#but public art - the art that shapes a city - was almost always Like This and private art often too just as a default result

[cvpidzcvrse]

𝔅𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔬𝔬𝔪 𝔐𝔢𝔢𝔱-𝔲𝔭

art by: eriimyon

MDNI, step off pls, and thank u

☆A/N: IM BACK AGAIN!! this time it’s diluc, and it’s back in genshin times so ignore the mention of modern alcohol pretend you didn’t see it. like i said before, suggest some stuff if u rlly wanna!! but ofc as always, enjoy this one loves!!

⋆.ೃ࿔*･synopsis: As a stressed adventurer, you stopped at Angel Share. The smell of alcohol calms you down, what’s even more calming is the redhead behind the bar.

⋆.ೃ࿔*･wc: 2,108

⋆.ೃ࿔*•warnings:: Mdom, strangers to lovers, spanking, alcohol, fucking while standing, one night stand, public sex, almost caught, degradation, oral masc!receiving, p in v, bathroom sex, light choking, rough, and ofc creampie (practice safe sex)

(The reader is black)

The job of an adventure is stressful at times, either having to save someone or save yourself. You let out a sigh as you walk into the warm embrace of Mondstadt. You smile at the warm air and the lively city. As you’re walking you notice Jean talking to one of the Knights of Favonius before waving him off. You tilt your head in confusion before making your way towards her. “Hey, Jean! You look…stressed?” A worried look made it to your face before flashing her a comforting smile. Jean lets out a sigh before nodding slightly. 

“There’s a festival coming up and everything is a wreck. So now I have to pick up the peices.”

She huffs before rubbing the bridge of her nose.

“I’ll be fine! Listen, I’m stressed and you’re stressed, so how about we stop by Angel Share and get a drink.” I suggest before slightly nudging Jean’s shoulder with a smile. “Come on, I know you want to! Join me, Please” You give the sweetest smile you could muster before she finally sighs and agrees. 

“Fine, but only for an hour.” You nod happily before fixing your braids and grabbing her hand. You cautiously speed walk towards Angel Share, pulling Jean along with you. “I wonder if Diluc is in today?” Jean checks the time on her clock before finally acknowledging your very confused look.

“You do know Diluc, right? You know the owner of Angel Share.”

At this point, she looks more confused than you. How could you not know who Diluc is? As much as Jean brings him up she wonders if you even listen to her when she talks about him. You shake your head before she sighs and opens the door to the tavern. The smell of warm alcohol floods your senses. You take in a sharp breath before being interrupted by Jean lecturing some drunk bard in the corner. You’re left alone at the door, looking like a lost puppy before something catches your attention. 

A bright red ponytail behind the bar, you can’t see his face but just looking at his body you know he must be attractive. You stare at him for a few seconds before he turns around, probably feeling lasers shooting through his skull. His bright red eyes met your intense gaze.

You’re so hypnotized by his strong features you don’t even realize he was waving you over to take a seat. You give him a sweet smile before walking over and sitting at one of the bar side stools. He’s completely enamored by your beauty. Your dark brown skin shimmering under the tavern light, the two-toned glossed lips, the way the adventurer uniform fits your curvy body, And the way your long, black box braids frame your face shape. It’s clear to say he’s obsessed with you, even if he doesn’t know your name. 

“Can I get a Henne and coke?”

You give him a sweet smile, flashing your pearly whites.

“Of course. This one is on the house, I wouldn’t dare charge a pretty girl like you.” He smirks before turning around to make your drink. You’re grateful your skin hid the blood rushing to your cheeks, or you would’ve been as red as a tomato. 

“Thank you…”

“My name is Diluc, I’m surprised you don’t know. You’re friends with Jean, right?”

You make a mental note that the ‘Diluc’ person Jean talks so often about, is very attractive. You nod in response before taking a sip of the drink he placed in front of you. 

“Well thanks for the free drink Diluc, I’ll remember that for next time” 

You give him a small wink before taking another sip of your drink.

Diluc is very interested in you. The way that you smile, smell, and talk. His eyes scanned every single body part and facial feature you displayed. Taking note of what you like and dislike, the jokes you made, and the jokes you laugh at. 

By the time you finished the drink you had loosened up, all of today’s worries were washed away by a cup of henne and coke.  After talking to Diluc for a bit you notice the way his bartending suit squeezes on his muscular body. You cross your legs to try to calm the wetness that’s forming. The way he moves when he’s making a drink, the way his muscles flex when he mixes the ingredients. It turns you on, a lot. Maybe it’s the liquid courage getting to you but you would definitely fuck him here and now, and you’re going to make it happen. 

Diluc is currently resting his arms on the bar in front of you explaining how to make some difficult drinks. You knew this was your time to shine, so you subtly started dragging your finger up and down his forearm and nodding slowly while you listened to him explain. His eyes squint at you slightly, questioning your current move. 

“You know Diluc, you’re kinda intriguing.”

He gives you a low chuckle before bringing his voice down to a low whisper.

“Is that so? How about you show how intriguing I am.” 

He gives a little head nudge towards the bathroom before mouthing a little ‘Go inside’. You nod before slowly getting up from your seat. You give Diluc a wink before making a slow stride to the bathroom. 

“Fuck..”

He mumbles under his breath before trying to smooth down the bulge he has in his pants, it's been there since you walked in. He waits about five minutes before smoothing down his pants and making his way to the bathroom. When he walks in he’s met with a lewd sight, You’re sitting on top of the sink slowly rubbing soft circles around your clit. You make hungry eye contact with him. He takes in the sight before rolling up his sleeves and slowly walking up to you. 

“So you started without me? I don’t remember telling you to do that." He grabs your wrist and pulls it away from your aching clit. You whimper before you pull Diluc into an intense kiss. He grabs your hips and pulls you into one of the stalls and locks the door. He starts unbuckling his belt before pulling away and staring at your puffy lips.

“You don’t even know my name and you wanna fuck.” You huff out before helping him unbuckle his belt. 

“I don’t need to know your name, just show me what you can do.”

He grabs your hair roughly before pushing you down on your knees. You take his pants zipper in your mouth and slowly zip it down. 

“Fuck, you’re so hot.” He lets out a shaky breath before watching you take his cock out with ease. You look up at him as you slowly stroke his cock, precum already dripping all over it. He stares down at you with lustful eyes before roughly grabbing your braids and brushing your lips on his cock.

“I’m not a fan of teasing, Suck it.”

He gave a stern look before you took his full cock into your mouth. You let out a moan as the tip of his cock hit the back of your throat. Diluc’s head flew back in pleasure as he roughly pushed you onto his cock. Your speed increased as his hips thrusted forward, shoving his cock deeper into your mouth.  

“Fuck, baby you feel so good. You know how to use your slutty mouth well.”

He chuckles before letting out another shaky moan and grabbing your hair tighter. You feel his cock twitch in your mouth, you let out another moan before twirling your tongue around his tip. 

“I don’t wanna cum, fuck…stop"

You groan, ignoring his command you continue to suck his soul out of his body. He groans loudly before pulling you by your hair and roughly off of his dick. You whimper and give him a pleading look. 

“You’re such a fucking slut. Get up.”

You barely make it to your feet before he pushes you up against the stall door. With your face squished against the cold metal door of the stall. You can feel his warm calloused hand running down your leg slowly taking off your stockings. He pushes your uniform dress up and pulls your panties to the side. 

“I don’t have time to take these off, but I’m sure a whore like you likes this shit. Don’t you?”

You can feel his breath grazing against your ear, the tension causing you to let out a frustrated moan. 

“Put…put it in already.”

You hear a chuckle before you feel a sharp stinging pain on your ass. You moan loudly, your clit twitched in excitement. You whimper lightly feeling his cock rub the folds of your pussy, the teasing goes straight to your head.

“Beg and I’ll give you what you want.” His deep voice sends chills up your spine. The way his hand is wrapped around your neck and his dick on your ass. The lewdness of the situation makes your pussy wetter every second. 

“Please, Diluc, I need it…”

You whimper while pushing back into him trying to get any friction you can.

"You need what, doll? Spit it out."

He slaps your ass again and you let out a sharp yelp and a whimper. 

“Your cock! I need it please!”

You pleaded practically grinding your ass against his cock. He groaned before slamming his cock into your pussy with no warning. “Fuck, you’re such a slut.”

He groans loudly before giving you the backshots of the century. His hands are on your love handles, using them to push you back and forth on his cock. 

“You like this shit, don’t you? You cock slut, say it”

You nod your head quickly, trying to cover your moans with your hands.

“Fuck, I do, I such a fucking cock slut! Right there, fuck!”

You mumble completely fucked out. The bathroom is filled with moans and grunts, your electro vision hitting the wall every time he does a hard thrust. You can feel warmth bubbling up in the pit of your stomach. 

“Diluc, I’m about to-”

You hear the click of the bathroom door opening. Diluc smiles at the sudden interruption, slightly speeding up his pace. 

“(★), Are you in here? You’ve been in here for a minute, I’m making sure you’re ok.”

You hear Jean’s voice echo off the walls of the bathroom. You look back at Diluc as he’s refusing to slow down his relentless strokes. You give him pleading eyes but all he does is laugh. 

“Go ahead, answer your friend. Show her how much of a whore you are.”

You shake your head before you feel a light slap on your ass.

“I-I’m…fuck…fine. T-the…mmph…alcohol just…got to…me”

You manage to get out, letting out a small whimper.

“Oh, alright. Have you seen Diluc anywhere? I’ve been looking for him.” Diluc wraps his hand around you and starts rubbing fast circles around your clit. A shaky moan comes out of your mouth before you muffle it with your hand.

“N-No, I…haven’t.”

“Ok, I’ll just ask around.”

The bathroom door shuts before you let out a loud moan when Diluc speeds his pace up. 

“Good slut…fuck…I guess I can give you what you deserve.”

Your pussy clenches around diluc’s cock, you grab Diluc’s arm tightly as your orgasm approaches. 

“Fuck, Diluc, I’m about to cum.”

The grip he has on your neck tightens and you feel his cock twitches inside of you. His moan getting louder and his thrust getting messier. You shake subtly before you feel your liquid running down your legs, Diluc following close after. His cum shooting inside you before groaning lightly.

“Fuck you feel so good…”

He pulls out, wiping the sweat off of his forehead and taking his handkerchief and wiping your forehead.

“I can’t let a pretty girl walk out looking a mess.”

He chuckles lightly before pulling your stocking up and fixing your uniform. Still out of breath you thank him and fix your hair. 

“Go and get fixed up, I'll meet you outside.”

He admires your beauty once more. Even as a sweaty and cock drunk mess, he still thinks you’re the most gorgeous person ever. 

He reaches to unlock the stall door and pushes it open. As you both walk out the stall you see Jean patiently waiting by the door. She’s leaning on the wall, arms crossed, and a face filled with disappointment. Your eyes widen with shock as you see Diluc freeze in the spot he’s in. You look like a deer in headlights.

“Good to know you met diluc.”

[venus-haze]

Enjoy the Silence (Vincent Sinclair x Reader)

Summary: Art is tragedy, and your role in Vincent’s work is no exception. Still, you wonder what about you particularly inspired him, and if there’s something you can use to your advantage to escape your unknowable yet seemingly omnipresent captor. You don’t know how his work on living subjects started, and as the days go by, you’re not sure you’ll survive to ever see it end.

Note: Has the “being Vincent’s muse” thing been done to hell? Yes. Do I care? No. The reader is a woman in this but no other descriptors are used. Vincent almost exclusively signs, which is indicated by quotes and italics. Vincent is a perv but tells himself it’s in the name of art. There’s a little bit of Bo x Reader if you squint because I can’t help myself. I’ve been listening to Depeche Mode’s 1990 masterpiece Violator a lot recently, which is where the title comes from. I hope I did Vincent justice. If not, I’m always open to feedback! Do not interact if you are under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 6k

Warnings: Death, murder, kidnapping, prolonged captivity. Psychological and emotional manipulation. Religious references. Stockholm syndrome. Voyeurism. Toxic artist-muse relationship. Sexually explicit content that involves coercion including oral (m receiving), waxplay. Do not interact if you are under 18.

Paris has over 200 miles of deep catacombs, centuries of silent death sprawling beneath the city of love. Ambrose certainly wasn’t Paris, far from it, but it was where you pretended to be as you sat on the musty mattress and watched Vincent work. You could recall reading about a section of the catacombs closed off to the public due to the fragile, ancient bones that were laid to rest there. 

Surely the subterranean, waxen labyrinth of Ambrose must have its own Church of the Innocent, a section to honor the town’s first victims. After all, with the dozens of candles that burned throughout the workshop, if you let your eyes go out of focus for long enough, it almost felt as though you were in a cathedral. With Vincent’s preferred opera music playing softly in your peripheral, the experience was comfortingly spiritual.

While your first few weeks of being in Vincent’s studio, as you’d personally come to refer to it, were nothing short of a nightmare, you had accepted your fate and found that if you didn’t struggle, didn’t fight, Vincent would leave you alone while he worked. There was a day early on where you were convinced he’d kill you like he’d killed your friends. You watched him do it to each of them, one by one–sedated, then killed, and preserved in wax. Your best friend, Gina, was in particularly rough shape when her limp body was brought in by Bo, who shot you a shit-eating grin when he saw the look of horror on your face at Gina’s condition. 

Something in you broke at seeing your best friend in such a state, and for a few hours, you couldn’t bring yourself to do anything but sob uncontrollably, to Vincent’s dismay. Your cries echoed as he tried to work, and you could see his shoulders tense up when you wailed out a plea for him to kill you. He set down his tools, and just when you thought he had enough, that he was going to go ahead and do it, he pressed his hand to the side of your face, caressing your cheek so gently it shocked you into silence. He brought his pointer finger to the lips of his mask, and it was then you knew he wouldn’t kill you, no matter how much you begged.

As much as you wanted to hate Vincent, you couldn’t bring yourself to feel more than a vague dislike for the man, not when it was much easier to hate Bo. Since you were Vincent’s, you were off-limits to his volatile twin, much to the man’s frustration. You never pushed your luck with Bo. He was too obvious and impulsive, wanting to see you snap so he had an excuse to pull whatever sick shit he did on the women he kept in his dungeon beneath the gas station to you. He left the disturbing photos around the kitchen on purpose, you knew as much when you saw a particularly grotesque one of Gina and threw up in the kitchen sink. Bo had the audacity to saunter in and ask you what was wrong, glee in his eyes as he took in your disgusted expression. 

Still, something about Bo intrigued you, but not nearly enough to go poking around. Vincent didn’t like you spending much time with his twin anyway, seeming to want to keep your interactions with him at a minimum. You certainly weren’t complaining, although things in the studio could get boring when Vincent became engrossed in his work, though there were dozens of books on art and anatomy stacked on tables and shelves, some old and waterlogged, others crusted with wax. For your own sake, you stuck with the art books while Vincent paid you little mind unless you spoke up. Otherwise, Jonesy would be at your side or disappear on her own. It was almost comical how the dog had more freedom than you did.

It helped that you knew some basic signs, as he preferred communicating that way than writing everything to you. In the few weeks you’d been there, you’d managed to pick up on more signs that he used, some that were clearly of his own invention. He never had long conversations with you, and you knew better than to insult a man who could make your life even worse and would take pleasure in doing so. Though you were uncertain of your own future, you at least wanted to make an effort to escape so your friends, especially Gina, didn’t die in vain.

Days seemed to pass at an achingly slow pace when there were no windows to see out of, and you jumped at the opportunity to do some minor chores around the house when Vincent requested it. While you did some minor cleaning and most of the cooking, Vincent was insistent on doing the laundry. You were happy to leave the task to him, not even wanting to figure out how to get the wax out of the various sweaters he wore. The laundry room could hardly be considered such, more of a closet with space for the washer, dryer, and one person standing inside. It seemed like one of the appliances had issues, because whenever you walked past the small room when Vincent did laundry, you’d overhear him groaning. You figured you weren’t handy enough to offer him help, anyway.

For all of the time you spent in Vincent’s basement studio, you rarely saw Bo down there. You were making lunch, using half a loaf of bread to make sandwiches for you, Vincent, and Bo when the man only commented for you to not use too much mustard on his when he sped past you and downstairs. 

You set down the spoon you’d been using to spread the condiments—Bo had hidden the knives when Vincent first granted you access to the kitchen—and creeped over to the top of the stairs. Chewing your bottom lip, you strained to hear what Bo was telling Vincent. It sounded mostly mundane, details about how the town was running and some of the wax figures that needed repairs. You shuddered to think what that involved. 

Just as you were going to backtrack and finish making lunch, the conversation shifted to you. Of course, Bo had nothing to say but complain about your presence in the house, as if you had decided of your own volition to move in and inconvenience them. Your eye roll quickly turned into shock when you heard how much further he was taking things.

“You’re tellin’ me you’ve had this bitch for weeks and you ain’t fucked her yet?”

Silence.

“Then what’s the hold up?”

Silence.

“Your muse? You’re keepin’ around another mouth to feed for some art bullshit?”

You gasped upon hearing a crash.

“Jesus. Fine. It’s your fuckin’ funeral.”

You resumed making the sandwiches, considering the implications of what you’d just heard. The relationship between artist and muse was always volatile and dangerously intimate. Human nature being what it was, either party would inevitably end up heartbroken or gone mad. What artist wouldn’t give everything for a muse who could never leave, never have dreams of their own, never be with someone else? 

From the art books you’d read in Vincent’s studio to pass the time while he worked, you could think of a few, Claudel and Rodin, Miller and Ray, Marr and Picasso—none of which ended on what you’d consider good terms. There was an inherent tragedy to art, yours just looked different. Though, you had no doubt the artist-muse relationship you had with Vincent would end any less than violently. 

Perhaps you could use it to your advantage, manipulate the relationship to escape Ambrose. Vincent immersed himself in his art, denying himself companionship in favor of it until recently. Something must have shifted emotionally or psychologically for him to seek out a muse in you of all people. Loneliness could turn into desperation with the right push. 

There was no way for you to know what Vincent looked like beneath his mask. Though you knew he and Bo were twins, conjoined by the head at birth until their father performed the surgery that separated them, there were no maskless photos of him anywhere to be found. For a child prodigy who was clearly his mother’s favorite, there was still a clear sense of shame regarding his appearance. While Vincent didn’t indicate that he held on to any of the religious beliefs he was brought up with, the dogma of suffering as holy, pain as good and righteous, could cast a long shadow over a person’s psyche long after they leave the faith.

You ignored Bo when he walked upstairs, doing your best to disguise your knowledge of the conversation he’d just had with his brother. Wordlessly, you slid a plate across the counter to him. He grabbed one of the two sandwiches that sat on it, taking a bite and apparently finding it to his satisfaction.

“Least you’re good for somethin’,” he said, his mouth full.

