#a study in pov

[tothewheel]

We’re standing under the neon vacancy sign of the motel, and you’re starin’ at me and I’m lookin’ anywhere else. I’m takin’ a drag of the cig and handing it back to you, and I’m tryin’ to drag my eyes away from you takin’ a pull of it.

“Don’t it bother you?” you say, and I finally flick my eyes back up to yours. “That shit your dad says?”

I smile despite myself, ‘cause you’re just so damn honest. Not joking so I got nothin’ to snap back with. It’s new to me, the way you talk: all honest and genuine but still quick and funny. Not that stupid soft shit chicks are into, but not all rough edges like I am. I think I like it a little more than I prob’ly should.

I cross my arms over my chest and stare back out at the sky. Even after all these years, I still like it out here in small Midwest towns rather than the big East Coast cities. Lets you see more stars, and sometimes I can look up and pretend I’m at a ranch out in the country rather than a motel on the edge of another nameless town. “Do you get along with your dad?” I finally say.

You scrunch your nose up and pass me back the cig, and I’m smiling too much to take a drag of it. “Not the same, Dean,” you say.

I snort and take another drag, slow and careful with it. I can feel your eyes on me, and damn if I don’t blush. You prob’ly think I blush easy, with how much you make me do it, but it’s only you that brings it out. Only you.

“Sure, Lee,” I say. “Sure.”

And here’s the thing I’m not saying: I like that you care but I got no freakin’ clue what to do with it. No clue how to tell you all the shit about my dad ‘cause it’s been balled up inside me for years and I got a strict set of instructions in my brain when it comes to him. How to survive. How to survive when it feels like I got a shotgun for a father.

I told you once that sometimes I feel like no more than an extension of my dad and his gun and you took my hands in yours so gently, so gently and said you’re so much more and if I didn’t know any better I’d’ve started crying right then and there.

I don’t get you, Lee. You’re all lefts and rights. Rights and wrongs, sugar and salt. A hunter but not like me ‘n dad, a drinker but you don’t got that anger that comes with it, a lover but you ain’t cheap and fast about it.

I try not to think about how I know that when I see dad’s car pull up, like he’d be able to read my mind.

“You should go,” I say, dropping the stub of the cig and scuffing it under the toe of my boot. Dad’s headlights turn off.

“I thought the old man liked me,” you say playfully, with a little half-smile, but you know. We both know.

Sure, he tolerates you on hunts, but that’s about the extent to which he tolerates anyone- and that’s including me ‘n Sammy, even if I won’t say that to you. Last time he caught us drinkin’ together this late at night he pulled a gun on you. And when you left, he tucked his gun away and took out his fists.

Sometimes, I think I’d prefer the gun.

“Don’t know if he really likes anyone,” I say, laughing, but it comes out weak- nothin’ really to laugh about, I’m just tryin’ to make it seem better than it is. You see right through me and I know it. “And he sure won’t like… this.” I gesture between us, and you nod.

“See you, then,” you say, and I nod, and for a second I think you might kiss me, but you walk right past me and into the night.

I stare after you as you leave ‘cause I wanted it so bad I can’t think.

[araneapeixes]

study group is not going so well

[ghostieblr]

Peter's Vows

When Derek is born, there is an earthquake. Beacon Hills is many things, but it is not a place of earthquakes. This is an anomaly, this sudden shaking of the land, and Peter watches Talia go through the pain of birthing a cub, and he makes note of how her cries resonate with the moving earth. As the baby is brought to the world of the living, the earth shakes more; giddy, Peter thinks of the land. Giddy at this baby's birth. That's what it is.

The town reels with the destruction, however minimal it seems to be. It is the strangeness of the earthquake that has the people in a panic, and it takes two days of Mayor Yukimura calling for council meetings and community barbecues that they begin to somehwat calm down.

