#edge dyad

[lunarlillieuwu]

An Edge Dyad and both of them transitioned in opposite directions a long time ago and now historians often get each of them mixed up with their foe pre-transition is this anything

[symurgist]

pissed off the narrator so bad he turned to alcohol

[chickensgod]

@vague-secret-histories

[sillylittleskinstealer]

Not romantic, not platonic, but a secret third thing (Edge dyad)

[short-honey-badger]

Hi dear mera💕🫂 how are you? I have an ask hehe if you are still taking them if not it's alrighty 🥰 could you make a shamrock ABO Soulmate au? Pretty please ❤️ have marvelous day💕

My dear, I really hope I did your request justice. It got a little out of hand and will most likely have a part 2, lol. It's just kind of evolved into something more than just a one-shot, I think 🤷‍♀️. I do hope you enjoy it, though!

Sandalwood and Rose

Pairings! Figarland Shamrock x Female Reader

Warnings! Slavery and slave auctions! Reader has a bit of a dark past. Shamrock is trying his best, okay?

Masterlist for Shamrock-> HERE

It doesn’t happen very often, but on the occasion that Figarland Shamrock does have some free time, his usual haunt is the Sabaody Archipelago. The string of connected islands always had something interesting happening, and even the alpha became curious about the different going-ons that surrounded him. So, as to not draw attention to himself, Shamrock would dress down into common clothes, toss his red hair up into a proper ponytail, and shove his feet into a pair of sandals.

He looked even more like his twin like this and was occasionally confused with Shanks, but it gave him some form of anonymity, so the alpha usually didn’t mind. People were more comfortable with his younger brother, so it allowed Shamrock to experience the world without the stink of fear permeating around him. Today, he had wandered close to the auction house, sharp ears, and sensitive nose picking up a scent that broke through the sour smell of terrified people being sold as slaves.

Curious, Shamrock made his way inside and sat near the back, shrouded in shadow and unnoticed by the patrons inside. He breathes deeply, sorting through the amalgamation of different smells until he latches on to the one that had brought him inside in the first place. Whoever it belonged to hadn’t made it on the stage yet, so he settled into his chair and waited.

He had an inkling about why this particular scent had drawn him in. It didn’t happen often, and it only happened between alpha and omega, but if the two parties were compatible, a dyad would form a connection between the sexes that was near impossible to break. Many equated the phenomenon to that of a soulbond, Shamrock just didn’t think such a rare thing would ever happen to him.

He had to wait a while, but eventually, another set of unfortunate civilians and captured pirates were brought out on the stage. The scent of soft sandalwood and rose hit him square in the face, and Shamrock zeroed in on the omega who stood at the end of the line, hands bound in chains. He could tell when you noticed him, head jerking up and meeting his gaze over the heads of the countless alphas and betas that separated the two of you. A sudden need overtook the alpha, a feeling of rage alighting in his breast at the sight of you shackled and vulnerable in front of so many people.

Shamrock stands without thinking, loping forward and down the stairs, heedless of the whispering that suddenly erupted at his sudden appearance. Disco was still rambling away on stage, informing the patrons about each omega and their talents. He halts to a stop when he notices the approaching redhead, eyes going wide as he scrambles back away from the edge of the stage.

“And what a surprise this is! Red-Haired Shanks in my auction house! Even someone like yourself must be interested in one of the healthy omegas on stage. Hmm?”

Shamrock came to a stop just in front of you, burgundy eyes taking you in. You met his gaze head on, something desperate and pleading in the depths of your eyes that made his instincts scream at him to tuck you away somewhere safe and sound. Unbidden, his own scent of clean leather and steel curled forward, and he watched your shoulders relax just a fraction when it reached you.

“This one,” He demands without taking his eyes off of you. Disco huffed and peacocked at his words, but Shamrock’s patience had run thin, and he cut his eyes at the beta, a snarl pulling his lips back to show off his impressive set of teeth, “Now.”

“Fine, fine!” Disco crowed and produced a key, unlocking the chain connected to the other omegas lined up on stage and dropping the length of it into Shamrock’s waiting hands, “Just don’t forget to pay.”

The redhead ignored the auctioneer, far too focused on striding forward to the edge of the stage where he beckoned you near with a jerk of his head. You scrambled closer, a look of intense relief on your face when Shamrock opened his arms for you to throw yourself against him. He catches you with ease, tucking the omega closer and shoving his nose into the crook of your neck to breathe in your scent.

The rose is so much stronger now that he has you close, and he feels his shoulders loosen now that he has you pressed up against him. Without a word, Shamrock spins on his heel and marches out of the auction house, mind set on a mission to get you out of sight of the other alphas who dared to wolf whistle and leer at you. Shamrock would not describe himself as a nice man, but even he was above that kind of behavior.

Shamrock marches on without a real destination in mind, simply content for now to have you pressed so close to him where he knows that you will be safe. He only slows to a stop when he can’t sense anyone else around him, deep in the thick trucks of the mangroves of the archipelago. You have yet to lift your head, but Shamrock doesn’t mind, not when it allows him to check you over.

You are littered with small scars, the rags you have been put in easily showing off the thin lines of scars that criss cross your back. He shoves down the rage that bubbles up in his chest at the sight and continues his examination. You are far too thin for his like, ribs poking out and arms willowy and weak. Your hair is an unwashed, tangled mess that smells of old sweat and the sour stink of fear. He clutches you that much closer, nose nudging against your jaw as he wraps his own scent around you.

“Thank you.”

Your voice is rough, scratchy from crying. You lift your head, eyes meeting the alpha that holds you so tightly, and give him a tiny wobbly smile. You breathe deeply, feeling better when that warm leather and sharp steel scent pours into your lungs, the alpha’s calming pheromones making you relax further in his hold.

Shamrock tries for a smile his brother might give, small and reassuring, and it feels odd painting his lips, but it must do this trick, for his omega blushes and ducks her head, “You don’t have to thank me for saving you.”

You shrug, eyes going glassy for a moment, “I wanted to.”

Shamrock just hums and shifts your weight in his arms. He needed to get back to Mariejois. He’s already been gone far longer than he usually allows himself, and now he has you to take care of. However, he finds himself reluctant to do so, knowing that his father would be the first to know that he had found his mate, and would be furious at you for being a commoner, a slave. He did not want to subject you to Garling, not now, not yet.

“What is your name?” he asks and settles on the ground instead, his back pressed up against one of the trees as he moves you so that you are settled on his lap. The shirt you wear slides down a shoulder and reaches forward to fix it back into place without a second thought.

“_.” You murmur, and feel your heart flutter in your chest at the kind gesture. It was rare for you to be around an alpha who didn’t immediately want to tear your rags off, but this red-haired man was your kindred, your dyad, your mate.

“Disco called you Shanks, but I know that you aren’t him,” you say in soft curiosity. You’d never seen the emperor in person, but you have seen his bounty poster, and the man who held you so gently certainly looked like Shanks, but there were a few key differences there. The additional arm and lack of facial scarring.

“You’re right,” he agrees with a weary smile, “He is my twin brother.”

Shamrock once again finds himself reluctant. This time to share with you the knowledge of just who he was. His people, the royal family, are the reason that you wore the marks on your back, why you had been chained up in line with other omegas, waiting to be sold off to the highest bidder. Shamrock may have not bought you, but he was still a celestial dragon. He did not wish to frighten you now that he had you.

“And your name?” You ask him and then frown down at your shackled wrists when you move your hands. You want to touch your alpha to make sure that this was real and not some dream your mind has conjured up.

To give himself some time, Shamrock focuses on the cuffs around your wrists. He snaps the weak iron with a flare of his strength, pulling the thick metal from your wrists and dropping them to his side. He takes your hands in his own, fingers gently massaging the red skin that’s been left behind.

