#and i was struggling to remember how i rendered the last piece so i could use the techniques on that

[squinch-depraved]

Schlatt tying up reader when they’re drunk please? Like mild cnc

here u go hhngnh (not proof/beta read)

CW: "mild" cnc, intox, bondage?, um a bit of smacking, degrading, AFTERCARE :D

schlatt only felt a little guilty for getting you so drunk you couldn't think straight. it was hard to feel remorse when you looked so good stumbling into his apartment and flopping onto his couch, your dress flying up behind you and exposing your panties for him to see.

"jesus," he muttered, grinning as he realized how easy taking advantage of you would be. it had been a while since the last time he got you this drunk, and he thanked god once again for introducing him to someone who was as into this as he was. something about getting you wasted and mercilessly pounding you, even if you had consented hours earlier, always did it for him. this was the only time he ever let himself act like this; you were the only one he let see him in this state (even if you wouldn't remember it).

"not on the couch, doll, remember? we're going to the bed." you groaned, a long, agitated noise, but stood up and shuffled to his room. he smacked your ass as he trailed behind you, shoving you face down into the mattress and holding both hands behind your back. you struggled feebly, earning a low chuckle from your boyfriend. "be still, you stupid slut," he growled, tearing off his belt and wrapping it around your wrists.

"schlatt, no, please," you whimpered, fumbling for his hand to appeal to his sense of affection for you. but he was cold now, delivering another harsh slap to your rear in an attempt to make you shut up. yelping at the sting, you tried to speak once more before he shoved your face down into the plush bedding.

"be a good little whore for me, won't you? i will hurt you." with that, schlatt ripped off your underwear and pulled down his own boxers, slamming into you forcefully and groaning in pleasure whenever you let out a moan loud enough to be heard through the mattress. "fuck, you feel good. just like a hole should," he chuckled. you were slipping now, unable to hold yourself up enough for him to fuck you like he wanted. after a few minutes, he pulled out and yanked you up by your hair, smiling cruelly at how you writhed in pain. slowly he positioned you up by the headboard, tying you to it with a piece of rope that stayed in his nightstand.

"please," you begged, unable to keep your head from nodding forward and hanging low. "'m so tired..."

schlatt let out a cackle. "you think i give a shit?" he spread your legs apart aggressively and bent them back so he could toss them over his shoulders as he slid into you again. "all you're good for is makin' me feel amazing, i could not give any less of a damn how you're doin'."

a strangled wail left your lips as he put you in a mating press and drilled into you, hitting so deep with every thrust you thought he was going to break you. "please!!!" you were screaming now, thrashing your arms desperately against the headboard. all you wanted was to dig your nails into his back- or sleep, that would work too- but schlatt had other plans for you for the night.

"stop fucking moving," he spat, using one hand to grip your throat. it didn't take long before the pressure rendered you docile, eyes rolling back into your head as you went still for him. "tha's what i thought." he muttered the last bit under his breath, letting your neck go and taking your face in his hand. squeezing your cheeks together as he forced you to look him in the eyes brought you back a little bit, and you realized how close you were to cumming.

"close!! closecloseclo-" you were cut off by a smack, tears forming in your eyes from the impact.

"shut the fuck up!! i literally just said i didn't care how you felt, god, you're stupid," schlatt spoke through gritted teeth. he kept pounding you through your orgasm, tossing his head back at how good your walls felt as they spasmed around his length. "mmm, fuck, you're so tight." you let out a frantic moan in response and clenched again, determined to make him spill inside you so you could finally go to bed.

"fuck," he hissed, screwing his eyes shut and slamming into you a bit faster. "'m gonna cum. ohhh, fuck, doll!" he gripped your hips tight enough to leave bruises as he released, collapsing onto you after letting your legs bend normally again. you whined at how heavy he was on top of you, but ultimately, there was nothing you could do but wait for him to catch his breath and move.

once he did, he swiftly untied you and carried you to the bathtub, stripping you of any clothes left before starting a bubble bath for you and bringing you a water bottle.

"here, toots," he mumbled gently, tilting the container so you got some to drink. after you had rehydrated, he began the usual routine of washing your hair for you, joking softly as he did, making you feel so loved after how filthy he just treated you.

"i'm tired," you complained as he wrapped you in a towel while the tub drained.

"then c'mon, doll, let's go to bed. you did so good for me tonight." with a kiss to the top of your head, he tucked you in and flopped down next to you.

i gotta buy a gag for this stupid slut, he thought to himself as he drifted off.

[azrielbrainrot]

I Laugh Like Me Again... She Laughs Like You - Part 8

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Description: You struggle to come to terms with your supposed death, everything you've had and everything you've lost, all the blood that stains your hands, a mating bond, and most importantly, finding your place in the world after all of it.

Warnings: Feelings of depression, suicide ideation, a hint of social anxiety and agoraphobia, awful self image, all around angst sorry, some depictions of violence

Word Count: 6860

Notes: I actually got a little too lost in my head writing this chapter but it ended up being somewhat cathartic writing my feelings through someone else's. It ended up taking me longer than expected to finish this part though, I'm sorry for the wait. Hope you enjoy!

Part 7

You can feel him sitting by your door. Even if the deafening mating bond weren't screaming in elation at his proximity, the enhanced senses you've exhausted yourself training for in that Gods forsaken guild would have let you know. You don't deserve any of it. Not his worry, not his loyalty or his love, certainly not the bond. Maybe you had, a long time ago, but that female was ripped away from you, from him.

The shadowsinger probably paints a tragic picture. Sitting on the cold floor, back against the closed, heavy door, hunched over his own body, powerful wings laying by his sides, waiting for a selfish mate who will not open the door no matter how much he pleads or how long he waits, who can barely bring herself to get out of bed, let alone face the male whose life she brought nothing but ruin and heartache.

Ever since Rhys tore down the walls keeping your memories away, there has been a war raging inside you, one in which there will be no victors. It has been eating you away from the inside. You feel like two people have lived in this body before, led completely different lives, and have now abandoned it for you to deal with the scraps and somehow put the pieces back together.

It's almost impossible to keep up with the passing of time as you are. Weeks, maybe even months could have passed since that day. There was a sense of relief when the walls first came crumbling down, even happiness when you saw Azriel and recognized him as the male you loved beyond words, but everything else rushed into your mind the next moment and rendered you speechless.

One moment you had been sitting in Azriel's lap, and in the next the breath was knocked out of your lungs, and a deep ache spread over your body. It felt like your entire being was on fire and drowning at the same time as you saw numerous people die at your hands. It felt foreign, you felt foreign. You started clawing at your own skin, trying to get that hateful person out, ripping your flesh apart desperately. You don't remember what happened next, though you vaguely recall Azriel's anguished screams. Rhys had probably come and rendered you unconscious, effectively calming you down and giving you what must have been the last peaceful night of sleep since then.

You don't know who you are anymore. You can't be sure if you ever did. All those years ago, when you married Azriel, you thought you knew exactly who you were, what your values and aspirations were, how you'd spend your life. You had plans and dreams. It all feels like one giant, heartbreakingly realistic fantasy now, like that life in itself was an idealistic dream.

Looking back now, you know you had simply been sheltered. You had led a privileged life, protected by your parents when they were alive and then by Azriel. Because the person you so easily became when Norris took you had to be living under your skin all along, waiting for an opportunity to show her claws. Someone can't do even half of the things you've done if they had been truly good to begin with. Norris had simply coaxed this hateful, bloodthirsty monster out of you.

Perhaps you should have thanked him before you killed him, if it weren't for him you would have kept living that lie until your last breath. You would have tried tampering it down until you couldn't anymore, until that vile thing ripped open your skin, escaped its bounds and destroyed everything in its path. Would you have hurt Azriel if you had stayed? Killed his entire family in cold blood? The family who took you in like you were one of their own, who were there for you to show you love and happiness when you thought you had lost everything with your parents' deaths.

And what now? Which one were you now, if any at all? You know you're far from the starry eyed female who walked these halls a century ago, arm looped into her loving husband's, who was ready to face any challenge that was put in front of her so long as he stayed by her side. Who dreamt of buying a house and decorating it to both of their tastes, who planned a life by his side down to the last detail. In sickness and in health, in life and in death. What a joke.

The fearless killer was a stranger to you as well. She'd committed atrocities with this body, soaked your hands in blood, but she at least had a purpose, even if she hadn't been the one to find it for herself. The guild trained her, made her strong, and gave her missions. Her life had some sort of meaning, one even she wasn't proud of, no matter how many times she forced herself to emulate her handler, swallow down the guilt that threatened to eat her whole, but a meaning nonetheless. When she eventually snapped she would become one of the few who had been stupid enough to try and escape the guild, maybe even try to paint her blade with Norris' blood. That alone would have meant something, if only a whispered rumor across the guild's low ranks in between missions.

All you were now was a ghost. Slowly fading into the wallpaper, sinking into the bed. Spending your days staring into space, consumed by your own betraying thoughts, suffering through your nights as nightmares reigned free inside your brain. The worst part is they weren't simply nightmares. They were memories, your memories. You had lived through every single haunting image being shown to you. The blood coating your body, covering you in a sickenly metallic smell, had been spilled by your masterful blade, and you had walked away from every single one of those lifeless bodies, leaving them behind without a care as you searched for your handler once more, giving him news of yet another successful mission and awaiting a new one, a new life for you to take.

A sudden knock on the door brings you back to the present, somewhat. Your head turning to face the door, the first movement in a while judging by the ache that follows it. The knock had been soft, careful not to startle you - he's always so careful with you, even after everything, - but in the deafening silence of the room, it still echoed, making your headache worse.

Azriel calls your name, the way the syllables escape his lips sending a shiver down your spine. Even in this state the bond finds a way to make itself known, reminding you of the connection between the two of you, as if you could ever forget.

“I know you can hear me,” he murmurs. You can hear how defeated he is, how sad you've made him once again. It's all your fault, it's always your fault. “Like I told you yesterday, I'm here for you. I will help you through anything as long as you let me, as long as you want me by your side.”

He pauses for a moment, in case you'll give him a response for once. You envy his hope. If you had the courage to hope for even a second maybe you would have called out his name and invited him in, let him hold you in his warm embrace, and make it better, but hope had died along with you and you didn't know how to get it back, didn't know if you wanted to.

A pained sigh escapes him, resigning himself, for the night at least. “I'll come back tomorrow, and every day after that. I promise I will be here when you need me.” You hear him swallow, can feel him trying to steady his voice and keep strong for you in a time when you can't find any strength in yourself. “I love you, more than anything.”

His soft steps retreat, slowly dragging his body away from your door so he can go into his own room and lay in his own empty bed, far away from the wife who he thought he had just gotten back after a century but can't bring herself to even look at him.

The bond screams in your chest, a piercing sound that could make your ears bleed at its intensity. A tear escapes your unblinking eye, running down your skin until it loses its path as it reaches your ear, ultimately falling into the mattress. And still you don't move.

You study the lifeless body in front of you, inspecting the female's beautiful kohl lined brown eyes as they stare right at you unblinking. Listening for the sound of her breath or heartbeat, a sound you know will not come, never again. She had on an elegant silk dress, it was once a shade of green, now tainted with red. She was probably going to meet someone - her friends or her lover, maybe her family. Whoever it was wouldn't see her again, would only be left with bittersweet memories.

Reaching over her, you pull the blade still stuck in her chest out in one smooth, heartless movement. As you go to clean the blood off so you can put it away and escape, you take note of the knife in your hand, frowning down at it as you study the hilt, too intricate to belong to your standard knives. There was even a blue gem encrusted on it, you had never seen let alone owned anything like this.

Looking up, you find strangely familiar hazel eyes staring at you, unblinking as that female's had been. Your eyes travel to the knife in your hand once again as your brain races to keep up with the situation. It's coated in blood, you hadn't wiped it yet, so were your hands, there was so much blood. Your breath catches in your throat when you find a wedding ring around your finger, the blue gem shining under the moonlight.

The knife falls from your hands. Tears cloud your vision, a broken sob escaping you. Azriel. The corpse in front of you belonged to Azriel. You killed him. You killed your husband, your mate. It was all your fault.