The baby is named Derek on the first day itself, born underneath the Nemeton, his pale blue eyes reflecting the moonlight in silver hues. Talia sobs with relief, Nathan beside her, stroking her hair. Laura is back at the pack house, safely tucked in the bed, the rest of the pack members keeping watch. Talia had wanted to bring her with them, fearing the worst of the anomaly, but their mom had convinced her to not do it. The birth of the Alpha's cub is a big deal, but it is also private: only the Mate, Emissary and Left Hand are allowed to be present, for comfort, safety, and protection, respectively.

It has been tradition since ages, and Talia is the last person to break it.

Derek is a calm baby. Sleeps through the night, doesn't cry for attention. Only does it for feeding, his survival instinct as strong as his lungs. Peter adores him, even if he may never admit it to anyone.

He is also curious about the boy. Why an earthquake? It cannot be a coincidence. Truly, he wonders how some people can be so dumb. Calling it a coincidence is insulting to the Powers That Be, which must have called upon such a natural reaction of the land for a reason. Derek is a special boy, and Peter vows to find out how.

Besides his incredibly compassionate heart, that is.

It is in his eyes, which have slowly turned into a kaleidoscope of colors, the kindness of him. Derek's trust is not so easily earned, but once it is, it is extremely difficult to dislodge it.

Derek is a boy destined to become a kind man, one that will be an Alpha with mercy in his heart but cunning in his mind. Peter sees the makings of it right from the beginning, the way the boy will procure solutions to his own problems as well as those he deems important to him. Laura is the first born and thus has the claim to being the next Hale Alpha, however Peter knows, somehow, perhaps instinctually, that Derek will be the Alpha.

Another piece of the puzzle falls in place when their emissary falls pregnant. She's an amazing woman, Claudia. Peter likes her wit and humor, and he enjoys the perspective of her husband, the deputy, and if luck is on his side, soon-to-be Sheriff of Beacon Hills. Peter is happy for the couple.

He is, also, astonished to see an almost five-year-old Derek climb onto Claudia's lap one morning, his small fists rubbing against his eyes, and his nose scrunching determinedly to find a scent.

Peter remembers the conversation well.

"Derek, honey? What are you trying to find?"

"Mine," is what Derek growls in reply to Claudia, and shoves his nose against her barely-showing belly.

Peter's laughing figure is shot out of the end of the couch and onto the floor by Claudia's impeccable throw of one of the decorative pillows from said couch.

Thereafter, it was peculiar but not unseemly to find Derek following beside Claudia, his whole little being focused on the life forming inside her. And when the night came, Peter wasn't at all surprised to witness the thunderstorm.

Claudia had plans of giving birth in the hospital, but due to miscalculated steps, or simply because of reasons not privy to them, the best possible option left for her seemed to be below the Nemeton.

John had lost his damn mind at the prospect. "It's raining! Heavily!"

"Talia gave birth in an earthquake," Claudia says through gritted teeth, "And the baby doesn't care, nor do I, John. It is—"

Her words are cut off by another scream, and she is right, of course. It is time.

Talia, John, and Peter are the only ones who should go with her, but Derek, the little sneaky wolf that he seems to have become, follows them. It isn't until halfway through that John, the human, realizes his presence first.

They move forward with the determined little boy, who is all sopping wet in his wolf onesie, and really, this is no laughing matter. Except it is.

Claudia is brought below the Nemeton, and the tree, big and branching and beautiful, hums in their presence. The canopy of it sheds them some, but not completely.

And so, under hard rain and sharp thunderstorms, Mieczysław Stilinski is born, his little body almost white under the moonlight, and his eyes, when they open, a shock of topaz, like a glinting jewel; a fallen angel, Peter thinks.

Derek carefully wraps the baby in the blanket Talia removes from the packed bag, her movements locked onto her son's and the baby's, while John tends to his wife.

Peter watches. He notes the way the baby is calmest in Derek's arms, the way Derek is mesmerized.

This is more than just being True Mates.

True Mates itself are the rarest of occurrences, but something tells him this is more than that. The earthquake, and this sudden rain, in April of all things, simply cannot be coincidence. There must be a reason, one that Peter must uncover.

