreaming, you couldn’t fathom why you ever endured this sensation for as long as you had.

You set a hand on the Gates of Horn, but they did not open for you. “I entreat Dream of the Endless.”

“You have returned,” a voice said from behind you.

He’d matured a little. He possessed none of the unquestionable aged authority his previous self had, but now he no longer looked like a boy.

“I have.”

“You said we would not meet again.”

“I said we may not speak again.”

A smile threatened the corner of his mouth, but like most things, he did not let it master him. “As you say. What is it you ask for?”

“I wish to go to the lands at the borders of your realm.”

This time, a frown manifested. “The Shifting Zones?”

“Yes. There’s someone there I want to speak with. I think… no, I know this is my final visit here.”

Some unconscious anxiety filled his expression, but again, it did not surface. You knew this face as much as you didn’t. “That is a shame. But I give you leave to walk my realm as long as you wish. Should you find trouble, you may call on me.” Something in his voice begged you to find trouble just for that eventuality.

But you did not respond to his yearning. After all, it was not him you were here for.

The Gates creaked open, and you rented a horse from the small village beside the gate. She was a creature of darkest night, with gray flames for her mane and glowing purple eyes that struck fear into all who saw them. Her name was Marissa.

You did not look toward the palace, and you did not look back at the Dream King behind you. In this universe, not looking back is the only true blessing to bestow.

You were amazed by how long it took for you to find him this time, considering. 

In the desert, whispers of verse in a voice you heard long ago found your ears. Time was always strange in the Dreaming, but this was just eerie.

If thou be’st born to strange sights Things invisible to see, Ride ten thousand days and nights, Til age snow white hairs on thee, Thou, when thou return’st, wilt tell me, All strange wonders that befell thee…

“I am not riding for twenty-seven years,” you grumbled to yourself, urging Marissa further across the dunes.

The land was perpetually cast in twilight here. The purple-orange skies brought with them a chill more profound than the one you’d received upon arrival.

More verse came upon the wind, from a southern direction.

I long to talk with some old lover’s ghost Who died before the god of love was born. I cannot think that he, who then lov’d most, Sunk so low as to love one which did scorn. But since this god produc’d a destiny, And that vice-nature, custom, lets it be, I must love her, that loves not me.

“That way, Marissa.” The mare huffed, but charged into the worded wind.

You followed the poetry through the shifting dunes, calls of come live with me, and be my love and the like.

You trudged through the dark dunes for what was really only an hour but felt like ages, frustration finding you with every passed traveler who wasn’t the one you were looking for. A laugh on the wind, rare and achingly familiar, responded in harmony to your frustrated cursing.

Two could play at this game.

“Thy firmness makes my circle just,” you recited aloud, feeling more than a little silly for it. “And makes me end where I begun.”

When you crossed the next dune, you found a house settled before a long pond, the perpetual sunset nestling against the ocean horizon. Fir trees limned the shore, and long grasses softened the sand. 

The End of the Story looked just like it had the first time you came here, searching for life while fleeing a funeral.

“What does that mean?” Dream asks when it’s clear you’re about to move on.

Your face drains of color. Oh. You’d never had to admit this to anyone. Even Destruction doesn’t know. If he did, he’d probably take up his old mantle just to dole out fraternal justice on your behalf.

“It was not the first time I’d come there, and when I had, I stayed for much longer than I did today.”

3000 years ago.

Things happened very fast in the days leading up to and following the death of Dream of the Endless. Within a week, things had gone from business as usual to end of days, and no one made it through unscathed. When he ended, and the next began, the entire universe felt it. There were no reports in the papers; nobody spoke about it in the streets, but heads hung low, and all who dreamed knew that he had gone.

I did not dream. And I could not join the masses of those who accepted his departure.

I stayed for the wake, that strange vigil billions took that night. I saw Dream’s lovers, weeping for who may have known him best, loved him most. I saw Hob Gadling brawling in the throes of denial. I could commiserate. When you lose the one person you never thought it possible to lose, you’d sooner fight against the truth than take it.