You open your eyes with a gasping breath as if you'd been stuck under water. The image of your dead mate refusing to leave your mind as tears keep running down your cheeks, chest rising and falling as if you'd been physically running from this nightmare. It takes you quite a while to fully come to and realize where you were - sitting up in your bed, and not in an empty alley with a dead body at your feet.

It takes you even longer to notice you were not alone anymore. Wide eyes find teary, hazel ones searching your face frantically. As soon as you see him, it becomes impossible to ignore the way his rough hands hold you up, the soothing words he whispers even when he himself looks terrified

Unlike in that awful nightmare, Azriel stood before you breathing. He was blinking, and his heart was beating. Azriel was alive. He was right in front of you and he was alive. You hadn't killed him. The realization finally allows you to catch your breath, the weight at the base of your skull subsiding as you repeat the words over and over in your mind, counting the beats of his heart as you did.

The relief was short-lived though. The reminder that you had stabbed him in real life not so differently from how it happened in your dream making you reel back, back crashing into the headboard hard enough that it almost knocked the wind out of you, his hands dropping from their comforting grip on your head, the heartbroken expression on his face intensifying.

You're both frozen like that for a few seconds, your wide eyes watching his every movement as he stood kneeling down in front of you, hands stuck in the same place like you hadn't moved from under them. Even in the midst of all the chaos taking your mind hostage, you noticed the fear in his eyes. Was he afraid of you? He should be. Though you're not so sure that was the case since he tried reaching for you again as soon as he was pulled out of his stupor.

It makes you recoil even further into the headboard, a sob escaping you, recalling the image of his lifeless body playing in your dream and the way his blood stained your skin in the townhouse only a few weeks ago.

Tears flow down your cheeks with a new vigor when he calls out your name, an heartbreaking sound. You remember how much you loved to hear him whisper your name in that low, sweet timbre of his. It makes your chest tighten uncomfortably, until you can barely breathe now.

“Please leave,” you manage to push out.

“Wait.”

“You can't be here.”

Wrapping your arms around your legs, you hope he listens. You can't hurt him anymore than you already have, couldn't bear to live with yourself if you did, and for that you need him to go, need him to be out of your tainting reach.

“Please, my love. Let me take care of you,” he begs, his own tears escaping freely now.

My love. The way he says it so carefully, so sure of himself makes you sob harder. You don't deserve his love, his attention or care, you never did. And he doesn't deserve any of this pain, so you need him to go, you have to push him away.

“I can't…” Why are the words so hard to say? Why can't you just tell him to go and never come back? “Please,” you manage through a sob, an ugly sound in the back of your throat, hiding your face in your knees.

Azriel closes his eyes, salty tears running down his heartbroken face. He tightens his grip on the sheets for a moment, hard enough that his knuckles turn white. Telling himself to stay, or maybe forcing himself to accept your dismissal.

“I'll go,” he whispers out after a while, opening his eyes at last, defeated, “but if you need me just call out and I'll be back in a heartbeat, alright?”

You don't answer him, your entire concentration going into keeping your eyes off him. Trying desperately to push not only the haunting nightmare down, but also the mating bond, who demanded you seek comfort from your mate while you were trying so hard to push him away.

He gets up slowly, dragging his feet as he walks to the door, looking back at you multiple times as if he can't bear to leave you alone like this, as if begging you to call him back, but you've made your decision and you won't call out to him no matter how desperate you are.

“I was thinking it would be a good idea to bring you up to Rhys' cabin for a few days. You can stay in your room or go outside on your own, and I promise you won't even have to see me if you don't want to,” Azriel explains tentatively through the closed door. “It wouldn't be much different from being here except you could take in the fresh air of the mountain. You always used to love it up there, said it helped you think more clearly.”

This conversation hadn't come out of nowhere and it certainly wasn't entirely about a simple change of scenery - though you wouldn't be surprised if it doubled as a way of trying to get out of this room if nothing else. They were unsure about keeping you in this house, in Velaris even. You overheard part of their discussion on the subject, the tricks you've learned at the guild proving themselves useful at least as you approached the room without them noticing.

You had been curious when you felt most of the inner circle's presence in the house. For a moment, you had even panicked, thinking they would try to talk to you, maybe a form of intervention, but when it was clear they would all keep their distance, you couldn't stop yourself from eavesdropping on their conversation. You had already known it would be about you, or maybe the guild, for them to gather up in the House of Wind.

Given your current apathy and insistence on distancing yourself from everyone, they were worried about keeping you so high up in the mountain. No one had actually said the words, but the implication was clear, - if you so wished, all you had to do was open the window and let yourself fall through the wind, finding your sweet release as you crashed into the ground. And, even with some of their vehement denials, it was painfully obvious that they were all scared of it becoming a reality.

They had moved onto the topic of moving you off Velaris as well, almost at Azriel's insistence. They thought the city could be too suffocating for you since you seemed to want to be alone with your thoughts. And so the idea of moving you to the cabin for a while came up at Feyre's suggestion. You zoned out when they started trying to decide on the best way to bring it up to you, knowing you would refuse the offer no matter how it was brought up. The thought of making the trip there was exhausting on its own.

Azriel's shadows had definitely noticed you spying on the inner circle. You saw them swirling by your hiding spot in the hallway multiple times, lingering for a moment before moving closer to the door. You can't be sure if they had not alerted their singer out of their own volition, or if he had chosen to let you hear the conversation.

You knew he would be more than happy for you to step into the office and speak for yourself, but you barely had to give it any thought to decide against it. You didn't see the point in it. They were right about your lack of will to be alive. You genuinely couldn't bring yourself to care if you were in this house or the next, in Velaris or on the other side of the world, if they were the ones to decide it or not so long as they left you alone.

Truthfully, you didn't quite see the point in living either, and at the same time killing yourself felt like too much of a hassle. Not to mention that Azriel wouldn't survive your death this time, and hurting him was the last thing you wanted to do. Just the thought sent the bond into disarray, a weight growing in your chest and taking your breath away.

You hadn't spoken more than a few sentences to Azriel in all the weeks you've been here so you obviously haven't told him about the bond. The downside of that is that you don't know if he's felt it himself either. He has been devoted to you to say the least, but he always had, even before you died. Azriel always treated you like you were his entire world.

As if processing all your memories wasn't enough, the bond had somehow made things even more complicated. Every happy memory of the two of you together sent the bond almost vibrating with joy, pushing you to go and see him when all you wanted to do was disappear in this room. It makes you feel like you're not fully in charge of your body, just as it felt like watching back your memories at the guild.

“What do you think?”

His voice brings you back to the present once more. Your eyes finding the closed door, imagining him leaning against it on the other side, forehead leaning against the dark, carved wood, praying for an answer he knows won't come.

You consider saying something, to at least let him know you wanted to stay here just as you were, but your body wasn't agreeing with you, refusing to move or form out the words even if you were asking it to. You knew it would be better to refuse his offer, not only because you knew he wouldn't force you to leave if you told him you didn't want to, but also because hearing you speak after so long could lessen their worries, his worries. Still, you couldn't force yourself to even move your mouth.

Azriel lets out a sigh, that heartbreakingly defeated sound you've grown so used to, taking your silence as an answer. You hear him swallow, pushing back the tears and the heaviness you could almost feel in your own heart.

“It's alright,” he breathes out, “Just let me know if you change your mind.”

Alright. You were starting to grow a distaste for the word. How could it be alright when you've done nothing but hurt him? You disappeared on him for decades on decades, making him think you were dead while you were off killing people for money. Only to come back and try to steal from Rhys, stab him and then ignore him after they helped you recover your memories. He has been sitting at your doorstep multiple hours a day for weeks without getting as much as an answer. How is any of this alright?

You wish he would just forget about you. Maybe then you wouldn't feel so guilty for all you've done.

If it weren't for the magic pumping through this house your bath would have been freezing cold by now. The perfectly warm, lavender scented water the House provided almost pissed you off, and so did the oils and balms it presented you, urging you to take care of yourself when it was the last thing on your mind.

You've spent hours in the ostentatious tub, scrubbing your skin raw. Desperately trying to get rid of the disgust you felt every time you looked down at your own hands, always finding them covered in blood no matter how many times you washed them. Some things can't be washed out with anything, and you can't undo the things you've done.

After wishing to recover your memories so fiercely, you can't believe you find yourself wishing you could forget everything all over again, the happy and awful ones alike. Every time you remember your short marriage with Azriel, you end up reminding yourself of all the things you've done, of how much you didn't deserve even a second of the happiness he brought you during those years.

You remember when Azriel confided in you about the guilt he felt for the things he's done. You'd always soothe him as best as you could, thinking you could understand how he feels, telling him you'd always love him no matter what. It makes you cringe just to think how naive you were.

Everything Azriel had done had been by the High Lord's orders - unfortunately including Rhysand's father - but, whether it was the best solution or not, it was all for the good of the Night Court and its people. And even then you couldn't have imagined what that burden felt like on his back. You had fought before, helped them keep the court safe, but had hardly ever killed anyone, only getting that far when it was strictly necessary.

Now you had lost count of how many people's lives had ended by your hand, or you wish you had at least. Your nightmares insist on showing you every single person, one after the other playing incessantly in your mind. Now you know what it felt like to be on the other end of the conversation.

Letting out a sigh, you submerge yourself underwater, hoping to drown out your thoughts for even a moment. You almost felt bored today, which shouldn't come as a surprise since you've done virtually nothing in weeks, but given your current disposition it certainly was something new. It almost makes you wish you had accepted Azriel's offer of taking you up to Rhys' cabin though you still weren't sure you could make the trip there. The only way to leave this house was by having someone fly you down, which is probably why they keep you here in the first place.

It could be completely unrelated to your mood, but Azriel hadn't come by today. He warned you there was something important he needed to do when he left the night before. He rarely leaves your side these days, always sitting by your door or in the room next to yours, keeping his promise of being a simple shout away, so you know it had to be about the guild or the general safety of Velaris for Rhys to actually manage to convince him to stay longer than a few hours away from you.

Curiosity got the best of you, asking the question out loud while he was informing you through the door before you could stop yourself. He didn't answer right away, probably too surprised at hearing your voice after weeks of silence, so you didn't even realize you had asked it out loud at first.

When the shock wore off, he told you there were some suspicious movements close to the Hewn City, the smile noticeable in his voice despite the safety threat he was describing. Routine checks like these never took him too long, and with the added situation you were in, he would likely be back by the early hours of the morning.

You couldn't call them conversations at all, but hearing Azriel talk to you, sometimes to tell you about his day, telling you old stories or even new ones, the important moments you've missed in recent years, helped you not feel so empty somehow. As much as you were desperately trying to distance yourself and lay forgotten alone in this room, the fact that he wouldn't allow you to do it brought you a sense of relief.

These feelings were too confusing, wanting complete opposite things like this. You needed to be alone, were always just shy of a panic attack when you so much as caught a glimpse of anyone or heard their voice, but it was starting to feel like you still wanted them to reach out a hand dispute it all.

Your lungs start to burn after being left with no air for so long. You consider just letting it run out, put yourself out of this misery, but your hands reach for the sides of the tub, pulling yourself out of the water, air filling your lungs once again, chest rising and falling as you catch your breath. Even this you couldn't do right.

Getting out of the tub and cleaning yourself off with a fluffy towel, you move to walk out into the bedroom, but hesitate for a moment, glancing at the calming oils the house left you on top of the counter. You've scrubbed at your skin so much it's irritated and slightly itchy, the oil could help soothe it so you didn't end up scratching at yourself all night.

One of the oils smelled like lavender too, so maybe with a little luck and nothing else disturbing you, it would help you relax enough for you to get at least a few hours of sleep without any unwanted nightmares waking you up right away. You felt exhausted down to the bone, and wanted nothing more than a little dreamless peace, so you picked up the oil for once.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, you search through the closet, finding it full of your old things. There was more than what Azriel had shown you before, when you still couldn't recognize any of them, a lot more in fact, it looked like he hardly got rid of anything. There were also things the rest of your friends must have saved from that time.

You hadn't stopped to think about what happened to everything you owned when you died, too consumed with every other thought. It seems everyone ended up keeping a piece of you for themselves, Azriel keeping as much as he could, desperately so.