You shiver at the touch, eyes going half-lidded in pleasure at having this powerful alpha touch you so gently. You look up, face burning hot again when you catch those burgundy eyes with your own.

“You may not like who I am.”

His quiet words make you tense slightly before his scent catches up with you again, and you relax once more. You suck it up greedily, eyes shuttered and tongue sweeping out to wet your lips, “Tell me.”

The alpha shifts under you, looking nervous for a split second before the emotion clears up into determination, “I am the leader of the God Knights, Figarland Shamrock.”

Dread and fear well up inside of you at his admission, your scent of soft sandalwood and rose turning sour like old wine. You tense in his hold, back going rigid as you stare down at the alpha. You would never be able to escape them, would you?

A wet laugh escapes you, the sound a bit hysterical, but you make no move to try and escape him, for what would be the point?

“Darling?” Shamrock murmurs, and his hand comes up to cup your cheek, holding you gently as you laugh, tears welling up and sliding down your cheeks to drip and stain the shirt he wears. He isn’t prepared for this kind of reaction, had tensed in preparation for you to try and run from him, for you to yell and snarl and bare those omega teeth in threat, not whatever this was.

“I’ll always be a slave, won’t I?” You say between, voice turning into a hiccuping mess. You grip his shoulders, eyes turning a bit wild at the edges. His scent attempts to calm you, but you are far too worked up now, “I’ll never be free.”

Shamrock feels stricken. He wasn’t good at providing comfort, and that familiar rage began to climb up his throat again. Not at you, how could he be angry with you over being so broken, but at his own people, at himself, even indirectly, for being the cause of your fear. How could you believe him when he was a slaver himself?

“Darling, I-,” He cuts himself off, face turning into a dark scowl. Shamrock doesn’t know what to tell you. He would be expected to show you to his father the moment he arrived back at the household, and he knew it would send you right back over the edge. He would not be able to hide you, not when he knows that his own scent has changed already, his warm leather and steel already entwined with your own sandalwood and rose.

Were you some omega he had just met. His mate, his dyad - his alpha screamed at him, is it more important than the life he has dedicated himself to? Would he bring himself to leave the only life he has ever known just so that you would know freedom?

They would be hunted down by the god knights if they left, the punishment unimaginable if they were to be caught. Could Shamrock take that risk? For himself, for you?

When he looks at you and sees that resigned horror in your eyes, sees the way that you seem to have already given up, Shamrock finds that he could. He did not wish for you to live a life sequestered away, hidden like some terrible secret just because of where you came from. You wanted to be free so he would make it happen, regardless of the consequences.

“We will run,” he says, and now that it’s been said out loud, the more the decision solidifies in his mind. The god knight lifts his hands, holding your face between his palms as he meets your eyes. They are full of disbelief and tentative hope, “We will run, and you will be free.”

The omega in his hold keens and throws herself at him, hands sliding up to cup just under his ears, lips meeting his own in a kiss of desperate relief. Shamrock kisses you back with ease, matching your frantic pace. The touch of his mate’s lips against his own makes all the pain and stress that would inevitably crash around them worth it, and he knew just who could help the two of them.

@mit-suri @sanjisleggy @nocturnalrorobin @mfreedomstuff

[draculadept-flow]

I'm a one-man Edge dyad. I'm a Worm of a Scale. I'm a freak. I'm a real creature. I'm what Hersault was hiding from under the floorboards. I speak Cracktrack, Vak, Hyskos, Cunnilingual, and Wolf. There are worms under my skin, but I'm about to do enough Lantern-infused perks to make my eyes bleed light. This shit ain't nothing to me, man.

[bestworstcase]

@spinner335

(general lore musing) does the Wolf not allow people to be unmade as they (both the Wolf and the person) want to be? The only non Splinter name we know of is Coelle, who drowned herself. Maybe the Wolf doesn’t let them have oblivion, because it cannot achieve it. Hurting them by denying them what they desire and can achieve unlike it.  Hmmm do you think the Wolf sponsors the creation of the Great Bell that Tolls the Ending of the Hours? Hmm do you think if one part of a dyad commits the crime, both parties transform, because they are so fundamentally linked?

CONSPIRACY GUY DOT GIF. fuck ok. 

cliff notes

key texts – cultsim:

mausoleum of wolves (full expedition text + all non-random loot incl. velshorn inscriptions; note every book pertains to the lithomachy, not the intercalate) 

tower revek (full expedition text + all non-random loot; note 1. exile description for bitterblack salt is "pinch of this goes up like lightning-struck thermite" and 2. the wolf-divided’s tarot is the tower, depicted traditionally as a tower or a tree struck by lightning)

orthos wood (full expedition text + all non-random loot)

keglin’s scratch (full expedition text + all non-random loot + medium’s remnant, wolfshead, which provides the splendid memory)

chateau raveline (expedition text matters more than the loot but note the cinnabar amulet and greydawn oil)

a star-shattered fane (full expedition text + non-random loot; tangentially relevant, this is where the forge shattered the flint)

rite of the beast’s division + rite of the rebel striving

lore: exile edge (neutral/wolf path, note that the foe considers beidde a name of the colonel but he’s wrong, beidde is the wolf’s + lionsmith’s shattered mysteries). winter. forge. illuminate mysteries (lantern 14). formulae ophidian (knock 10). anthic elaborations (grail 12). 

influences: all moth. all forge. all winter. 

tools: dappled mask. cinnabar amulet. meteoric bullet, beidde’s blade. all winter tools (note connection suggested in TLA between bone flute and the sea specifically). kingskin bodhrán. 

various priest dreams/scars and sermons. various mainline cultist dreams. various dancer sendings and balance ending. 

book of hours skills – i cannot possibly list all of them but these are the most crucial:

sky stories, sea stories, wolf stories, snow stories. rhyme & remembrance, anbary & lapidary(note anbary means ‘lightning’), preliminal meter, sights & sensations, quenchings & quellings, ragged crossroads, putrefactions & calcinations, hill & hollow, transformations & liberations, sickle & eclipse (note mirroring with sky: matters of balance, necessity and rebuke vs matters of balance, harmony and necessity). 

basically every nectar skill but we don’t have time for the calyptra tangent rn 

most craftable items and memories using these skills, and patterns therein. 

book of hours Things and Rooms (most crucial items only)

xanthotic and iotic essence (NOTE MELANCTHE’S HERETICAL "TRUE FORGE OF DAYS" BIT on iotic)

as above, so below painting. bust of st melancthe

hall of division + mirrors + eva and abraham painting. desk: eva. pale chamber. all of gullscry tower. 

all of nina lagasse’s paintings but especially rose, sky, winter (note that nina lagasse is 1. a name of the wolf, 2. ninegala of lagash, 3. probably nyn, and 4. possibly the fucking postmistress)

stymphlings. eva’s bust. 

books, a selection as concise as i can make it in addition to the ones found in the vaults listed above:

eva’s treasury. one hundred and eight. ettery after. lady eva’s repose. a pale lady and a prince of wines. the crossing to noon. to a pale lady.

a child’s treasury of golden afternoons (+ numen and archaeologist endings). the velletri interviews. wakefield papers 1902: skolekosophy.

towards a fundamental aesthetic, both editions (+numens and endings)

black nephrite. a true history of valentine dewulf. 

the other eye of the serpent

shuritic book of suns (+ numen)

the sun disfigured (+ numen)

in the mountains…, observations on the peacock door. nyn’s cages. the scar in the sky. the sky in the scar. 

the lion and the glass, each flame his fuel, the focus of amber. 

an investigation of a foundered country. 

a tower rises. a tower falls. 

on the white. 

the black, white, & red books of brittany

chione at abydos 

five creations. (+from nowhere origin determination which gives sky/forge)

the dream of the conspiracy of the lower skies. a catalogue of uncharted pleasures. 

basically all incidents/visitors but yvette, connie, serena, coseley, mopsy, and bancroft are worth paying particular attention to. 