In the coming years, he dedicates his time to the quest, and finds that, oh, this is something unique indeed.

Unique to the point of legend.

Of course, he gathers facts before telling anyone. Derek's control goes onto the list, as does his ability to switch between his shift as easy as breathing. Having such control at the age of seven is almost impossible, but he has it without the growing ego that would have inflated anyone else's with the amount of praise he gets.

Stiles, as Derek had nicknamed Mieczysław almost immediately post his arrival in the world, is no human. His mother's line has some pretty strong magical abilities, but the kind of power that this boy exudes surpasses imagination. Nobody notices at first, not even Peter, until Stiles is a couple of months past his third birthday. It truly isn't until Derek, almost nine, comes down from his room one day into the kitchen, says, "Which packet, Stiles?" that they realize it.

"Honey, he isn't a wolf. He cannot hear you," Nathan tells him, but Derek just shrugs.

"He is for today."

Peter hears the, "Blue one! Blue one! Blue is sooo pretty, Derek!" from Stiles, who is definitely sitting in Derek's room, upstairs.

Derek grabs the blue packet and goes upstairs, and Peter follows, followed by Talia and Nathan, who beckon Claudia as well.

Stiles sitting on the floor, a myriad of toys around him, while the packets of chips sit beside him, torn open, evidently by Derek's claws, who himself is playing with Stiles.

And they're both being fed flying chips.

The three wolves turn to Claudia as one. Her shaking head and awed face is enough to clue them in, and really, Peter thinks, this is fucking incredible.

Powers don't manifest as early as this in magic wielders. They're more of the puberty package, tied to emotions at the beginning rather than will.

This is... defying it.

Peter loves to see when the next piece of the puzzle will fall.

And it does oh so enticingly.

Years later, when Derek is fourteen and Stiles is almost nine, comes the first trial. The Alpha Summit & The Argent Treaty.

Peter doesn't believe Gerard's words to do no harm, so he sets up precautions in place. It pays off, because during the summit, he almost ends up blinding Deaucalion — something that could have turned super bad if left unchecked.

Gerard's attack is met with swift retaliation, but somehow, only his goons end up dead. Gerard himself remains free, and through sheer will, maybe, the old man manages to kidnap Laura.

By the time the adults sniff out their cub, they're too late.

Not in the sense of Laura being hurt, but in the terms of missing the action, somewhat.

When they enter the warehouse, they are faced with Gerard being held down by a black wolf, fangs around his neck, the eyes of the creature a deep, ruby red. Deeper than Talia's. At first, they all assume it to be one of the visiting Alphas, but then they realize Stiles' presence, too, and it clicks.

Stiles frees Laura from the painful looking electric rod, and comes back to Derek, coaxes him back to his human form as Peter and Nathan take care of the psychopath.

Laura lets Talia mother her, and then says, "We'll have two Alphas."

Talia looks at the now human Derek, and eyes shining with pride, she nods. "Come here, both of you," she beckons, and the boys run, Stiles' chattering a comforting sound for all of them.

A few weeks later, Derek admits to everyone he has a new friend, and talks about her often. Paige this, Paige that. Laura teases him, restrained in her words, trying not to upset Derek's control. Even Cora pulls back. Stiles, though, is almost worse.

He riles Derek to the point of him using his Alpha voice to shut up, and the whole Pack silences itself, even Talia. Stiles, though — an exception to all things sane — doesn't back down. The voice doesn't work on him, and Derek isn't phased by it. However, the smell of guilt filters through their home, and Stiles' sigh is followed by comforting words. There is no apologizing though.

Soon, they'll learn from Derek himself that he hates that everyone is walking on eggshells. That is why he kept bringing up Paige, so that someone would tease him, uncle Peter, Laura, Cora. Or that Stiles would rile him up.

"Why would he, though? He should be happy for you. I am." Cora's words are met with a laugh from Derek, and a groan of embarrassement from Stiles.