At dawn in the Dreaming, my favorite time of day, the funerary hall opened its doors, but I ran in the opposite direction. I ran to the Shifting Zones out past the western edge of Nightmare. I ran into the sands of Taklamakan, the desert ominously named If You Go In, You Won’t Come Out Again.

And for so very long, I walked and wandered and was made to be lost. There were no paths for a being like myself. I could not see the way that dreams and nightmares took through the desert, and I never saw another dreamer out there—I assume they were all at the funeral but me. I had a greater understanding of the weeping, lost dreamers who had stepped off the paths that lay before them in the palace, how cruelly they were treated and doomed to walk an endless, unfamiliar lifetime with no relief.

It took an echo on the wind for me to find a single direction, the last words he ever told me. “We do what we do because of who we are. If we did otherwise, we would not be ourselves.”

The entire speech was long enough that I could race over one last dune, and atop that dune, I saw the End of the Story. The land lives in perpetual twilight, just before the stars start to shine best and after the sun shines its last.

When I saw him there, he did not recognize me. He did not wear his vestments, only what he died in and a wary expression. It felt like meeting him for the first time, all over again. I wept in his arms though he could not recognize me, and the sorrow I had at his passing would not be allayed in the slightest.

I took it upon myself to take care of him and ignore the rest of the universe as it ignored me. I realized over time that he had begun to suffer the same affliction as me—he no longer belonged. No wonder he was so dazed at first. He’d always belonged before then, and now to walk through the sand and leave no footprints, to go through every day alone with no sign you’d been there at all…

I did pity him, to be honest. As I pitied myself, and he pitied me, and—well. You get it.

He would serve me wine—only white, as that was what he’d allowed himself at the End of the Story. He would read me the poetry he’d brought with him. He would kiss me and make love to me like I was a beloved wife. Like I was the only one he wanted. Or at least I told myself it was that way.

I stayed there, pretending to myself—lying to myself, really—that he was as alive as I was and that it was suddenly alright that neither of us belonged here because I had him, finally.

He’d said long ago—him, not this shade of him—that the price of getting what you want is getting what you once wanted. I wanted him to love me with the same desperation I’d loved him. I wanted to live a life with him. But he was dead. And I was alive. And any love and happiness I thought I’d gained from that was a delusion. I wasn’t really getting what I wanted. He was dead and could not love me.

The years passed in that house like Sisyphus on a mountainside, and the thrill of him suffered the custom of reality. Time was still passing for me, though it remained frozen or intangible in the Soft Places. I’d exiled myself along with him, declaring guilt just to live out this last sentence with him.

And eventually, like always, I let him break my heart one final time.

I’d spent so long believing, foolishly, that this was a changed man I called my love. He’d changed, yes, just a little bit, but not enough to satisfy the Fates and not enough to stop everything he’d brought down on himself.

I was living in hell, I realized. I had willingly walked into hell—ran there—and told myself it was heaven. I suffered his wine and his poetry. I braved never feeling the sand beneath my feet, the stagnant pond, and the unmoving dusk beyond it. I endured speaking without being heard. I hated it all, and that’s all he ever wanted. And eventually, I hated him.

Yet, when I told him I was leaving, he looked like he was going to argue. He looked as if it would trouble him. He looked as if he understood that I was not leaving him for something, I was leaving him for anything else.

But he did not speak. He simply bowed his head at me and let me leave.

When I left the desert the way I came, by some grace, I made it through.

The funeral had just ended, though I spent what seemed like seventy years at the End of the Story. I caught sight of Destruction on his way out, and he looked troubled. Like he was grieving for me. I met the new Dream of the Endless, and in an attempt to comfort me, he tried to show me an image of the man whom I’d just spent decades languishing with. Whom I’d been losing every second of every day and never knowing.

“I made the decision that I needed a change, so I visited the fourth Free House in an attempt to catch up on those years I lost in the desert. But it didn’t work. I skipped out on my tab, and honestly, I was so embarrassed I ran to a different universe entirely.”

“Ours?” Dream asks, looking a little paler than he had before.

“Maybe I will have that glass of wine.”

“Why don’t we switch to coffee?” he suggests instead. Dream of the Endless, drinking caffeine. What a concept. The warmth of the drink in your hands grounds you here from the chill of your memory.