<- this is a non-inclusive and fairly conservative list. read everything!!!

two things to keep in mind: 1. any time you see a reference to ‘twins’ or twinning, it is either the sister-and-witch OR the entity cygnifer refers to as the joined serpent; 2. the serpent is lightning is melancthe’s "true forge of days" (<- this is why anbary & lapidary can make everything it does) so you have to always be asking and which forge are you referring to. 

wheeze. ok. i’m not going to go through any of the analysis and corkboarding for all that and more but those are the core sources ANYWAY

the first two hours were sky (the monarch-at-the-crossroads, the thirty birds) and sea. birds of a feather, worms of a scale. gods-from-stone in between. the lithomachy and the intercalate are twin events—cyclical—a repeating pattern, this is a wolf thing. sea and sky were separated (<- the thritige-kind dreamed themselves out of nowhere and became sky, the primordial ocean opened like a mouth, speech the first wound etc) and sought to recombine. 

to do that,

sky stilled the winds which carried the moon around the sky. moon plummeted to earth and exploded—that’s the forge of days, a meteor a la chicxulub impact—inciting the lithomachy. sky/sea conjoined and ate each other and became one; the serpent, the wolf, the beast, the storm. it’s called the crime of the sky as in the crime the sky committed. (the elegiast and the beach-comber are gods-who-were-flesh, names of sky who ascended to hourhood in a similar manner to the solar hours after the lithomachy. sky is/was the black dove and white raven)

as above/so below is the serpent’s whole thing—as below (in nowhere), so above (in the mansus) and also as above (in the glory), so below (in the mansus)—there are always conjunctions in both directions.  this also seems to happen in time, as before/so again, which seems to mean that every…manifestation of sky/sea/wolf exists concurrently in some liminal way

(also the serpent’s mouth is the serpent gate / the spider’s door / the wrong door. hence why the great hooded princes were twinned when they passed through it. this is why the librarian can, for example, recite  sea’s enactments at the sea’s edge.)

ANYWAY. intercalate. the forge of days wanted union with the sun-in-splendour and instead divided him (although they did join through their proxies, swan king and sunset celia)—which which also divided the serpent for VARIOUS REASONS (<- mainly the forge of days is to sky as the swan king is to the forge and the sun-in-splendour is to sea as sunset celia was to the sun-in-splendour) and that. caused the wolf-divided (as above) and snow (so below). gestures vaguely at wolf-snow. the sun was never interred in the mausoleum of wolves because the mausoleum was not built for the sun-in-splendour. it was built for the wolf. 

clutches head. anyway the chandler is/will be a wolf spider and she both does and does not exist already (as the rising spider. dawn. rising spider. dawn. rising–) but when she does become it will be through the conjunction of snow and the wolf-divided. this is—laughs helplessly—the seven amira zahra prophesies in ‘the time of division’…

The Sun will be divided that it might not sire children. Still its children shall be Four in number and its children shall be Seven in number and its children shall also be Numberless. The Numberless shall open the way for the Seven, and the Seven shall consume the Four...'

the four are the solar hours (sun-in-rags, meniscate, madrugad, flowermaker). the seven are sky, sea, serpent/wolf, wolf-divided, snow, rising spider, chandler. the various possible outcomes of the second dawn ALL depend on precisely in what configuration the seven coagulate into one again which is out of scope for the cliff notes but i’ve made charts about it. 

teresa galmier is a name of the chandler btw that’s why she has rose aspect. good end chandler’s aspects will be winter / rose / moon / knock / lantern. bad end is winter / forge / lantern / knock / edge. low red sun chandler is… probably… grail instead of winter and nectar (blood) instead of edge but i’m still very iffy on how precisely those conjunctions are expressed. regardless,

if you’re interested in the wolf-divided play through the archaeologist librarian sometime. they broke into a tomb—quite possibly the mausoleum of wolves—and got themself haunted by a wolf-splinter. see also the barrowchild’s elegies, where the condition is described as ‘the avidity of trist,’ and note the description of trist: despairing and everything to do with dread in cultsim. 

anyway. aside from the splinters these are the names of the wolf that we know of:

coelle the flower-girl (cinnabar memorial, drowned herself, "not the first and will not be the last")

ninegala / nyn / nina (cultsim, dream with health, dread: "In the land of the two rivers, in the days of Rimush and of Naram-Sin, there were stories told of a howling woman who devoured the children of other mothers. Last night there was a howling in my dreams." <- not the mother of ants, although she’s also the child of two rivers; mother of ants hales from ectbana, the historical references here indicate lagash. nyn wrote the scar in the sky, which is the wolf-word written once on each page, and came to regret it; nina lagasse’s paintings convinced julian coseley to change his mind regarding husher, who ascended under snow)

beidde.

eva dewulf.

in order to become a name, you emulate the enactments of an hour—because hours who share aspects often overlap so closely, enactments are the surest way to determine who is a name of whom. 

take beidde. the foe believes he’s the colonel’s name. the colonel’s enactments are to be blind, to be scarred, to not be denied. here’s what we know about beidde:

Beidde’s Lesson

Biedde said: 'Blood can be replenished. Time cannot.' Biedde knew what he was about. 

Beidde’s Blade

A cut from this blade will not cease bleeding until the wound is healed. One account has it that Biedde was a knife-collecting surgeon-highwayman in eighteenth-century Toulouse. Another claims Biedde is only the bastardisation of an Arabic word for 'mosquito'.

or

One account has it that Biedde is a bastardised Arabic word for 'mosquito'. But my Foe used to number Biedde among the Colonel's Names.

first, obvious problem is the colonel’s scarring versus beidde’s bleeding. mosquito. wounds that bleed without ceasing until they heal. a surgeon-highwayman. (again resisting the calyptra tangent but: the wolf is the white flower of calyptra and snow in particular is heavily, heavily associated with vampirism. it’s the intersection of sea’s grail + snow’s winter) – so beidde doesn’t have any clear connection to the colonel’s enactments. 

but the wolf-divided is he unmaketh, he unmaketh, and at the last, he unmaketh. beidde was a "mosquito," a surgeon, and a highwayman—blood-letting others to sustain oneself, cutting into others to remove and remake what ails them, ending lives. three different kinds of unmaking. (also: surgeries & exsanguinations skill discusses the sanguine exception, which is "every door also opens the other way" and is one of calyptra’s key tenets.)

which brings us to eva dewulf. 

here are the facts:

she was a skolekosophist and a herpetologist specifically; her book ‘eva’s treasury’ offers lessons in anbary & lapidary, ‘one hundred eight’ pentiments & precursors, and ‘ettery after’ (which she DID write) is a parable about calyptra generally and the crime of the sky specifically. (=rule of tincture is the allegory for the crime, there), so she knew inks of containment. 

she taught her father valentine how to hatch stymphlings AND she—contra in-universe speculation about dealings with reckoners—likely had the requisite skill to draw year-tallies herself. rhyme & remembrance can hatch stymphlings, render essential periost, and draw year-tallies using periost, and it can be learnt from ‘lady eva’s repose.’ snow stories can also make all three, though there’s no obvious direct connection to eva.

her father valentine knew serpents & venoms techniques (<- implying this was the method eva taught him for hatching stymphlings; see ‘the republic of teeth’). he knew wolf stories (‘black nephrite’), which can render periost and produce a wormwood dream using a stymphling. 

the remaining books about eva teach lessons in sea stories and pearl & tide. the technique for removing chionic theoplasma (…snow’s influence) from books is the “dewulf method” credited to gideon or eva, requires 7 heart, easiest with quenchings & quellings but possible with inks of containment. 