Rummaging through the boxes, you pick up a necklace Cassian had bought for you as a Solstice present. It was simple in nature, but the blue stone hanging from it was absolutely gorgeous. He had been very proud of this find, and later that night Azriel had told you all about how he had begged Mor to help him get something special for you, since he wasn't too good at buying gifts for people but wanted your first Solstice with Azriel to go without a single misstep.

The necklace holds a nostalgic weight as you put it around your neck, letting it sit as you look through the rest of your things. There was a lot more jewelry in these boxes since you always had a love for shiny things, and Rhysand didn't have any sort of restraint when it came to his money. Once he had bought you an entire collection of gold, sapphire encrusted jewelry for Solstice, one that would have embarrassed you had you not given him an extremely rare cologne that same night. You even had to employ the help of Azriel's shadows to find it. Finding gifts for the High Lord was always an adventure.

Picking up one of the many decorated daggers the inner circle, including your mate, had gifted you over the years, you find it's the first dagger Amren gave you. It hadn't been a solstice or birthday gift, she had simply decided you needed it after an attack. You had more than enough daggers, even more if you went through Azriel's collection, but her giving it to you was a sign that she cared, in her own way. You had almost started crying in Azriel's arms when you realized the ancient, terrifying creature cared about you later that night.

Most of your expensive clothes seemed to be hanging in this closet as well, and almost all had either been gifted by Mor or you had bought them when you were shopping together. You wonder for a second if any of the old stores you used to visit were still open. You're also not entirely sure if you'd like any of the things you used to, dressing in color felt foreign to you now.

Even from your position on the ground, you knew the carefully wrapped dress hanging in the closet had to be your wedding dress, the thought making your mouth go dry. You thumb at your ring finger unconsciously, finding it empty. You had lost your wedding ring, Azriel couldn't have kept it since you had it on when you died. You find yourself wishing you still had it, as undeserving as you were of something so special.

Memories of the ceremony rush into your head, bringing tears to your eyes, it truly had been the happiest day of your life. You wonder if you would have still married him if you had known what was to come. Selfishly, you think you would.

You have to tear your eyes away from the garment, making your way through the boxes sitting at the bottom of the dresser once more to distract yourself. There were so many random things in here, even bookmarks and cookie cutters. He truly has kept anything that reminded him of you.

In the middle of it is sitting a dandelion preserved in resin. Azriel had given it to you when you told him you missed looking at the fields full of them as you sat under the trees when you were a child, finding the most comfortable looking one to take a nap. You used to keep it by your bedside, and looking over to the empty nightstand you think you might start doing it again.

At the bottom of the box were a few letters, a copy of your contract with Rhysand, letters your parents had written, and a few you wrote for Azriel. There was one in particular that came to mind. You search for it, knowing the inscription and date written on the envelope by heart. When you find it among the others, you open it slowly, hands shaking as you do.

You had written this letter for Azriel after he proposed to you, leaving it on his pillow for him to find one night. It had always been easier for you to write your feelings rather than saying them out loud, and so you had decided to do just that, pouring your heart out into the pages.

Reading through it brought tears to your eyes, sobbing silently at her precious feelings. No matter how naive or innocent she was, one thing you can't deny was that her love for Azriel was always real, your love for Azriel. You find yourself agreeing with every word you had written all those years ago, even when you felt unworthy of it. You still loved him as much as you did before, there's no point in denying that.

You don't know how many times you read the letter or for how long you sit on that floor, holding onto the dandelion Azriel immortalized for you, crying at everything you've lost, and everything you still have.

When Azriel comes by that night you find yourself opening the door, only wide enough for you to be able to reach your hand out, but it sets his heart beating dangerously fast nonetheless, the rush of happiness traveling through the bond somehow. You hand him the letter silently, and almost thank the gods when he carefully accepts it without touching you, without question, before closing the door back up.

You've never been good at explaining your feelings, much less when your head is as messy as it is now, but you hope he understands what you want to say with this gesture, you want him to know you still love him, that you always will. Judging by the way he starts audibly crying, much like you had been hours prior, you think he does, and, for the first time in weeks, those sounded like happy tears.

It's hard to say where the sudden courage came from, but your body moves before you have the chance to ignore it or talk yourself out of it. Getting out of bed and almost throwing yourself into the bath, letting the scented wash take away all the lingering cold sweats left behind by yet another nightmare.

Drying yourself off, and throwing on one of the dresses Mor had left for you quickly. She truly knew you well, even this warped version of you. The black dress was simple enough, although somehow too intricate for the dinner you were about to interrupt at the time, but it was beautiful.

She had come by your room not long ago, calling out your name softly, but unfortunately still scaring you in the process, unused to company as you were. The obvious panic shown by your heartbeat made her pause for a moment but it didn't completely deter her as she left a bag full of new clothes at your door, lingering only long enough to write out a note explaining she wanted you to have some updated clothes before going on her way, understanding you didn't wish to see or talk to anyone while holding out hope that you would one day.

You had waited for her to leave the house entirely before opening the door hesitatingly, and picking up the bag quickly, reading the note as well back in the comfort of your room. The kiss she left on the note, marked by her red lipstick, was so much like Mor that it made you cry.

That was the last time you had opened this door, and as your hand finds the doorknob you hesitate, heart beating so loud you think it might jump out of your chest. It takes you entirely too long to go through with it, but a loud, boisterous laugh coming from downstairs allows some of your courage to return.

Descending the stairs slowly, step by step, slowly putting one foot in front of the other, simultaneously trying to not make any noise and telling yourself you could do this. When you get closer to the dining room, close enough that you could hear them talking and find Azriel's shadows lazing around along the walls, you hesitate once more.

They sounded happy and you would only ruin the mood with your presence. Those thoughts quickly consume you, and almost make you turn around, but as one of his shadows suddenly passes you, sliding into the room to warn Azriel of your arrival, you round the corner and take the last few steps, walking into the room and facing the other three residents of this house.

Cassian stands up immediately at your presence, your name leaving his lips in surprise as he studies you with wide eyes. His familiar lack of subtlety almost brings a smile to your lips. You think it did at first, only to raise your hand and find your mouth set in the same line it had been stuck in for weeks, the muscles still unused, but you still stayed.

They were all frozen in place, as if scared that if they made any sudden movement it would send you back running to your room, and, truthfully, it probably would. Everyone's eyes are now on you, every single one of your instincts is telling you to turn back around, and you're still here. Maybe you can actually do this.

“I…” Your voice falters, you couldn't be sure when it was the last time you had used it. “I thought I could join you for dinner today.”

No one answers right away, still watching you as if they couldn't believe you were really standing there. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, closing your hands into fists, hard enough that your nails bite into the palms of your hands, the pain keeping you present in the moment. You wanted to approach the table, but felt entirely too exposed.

Nesta is the first to break out of the spell, grabbing onto Cassian's arm and pulling him back down into his chair, making you let out a sigh of relief. As soon as his butt finds the chair, Azriel also shakes himself out of his surprise, a blinding smile trying to fight its way into his lips while he attempts to act normally. His shadows all disperse to different corners of the room as he lets out a breath, one that seems to come from deep within him.

“Of course you can,” he answers at last. He comes up to your room and talks to you every day, but hearing it unmuffled by the door, his eyes locked on yours, makes goosebumps appear in your arms. It also sends you walking to the table, choosing the seat at the top instead of the empty one next to Azriel. One step at a time.

A bowl of soup appears in front of you as soon as you sit down. The worst part was over, you reminded yourself. Now you just have to sit and eat, let them get lost in their conversations and just push through. It takes them a moment to understand your feelings, but once again Nesta seems to read you like an open book, starting their conversation back up and forcing them to follow.

You hadn't eaten all day if you remembered correctly, but your appetite was the last thing on your mind, having to almost force yourself to finish the soup, as was the usual these days. It was also hard to keep track of their conversation as you kept repeating encouraging words in your head and ordered your limbs to keep moving, entirely too aware of your every movement.

They tried to be subtle, but every once in a while you could also feel their side glances at you. You never met their eyes though, staring into your soup as if it was the most interesting thing you've ever seen in your life.

Azriel's shadows seemed to be your biggest supporters, lazing around under your feet as if reminding you that you weren't alone. They were easier to deal with that Azriel himself for now, but as an extension of him, it felt like having him close.

You hardly say another word during the whole ordeal, the air so awkward it almost made you want run away multiple times, but you stay until you finish your food, and when you go back to your room, excusing yourself quickly, you're incredibly proud of yourself. Azriel tells you as much when he visits one last time before sleep as well, a warmth spreading in your chest at the words. Maybe all wasn't completely lost yet.

[misssakuramochi]

'WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS' A SENKU x READER FLUFF DRABBLE

Synopsys: As the first two people to re-awaken from the petrification you and Senku have to work hard just to survive. A poorly timed storm and a bout of bad decision making threaten to put that hard work, and your survival, in jeopardy. Requested By: A Lovely Anonymous Requester' Request: 'Hello there. Can I request for Senku x Reader again? Today it's raining at my place and suddenly I thought of this: This timeline is before long before taiju awake from the stone. Also Senku and Reader met after the petrification. Reader went to scavenge for food in the winter, Reader thought she could handle the weather despite living her whole live in warm and humid weather. Well, Reader stay too long in the winter that she got sick and pass out in front of the treehouse. Basically, what are Senku reaction? Will he check her pulse everytime since Reader doesn't snore in her sleep? Will he be worried sick since Reader didn't wake up after few day? What will he do? By the way, I love how you write Senku.'

Age Rating: E

Genre: Fluff, Light!Angst

Word Count: 1,524

Notes: Hello! I hope you don't mind but I did alter the prompt slightly to have reader caught in a rainstorm rather than out in the winter to go along with Senku waking in the spring! I hope you enjoy!

The tumultuous sky rolled with heavy, black clouds, thick as smoke as they blocked out any light the sun may have been willing to offer. Heavy rain poured down in thick sheets, further obscuring the overgrown forests and leaving your field of vision skewed and warped by pounding droplets as you struggled to find your way back to the small home base where you'd first met Senku.

Fat droplets of chilled rainwater splashed heavily against your shaking shoulders, soaked clothes clinging to your slick skin and wrapping you in their chill, the cold having long-since sunken deep into your bones. You felt like you had been wandering around for hours, assuredness that you were on the right path fading further with each stretching minute.

“Shit.” A curse tore from your lips as unsteady legs had you stumbling into a nearby tree, the cold rendering you too weak to do more than keep yourself propped upright. It had begun to feel as though your blood had cooled to ice, chest aching as each ricocheting pump sent ice water coursing through your veins. Sinking down into the squelching mud as you felt your head began to pound with each thrumming heartbeat you struggled to squint though the black pinpricks popping in and out of your vision, watching as it blurred around the edges.

Even your tears felt cold as salt-tinged water dripped down your already soaked cheeks, head lolling helplessly against the tree that supported you. ‘We can’t do anything reckless…’ Senku’s warning, spoken time and time again like a mantra rang on repeat in your head, demons of your mind making a cruel mockery of his voice as it warped into a tone of disdain: a weapon of spite. When he’d warned you earlier of the storm he was sure was to come, you should have listened - should have holed up, safe and warm at his side in what passed for a lab around a struggling fire - something that sounded like a piece of heaven to you now. All you had wanted to do was help: make a quick trip out to gather more food, replenish some of your meager supplies before the storm came in in full force... So much for being useful now - now, with you lost and frozen, not only was Senku going to starve, but he was going to do it alone.

“Senku… I’m sorry.” You’d hardly remember the words you thought would be your last, slowing heart rate finally claiming your consciousness as you slumped, defeated, against the rain-soaked bark of the tree.

xxx

“[Name]! [Name], where are you?!” A harsh click of his tongue voiced Senku’s anxious frustration as the rain drowned out even the loudest of his shouts. The best excuse for an umbrella he'd been able to conjure at a moment's notice shielded him from most of the downpour as he trudged with some level of difficulty along the slippery, mud-coated paths to the closest foraging spot of any worth, eyes squinted as he tried to make out any sign of you that hadn’t already been washed away by the rain.