"He's weirdly possessive — don't push me, you know you are."

"Alright," Stiles sighs, "I am."

"And Paige is a great friend, but I don't nearly think about her as much as I might have let you all believe."

And that is when Peter sees it. The blink-and-you-will-miss-it purple flash of Stiles' eyes. Peter doesn't put thought into why now; he simply focuses on completing the puzzle.

And he does. True Alpha and Purple Eyes? That's easy.

That's legend.

Set in stone as the first Alpha and the first Emissary as well as Spark, who, arguably, also set in stone the sword of Excalibur.

That part of the legend has questionable sources, though. Sure, Merlin Emrys is, as per theories, the most powerful sorcerer of all time, and Arthur Pendragon the greatest ruler, the once and future king, but it doesn't have as much merit.

What Peter is sure about is that somehow, the Powers That Be decided that this is the pack to send these two to.

He watches Stiles argue about the best type of pasta with Derek, and thinks, suddenly, that perhaps this is their happy ending. What legends end happy? None. So this must be their time to be happy.

Peter vows another quest, then. To always protect Derek and Stiles.

[tagidearte]

His instructions were very clear. Yet there you are, hand on a now broken light switch.

Timelapse of the rendering process under read more. (a little study. This is the second time I paint Sun mid switch, I think it's just great)

Wahoo. Let's be real - if you're an adult, he tells you "don't turn off the lights", and you proceed to do just that to the point they break, I think he'd be more than happy to let Moon out for some enrichment. Some play time.

[lucky-fy]

For the Laicion nation (aka, me and three other people)

I had this illustration commissioned (a big thank you to @lunehowls) for my werewolf AU Laicion fic (still a WIP).

The general pitch is as follows :

AU in which Laios never got to meet his sister again, putting his life on a whole other path, a more desperate one. A military deserter with barely a coin to his name, Laios hitches a ride on a boat to one of the elven continents, where he learns about magical tattoos that binds one’s soul to a wolf’s, effectively making them artificial werewolves. Illegal magic be damned, this feels like the answer to… everything.

In the process, he learns about the existence of an illegal fighting ring in one of the elven cities, where beastmen gladiators gather. Freshly tattooed and without anywhere else to go to, Laios decides to head there, where he meets Lycion, an elf and artificial werewolf gladiator. If they first bond over a simple shared meal, by spending time together (sharing the same room in the barracks, maybe the same bed? gasp) they find that they have a lot in common, notably a shared distaste for the body they were born in, a dysphoria partially remedied by becoming a werewolf.

They bond :)

NB: I commissioned another piece, go take a look :D

[astrowarr]

“How d’you care so little?” Joel fumes, eyes ablaze as he paces around the shattered glass and splintered wood of his car. It's pretty well decimated, and he's been growling and frothing about it in Gem's ear for an hour now. 

She prods testily at the soft, upturned earth carefully covering their pitfall. “It's not that I don't care,” she huffs, jumping back when the dirt crumbles a little under the toe of her boot. She glances up at Joel, who is practically shaking with rage. He can't keep his eyes off the dumb car. “You know, you really could've fixed it by now.”

Beat of silence. Then, pouting and everything, he grumbles feebly, “Shut up, Gem.” 

There's no heat behind it. If anything, her words seemed to have knocked the wind from his sails of war; he's slumped against the car now, arms crossed as he glares to the side dramatically. God, he sure does put on a show, she thinks with an overwhelming wave of affection. 

It's not that Gem doesn't care. But she can't get this feeling from the four mangrove walls of her stupid barn. She can't even get it from winning. So they can burn down everything she owns, take every last life she has to spare. In the end, none of that is tangible. None of that is what matters. This is a game, and games are meant to be played. That’s what counts for her. Why should she take issue if the universe works as it was so lovingly intended to? 

All she wants to leave behind is a trail of blood and ruin as she puts up a fight. She wants to leave her mark on this world and all the people it holds. She wants to make it hurt, once she's allowed to. She wants to play the game well, exactly how she was made to play it. She cares about that. 