To your relief, he brought his food into the living room, turning on the TV. Carefully, you grabbed both your and Vincent’s plates, praying none of the sandwiches fell off the plates as you walked down stairs, easier said than done when Jonesy jumped up on you as soon as she smelled the food. She didn’t listen when you pleaded for her to get down, but Vincent signed such to her, and the dog made a displeased whine but relented. 

“I made lunch,” you said, setting Vincent’s plate down on the nearest clear surface. “I’m not sure if you’re hungry.”

He was silent, unmoving for a moment before he nodded his head in thanks. You knew he wouldn’t eat in front of you, reluctant to take his mask off unless entirely necessary. Though you wouldn’t pry, you were genuinely curious as to what he looked like beneath the mask. Was it really that bad?

“Well, let me know when you’re done so I can get your plate and wash up,” you said, walking over to one of the crowded worktables, where you had no view on Vincent.

You weren’t alone for long, Jonesy right on your trail and staring at you as you began to eat. It was your own doing, you’d gotten into the habit of feeding her from your plate to win her favor not long after Vincent abducted you. It didn’t do anything to help your case, but at least she liked you. Though you tried to eat slowly, you ended up finishing your lunch in a few minutes, giving Jonesy some of the leftover crust. She left your side not long after that.

A chair scraped across the floor, and you heard Vincent’s familiar steps. He didn’t acknowledge you when you called out for him and asked if he was finished eating, his footsteps becoming increasingly distant. When you couldn’t hear him walking anymore, you got up to collect his plate.

He ate most of what you’d made, but his sketchbook next to it caught your attention. Despite being the subject of what you assumed was most of the drawings in it, he never let you actually look inside and see what he’d drawn. Anytime you’d try to sneak a glance at it, he’d pull it away, guarding it almost jealously. 

There it was, out in the open. He must have meant to return quickly from wherever he walked off to if he left it lying around like that. Sure, it was his, and you shouldn’t have been violating his privacy, but you justified it as he did plenty of sketches of you in the shower, anyway. It’d make you even, about time you finally got to see what you assumed were strictly artistic nudes. Still, you weren’t sure when you’d get another opportunity to look inside. You glanced behind your shoulder before grabbing it. 

When you flipped open the sketchbook, you were in awe at the detail that went into the drawings. The first few pages were of different people, but as the pages went on, all you saw was yourself—in various poses, states of undress, and pleasure. Your eyes widened as you came across the first of dozens of erotic drawings Vincent had done. It shouldn’t have surprised you as much as it did, all things considered.

The first time you had showered in the Sinclair house was the most oddly intimate experience you ever had. You weren’t allowed in most parts of the house alone for a while, and that hadn’t changed much over time. When you were first brought to Vincent’s studio, you desperately wanted time to yourself, to be alone instead of spending every waking moment with your captor. A few days after you had reluctantly come to terms with your situation, you requested a shower. You were relieved when he acquiesced with a hesitant nod. To your bewilderment, however, he followed you into the bathroom. Your confusion grew as you noticed the pencil and sketchbook in his hand as he sat on the closed toilet lid, motioning for you to undress and go ahead with your shower.

Humiliation had rushed through you when you attempted to pull the shower curtain closed, and instead he held it in place. You tried to give yourself some form of unrealistic modesty, maneuvering your hands to cover yourself as best as you could while thoroughly cleaning your body for the first time in a week. Your heart had been pounding as you lathered shampoo in an attempt to get the dried blood out of your hair. Your exposure was unavoidable, and you tried not to look in his direction. 

Vincent was always quiet, save for the few grunts and groans you’d heard him make in his studio. You could only hear the faint sound of pencil on paper over the rush of water hitting grimy tile. 

Of course, as soon as you had turned the water off, his head shot up from his sketchbook, and your eyes met his, at least, what you figured were his eyes through the mask. You’d lowered your gaze, sheepishly asking him to hand you a towel. 

He offered you his hand as you stepped out of the shower after drying yourself off, and your skin felt especially warm at the contact in the cold bathroom. You noticed pajamas set on the counter, not yours, but they looked about your size, at least. For a brief moment, you had wondered about the clothing’s previous owner. 

When you���d reached out to grab the clothes, he placed his hand over them, and you looked at him in confusion until he began dressing you. Your breath hitched as his fingers brushed your bare body, grazing up your thighs as he pulled a pair of panties up your legs. 

He always dressed you, but you hadn’t realized he was using the opportunity to study your body more closely, not just for art’s sake, but for his own gratification. It was perverse, but what could you expect in such a place, a monument to death and destruction disguised as creation. The sculptures weren’t his, he stole them, the bodies of other people that he manipulated to his vision. He was doing the same to you.

Your stomach churned, yet you flipped one more page and were greeted with a drawing of you–and Vincent. Your figure was nude, as usual, while his form was draped in a cloth. His body was leaned against yours as you held him against your bare torso, your somber eyes raised to the smoky sky he’d drawn above you. He only drew his profile, one side of his face hidden in the softness of your breast. Even then, he didn’t seem to portray himself with any specific features besides his long, dark hair. Though you recognized the painting he was invoking in his recreation, the name escaped you as you stared at the haunting drawing, a warped version of the original’s spirituality.

Before you could turn the page, the sketchbook was ripped from your hands and slammed onto the table. You took a step back, trying to create some distance between you and Vincent. You didn’t have to see his face to know he wasn’t pleased with your snooping. An explanation escaped you as you opened and closed your mouth, hoping he wouldn’t do anything rash. 

“Why am I your muse?” you asked.

To your surprise, he hesitated before signing. “You were there.”

“What do you mean? Where was I?”

“There.”

You opened your mouth to inquire further, but the horrifying truth dawned on you. There wasn’t anything special about you, nothing in particular that stood out when he first saw you. Vincent wanted a muse, and you just happened to be the member of your group within his reach, in the right place at the right time for him to try out, see if you were a good fit. You were expendable, a medium with which he could create to his desire, to his vision, just like everyone else. Your legs seemed to give out on you as your brain fogged with the realization that it was pointless—all of the speculation and sleepless nights trying to make sense of your situation and get an upper-hand. 

Before you could hit the ground, Vincent held you up, bringing you over to the bed. You sat on the edge of the mattress, and he looked down, head tilted as if he weren’t sure how to regard you. You dug your nails into your palms, releasing before you could break skin, though you desperately wanted to. He ruined your life, and there was no rhyme or reason to it. You didn’t even know what he looked like. 

“Let me see you,” you begged. “Please, let me see you.”

Instead of gracing you with a response, he brushed his thumb against your pleading lips and gently pushed his finger into your mouth. Tears streamed down your cheeks as you began to suck on his thumb, moreso when you heard him elicit a deep groan exactly like the one you'd overheard in the laundry room. You couldn’t believe you’d been so fucking stupid before—appliance troubles, he was getting off to your dirty laundry. As if his violating you from afar made him any better than his brother, who was unabashed about his violating your best friend. You were no better off than Gina had been. 

Gina. God, what would she be thinking if she saw you just taking it. She was always a fighter, standing up for you on more than one occasion. Even Bo had commented on it when he was taunting you. Yet you couldn't even fulfill the promise you had made to yourself to escape and expose what was going on in Ambrose so her death wasn’t in vain. 

You cried harder, drool pooling in the corners of your lips as Vincent pushed his thumb further into your mouth. Tears clouded your vision as you tried looking at him, towering above you. It wasn’t fair. Your body had been exposed to him, and you had no idea what he looked like.

He groaned again, his long hair falling into his face. As he kept pumping his finger in your mouth, you were practically eye-level with the tent in his pants. His free hand grabbed his crotch, and you whimpered, causing his hips to jerk. 

When he pulled his thumb out of your mouth, you were dizzy, letting out a shaky breath that turned into sobs again. You half expected him to unzip his pants and shove his hard cock in your mouth. Instead, he looked down at you with a blown out eye, panting at the sight of you.

“Let me see you,” you croaked. 

He turned away, disappearing into the labyrinth beneath the town, leaving you, covered in spit and tears, on your own. You let out a hopeless wail that echoed pathetically back.

Taking a few minutes to pull yourself together, you didn’t want to get up from where you were sitting on the mattress, preferring to curl up in a ball and cry until you fell asleep. He owned you, that much was evident. Even if you could use his physical attraction to you to get some kind of freedom, he was stronger than you, with no issue using your body as an object for his personal and artistic gratification. 

Though you felt numb and empty, you managed to push yourself onto your feet, slowly making your way upstairs into the kitchen. You didn’t want to go to the bathroom and see your appearance, opting instead to wash your face at the kitchen sink. The cold water didn’t make you feel any better as you splashed it on your face, drops falling down your neck and into your shirt. 

When you dried your face off with a paper towel, you sniffled as you tried not to cry again. Hearing the TV volume turn down from the living room didn’t make you feel any better, knowing Bo was on his way into the kitchen with some comment to make you feel even worse.  

“You ain’t got a scratch on ya, and you’re cryin’ about somethin’,” Bo said as he grabbed a beer from the fridge.

“Can you please just save it?” you mumbled.

He rolled his eyes as he cracked open the can. “Who shoved a stick up your ass? And don’t say my brother, ‘cause Vincent ain’t got the balls to fuck you like he should’ve done already.”

“And you would’ve?”

He grinned, stalking toward you until his face was dangerously close to yours. “I thought I already gave you an idea of what I did to your little friend. What makes you think I would’ve shown you any less hospitality?”

You studied Bo’s features in your proximity to him, wondering if Vincent wore that same, sick grin beneath his mask when he had his thumb in your mouth just a few minutes earlier. He leaned against the counter, his eyes fixed on you.

“You ain’t the least bit curious? We’re twins, after all,” Bo whispered.

You hadn’t even noticed you’d moved in closer, close enough that you could feel his hot breath on your swollen lips. 

“I won’t tell if you don’t, darlin’.”

Shit. You remembered why you and your friends were so quick to trust him in the first place, all smiles and giggles as he put you at ease with his charm that he could turn on and off at will. Just a friendly, small town mechanic looking to help a group of friends down on their luck. 

“We both know that’s not true.”

“Well, whattya got to lose?”

You didn’t move as you glanced at his mouth. He could make you do it. It’d take no effort at all for him to force you into a kiss, but that’d take the fun out of this whole thing for him. You had to make a move for him to win the game.

He had a point. It wasn’t like you had much to lose, giving up on your life not long after you got into town. In the split second before you decided whether or not to give in, a loud bang made you jump back.

Vincent stood on the other side of the kitchen, his fists clenched as he stared at you and Bo. Your heart crashed back down to earth, heavy in your stomach as you looked between the brothers. A suffocating silence filled the room, until Bo stood up from the counter he was leaning against, taking a few steps forward so he was almost between you and Vincent.

“C’mon, Vin, don’t be like that,” Bo said in a good-natured tone that could only make things worse. “I’m just keepin’ your muse company, ain’t that right, doll?” 

You didn’t have a chance to respond, as Vincent quickly closed the distance between you. He grabbed you by the arm, pulling you away from Bo and toward the basement. For as much as you’d wanted to see his face before, in that instance you were glad you couldn’t, if his unforgiving grip on your arm was any indication of his anger. You could see his eye through his mask, though, a stormy blue as he narrowed his gaze at his brother, still smug as he took a swig of his beer.

The faint sound of the TV in the living room was the only thing breaking the tense silence, though you wished it were anything but the stupid Zoobooks commercial playing–at a time like this? Would the last thing you ever hear before Vincent turns you to wax be fucking Zoobooks? 

He tightened his grip on your arm, practically dragging you downstairs and back to his studio. Your lip trembled as you saw the table where Vincent prepared his subjects to be preserved. He pulled you past it, though, down the corridor he’d disappeared to earlier. 

He sat you down in a wooden chair next to his work station where he, thankfully, was working on a non-human wax sculpture, a statue of a saint from the church, though you’d never been inside the building yourself. Your gaze was fixed on his hands as they flexed in and out of fists balled at his side. Finally, he lifted his hands to sign, “Stay away from him.”

“He approached me.”

He scoffed, and you resisted the urge to argue further. Instead, he sat down and went back to sculpting, you felt numb, even as Jonesy nudged your hand with her wet nose. There was no way to know what Vincent was thinking, no facial cues or ticks for you to pick up on. His mask made him cold and unknowable, which frightened you more than anything Bo could do. 

The next few days, you were on edge, careful around Vincent and making a conscious effort to avoid his twin. Between the two of them, you knew escaping was a long shot. It was easier to abandon hope, and your best friend’s memory with it, than you expected. Besides, being Vincent’s muse wouldn’t be anything like being Bo’s—whatever the fuck you could call that.

Though Vincent was more open about his art with you, even showing you how to make small wax sculptures or your own, he would tense up every time he so much as heard his twin. When you’d go upstairs to prepare food, Vincent now accompanied you, and the elaborate dish you were hoping to make turned into a hastily thrown-together mess when Bo walked in from his day at the gas station. Vincent spirited you away not long after, and you didn’t exactly buy that he suddenly had inspiration for a drawing.

Still, you acquiesced, hesitant when he elaborated that his artistic vision involved you posing nude. It was the first time you did so outside of the typical shower setting. Though he’d seen so much of you already, you were embarrassed when you rid yourself of your clothes, especially when he walked over, placing his hands on your bare limbs to put you in an uncomfortable pose.

Despite the eternal furnaces that seemed to be running in the basement to keep the wax melted, you were freezing in your nakedness, unable to stop yourself from shivering in addition to the way your muscles strained at how he had you posed.

He slammed his pencil down on the page as he angrily signed, “Stay still.” 

“I can’t,” you whined. 

Ripping the page out of the sketchbook and throwing the crumpled ball on the ground, he stormed over to you. Though you braced yourself for a blow, you found him repositioning you in a different pose, one that wasn’t as hard on your limbs, but nonetheless exposed and vulnerable. 

He took a few steps back, shaking his head at your new pose. Looking around the room, he seemed to find the missing thing that would bring his vision to life. There were dozens of candles burning in the studio, and he picked up a white one, walking over to you. 

Your lips betrayed you, a moan escaping them as he poured the hot wax over your bare breasts. He froze, staring down at the milky-colored liquid as it hardened on your soft skin. A switch flipped in him, and he tipped the candle again. This time, you whimpered at the sensation, your skin stinging, but this seemed to be enough for him, as he set the candle aside with shaking hands.

“Let me see you,” you pleaded softly.

“No. Stop asking.”

“You’ve seen me, even the parts I don’t like,” you said. “I’m not scary.”

“I am.”

“So what would change?”

He sighed, shooting you a glare through his mask. 

“I’m sorry, I’ll—“

To your surprise, he grabbed his mask, lifting it from his face. His eye was squeezed shut, as if he couldn’t bear to see what he assumed would be the disgusted expression that spread across your face at the sight of his own. 

The state of his face was shocking, and you’d underestimated the extent of how much it would be scarred and disfigured, but you felt more pity than repulsion. His stillness was what unnerved you, as if he were holding his breath in preparation for your reaction, like you’d scream and call him a monster or a freak, like he was afraid of you.

“Does it hurt?” you asked, breaking the silence.

He shook his head.

“That’s good,” you said softly. “Can I–”

He opened his eye to see you reach for him, letting out what sounded like a whimper when your hand make contact with his scarred skin. You caressed his cheek as he’d so often done to you before.

“Is this alright?” you asked, though he’d leaned into your touch.

“Yes,” he breathed, his voice strained and raspy before he signed, “Need you.”

“I’m right here.”

It wasn’t until he pulled you flush against his body that you noticed his erection, pressing hard against your exposed skin. You looked at him, the longing and desperation in his expression was almost romantic. Maybe you could pretend, just for a few seconds, that you were there by choice. Slowly, you leaned in, softly pressing your lips to his, the scarred side of his face an odd sensation against yours, but he quickly took your face in his hands, kissing you harder. 

When you pulled away slightly, overwhelmed by the fervor he was kissing you with, his lips followed yours, a gentle chase by a predator starved for your touch. His tongue slipped between your lips when you opened your mouth slightly, though there was a hesitation to his actions, as if he didn’t know what to expect once he got this far. It was sweet, endearing even, this vulnerability from a man who otherwise had so much power over you. Gently guiding him, you couldn’t help but smile a bit as he moaned. 

You quickly found it wouldn’t stay that way for long. He finally allowed you to pull away from his lips. His gaze was focused as you tried to catch your breath. Of course, just a kiss wasn’t enough for him. He’d tasted blood, and he wanted more. 

He pulled off his sweater, revealing his torso, strong, pale, and littered with dozens of scars all varying in size and color. From the way he looked at you, it was easy to pick up on what he wanted you to do next, and as you pressed feather-light kisses to his bare skin, you wondered if it were the first time he’d ever been intimate with anyone. Sure, he could have had his way with past victims, expertly immobilizing them so he could get his pound of flesh before their transformation into the newest member of the town’s population, but that was cold, distant, uninspired, a cheap substitution for the way your mouth was worshiping his body. 

His cock strained against his pants, and he couldn’t take it anymore—the friction, the anticipation, you. Unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants, he pulled his hard cock from under the fabric, the slightest smirk spreading across his face as your eyes widened, hesitant and a bit frightened at the size of him. Pumping himself with his hand, he used his other hand to push you to your knees. Though you tried to hide it, he didn’t miss how you squeezed your thighs together. 

The dried, white wax on your breasts from just a few minutes earlier made it look like he’d already cum on your chest, and he moaned at the thought, pulling a little harder on his cock before pressing the leaking head against your lips. 

Vincent was not a vocal lover, as you hesitantly referred to him, only offering grunts and groans as you licked his cock just before taking it in your mouth. He was bigger than what you were used to, and you were careful not to choke, easier said than done when the warmth of your mouth, your soft tongue stimulating his hard length, made him buck his hips and you gagged at his cock hitting the back of your throat. You looked up at him, his head thrown back in pleasure, his long, black hair sticking to his skin. 

When he looked down at you, making eye contact, you felt like you were caught doing something you weren’t supposed to, a suspicious and almost accusatory expression on his face that almost made you pull away from his cock. He remembered the scene he’d walked in on just a handful of days before, you and Bo so close, your noses practically touching, the gleam in his twin’s eyes like he wanted to eat you alive. A low growl rumbled from deep in his chest as he roughly grabbed you by the hair and took control of the pace, no intention of going easy on you. He had to make up for lost time, after all, years of isolation, loneliness, and self-loathing until you came along, ready for the taking and far more compliant than he had expected. 

The sight of you, kneeling before him, tears streaming down your cheeks as you took what he gave you, made him almost believe in god again, almost. The soft light of the candles burning throughout the studio reflected off of the sheen of sweat on your skin, you were practically glowing. Perhaps he was letting his emotions get the better of him, his first truly intimate experience with a woman clouding his senses, but he could let himself get lost in it, just this once and every time afterward. You were his muse, that was what you were there for, after all. He wanted you to fear him, reverently, passionately—be not afraid, from the mouths of monstrous looking angels.