the shadow in the stair tenebrous, the entity ernestine peterhans called the donkerling? name of the blackbone (it’s the thing that possessed lady nonna), and the blackbone is a) mentioned in relation to the moon and eva/snow in the crossing to noon, b) probably similar in relation to sea as the elegiast is to sky, cast-off bones picked clean of flesh, and c) with greater certainty, the "so below" conjunction of the velvet (black flower of calyptra)

meaning eva dewulf grew up with a very chatty name of something that used to be an emanation of the sea as, essentially, a family pet. 

valentine visited fermier abbey—which i’m fairly certain is the monastery of the fifth cup, the library of the watchman’s tree patronized by the mare-in-the-tree, who is the name-emanation of the wheel from whom the line of antaios arose—anyway he went there and started having nightmares about the wheel and the second dawn. eventually he jumped, or fell, from the top of gullscry tower and washed up three days later. eva was the last to see him alive, and refused to say anything of their final conversation but that he’d begun to fear the sun. 

four years later, her fiancée abraham wheelock fails to show up for the wedding. eva leaves london, he washes up three days later with his face eaten by birds and (forged) letters on his person implicating him as a spy. this has eyebrow-raising similarities to the account of eva’s history-twin, eva de braoise, in ‘us rocashaas.’ the painting of abraham and eva from a year prior is splashed with yewgall ink. 

eva’s only (acknowledged) son, sebastian, is the captain of the hms kerisham, lost with all hands during the seven years war, likely the battle in quiberion bay in 1759. eva would have been 57-58 at the time; her illegitimate daughter (by franklin bancroft) would have been nine. 

within a year of sebastian’s ship sinking, eva drowned herself and her twin infant granddaughters and was never seen again, but rumors abound. 

TLA slaps the goddamned lightning-struck tower down after everett sends his earthquake. that lighthouse is of the serpent. exile fogfire point, another lighthouse, is haunted by the wolf-divided’s shadow. upcoming book of hours DLC house of light concerns ‘the lighthouse institute,’ which seems to interest the second dawn, and the tagline is “only twins drown twice.” 

mausoleum of wolves describes the sound of the wolf’s howl on the wind as like the tearing of metal in a ship’s hull. as above/so below. 

from coelle, we know there’s a connection between names of the wolf and drownings. yvette southey is the descendant of eva’s illegitimate child and her remarks in, like, all of her visits screams this connection quite loudly; most notable is the forgivable debt (reckoner war in kaunus, which is a place of power for the wolf—she speculates on how eva got her hands on extra years) and the particular mystique:

'Funniest thing. I keep getting speaking invitations from this odd little outfit: 'Church of the Ivory Dawn'. And, well, you'll laugh, Librarian…' 'They've made up their minds I'm their appointed leader. I've made up my mind I'm not, but they're pretty insistent. They've got a bee in their bonnet about my family folklore...' 'You know that immortals - Long - can't have children. Bad things happen if they try. What if a, hm, pre-immortal had children? Would there be anything special about those? Ivory Dawn likes to think so. I like to think not. And if I say anything more about that, I'll start to feel like a fool. Thanks, Librarian.'

…basically spells it out. (the chandler is very, very strongly associated with ivory. so is snow. by the way.) 

everything we know about eva dewulf’s history is a precise description of how she did the wolf-divided’s enactments, influenced by her knowledge of sea and the serpent courtesy of the donkerling: he unmaketh (she kills her father and releases her brother from the cage valentine kept him in), he unmaketh (she kills her fiancée, utterly destroys his face and ruins his good name), and at the last, he unmaketh (her son’s ship is lost with all hands and she drowns herself and her grand-twins in the year her daughter—who does not carry the dewulf name—turns nine; note the rhyme here with the rite of the beast’s division, "the assistant's name is taken from them in a place, or on an occasion, of power; and they are divided into nine parts.")

…and her name literally means eve of the wolf. lol

(bancroft is still around too—he turns up during numa sometimes—so she and him circumvented the crime of the sky by, as yvette notes, having their child before either of them went long. but there are other ways)

the wolf has interesting associations with caer ys / kerisham—and with morgen and rowena, consequently, on this see sea stories and serpent root as well as their real-world mythological counterparts—obviously the sea-serpent devoured/drowned ys and if the city unbuilt is built in ys, it has a foundation-stone of amber (<- shared between the watchman, the sister-and-witch, and the serpent). and obv eva’s son’s ship was the hms kerisham, which is… not a safe thing to call a ship in this world and i hope the blackbone enjoyed her meal after the wolf-divided ripped the hull open, i guess. bfrhdjdjs

the secret is that the wolf-divided (and snow) are albedo—the white flower—separation, purification—and so unmaketh unmaketh unmaketh is about that moreso than annihilation; the wolf-divided hates because he is in agony but sating his hunger will bring him peace, and that’s the serpent (past) / the chandler (future). <- hence the serpent being the true forge of days. he’s, in a literal sense, the ragged crossroads. and the eclipse (<- often evoked not by name but by implied occlusion of the madrugad by the meniscate, as in purging witchworm contamination or purifications & exaltations. which is why you can use that skill, and only that skill, to make torgue’s cleansing with prentice sky. "The Corrivality manifests even in the operations of the Sun." <- the skill commits name the madrugad and the meniscate but the skill itself is a quote from george "kept a name of the chandler locked in a box in the basement until it smote him and everyone else in the gaol" collers.) 

so the wolf (in all its manifestations) is an agent of cyclical change, death-rebirth-life, and the wolf-divided is an aspect who was violently sundered and seeks vengeance / release from torment, and snow is his dyad—not edge but i believe her aspects are winter/forge ('Fire', I once read, 'is the winter that warms and the spring that consumes.' - note the description for wolf-snow) and she’s the aspect who was altered by death but endures and waits without regret, although—as solomon husher says—she will not wait forever.

(snow as in winter snow. but also snow as in marine snow; hence, a union of sky and sea. she’s in juxtaposition with the blackbone in a similar way. hence, "'Here is your paint,' whispered the Wolf to the Pale Girl. 'Here is your knife-for-scraping. And here is your face.'" <- chione and the wolf. the elegiast doesn’t have a monopoly on winter-hours interested in painters.)

wrapping back to the rwby secret histories au: salem’s a name of the wolf-divided for the same reasons eva is, killed her father killed and was killed by her lover and they killed their children together. and the drownings. ozma follows a similar path as the elegiast (onetime name of the sky, shed his flesh) but ends up a name of snow rather than ascend to hourhood in his own right by virtue of being, to put it gently, a lackey of the calyptra. 

can’t stop pondering the fascinating crime of the sky implications of edge dyad ozlem

[phantomonabudget]

Charles Dance/Yeston & Kopit Concept Makeup

Phantom Cosplay & Makeup Application: @phantomonabudget

Prosthetic: @dyadmufx

This is my first interpretation of what Erik (The Phantom) might have looked like in the 1990 miniseries adaptation of the Yeston and Kopit stage show. This version is quite famous for never showing Erik's face. Instead, we are left with only clues to his actual appearance. I imagine that decision was made as often the imagination can co.e up with far worse possibilities than whatever they would have out on camera. Still...it's fun to try.

Makeup Design

There are few clues or hints in the movie to build upon. We know the eyes are sunken in due to the eye shadow applied to the actor, Charles Dance. We know that the mouth, jaw, and skin around the edge of the face appear to be unaffected. And when pressed about his appearance, Erik says only: "I have no face. I have only the semblance of a face...and no one should have to look at it."

So...not exactly descriptive, and leaves a lot of room for interpretation.