“Eventually, I did get to this universe. I spent what I’m calling a year abroad in the first and second attempts at the universe—and really, being in a universe devoid of Time himself was boggling. Felt like seconds and eons had gone by when I eventually walked into Destiny’s Garden here three thousand years ago and… well, the rest is history.”

“But you went back,” he says, rotating his coffee cup in his hands. “To the End of that Story.”

You cannot see your reflection in the coffee cup. You’re not sure if you want to. “I did.”

A warm breeze caressed your hair with a lover’s touch. Your heart hurt from the poetry on the wind in the voice of a love long gone, but you walked forward anyway. You crossed a brook as clear as crystal, stretching out to the pond beyond. An elaborately carved fishing pole lay in the grass on the golden sands of the riverbank; the silken line and silver hooks glinted like treasures in a castle far from here. The pond was still serene, not even an echo or a ripple upon its surface. You remembered that once, when you tried to toss yourself in, it didn’t move at all.

Upon reaching the door, you looked back at your route, but the sand was undisturbed. Sighing was a breath wasted.

It was as it ever will be.

The door of the small cottage is unlocked, and there is a fire in the hearth. It is pastoral and quiet. There are no small trinkets and treasures on the windowsills, nor pots of paint and ink on the desk. No instrument sits at rest in the corner, waiting to be played. The one who dwells here does not make anymore.

There is a shelf on the wall holding five books of poetry and nothing else.

What stopped you in your tracks was seeing the table set for two.

Your heart stuttered and stopped in your chest at the sight of him. He looked nervous, or as nervous as he would ever let himself be around you. He didn’t wear a cloak or a robe, as you’d grown accustomed to elsewhere, elsewhen. He simply stood in worn dark gray jeans and nothing else. His hair was still a mess, and his eyes still took your breath away.

These eyes were depthless. (Endless.) Within them shone one single star each, in the shape of the one that’s finally faded from the sky outside. You could never divine their depths, not then and certainly not now.

“You’re here.”

His voice hit you like a physical blow, and you had to lean back on the doorframe to recover. Tears burned in your eyes and choked your throat, grief rising higher and higher until the Hum screamed against the roaring in your ears, screamed at you to breathe.

A gentle hand brushed a tear from your face.

“I did not know I could bring such distress from but two words.”

Your laugh was choked and wet with sorrow. “You could bring it from saying nothing at all.”

He did not apologize or explain himself, instead leading you to sit with him like you’d said nothing at all. It was a familiar sting, having his interest but not his attention. (His soul, and never his heart.)

He poured you a glass of wine—white, as he preferred it. You did not touch it. You did not look at it.

“I admit I was, waiting for you,” he said with a sigh, taking his seat. “I thought you’d return to me sooner.”

“Time in the Shifting Zones is relative, Morpheus.”

He caught your intent if nothing else. Calling him thus separated him from another in your mind, in your heart. He said nothing about it, though, the momentary surprise draining from him as it always had. He picked up his wine, and you marveled, a little nauseous, at the blank skin on his hand and wrist. He doesn’t even know the joys he could have had. 

“I feel the time apart between you and me. Some three thousand years, I wager.”

“I moved house.” Your smile tasted bitter. “To a different universe.”

Interest cocked his head to the side for a second. Your heart flipped as it always did at times like this; was this the moment he’d ask about you? About what you’ve been up to? How you are? “You which beyond that heaven which was most high / have found new spheres, and of new lands can write.”

No. He was recalling poetry.

“I have.” You resisted then gave in to the temptation to roll your eyes. “Do you still only have John Donne to read out here at the End of the Story?”

“I thought you loved John Donne.”

Memories—flashes of passionate, flimsy excuses for poetry recitations in that bed right over there—blitzed through your mind as underhanded and spiteful as the Hum.

“I loved you,” you said firmly, flattening both hands on the table and looking at him straight-on. “You loved that I loved you. And you… I never got back a scrap of what I gave.”

His eyes continued to betray nothing, but his lips pursed and he dipped his head a little. Beneath the mop of black hair, you almost imagined blue eyes there, but even these subtle faces were too little for the Dream you wanted most.