You almost sighed in relief when he pulled his cock out of your mouth, throat and jaw aching from the unrelenting attention. He took his cock in his hand, pumping it, wet and slick with precum and saliva, until he climaxed on your breasts. His cum was nearly indistinguishable from the wax that littered your skin, complimenting the faint, raised burns left in the wake of the liquid’s heat when it was first poured onto you. Though you moved to get up, you found yourself being pushed back down again.

“Stay still,” he signed, his hand a bit shaky as he did so.

When you didn’t move, your hands resting above your knees as you tried to catch your breath, he gave you a tired, twisted grin before reaching for his sketchbook and getting to work. Numbness overtook your senses, and you had no idea how much time had passed when Vincent finally put down his pencil to help you onto your feet. 

He sat you on the mattress, its softness a relief from the floor you’d been kneeling on for god knows how long. When he made the sign for shower, an inquiry as to whether you wanted one, all you could do was stare at the sketchbook that was still in his hand. Your pleasure, your comfort, wasn’t even an afterthought, while his was a priority. With an exhausted exhale, you allowed him to drape you in a blanket and lead you upstairs.

[laarbybarbtbox]

I thought it would be a good idea to put all of my Fma au Art that I have so far together! I hope everyone likes it!

The science of alchemy has a history of being used for nefarious purposes. But when secrets are revealed and weapons are drawn, it’s only a matter of time before powers such as Amestris, Creta, and Xing take part in Alchemic War.

An unexpected nationwide event has caused disaster and crisis across Amestris. It’s as if the ground itself began to crumble, like its hollow beneath. Nobody knows how the chain reaction of seismic events was started. However, some sources have stated the presence of a series of underground tunnels beneath Amestris territory.

The Fullmetal Alchemist has not yet returned to Central. He is currently attending to his automail engineer, whom is suffering from grievous injuries caused by the recent incident. It will likely be some time before the news of his brother’s supposed death reaches Resembool, but he is likely worried sick about him.

Slave #23 has returned home.

Laboratory 5 is only occupied by those who know of its secrets. Most of which are presumed dead to the general public.

Adult subjects:

Jerso (Last name unknown)- Human Chimera (Toad and Frogfish). Joined the military at age 19. All previous records have been effectively erased.

Zampano (Last name unknown)- Human Chimera (Razorback Boar and Hedgehog). Joined the military at age (Redacted). All previous records effectively erased.

Child subjects:

Alphonse Elric- Suit of Armor (Human soul sealed inside). Claims to be 14 years of age. (Physically died at age 10). (No military records found).

Nina Tucker- Human Chimera (Great Pyrenees). Experimentation began at age 5. (No military records found).

Name Unknown (“Violence” or “Lesser-Wrath”)- Homunculus (Artificially-created human). Age unknown. (No records of subject’s existence found).

Don’t fly too close to the sun. You will only get burnt.

The Mustang Unit has been forcefully disbanded. After their leader caught a glimpse of the happenings beneath Central City, he was promptly stripped of his rank and title. Only two of his former colleagues are still on duty in Central, but they will likely not cause any trouble. Riza Hawkeye is under the watchful eye of the Fuhrer, and Maes Hughes poses no threat to exposing what’s truly happening within Central.

Before the incident, the biggest news was that of the alchemist killer. The narrative was that he was an Ishvalan man with an X-shaped scar on his forehead out for revenge on the government that massacred his people.

However, now that Amestris has settled a bit more after the incident, the scarred man has returned, and he’s not alone. Word has spread of a second Ishvalan accompanying “Scar” (as the public has called him). This new accomplice is said to be missing his right arm. Some have also said that he may be the brother of Scar. However, this is all just speculation.

Since this reemergence, more uprisings have occurred in prominently military-occupied areas of Amestris.

The nationwide transmission circle has been activated too early. Father’s strength has been depleted by this incident. However, the homunculi have a new ally. One whom has lived almost as long as he has. One whom has created her own homunculi. One whom has opened the portal of Truth, and knows many of its secrets.

The boss has been reintegrated into Father’s ranks, much to his dismay. His greed and hunger for more has always made his position less than favorable for him. But this time, Father and his new supporter have taken extra measures to make sure he stays in line. He still acts like himself though. A suave, smug, piece of—

[rabbitkissed]

Hey, are you bored? Do you like history? Anthropology? I wanna tell you about something curious that happened in my country. I am from Lima, Perú. I want tell you about what this two pictures have in common (i am sorry for my english in advance)

Let's start with the first one: This one is a beautiful baroque religious painting called The lady Of Belen, painted anonymously in Cusco in XVIII. This painting had a purpose (apart from being a beautiful piece of art) and it stars with the arrival of the Spanish to Perú on ~colonization times~. As you know, those fuckers hated the local folklore and wanted to turn everyone catholic. The millenarian peruvian culture is very colorful and cheery, its motivs are always about nature, the sun and the ground, they worshipped the hills (we call them cerros) but most importantly La Pachamama, which is basically The Earth, because it's the sacred place where we live and it feed us with rich yummy food <3 (it's not just that but that's for another post)

So the colonizers invaded Cusco, they brought all their religion and their catholic churches and they wanted to turn everyone catholic. My people was very resilient and they kept doing their business. The spanish, sick of their efforts to turn everyone into christianity, had one of the earliest marketing ideas and they decided to create catholic imagery where the virgin Mary would be depicted using a cape that would make her have a cone-like shape that symbolized a hill (or cerro)

Examples:

Did it work? Of course! With the help of enormous church buildings and, you know, the atrocities.

Now, what does the second image has to do this this? First, the second image I showed you is a lottery publicity, do you observe the vibrant colors and really the cool typography they're using?? Well, in the 70's (don't know if you know) my country started suffering a political conflict that lasted almost 22 years (ending in 1992) radical groups literally killed people for their political believes. It happened everywhere. In those times, Lima, the capital of Perú was (is, if you ask me) very centralized, the country "progress" was only visible or heard of in Lima, other provinces (you could say states) of Perú were forgotten. These cities were poor, forgotten by the government and also lived the brutality of multiples terrorist attacks. Many Death and many Destruction.

So, forgotten by the government and with that constant fear of death, the town people started to migrate to Lima, thousands of families left their land.

And guess where they started to live? HILLS. Lima is full of them!! And they were empty, these hills did not have the basic necessities housing needs (like running water or draining systems) because Lima is a desert but my people are fighters and they stayed. All the hills were filled with new houses.

This photograph show the early stage:

This photograph is how the hills look now:

Migrant people brought their vivid colors with them <3 they are know to be hardworking, also started to make their own parties with their music and their food. Although the culture kept that characteristic essence, eventually it got mixed with other ones that also were present in Lima and the most popular mix is what we call Cultura Chicha.

The Chicha culture, which was more notable in the music, was a huge success. It was so relevant it had (IS very relevant, because it is still very much popular) a lot of awarded singers and bands. The most legendary of them all was a singer called Chacalón, even the UNESCO gave him a prize for a song that is considered an hymn for the people who migrated. He was also given a legendary phrase that says "Cuando Chacalón canta, los cerros bajan" which literally means "When Chacalón sings, the hills come down" meaning that when he sings, all the people that live in the hills come down to hear him. Isn't that very cool??

Going back to the lottery propaganda: This Chicha parties are massive and, to promote them, Chicha poster designers also use vibrant colors and funky typography and it works! If you visit the streets of Lima is very likely you can see at least a wall filled with them!!

The most rich and successful marketing companies (the lottery one from the beginning) noticed this and tried to imitate the Chicha colors and typography to get the attention of the huge migrant demographic in Lima. Does it work? Apparently yes because they keep using them.

To conclude, isn't it amazing how these colors and designs have passed and survived too much history?? And they're still here. Apart from being used by corporations, you cannot take Chicha culture from its people and I think that is beautiful <3 thank you for your attention!! Have great day and try a peruvian dish called Papa a la Huacaina if you ever step foot in a peruvian restaurant, you will not regret it, it's *chefs kiss*

[morvantmortuary]

seth sunday dating hcs -

Or, you’re ignoring the odd feeling in the pit of your stomach to date the magician who dresses like a goth ringleader. samesies tbh

(18+, mdni)

as always, an epigram:

“Well, what tongue does the wind talk? What nationality is a storm? What country do rains come from? What color is lightning? Where does thunder go when it dies?” - Something Wicked This Way Comes, Ray Bradbury

First thing’s first: Seth is a flirt. A huge flirt. Partially bc he enjoys the reciprocal attention (he enjoys attention of any sort), but also because when he likes someone, he fixates on them

(It’s a bit of a chicken/egg situation - does They Who attract people who are prone to fixation to do their bidding, or do the people under their thumb develop these tendencies as a side effect? Who’s to say.)

-

He tends to be a bit over the top in his courting, even by Morvant standards. Think deep red long-stemmed rose bouquets sent to your place of work. The classic heart-shaped box of chocolates, but almost absurdly large. Early on, they might not be too tailored to you, specifically — more generally understood symbols of romance. He’s still a believer in the classic and the glamorous, drawing on memories of the old Hollywood romances that captivated him in his human days youth.

All those early dates, though, will feel like he’s just looking for excuses to sit and talk to you for ages. Because he is!! Whether that’s over dinner at a luxurious restaurant you might not normally consider an option, or hot drinks at a charming little cafe. Expect long, meandering conversations about everything going on in your life, with him seeming fascinated by details that seem fairly mundane to you.

And the even weirder thing is, he’ll remember them all, well past you’d expect anyone to care.

You can’t help but notice though that whenever you try to talk to him about his own life - his family, where he was from - he would only ever talk about his various stints in traveling shows. He has stories galore, wild and weird, but nothing that feels… like the basic things you get to know about someone. The little things.

For someone who makes his living performing, it surprises you how soft-spoken he is. His voice, despite his appearance, is always light, gentle. You’re surprised how quiet he is at times, and find yourself instinctively closing the space between the pair of you to catch his every word. He mirrors this when you speak in turn, sitting only just far enough away to still be considered appropriate, his black eyes moving constantly between your lips and your eyes, as though he’s trying to keep up with both at all times. It’s enough to make you a little flustered every so often, especially when his fingers or his knees brush against yours.

When he does get to know you, expect the later dates to be flashy in a different way.

Expect behind the scenes tours of museum exhibits in surrounding cities related to something that makes you tick, some before the exhibit even goes public. Intimate art house performances, centered around themes he knows make your brain itch in the best way, all in little theaters in the local scene that you wouldn’t have been to until now.

Parties and dinners with creative, interesting people he seems to know from a vast and varied life, in which you’re both fascinated by the conversation, and apparently somewhat of a showpiece yourself, as he shamelessly introduces you to everyone with the air of someone who stumbled upon a magnificent secret.

From what little tidbits you’re able to pick up from his colleagues and friends, you get the feeling that Seth has been in creative scenes all over the world, and for what feels like an awfully long time for his age. Or at least, what you’re pretty sure is his age. His world feels huge to you, and still undefined — even the people he’s known for ages don’t know that much about him, it seems, or as much as you’d think.

You can’t tell if he’s rich and hides it well or just somehow absurdly well-connected, but he seems to know someone wherever the pair of you go, always running into a collaborator from a past project, or always seems to have a friend who can get tickets or an inside scoop to whatever fun thing you’re interested in.

The man always dresses to the nines, wherever you’re going. Mostly black, in sumptuous fabrics, but with the occasional accent of something eye-catching: patterns like Peacock feathers, or a splash of Big Top red. He always looks fantastic, and unmistakably eye-catching, ever the consummate showman. He’s not afraid of makeup, either, with his eyes usually lined in kohl and his nails painted in jewel tones. As much as he stands out, he’s unquestionably handsome in a way that reminds you of a storm.

You can’t deny the tiniest bit of exhilaration when you realize that even though everyone around the pair of you is looking at him, he’s only looking at you.

When the two of you have been going out long enough that it’s comfortable, he makes it clear that he has no issues with the idea of PDA. He always keeps his arm around your shoulders or waist, or wants to keep your hand in his (which is always surprisingly cold, like, to the point that you wonder if he’s seen a doctor about it).

He’s not shy about kisses - nothing too obnoxious, but cheek kisses, kisses to the top of your head, the corner of your mouth, et al are definitely not rare. Neither are kisses to the back of your hand, the inside of your wrist, even your neck if he thinks he can get away with it. He’ll ease up a bit if he ever embarrasses you, but it’s like he wants to transmit to you as obviously as possible when he’s absolutely smitten with you.

He is genuinely smitten with you, by the way. Because he’s absolutely making up for affection he never received himself, and this is just how he knows to make it clear. It’s not a performance out of dishonesty, but out of eagerness, and not being sure how else “real” people show it.

The man doesn’t quite seem to understand the idea of a chill date. He always wants to seem to show you a good time, take you somewhere and show you something you’ve never seen before, or treat you to something indulgent and extravagant. When you ask one night if he wants to stay in, he almost seems caught off-guard.

He demurs immediately when you ask about hanging out at his place. “I live out of hotels for work,” he says, with a smile and an unusually sheepish shrug. “I’m in a nice one right now, but still. Not quite the mood you’re looking for, certainly.”

So when you tell him to show up to your place with some movie suggestions and you’ll order dinner in, you’re not quite sure what to expect when you open the door.

 …It probably wasn’t the vintage velvet smoking jacket over the most elegant looking silk lounge set you’ve ever seen in your life. But you also couldn’t picture him just being a guy in sweats from a big box chain, either.

But he’s there and positively beaming, with aubergine-colored eyeliner to coordinate. “I never get to wear these anywhere! How fun!”

...Are those satin slippers?

He immediately settles himself on your couch like he’s been there forever and pulls a bottle of wine that’s just the right level of cheap from a bag you didn’t notice him holding, as well as a variety of candy. (You can’t help but notice the man has a sweet tooth - you’ve never seen him say no to dessert.) “I thought we could use my Criterion login; I just couldn’t decide, you know? I wanted you to choose what felt the most ‘date night’ to you.”

Somehow it doesn’t surprise you that all his favorites are either black and white or from the very, very beginning of color film. The big Hollywood spectacles from the early days of film, with musical numbers and elaborate costumes and choreography to beat all.

He keeps his arm around you the whole time, not even hesitating. When he laughs at the old-fashioned banter in the transatlantic accents, it’s high, sweet. Almost childlike in the earnestness of it.

You’re willing to wait until the end of the movie, out of respect (and genuine interest, you really had never seen it before), before you jump his bones.

Yes, the part you’ve been waiting for:

If he’s captivating at a distance, up close, he’s a force of nature. He’s beautiful in a way that twists your stomach in excited knots. His eyes are fathomless — you look into them too long and you feel like your feet aren’t on solid ground anymore.

If you thought he was affectionate before, he’s even more possessive this close together. He already towers over you just standing next to each other, and he leverages this height now when he’s got you under him as a way of caging you, keeping you against the bare expanse of his chest (which is also troublingly cool, you distantly wonder while he’s taking off your shirt like it’s wrapping paper if he’s going to talk to a doctor about that—)

But you’re quickly forgetting anything else as his tongue skims your pulse, hot and hungry and blatant.

His mouth is everywhere on your torso, like he’s sampling you, trying to gauge the places that will make you shiver most. He’s good at watching you, lingering in the places that make you sigh or stifle a moan, his touch like sleight of hand in how he seems to know to set your skin aglow before you’re both even totally undressed.

Once you’ve both established a degree of trust to go further, he can’t help but get a little overexcited. He’s not shy about manhandling you where he wants you, but will just as easily fall under you, his eyes fathomless black and hungry as he watches to see how you’ll touch him.

The man’s a demon in bed, but the agony is only the kind you don’t want to end.

If at times his fingers seem somehow longer than you thought as they slide in and out of you, messy and noisy, or his tongue seems not-quite-human in how it delves deeper than you would’ve thought possible to make you scream — you don’t worry about it too long. You can’t really keep a clear train of thought right now, anyway.

If the name of God tries to pass your lips, even as only as a reflex, an interjection, it always seems to dissolve into a gasp or moan before it can actually reach the air. You don’t worry about that either.

He’s packing, but it’s not too far out of the ordinary… how he uses it inside you, however. That’s the thing that feels nearly supernatural. For seeming so sweet and smitten when the two of you are together, it’s nearly brutal in just how far he manages to push you before you finally come each time.

You swear you’re not going to have a voice in the morning when he’s done with you.

And of course, when he’s finished with you and you’re not quite able to be certain your thighs will hold you up (so covered in hickies as they are), he’s happy to take you to your room and clean you up.

You fall asleep in his silk pajama top, resting on his chest, as he pretends to doze underneath you.

You’re dead to the world when he seems to vanish underneath you at 3 AM. When lays down with you again a couple hours later, he feigns having just come from the bathroom, kissing each of your heavy eyelids as he holds you close again.

You think you’re dreaming when he smells faintly of smoke and a chemical you can’t quite name.

When you wake up for real, he’s waiting in your kitchen with your favorite little coffee drink and some pastries from an expensive little shop, perusing a story in the paper about a fire at the mortuary on the edge of your little hometown.

He greets you with that same enchanted smile, like you’re the most interesting person he could hope to talk to today, and sets the paper aside immediately, determined to plan a fun day out after last night. A movie, perhaps? Maybe a picnic in the park? Dinner at this little rooftop place he knows in the city?

He’s almost scarily perfect, for all his eccentricities.

—

Just when you think you’re starting to get to know him, though, it feels like there are even more mysteries.

You come back one night to his hotel room after all, where he opens the door with a flourish —

And you’re immediately hit with the smell of something sweet, yet somehow musty. Like an antique store, or (weirdly) your grandmother’s house.

His face changes immediately, the cocky smile sliding right off. Something is clearly not what he planned.

He flips on the lightswitch, and the two of you walk in to the suite’s living room… to find the place full of vases on vases, all stuffed with your favorite flowers.

But they’re all withered. Dead, even desiccated, like they’d been sitting there for ten years.

“…Is this performance art?” you say, trying to lighten the mood, but he holds up a hand.

“Wait here,” he says softly, only just audible.

“Is something wrong?”

You’ve never seen him like this before. If you thought he was already tall, now he seems to positively tower, his spine taught like a pulled piano wire.

He stalks into the room, scowling at the flowers, searching for something. He’s muttering softly, and you can’t hear what it is, but he sounds pissed.

“Seth,” you call, unsettled. “What’s going on?”

Before he looks back to you, suddenly his eyes are different as he scans the room. They’re pitch black, like onyx stones set into his face.

You must have had too much wine at dinner, because for just a second, you’d swear they were all black. Every bit of flesh hidden by something almost like a film.

But when he looks at you again, they’re fine. “Give me a minute, doll face. Just stand right there for me, okay?”

Before you can ask, he skulks into the rooms beyond, into the dark

…Leaving you standing there in the doorway.