Given the visual clues (or lack thereof), we know the middle of the face is the only area affected and it is completely covered by the mask. I chose to use a beautiful, foam latex base prosthetic appliance by DYAD FX. I kept the skin tone similar to that of the mouth and around the face, but carefully and thinly layered colors from my alcohol activated pallettes to give the effect of a very thin, pinkish tone to the area. I painted in veining to further the effect of the thinned out skin.

...No Nose??

I wanted to give the illusion of not having a nose (or at least that he was losing his). This is certainly the holy grail of Phantom visual design for most Phans, as we have truly only seen one makeup design faithful to the original Gaston Leroux novel...and that was Lon Chaney nearly 100 years ago! So I wanted to try to incorporate that element into this design.

However, it is impossible to eliminate the nose using makeup alone, as effects makeup is additive, not subtractive. Meaning, we add things like prosthetic appliances to the skin to create an effect, but can't take away what the person naturally has. Any time you see a missing nose in film and TV, it is removed using visual/digital effects (VFX). Oftentimes, VFX compliments a prosthetic effects makeup design (like Red Skull in the Marvel movies). It is possible to hide the nose under surrounding prosthetics, but in my opinion, that is usually not successful for realism. Adding more material under/around the nose makes the end result look more simian (ape-like) than just a human without a nose.

To allude to this effect, I instead painted the majority of my nose dark to appear like a cavity, and left the tip of the nose. I felt it gave a better and more realistic overall look. It simply suggests the nose is missing (or soon to be completely missing) instead of trying to physically bury the nose in a ton of material.

Overall, I'm happy with this first attempt but can already think of changes I'd like to make. I enjoyed this and look forward to doing more interpretations of classic Phantoms, to include a Gaston Leroux concept makeup in the near future!

[bisexual-horror-fan]

Dyad ||| (Vincent X Reader X Bo)

Hello Once more! It's me Bex, but it isn't my work, no this was written by the amazing and fantastic @lackingspace, America is fucked and with some worries over laws, I am taking advantage of being Canadian and hosting it here with her full permission. So please, enjoy!

Summery: Figure drawing turns twisted.

Rated: Explicit. Length: 5.1K. Warnings: Cockwarming. Dirty Talk. Dom/Sub Dynamics. Use Of Daddy. Frustration. Bo Is Mean (We Love It.) Denial. Creampie. Cunnligus. Sloppy Seconds. Cum Eating.

Part 1: Dyad.

Part 2: Dyad ||.

Your breath came in shaking huffs. Stomach muscles tensing, clenching, straining– so taut that you were sure a stitch was about to set in. Sitting on that precipice stung. Put more strain on you than if it just knotted up. 

A moment passed as you sat there pressing into the edge of strain, then another– followed by more cramp free but tight seconds until, suddenly, your abdomen was completely relaxing. 

The opposite was true for your fists. Clenching harder at the released tension. Nails digging into your well loved flannel shirt– threadbare material beading around the sleeve edges. The plush cotton was generally breathable and airy, but now it was stifling. 

And irritating. 

And prickly against your overheated, sweat slicked skin. 

The cotton was easily manipulated beneath your fist. Giving way to bunching, curling under your nails– you'd be surprised if there weren't small pinprick holes left at the end of this– but its integrity was the last thing on your mind. 

Your hair was matted down, slicked to your forehead and temples. Thankfully the bulk of it was twisted up away from the rest of you. Pulled messily into a clip you'd thrown on earlier.

Between the heat of the room and the physical exertion of muscles constantly tensing and releasing, you were thankful for what had been a hasty decision.

A droplet made its way down the back of your neck. Slick, gliding too light against your rigid form making it feel as if the ghost of fingers were caressing down your spine. Shivering at the sensation, goosebumps rose across your flexed arms as you leaned back to have your shirt conform to your spine, preventing any more errant drops. 

Swallowing was made difficult with how parched you were. Your outsides were wetter than your too hot insides. The scratchiness of your throat constricts in time with the clenching of your stomach. 

If only some of the moisture dampening your skin would stay inside you wouldn't feel like you had a mouthful of cotton, but unfortunately, it didn't seem to be in the cards. 

Pulling in a stuttering breath at the familiar feeling of restlessness settling over you.

That annoying nagging to move while trying to sit still? It made you desperate. 

Add in the odd sensation of what felt like soft fluttering wings brushing along your chest cavity down to your navel? 

You were desperate and antsy.

The longer you sat with your muscles clenched, the anstiness devolved into exasperation. It morphed the gentle butterfly kisses into a gnawing, biting, stabbing taut anticipation. 

A mental plea for action, to do something over than sit still, to move now. 

It had your thighs tensing, shaking, straining to ignore it and stay still– to let the moment pass. 

A deep breath in, hold, before letting it slowly out. 

Grinding your molars together as you try to push through it– Let the rigidity press until it falls away to lax muscles once again. 

Your breath is stilted as the blood rushes in your ears. You're doing so good. So good. So…good. 

Until you slip.

Everything tenses too much and your posture jerks inward. Legs following the instinct to close. Providing some miniscule relief. A rush of feel good tingles shooting down your spine- a reward. 

A stuttering moan leaves you at the tightening in your core. It has your pitter-pattering heart spike at the rush of endorphins. Until suddenly there's a stinging swat at the apex of your thigh.

The pain is sharp and biting, cutting through the endorphins clouding your brain. You're too tightly wound to fully react, all you can manage is sucking in a shuddering breath.

“Keep them fuckin’ open.” 

A hiss leaves you at Bo’s reprimand. 

Could he not see you struggle? Did he think you were just messing around? 

You were fucking trying your goddamn best. 

It's not like he was helping either.

He was making this beyond difficult as it was. Being so fucking hot, hard, thick and hitting so fucking deep. 

Not that you'd ever tell him because God, he did not need that ego boost. 

Your head falls back over his shoulder, back pressing into his front, as your muscles once again release their tension. Following his instructions you press the heel of your feet deeper into the cushion of the couch as your legs fall back into their spread position.

A half-whine, half-sigh falls from your lips before you respond, “Sorry, you just feel so...so good.” 

Rolling your hips– the only act of retaliation you had at the moment– had them knocking back against his own. Ass pressing into his thick corded muscle of his abs. 

A rush of white hot pleasure ran through your veins, as much a punishment to you as it was him. Your core clenched in response followed by a moan which was echoed by an annoyed grunt from your companion. 

You couldn't decide if this whole scenario was a fantasy come to life or capital punishment. You'd been thinking fantasy at the start, but now? You were hard pressed to reconsider. 

You'd been so excited about this development too.

Maybe you were a masochist (Bo would pointedly say sadist if asked) but the prospect of edging both yourself and Bo made you giddy. 

Everything about this had felt right. It started so good, and perfect, and delicious, and sick, and…and…and complete utter torture. 

Oh, it was the worst torture. 

Sweet, sweet abuse that had every nerve ending like a sparking live wire spitting pulses of pleasure straight between your legs at the littlest movement. 

Forced to sit here, not moving, just meant to be still and take it— enjoy it. But how could you stay placcid when you wer-

The growl in your ear and the tight grip on your hips quickly cut off your thoughts. 

Bo’s hiss was bordering on feral, “Stop. Fuckin. Movin.”

Each word was clipped and belied his own tension. A huffing whine was your only response to his spiteful tone.

Again, you were trying. 

Minimal movement, focusing on your breathing, behaving. 

Really, he should be thanking you because you could be making this so much more difficult when his cock was stretching you out so perfectly. 

He should be grateful you were considerate.

But this was Bo. He didn't know the meaning of the word. Instead, his already tight grip turned bruising, “Shut it.” 

His tone was as sharp as the previous swat to your thigh, “Ain't having none of that bratty ass lip.” 

The passing thought that he was definitely leaving marks added a giddy energy to the antsy heat already flooding your lower stomach. 