Gem cares, too, about the love she dredges up along the way. She thinks of her hands set to the backdrop of a blood-caked cloak, of long brown hair curling over her fingers as they dig in tight. She thinks of the sharp edge of her sword pressed against pale skin, and the thud of knees hitting the ground. All of that meant something. It still does, she believes, in certain ways. 

“I care,” she says, feeling oddly self-conscious. Maybe it's because she knows Joel now: he can't stop caring. It explodes from every pore in his body, an inescapable curse. It's been his undoing, or so she's heard; he's easy to anger, but if you ask her, he's mostly just… easy to love.

It’s this fact that has her saying quietly, “Just… I gotta pick and choose, you know?”

She's not like Joel. There's only so much room in Gem's chest, and it's permanently occupied with a bleeding, open wound. It takes up a lot of her as she skirts around it, giving its raw, frayed edges a wide berth. Joel has an infected hole in his heart too, but his preferred method of dealing with it is tearing it wider with his bare hands.

“Yeah,” Joel drawls absently, scratching his cheek. “Never been quite good at that, I reckon.”

Gem gets that. It must be hard, holding everything so tight that it rips you apart. The thought of losing that much agency has a venomous, stinging feeling crawling down the center of her back. But… 

“You're doing it right now,” she points out, gesturing vaguely at his poor car. “You could've gone on a rampage, if you wanted.”

He scoffs. “Trust me, I wanted."

“You didn't though.”

Joel blinks. “Guess I didn't.” The answer is simple, but leaden with something that has branches so complex, it nearly consumes his words entirely. Gem can't name the something; she lacks the history she'd need to do so. Even so, his face is remarkably… light? That's a word for it. Maybe he's finally cut the infection from his own wound.

She hums in lieu of response, turning her gaze back to the trap. Whatever is draped over Joel's mind, she hopes it doesn't render him too docile. The game stops for nothing, and it deserves to be played to its fullest, Gem thinks, no matter what's left standing come judgement day. 

[yahllyn]

the brainworms have won

i'll back back to the scheduled fluff art now 😭

[paper-birdies]

I've been reading a Gravity Falls fanfic called "The Therapist" by @bapple117, where you - The reader- are Bill Cipher's Therapist in the Theraprism. I was on Bapple's Discord server and came across a conversation asking "What if Bill had a secret collection of art he made of the therapist and got super flustered when the therapist finds them."

Posted that and then someone mentioned that in a panic, Bill would probably try to eat the art and tries to eat the pages.

Anyways, I freakin' love this fic and this funky lil' guy.

[dinotual]

*hacker voice* i'm in.

[riality-check]

Academy era Viktor fic on ao3!!

Tag list below the cut! Thank you all so much for the encouragement I've received on this fic; it truly means the world to me.

I'm going to chance asking one small favor. If I tagged you, could you please leave a comment on ao3/a fun bookmark/share with a friend/something else? Doing this tag list was a lot, and I'd appreciate hearing your thoughts on the fic if I tagged you (or if I didn't!)

@thebluespacecow, @viktorthemachineherald, @starlightopal, @icequeenlila, @potterhead0taku, @smallgermancar, @puddingbat, @capobegone, @autistic-beshelar, @chron0ph0bia, @spoekelser, @emeraldscholar, @zephlovesspacestuff, @vidduality, @rowan778, @clowninabox, @miimyn, @d-promachos, @thegreatbluecat72, @anubisisthebomb, @n0-1-important, @fatcryptid, @straysparks, @shelteringyourdna, @draculafactory, @gotosleeeep, @transslyblue, @please-stand-by-me, @doctorho, @colinrobinsonscardigan, @loyalhorror, @little-paperboat, @pepperminteggnog, @comicsohwhyohwhy, @colormehazelnut, @yeehawbvby, @starmans-spaceship, @chemical-killjoy, @locally-sourced-loser, @yaffles-world, @l0on, @tiredfiver, @cthulhu-with-a-fez, @aimithelle, @badwolfrt, @martybaker, @marsreds, @torii-storii, @27dragons, @seiya-starsniper, @chaosheadspace