When Senku had told you of the approaching storm he had expected you to stay put - he should have known better. From the moment he’d met you, you’d done nothing but try to make yourself as useful as could be; if he’d thought about it for even a second he’d have realized that running off last minute to grab any supplies either of you may need before the storm hit was exactly the kind of thing you would do. The realization had come too late, though, sinking into his stomach like a rock and leaving it in knots when he’d turned from a project to find you gone, hours after the storm had begun wracking the forest in full force.

The fuzzy image of something out of place caught Senku’s eye off to his right and the moment he’d focused enough to identify the pale fabric of your clothing through the haze of rainfall he was scrambling, slipping through the mud as he made his way to your slouched body.

“Shit. You idiot.” Though Senku’s words were harsh his eyes were soft, brow furrowed in worry as lips pursed is thought of every possible action. There would be plenty of time to scold you later - for now he had to focus on finding a way to get both of you back home safely, and getting you warmed up once you got there.

xxx

It was the soft sound of a bubbling beaker that lulled you from the silence of your slumber, and the acrid smell of burning chemicals that finally convinced you to abandon it as your eyes fluttered open, heavy and sluggish as your vision struggled to clear from the blurry haze of sleep.

Your body was heavy, limbs aching and locked. Soft grunts voiced your complaints as your joints cracked into place, muscles uncooperative as you tried to move yourself, orient yourself to your surroundings.

“Oi, sleepyhead.” A voice spoke out in a tone softer than its words, and as the voice registered to you memory clicked into place: the petrification, awakening to meet Senku after, the lab… and then, finally, the storm.

“Senku?!” Your body ached in protest as you forced yourself to sit upright, vision whirling as you struggled to settle your eyes on him. Senku’s hand, warm and firm, found your shoulder at the same time as his scolding gaze, steadying you even as you shrunk under the weight of your guilt.

“Woah, slow down. If you move too fast you might pass out again - I already used the last of our supplies, so if you get sick a second time in a row…” Pragmatic as always; though somehow his blunt-faced manner of speech had come to put you at ease. You could trust him to tell you the truth, and say what he meant: at least, most of the time.

“You’ve been asleep for 38 hours, 47 minutes -- err, about a day and a half. We had enough medicine to take care of the fever this time but…” As Senku began to ramble off the happenings you’d missed over the past day you let your eyes wander around the small, cramped living space, grounding yourself once more. The place looked more or less as you’d remembered it: living space as you might call it, the two haphazard piles of trial-and-error made, patchwork blankets and pillows and the small divider between them (Senku had tried to claim that propriety was hardly a priority in this new stone world, but you had insisted on at least some form of privacy) that served as functionally livable were heavily overshadowed by research materials. Rope-bound notes scribbled into everything from bark to what currently passed for paper were ‘organized’ into piles of varying heights across tables of varying quality, scattered about almost the entirety of the tiny room.

One of them, though, caught your eye. As you spotted, finally, the cushions propped at your bedside, you noticed a set of notes you hadn’t yet seen: recent ones, to be sure, but unfamiliar all the same. Chicken-Scratch scribbles lined images of flowers and herbs you vaguely recognized, organized around temperatures and notes on desired boiling point and tincture colour. With the sticking lag of sleep easing you felt the cogs in your mind turn, finally clicking into place. You hadn't remembered Senku ever mentioning medicine before.

“Senku, did you invent--”

“Speaking of, I need to check your temperature.” Your further protest died on your tongue as Senku’s hand moved forward again, this time coming to rest on your cheek first, then your forehead. Focus furrowed his brow as his face leaned in close, closer, eyes laser-point focused on his hand, “It’s not exactly scientific, but there’s no way in hell I’m making a proper thermometer with what we have right now. Once we have a few more things, maybe.” 

Senku’s breath was hot as it fanned across your face, making your cheeks burn hotter still. Your earlier interruption had been forgotten alongside the rest of your thoughts, lips left to tremble out a squeaking stammer as Senku inched in closer still.

“Huh?” At first his expression was quizzical, a single brow raising to match your perceived complaint as his focus finally shifted to meet your eye; as he realized, ever so heart-poundingly slowly, his proximity, the second brow jumped to meet the first as he all but scrambled backwards, guilty hand hiding behind his back as he faked a cough into the other.

“Right. Your fever seems to have receded so uh, take a little more time to rest and we’ll… check back tomorrow. There's still some soup left on the fire - you should eat if you think you can.” A stiff nod tried to excuse Senku from the situation but even exhausted you were still quick enough to catch the hem of his sleeve as he moved to leave.

“Senku? Just, before you go - thanks.” The stiffness in his expression melted, slowly, a smile cracking away at the stone.

“Yeah, of course. We’re in this together - dumbass.” Even as the side of his palm came to gently tap at the top of your head, the softness of the moment shattered, you couldn’t help but giggle.

You may have been stuck in this new stone world, but at least you were stuck with him.

A/N: Aha! I've finally managed to start writing again! I apologize for the long wait on requests! Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this one as well Anon! Thank you for requesting again, I always love writing for my precious mad scientist. <3

Thank you everyone for reading, and safe travels!

[another-lost-mc]

I come to share an idea with you in case luck is on my side and you interested to expand it-

I can't stop thinking about the MC who has a crush on Lucifer but somehow ends up moaning his name while making out with Mephisto 🤔🫢 (I don't think MC and Mephisto have a romantic relationship yet, maybe it's more like ons or something similar???)

To be honest, your name somehow popped to my mind when I thought of this idea 😆 Maybe because I read your smut fic too much lol—

Anyway, thanks for reading and I hope you have a fantastic day 🤍

give me time, I'll change your mind

pairing: mephistopheles x gn!reader

content: nsfw. smut. friends (frenemies?) with benefits. jealousy, teasing, cursing, degradation, slut-shaming. reader has unresolved feelings for lucifer (one-sided).

word count: 1.3k

Groans and whimpered curses spill effortlessly from your lips as long, dexterous fingers graze the spot inside you that makes you tremble. Your body feels like a livewire, overwhelmed by the barest touch of leather against your bare skin and little nips of teeth against your throat. He nudges your head back for better access and you tip your head back with a sigh. It feels so good and your mind is lost in a blissful daze of his creation.

You don't realize something is wrong until there's a sharp intake of breath, and the gloved hand stretching you open suddenly grows still. Mephisto lifts his head from where he was trailing kisses along the curve of your neck, and he narrows his eyes angrily at you.

"I'm knuckle-deep inside your greedy little hole and you can't remember my name, pet?"

Your mouth falls open in mortification when you realize what you've done.

This isn't the first time you've gone to him for relief. He accepted your casual physical arrangement and you both agreed discretion was best. He obliged when you were in the mood, even though more often lately he was the one that initiated first.

He was always careful about coming up with flimsy excuses for you to stay behind after class and help him with the school paper. He fucked you across any available surface in the newspaper club office—bent over the arm of the sofa, against the door, flat on your back against his desk. He was generous with his attention without asking why you chose him, and maybe that was his mistake.

What would you tell him if he did? That he was a handsome distraction, someone to satisfy your needs while you tried to unravel your complicated feelings for the Avatar of Pride?

"I'm sorry, I—I don't know why..."

You're a terrible liar, and he doesn't fall for your blubbering excuses. His expression is cold, calculating, and he's piecing together the little secrets you've kept from him all this time.

"How many others do you turn to for a quick fuck because you can't have your precious Lucifer?" He practically spits his name like a curse as he pulls his fingers from your body with an obscene squelch. He continues stoking around your entrance lazily, taunting you so you don't forget that you were nearly begging for him to fuck your brains out—until you ruined it, that is.

His tongue is sharp and his words drip with scorn. He's trying to hurt you for hurting him. "Tell me, little human. Was I the only one willing to touch you? Was I your last resort, pet? Lucky me." He chuckles but it's a bitter sound, and he bares his fangs when his lips curl into a cold smile.

You're rendered speechless, mouth opening and closing uselessly when you struggle to think of something to say.

How could you be so stupid?

Stray tears trickle from the corner of your eyes when you blink. You can't even imagine how pathetic you must look in his eyes: your lips quivering pitifully as more tears threaten to fall, your legs spread wide on the desk where he stands between them, your pants and underwear tugged down to your ankles from earlier when he was too eager to undress you properly.

He startles you when his fingers press against your entrance and slide back in effortlessly. He adds another and begins stretching you again around his fingers, but it's different now than it was before. His movements are faster now, roughened by his frustration and some primal instinct to claim you. He had you first. Perhaps he just needs to remind you of what you can have with him instead of whatever fantasy you've imagined with Lucifer, that pompous prick—he doesn't deserve you.

Desire pools deep in your belly and you bite your lip to stifle your moans as he strokes you in all the right places. It feels wrong to enjoy this when you insulted him so cruelly. You feel guilty because you still want him—no one's ever touched you the way he has. You have a feeling that he knows that too, even if you won't admit it.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth; he licks at a stray tear clinging to your cheek before he pulls away. "Don't worry, pet. I'll still take care of you, even if no one else will."

There's a soft zip and a metallic clink as he undoes his belt with his free hand. Once he frees his cock, he moves lightning quick—his fingers slip from your body so he can grip your waist with both his hands. He drags you forward until the only thing keeping you from falling off the edge of the desk is his hips pressed against yours.

You barely manage to grip the edge of the desk to brace yourself before he thrusts inside you with one deep stroke. He gives you a moment to adjust to the stretch, panting lightly while he watches you squirm on his cock. His hair falls carelessly over his face and sticks to the light sheen of sweat trickling down his temples.

It feels like the calm before the storm: he looks fierce but determined. "Let's see if you can still moan his name by the time I'm done with you," he sneers, groaning deep in his chest when he pulls back, teasing your entrance with the fat tip of his cock. He slams back inside, fucking you like he's trying to tear you asunder with the rough, punishing pace of his thrusts. His filthy praise about how well you take him and how perfect you feel around his cock puts you back together again.

The desk rattles underneath you and the desperate, feral noises you're both making can probably be heard down the hall, but he doesn't stop until you come on his cock with a broken cry. He fucks you through your release and hisses when you clench around him, and he finally grunts as he empties himself into you.

After he catches his breath, he groans quietly as his softening cock slips from your body. He tucks himself away, fastening his belt while he stares at the tantalizing sight of his cum trickling from your hole. Usually he fetches a damp cloth for you to clean yourself with, but he doesn't do that tonight. He helps you off the desk and slides your clothes back into place. His hands are surprisingly gentle and you realize he's not trying to mock you—there's something possessive in his gaze instead. Your underwear and pants are sticky from the mess he's made of you, and he can already see little wet spots forming where it soaks into the fabric.

By the time he leads you outside where his chauffeur is waiting, it's as if nothing unusual happened between you tonight. His car pulls up at the House of Lamentation to drop you off, and like all the times before, watches to make sure you make it inside safely. You feel the weight of his gaze on your back until you close the door behind you.

The others must be busy because no one comes to your room to bother you, and you're grateful that you don't have to make excuses for your wrinkled appearance and musky smell. You take a warm bath before bed to soothe the dull ache between your legs. The lingering scent of his sweat and cologne on your skin has faded by the time you put on your pajamas, and you leave your D.D.D. on your desk so you're not tempted to call him. You toss and turn, mind racing with memories of what happened tonight and the fleeting sense of uncertainty and anticipation about what to expect when you see him tomorrow.

Eventually you fall into a restless sleep, but the crimson eyes you normally dream about are murky-green instead.

read more: mephistopheles masterlist | obey me! masterlist

[bunniisms]

Fun character-building but filler episode where Hellsing has a supernatural enfuckening after some of the newly hired Hellsing guards skipped a few steps but unleashed a supernatural shockwave through the dungeons that have locked away the parts of the monster and human inhabitants minds to effectively render them toothless.

On paper, what it does is take away every memory that led to them mastering and developing their skills/abilities and locking them behind a mental barrier. But in practice? It’s pretty much given each of them a soft reset to a version of themselves from a bygone time.

Walter is sent in his mind back to being 18, newly returned from the Events of Dawn but utterly bed bound with severe injuries stemming from his time in Poland. Physically he has his experience from the war and can THEORETICALLY use his wires, but he BELIEVES his body is broken, utterly ravaged after an attack by the early version of Millennium (where he believes he was ultimately abandoned by Alucard) and teetering around death. His wires are there but he believes he is bed-bound and too weak to stand and fight, so he won’t.