But frustration beat both emotions in spades. 

He said it like you hadn't made a minor slip-up. Like you hadn't tried to minimize your squirming. As if you weren't a perfectly obedient pet sat on his cock for at least a good hour, if not longer.

…Probably longer. 

It certainly felt longer. 

You heard him snicker. Had you let a grumble slip out? Or did he just suddenly become psychic and know you were gearing up to spit out a biting remark?

The drag of his nose along your throat followed by his tongue a second later was almost enough to distract from the venom you were about to spew. The wet appendage flicked the lobe of your ear before his teeth nipped at it. You drew in a sharp breath as you clenched hard around him. 

Groaning out a question in the form of his name, “Bo?” 

The chuckle in his voice was a complete 180 from the annoyance it'd held seconds ago. Too drastic of a mood shift to be anything good, “Shouldn't have suggested this position if you can't handle it, princess.” 

Even as he said it, his hips pressed up into you as his clutching grip pulled you down. His lips trailed from your ear to your pulse point before dragging back up.

Fuck. 

Bo only softened like this when he was past the point of annoyance, but not genuinely angry, more so exasperated than anything. 

Either way, it had another breathy moan slip from you as he spoke again with more of a growl than before, “Ain't like you the only one sufferin here, precious.” 

One of his palms left your hip to rub against the top of your right thigh. Squeezing the flesh before releasing it to land a slap against it. The sharp jolt of pain felt so good. Too good.

You felt yourself tightening around him in response to the pain. He didn't have a big outward reaction and that confirmed how far gone he was. 

Calm Bo was more dangerous than typical ornery Bo. 

That knowledge sent another hot flush of liquid lust down your spine. If he wanted you to be good this was not helping. Another nip at your ear before he whispered a threat, “Mmm, keep squirming like that and I'm liable to not let you finish.” 

That had you instantly freeze. Your stomach dropped as your form went rigid. Bo wasnt one to make idle threats, especially when he was as keyed up as you were. He'd do it too. He might be softer right now, but he was by no means tender. 

He'd be petty like that. 

And it was more than a want– you needed to come after all this. 

If he was an ass…Well, you don't know what you'd do, but it wouldn't be pretty. 

Before you could start pathetically begging he spoke again, “Be such a waste though,” His hand squeezed your thigh again, “Cunt droolin all over my cock. Drippin down my balls like a bitch in heat.” 

A flush of heat followed by aggravation replaced your previous terror. 

He was playing dirty– So fucking dirty. 

Bo knew what his mouth did to you on a good day. But with this combination of edging and the cockwarming of a lifetime?

It was un-fucking-fair.

You couldn't stop the groan if you tried, “Don't!” 

The sound turned into a half sob before you began begging. “Please! I need it.” 

If he was going to play dirty then so were you, “Please, I'm trying to be a good girl for you. You're just so big. And feel so good inside me, Daddy.” 

Leaning back into him and nuzzling your cheek into his neck, “Wanna be a good cocksleve for you.”

Placing a sloppy kiss against his pulse point you begged, “Please let me come with you? Wanna come and get so tight for you.” 

The twitch of his thick cock against your walls said you hit the nail on the head. A mean satisfaction settled above the burning heat in your lower stomach. 

Calling him daddy was underhanded, but he was being mean and you really wanted to come. Plus, it's not your fault he got off hard on that kink, you just made use of it. 

The stinging slap to your clit had you seeing white as your vision spotted out at the sudden rush of pained bliss.

“Now that's playin dirty, princess,” you could feel yourself gasp as he pinched the hard peak of a nipple, “Here you are being naughty, but you should be reminding daddy not to move.” 

He gripped your abused breast with a full palm, kneading it until it slipped from his grasp. A moment later you felt a harsh slap against it. The same treatment was given to the neglected one as he spoke, “How's Vin supposed to work like this? You're the artist, should know better.”

His hand abandoned your breast to dig into your hair, knocking the clip sideways, “Actin like a whore ain't what Vincent asked for. Daddy reckons he should pull out and spank this ass black and blue.” 

“No! No! Please, Bo! I'm sorry, I can be good! I’ll sit still. Hold out until Vinny's done.” 

Quickly lifting your head to stare at Vincent across from you. 

Seated in a chair directly in front of the cough you and Bo were currently occupying, sketch pad in one hand, charcoal pencil in the other, “Sorry, Vinny. Just–” sucking in a sharp breath as Bo placed another slap right above your clit, voice shaking with the effort it took to speak through the shock of bliss, “Just let us know when you're done.” 

You loved being creative with Vincent. The two of you being artists was a happy coincidence when you first met. 

Honestly, if it weren't for that similarity, you doubted he would have come out of his shell around you so easily. Which meant you wouldn't have hooked up with him, which also meant Bo jealously cornering you wouldn't have happened. 

In which case, you wouldn't have two boyfriends, a fulfilling relationship, and you wouldn't be here experiencing one of the most erotic things you've ever done. 

Sitting in their living room in only your flannel, split open by one twin's cock, while the other made sketches of the scene. 

Your foster brother Lester was off hunting with your dad this weekend, so that gave you and the twins uninterrupted quality time. 

Bo and Vincent were never one to let a good opportunity go to waste.

Especially Vincent.

He was the more motivated between the two. Just don't ever say that to Bo. 

It'd been a little after lunch that Vincent handed you a note asking if you'd be his model for figure drawing. 

Of course, you obliged. 

It'd been tame at first. Just 5 minute sketches, fully clothed. Then 10 minutes sprints without your flannel– just your spaghetti strap shirt and cut off jean shorts. 

After that it turned to 20 minute poses that saw the loss of your shorts between positions. 

Then your shirt and bra went in one go, leaving only your panties for the 45 minute phase. You'd been squeezing your thighs together for some kind of friction at that point. 

The last pose was to be an hour long. You'd stretched, sipped some water, nibbled on some fruit before asking how he wanted you. The head tilt he gave was beyond adorable, but when he'd stood to his full height and stalked towards you, it had your heart fluttering. 

He cut an imposing figure in all the right ways and by God did you like it.

“Vinny?” Mirroring him with a head tilt of your own. His hand had raised to caress your cheek before it slipped down, past your throat, between your breasts, over your belly button and finally inside your panties. 

His fingers were so much bigger than your own and the texture was delightfully rougher– absolute perfection if you were honest. 

The swirls he gave your clit had your knees weak and stiffening your spine was all you could do to stay upright. But it was only a quick caress before his fingers trailed down through your drenched lips and circled your entrance. 

A strangled moan left you as one thick finger pushed inside, “V-vincent.” His name was airy on your tongue. He must have been in a sadistic mood because at the sound of your voice he withdrew. 

Pushed his hand down, pulling your panties to midthigh before leaving them and removing his hand. 

With a shaking hand you went to take them off yourself, but his quiet voice accompanied by a shake of his head stopped you, “Keep them on.” 

With the hand that wasn't covered in your juices, he picked up your recently discarded flannel and held it out, “This too…For now.”

Liquid heat flushed through your system. It was rare when Vincent spoke, and rarer still when he got into this type of mood. 

Of all the years you'd been together it was still rare for him to initiate and take charge. You'd happily die for moments like these, honestly. 

He was typically so giving and rarely teased or withheld pleasure– you were his princess and he'd give you everything. 

But when he decided he wanted to draw out your pleasure? 

Suddenly, he had the resistance of a saint and the mind of a demon. It was only when you turned into a pathetic mewling mess sobbing your need at his feet that he broke. 

And you'd be absolutely wrecked by the end of it.

His hand pushing the shirt further towards you, kicked your senses back into gear as you took the item. The hand coated with your slick was under his mask in his mouth by the time your arms were through the sleeves. 

