#even if it ended up too small for certain details to be visible >.<

[tothelasthoursofmylife]

No more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone No more calling like a crow for a boy, for a body in the garden No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love No more dreaming like a girl, so in love with the wrong world

— Blinding, Florence and the Machine

Happy 7th Anniversary! (+ 3 months...)

Look who finally managed to finish this drawing? Me! Super late but done at last. I had this idea since last summer and thought it would be a good idea for an anniversary drawing. I tried to realise it to the best of my meagre ability^^’ and it didn’t come out too shabby at least.

(The scythe is meant to go through Cedric’s head btw, specifically through his ears... I just messed up there.)

[kykyonthemoon]

Drizzle at Midnight

When you miss his twenty-seventh birthday.

── .✦ Zayne x Female Reader|MC

── .✦ Tags: angst, emotional hurt, hurt/comfort, angst with a better ending, break up & post-break up

── .✦ Word count: 1k3

── .✦ Requested by bon.

── .✦ Masterlist ♡ Request a fic

You entered Linkon City territory just as the clock on the panel displayed four round zero digits. The cool air combined with the scent of passing rain signaled the arrival of autumn. Your shadow lingered on the road all by itself. In solitude.

Your steps were rushed from the minute you exited the train station. On the deserted street there was still a shop open. Your favorite bakery. As soon as your shadow became apparent, the owner delivered you a properly wrapped box. 

“Here you go, Miss Hunter. Lucky you, our shop's about to close.”

“I'm so sorry that my order came so late at this hour.” You spoke while attempting to catch your breath. 

The bakery owner smiled at you. "Not an issue at all. We've only just started cleaning up. Last time you called to cancel the order, I was concerned that something might happen between the two of you. But today when you called again for this cake, I assumed that everything was okay.”

You clasped the box in your palm, unsure what to say for a minute. You simply nodded and smiled faintly. The bakery owner noticed that the Hunter uniform on your body had not yet been changed and realized you were too busy to be certain that you would be able to return on time to pick up the cake. After that, you gladly bid farewell to the owner and continued walking along the desolate road ahead.

Your steps slowed as you moved further away from the bakery. The shop owner knew you and the person whose cake was ordered for that day. Just the previous month, you had spent hours there asking them for advice on cake selection, decorations and other necessary things. All for this special day. But one night, the bakery received a call to cancel this specific order. You thought you would no longer need this cake. But when your mission was over and you were on the train back to Linkon, you suddenly wanted it back.

You had called that very afternoon, hoping the bakery could still make it in time. You could pay more if necessary, but the owner insisted that they still kept my order. Thinking about it, the bakery was a place so familiar to you and that person; the shop owner had also witnessed happy moments of both of you. They preserved your previous purchase because they sincerely thought you would come pick up this cake and personally deliver it to the person you loved.

Finally, you showed up. Unlike what the shopkeeper expected, you ordered this cake just for yourself.

Your footsteps halted in front of a large building. You sat down on the stairs, placed the cake box on your lap, and gazed into the distance. One side of Akso Hospital was visible in front of you. You consciously counted the number of windows that were both still illuminated and entirely dark. You stopped by his window.

The office was still lit. You smiled. Your hands trembled as you removed the ribbon from the box. Once it opened, there was a blue and white cake inside, crowned with exquisite macarons and a glistening snowflake on top. It was just how you imagined when you ordered the cake.

You also imagined his reaction when he unexpectedly spotted you at the hospital, after his shift ended. His eyes would brighten up, even before he realized the cake in your hand was for him. You would sing the happy birthday song, then urge him to close his eyes and make a wish. Most likely he would claim that he did not need to wish, because what he desired most was right in front of him. 

You had envisioned that scene so many times. Each time, you would add a small little detail; his smile, the way you stood on tiptoe when you kissed his cheek, the way he held your hand when you both returned home... But it all shattered, into thousands of pieces of ice that cut into your heart. Like all beautiful dreams that come to an end, the pain of waking up to the discovery that you have lost everything was too much for you.