You know he asked you not to, but this is just so… weird. You step tentatively into the suite, the cute shoes you’d picked for your date tonight crunching softly on what must be a Persian rug’s worth of petals underfoot.

Why would he buy dead flowers? And in bulk like this? He had to have bought them this way, because they’re just so… old. No florist around Greymoon would’ve sold anything close to the condition these were in on purpose. You knew Miss Amelia who ran Della’s, her mother’s old store, would’ve immediately put her flowers in the composter the minute they were anything less than perfectly fresh. You know the little family mortuary out closer to the swamp started doing their own flowers recently (it was a bit of town gossip for a while, Miss Amelia wasn’t sure whether or not to take it personally), but even they wouldn’t sell them dead — that would defeat the point, right?

Out of the corner of your eye, something moves.

You turn to find yourself facing the open door to the suite’s bathroom, the lights flickering ominously just inside. Like they aren’t screwed in right, or like the bulbs are almost burnt out. It’s just as odd as the flowers — this is a relatively new hotel, closer to the city than your little town. Everything still has that new ‘fresh paint’ gleam, making the rickety lights and the ancient-looking flowers stick out even more.

You’re aware, at the edge of your perception, of something about this just not feeling… right. Too many things out of place, in ways that don’t seem to have explanations that make sense.

You’re still trying to make the pieces fit together when something in the bathroom mirror moves.

You step back, your skin suddenly cold as you realize you’ve been staring right at someone that didn’t belong there. That they might have been staring right back at you.

The light flickers again, and it doesn’t account for the movement you just saw.

Almost like someone was in there, stepping back from the glass.

You look towards the little hallway Seth disappeared down, but you hear nothing. Your mouth is dry, and you can’t decide if calling out for him would save you, or just attract whoever’s in there right to you.

…You pull your mace out of its hiding place in your date night ensemble (what? Things were scary for a queer person lately), your finger hovering over the button. You’ve never had to use it before. You didn’t think you were going to need to use it tonight.

But if someone’s here, waiting for you two...

You step inside.

Part of you wants to call for Seth, still. He’s kind of intimidating, when you first see him, all legs and dark hair and sharp cheekbones. And even though you’ve never heard him raise his voice at anyone, always polite if not a bit of a charmer, you’d feel better with him there.

But you’re in here, now. This place is bigger than you realized — the bathroom an L-shape, and you’re standing right at the corner. Someone could get to you before he could get here, too.

There’s no sound of motion — no rustling, no careful footsteps, no settling of the floor. But you’re positive what you saw: a figure, not quite as tall as Seth, but still had a few inches on you.

You lift your mace to eye-level as slowly as you can, afraid of making any wayward noise yourself. Holding your breath, you step around the corner —

And see nothing.

Your arm falls slowly, your stomach churning. But… but you’d just seen someone. As real and solid as Seth was. There was nowhere they could’ve possibly hidden.

You look back to the mirror, as if searching for an answer there… and pause, realizing there’s something else there now.

WE’LL BURY YOU

The letters are huge, in a smeary red… something. Viscous, almost… dried in some places. Clumping, crusted at the ends of the letters.

But where you can see there should be texture, it seems… flat to the glass. Smooth.

You’ve stepped to the mirror before you entirely realize it, your body pulling you towards the discrepancy subconsciously.

You reach your hand out towards the glass, wanting to figure out what it is — and your fingers feel nothing there.

There’s no substance on the mirror.

You rub your fingertips across it, trying to smear it, but it’s like the glass is between you and whatever it is. Like it was somehow written on the other side of—

A hand falls heavy on your shoulder, and you let out a surprised shout, whirling on the source.

“Sweetheart,” Seth says, voice low and eyes flashing. “I know I told you…”

Before he stops dead, his gaze falling on the mirror behind you.

His hand slides across your back to your other shoulder as he moves towards the mirror, drawn to it as you were. And, just as you had, he touches his hand to the letters… before pulling away clean fingertips.

“…Seth,” you whisper, watching him stare at his own hand in befuddlement. “I saw someone in here.”

He looks up immediately, alarmed. “Where? What did they look like?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “I didn’t see their face, I just— I swear I saw someone reflected in the mirror. But there was no one when I walked in…”

Frowning, Seth scans the bathroom, as if the vandal is going to peel themselves from the wallpaper or drop from the ceiling. Or appear on the other side of the mirror’s glass.

After a moment, he does something even more puzzling: he grins, sharp and oddly… unsettling. Like there’s more anger behind it than laughter.

“Don’t worry about it, pet.” He waves his free hand, his other sliding down your shoulder to gently grip your upper arm. “It’s just a joke.”

You blink. “A- a joke?”

“A practical joke. A little jape, at my expense, from some colleagues.” He links his arm through yours, steering you gently away from the mirror. “It’s all harmless fun.”

You can feel yourself frowning, still confused. “…Is this what practical jokes are like in your line of work?”

“Of course! The mirror is a neat little trick, wouldn’t you say? Some corn syrup and food dye, painted in just the right way. It must’ve taken them ages,” he says, and his tone veers from light into something else for a moment.

“And the flowers?” you ask tentatively.

“Oh, they must’ve seen the little display I set up for you,” he says, managing a chuckle. “And decided to swap them out. Really, I’m going to have to call them up and ask them about it. Figure out how they got in here,” he adds, the smile dropping for just a second long enough for you to see. “Anyway,” he says, guiding you towards the front door again. “I’m just going to leave a message and an extra tip for the housekeeping staff, and we’ll go get more dessert somewhere while we wait, shall we?”

As you follow him out, you sneak a peek over your shoulder, down the hallway he’d disappeared into.

You catch the barest glint, in the light, of something steely driven into what must be his bedroom door. It looks like… a scalpel?

Nevertheless, he sweeps you downstairs, and before you can fully process everything, the two of you are splitting a complimentary plate of the best mochi ice cream you’ve ever eaten in the hotel’s impressive restaurant. When you try to inquire further about the so-called joke, Seth laughs it off, like it already happened a million years ago. If there’s followup or retribution you never hear about it after.

At least you can say you’re never bored when you’re with him.

[laurestcphens]

Name: Laure Rothschild Stephens Occupation: Owner of Westriver Gardens / Clan Pretorius Representative Age: Appears 47; actually 677 Sexuality: Lesbian Species: Vampire Clan/Pack/Coven: Clan Pretorius Hometown: London, England Relationship Status: Widowed It's Complicated Personality Traits: Machiavellian, disarming, arrogant, gregarious, strategic

Biography (tw: mentions of bubonic plague, death, murder)

Laure doesn't think about her life before the bite. It seems frivolous, unnecessary even. She had somehow lived an entire lifetime by that point, with children and grandchildren even, and then the plague came and took them all. Laure survives because a vampire finds her, half-delirious as she tried to tend to the corpses of her family despite being on death's doorstep herself.

Her sire dies before her transition is even complete, but Markus takes his place as she wakes. He teaches her how to stand up for herself for the first time in her life, to find the voice that had been buried by marriage and social structures and expectations. She finds her power and knows never to look back.

They make a charming pair, perfectly fitting in within the fabric of history, but not in any way that's conspicuous or obvious. Markus acts as advisor to some of the most powerful men in the world, his influence evident if one knows where to look, but unnamed in any records. To others, Laure is everything from his wife to his assistant to his whore. The reality is that they are partners. She acts as history's witness, producing art and literature that leaves behind a record of the life they've lived. She paints with Da Vinci, sculpts with Bernini, and was an avid participant of 19th century salons. Her art hangs in galleries under pseudonyms and his theories are parroted by intellectuals. Neither of their names are ever recorded, but they are satisfied with their ability to shape and influence society as it unfolds. Laure enjoys learning about people and how the function, how dynamics shift when individual or in a group, and soon she learns how to pull their strings while remaining unseen.

It's not as flashy as a life as literature might suggest for their kind but it works for them. What's between them is mere common interest, not really love, but more like a shared goal and comfort after centuries by each other's side. But all good things eventually come to an end. Markus falls in love, and decides that he is done watching and recording history from the sidelines, and that he wants to live it instead. She says nothing when he leaves, as giddy as a child, pitying him almost, and continues on with their work instead.

By then, history has somewhat progressed, enough that a woman with enough wealth can purchase a plot of land in 1942 without too many people raising an eyebrow. The country is embroiled with the rumblings of war, and she settles in Port Leiry to continue her vigil. The conflict between the species is tentatively over, and she watches, intrigued, as the different groups coexist.

The Gardens are a happy coincidence, originally meant to be a way for her to preserve the beauty that has always inspired her art. As the city builds up around her, she maintains her property, with her personal home on the edge of the property and the rest of the grounds dedicated to the natural world. With advances in technology, it turns out that Laure doesn't need to be physically anywhere in order to deploy her influence. With the amount of wealth she had accumulated over the years, she is able to make her will heard without issue, behind an army of lawyers and shell companies who shield her from the public eye, and the protection of one of the oldest and largest vampire clans in the world.

Ironically, there are some humans who call her a witch, for her solitary lifestyle and her refusal to cede any of her property for development. But Westriver Gardens becomes a popular destination for vampires and the uninitiated alike. By day, she rents out the small chapel for weddings and photography sessions, and by night, it operates as a prime feeding ground for vampires. To the truly big spenders, the entire property can be rented out for what can only be called "hunting parties", in which vampires can indulge in their natural instincts and hunt their prey across acres of land. To Laure, it's a cycle of influence and money that fuels her day to day and it pays off when she is elected as the Clan Pretorius High Council representative, a position she enjoys relatively unchallenged for the most part. Those who underestimate her based on her appearance are quickly shown why that is a mistake.

Laure lives 662 years before she understands what it means to fall in love. What she once mocked Markus for becomes astoundingly clear to her when she meets Kiri. The witch is wary at first, rightfully so, rebuffing Laure's initial advances, but eventually, a relationship grows, genuine in a way she had never before experienced in her nearly seven centuries of life. Despite the differences between their species, the impossible happens, and an unlikely bond forms not just between Laure and Kiri, but between Clan Pretorius and the Circle of the Phial as well, an example of the power they can have if they work together. When Kiri turns 45, the question turns to one of turning into a vampire, and Laure wants nothing more than eternity with her wife.

Eternity turns out to be a mere handful of months. The plans are made, with permission granted from the High Council, and a small intimate ceremony of their closest friends. Two days before the arranged date, Kiri goes missing, with a staggering amount of her blood left behind. On the day Laure should have been welcoming her wife to immortality, she received a package with Kiri's finger inside, still wearing the ring she'd given to her.

Laure returns to the life she led for six hundred years before meeting Kiri, but it's dull in comparison. She now knows what it means to have something, and what it means to lose it. She withdraws to Westriver, emerging only for her duties as Council Representative. She maintains the greenhouse and garden that Kiri had cultivated, filled with magical plants and herbs that were difficult to find elsewhere. To honor her late wife, Laure permits Phial witches to use the garden for their needs, so long as they respect it. It comes with a monetary cost, but she is fair in her dealings.

She sees her eighteen months after Kiri dies, and her world finds color again. A near perfect vision of her late wife and the delusion is born. Laure watches from the shadows, learning her schedule until it is ingrained in her memory. She imagines a chance to redo what has already been done, to recover what she lost. When she goes to the High Council again for permission however, she is denied. They see her actions as obsessive, driven by her grief and emotions and she can't deny it. But she decides she doesn't need their permission anyways.

It's simple to orchestrate a meeting at the Serval, a rare outing away from Westriver. The girl is still young and all too trusting, and Laure almost pities her as she struggles feebly in her grip. It pains her to leave her sprawled in an alley, for anyone to find, but she reminds herself to be patient. She's waited a year for this, she can wait a few months longer. And finally, maybe, eternity is within her grasp.

Wanted Plots / Connections

Markus de Villiers - Markus is the equivalent of Laure's platonic soulmate. Not her sire, but the first vampire she came across after she was turned. Much of who she is today can be attributed to him recognizing and coaxing out the potential in her. They worked together in tandem for over 500 years, witnessing and shaping history together. He is incredibly intelligent and a born noble.

The Successor (Blair Davenport) - This witch from the Circle of the Phial was chosen to be Kiri's successor as liaison with Clan Pretorius once she transitioned into a vampire, a position that continues after her wife's death. After working alongside her wife diplomatically for years, it is an adjustment to this new witch, and Laure is not shy about hiding her frustration, even if unfairly directed towards them.

The Council (Markus de Villiers, Hester Lomidze, Aoife O'Sullivan, Nsilo Castillon) - Laure's fellow Council members who denied her permission to turn Aria because they were worried about her increasing instability. Maybe they disagree with the fact that Laure was married to a witch. Maybe it could have started out as a positive relationship but she has since felt slighted because they turned her down.

The Plotter (Cordelia Verges) - Laure has been the Clan Pretorius Council Representative for Port Leiry for almost 30 years, and she's grown increasingly more erratic since Kiri's death. Someone can try to oust her or otherwise try to manipulate her position for their own gains.

TBA

[pamelalovenyc]

Ultimate Guide to Travel: Tips, Tricks, and Secrets

Traveling is a joy like no other. It provides us with unique experiences, broadens our horizons, and leaves us with memories that last a lifetime. Whether you're a seasoned globetrotter or a first-time traveler, there's always something new to discover. In this comprehensive guide, we’ll delve into the tips, tricks, and secrets that every traveler should know. Let's embark on this journey together!

1. Planning is Paramount

Budgeting: Determine your budget well in advance. This will help you choose destinations, accommodations, and activities that fit your financial boundaries.

Research: Dive deep into your intended destination. Websites, forums, and travel blogs are treasure troves of information, offering insights about local culture, cuisines, and must-visit places.

Itinerary: While spontaneous adventures can be thrilling, having a basic itinerary ensures that you cover key attractions and make the most of your trip.

2. Packing Like a Pro

Roll, Don’t Fold: Rolling clothes conserves space and minimizes wrinkles.

Essentials First: Always pack essentials like passports, medicines, and chargers in easily accessible compartments.

Versatility is Key: Opt for clothing items that can be mixed and matched, giving you a variety of outfits with fewer pieces.

3. Savvy Flight Hacks

Book in Incognito: Flight prices sometimes increase based on browser history. Use incognito mode for unbiased prices.

Flexible Dates: Being flexible with your travel dates can save you a significant amount of money.

Midweek Magic: Flights are often cheaper on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Consider these days for better deals.

4. Accommodations: Think Beyond Hotels

Local Stays: Platforms like Airbnb offer authentic local experiences.

Hostels: Perfect for budget travelers and solo adventurers. Modern hostels are both affordable and comfortable.

Swap Homes: Websites like HomeExchange allow you to swap homes with other travelers, offering a unique and cost-effective lodging option.

5. Navigating Public Transport

Local Cards: Many cities offer transport cards that provide unlimited rides for a day or week, saving you money.

Apps to the Rescue: Apps like Google Maps or Citymapper provide real-time public transportation information.

6. Delve into Local Culture

Food Adventures: Skip the touristy restaurants and head to local markets or street vendors for an authentic culinary experience.

Language Basics: Learning a few phrases in the local language can enhance your travel experience and endear you to locals.

7. Safety First

Stay Informed: Research the safety of your destination. The U.S. Department of State's website, for instance, offers travel advisories.

Backup Documents: Scan important documents and store them in the cloud. This can be a lifesaver in case of theft or loss.

Local Emergency Numbers: Keep a list of local emergency contact numbers, including the nearest embassy or consulate.

8. Sustainable Traveling

Respect Nature: Limit your environmental footprint. Opt for eco-friendly accommodations and activities.

Support Local: Purchasing from local artisans and businesses boosts the local economy and gives you unique souvenirs.

9. Embrace Technology

Offline Maps: Download maps for offline use. This can be a savior in areas with limited internet connectivity.

Travel Apps: From language translation to currency conversion, there's an app for almost every travel need.

10. Final Thoughts: The Art of Immersion

Travel is not just about checking places off a list. It's about immersing yourself in a new culture, understanding different perspectives, and creating stories. Remember, every journey offers its set of lessons. Embrace them, learn from them, and let them shape your future adventures.

With these tips in hand, you're now equipped to traverse the world like never before. So pack your bags, let your heart guide you, and embark on the journey of a lifetime. Happy traveling!

[grad604-amber]

Week One: SDL

For our week one SDL we were tasked to begin collecting visual examples from other creatives. Bringing at least 10 to class for next week. This is including both works from creatives we know and are already influenced by but also works that we see around us in the public and then finding the designers behind the pieces. Below are my 10, these also fit under creative communities and styles that I feel like are beginning to shape me as a designer.

Public: The images below are from all around the city, it is a route I take almost every day to school but I have found myself lacking curiosity and not taking in what is around me, this SDL task gave me a reason to be curious and ended being very influential.

1. Creatives: Graham Tipene, Ataahua Papa & Angus Muir.

This instillation was on Queen Street it was there to celebrate Matariki and honouring the narrative of our kaupapa and the history of Tāmaki Makarau.

2.Creatives: Fuman Designs https://fuman.co.nz

Fuman is a multi-disciplinary design studio, based in Auckland, New Zealand. We specialise in branding, packaging and digital design.

3.Creatives: Shane Cotton

Cotton is a New Zealand painter whose work explores biculturalism, colonialism, cultural identity, Māori spirituality, and life and death

https://britomart.org/shane-cotton/

4. Creatives: Maui studio’s https://www.mauistudios.co.nz

Spark has collaborated with kaupapa Māori production studio, Māui Studios, to create digital art that brings to life the stories of the nine Matariki stars.

5. Paul Rand

Paul Rand was a leading figure in twentieth-century graphic design. He helped revolutionise commercial art in America during the 1930s, advocating the functional yet beautiful designs envisioned by European modernists. I was introduced to Paul Rands work when I was in college and immediately loved the style. He has produced a wide range of work, from posters, publication, logos and so on. His style is fun and really emphasises the beauty of simplicity.

6. White Rabbit 

White Rabbit is a full-service graphic design agency that provides a dynamic range of creative services. Hop to us for World-class branding, digital, print and illustration design. Discover our capabilities below. I love to look at different design studios such as white rabbit as there works are so different and diverse in the topics and in the style, it shows that as a designer you are able to do a wide range of things with the skills we are learning. https://whiterabbit.nz/capabilities/

7. curios studio 

Curious is an independent Auckland based design and brand strategy agency. Focusing on brand design.  https://www.curious.co.nz/our-services-1

8. Pete McDonald

Pete Mcdonald is a Christchurch-based freelance designer, illustrator and animator who has created a massive and massively varied body of work. I have recently come across his work. I love his illustrative style as it adds a lot of personality to not only brands but around the public.

https://www.petejmcdonald.com

9. Studio Akin

Atkin is another design studio that I have crossed and found quite influential. similar to the other studios there is a range of work and styles throughout their cite. I specifically love thievery graphic and illustrative styles that add a bit of fun to something as simple as the oat milk.

https://www.instagram.com/wearestudioakin/?hl=en

10. Moshimoshi classroom (Aya Yam)

Moshimoshi classroom run solely by one person. I was introduced to this work as she is a friend of my Mums. The work produced is in a distinct graphic and playful manner as it is made to be a resource for teachers around Aotearoa. To teach diversity and basic knowledge on Māori culture and our countries culture. I have always loved this specific style, the playfulness making it accessible for younger audiences but still informative for older generations.