With a pop that drew your attention, his fingers fell back to his side fully cleaned. In the next second he held the hand out to you. Taking it, he walked you back around to the couch and had you sit your ass against the edge, legs spreading as far as your panties would allow with your heels pressing into the adjacent cushions. 

He maneuvered your button down flannel so that one breast was half covered and the other was in plain view, arranged your hair, and threw one of your arms over the back of the couch while the other was placed over your stomach. 

It wasn't long after you started that Bo came storming in only to stop when he saw the two of you. 

There was brief silence before, “The fuck is this?”

He'd been adamant about joining. 

You'd protested because this was you and Vincent time. But Bo wouldn't hear it and Vincent amicably whispered, “It's fine.” 

But you'd made your concession known Bo had to play by Vincents rules if he wanted in. It was drawn out, full of complaints, curses, but in the end he gave in when you promised he could get inside you.

Which is how you found yourself here. 

Stuffed, sweaty, and desperate. 

This was definitely longer than what Vincent typically had you sit for. Maybe thats why he was fine with Bo barging into what was supposed to be couple, not throuple, time.

It certainly felt like his revenge with the amount of time this had gone on for.

The idea that Vincent was doing this on purpose was doing things to you. Very good things. He was the soft one between the two. The sweet one. The one who melted when you kissed him. 

He never denied you anything. 

Never took sadistic pleasure the way Bo did. Was as giving as Bo was selfish. He never wanted you to really suffer.

But that was when you were alone. 

And Bo had a way of stirring up Vincent. 

Even before you became intimate with either of them, Vincent had a quiet possessiveness that only ever flared when Bo was involved. 

It'd been a shock the first time it happened, but that was years ago. Now you delighted in his viciousness whenever it was coaxed to the surface. 

You were sure Vincent was drawing this out because you both knew Bo despised being edged. Not when he wasn't the one in control at least.

You'd sit pretty for Vincent– you were his precious girl after all. You were more than willing to be a sacrificial lamb when it was something like this. 

It was a special sick kind of thrill to have the twins both high strung. A shiver made its way down your spine at the thought, Bo felt the effects immediately.

Thankfully his nails were beyond blunt otherwise you'd have little crescent moons along with whatever bruises he left.

The hiss was back, but this time you could hear how his jaw was clenched, teeth grinding too. He was getting close, “I already told you, bitch.” 

He paused only to groan before twisting his fist, pulling your hair, “Stop fuckin squeezin your cunt unless you want Vincent to sketch my nut leaking outta it.”

You couldn't stop the strangled moan from escaping because that visual? Disgusting. 

And so, so good. Now that he'd said it, you wanted it– bad. 

Even Vincent's hand that had been steadily swiping charcoal lines paused. His eye flicked up from the page to the two of you. 

Was that interest?…or contempt? 

You knew which you preferred….but you couldn't let Bo get his way when Vincent was finally calling the shots. Instead, you focused on relaxing your muscles as you chided Bo with a sigh, “Daddy, you can't sa-”

“Do it.”

Your words died in your throat. Had…had you heard that right? Did Vincent just–

“The fuck you say?” Bo’s confused tone matched your own. Vincent leaned back and spread his legs. It'd been mostly hidden until now, but the bulge he was sporting divulged just how much he was enjoying this. 

His answer was quiet, but direct, “Cum inside her.”

Everything was silent for a beat. Until you let out a strangled noise, “Vinny are yo-” 

That was all Bo needed to thrust violently up into you and roughly yank your head back with the hair he still had fisted, “Dont bother askin’, princess. The man said what he said.” 

A sharp slap to your breast followed by a pinch to your nipple with his unoccupied hand as he vehemently spat, “Fuckin’ freak wants to see his brother pound this cunt full of cum.” 

The hand trailed from your breast down to your hip. Gripping firmly as his thrusts turned quicker, “Sick bastard, getting off on watchin my cock stretch you out.” 

Bo’s venom was mostly for show. Of course he went back to default irate settings the moment he was given permission to come. 

He wasn't fooling either of you with harsh words though. Vincent knew his brother well enough by now and you could hear the rasp in his voice, feel the twitching of his cock, the squeezing of his hands, tell how much he was getting off on all this. 

He liked that Vincent was watching him fuck up into you. Probably got off on talking shit to his twin too. Either way, Bo was on the fast track to finishing and he was dragging you right along with him.

His hand released the grip he had in your hair to wrap his fist around your throat and squeeze. He couldn't help but run his mouth the closer he got, “You two are a pair of degenerate fucks. Lettin little Vinny draw you naked? That's some Titanic shit.” 

He had you bouncing faster than before with the effort he was putting into each thrust, “You see this, Vincent?” He spread his knees wider causing your legs to stretch further and him to sink deeper in. 

Your feet had been dangling next to his legs, but now your toes curled around his calves because shit whatever he hit felt so good.

A whining moan you didn't realize was coming from you drowned out the slapping of skin, “See how a real man treats a good little cunt?” 

The strain in his voice told you he was on the razor edge of falling off the cliff to pleasure, but he wanted to make some kind of point.

You were beyond caring, as long as he pulled you over the edge with him.

“A woman like this?” His grip on your throat tightened until your breath was cut off, “A slut…whore…desperate,” each word was punctuated with a hard upward thrust, “Bitch, who doesn't listen? Just hungry,” he paused and let out a grunt, “for cock?”

Your breathy moans and the loud slapping of skin filled the silence, “Unruly naughty girls like this don't get to come.” 

And he slammed deep inside you with a groan that pulled a sob from you. It took a moment to process what he said and match it with the lack of stimulation before you shouted, “What?” 

His quiet grunt was the only answer.

“Bo! Bo! Y-you!” Another chokes sob ripped from you, “You can't just…I need this! Please! Please! Don't stop.”

But you could already feel the warmth of him filling you and starting to leak out. 

“Shut up, woman. Can't a man enjoy his nut for a second?” You reached a hand behind you to smack at his stomach, “No!” 

Trying to shift, bounce, get some kind of friction to finish yourself was impeded by his iron clasped grip on your hip. It held you in place and wasn't giving you any leeway to move. 

You thrashed and slapped at him again, “A man,” dragging the word out to emphasize how you didn't believe he was one at the moment, “would have made his lady come before him!” 

“Hey!” He leaned forward and wrapped both arms around you, “Stop all that, hellcat.” Defeated, you let the tears fall. You'd been so close and it being ripped away felt more like he'd stabbed you than anything else. 

“Blame, Vincent. He said to give you a nice creampie, not let you come.” That had you look up to the man in front of you with tear stained cheeks. 

Vincent wasn't like that. 

Bo was just using this as a means to take out his frustration, “You…you,” there were too many names you wanted to call him and none were coming out. So you settled for thrashing around again, “Let me go, you prick!” 

“Hey now, you don't cal-” he started, but you cut him off. Sniffling, you reach forward to the silent twin watching the scene, “Vinny, save me.” 

Bo’s complaints about you being a whiny bitch kicked up, but you heard a soft chuckle from the man you appealed to. 

“Hand her over.” The calm demand had heat shoot back through you. 

Unfortunately, now that Bo got what he wanted, it was back to obstinacy, “Fuck you, Vincent. You had my ass sitting here for damn near hours. You can wait.” 

That had you shooting an elbow back into his side. In the coldest voice you could muster you made sure he understood he was in trouble unless he let you go, “Sinclair, if you don't get your fucking hands off me this instant, I will not be fucking you for the rest of this trip. Maybe the next one too.” 

The use of his last name let him know just how fed up you really were. That was something you rarely ever did, but the times you did? It meant you were serious about whatever followed. 