“I do love you. It was never enough to bring you joy. At least none that lasted.”

“You did bring me joy,” you insisted, heart crashing atop broken glass at his admission. “It wasn’t joy I needed. I needed grief and reality. I may not have dreamed until now, but you inspired a bitter and frightening nightmare within me: the hope of belonging and letting myself be loved. A terrifying dream where I could be happy. That dream could never come true here.”

You sobbed quietly, angrily, when he spoke as if he had not heard you.

“My end gave me a perspective I did not appreciate until now. Now, I do not belong within my own realm.”

You bit off the angry and sarcastic apologies for his suffering. “I truly lit myself on fire to keep you warm.”

“You gave me different comforts than you credit yourself with. I did and do not require a dream of it to know what it was to belong.”

“I could not grieve you when you stood before me.”

The stars in his eyes dimmed a little, the only sign he’d heard you, until—“That is why you left.”

“You can only begin to grieve when you let go of wanting to be in pain. I lived in agony here, holding you and loving you in the twilight. My pain only ever began to lessen when I left. When I let you go. I could not let myself continue looking back to see that you were there with me, dooming the both of us over and over again, when it never had to be that way. I had to walk away knowing you’d never follow.”

He was quiet, stoic, and unresponsive to your bleeding heart.

“So you have not returned to stay.”

Unbelievable.

“I have a home to return to. Promises and appointments to keep.”

He went still, but the world was already still here. His emotions had no bearing on the Dreaming anymore, nor did they have any power over you. “With whom?”

“Does it matter?” you challenged.

“I would have…”

“Been better, to love her better? How she deserved and deserve?”

He was shocked you knew what he’d been about to say. You’d put it together after Destruction had told you his tale. Dream had left the End of the Story for a last chance to return to his realm and make a difference. A last chance to snag you on your way out, more likely.

“Regrets and change are for the living, Morpheus. And love doesn’t spare hurt from the heart just because you tried your best. Neither of us tried our best. We were at the disadvantage of cruel circumstances, and we’d both given up, though it didn’t look it at the time.”

He took the condemnation, the reproach, with grace—or he didn’t take it at all. You missed the teasing tones you knew that voice could make, but that Dream was a universe away and waiting for you.

“I love and loved you,” you said softly, rising from the table. He joined you, towering over you by over a foot. “But for the sake of my heart, I must only do the latter.”

He held a hand out, confusing you.

“For my heart’s sake, will you allow me one last walk?”

The long-forgotten feeling of yes! He’s heard me! does not dispel the knowledge that you should have said no. You’d said all you came here to say; you’d strengthened your conviction for it.

He saw your hesitation and entreated you again. “Tis some bravery that since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.”

A mercy, bittersweet and terrible. He was asking for one piece of you to take with him in a universe where neither of you belongs. 

You took his hand and ventured to the shore, where neither of you made a single footprint in the sand.

You gave him the piece of yourself that would not serve your new life: the love you once had for him. It was a dooming thing, to give another what they once wanted. You would not dwell on its absence again, comforted by the idea of him having company with the one thing he thought he wanted to have after his death. “If unfit for tombs and hearse our legend be, it will be fit for verse,” he murmured, kissing your hand once before stepping back.

And so you let him go.

Dream’s face is not expressionless but looks it. He’s simply a man stuck between a few thousand feelings at once. You’d kept your eyes on the fire while recounting your afternoon excursion, but he’d never looked away, rapt and attentive to every word. Apologies tumble from your lips, around a hoarse voice.

“I told you I hoped I’d never go back there. That’s still true, and I feel like it was a mistake to do it at all…”

He shakes his head, stopping you in your tracks. “Finding true closure long after we’ve lost someone isn’t something much of us have the opportunity for. You’re more than justified in seeking it where you can.”

“I’m glad I said goodbye. I don’t think he appreciated it, but I can live with that.”

The smile he gives you is as pained as it is grateful. “And did you find your clarity, my darling?”

Your heart flips in your chest at the endearment. “I believe I did. My head’s on straight, and my heart is lighter. Didn’t even need to visit Lady Siduri this time.”