Alucard is, well VERY EARLY Vladcard. Plucked up the moment he was transformed on the Battlefield and utterly discombobulated.

Amity? Amity was mentally sent back to a time before her death— before the incident at the train station, her resurrection and the Jorōgumo awakening in her mind. Physically she is still the same but mentally? She’s human again. She’s married, she has her two children and the family to lead. But… they’re no where to be found. Any realization that might lead her to rediscovering the Hive is buried beneath layers of confusion and disorientation.

And there at the center of everything is Seras, who was mostly unaffected and simply regressed to a point before she was comfortable with the vampire thing… so effectively two weeks ago. But she still remembers everyone and this is where the hard part of fixing everything comes in!

Because Integra? She’s away— she’ll be back any day from a trip across England for business and returning to a house filled with confused and bewildered versions of her employees? Well. Seras thinks she’ll be out flat on her ass or turned to tomorrow’s dust if she doesn’t figure this one out!

Basically it ends up being Seras helping the three geezers to maneuver through their own mind and realize ‘no, wait, this isn’t where I left off—‘ and walking through their own footsteps as they piece together themselves by willing through the mental barriers in their mind. Seras learns so, so much more than she ever could have considered about the others… in between wrangling them from causing havoc.

Amity and Walter fall in love again, even though Amity believes she’s still married and he’s married to Hellsing— which leads to some character development that lasts beyond the episode as Amity works through the reality that she doesn’t deserve to have to defend a man who could’ve been worse but wasn’t great. And Walter hearing this from her and not only wanting to ‘take her away’ from that but seeing himself and his situation with Arthur in Amity’s struggles with her husband, and wanting to set himself free too.

Seras leaves them alone to focus on helping Alucard, but is gone for too long and they try to escape and run away with each other— classic shotgun wedding in the wake of WW2 style—which ironically leads to them helping each other through the mental block because things click into place through trying to parse out the logic crashing with the fantasy.

Like how Walter doesn’t feel as hurt as he thinks he is (because he recovered) and why Amity is indulging this beautiful, horrible, idea of running off in a whirlwind with Walter (because she knows, if her children are gone it’s because her husband is too. She knows they’re dead in some part of her mind but it’s not until she’s booking it with Walter that it clicks that she can’t leave a family that’s not of this world anymore and THAT cascades into her remembering the Swarm and the Hive.

Seras succeeds in her self-appointed mission of curing her friends and herself, all before Integra is back home! Things are awkward and a little foggy still, but she did it!!

…Only for Integra to come back to find chaos regardless, because Seras had completely forgotten about all the confused guards impacted by the magical enfuckening. Integra sighs, cue credits!

[gelenka-daria]

melkor and manwe and heavy angst plz? <33333

i remembered that there was a passage about melkor ripping manwë's eagles' wings off so i made it worse

Manwë won’t forgive this.

Melkor hesitates, his grip tight around the eagle’s throat as it struggles to free itself from his hold. He remembers his brother’s fondness for his winged creatures, the caresses, the loving looks, the pride. Had Melkor himself not harbored affection towards them given that they’re an extension of his little brother? What he’s about to do would cause Manwë such pain. 

Good, he squashes the uncertainty like a worthless insect as his face hardens, disdain deposes the sinking feeling in his gut, coiling with thorny sharpness around his heart and striking a horrible, burning heat into the dark folds of his mind. Has he not been cast aside? Been made a fool and his right forsworn? Has he not been hurt? I don’t need his forgiveness. Let him hurt.

His fingers squeeze and he pulls, tearing feather, skin, flesh and bone asunder, blood and viscera splashing haphazardly, slashing across his face as he shreds the eagle in half and the damned thing ceases its shrieking at last. 

He drops the carcass at his feet without a spare glance before turning to his quivering vassals, bidding them to hand him the next one, flexing his fingers to hide their shaking.

“Don’t waste your breath,” he tells the writhing, screeching creature, and it takes all his might to keep the breathlessness out of his voice, because he feels like he’s being choked, invisible hands closing violently around his throat, “your coward of a master won’t come to save you.” 

Melkor pointedly ignores the vicious chorus inside his own mind telling him that he’s the coward, how he can never bring himself to harm Manwë so this is what he stoops to. 

It doesn’t matter.

They’ve captured five in total, and he’s going to rip them all apart, sans one, so it could carry the pieces back to his little brother. 

_

There is rising hysteria punching its way up from the depth of Manwë's body. 

He’d retired to his chambers briefly after countless meetings had left him weary and in need of some much-needed peace and quiet. He’d only been able to enjoy a few moments of repose before an eagle had shot through his balcony and crashed into the floor, looking haggard, a large red mass of— something dangling from its claws.

Manwë didn’t know what he was looking at, at first, until he realized that the putrid pile of flesh was none other than the remains of some of his own eagles, torn to smithereens and stuck together in a tableau of death. 

The understanding zapped through him like a bolt of lightning, splintering him down the middle like a crack in a solid tree, and he found that he, the breath of Arda, could hardly manage to draw breath.

“Highest!” Eönwë bursts through the doors, the look of alarm on his face only intensifying once he spots the body parts. “It’s—highest!” He bolts to where his king has kneeled to cradle the worn-out bird as it struggles to breathe, his wide eyes stuck to the lump of flesh and bone his eagles had been rendered to. “Are you alright, highest?” 

Manwë can do nothing but nod, before he stands to inch closer to the heap of dead eagle parts, heedless of Eönwë's attempts to keep him away. 

“It’s him.” His herald hisses. Manwë doesn’t grace him with a reply, it doesn’t take a genius to know who he is. “Do not get closer, Highest, I beg, lest it be a trick.” 

“Send for the others,” Manwë tells him absentmindedly, continuing his advance until the hems of his pale, pristine robes brush over the pooling blood. 

“Highest–”

“Now, Eönwë.” Please, he pleads internally, leave me be.

Eönwë concedes, retreating in hurried steps from the chambers as Manwë sinks to his knees and finally lets the pain of it, the shock of it, settle in, grief weaving across his face. He can’t even tell them apart, doesn’t know which is which and something dies a little inside him, a small piece of his heart flaking away from the rest of it.

Eru. Why? He’d cared for them, too, once. Held them, fed them, flown with them. The Melkor he knew wouldn’t do this, the Melkor he knew recognized how much the eagles meant to Manwë, but the Melkor he knew is nothing but a mirage of fireshine and shadow now, born of memory and instinct. And in his place is this…this…this—

Manwë stifles a sob and covers his face with bloody hands. The tears are pouring and he’s helpless against them, he wants to scream, to spark the ozone infested air and put shape to his dismay, make his sorrows into something tangible. He’s so tired, but he is so solidly in his body right now, so prey to its whims and emotions, so desperate to let it out. 

“Pull yourself together,” his voice catches pathetically and he shakes his head as though he’ll be able to rattle the hurt out.

"Pull yourself together." He repeats more firmly as he rises to his feet and wipes the blood from his face and breathes in, breathes out. his brethren are fast approaching.

He gives a bodily shudder and feels the tremor carry to his ribs, to his heart. Manwë feels rattled, like he would be blown apart, scattered across the seven corners of the universe if someone doesn’t hold on to him and keep him grounded. 

What does it says about him, he wonders, that the only one who can do that, the one he wants, is the one who'd done this to him to begin with?

[priintiisor]

the people seem to be enjoying my pmv and someone said they d like to hear me ramble about it, and i want to ramble about it. so here we go

the struggles of making neglected space

part 1: this thing has been haunting me for at least a year now

so as i said in the description of the video- yes i know this song from the warrior cats map. for those who don t know there s a warrior cats map (multi-animator project) to this song, and it s absolutely beautiful, and you should watch it. it s actually one of my favorite warrior cats maps and that s saying a lot, there s a lot of really good ones-

anyways so i was watching the warrior cats map one day and. i don t remember exactly which part of the song it was, but i believe it was the line that goes "save me the ache of slow decay", that i heard and i was like, haha that kinda sounds like rain world. and then i listened to the rest of the song. and i was like holy shit this DOES sound like rain world- i mean. i think i realised this after i d had the idea for the pmv, but the song is literally about an abandoned building slowly deteriorating, there are very few stories where your characters are literally abadoned buildings lol, it just works too well

the final version of the pmv is in fact not my first attempt at making it- i always imagined the finished thing with beautiful colored backgrounds and some fully animated segments and cool lighting (probably because of the warrior cats map, which, again, is really beautiful) but i didn t think i d be able to pull that off. the final thing is 4 and a half minutes long, which doesn t sound like a lot, but my previous longest ever animatic was 3 minutes long and nowhere near as detailed and i spent the entirety of last summer on that one. this was a big project

the first attempt at making neglected space was in october 2023. i decided that i wasn t gonna do the pretty bgs and fancy lighting, but i was going to animate it! well, not exactly animated, more like manual frame by frame twinning (kind of like what i did for the terrible things saint animatic, but a bit smoother) it was going to have different color palettes for all the different flashbacks and stuff, but i only ever got the first 4 shots done

(unlisted yt video because tumblr won t let me put more than 1 video in a post)

i think the reason i gave up on it the first time is because i was trying to make it in an animation program, and my poor laptop could not handle it- it was really laggy and annoying to draw in, so i just gave up eventually. i really don t like the art for it anymore

oh yeah, it should be mentioned, i have a kind of dumb way of making my animatics. apparently some people make them in animation programs. i just draw everything in a drawing program, save all the pieces as pngs and edit them together at the end. idk if that s weird but that s how i ve always done it lol

attempt no 2 was in april 2024. this attempt got a bit further, i got to the shot of survivor and monk reaching for eachother in the void (so i d made about a minute of it). i didn t get to editing everything i had drawn of it, but here s the first few shots of it

oh yeah, this is the one where i got the idea to write the lyrics in the color of which character in meant to be saying them :D i think it looks a lot cooler as subtitles tho. that yellow was barely visible on some of the bg colors

i think i gave up on this one cuz i just got burnt out. i still thought the idea was cool. but in my head i was still imagining it very beautifully rendered and i didn t like a lot of the art i d made for this attempt, so i gave up

attempt no 3 is from may 2024, and this one was colored! this time i had actually planned out some of the color palettes

and this one was once again going to be kind of animated! still making it in my drawing program (even tho i think this was after i got my new laptop that i have now, but i wasn t gonna try with the animation program again), but it was essentially gonna look like the final one, except with slightly nicer color palettes and slightly less detailed bgs. this one didn t get very far

it is the only one that didn t get to the shot with the title. i assumed that i got burned out so quickly because i was trying to make it so detailed, so i decided that even tho i really want to make it as pretty as it is in my head, that s probably not going to happen

i briefly fantasized about making neglected space a storyboarded map, but then i remembered that i ve never hosted a map before and no one knows who i am so that would take forever to be finished and probably wouldn t end up looking exactly how i wanted it. still, a fun thought

attempt no 4 was called "neglected space storyboard edition", in honor of the idea of making it a storyboarded map. i knew that wasn t happening, but i was like ok, i just want to see some version of this idea realised. let s just make it some messy sketches, as if it was the storyboard of a map. just to see it put to paper. i never edited any of it together, but here s some bits of it!

ah yes, this was during the very brief time when i was drawing iterators with 3 fingers on their hands to match the scugs. i would still do that but drawing these guys is the only reason i somewhat know how to draw hands and i don t want to lose my practice so. i don t do that anymore. but it s fun.

i actually still really like the art for this one!! the colors are nice and at this point my style was pretty close to how it is now. in fact for the shot of survivor and monk in the void in the final version, i was struggling with drawing it and i ended up just using the sketches from this version lol

this one s fine. but again in my head this thing had always been beautifully rendered and i just wasn t happy with it as a low effort animatic

and then summer vacation came

and i had spent the entirety of last summer vacation making the fall, my previous biggest project, that i was really proud of. and now i had the time and i felt the need to work on another big animatic

and i was like. fuck it. we re making neglected space

and we re making it beautiful, with beautiful shading, and beautiful fully rendered backgrounds, and if i feel the need to animate bits of it then i am. i m making this thing the way it is in my head if it s the last thing i do.

and i did. i m kind of surprised i finished it, but then again i kind of think i did it out of spite. usually i get bored of big projects and take months long breaks but for this one i never did. i really wanted to make this thing man

see you in part 2 for more rambling about how i made the one i actually finished!