Bo wasn't about to risk sex, so his arms unwound like you'd burned him. “Damn, bitch. You don't gotta-” 

Before he could finish whatever he was going to say you lifted yourself off him. The combined groans and messy sounds of you two coming apart was lewd, disgusting, and left you feeling far too empty. 

Before you could take a step two strong arms were lifting you up. One arm around your back and the other under your thighs, you wrap your arms around Vincent's neck and nuzzle into it.

He turned away from the living room towards the stairs as you sniffled again, “I'm gonna drip all over your shirt.” 

His breathy chuckle soothed your frustration, “Don't care.” 

As he headed up the stairs towards the bedrooms, you could hear Bo over his shoulder.

“Fuckhead ain't even picking up his shit.” Before he paused, “Goddamn, that pussy made a mess.” The satisfaction was clear in his voice but whatever else he was saying turned muffled as Vincent entered his room and shut the door.

He quickly, but gently placed you onto his bed. 

Your tears had stopped falling, but the stains were still evident on your cheeks. The need to come was a hard dull ache, calmed enough to be back in your right mind, but still craving release.

Vincent stood over you just watching, not moving, so you made yourself comfortable and removed the stifling flannel shirt. It clung to your skin, and gave some resistance, but when you finally got it off, the rush of cool air on your overheated skin felt heavenly.

Tossing it to the floor, you looked up to him when he still hadn't made a move. 

Tilting your head as you spoke, “Vincent?” 

At the sound of his name, he kneeled next to the bed. Gripping your thighs he maneuvered you to the middle and turned to face him. Your knees were bent, but thighs held together, trying to keep Bo’s cum from leaking everywhere. 

His hands rested atop your knees and with a gentle press outward he spoke, “Show me.”

You made a strangled noise and let your knees fall open. Letting him see your stretched out leaking hole. You were sure it was milky, oozing– just a complete fucking mess. 

His appraisal lasted a few silent moments. You could feel the heat of his gaze as a flush settled in your chest, “You were a good girl.” 

A gentle caress to your knees before he turned his grip to the underside and yanked you forward. You yelped at the sudden display of strength and new position that had your ass at the edge of the bed, “So good, pretty girl “

Reaching up, he removed his mask and dropped it to the floor. Shifting your legs to rest on his shoulders, “Let me give you what you deserve.” 

The rush of your pulse was pounding in your ears, drowning out everything but him. Your cheeks were on fire and your pussy was drooling more than just his twin’s cum. 

He'd never ate you out after Bo'd fucked you.

Carding a hand through his hair you started, “You sure, Vin-” but had to cut the question off with a groan because his mouth was on your pussy. Tongue swiping across your clit with the perfect amount of pressure.

A sigh of pleasure left you, “Fuck me.”

He pulled off you with a pop and a chuckle, “Will after this.” He slipped his tongue through your folds and flicked your clit. Pulling away to raise up and press his lips to yours.

Opening your mouth had his tongue slip against yours. You hummed as the taste of cum flooded your senses. 

Bo’s cum.

The taste itself wasn't a surprise, he'd just licked through what was sure to be copious amounts of it. But what did catch you off guard was the thick viscous fluid he deposited on your tongue. 

A groan left you as the two of you pushed the liquid back and forth, tongues rubbing through the mess before he pulled away. Without prompting you swallowed what was left before you opened your mouth.

His gaze was hot and had the burning in your lower stomach reignite in full force. He looked down to your pussy and glanced back up, “Be loud.”

And he was driving back in eating you like a man starved. 

[lunarlillieuwu]

Good gods I'm gonna write the hottest sex scene when I get home you all have no fucking idea

[the-baldomerian]

not edge-aligned really in any way but we can all agree the idea of an edge-dyad is SO sexy, right

[bestworstcase]

& the punchline is: summer rose is the twelfth librarian. the executioner, specifically.

‘I was employed by the Suppression Bureau to preserve the daylight world, by destroying those things that walk in the night. For years I was faithful to that duty... but sometimes the things I hunted wept when I slew them. And so at last I set aside my knives, and came here, where I can do no more harm. Perhaps I can even make amends.’ I laid so many of those uncanny things to rest. I thought it was right. I fear now it was not. I am the Librarian of Hush House, and here I will ensure they will be remembered.

TWO NICKELS.

[weightlessribbons]

So, in CS/BoH the lore is that Edge-Long are basically all parts of dyad pairs that fight each other forever without anyone ever winning

Edge is the aspect of struggle- struggle, in this case, unending, and without relief

I guess you could call it

edging

[rose-red-ink]

I'm writing Star Wars fic

Hey, did you forget how this is a writblr? That's ok, me too.

I'm writing a Star Wars fanfic that rewrites the sequel trilogy.

All of the main squad has arcs now, Reylo is here (though not the entire fic or it's main purpose) and their dyad is something explored and expanded on, Kylo and Rey have fleshed out arcs, Poe and Finn uh...HAVE arcs now instead of scattered plot points. Snoke is a character instead of a cardboard cutout with evil stapled on his forehead. I rewrote some backstories, it's a fic that starts as a bottle episode and turns into a road trip through space.

Here's the plot summary, I really hope you guys enjoy it because I am having a blast writing it.

When Finn and Poe escape from the First Order ship, Kylo Ren takes off after them. When both ships are damaged, they crash on Jakku, right into the Star Destroyer that Rey is scavenging from. Finn is longing for freedom while unable to escape the thoughts of those he left behind. Poe is determined to be the most annoying hostage possible to his old surrogate brother. Kylo is trying to survive Poe while being plagued with curiosity; who is the woman he keeps hearing at the edges of his mind? And new powers are awakening in Rey, powers that seem to be the source of the visions of a strange man in black, exploring the same wreckage, just out of her reach. Choices will be made, loyalties tested, and bonds forged. Where will they go when they emerge from the wreckage?

(Feel free to send me asks about it here, I am always down to talk about this fic)

[nephriteknight]

daisy and basira as an edge-long dyad. i don't even have anything more to say but the concept makes me insane. (please tumblr gods let this reach at least one person who's in the center of this venn diagram with me)

[dyemelikeasunset]

What about the serpent and creation motif. (I love how in depth these motifs are, it's really inspiring). Different anon, hi.

THANK YOU!! This one is actually an intertextual theme to Mary Shelley's Frankenstein and the book's references to Milton's Paradise Lost

Mor's Frankenstein's Creature theme is enmeshed with her Cadaver/Zombie/Stitches theme. The Creation/Creature specifically symbolizes her feelings of being an outcast and never quite "right," uncanny. The Creature wants to be seen as the Adam to Viktor's God and begs for an Eve, but the true undertone is a deep need to be loved. Loved by a parental figure, and loved by a partner. Visually (and these are more inspired by the movie adaptations), Morgan's styled edges and waves (a very common design theme I use for her hair) are supposed to resemble the signature white bolt of hair through the Bride of Frankenstein's hair, and Morgan's hair color was always an homage to the black-and-white design of the Bride. Her dual buns are to replace the dual bolts on the neck of the Creature in the original 1930s movies

Dom's theme as the serpent is directly inspired by Morgan. In the novel, the Creature reads Paradise Lost, a story about Lucifer's fall from the Garden of Eden. With the Creature likening himself to Adam, the goal I wanted was to show that they are from opposite ends but are still ultimately outcasts-- that Adam and Lucifer are more alike than they think. This chapter theme is closer to the beginning of the you&i, where Dom is still a bit of an antagonistic figure (and something of a Red Herring). This theme is deliberately dropping hints that, despite their eerie meeting, they are actually emotionally similar and on the same side of society In general, I associate Dom with snakes (specifically the Chinese Cobra), but I decided to keep a more generic serpent to keep the demonic imagery

This theme dyad is a little religious/Christian, which has a lot to do with the Christian undertones of the original Frankenstein novel, but is also representative of their Christian families.