“In that case…” he stands, holding his hand out to you. “I’d like to take you somewhere.”

Once you stand, he presses you close with one hand against the small of your back. He’s close enough to kiss, so you do. “Hold your breath. Make a wish. Count to three.”

“Close my eyes, too?” you ask.

He smiles and leans in closer. “Never.”

And he sweeps you away to the stars.

Within the depths of his cloak of stars, Dream never lets you go. You look around in awe, and the Hum fades out. The cosmos glitter around you, singing the sphere-songs the metaphysicists never got to hear in their time. The purple-blue nebulae, crystalline comets, and vast starfields all clamber for your attention, but you notice the warmth through it all.

You know the frigid chill of the Wind That Blows Between Worlds and the frightening falling sensation that comes from traveling from realm to realm. You know the harshest, most jagged edges of existence like the back of your hand. You know the cold, silent void of space.

This is not that.

These are the stars of no sky, constellations unseen but for his eyes. The heavenly bodies here seem brighter and more vibrant. The song they sing is jubilant and comforting. These stars do not give off the cold light of outer space. They are warm.

A shooting star bursts forth, skimming by the pair of you suspended in the stars. You let your hand brush through the sparkles it leaves behind. Grinning, you turn back to Dream. He still hasn’t moved, holding you against his body like there’s nowhere else he’d rather have you.

“We’re in your cloak,” you say, giddy.

He smiles. “We are. You know this place well?”

Quick as a river, he turns you in his arms so he can see the same view you can. Leaning back against him, you hold onto his arms wrapped around you. “I’ve been somewhere similar.” The comparisons attempt to reel out before you, and you let them dissipate without another thought. 

“I have never brought anybody to this plane of the Dreaming.” Nerves color his voice, and you turn as much as possible in the hold he’s got you in. Reaching up, you smooth out the tension in his face, unfurrowing his brow and thumbing away the frown on his lips. He almost melts when you touch his cheek, and his hands hold you even tighter. He kisses what part of you he can, which thrills you endlessly.

“Ever?” you ask, recalling all the times he’d brought you here to… well. All the times he’d brought you here. You let the memories fall away, and stay in the now.

“None except you.” He takes your hand in his, moving the other to your waist as he spins you in place. You land in his arms again, but this time, you’re dancing. The song of the stars is not the easiest to dance to, but he finds a rhythm and begins a waltz just for the two of you.

“Is there a reason why?” you ask after some while, grateful for the Hum’s silence.

Most of your dancing until this point has been him pulling you through different moves: spinning you out and back in, ducking you under his arm, and dipping you over nothing but stars. He reels you back in by the waist, making you laugh in delight. The stars flare a little brighter and stay that way. “I was waiting. For the one I wanted to dance with forever, up here among my most precious stars.”

You rest your head on his chest, grateful you’ve stopped moving for a while. You like being this close to him, tucked tight between his arms and your own. “I’m glad you have someone to dance with now.”

His hand buries itself in your hair, surprisingly tender for the passion it ignites. “I’ve danced with many in my life. I’ve had ample opportunity to do it badly, and do it well. Something always told me I’d find the right partner one day.”

“But I’ve never danced. And… I’m afraid I’ll do it wrong.”

“Then I shall take my time with you… if you’ll have me.”

EPILOGUE

[asklesbianonceler]

Yapping about Jolán and Anna

Because them being Nox feels extremely important but slept on especially because the Nox invented the fingerslayer blade

IM WELCOME TO OTHERS INPUT HERE! I'D LOVE TO CHAT THEORIES! I'm just shooting shit at the fan below the cut

Like I'm not committing to anything cause I am still cooking. I'm not even cooking. I'm at the grocery store with the vague concept of a meal in mind but I don't know what to buy yet. I'm trying to bake a cake but I'm in the soda aisle.

So to start they are definitely Nox, monochrome in skin tone, wear and use things with "night" and are stated to be born "deep underground"

The other interesting thing about them is that there were more than just Jolán and Anna at some point in the land of shadow. There was clearly at least one more, hence the corpse in Bonny Gaol but potentially others that were likely there with a purpose.