[causticcorvus]

So, I do tend to overthink things, and one of the reasons for that right now is me cornering myself into a self-realized 'can't have my cake and eat it too' scenario. If I fundamentally believe one thing to be true, it makes it hard to justify the other thing (but I still want to do it anyway). I definitely said it before, but I fundamentally believe that the Alice we see for most of the series is not a complete person. The show makes it clear enough that Masquerade is a part of her, so the Alice we see has had a significant part of her split away into another side that she cannot connect with for most of the series. Imagine if someone quite literally stole all of your drive, confidence, self-belief, and left you with only your most passive traits? It makes sense she couldn't stand on her own two feet until she got those pieces of herself back. Now, I only bring that up because, how the hell do I reconcile that belief with my one AU-verse? Me having no self control when it comes to writing Masquerade as too much of his own character rather than an extension of Alice herself lead me to creating my Gemini AU verse, and well.. I do really enjoy doing it, but how do I begin to justify it. To split the two of them into their own beings would fundamentally make them both incomplete people again. With Masquerade I want that to be the point, and a point of struggle for him. But Alice? Can I even justify doing that to her again? The thing is, I don't write her like she's any lesser for it- I treat her as being much more 'complete', as if the split was uneven, but I still don't envision her as being the same character as if she still had Masquerade's darkness. My idea of a 'complete' integration of Alice+Masquerade is miles from canon Alice, and Masquerade's darkness being her own is the only reason she has the Darkus element in my mind. However, I do find it more likely that she never did fully reconcile every part of him back into herself, as is more or less what tends to really happen. I like the idea that 'Masquerade' had always been there, as the parts of herself she repressed in order to be the 'good, polite, well-behaved and disciplined' young lady she was expected to be, but the feelings of rebellion, resentment, and desire, among other truths about herself she denied, were an easy target to twist and corrupt, burgeon into their own being. Increasingly long, rambly divagation aside, what I mean to ask is, can you split them apart again and still have Alice retain her character growth? Can you split them in a way that doesn't take away her strength and agency? There are clearly some parts of herself- of him- that she wouldn't miss, that she tried to deny, but there are other parts he took so wholly from her last time that rendered her unable. I am reminded of something from, again, of all things, Kingdom Hearts. As much as I hated how much of a rug-pull the 'nobodies had hearts all along' thing really was, it does raise a good question- can a fractured soul, a fractured person, grow to become whole? I think the answer would be, over time, that yes, they could. And that angle is one I really wanted to explore with this fragmented version of Masquerade, but I think it's also an excuse I can use to preserve Alice's regained confidence and agency at the series' end. Alice may have become divided again, but she remembers everything she's been through, and she has something Masquerade does not, something he can't take from her- true bravery, true strength; the will to fight, not for herself, but for those who matter to her.

[totallynotandie]

Writing Prompt #1

Characters reaction to being kidnapped.

I wrote this like, two years ago and was going to post it when I finished it’s sister piece (my ocs reaction to being kidnapped) it was supposed to represent a proxy who has dealt with the operator for years and is comfortable enough to know what is and what isn’t it’s influence and my oc was supposed to represent someone newer to all of this, not yet realizing the thoughts they can’t control aren’t their own.

Let me know if you want to see that sister piece! I need motivation lol

Anyway! Enjoy reading

————————————————————————

Brain woke up with a headache worse than it usually was, trying his best to figure out what the fuck exactly happened and why he was tied to a chair with a bag over his head. The last thing he remembered was that he was out on a simple mission, surveying the forest and getting rid of trespassers to appease the Operator. It had been a quiet night with the only interesting thing being the cabin he found. He previously remembered it to have been abandoned, however there was clearly light coming from inside. He didn’t waste time giving thought to it, figuring it was too late for any camper to be awake. He’ll make this job quick so he can get back sooner.

The first step in and he didn’t have time to react to the harsh hit to the back of the head, hard enough to make his vision blur but not enough to knock him out. The masked man whipped around to attack his attacker back only for the same pipe to hit him across the forehead. This time rendering him unconscious but catching a glimpse of a striped hoodie that he could almost remember. Of course the one time he doesn’t make a plan he gets the shit knocked out of him.

Lost in the dark with his pounding headache all that was left was to try and wiggle out of the ropes. Alone with his thoughts of how much of an idiot he is for actually being able to get caught like that, only to feel more like an idiot after struggling for 20 minutes and getting nowhere. At least he was alone and no one could see how stupid probably looked.

“You look like a fuckin’ idiot. Would you give up already?” The familiar voice causes him to freeze in his seat out of disbelief. Becoming very aware of the other breathing in the room. How was he breathing? Brian watched the tapes after everything- he watched Tim kill him. There was no way he could come back. Yet here both of them are. Two dead men sitting in the same room occupying the living world once again. Brian’s shock wears off after remembering his own untimely demise.

“Wow Alex.. you knew I always wanted a surprise party. Unfortunately..it ain’t my birthday yet’ “ Brian dryly chuckles at his poor attempt at humor, flinching at the sudden light hitting his eyes when the bag is ripped off. Alex’s angry face stares down at him, reminding Brian just how real all of this is.

“Shut the fuck up. You- you’re supposed to be dead!” His tone is stern but clearly Alex hasn’t accepted this as quickly as Brian. It's enough to keep the grin on Brian's face despite the fact he probably has a concussion. This’ll be interesting.

“I’m supposed to be dead? What about you?” He raised an eyebrow while tiling his head to the side to mock him. He squinted his eyes to try and make out any wounds on the others neck to no avail. There was nothing, like it never even happened. Just like Brian’s head.

“Stop fucking looking at me like that, asshole.” Alex stumbled out, running a hand through his hair while he paced in front of Brian. “I- I had your fucking body.” He crazily gestures with his hands, “And now you’re here? Are the rest of you alive too? How many times do I have to kill all of you??” His voice cracks into something broken, catching Brian off guard and causing him to refrain from calling Alex a creep for holding onto his body. Alex slumps against a wall, looking utterly defeated.

“...uh” Brain starts, not really sure how to comfort the guy who tried killing him for 6 years and currently has him tied up in a chair. “Maybe give up on the whole…killing us thing? Clearly it’s not working.” He continued to fidget with the knots around his wrist while Alex wasn’t paying attention. He had recognized the knot from rock climbing and now that he could see he could possibly undo it.

“Very funny.” Alex practically growls at him but he isn’t on the verge of tears anymore, instead he is fidgeting with a familiar looking gun. Of course even after dying he kept a cold hard clutch to the gun, Brian almost laughs but he doesn’t want to get shot at. He has plans with Tim that he doesn’t want to miss so he’ll have to try and survive this.

“I wasn’t joking. Do you really wanna waste the rest of your life re-killing all of us? You know IT can bring us all back whenever’. I don’t know how but- Hell! You’re a perfect example of that. Video proof of you bleedin’ out and not a single scar from it on ya.” Brain rambles on, holding in a sigh of relief when he feels the ropes around his wrist come undone. He holds onto the rope and keeps his hands behind his back. Waiting for a moment where he’ll be able to free the rest of himself and get away from his old friend.

“I forgot that you don’t know when to shut the fuck up.” Alex holds onto his head like it's going to split but he makes no other attempt to show that he's in pain. “When did you get so annoying anyway? It’s like you want me to kill you.” His voice shakes and Brian wonders if he can feel it yet too, the distaint buzz in the air. This will be over soon.

“You can avoid it all you want, Alex.” He takes the moment that Alex is vulnerable to sneak his pocket knife and start sawing at the rope around his ankles. “You can’t do anything to stop him..believe me, we all tried.” A clicking of a gun causes him to freeze while he was still looking down at his shoes, heart sinking into his chest while he started considering how this might all end.

“What did you get from ‘YOU TALK TO MUCH!’ It wasn’t a fuckin’ invatation, Bri.” He sat in his same spot only now he was aiming his gun at him. Casual from doing this so much, from killing them all before- everyone but him. Brian finished his job before he got the chance. Was that why he was so mad? Or was it the ever increasing headache that made him want to tear his own head off, one that was all to familiar. Brian slowly looked up at him to watch his face switch to realization and back to anger. “Did- DID YOU FUCKING SUMMON IT OR SOMETHING??”

As if on cue IT stood between the two of them but ITS attention was all on Alex, leaving Brian so he could think clearly enough to get out of the restraints. He grabs his stuff that Alex took off him, just his masks and gun that thankfully were easy to find with the chaos. Brian turns to leave the cabin, squinting a little due to most likely having a concussion. He was almost out and was content with leaving Alex alone in the woods. Alex’s screams wracked his brain until he was halfway out the door, he was alone with the static but he felt as if he could understand it.

A voice that he always mistook for his own internal dialogue told him what to do, like it was his own thought. But he knew that was ITS influence yet he couldn’t help but follow. Take him. The longer he stalls the louder he gets. He’s one of us. Even if Brian didn’t agree he couldn’t put up a fight, he was too tired to fight back anymore.

He left after throwing the unconscious Alex over his shoulder, avoiding ITS glaze while draping the mask over his head. His midnight plans were definitely ruined now.

[solstrix]

ART RESOLUTIONS OF 2025

Looking back at my progress this year, I can see how much I have grown…. And exactly where I want to improve in the future! To help me figure out how to improve in those ways, let us make a list to further define my goals and objectives, as well as to consult if I ever feel I am losing my way. But the most important thing to remember, is that every piece made gets me closer to being the artist I want to be.

As a disclaimer, this list is extremely specific to my own goals, please! Feel free to share your goals if you have them! I’d be curious to see, and I genuinely feel inspired by hearing what other people want to work on.

Therefore, without further ado…

Work on comics!! When we really get down to it, this is my most significant and most important goal. I have always wanted to be a comic artist, to tell stories using my art… But I’ve been holding myself back, feeling that my skills were not good enough, not consistent enough, just… not enough in general. That’s a lie though, and it has been a lie for a long time. I’ve been drawing characters since junior high. Backgrounds have never been my strong suit, but that is something that can only be improved by drawing more of them… Which I would have been motivated to do for the sake of my comics! I can only get better if I make them. And so I simply must make them.

Stay in my lane! Make less fanart, and more original work! Now don’t get me wrong, fan art is fun to make, and if making art of your fave is what keeps you picking up the pencil, then do it! But for me… I always find myself at the end of the year, wishing I’d dedicated more time to my own projects, my own stories, my own artistic voice. So this year I want to commit myself to finishing the first chapter of my webcomic, to draw my own characters, to draw from life or reference photos I’ve taken myself. Fanart will now be an occasional treat, not the everyday meal, so to speak.

Embrace my own pace! I’ve talked about this before on here, but the fact that I’m a slow artist has long been a struggle of mine. To make a long story short, I’ve decided that thinking of this as a flaw was in itself the real problem, and that what needed to change was my mindset. After all, it is when I take my time that I end up most enjoying the process. This means I might occasionally have to skip posting for a week, but most difficult… This means I have to give up weekly/monthly challenges. I keep trying to do these, and I keep failing, and it keeps making me feel burned out and worse than before. I have to let go.

Explore and define different approaches to making finished pieces. This one is a little hard to explain, but perhaps one of the most important for this blog. In the past, I’ve convinced myself that there was only one way to truly finish a piece: start with a sketch, do clean lineart, then flat colours, and then shading and rendering. Only once every single one of these steps was done, could a piece be properly considered “complete.” Not only is this completely untrue, but it is also incredibly limiting, and… perhaps even part of what makes me a slower artist… And what really broke through to me last year, was that many of the artists I looked up to and admired, often didn’t even follow these “necessary” steps! Vespertiliu’s hatched inks are just as complete as Abigail Larson’s flat colours as Julia Lepetit’s blocked shadows as PricklyAlpaca’s painterly renderings. I have such a range of options at my disposal, and I’ve been limiting myself to just one! I hope to explore more of these options and become comfortable with each of them, until I can approach illustrations with an intentional style approach in mind. And not every illustration needs to be done the same way.