[copia]

not to get dramatic but one of copia’s dissociative translations in his troubled head was seeing sister imperator’s saucer of pills as a mug of tea and biscuits. he’s clearly an unreliable narrator who sees things we can’t trust to be true; going off of this, can we trust that the mug of tea he was handed before the encore was actually that? who’s got time to down a whole mug of hot tea when you’ve still got three songs to perform? isn’t it a strange beverage to give him out of all the other options? don't get me wrong i'm absolutely not being serious here (also not insinuating that copia is ill like seestor, i'm going down the psychological route) but what i'm saying is he could have been handed medication he didn't want to acknowledge

[hoofpeet]

Light burst study thang?

[mrspronouns]

heyyy arkayne fans …….. drops this here and runs away

[taralen]

I had too much fun with this. These are my concept art notes to determine how his facial anatomy works for my LoveLetter AU. He is semi-organic and rife with body horror.

[wikiangela]

we don't know where this is going now (don't be afraid of heights, let me open your heart wide)

bucktommy rating: G words: 5.6k summary: Tommy cuts their first date short, but to his surprise he gets a call from Evan just a few days later. or, 7x05 from Tommy's POV.

[read on Ao3]

It’s honestly a surprise when just a few days later, late in the evening, Tommy’s phone rings, and Evan’s name pops up. His traitorous heart beats a little faster when he answers the call and leans against the kitchen counter, where he’s been finishing up making a late dinner. “Evan?” he asks, confused but trying to play it casually. He’s good at that. He thinks years of pretending, trying to act straight, playing off gay jokes and even joining in to not make anyone suspicious made him way too good at acting cool and unbothered. He’s definitely surprised and excited, though. “Hey.” he smiles to himself. “Uh, hey- hi, Tommy, hey.” Evan stutters, and Tommy can imagine that flustered smile.  “Hi.” Tommy greets him again, grinning now. “Gotta say, I didn’t really expect you to call.” “I- I know, I just- I wanted to talk?” he says it more like a question, then huffs quietly, takes a breath. “I was wondering if you’d like to grab a coffee. With me. Tomorrow morning?” he says, sounding nervous but hopeful. And Tommy- Tommy has had a very hard time trying to say no to Evan, especially when he doesn’t actually want to. Besides, they can be friends, if whatever potential for romance didn’t work out. He’d be fine with that. He’s friends with Eddie, anyway, so he’ll surely have to be around Evan sometimes, and he doesn’t want it to be weird. “If you’re not- if you’re not busy? “Yeah, okay.” Tommy responds, trying to ignore the excitement swirling in his stomach at just the thought of seeing Evan. “I can do morning. What time?” “Uh, how’s nine? There’s this place I usually go to- I can text you the location? Or we can meet somewhere you like, that’s totally-” “Evan.” Tommy interrupts softly, still smiling. Even over the phone, even still this nervous, Evan is just adorable. “I’m sure your pick is fine. Just text me, and I’ll be there. Tomorrow at nine.” he assures. He thinks if Evan wanted to meet right at this second, he’d be there in a heartbeat. Which is a surprising thought. He really didn’t want to get attached this fast, but there’s just something about Evan… “Okay.” Evan breathes out. “So- so I’ll text you.” he repeats. “And I’ll see you tomorrow.” “See you tomorrow.” Tommy says, before Evan stumbles through a goodbye and hangs up, and Tommy just chuckles to himself. He’s curious what Evan wants to talk to him about. But he also needs to be careful, because he can see himself falling for him so fast and deep and easy. He shakes his head at himself. He’s being silly and ridiculous. Evan makes him feel silly and ridiculous and giddy, and Tommy doesn’t remember the last time he felt like this. 