[inapat16]

All that Tunisian cinema has to offer

Tunisian cinema was a forerunner. It offered the world its originality thanks to the genius of its filmmakers (e.g. Nacer Khémir) and its contribution to cinematographic production (e.g. the JCC). Tunisian cinema was born in a particularly fertile soil, that of cinephilia and admiration for the great works of the 7th art worldwide, and it's thanks to him that I've opened up to this art. Also Film clubs and the JCC helped to shape both filmmakers and a demanding public, of which I think I am the product. 

From the outset, there was no question of aligning with the 'old' Arab cinema in existence (Egyptian commercial cinema), Tunisian cinema wanted to stand out from the melodramas and the musical films from which a few 'auteurs' were struggling to emerge. For the majority of Tunisian filmmakers, it was more a question of succeeding, each according to his or her own style, with original “expression” films (political, social, cultural, etc.) bearing the stamp of their director and aiming for the artistic quality already achieved at a world level.

This freedom of choice has been helped by the fact that Tunisia also doesn’t have film censorship (different from television censorship) which is undoubtedly one of the most flexible in the Arab world: scenes that are banned in other Arab countries like the celebration of female nudity (Halfaouine (1990)), homosexuality (L’Homme de cendre (1986)), political repression (Sabot en Or (1988)), sex tourism (Bezness (1992)), women's right to sexual fulfilment (Fatma (2001), Satin rouge (2002)) were finally accepted by Tunisian censors as long as they were expressed by artists and were necessary to the coherence of their work.

The miracle started with L'Homme de cendres (1986), unlike most countries of the South where arthouse films remain confined to the ghettos of arthouse cinemas or are exclusively destined for the 'prestige' of foreign festivals, Tunisian audiences gave national films an unprecedented triumph, (shattering by far all previous audience records for Hollywood or Egyptian films), even for "difficult" films such as Chich Khan (1991). Thus Tunisian cinema invented a new cinematographic category, that of "mass auteur films" ! Today, this type of cinema continues to shine, with films such as Enhebek, Ya Hedi (2016) and Ashkal (2022). These movies continue to delight a broad local audience while retaining their 'auteur' touch. Kaouther Ben Hania's next film, Les filles d'Ofla (2023), which was a hit at Cannes, also promises to be a mass success despite its offbeat subject and direction.

However, today, even if Tunisian cinema continues in its tradition to amaze, it is losing its stature because of politics and economic decisions. After the revolution, cinema was destabilised just like the rest of the country.

The Ministry of Culture now only funds three films a year and almost always turns its back on single-screen cinemas. Many of them are now turning to foreign institutional support, which is deplorable because it encourages neo-colonialism.

What's more, the cinema I always went to (Ciné Jamil) had to close its doors last year, despite having tried to obtain state subsidies. Meanwhile, a Pathé multiplex has opened in the country's two biggest cities. When I heard the news, my heart broke and the Tunisian cinema that had nurtured so many dreams is now in perdition.Today, a much more globalist, capitalist and neo-colonialist policy is taking hold, whereas for years Tunisia had managed to resist it.

In the meantime, all we can do is hope for an economic reorganisation and the awakening of a "young new wave" that will shake up the country's politics and ensure the success of tomorrow's Tunisian cinema.

Maya Labiadh

[hong-kong-art-man]

The Young Woman Leader In Hong Kong Karen Chan Picks The Cultural Battle Of Preserving Cheongsam: “I Don’t Want Cheongsam To Become Another Collective Memory Of Our Generation!”  

German Pool has been a famous brand of electrical appliances in Hong Kong since 1982. It is a family business and the prominent figure is Karen Chan(陳嘉賢)—not only for her contribution to the industry of Hong Kong, but also for her cultural offerings in the form of ‘Cheongsam’(長衫) or ‘Qipao’(旗袍).

Cheongsam is a Chinese dress worn by women and men which takes inspiration from the ethnic clothing of the Manchu people in the North. For woman, cheongsam is most often seen as a long, figure-fitting and one-piece garment with a standing collar, an asymmetric left-over-right opening and two side slits, and embellished with Chinese frog fasteners on the lapel and collar. It was developed in the Ching Dynasty and evolved in shapes and design over years.

Karen said, “I love cheongsam in its traditional form but want to make it respond to the modern life too.” She runs a cultural rather than fashion business ‘Sparkle’ which designs, makes and promotes cheongsam.

Karen studied in Sacred Heart Canossian College. She went to University of Washington for her first degree and New York University for her second degree. In 2000, she returned to Hong Kong to work but soon moved to Vancouver and got hitched. In 2006, she came back to Hong Kong with a family to assist in the family business. In 2009, Karen obtained the master’s degree in Marketing from Chinese University of Hong Kong. Her son is 12 years old now. Karen is tall, slim and represents 2 things, character and competence.

She, as usual, had an unweary smile on her face, “Time flies and I am making up for lost time. I have too many things that I should do.” I stared at her, “Karen, you work too hard! Apart from being a businesswoman and taking care of a family, you sit on government consultation committees and governing boards of universities.” Her eyes were twinkling with mirth, “Don’t worry. The great consolation that I have is making beautiful cheongsam for others and myself.”

She said, “Our past is never dead to us, until we have brushed it aside. I respect traditions especially the old arts and crafts of Hong Kong. Tradition does embody valuable accumulated knowledge, and provide a sense of belonging to our great city. But, I think tradition is not a way of saying ‘we must do it this way’. If you want to keep something old, you will have to let it somehow grow younger and newer. Great cultures in Hong Kong like dim sum, architectures and kung fu are always a fantastic combination of old and new. I really don’t want cheongsam to be called another ‘collective memory’ after it is gone forever.”

I asked, “Why is cheongsam culture uniquely Hong Kong?” She patted her head, “During the 1910s to 1920s, cheongsam commanded her cultural prosperity in 2 major cities, namely Shanghai and Hong Kong because people there were rich and fashionable. It was important for ladies to look trendy and classy. Shanghai was later under communist rule. Fashion basically disappeared and the focus was on the communist cadre look. Clothing available was mass-produced and functional, leaving little room for individuality or femininity. Hong Kong remained a free city. Cheongsam continued to flourish here and it never died out. We had cheongsam of uniquely different designs, styles and materials in the golden days of 1950s to 1970s. Almost all women wore cheongsam. It is sad that since the 60s, western clothes were seen by women as a sign of modernity and liberation. Fewer and fewer women wore cheongsam. Luckily, we still got a small circle of ladies who loved cheongsam and it has become a specialized type of clothing that fits only a niche market. My mission now is to keep cheongsam alive and through my public education effort, I want to tell people in Hong Kong that removing our misconceptions of and prejudice against cheongsam is an important cause!”

I put my final question to her, “What is the future gauntlet that you have to take up?” She sighed, “Wow! Too many challenges ahead. There are 4. I want to prove that even westerners, given their bigger body size, can wear cheongsam and look pretty. Then, I wish to ensure that the knowledge and skills associated with this traditional artisanry can be passed onto the future generations so that the art will continue to survive. Thirdly, I want to be a respectable fashion designer who can create cheongsam as a piece of up-to-date beauty. My last wish is humble: I would be able to keep my cheongsam business from falling. It is expensive to make a cheongsam due to many factors, for example, that the best cheongsam must be handmade and the fabric must be 100% silk. Cheongsam market is however small and a lot of customers are experts in cheongsam. I do hope I can meet their expectations.”

Karen Chan aspires to be a defender of Hong Kong’s cultural heritage. Hong Kong is no more just an international financial centre in Asia. Our civilization is already a rich pool of brilliant beliefs, customs and knowhows accumulated in the course of 19th to 22nd Century.

The problem of modern life is the claim that, for the sake of progress, we have to lose local traditions at a faster pace than that of preserving, not to mention the extra loss accelerated by forces such as globalization and national assimilation. A woman’s greatest asset is her beauty and cheongsam is the wonderful dress that helps a woman capitalize on her physical and emotional beauty.

MLee

Chinese Version 中文版: https://www.patreon.com/posts/chen-jia-xian-de-76769559?utm_medium=clipboard_copy&utm_source=copyLink&utm_campaign=postshare_creator&utm_content=join_link

Sparkle Collection Fashion Show  https://youtu.be/1SqDDu_MJZM  Acknowledgement – Sparkle Collection

Sparkle Collection Cheongsam 2023  https://youtu.be/RSQGXX-R-7E  Acknowledgement – Sparkle Collection

Cheongsam Etiquette  https://youtu.be/dx5d2hQKiWs  Acknowledgement – Sparkle Collection

Maggie Cheung’s Cheongsam in Movie《In the Mood for Love》  https://youtu.be/KloZiML4jQ8  Acknowledgement – San Shi Ma

Karen Chan Interview  https://youtu.be/SP5LuLssrlQ  Acknowledgement - hkfederation

[mothmvn]

really interested in art history, could you please share some context to understanding how that book is stylistically soviet? out of curiosity

sure, sort of... this is something that I'm aware of just from growing up in it, so I'm not familiar with academic literature or specific art analysis - just , a strong shared vibe between all the soviet public decor left over in all spheres of life.

but, generally, art from the ussr (especially public & monumental art) is recognisable as "socialist realism". you can see more examples of artworks by having a look at the Wikimedia storage. the people are fit and beautiful, or beefy or rough in a down-to-earth kind of way, and they're always looking heroic+humble while holding flags or doing archetypal "good socialist society deeds" (herding geese, giving gifts to children (starring the regime's most revered bastards), constructing electrical progress, collecting wheat, etc etc). it's often (photo-)realistic in a particular kind of way, but equally often stylised in equally particular ways, abstracting forms and accentuating proportions and using kaleidoscope backgrounds and such.

basically, you grow up in a country full of old works in this socialist realism style, so you consciously or unconsciously put together an idea of its characteristics & the ways they are re-combined by individual artists (& the way they unite all those artists into a more general "style of the time"). even if the subject matter of an artpiece from 1920-1990 isn't the mighty glory of the soviet regime, the artist grew up & was schooled within the soviet regime and was taught "the way to do art" and it usually shows...

to be clear, not ALL art in the ussr was like this - plenty of artists deviated from this style... but many many more conformed to it (on purpose or by default or by obligation), so that's how I look at the illustrations in a book and think "yeah, that date makes perfect sense for how it looks"

[lovelytenlee]

Kun x Ten au

Warnings: Angst (?), implied masturbation, erection, light swearing

Genre: Romance, erotica

Word count: 1700+

Pt. 2/3

pt. 1 https://lovelytenlee.tumblr.com/post/696297148204122112/kun-x-ten-au)

pt. 3

Part 2: Ten

Ten was aimless that day. He had no work to be done, no projects to finish, and no friends had been made yet.

It had been a few months since he decided to move to the Big Apple, and he was struggling to make friends. He was acquainted with people, mostly coworkers, but nothing meaningful yet. He found making friends as an adult in a new city was harder than he anticipated. So he had time to kill.

He was lying in bed in silence, trying to conjure an idea in his brain of what he could do to pass the time today.

He could paint, but that would require him to know what it was he wanted to paint.

He could read, but he had read everything twice over.

He almost decided on just using one of his toys on himself, but that wouldn’t pass a lot of time. He was also just growing tired of having to…entertain himself.

He missed cock. He had a healthy sexual appetite back home. Even in his small town it was possible to find a good lay if he needed one. But after a few months of no action, he had become accustomed to using dildos to fill out his tight hole’s needs.

He didn’t find the dating scene in NYC that exciting, and he hated hookups. He found a lot of the men here to be either superficial, boring, or just some rancid combination of both.

He had all but given up when he heard his computer notify him of a new email in his inbox.

He rose lazily from his bed and went to see what correspondence he was receiving. Probably just an ad for something or a work email. But checking his inbox was just as good an activity as anything, he supposed.

“Museum today?” It read. From Johnny Suh, a coworker he liked, but never spent time with. He was elated. Finally he had the opportunity to form some sort of social life.

He opened it.

“Hey! I’m sorry it’s so short notice but I remember during your orientation you said you love museums. There’s an art exhibit today and I was hoping you’d want to meet me? I know you’re new in town, and I haven’t made any other plans, so I thought it would be fun:) I’ll be there around 7, if you’d like to come.

Let me know!

JS”

He giggled excitedly. A museum and a new friend. What a day for him.

He replied quickly and told him he’d love to meet up with him.

Johnny was friendly, and always said “Good morning” with a smile when he walked into the office. He was also very handsome, but presumably straight. Ten didn’t have any way of knowing that. He just assumed.

The museums and art exhibits were Ten’s favorite part of living in the city. He loved art. He loved finding the meaning behind the things people create. He loved understanding people. And just his luck, the museum was free this weekend.

On a particularly rainy day like today, which he loved, he was most excited to go to the art exhibits. Something about the rain just put his heart at ease. So he grabbed a pen, a pad of paper, some perfume, and his keys and wallet, and headed to the museum.

It was a light crowd, he supposed the rain had quelled many people’s need to venture out into the city that day. He didn’t mind. Less people, less need to hurry through each room of the exhibit.

The room was brightly lit, and immaculately cleaned. There was an eclectic collection of art this month. Paintings and sculptures of any imaginable shape and palette.

One painting that seemed to represent capitalism, and another that seemed to represent the same. A lot of the art seemed to be representative of capitalism, he thought.

Everyone wanted to be woke, but he was doubtful any of them really felt the effects of the subject they were portraying. Not in any real way.

He received an email from Johnny.

“I’m sorry but I’m running late! It’ll be at least another half hour till I can make it in. I’ll be in as soon as I can I promise. Leaving the house now.

JS”

Ten sighed. He decided to have a quick glance at the exhibit anyways. He was already here, and wouldn’t mind viewing it again when Johnny got there.

Midway through he came across a bright, solid white sculpture of shapes stacked unto one another. A commentary on balance, maybe.

Ten had become very focused, and when Ten became focused, his eyes tended to widen, and his head would tilt. And his tongue ever so slightly without him noticing would stick out from between his lips. And that’s what he did. Stuck his tongue gently from his lips as he drifted deep into thought.

And he heard a chuckle.

He glanced over in the direction of the sound and found a man standing there, trying very hard to look anywhere but at Ten. Ten smiled shyly while the man had his gaze averted.

The stranger sauntered clumsily into the next room, shoulders hunched up and head ducked down. Ten barely had a moment to see what he looked like. Just a tuft of silver hair in a dark denim jacket escaping as quickly as he could. He giggled.

He hung back, admiring the last couple pieces of art in this room, and moved on to the next. The man was sitting in this room on a bench in the middle. Pretending to look at his phone.

Ten made a last minute decision. He would talk to the man. He didn’t know what he would say. But he would say something.

He casually approached and sat down. Trying to be quick on his toes, he started browsing through his handbag. For what, he didn’t know.

Thinking to himself “Pen, paper, perfume, keys — PEN!” He had an epiphany. He needed a pen. Well, he would say he needed a pen.

After a few more seconds of “searching” through his purse, he let out a defeated and weary sigh.

Ten looked to Kun, and quietly said, “Excuse me?”

He kept his tone soft, trying to seem as friendly as possible. Even quiet as he was, Ten seemed to startle the man.

“Hm?” He replied. He looked at Ten directly now, with flushed cheeks and the most nervous expression Ten had ever seen.

He holds back a giggle in his chest. “I’m sorry to bother you, but…do you have a pen?” His voice still quiet, something about the man made Ten act gentle and even a little flirtatious.

Ten realized he’d better be quick. He didn’t want to lose the man’s interest before he even had it. So he quickly explained that he thought he had packed his own pen but turns he had not.

The man looks through his bag with a lot more haste than Ten thought necessary. He must have been really anxious. Ten wondered why.

Ten explained that there was an artist he wanted to write down the name of before he left while he waited for the man.

He pulled a pan out from his bag like he had found what he’d been looking for his whole life. Ten couldn’t help but smile a little. The man was dorky. An endearing quality for a man to have in Ten’s eyes.

Ten grabbed the pen and headed back to the previous room. He walked over to the sculpture and wrote down the name of the artist. Something Slavic and unreadable. He just needed to write down a name, he didn’t plan on doing anything with it.

He returned to the man, handed back his pen, and folded up the paper and shoved into a pocket to be forgotten about immediately.

Then the man spoke, to Ten’s astonishment. This whole time Ten thought maybe he was barking up the wrong tree because the man seemed so unwilling to speak to him. But now, he spoke.

“Did you — erm. Did you get it? The name, I mean?”

Ten beamed, and assured him of his success. He smiled back.

“I’m Ten.” He spoke sweetly.

The man’s mouth widened into one one of the most radiant smiles he’d ever seen. “I’m Kun.”

Kun. A strong name, for a cute mess of a man.

Ten extended his hand out, and Kun took it. Kun’s hand was warm, and the skin was soft but he could also tell it had become worn from hard work. A man’s hand.

Kun’s face was very handsome. His cheekbones high, and his jaw strong. He also had a cute button-nose, and his lips were pouty and plump. His eyes were kind, and gentle. Ten could feel his heart dancing in his chest.

Then Kun’s smile dropped ever so slightly. Ten panicked a little. Maybe he had overstepped. Maybe Kun wasn’t interested, and was now realizing a gay man was coming onto him uninvited. Maybe it was ruined.

Kun fumbled with his things, and began to excuse himself.

“Is everything okay?” Ten inquired, a sick feeling growing inside himself. If he had crossed some line, he hadn’t meant to.

Kun assured Ten he just needed to find the restroom. Ten pointed it out near the entrance, and Kun stood up from the bench.

As Kun stood his small backpack snagged on the corner of the seat. It pulled him back slightly back and pushed his lower body forward. And Ten saw it.

He wasn’t sure at first, but he suspected he was right. Kun had gotten hard. He didn’t know from what. But he knows he saw it.

The obvious tenting of his jeans where the cock head was trying to push its way out of his pants. Ten looked away immediately.

The silence afterwards was heavy. They both knew the other knew what was happening. But neither wanted to admit it.

Kun excused himself again, angrily unhitching his bag from the bench, and retreated towards the bathroom. Backpack covering his crotch the whole way.

Ten was stunned. He wasn’t sure what to do with all of this.

He wanted to give Kun some space to recover from his humiliation. But he also wanted to check on him and make sure he was okay. Assure him everything was fine. Be his friend. But. There was also another urge inside Ten.