Draw more scenes! Like I mentioned above, backgrounds have been something I’ve struggled with, and which I wish I was more comfortable with doing. But drawing a background for the sake of drawing a background has always been a bit boring to me… And it’s only recently that I realized there was an extremely simple solution to this “problem”: throw in a character! Not only will this motivate me to draw the background in the first place, but it will help me improve at proportioning things, considering compositions, and, of course, it will make it easier to draw scenes for my comics.

Sketchbook and journal regularly. So here’s the thing: I actually LOVE making traditional art, just as much as digital art. In particular, traditional art tends to be my sanctuary of sorts, the art I make truly and only for myself. Most of it will never be posted, and that’s part of the point. Sketchbooking for myself is how I practice and warm up at the start of an art session, but most importantly, it is how I nurture my own creativity and my love for making art. I must ignore the voice that tells me that art made behind the scenes serves no tangible purpose to my presence online: it serves a purpose to me.

Find my audience. Now let me be clear: I appreciate every single one of you who follow my blog, watch my progress, share my art… But I have to be brutally honest with myself, and with you, here. The fact that my original art gets little to no attention compared to my fanart, is… a little soul-crushing. But this is something that can change. By prioritizing my original works this year, I hope this means I can eventually find those people who would love my original creations for what they are, and to whom my art speaks to and compels in the same way that it does to me.

Have fun, and enjoy the process. Avoid the traps of perfectionism and succumbing to social (or invented) pressure.

[jonathankatwhatever]

It’s 19 Dec 2024. Last night’s material ended in a very disturbing place. If that wasn’t clear, it was because I was knocked off center by the sense that I could see it all in front of me, with that realization shifting along the O-pole, which is the Bip in the guise of the Observer shifting closer or farther away.

How does that work? Let’s see. Bip is prime analytically, meaning it maps complex 1’s, whatever in complexity comes to the Bip as a count of the next gsPrime. The importance of the gs notation is more obvious now, I hope; it’s the difference between the number existing in the complexity which relates to it, and that complexity existing which becomes that number. That’s Is and Not: each complex number mapping to higher dimensional number systems like quaternions and octonions. Now you see the immenseness of the idea of a 1, meaning CM1 because a point, that Bip, becomes the grid square which encompasses the point. This renders as Triangular over gs, the connection of Ends in a Triangular grid as though the imputed axis lines, meaning sK and zK, which meet to generate the Bip, count as 1 over the hypotenuse which translates, back and forth, into 0Space, both in the abstract and in each instance. That means the relationship which defines root2 is a 1Space function which maps to Composition in D3-4Space: for each line and plane on the surface of a tObject, of a tangible body, there is an ideal, a series of ideals. You can even see them as a chain of eigenvalues and eigenvectors: getting bigger, smaller is the scaling value, with all the gsProcess which does that basic act so you get eigenvalues, so that matrix calculates. I see I need to understand that at a better level.

A square matrix, oh I think I just got it. I remember struggling with this idea back when I first saw a matrix in a book. How does it represent an object, now a tObject, in space? On a piece of paper? The idea is that it works because it’s a reduction, and it’s obvious now I see it, which always makes me feel strange, both happy and dumb, until I remember that’s how this works.

This is also the answer to that high school question by Mill: better to be a satisfied pig or a dissatisfied Socrates? The usual answer is you don’t have a choice. People drink to forget, abuse themselves to not remember, harm their lives to avoid thinking, feeling. The answer is that satisfaction scales, so a dissatisfied Socrates goes through all those scales, renewing them, identifying self in them, analyzing them, improving them, working on them, and that is highly satisfying, extremely so, meaning that Socrates achieves a greatness of satisfaction. This does not mean bipolar as an illness, as an out of control condition in which mania and depression occur, in which a person’s life is like a kitten’s insane energy versus its complete surrender to being tired. Not a perfect analogy but that’s okay because you know.

I like to think of an actual pig and then shift to human pigs because then you see how awareness is behind the question. Scaling in both directions, eigenvalues, then apply the same ideas, and you get the eigenvectors, and that is how a map of gsPotential translates into reality. Each spot can be whatever, which we figured out when we went through the vacuum constants. What were those? Oh right the permittivity of free space, epsilon nought, is the inverse of the magnetic constant or vacuum permeability times the IL. And it works out to extremely close to 1 times 4Pi times 10&-7. Using fCM, that 7th generates to a complete Hexagonal and to a count from 0 to 7 or 8 and thus a higher level CM64.

To be clear, the calculation of the relationship between 1Space to Pi runs through root10 because that scales a higher level CM100. We spent an inordinate amount of time working on that idea: why does it appear as a side? And now I see clearly that this explains a lot, like how we can calculate for general relativity, and why the 8 appears there. It literally constructs higher level spaces which can be addressed from below. Think about how massively fundamental that is. Would not have reached that understanding without all that earlier work. It constructs the exact kind of localized and general ‘working’ space, which we mean by gsSpace and by D3-4(//)4-3 and so on.

So, what was disturbing last night? I could see a clear path to good or bad permutations, and I could see that as a positive and the imagery that as a positive generated was super intense and highly layered, like I could see heaven for a child becoming all the good things that could have occurred if, and in layers too, near and far from what her life was, and then I saw that the negatives occur too and that each of the versions is you. That’s similar to the concept which became purgatory and versions of hell back when people tried to render what they saw, before the idea was reduced and abstracted. Imaginative focus shifted, and the funny thing is that people now, like people of any age, accept that imagination renders an actuality or Actuality of the present, that a book can summarize not only a moment or mood but the connection of that moment to much larger truths and moments at vastly different scales. Attach the IL to that and you see relativity in Composition as well as across our shared tangible space. That is a union, an understanding or equivalence or identity, for which I have long wished. A book records a larger Actuality. We accept that. And we forget that this was true then.

Why is it a union? Because it adds two things together to make a third. Triangular is a union because it sits Between 2 Ends. Once you grasp that, constructing sets makes sense. Oh dear, I just realized that was explained to me in a workbook when I was a child, that you construct inclusion and exclusion with folds. Trying to remember the words. Take this one and this one, draw a line between, which becomes a list, flip them to see what’s in common, find a chain that runs as long as necessary. That became the logic puzzles we enjoyed. Explains why I never enjoyed chess that much: I didn’t want to think of the mapping potential and thus the moves needed to change the map. Couldn’t think of that because I didn’t understand that was the better approach. I would get caught up in what might happen, and would get lost after a few moves. Instead you learn a map of pattern changes and grade which is better for you and identify the path to get you there. Wow, I really needed a decent teacher. Had none. The books couldn’t teach me this framework and my memory is they were like math books, being largely symbol manipulation and words for people who already knew what the words meant in their shared context. Had to put in the time and I couldn’t see doing that because I had no interest in hanging out with chess people. It wasn’t active.

As you can read, I bounced off the topic. Hard.

I don’t think I can get back to that without a break.

[batb1mb0]

The Very True and Real Story of How Chloe Started Drawing!

So as you guys might have figured out by now…I draw. Like that wasn’t clear from the start and the title of this blog. But you might be asking yourself dear reader, Chloe! How did you start drawing? Well I’m glad you asked nameless reader…allow me to spin you a tale as old as time. I’ll say this before I begin, I don’t know if I still have my high school art and if I do I’ll be sure to have pictures for this. But for now let’s get into the story! 

The Very True and Real Story of How Chloe Started Drawing!

So before I started high school, I found out that I could take an art class rather than take a P.E. class or music class. So you bet your sweet bippy I took advantage of that! I just had to submit some art to let the teacher know I am capable of holding a pencil. I don’t remember fully what the other pieces were but I do remember one piece that I had done in maybe eighth grade or seventh grade. It was the cringy anime style I’m sure we all started off with when we wanted to draw. Now I’m not saying g anime is cringe, no. But the middle school anime style is what I mean. It was a drawing of the four goth/emo kids from South Park since I had a very unhealthy obsession with that show and I tried making those kids my whole personality at the time. (if I can find that picture I’ll definitely attach it to here but it’s probably long gone)

So I was actually accepted into the art class which was pretty cool. I didn’t have to take a gym class and I was excited to draw cartoons since at the time I wanted to be a cartoonist. That was until I found out that the teacher was very against cartooning as a form of art media. Or anything stylistic for that case. I was 14 at the time so I’m sure I was unable to make David on a sheet of paper…with out it having some sort of anime eye sparkle added to it. And my teacher was definitely not having it with how I even attempted to practice my shading. Saying how it wasn’t rendered correctly or saying it looked too flat. This was for all four years, where I felt like I was struggling with art just to paint a dumb Christmas ornament to be almost hyper realistic in acrylic paint that was clearly expired from how chunky and foul it smelt. But what did I know? I was only 17 at that time of that project and just a dumb student. 

Then it became time to start looking for colleges to attend. I wanted to do art for my education and I was sending in my portfolio into multiple colleges across the country. Even going as far as to do an online review for a college in LA. Well, I was getting antsy with how long of a time these colleges were taking to respond back to me. So I went to my art teacher for some recommendations and writing me as a reference for a college I had my heart really set on. But oh dear nameless reader…you would think she would go easy on me when I had maybe three months left till graduation. Oh. No. She told me and I fucking quote: Chloe, you are not at the same academic level for a strictly art college. I can write you a recommendation but I don’t think you will be accepted into your dream college. 

Uh spoiler, I was accepted and it was the best five years of my life. I made some of the bestest friends in that community and I was able to really find myself for who I really am in that college. But just remembering how blunt my high school art teacher was…it was just so very wild and kinda killed me a little on the inside. So jumpcut to me now typing this up as I am looking at my art now, I am definitely impressed with how much I had improved over these last nine years…I mean my high school art teacher is probably rolling and wondering how I managed to make it through art college….

Oh…oh trust me. Freshman year of college nearly killed me since I was still drawing in a cartoon style.  And with how Vivzipop came out with her pilot animation of Hazbin Hotel, I immediately tried to adopt a style similar to that. Only to find out in one of my drawing foundation called how that was an incorrect way of drawing. Forcing myself to draw semi realistic. I can still draw in that style. I have many pieces of art that I do that I’ll have that as how I’ll draw cartooned versions of characters, especially for the ghouls since I love the big exaggerated expressions that the style has to offer…but it took so much time and effort to get me to draw a piece like Circe. 

The three and soon to be four panels have taken months to complete. I’m still on the bonus panel to even get some of the rendering done for the background. But it’s a shocker to find out how I went from a cringy South Park drawing to now this art…

[casspurrjoybell-27]

Our Hearts Collide - Chapter 4 - Part 1

*Warning Adult Content*

Simon

The incredibly bright screen of my messages remained unchanged. It wasn't uncommon for Vince to not respond to any of my messages but this had been the one time I wanted him to. Even a simple 'okay' or 'hello' would have sufficed.

I stared at the last message I sent him.

'Rowan loved your gift.'

Above it was a photo of Rowan clutching the brown bear tightly to his face.

It had been a few hours since we got back to Sam's place and in hindsight, that was a fairly short amount of time to respond, after all, Vince has his own life and is doing his own thing.

Yet I knew when it came to Rowan, Jonah or Lilah, Vince enjoyed their company.

He wouldn't dare admit that, according to Xavier but even Aspen had noticed.

Hence why we thought the adorable photo would've rendered a reaction.

For that reason, I had hesitated on sending the message typed up.

I could have said Rowan missed him or myself but in reality, I think we all did that night.

Sarah and Aspen had planned for him to attend and the rest of us thought it'd be a great idea, especially with how much Rowan adored him.

Out of everyone, I felt the most excited for him to be there, wanting him to enjoy a real birthday party for once even if it wasn't for his birthday butut it wasn't just me that missed him that day, so I sent the next message.

'We missed you at the party.'

I waited, hoping to see those three little dots. But still...

"Nothing?" Sam had returned with a bowl of popcorn, resuming the television show we were watching.

He tilted the bowl toward me.

"Popcorn?"

Tilting my cell-phone in his direction, I grabbed a handful of popcorn.

After seeing Vince didn't respond to the messages, he pursed his lips.

"That's a bummer. I thought the picture would get him to cave in."

"Yeah, well, we should've figured he wouldn't."

I thrummed through the past text history I had with Vince, out of all the photos and texts and even a couple of videos of his nephew and niece with Rowan, he had maybe sent a reply two or three times at best.