Their fingerprinted armor is interesting. They all wear this. It doesn't seem specific to them working for Ymir and also is created to keep them in the dark. The only other specific fingerprint things are frenzy related. The fingerprint shield also says "Part of the tomb of an ancient god, the Readerless Fingers relayed their message through these imprints, said to be the very seeds from which frenzy first sprouted"

I'm not connecting them to frenzy but I may be connecting them to this ancient god? Maybe? The Nox had to make the finger slayer blade out of SOME GOD'S DEAD BODY!!!!

I'm going full Pepe Silvia tbh.

So we know the Nox do not like the Greater Will, not even just the Golden Order, they hated the Greater Will before it was cool to do that. They wanted to harm the greater will or one of its vessels so they made the fingerslayer blade from a corpse. The corpse of what? People have drawn the connection between the fingerslayer blades appearance to the sacred relic sword which is also a spine double helix. So it was likely the corpse of one of these vessels. Potentially the aforementioned or one not even important enough to mention

Then they were punished and cast underground, away from the stars that they worshipped and saw their fate in.

From the game "(the Nox) were banished deep underground, forced to live under a false night sky in eternal anticipation of the coming age of stars, and of their Lord of Night"

So on to my actual "why is Jolán a simp?" interpretation. That's why. She and her people have lived waiting for the stars and a Lord of night. I'm convinced she thinks she's found it. With Ymir she can see the stars. She follows him and his wishes because she believes she's found what the Nox are searching for.

Did her and Anna disagree on this? Was Anna still, as Nox originally were, set on killing the vessels of the greater will and finger source (so Metyr?) is that why they were in the land of shadow to begin with?

The interesting thing about them specifically is how their description differs from the armor of the sworhands of night as a whole "Jolán and Anna were born in a cold, dark gaol, where they were raised, deprived of light, to be Swordhands of Night. Thus were they cultivated to become the most terrifying masters of their blades, though the burden of the deed left their hearts frail and pliant."

Is the deed becoming swordhands? So they have weak hearts and are easily manipulated.

For what reason were they in the Gaol? Were they born in Bonny Gaol or in some other random Gaol somewhere else?

Were they born there intentionally to be executioners? How did this happen to these Nox? Presumably they were manipulated into things they did not wish to do there. What state mentally were Jolán and Anna in and how did they get out of that life? Anna being a recusant tarnished hunter may suggest she was/is still doing this job... But for Ymir now? But recusant fingers also mean something very specific in terms of rykard/eiglay/snakes. The other weird thing is we don't get her puppet off of his person like we do Seluvis. Her body seems to still have the puppet interactive item with it, whereas with Seluvis the physical puppet summon and the body are separate items because he's using them. We also can't take Anna's puppet if we interact with her body after killing her but before getting Joláns ash.

Also them being Nox and sisters is interesting as the Nox puppets were sisters who became them willingly, Nox being the only people who did do this intentionally.

I think Anna is probably closer to how she originally was post leaving the Gaol. She may have disagreed with Jolán and Ymir and thus was dealt with, her body now being used to guard the passage to the final finger ruin or there's a reason this is intentional but Jolán not knowing about it makes that unlikely. But it' didn't seem like she thought Anna was dead, also because of how Ymir talks about her in present tense. Its really unfortunate she won't tell us more about how she feels but it seems like she trusts whatever happened was for the best. Again to their hearts being pliable. I think it's nice she's found her stars and her purpose but that doesn't mean I don't think Ymir might also be a master manipulator. Like potentially one of the most efficient manipulators in game if true??? To the point no one has anything bad to say?? Manipulate. Mansplain. Mother. I guess. (But like I'm also an Ymir simp. So, much like Jolán, only his words will do. Sorry for being weak of heart I guess but I don't think I can be convinced he wasn't nice. All evidence points to him being nice he just has goals, idk)

But like to what benefit with Jolán? She's kinda just a knight in his service to the same extent as Taniths Crucible Knight. He's got the marionettes all sorcerers do and might know how to make a puppet? Unclear why he would go to extents to intentionally recruit Jolán.