[read on Ao3]

[xxnashiraxx]

She's My Collar

✶Pairing: Astarion x female!Durge | Astarion x Ofelia

✶Warnings: MDNI. Implied Loss of Virginity, Blood

✶Word Count: 640

✶Summary: A tale enduring the test of time- of secrets and love and mournful longing. Light and dark. Devout and denied. Woven into their lives like the red string of fate.

I have no idea what possessed me to grind this out, but. I've had She's My Collar on repeat for a week and it's just stuck in my brain. Have my perspective on Astarion's yearning for Ofelia and for a very vague look ahead for the main fic. Unnescessary to read the big one!! But if you'd like more on them, they're in my pinned masterlist! ❤ Thank you for reading!

✶Song:

Atonement, heavy upon his back. His cross to bear through a verdant pass, a sprawling underground teeming with danger and beauty, a landscape wretched and choked by shadow. The weight follows, vigilant and punishing, grinding thought to dust beneath the absence of the sun.

Black and blue, a veil unrelenting. Darkness cloaking his still heart and clinging to seeking fingers in shame and contrition. Bruises indigo and stark beneath a covetous gaze, the color melting his mind into melancholy appetence.

Her. Sun-bright in the corners of her eyes, in the raven locks that drape over her body. Skin kissed by the light, rich toned and warm to the touch. Maddening curves, full and bewitching. She moves with a grace unbound by centuries of torment, though the weight upon her back remains just as potent.

Red and yellow, dripping from her fingers and painting her in accusations from the dead. Golden pinpricks flashing in her brown gaze, tearing through the hole in his heart to make a home in the space in between. A heat that saps the cold from his limbs and wreaths him in a dastardly crown of thorns that dig and dig and dig.

Whispered words and revelations that sting and cut- severing threads and reknitting them beneath distrust and agony. The yellow begins to flicker and fade, and the weight on his back becomes unbearable. Closing around his throat- a debt ravenous for payment. And he pays.

Torturous, slow, it doesn’t return until she’s begging him to snip the thread and let the weight crush her. To grind her into nothing, held like a fragile porcelain doll in his hands. He refuses, the squeeze of selfishness burning in his neck. Greedy for that light- refusing her tear-sodden pleas as they dig like the nails in his shoulders.

One little sentence, snapping bone and tearing sinew- to loosen the binds or rend his head from his shoulders beneath their eager pinch. A choice, imploring him forward to either break her beyond repair or finally relent.

“I love you…”

He surrenders to her words implicitly, shackles slipping from him to clatter and thunder in the void between his ribs. Rays that render him weak, on his knees before her, fingers decorating her hips like they’ve always been there- always belonged. Home.

Home in the violent light, in its ceaseless ache for him. In her careful palms, cradling sharp jaw and pointed ear. Mapping every angle until they soften into the pliant devotion that was written on his bones the moment his sanguine hunger was sated on her red.

Crimson that damns her to the masses. Crimson that lifts her above them all. His deference sincere, thrust into him against his will. A piety both pure and prurient.

Time, like the water that laps at the blazing tower, beneath the tree that blossoms to life and lifts the curse from the land. Beneath her patience and adoration, every touch feather light- every sup holy.

Almost lost, almost stolen from him. Ripped free and sewn back together under hands that beseech her to come back. To return. To his arms, to him.

His web of lies sundered, shattered into nothing as a feeling lost to the slow drag of years and torture blossoms among the decay. Brilliant petals, drowning the blue, drowning the black. Weight slipping from their shoulders as he loses himself to the embrace of her eternal worship.

Crimson, vivid and dripping down her thighs, under his fingers. Crimson in his eyes, eviscerating and impassioned, melting them together beneath her scorching skin and his blazing infatuation. A seizing of limbs, of breath. His love savage and voracious, he sates it inside her, against her lips, against her skin.

His sun. His salvation. His purpose.

More valuable than any treasure he could steal, any gold he could possess.

His Ofelia.