All of which were one to two words.

He shovelled some popcorn down before mumbling...

"For someone who writes beautifully in letters, you would think he'd be well-versed with texts."

Biting back my laugh, I threw a piece of popcorn at him.

"Whatever. Besides, I remember a certain someone struggling to text a certain Alpha about a meet up."

"Whatever do you mean?" he asked, mockingly.

"You know how Xavier gets, can't boost his ego too much or he'll be a blubbering mess during one of those meetings, beet-red and all. One little compliment and he'll think I'm flirting."

Reaching over to pause the show we had completely ignored, I looked at him curiously.

"So is that why you called him adorable? Wanted to boost his ego in front of me? A little flirt?"

He scoffed.

"I was just messing with you, trying to get you out of your pretty little overthinking head. Did it bother you?"

"No," I reassured teasingly.

"I'm messing with you. Everyone thinks he's adorable, you think I'd be jealous over that?"

He shook his head before taking another scoop of popcorn.

"No, you aren't like that but if you were jealous, you could tell me and I'd stop but in all seriousness, it is difficult to text Xavier. He ain't the brightest tool in the shed when it comes to simple things. Gets flustered when you're too blunt and too oblivious to anything subtle."

"That is true."

He grinned before bopping me on the nose gently.

"Besides, I couldn't do that to you. 'Meeting up' with another guy behind your back? Now that would be presumptuous on my part."

Scrunching my nose at him, I rolled my eyes.

"We've talked about this, about us or whatever we plan on calling 'this' anymore. You're free to see anybody if you want, Sam. Don't feel obligated to hold back."

"I know but people make assumptions, Simon. I don't want people to think bad things about you when they think we're a couple."

I sighed.

"I know you don't but it's none of their business, anyways. Love and relationships are complicated as all shit. Let them say what they want, you're free to see or love anyone you'd like."

He smiled before snaking his hand through mine.

"You know, you're too kind sometimes. Sweet and adorable too."

"You love to inflate my ego too, don't you?"

He chuckled.

"Of course."

"I love that about you."

"But..." he stopped short, his eyes flicking to the screen before mumbling under his breath...

"You love him more."

"Sam."

"It's the truth."

Searching his face, there wasn't an ounce of hurt in those eyes, something I found hard to believe.

He was even smiling.

An uncomfortable silence filled the air as his words set in as I looked past him.

How could I possibly deny that his words were false?

Breathily, I replied...

"Why can't I love both?"

"We both know it's different."

"Sam..."

He let out a breath as I looked up at him.

Noticing the worry and concern on my face his smile dropped slightly.

"We talked about this, remember? You said it yourself that it's different, we realized it that night. What you feel with him versus me, the bond makes it totally different."

A half-hearted, almost timid smile graced his face, for once, his strong, unassuming nature had cracked just a bit.

I wanted to tell him it was false at that very moment, tell him that with him, it was different.

That I did feel more for Sam but it would just be a lie.

I liked Sam, liked him a 'lot' but with Vince, Sam was right.

It was different and bond or no bond, it was evident where my heart leaned more toward.

Even if I wanted to give it all to Sam to see him happy in the moment.

Squeezing his hand tighter, I sent him a firm look.

"You know that I care about you. That I love you, even if it's not like that. I do, Sam."

"I know," he said with those calm reassuring eyes like he always did.

"I know, Simon but like I told you that day and many times after, you know where you belong and what you need. Chase after what you want."

'If only it was that easy,' I almost told him.

Vince couldn't even answer a text or phone call.

Instead, I nodded and leaned my head against his shoulder, taking another handful of popcorn.

Like clockwork, he resumed the show, knowing exactly what I wanted, a distraction from this conversation about Vince and bonds and everything in between but of course, my mind was too fixated on what he had said instead of the show.

Even with subtitles, I was totally not paying attention, repeating Vince's look in his eyes before fleeing from Rowan's birthday party.

Then to the concern that laced everyone's words when realizing he had chickened out from joining us.

Internally, I was right up there with Rowan, throwing a mental tantrum.

Was it too much to ask for us to be in the same room for an hour?

To be okay with seeing each other?

All those letters and things Xavier had told me about his progress, yet Vince still felt like he didn't belong there, that he couldn't face me or any of us there?

[evanthenerd83]

Songs & Scissors

   I witnessed a miracle. That is the only way I can describe what happened the night of July 4, 1988. A miracle. 

   A brief moment in which the universe, long suffering, had finally given, breaking under the weight of things none have seen. Have felt. Have heard inside their hollow chests and heads. 

   The memories were scattered the morning after. Flying away from my mind’s eye, centerpiece of consciousness. It took years to take hold of one. It took decades to piece them all together. Even now, they struggle against the bonds. 

   Pills have helped, but only a little. Doctors fared less so. Only through the nightmares. Only through the screaming dark, the trembling hands, are they solid. 

   Read. 

   Read and know of the miracle. 

   There was a concert going on. In the middle of town, at the old Clemont Rec Center. Under its roof, nearly everyone joined hands, sang along to something. The band’s name cannot be grasped so easily. Nor what its members looked like. I only remember the Miracle itself. 

   Hundreds of people were there. Shelly. Miss Clairborne. The Dudleys. Men, women, and children gathered around a stage, lights blazing, stars trapped by our gravity. 

   It was the entire town. Firemen. Officers. The mayor stood near the stage, closest as any of us. 

   Why was he there? Why were any of us there? 

   We were there because of the music. 

   The Music. 

   I can only describe it as Music. Simply Music. Not the instruments from which it was being torn, or the genre it so desperately defied. One cannot pigeonhole this Music. It would not allow it. 

   Music of countless stars dying in an orgy of fire and ice, worlds rendered ash. Space stretched along a curve, the curve, the line which time had been penciled in. The line that once, before our Music was trapped by gravity, molded by His hands, God’s hands, flowed past the End towards the Forever and the Unknown waiting beyond all symphonies. 

   Music tugging on the trailing silence of our Notes. Tearing them free of blasphemous flesh and blood and that which makes not a peep, not a screech. There was no pain to be felt. We had already shed our prisons. Our heads were pulled back, fell back, our mouths opening as wide as they could go, beyond limits. 

   But hearing. 

   Hearing was all we could do. All we could do. 

   Hearing our jaws all pop, all open, break open to release the Music inside ourselves. I can still hear my jaws come undone. 

   I hear it when I am awake. 

   I hear it when I am asleep. 

   The Music flowed freely. Balloon tails. Serpents. 

   We were empty. The air was not. 

   The Music was a moan. The Music was a groan. The Music was a whisper and a gasp and a mumbling and a shriek, screams loud as any God, the screams for Freedom. For flight. Orbits around Their Fingers. 

   An eternal conduction. A dance lasting for all time. The expenditure of us, me, Miss Clairborne, the Dudleys, the mayor, those firemen, those officers, and those children who so blindly followed their parents towards such a miraculous celebration. 

   I do not remember how long we were like that. If time had existed during the Miracle, could have exerted its infantile power, days might have passed. Years. Maybe only a few hours shredded by. 

   All I remember is His Attendance, unnoticed by eyes. Yet glimpsed nonetheless in shadows and gaps, a figure darting between the bodies no longer ours. A movement caught fleetingly. Sparingly witnessed. 

   I saw Him. I was the only one, as far as I can tell. No-one seemed to be aware. 

   He went from person to person. A man tall and thin. With one hand He gripped a pair of scissors plated in bone, and the other caressed our faces. He would whisper something. I do not know what. 

   I was too far away. He never reached me. 

   But He would whisper. And He would gently use those scissors, ever so gently. Down they went, up they would go. 

   I must have blacked out. Maybe the cracking was too much. 

   I awoke on the floor, the rec center quiet, the stage bare. Bodies had been piled high. They were gray and limp. Blood had been dragged by fingers in circles and hexagons within pentagrams and shapes that did not resemble shapes. 

   I was buried in them. 

   Then the men in black arrived. 

   Not the police, because the entire police department had been in attendance. These men were strangers. They came from out of town. They came and took the bodies away. They soon took me away too. 

   To here. This asylum for troubled souls, asylum for troubled society. 

   I’d later learn that some of us had winked out that night. The older ones, mostly. The sick. The dying who did not yet know they were dying. 

   For those who still lived, they wouldn’t for long. The men in black stopped by the hospital from time to time. They still have questions. 

   Dr. King sits in the room while they show me the pictures. 

   Those who were healthy have gone. 

   Some died in their sleep. Others were awake, walking one moment, then stiff the next. Nobody can figure out how or why. Everyone thinks it’s spontaneous infant death syndrome. But for teenagers. 

   But I know. 

   And Dr. King knows that I know. The men in black do too. They still don’t believe me, of course. They claim I suffer from maladies of the brain. 

   Schizophrenia. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. 

   I might still be affected by whatever we’d taken. Drugs can cause hallucinations. Or somebody must have exposed us to something, either spiking the town reservoir or releasing gas. Biological terrorism. 

   At least they don’t suspect me of being involved.

   Dr. King and the men in black pity me. For I am alone. No friends in town. No next of kin to notify. The last remaining adult survivor of East Resiville, which suffered an unprecedented case of mass hysteria on July 4, 1988. 

   But I know. 

   I know that there was no concert. The band was not really a band. They were something else, nobody else. 

   I know they follow Him like flies. A bunch of flies buzzing over a piece of rotting flesh. Or ticks that jump not from dog to dog. 

   But from town to town. Every century or so. 

   I know they are attendants. Helpers of something older than mankind, than time and space, than Themselves. 

   Something with only one purpose in His heart. If He even has a heart. 

   Needs one. 

   I know that the Miracle has never truly ended. 

   My chest hurts when I sleep. A longing pulls me beyond the ceiling, past the stars slowly winking out. Deep into the dark. 

   From that darkness, something calls out. 

   It begs me to join it. 

   To be reunited with it. 

   I’m still wrapped around a Finger. 

   And I know those scissors are still coming. Ever slowly, they are coming. Ever closer. Ever slower. Building up to that final moment. The final Note of my own symphony. 

   They will finally meet my own Music, my String, my Life. 

   I just wish it’ll happen when I’m asleep.

[montrosepretty]

Okay i've got some carbs in me so i can think passably now

i've reached a point where i feel decently confident with my ability to Write. No comment on the overall quality, but i've got the bare mechanics, at least: i can conjure words from the ether and commit them to the page. i'm doing it right now, actually. isn't that crazy? Anyways. The point is that i'm familiar enough with the medium to be capable of utilizing it to some effect.

i was at this point with visual art, once. (keyword: once...) i could bust out figure drawings like it was nobody's business, and i could also pull together some more involved pieces from time to time. But there was a point where i just got... stuck. i could identify the technical skills that were giving me difficulty (complex backgrounds, better anatomy, more realistic rendering), but i struggled with how to actually, you know, develop them. i was drawing. i just didn't know how to get any better.

And so i feel like i'm nearing that wall with writing, too. i can write. Now what? How do i develop and execute a plot that takes more than a couple thousand words to resolve? How do i cultivate my own character voices and not just ones that are derivative of extant media? How can i make these two women kiss sloppy with tongue?? (Just kidding, i've already got that last one down pat.)

Obviously there's no magic trick to become a master novelist overnight, and these may be things i begin to puzzle out naturally with more practice. But ugh, the knowledge vs skill gap is a bitch. Something about learning curves... when i could be handling a woman's curves? i can't remember what i was saying.

Okay, i've been writing this to procrastinate doing my mechanics homework... i should go take care of that now. And tomorrow? i will write the Great American Novel

Too withered with hunger to elaborate right now but i’m noticing parallels about where i am with writing compared to where i was with visual art

[kozy-stuff]

Sorry for being inactive, i was avoiding Tumblr since i always feel insecure about my art when i look at other people's great art 😭

But i'll try to be more active, but i want to post other stuff on this blog that isn't just Sundrop. (THE MF IS ON MY TOP THREE POPULAR POSTS.....)

so yeah, i'll post more original stuff from now on if that doesn't bother anyone ^^'

Anyways, here is a redrawing of the reference as a way to practice more with anatomy and exploring rendering my drawings!!

(I don't know the origin of the photo, i find it on pinterest and thought she looked pretty so i drew her-)