Deep down inside, the stirring had begun. Parts of himself he saved for the hours at night when he was alone in his room had begun to toss and turn. The sharks smelled the blood in the water. The cat was out of the bag. The shit had hit the fan.

Ten could feel it, and he had no intention of fighting it. He needed that man. He needed him bad.

[wasabito]

➽ corruption collab masterlist — hosted by @ultimate-astridwriting and @bummie ♥️

➽ note: definitely gonna come back and edit this a bit more because threesomes are hard as fuck, no pun intended lmao happy v-day everyone!

➽ word count: 3.2k

➽ cw/tags: polyamory + body worship + threesome + praise kink + public sex + choking + handjobs/fingering + vaginal sex + squirting + established relationship

➽ pairing: akaashi x fem!reader x bokuto

💿 1. nasty — ariana grande || 2. come on — jhene aiko

With Valentine's Day fast approaching, it becomes rather apparent that love and romance are in the air. Storefronts are decorated in bubblegum pinks and reds. Flower shops promote their special bouquet arrangements at discounted prices. Even your favorite hole in the wall coffee shop has fallen prey to the spirit of cupid as they announce their new strawberry shortcake dessert and heart-shaped scones.

In lieu of staying home for the third night this week, your boyfriends escort you to dinner at an upscale restaurant in the city. They treat you to a five-course meal and a bottle of wine even pricier than the dinner itself. One would think, after three years of dating, you would no longer be caught unawares by their spontaneity. And yet, here they are, once again pulling the rug from underneath your four-inch heels.

Your gaze flickers from Akaashi's tranquil smile to Bokuto's wide grin.

Adjusting the napkin in your lap, you open your mouth to speak, then pause as the right words fail it come. Brain short-circuiting instead, you let out a confused, "Huh?!"

"We're taking you to Italy!" Bokuto repeats, about ready to hop out of his seat with excitement. He looks to Akaashi, "Three nights in Venice, right 'Kaashi?"

"Yes, we decided on Venice after you told us you'd always wanted to visit. Remember Koutarou's birthday last year?"

"But that was like months ago! Did you two honestly hold onto that drunk little confession this entire time?"

"Of course."

"Yup!!"

It's in moments like these when you are reminded of their history together, first as teammates playing volleyball, and eventually close friends. Not much longer after that, you'd met and fallen for Akaashi, then Bokuto, and thus began the relationship of today. While you find it a little ridiculous, it seems neither of them has any qualms about this trip.

After all, you are their lovely girlfriend. Why wouldn't they want to make your wishes come true?

Bokuto claps his hands, eyes sparkling. "Everything's already planned out, babe, so don't worry your pretty little head, okay?"

You can't argue with that. Reaching over, you take Bokuto's hand in your right and Akaashi's in your left. "Alright, since you two went to all this trouble for me, I guess I'll just sit back and enjoy it."

♥️

Venice is just as beautiful as you imagined.

It looks as if it's floating upon blue-green waters with lots of sunshine, beautiful architecture, and a vibrancy that makes it feel like the city has a life of its own. You are grateful you didn't come by yourself. There is no way you would've enjoyed it without Akaashi and Bokuto at your side.

"We're about a ten-minute walk from Piazza San Marco," Akaashi says as he taps his glasses. His sharp gaze is locked on the map in his hands, likely committing most landmarks and details to memory. "Would you like to check it out?"

"Yeah! Let's do it."

"Off we go, go, go!"

Thus, a majority of your first day in Venice is spent sightseeing.

The three of you take a gondola ride through Canale Grande, then have a peek into the Gallerie Dell'Accademia at Akaashi's insistence, though naturally, you wouldn't have come all the way to Italy and not visited at least one art museum. Afterward, the three of you go to the Le Mercerie shopping district and buy gifts for your friends before finally taking a pit stop for the most delicious gelato in the city.

The sunsets sooner than expected, casting the entire block in deep red hues. Bokuto's mood is greatly influenced by it, and the jetlag certainly doesn't help. He props himself against you, nuzzling you in a way that says he's itching for a kiss.

"Tired, Kou?"

Bokuto hums. "A little... More hungry than anything."

He leans in and pecks your lips with a sated smile. "Maybe I should eat you. I mean, how is it my girl's so damn cute? Not fair, I can't resist."

You snort at Bo's silliness but can't help shivering a little at the tiny implication of his words. He always did like to lay his head on your thighs, leaving a trail of kisses and love bites where he could.

So, the thought of him eating you out made you squeeze your thighs together.

Akaashi approaches with your frozen treats held between his long fingers; having overheard Bokuto earlier, he tucks his wallet back into his pocket.

"We'll get some dinner after we drop off these shopping bags. How does that sound?"

You eagerly take your gelato from him with a smile.

"Sounds like a plan."

Akaashi nods, standing at your other side, close enough to brush elbows though not as close as Bokuto, who was nearly hovering.

The three of you are in one of the narrow, maze-like streetways, basking in the warm, early evening glow. The sweet taste of fruit and cream on your tongue fills you with so much contentment, especially while being with your favorite people. You aren't sure if anything could top the way you currently felt, and the trip has just barely started.

Upon arriving at your temporary place of residence, a quaint little villa on the waterfront just along the shore of Punta Sabbioni Beach, Bokuto immediately kicks off his sandals, dumps the bags, and promptly falls asleep on the couch.

"It's so weird seeing Kou like this." You remark. "On any normal day, he's brimming with almost too much energy, but now he's all tired."

"Well, he did stay up an entire twelve hours on the plane. It was only a matter of time before fatigue caught up to him." Akaashi picks up Bokuto's shoes with practiced ease and places them by the others.

There is a fond smile running along the edges of his mouth as he tucks a throw around the man's larger frame. You help him adjust a spare pillow under Bo's head and then set off to explore the rest of the area.

It seemed like everything about Venice was taken straight out of a romance film, with its cobblestone paths, gothic cathedral architecture, crisp ocean waters, and authentic Italian cuisine. It is no wonder the city's known to draw hapless souls together in romance. Even you fell subject to it, and by each passing moment, you crave to be with your boyfriends.

You are standing at the balcony overlooking the beach, satisfied with your inspection of the villa when Akaashi comes to stand behind you. He holds onto the railings, caging you in his arms, and rests his chin on your shoulder.

"He was right, you know." He murmurs. "You do look good enough to eat."

Blunt as ever. Apparently, something's never change.

Though one might say that Akaashi is as he's always been after high school and college, there is no denying his boost in confidence. After all, he had landed not one but two rather attractive partners.

He kisses your cheek, then your jaw, before latching onto your neck.

The sun's scenic view on the horizon, reflecting upon the beach sands of gold and shimmering orange waves, makes for an excellent backdrop.

You turn to face Akaashi and pull him into a heated kiss. His lips convey a sense of devotion to you, and with each press of them against yours, you can feel just how bad he's yearning for more.

"Kei," you whisper. "Let's go inside."

In a moment, Akaashi whisks you off your feet quite similar to how Bokuto would, though you both don't even make it to the bedroom.

Your other partner had sat up on the sofa, hair flat on one side, scrubbing his eyelids.

"Guys, I'm freaking starving!" Bokuto groans. "Let's get some food or something."

He doesn't even notice how you and Akaashi are breathing heavy or how your clothes are sporting wrinkles that were not previously there. Regardless, Akaashi has food delivered while you went ahead to shower the day's journey away. There are still two days left. You'd get your chance with them at some point.

♥️

Sadly, the entirety of day two is spent indoors. Heavy sheets of rain continue to fall, muddying the shoreline. The three of you huddle on the sofa wrapped in blankets with subtitled movies playing in the background.

Even though you would've much rather been out exploring in the city, just sharing in your boyfriend's warmth would suffice for now. Akaashi hands you a steaming cup of something rich in both color and smell.

"What's this?"

"Just espresso." He takes the empty seat beside you.

You savor the taste while leaning against his shoulder. "Mm, nice."

Bokuto keeps his head on your lap, loving how you thread your fingers into his hair.

It is a tranquil kind of peace that soon lulls you to sleep.

Later, when you finally wake up, it's dark, and you're alone. A blanket had been tucked around your shoulders to shield you from the sudden chill. At some point, the television had been shut off along with every light in the room. You might've been a little scared if not for the voices coming from the second floor. Slowly, you creep up the winding staircase, dragging along the blanket around your shoulders.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Bokuto chuckles. "You're finally up!"

His hair is down, wet from his shower, and he holds a thin towel together around his waist. In his hand is a cellphone, and he doesn't hesitate to shove the screen into your face. "Say hi, Tetsu!"

"Hi Y/N, how's it going?"

You blink slowly, still trying to wake yourself up.

"Kuroo, hey… I'm well. How are you?"

"Great, just about to head out for a late lunch. I hear it's almost ten pm over there."

"Yeah, it's an eight-hour time difference."

You and Kuroo continue to chat while Bokuto towels off his hair and puts on clothes. Afterward, you let Bokuto resume his conversation and join Akaashi on the bed. The man had gone full editor-mode with his glasses propped up in his hair as he read through some work documents.

When you approach, he greets you with a kiss on the cheek. "You look well-rested."

"Is that your way of telling me I have drool on my cheek, Keiji?"

He cracks a tiny smile, eyes taking in your features, then he pokes your cheek with his index finger. "Perhaps."

You scrub the corners of your mouth with your sleeve and drape yourself over Akaashi, work be damned. This was supposed to be a special weekend for relaxing.

"I really wanted to go to the beach today." You pout.

Akaashi interlocks his fingers with yours. "Maybe we still can. It stopped raining a few hours ago."

"Really?!"

You hop off the bed and head for the window. He's right, the rain had long stopped, and the beach lay bare, lit by only the moonlight.

Maybe a short walk to the beach would do you some good.

♥️

The grains of sand feel cold against your feet without the sun to beat down on them, but you don't complain. The air is humid enough on its own that you forgo wearing actual clothes and instead wear a swimsuit along with Bokuto's old Fukurōdani windbreaker.

You walk along the shore, toes digging into the sand, letting the ocean waves lap at your feet to wash them clean again.

At first, it's so eerily quiet without a soul around except you, but even that doesn't last long. You hear Bokuto's voice bellow into the night as he jogs towards you in nothing but swim trunks. Behind him, Akaashi trails slowly after with a blanket in hand.

"We thought you might want some company." He says and spreads the cover on the sand several feet away from the water, content with just watching.

Bokuto grabs your hand and you go running to the water with him, but a second later, you both come sprinting back.

"It's freezing!"

"S-So co-co-cold!"

You collapse on top of him, fingers splayed across his bare chest. However, when you try to sit up, Bokuto has other plans. He keeps you pressed to his chest with both arms around your waist.

"Let me keep you warm, baby!"

You know he meant it in the most innocent way, but you can't help but think other thoughts. Your nerves fray at the image that blooms in your head and spreads like wildfire.

And as Akaashi strokes your back, you know he's probably read your mind.

It's the way your eyes seem to glitter with want that gives it away. Akaashi has always been rather observant, and so your silent cues are something he's always been privy to.

His nimble fingers curve around the nape of your neck, and he tilts his head to capture your lips in a kiss. This one is unlike the one from yesterday. There is no rush, no desire to quicken his haste; instead, he savors the taste of you like it's something to be thoroughly enjoyed.

Underneath you, Bokuto stirs, growing aroused at the sight of his two lovers' kiss. He can't decide whether he wants to join in or sit back and watch. But his large hand comes down to stroke your ass, resulting in a moan you breathe directly into Akaashi's mouth.

"You're not usually so forthcoming, Keiji," you whisper against his lips. "Eager, are we?"

Akaashi pulls away just enough to pepper your face in feathery kisses. "Can you blame me? When I have such a lovely girlfriend here."

As if confirming his words, he slips a hand under your jacket and cups your breast. The pads of his thumb brush along the seams of your bathing suit, caressing your nipple.

"Kou, let's show Y/N just how much we love her, yes?"

Bokuto didn't need to be told twice. He had been in entranced by you and Akaashi, completely taken by the way your lips danced upon one another. But now, he wanted more than anything to touch you, kiss you, hold you.

Bokuto cradles you in his lap, propping your legs open with his knees so Akaashi can kneel in front of you. It didn't take much for him to relieve you of your clothing, namely your swimming bottoms. But the second the air hits your bare cunt, you feel tense.

You aren't sure what it was, but the atmosphere is different. Both Akaashi and Bokuto are so focused on you, it feels like you're under a spotlight.

"You're so pretty, so beautiful," Bokuto says while squeezing your thighs. His warm breath tickles your ear as he presses his nose into your neck. Next, his lips follow suit. "Wanna fuck you, so bad baby. You'd like that, right?"

His words earn him a chuckle from Akaashi, who merely licks two of his fingers, wetting them and sliding into you. Your mouth parts, shaky breaths barely expelled from your lungs. You're hyper-aware of the fact that you're literally being fingered on a beach in the middle of the night, and you can't bring yourself to care. It feels good to be pampered by the two men you love.

For every moan, Akaashi gives you double for your efforts, thrusting his fingers just right, curving them in such a way that has your back arching off Bokuto, who has also taken to fondling your nipples. With every roll of his hips, you feel his cock against your ass, and it pushes you further into Akaashi's fingers.

Your impending orgasm sweeps by so close and yet so far away. All you can do is rock yourself faster.

"Please," you whimper. "W-Wanna come."

Akaashi crooks his fingers, pressing into the perfect spot that sends you hurtling over the edge. Your cunt spasms around his fingers, clenching in intervals you have no control over until his hand is coated with your wet, slick juices that keep coming the more you squirt all over him.

"She's so wet 'Kaashi. Look at our pretty girl."

Akaashi places a chaste kiss on your forehead with a smile.

"She's doing well, so far. Let's see if she can keep going."

Bokuto shimmies his shorts off enough to free his hard cock. He had been uncharacteristically patient until now, but that was soon to change as he lines himself up with your cunt, teasing you with just the tip.

Your whining is unintelligible, but both men understand you more or less.

"Give the pretty girl what she wants," Akaashi says. He strokes his own hard-on at the sight of Bokuto's pushing past your wet folds. "I know she can take more than that."

Bokuto has always been girthy, and it takes you more than a few seconds to adjust to his size, but when you finally do, it feels like heaven.

The position you're in gives Bokuto all the power to thrust into you like a ragdoll. But it's only when you make eye contact with Akaashi that you realize that it's, in fact, the other way around for him in particular. From where he sits, stroking his cock with flushed cheeks and choked moans, you see just how much control you have over him.

"Kiss me." You moan.

Akaashi doesn't let you repeat yourself. He kisses you long and hard even as you grip his throat with one hand and his hair with the other. He kisses you until his lips are red and bruised.

"Good boy. Both of y-you."

Bokuto groans loudly. "Say it again. Keep saying it!"

"Y-You're both so good. I-" your hips stutter against Akaashi's fingers that are rubbing circles into your clit. "Good, so good-"

That's all it takes to take Bokuto over the edge, blowing his load. "Perfect, so fucking perfect."

You can feel another orgasm swelling up inside your belly. You try to tell them but can't, too overcome by the feeling of your body tingling with desire. It's too much, overwhelmingly so; your vision blurs with unshed tears as Bokuto continues to pound into sopping pussy. Pleasure floods every fiber of your being until you're limp and every nerve in your body is set alight.

Bokuto slips out of you easily, a string of his semen following.

You can only look on in a drowsy haze as Bokuto leans over and kisses you and then Akaashi, working him over with a tight fist.

♥️

The following morning, you’re the first to wake, but only because there’s a limb jammed into your back and a heavy weight on your chest. It takes you a moment to realize, but it’s Bokuto’s elbow poking you and Akaashi’s head resting on you.

All three of you are a tangle of limbs in bed, but you aren’t sure how you’d gotten there.

“G’mornin’” Bokuto breathes. His lips caress the column of your neck.

“Morning.”

You shift into a more comfortable position. Though doing so presses Akaashi’s morning wood against your thigh.

“Keiji, you awake yet?”

“Mmm barely.” Akaashi looks up at you through his lashes, then smiles and nuzzles closer into your chest.

Bokuto, content with being your big spoon, reaches over to touch Akaashi, hands cupping his cheek. “It’s Valentine’s Day!”

“That’s true, should we do something special.”

Thinking about the previous night, you feel desire stirring in your gut. “Could we just... do it again?”

Both men look to each other then back at you, sporting matching smiles.

“Why not?”

[ashintheairlikesnow]

For Vampire Chris! What if he and Jake went to a museum and came across some of Tooley's paintings? And Chris has a panic attack! We would finally get some Jake comfort. And maybe Chris would reveal more horrible things that Tooley had done to him.

CW: Discussion of death, blood, vampire whumpee, caretaker and whumpee

The sun sets early in the winter, and it's the only reason they can make this work.

Chris is barely awake even so, sipping from a coffee cup Jake filled with the contents of one of his blood packs, hoping he doesn't trip and spill and lead to Jake having some very awkward, panicked explanations to make to anyone nearby.

He'd slept in the truck Jake borrowed from Nat most of the way over here, curled in the passenger seat. He looks for all the world like any high schooler who stayed up too late the night before, dragged out by his family, forced to go learn when all he wants is rest.

Chris is draped in a hooded sweatshirt pulled on over his head, hair mussed from sleeping in the closet in the little nest-bed he made for himself in there. It sticks out like stray from beneath the hood he's pulled up, coppery strands occasionally covering his eyes and making him shove them out of the way with a snort that has no right to be as adorable as it is, considering the monster who makes the sound.

Not a monster, no. Not really.

Or his monster, anyway, the same way his mother is his mother. Jake is starting to understand the little vampire - more than three times his own age - has chosen him for family now.

The sweater he wears is kind of a joke, actually. Jake bought it weeks ago from a website that puts the covers of books on clothes, and it's an old cover image from Dracula.

Jake thought it was funny, anyway. Nat was less amused. Chris only smiled and said something about being happy the hairy palms thing isn't true.

The air is chilly, and Jake shivers a little as they head in from the parking lot across a small sidewalk next to a park and toward the museum itself, but of course Chris doesn't even notice. He seems to be enjoying it, the way it blows around his hair as they make their way slowly up the steps and past the row of Grecian-style columns that mark the entrance.

Jake has to visit for one of his classes, an extra-credit something-or-other, and Chris had asked to go along with him.

Jake had been hesitant, but seeing the way the vampire's green eyes sparkle as he moves around in public like any other person, well... he feels like he made the right choice to bring him along now.

"Finish up your drink, you can't take anything in once we pay and get past the lobby," Jake says, and Chris nods, gulping the last of the blood as fast as he can as they push through wide double-doors. Jake tries not to imagine how it must feel, swallowing thick congealing cooled blood. Someone's life, someone's heartbeat, down your throat...

Really, is he that much different? Jake has eaten a dozen cows' worth of beef in his life.