He talks about her like she recently befell tragedy but also like Anna is alive so Anna isn't the tragedy he's talking about. Is he talking about the knight in Bonny Gaol or is it just the total circumstances of her life?

So anyways that's where I am right now and tbh I don't know where I am at all. I'll go look at Bonny Gaol later and maybe explore nokron and nokstella.

Thanks for any input anyone might have. Or thanks for reading this mess. ✌️💕

[fuckentoastybitch]

TOXIC_RAP.mp3

All the bros have had a go on this flow

So I thought, no, it's my turn

I'm gonna give someone a chance to strike a pose

On this beat like Jojo's

God only knows when this beat feels right

Oh, but it still goes hype when played at night

And now I could cut the tension with a knife

Bottle of absinthe on the shelf

Take a sip. Or twelve

Slip into alcoholic dove and fill the slick and shit

Let's drink till our blood levels turn toxic

Bust out the Bacardi and rum

Drink shots to the sound of a starting gun

Slam drinks back a little hardy and run

What bar should we start at for fun?

So here we are, back again

Will this guy put down his pen?

I have a phone. It's terminology

2023, we have the technology with the new LP

Us boys are all running free

Who the fuck are we meant to be?

A man who's on a legacy?

So I'll make this easy

Nice and speedy

No drinks here with antifreeze

No drinks to sneeze at

Only squeeze in my glass, please

Till I feel queasy

Shot, shot, shot, shot

Cans and bottles, that's your lot

Drink till you lost the plot. Brain rot

Drink till the fives out of ten look hot

Give her the sex, don't call me a miser

She drinks apple cider, came inside her (note: FUCKING WILD)

Back in the room making noise

For gangs of people who enjoys

Acting like tough men, one of the boys

Whilst packing heat at the treat like toys

Arrive on the scene with my team

Looking mean

stacks of green

Feeling preen

We careen to the bar

Smooth like a dream

Dressed up smarter, cash pro rata

Back to the tinnies, crack her lager

Make some bread, not stored in a larder

Spend on brands, devil wears Prada

Committing sins, corporate greed

Take lunch money, mouse to feed

Pop a lock, finally freed

Fuck the lager, grab the mead

Downing honey, busy bees

Send that bottle, what a breeze

Twenty percent proof I'm on my knees

I think I'll try another bottle of that, please

So give me the vodka, that's not what I meant

But a label says that it's forty percent

Would've drank that until the same gents

Started kissing threes whilst pitching a tent

So moving on

Brandy next

Had two shots for the flex

Already looking round for the next

Throw that money, bounce some checks

Cards maxed out, I'm resigned

So let's see what other drinks can I find

Hey there, babe, if you're inclined

Buy me a drink if you don't mind

Rap to the beat on the edge

You see I'm making a splash like Latino heat

So lie, cheat, steal, for real

Grabbing snacks for the main meal

Hidden agenda, big reveal

Cost quite dear and I don't mean veal

Take my chances on my own

Life switched on, not monochrome

We'll take one more for monotone

One last drink before crawling home

Sorry if this topic's over the line

But I like to sit down and write some time

Take some notes

Filling some blanket back with a nice little hobby of mine

After party, rinse and repeat

Wobble around as I find my feet

Party spills onto the street

Now where the hell did I leave my seat?

[Interlude]

Search continues

Bottles fizz

It's around here somewhere

Oh there it is!

Back into it while the beat still goes

Why is it silent?

God only knows!

This song keeps you on your toes

I (should?) see the rapping to the pros

I'm going to woo with flair.

Rick, get me in there

DJ Eric, Eric, death stare

Never mind I don't care

Glare at the back of my head

Wishing the beat was dead

I'm going to invite another guy

Instead of the shit Brit with wit

Looking round for street cred

So hello. Hi.

I'm the one whose lexicon is next to none

Because I'm sitting in a quiet corner

Bouncing off the walls like Yak and Warner

From episode one on TV screens

Across the West and scream dad jokes loud from the chest

The only one in the smoking section

Using a party blow that he kept inside his vest

Objectives announced the fleece

Will this nonsense ever cease?

Feeling relief on the brand new release

Making a move so I'm off now, peace