Does Chris see them all as just livestock? He doesn't act like it, but then, there are people who treat pigs or cows like pets and not like food...

His stomach flips a little and he forces himself to look around, up at the chandelier at the high ceiling, the heavy wooden desk they have to walk to off to the side to get their tickets. To stop trying to understand if Chris is a sort of stray they've adopted, or if he's a higher-level predator living with prey.

Once Chris drops the cup into a trash can, Jake throwing a couple wadded-up tissues on top so no one can accidentally see the smear of red around the edge of the lid, they buy their tickets, and wind their way through and past the little velvet ropes that mark off the entrance.

The museum opens before them into a grand hall, with paintings the size of two-story buildings on either side, permanent installations in the museum. Commissioned for its opening, sometime back in the 70's.

Jake picks up a brochure so they know which way to go - LGBTQ+ Art in Pre-War America is the temporary exhibit he's here to see, traveling work that is usually housed in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City.

"Oh, nice, it's on the first floor. Looks like you go through a couple of 'specialty' rooms, just showing off stuff from the in-house collection. Sounds cool, right?"

Chris, looking from side to side at the gigantic paintings that hang on the walls in the opening hall, hums softly, a tuneless constant sound. He doesn't answer Jake's question. He hums often, and Jake barely notices any longer, but there's something edged to it, now. As if just being around the paintings is making him nervous.

"Okay, little man, let's go over here." He touches Chris's arm, lightly, through the thick fabric of his sweater. The vampire looks over at him, smiling with his lips pressed together to hide his teeth from any potential prying eyes.

He follows easily, but he sticks closer to Jake than he normally does, and his eyes are constantly roving. They move through an exhibit of Pre-Colombian pottery first, on their way to the room in the back where the temporary showcase is.

Jake watches Chris's fingers twitch with the urge to touch, to learn by feeling the bumps and ridges in the ancient clay, and how he holds back as best he can. His urge to lift the clear protective plastic boxes right off the pottery so he can get at it is nearly physically painful.

Jake pretends not to see it when Chris's fingers trail along a column, settling for the white-painted rectangle the pottery is balanced on, taking in the rough texture smoothed by the matte paint.

"Did you ever meet anyone like you that was old enough to have made stuff like this?" Jake asks, stopping in front of a water jug in the shape of a man playing a flute with a dog at his feet. The dog wears a carved smile marked with disturbingly human-looking teeth. The paint it must have been covered in is worn by time, leaving the reddish-brown of the clay behind, with the faintest streaks of white still in the crevices.

"No," Chris replies, tilting his head, making direct eye contact with the statue in a way he never quite can do with any real person. Not comfortably, anyway. Jake has seen him force it and shudder afterwards, overwhelmed. When he'd asked about it, Chris had said he never liked looking at anyone's eyes, even before, when he was alive. It's too much, was all he would say. It's always too much. "None, um, none of us live that long."

"Why not?" They're alone in the room. It's the only reason Jake feels safe asking.

Chris's tongue runs over the sharpening bumps of his growing-in fangs, pressing against them, easing the itch and the ache of their return. After a second, he pulls a plastic bat on a cord from inside his sweater and puts the bat into his mouth, chewing on it idly, jaw working. "I, I, I don't know. That's just what what what my, my, my pack told me."

"I thought vampires lived in covens."

"No." Chris doesn't elaborate on this one. He can be weirdly secretive about how he lived before he came to Nat's, before he was pulled out of a basement, a living drug for a wealthy asshole.

Secretive, or just forgetting whatever wasn't essential.

He moves away to another pedestal, a shard broken off of a larger vessel, marked with a deep white and intense black angular design. He hums again, and Jake takes the hint and leaves him alone.

They spend several more minutes looking over the pottery before they head through a second room full of what must just be the favorite pieces of museum employees, as there doesn't seem to be much rhyme or reason, and each little card with the name of the piece and its maker has a paper next to it with a note on why each employee loves this piece in particular. Chris lingers around older things, a woven tapestry from medieval England, landscapes from the 19th century. He stares for a while at a painting called The Country Path by Joseph Poole Addy, a pale watercolor of winter trees with bare branches breaking the line of sky and a woman bundled in a coat carrying a basket down an equally colorless road.

Chris's humming getting louder, and he rocks a little, forward and back, his eyes moving again and again through the lines of the painting.

Jake wonders what it is about this one specifically that catches Chris like that, and when the vampire finally moves on he checks the employee's statement. Joseph Poole Addy, Irish painter in the 19th and 20th centuries, blah blah, something something countryside... Jake frowns, and glances over at Chris, who isn't looking back. He's moved on to something else.

Jake decides to ask him later.

They make it to the exhibit they're here to see, and Jake whistles under his breath as he enters. There are vibrant, saturated paintings lining the walls, a couple of large sculptures on the floor that still are taller than he is, a few smaller ones on pedestals. The work is mostly figurative, although there's some early abstraction there, a hint of the contemporary push to take even figurative work out of simply being an echo of a real life thing.

Chris looks at a sculpture, his head cocked so far to the side it looks almost birdlike, not quite human. Jake thinks his own neck would ache for days if he tried to do that. "Must've been, um, later," He mumbles to himself.

Jake files that away in his mental list of things to talk to Chris about later.

He walks slowly along the line of paintings. The whole point of being here is that he's supposed to pick a specific piece and write a short essay about it and the artist who made it, prove he saw it in person.

The class itself is about how to encourage better outcomes for healthcare in marginalized populations - but if she's giving out extra-credit for looking at queer art, well, Jake is happy to spend an hour in a museum.

After his dismal performance on the last test, he could use whatever credit he can get. Besides, the exhibit is actually kind of cool with that in mind. Every one of these artists was in some way outside of the sort of het ideal, and Jake smiles a little as he catches the heaviness of a look between two men seated across a table from one another, looks over the clasped hands of women, sitting with everything from shoulder to hip touching, who are listed as 'friends visiting the riverbank'.

Art that celebrates, hidden in plain sight. Art that rebels by sliding details in under the surface where only those looking for them will find them.

Each piece has another little paper, although this just has details about the artist and their work, what they were known for. He can use it as a jumping-off point for his paper, anyway.

"You, you, you finished her," Chris whispers, standing in front of a sculpture of a woman with her head thrown back as if in uproarious laughter, a woman with curls expertly carved so that her hair seems to have been there before the stone it's made of somehow. "I wonder if she, um, if if if she saw it."

"What'd you say, Chris?" Jake blinks, pulled out of his own internal reverie.

"Nothing," Chris responds, and walks slowly around the statue. The woman's smile is a shining light in the room. No one could carve like that without being at least a little in love with the subject.

Jake wanders away and then comes to an abrupt stop before a large painting, probably taller than Chris is. The background is near-total darkness with only a suggestion of stone, a single beam of light shining down to illuminate the central figure.

A naked boy clothed only in scraps of torn cloth that only emphasize his nakedness everywhere else is crouched in terror. His knees are bent and his feet are on the floor, one hand holding his weight with fingers slightly curled, his spine bent and arched as if he is caught in the midst of turning to look up to find the direction of the light. His other hand is thrown out, as if trying to ward off an attack.

He bleeds from a dozen or more places, the blood curving perfectly around his form, giving it extra weight and heft that makes it seem like he'll step out of the canvas, grab Jake, and shake him.

Jake's heart starts to race as he stares.

There are bones littering the ground around the thin, wasted boy, not bleached but sort of yellowed, marked with little notches as if cut with a knife. There might still be bits of skin attached to some of them, a hint of muscle. The detail makes Jake sick, but his panic, that comes from something else entirely. Just behind the panicked boy there is a body, as if just fallen, the eyes still open in the final terrified throes of death. The body's fingers are still dug into the dirt floor as if the dead man had been trying to pull himself somewhere, to escape.

A skull watches with eerie cheer from one corner of the painting, a few teeth missing and knocked out from its garish grin.

Barely visible, a thin wash of grayish-white, there is a pale, gnarled hand near the bottom reaching out from the background as if to grab the boy's ankle and drag him into the darkness.

Count Ugolino's Last Son, oils, 1932, reads the little plaque beside the painting. Its faint brassy shine glints in the carefully calibrated light. Edward Tooley, 1907 - 1936.

Jake swallows, but the lump in his throat doesn't budge, and he swallows again. And again. He can't take his eyes off the boy's painted hair, a dirtied copper, strawberry-blond badly in need of a wash. The wide green eyes with their terror writ large and clear, painted with lovingly perfect detail.

The boy in the painting is the perfect identical twin of the vampire who is still staring at the sculpture on the other side of the room. The fear in his face is so expertly done as to seem more photographic than painted in oil. The blood that drips to the ground follows his anatomy with absolute perfection. The bones are not bleached by they so often are in paintings, no, these...

These...

Jake holds his phone up and takes a photo, and then another of the little plaque.

"Chris." His voice cracks and Jake clears his throat. His heart is still pounding. "Chris, come look at this."

"Yes, Jake," Chris answers, sounding a little faint, and then he seems to simply appear at Jake's elbow, the teenage boy who has seen two world wars and a half-dozen smaller, stupider ones.

He goes still at Jake's side when he looks up. Jake looks over, just slightly, glancing sidelong to see a look of something like... wistfulness on the vampire boy's face.

"Tooley," He breathes. His hand goes up, and out, and he would have touched the canvas if Jake hadn't reached out and grabbed on to stop him. Chris jumps a little and turns to meet Jake's gaze. His eyes are pink-tinged in the whites, as if he's holding back tears. "Is, is, is he famous?"

"I guess. He's... he's here, isn't he?"

"He always wanted to, um, to to to to be famous." Chris's eyes move over the details, but it's not with surprise, it's with easy familiarity. He's seen this painting before.

He's been this painting before.

"That's you, isn't it?" Jake asks in a hushed voice. "Like, that was really you."

Chris looks away again, a faint flush in his cheeks. He's full enough of blood for it to happen, and you'd never know he isn't alive if you didn't already. "Yes," He whispers, and wipes at the corner of his eye with one hand. "That, that, that's me."

"Were you his model?" Jake blinks, looking back over the painted twin of the vampire beside him. The fear in the boy's face, woven in with a kind of awful resignation. It's all so perfectly rendered.

"Yes. Sort, um. Sort of. He, he, he kept me in a room." Chris exhales, slowly, and his eyes shift over to the paper with the little bit of biographical information on it. Edward Tooley's early works focused on landscapes or retreads of common historical subjects, only to find greater excellence and focus when he began to paint, again and again, the same figure - a representation of the darkness of the human soul - he stated appeared to him and demanded to be portrayed... art historians believe Tooley was driven by the demons of the Great War that had taken his family from him one by one to seek out uncomfortable subjects that force viewers to see the damage humans do to one another...

Chris's nose wrinkles as he reads, his lips moving slightly with the words as he takes them in. "I never did that. Never, um, wanted to be painted. Also, um this, um. He was... wasn't... he wasn't... wasn't like the paper says."

Jake looks over, reads it himself. Gregarious, sociable, popular with the libertine art crowd... he frowns. "What part is wrong?"

"This." Chris points, this at least he can safely make contact with, and presses the pad of his finger under a sentence that reads took inspiration from the ugly side of the city hidden under its shining lights. "He, he, he he didn't care about anyone in the city. He thought everyone who, who who who who-who wasn't him was, um, was stupid."

"What did he care about?" Jake imagines telling his professor that instead of an essay, he's going to bring in a vampire who literally knew one of the artists in person. How she might react.

Probably call the cops and report an unsecured vampire loose on the streets. But maybe she'd listen to what Chris had to say first.

"Blood," Chris says, softly. His voice is getting lower and lower, until it's barely more than a whisper. "Pain. Fear. Being... being the the the the last person who, who saw someone. He, he, he, he liked to lay them out and paint them, liked me to, to, to... arrange them for him."

Jake's eyes go unwillingly back to the dead body behind the scared boy in the painting. The grasping fingers, the open eyes that look sightless, lifeless, at nothing at all. When he looks, he can see - more suggestion than made clear - that the body's throat is torn open, as if by an animal's teeth.

Now, only now that he's looking for it, does he realize there is the slightest hint of red tears on the cheeks of the painted boy, a sheen of pink on his teeth where he begs for mercy from the grasping singular hand coming out of the dark.

His stomach flips again. "Chris, are you saying-"

"His, his, his name was Ben." Chris nods at the dead body in the painting. "I asked. Before..." He gestures, a little vaguely. "That."

Jake feels a sudden, wild urge to look up missing persons cases from New York City in 1932. See if there's anyone named Ben on there. He knows without having to do so that there definitely will be.

"What happened to him... after?"

"I don't know. I, I, I was never let out when Tooley was gone. I... wonder how, how, how many of me there are." Chris looks up at the echo of his own face, his head tilting again. His lips tremble, just a little, and then part to show the hint of white teeth wet with pinkish saliva. "On walls, in houses, in... in places like, um. Like this. How many there are... is, is, is, is that what I still look like?"

Jake clears his throat again, looks down at his feet. This feels, suddenly, like he's walked in on someone looking down at his own dead body in a funeral home. Interrupting a moment so immensely private it shouldn't even exist.

"Yeah," he says, a little gruffly. "Yeah, that's it. More or less. Except I hope I scare you less than that. Also you wear a lot more clothes with us."

Chris laughs - it's a huff of sound, barely-there. Then he turns away from himself. "We, we, we can't see ourselves, in mirrors," He says, and he's got the little plastic bat back in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the carved silicone. "But I have mirrors everywhere. On these walls."

He goes suddenly terribly still. He isn't breathing.

He doesn't have to, but the realization that he isn't even pretending is a jolt of awareness of exactly how dead Chris is. He leaves the exhibit, and Jake is left to scramble after him, struggling to catch up to someone he should be able to easily outrun.

He breaks into a flat run when they get outside the double-doors, jumps the steps three at a time with grace, and runs across the grass and towards the stand of trees halfway across the park. Even Jake, who works out four days a week, is breathing hard and has a hitch in his rib by the time he catches up.

He finds Chris curled up under a tree in the evening dark, the stars starting to twinkle overhead as the sun finally allows them a clear night sky to shine in.

Jake drops to his knees, ignoring the damp that seeps into his jeans from soil that still hasn't dried since yesterday's rains, and he leans over, putting a warm hand to either side of the vampire's face.

Chris looks up, his eyes glinting like a cat's briefly in the dark, and there are trails down his cheeks, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl that is anything but angry.

No, this is grief.

This is loss.

Jake knows the feeling.

"Talk to me," Jake says softly. "Tell me what it was like, what it's been like for you. Tell me about the life you've lived before I knew you."

"It, it, it hurt," Chris whispers, and his own hands cover Jake's. They're the same temperature as the air around them, and Jake shivers a little. It's almost a chill. "Every time. I, I, I try not to kill, Jake, I try so hard, but but but he would keep me so hungry and I couldn't-... stop..."

Jake thinks about the robbers Chris killed - for him, to save him from them - and how he'd locked himself in the closet afterward. Had he cried like this, over taking lives even when in defense?

"The museum thing said this guy Tooley died in 1936. He was only, what, twenty-nine? Did... did you-"

"Yes." Chris's voice is thick but it's not quite with regret. "I was hungry. He, he he he he didn't bring food. I was so hungry... then I was, um, was alone for a while... then, then, then, then then then I was taken for, for, for the, um, the trade, for my v-venom, and..."

"Got it. I got it, Chris. It's okay," Jake says, softly. "It's going to be okay. You're with us, now. And we'll never, ever make you hurt someone that way. We'll never make you go hungry. We'll never hurt you or use you."

Chris ducks his head, rocking forward until it knocks into Jake's shoulder, and Jake slides his arms around the vampire's shoulders, listening to his soft, muffled sobs, wondering how red his shirt will be stained by the time the vampire's tears have been cried out.

The same mouth that tore out the throat of a dead body that lays in a painting on the wall is so close to his neck it would take less than an inch for him to bite down. Even without fangs, he could lock his jaw and break the skin.

The same dangerous monster that has killed likely dozens to stay alive, the same stalking predator that has been the last sight of far too many, cries in his arms. Just a teenage boy who has been lonely, and terrified, and hurt for too long.

A teenager... and a monster that hunts prey after dark. Jake tightens his arms around Chris, holds him tighter.

It doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter how long he's been alive, not really.

He's just Chris.

That matters more.

-

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @insaneinthepaingame @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @newandfiguringitout @astrobly @endless-whump @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @doveotions @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @what-a-whump

[scorpionyx9621]

Do you think Jason Todd fandom is kinda toxic? Because it seems like NO MATTER what DC do, there'll always be complains. Forget the bad adaptation like Titans. Even Judd Winick cannot escape the criticism with how he potrayed Robin!Jason. They just never satisfied.

SORRY, IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO RESPOND TO THIS. I just moved from Washington D.C. to Seattle, which, for my non-American friends, that's 4442km away. And I DROVE THERE ALL BY MYSELF. And now I'm trying to find new work in a new city and trying to stay mentally healthy and positive. Life is exciting but hard and scary.

*sighs*

As someone who was a fandom elder with V*ltr*n. I've seen some of the worst when it comes to fandom behavior. I'm talking people baking food with shaving razors and trying to give them to the showrunners. I'm talking leaking major plot details and refusing to take it down unless they make their ship canon (I am looking at you, Kl*nce stans) For the most part, DC Comics has had a decades-long reputation of treating their fans like trash and not caring what they think so from what I've seen, we all just grumble and complain in our corners of the internet about how we don't like how X comic portrays Jason Todd.

The challenge with Jason Todd is that he's your clinical anti-hero, the batfamily's Draco in Leather Pants, he's a jerkass woobie, and on top of all of that, he's a Tumblr sexyman. It's a perfect storm for a very fun but frustrating character to be a fan of. It doesn't help that every writer decides to re-invent the wheel every time Jason comes up so his canon lore is confusing at best and inconsistent as a standard.

I guess starting with a general brief on who Jason is and what is uniform about him with every instance he's appeared in comics/media.

Grew up in a poor family in Gotham with a dad who was a petty-mid-level criminal, and a mother who dies of a drug overdose.

Survives on the street on his own by committing petty crimes and potentially even engaging in sexual acts to keep himself alive.

Is cornered by Batman and taken in after Dick Grayson quits/is fired

Becomes the second Robin, but is known for being the harsher, more brutal Robin.

Is killed by Joker after being tortured, but somehow comes back to life and regains senses through the Lazarus Pit

Resolves himself to be better than Batman by basically being Batman but kills people.

Where there has been a lot of conflict in the fandom is the fact that Jason Todd is not a character that is written consistently. DC Comics loves to go with the narrative that Jason was "bad from the start" and was the "bad robin" when, yes, he has trouble controlling his anger, but he also still is just as invested in seeing the best of Gotham City and trying to be a positive change for the world as any other DC Comics hero.

Where I get frustrated with the fandom is its ability to knit-pick every detail of a comic they don't like while completely disregarding everything that makes the comics great and worth it to read. My example being Urban Legends. To which most people had pretty mixed reactions to. I was critical of the comic at first but as it went along I ended up really liking it. I have a feeling DC Comics went to Chip Zdarsky and told him he had 6 issues to bring Jason back into the Bat Family, and honestly he didn't do a bad job. Did it feel rushed? Absolutely. I wish there was more development of Jason and Bruce's characters and their dynamic as a whole. However, where I see a lot of people being angry and upset with Urban Legends is that they feel Zdarsky needlessly wrote Jason as an incompetent fool who needs Bruce to save him.

Whether or not that was the intention of Zdarsky is up to debate. However, and this may be controversial, but I don't think he wrote Jason Todd out of character at all. For as fearsome, intimidating, and awesome as Red Hood is. Jason is a character who is absolutely driven by his emotions. Why do you think he donned the role of Red Hood? As a response to his anger towards The Joker for killing him, and towards Bruce for not taking action against The Joker and for seemingly replacing him so quickly after he died. Jason didn't care about being the murderous Robin Hood or for being the bloody hammer of justice against N*zi's and P*d*ph*les. He only cared originally about making The Joker and Bruce pay. It wasn't until he trained under the best assassins in the world and realized most of them were horrific criminals who trafficked children and were p*dos that Talia began to realize that the teachers that she sent Jason to train under started dying horrific and painful deaths.

The entire story of the Cheer story in Batman Urban Legends was started because it finally forced some consequences upon Jason. Tyler, aka Blue Hood's father was a drug dealer who gave his supply to his wife and kids. And when Tyler's father admitted he gave the drugs to Tyler, it immediately made him fall within the self-imposed philosophical kill-list of Jason Todd. And Jason, well, he proceeds to kill Tyler's father. When this happens, Jason is in shock. Tyler's dad fit the bill to easily and justifiably be killed by Jason. We've never seen Jason having to deal with the consequences of being a murderous vigilante on a micro-level. When Jason realizes what he's done in that he's murdered Tyler's dad, he's shocked. He tells Babs the truth. He does a rational thing because he's in shock. He doesn't know what to do, he never has had to face the consequences of his actions as Red Hood and now the gravity of befriending a child as a vigilante hero who kills people just set in when he killed the father of the same child he was just introduced to.

(Oh here's a little aside because it had to be said, Jason would not have been a good father or a good mentor to Tyler and absolutely should not have been his new Robin. Jason is a man who is in his early 20's (not saying men in their early 20's can't be good fathers at all) who is a brutal serial killer using the guise of a vigilante anti-hero to let him escape most of the law. the complications of having the man who murdered your father adopt you and make you his sidekick are way too numerous for me to explain in a long-winded already heavy Tumblr essay post. There's a reason why we don't advocate for a story where Joe Chill adopted Bruce Wayne or one where Tony Zucco took in Dick Grayson.)

The next biggest argument is that they feel that Jason is giving up his guns as a means to just be invited back into the Bat-Family. To which I will tell anyone who has that argument to go actually read Urban Legends. Already have and still have that argument? Please re-read it. Don't want to? That's okay, I will paste the images from the comic where Jason specifically says that he doesn't want to give up his weapons for Bruce and his real reasoning down below since the comic isn't exactly readily accessible.

Jason gave up the guns because he felt the gravity of what he had done and knows how it'll effect Tyler. Thankfully his mom is alive and in recovery. But Tyler doesn't have a father anymore. And Jason killed Tyler's father. It may have been in accordance to Jason's philosophy, but it was a case where it blurred the lines. Jason Todd isn't a black and white character, just very dark gray. He doesn't kill aimlessly like the Joker. If you are on Jason's list you probably have done something pretty horrific, and also just in general, being in his way or being a threat to him. Mind you, in early days of Red Hood and the Outlaws (Image below) Jason almost killed 10 innocent civilians in a town in Colorado all because they saw him kill a monster. That being said, Jason isn't aimless in his kills.

(Also can we just take a moment to appreciate Kenneth Rocafort's art? DC Comics said we need to rehabilitate Jason Todd's image and Kenneth Rocafort said hold my beer: It's so SO GOOD)

That being said, the key emphasis in the story of Cheer asides from trying to introduce Jason Todd back into the Bat Family and give an actual purpose for him being there, other than him just kind of being there ala Bowser every time he shows up for Go Kart racing, Tennis, Golf, Soccer, and the Olympic games when Mario invites him, is that Jason and Bruce ultimately both want the same thing. Jason wants to be welcomed back into the family and to be loved and appreciated. Bruce want's Jason back as his son and wants to love and protect Jason. Both of these visions are shown in the last chapter of Cheer while under the effect of the Cheer Gas. It's ultimately this love and appreciation they both have for each other that helps them overcome their challenge and win.

Jason Todd is a character who, just like Bruce, has been through so much pain and so much hate in his life. The two are meant to parallel each other. While Bruce chose to see the best in everyone, giving every rogue in his gallery the option to be helped and give them a second chance, hence why he never kills, Jason has a similar view on wanting to protect the public, but he understands that some crimes are so heinous they cannot be forgiven, or that some habitual criminals are due to stay habitual criminals, and need to be put down. But at the end of the day, the two of them both try to protect people in their own ways.

I am aware that through the writings of various DC Comics authors such as Scott Lobdell and Judd Winick, the two have had a very tumultuous relationship. And rightfully so, I am by no means saying that Scott Lobdell writing an arc where Bruce literally beats Jason to within an inch of his life in Red Hood and the Outlaws, nor Judd Winick's interpretation of Under the Red Hood where Bruce throws the Batarang at Jason's neck, slicing his throat and leaving him ambiguously for dead at the end of the comic is appropriate considering DC Comics seems to be trying everything they can to integrate Jason back into the family. That being said, a lot of these writings have shaped the narrative of Jason and Bruce's relationship and have an integral effect on the way the fandom views the two. It doesn't help that Zdarsky acknowledged Lobdell's life-beating of Jason by Bruce at the very end of Cheer by having Bruce give Jason his old outfit back as a means of mending the fence between the two of them. That does complicate a lot of things in terms of how they are viewed by the fandom and helps to cause an even greater divide between the two.

Regardless, I want to emphasize the fact that Jason Todd is a part of the family of his own accord. Yes, he's quite snarky and deadpan in almost every encounter. However, Jason is absolutely a part of the family and has been for a while of his own will. There's a great moment in Detective Comics that emphasizes this. Jason cares about his family because it is his found family. Yes, they may be warry about him and use him as a punching back and/or heckle him. At the end of the day, we're debating the family dynamics of a fictional playboy billionaire vigilante whose kleptomania took the form of adopting troubled children and turning them into vigilante heroes. Jason Todd wants a family that will love and support him. This is a key definition of his character at its most basic. This was proven during the events of Cheer and is being reenforced by DC Comics every time they get the opportunity to do so.

Now, none of this is to say that I hate Judd Winick. I do not, I don't like the fact that in all of his writings of Jason, he just writes him as a dangerous psychopath, and Winick himself admits to seeing Jason as nothing much more than a psychopath. Yet Winick is the one who the majority of the fandom clings to as the one true good writer of Jason Todd because 'Jason was competent, dangerous, smart' Listen, friends, Jason is all of that and I will never deny it. However, what I love about Jason isn't that he's dangerously smart of that writers either write him as angsty angry Tumblr sexyman bait or that they write him as an infantile man child with a gun. There's a large contention of this fandom that has an obsession with Jason Todd being this vigilante gunman who is hot and sexy and while I definitely get the appeal. It is very creepy and downright disturbing that all of you hyperfixate on his use of guns and ability to be a murderer. It is creepy and I'm not necessarily here for it.

What I love about Jason Todd is that despite all of the pain, all of the heartache, all of the betrayal, and bullying, and death, and anguish. Jason Todd is one of the most loving and supportive characters in all of DC Comics. Jason has been through so much in his life, but he still chooses to love. He still chooses to see the bright side in people. Yes, he takes a utilitarian approach and chooses to kill certain villains, but at the end of the day he wants to see a better world, and he wants to be loved. It takes so much courage and so much heart to learn to love again after one has been abused or traumatized. I would not blame Jason at all if he said fuck it and just went full solo and vigilante evil. He has every right to, but he still chooses to be with the Bat Family of his own accord. That's something that I see a lot of in myself. I have been through a lot of trauma and yet I try to be a better person myself in any way that I can. It is extremely admirable of Jason to allow love back into his heart when he really doesn't need to. He kills and he protects because he has this love of society. It may have been shaped by anger and hatred, but Jason has found his place amongst people who love him and value him. I think Ducra, from Red Hood and the Outlaws put it best in the image given below.

To end this tangent, I love Jason Todd and all of his sexy dangerousness, but it's far more than that. As much as Jason may be dangerous and snarky, he loves his family without a shadow of a doubt. I look up to Jason Todd because despite all of his pain and all of his trauma, he still choses to love. Jason Todd is a character who is someone I love because despite all of his flaws and having a very toxic fandom, he still serves as a character filled with so much heart and so much passion. I wish more writers would understand that. But for now I will live with what I have. Even though the fandom may be vocal about it's hatred for his characterization, I choose to love Jason regardless because he is a character who chooses love and acceptance regardless of his pain. Jason Todd is by no means a good person in any sense of the word. He has easily killed upwards of 100 people by now. He is a character who is flawed and complex but ultimately is one who powers forwards and finds love and heart in a place from so much pain and anguish. That is what I love about Jason Todd. After all, to quote a famous undead robot superhero, "What is grief, if not love persevering?" Jason Todd chooses to love despite all of the trauma and pain and grief. Yes, he is hardened in his exterior, but inside there is a man with a lot of love to give and someone who deserves the world in my eyes.

[dandelionflower]

I saw on one of your post that said to send you prompts sooo... can I request A childhood friend AU either Felix or Marinette moves away and then reuniting in college in France at age 14 in Felix's school with the Quantic Kids.

It was a pretty normal day, which probably meant something was going to happen. If it wasn’t a normal day, something was bound to happen as well; life in Paris hadn’t been normal in months. It being a normal day meant that Marinette was late. Super late. Way, way, so very late she might as well be early for the next thing kind of late. So late that- (oh, she’s beginning to catch onto why she’s so late.)

She knew even as she was shoving toothpaste into her bag for Tikki and brushing her teeth with frosting (wait, switch that) that she would be late, and her erratic movements were enough to convince her parents to write her an excuse. Not that anyone could blame her; she had to deal with three akumas in one night. Three akumas. Who could blame her, or anyone for that matter, for being late when there were three emotionally-stunted teens each wreaking havoc upon the city? It was a wonder that anyone else got to class on time, except for Alya, who Marinette was pretty sure didn’t sleep.

Marinette kissed both parents goodbye, thanking them again for the excuse note. They shoved a box of pastries into her hands, as was their habit whenever she didn’t leave school fast enough.

They had done it since her first day at her new school, when she was tiny and frightened of new people; having the same best friend since birth would do that. Her father had shoved a box of macaroons in her arms and her mother placed a bracing arm on her back. They told her what to do and she tried her hardest to follow their instructions, standing up straight at the front of the class, introducing herself, and offering cookies. Unfortunately, that was the same day Chloe Bourgeois was joining public school, and compared to cookies, her offer of money to ten year-olds wasn’t all that effective. And Chloe was excellent at holding a grudge.

Of course, she ended up with friends: Alya, Nino, Adrien, and everyone in art class, but it was hard to go about her first couple years of school without anyone in her corner. Becoming Ladybug really gave her the boost of confidence she needed to break out of her shell and make new friends, and now she had a whole class full.

She stopped in the classroom to put her stuff away, pausing for a second to breathe. How was she out of shape? She’s Ladybug, for heavens’ sakes! Those three akumas really took it out of her. Luckily enough, she had gym class up next. (Can you hear the sarcasm?)

“Girl! Where have you been?” Alya smiled up at her from where she was stretching her hamstrings.

“Sorry Alya, slept in too much.” She fell into place beside her, choosing one of the more advanced stretches to accomplish instead. “Three akumas yesterday; couldn’t get much sleep.”

“You need to get over yourself, Mari. Ladybug and Chat Noir always win against the akumas, this fear of yours is ridiculous.” Alya glanced at her with an incredulous look, but when she saw her intense yoga pose, the look shifted and she yelled over her shoulder. “Adrien! Get over here! Marinette’s doing her physics-defying stuff again!”

Adrien joined them, laughing at Alya’s exaggerated despair. “It’s really not that hard. You just have to-” He fell into the position easily and began matching her movements. “There.”

“How on EARTH?” Alya shrieked and threw herself to the right, toppling into Nino, who was in a shaky warrior two. They ended up in a heap on the floor, Alya staring in horror at the two still upright and Nino staring bewildered at his girlfriend. “How are you two doing that?”

“Well, I don’t know about Marinette,” Adrien moved into an upward dog, “but father insisted that I be physically active in some way and my mother used to do yoga. So I picked it up.”

Nino leaned close to Alya’s ear. “I’m not sure whether to add this to the ‘reasons Gabriel sucks’ list or be happy he has this thing with his mom.”

“Both I guess?”

“What about you Marinette?” He moved into a handstand-like position. “Why do you know all this stuff?”

My superhero moonlighting requires me to be as stretchy as a rubber band, so my partner, who is also a furry, taught me yoga. “My first best friend and I learned tai chi, and this just felt like the next step.” Not a lie, just not why she chose yoga.

“Okay, you’re fine.” Alya pointed a finger between them both. “But next time you do something weird, I’m starting a cryptid blog about you.”

“You don’t have the guts.” Marinette leaned in and Adrien flipped down to join her. It felt familiar, like deja vu; not her crush, she killed that with fire once he started dating Kagami.

“Heey!” Nino opened his arms in front of them. “Let’s change the subject, what about that new student?”

“There’s a new student?” Marinette turned to the rest of the class, who were all stretching dutifully. No new faces whatsoever. “Where are they?”

“Not here, he went to the office over a scheduling conflict. Seems like a jerk.” Alya pulled an arm behind her head, glaring with derision in the direction of the office.

“Alya, don’t.” Adrien nudged her with a foot. “First impressions don’t mean anything, right Marinette?” He shot her a playful glance.

“Don’t remind me.”

“That one was a misunderstanding. Mister Ice Cold over there doesn’t even say a word, just nods and walks into the back of the class. At least Adrien did something and he asked for forgiveness afterwards. Frosty doesn’t even look at us.” With that final comment, Alya joined the rest of the class in dodgeball.

“Is she alright?” Adrien side-eyed her.

“Yeah, she just really hates people acting superior to her. Let’s go.” Marinette shrugged it off and joined her in picking teams.

Dodgeball was a mess; it always was. The entirety of the class had been akumatized at one point, and some of the strategic prowess remained. Marinette’s team always won, which everyone attributed to her agility, but it was really that Ladybug had more practice in strategy. The only way the teams could be considered even was if Adrien was against her.

She still won; she always won. When it was all over, each team, sweating and exhausted, gravitated to the center line to shake hands and congratulate one another on a game well played. Adrien met her in the middle with a weary smirk. His hair was disheveled, but there was a spark in his eyes that made him seem more familiar than he already was.

“I almost got you that time.” He gripped her hand tight.

“All that training with Kagami is really upping your game.” She quipped, shaking his hand. “Better luck next time.”

With that promise of another match, everyone vacated the gym to the locker rooms, where Alya continued to warn Marinette against the new student.

“Even Chloe doesn’t like him and he seems like the kind of rich boy that would be right up her alley.”

“Alya, I get it. You aren’t the new guy’s biggest fan.”

“And the feeling’s mutual too.” She griped.

“So just don’t talk to him; it works with Chloe. Why not this guy too?” She wrapped an arm around her shoulder and led her to their desk.

“Fine, but I don’t have to like it.”

“You don’t have to like him either.” She pulled out her notebook and began writing down the date.

Before Alya could make another passive aggressive comment about the mystery new boy, Miss Bustier walked in, the usual skip in her step. “Class, I know I already introduced you to our new student but since some of us weren’t here for the first period,” Marinette ducked her head with a sheepish smile, “I’ve decided there’s nothing better than a redo. So, here’s Mister Culpa, introducing himself again.”

Culpa?

A boy with pale blond hair and paler skin strode into the room. He wore what could only be called business-casual, all monochrome. His eyes were a one-in-a-million breathtaking ice blue.

Culpa?

“Hello.” His eyes scanned the room emotionlessly. “As I previously said, my name is Felix Culpa and I am from-” He stopped when he reached her. “Nette?”

“Felix.” She breathed, barely even daring to say it louder, lest he disappear.

He was a blur, climbing the steps and reaching her in the time it took her to stand. There were no words when they hugged, other than the other’s name. She was on the tips of her toes, pressing her forehead to his collarbone. Felix got tall.

“I missed you.” He whispered, squeezing just a little tighter.

“I missed you too.” She laughed, pulling back to see his face. He was crying. She was crying.

“What in Ladybug’s name is happening?” Alya’s shout broke them from whatever pocket dimension they were inhabiting together. “You two know each other?”

“Alya, this is Felix.” She turned to look at her, hand still on Felix’s shoulder. “He was my best friend from birth to ten.”

“Was?” He bumped her hip with his. “Didn’t know I’ve been replaced, Netta.”

“I couldn’t contact you after I moved! I was ten and your mom never told us what her new number was.” She punched his elbow. “What are you doing here?”

“My family moved. I didn’t know you were in this area too; imagine my surprise when I see what the current events in Paris are and find out that there are superheroes and my best friend is now a borderline celebrity.” He chuckled, running a hand through his hair.

“We have to catch up some time.” She grabbed his arm.

“Certainly, maybe not here and now, though.” He gestures to the class around them, avidly watching the exchange.

“Right.” She released his arm and rubbed the back of her head awkwardly. “Coffee and macarons later then? My place?”

“I would like nothing more.” He quirked a smile that would seem tiny to anyone else, but to Marinette was as bright as the sun. “Until then.” Felix squeezed her hand and moved to the back of the class with a little wave.

She returned it, a goofy smile definitely on her face as she sat back down.

“Well,” Miss Bustier coughed, “since Felix has been so thoroughly introduced to everyone else, I suppose I should start the lesson.” And she dove into a spiel about the first World War.

“Dang, girl. Is it just me, or do you have a date after class?” Alya whispered to her from behind her textbook.

“It’s not a date! We’re just catching up.”

“Sure.”

She spared a quick glance at Felix, who was nose-deep in his book, just like when they were kids. He had such sharp features, and upon reconsideration, his eyes looked even more beautiful than she remembered. Felix grew up just fine without her. Really fine, in fact.

It took Marinette a couple seconds to realize she was staring, and when she did, her head turned back to the front of the room so fast she swore she heard a snap.

This was... going to be complicated.