Let us stop... You could not forget those words coming out of your mouth. The fault was neither his nor yours, it was just that you two no longer share the same destination. The road was divided into two directions. Looking back, you realized that he was no longer there waiting for you.

You had been away from him for a fortnight. You erased an abundance of memories about him from your phone, but his birthday reminder still existed. You turned on the screen, his account was still offline. The last time he had sent you a text message was to remind you to wear socks before going to bed. It was already cold. He was no longer by your side to take care of you like a baby. Was it because of your childish behavior that burned him out? You knew too well that he respected every decision you made, including the one that ended this relationship. Yet, honestly, you wished he would hold you tight at that time. Did he let you go because he understood that you both needed space then?

You missed him. So much. You had left Linkon and threw yourself headfirst into the mission just to temporarily forget the void he left in your heart. But the further you stayed away from him, the more you felt that air had left your lungs. You could not think about anything else but him, the surprise birthday party you had prepared in advance for him. Everything happened so fast—the argument, the goodbye... All was whirling around in your head, and the only thing you could cling onto were memories.

The past cannot be altered. You could not turn back and stop yourself from saying those stupid words. You could only wish him the best on his own path.

You turned on the lighter and lit the candles. Twenty-seven candles on the cake shimmered in the area where you sat. Your lips released a tune, your whole body swaying back and forth to the rhythm. When the song ended, the window in the front office went dark. Lights off. You blew out the candles.

“Do you want to do something special on your birthday, Doctor Zayne?”

“Every moment with you is special to me.”

“You must have eaten a lot of mint candies recently! No surprise your words are so sweet! But I still want to do something for you so that you'll never forget that day.”

“Weren't you supposed to go on a mission far away on that day? You won't try to escape back here for me, will you?"

“I am Linkon's top Hunter! I'll finish soon and come back to you, okay?"

“All right. I'll wait for you."

Twenty-seven candles went out. Tears fell from your eyes. Still, you smiled at Akso Hospital. 

“Happy birthday to you, Doctor Zayne.”

You burst into tears. Your entire body trembled so badly that the cake on your lap nearly tumbled over. You had no idea how long you sat there. The temperature grew cold, and drizzle began to fall. You raised your face to the heavens. 

There were footsteps approaching and halting in front of you. An umbrella appeared to shield the rain over your head, and that dearest face you knew emerged.

You brushed the tears away from your cheeks. Was it a dream? Your lips parted, trembling:

“Doctor Zayne?…”

He was silent. Zayne appeared astonished to see you here and unsure what to say.

“You… What are you doing here?” 

Zayne remained silent for a little longer. His gaze locked on you, then down at the cake in your lap. As if he had realized something, he formed a gentle smile.

“I'm waiting for you.”

[inbarfink]

Okay, you know what, let's talk a little bit more about Simon Petrikov's ears

I already made a silly little post pointing out how the Winter King is drawn with visible ears, while Mainverse Simon is always drawn without them.

And I've gotten a few replies on that post saying that it's probably just a difference in hairstyle. Y'know, the Winter King tacks his hair behind his ears, Simon doesn't. But... I don't think that works if you look at Simon's design. I mean, it does seem to be the case if you look at this one screenshot I here - but usually....

Simon Petrikov's little glasses are very helpful here, because they literally form a line with where his ears should be, and you can see that his hair typically ends just above that point and no matter how much he turns his head there are no ears.

In a back shot you can even see where his glasses handle end, and there's no ears anywhere to actually hold them.

(this is also true when he's Ice King btw)

It's kind of a Whole Thing. The Adventure Time artstyle has some general guidelines of how to draw humanoids' face, but it's fully willing to break them to make someone more goofy and distinctive. Like, some characters having noses or more detailed eyes or even lips. And ears are already kind of a Weird Subject considering how many AT characters wear hair/hats in a way that hides their ears anyways.

Princess Bubblegum is another earless characters, but it's actually pretty hard to notice because most of her hairstyle obscure her Perfectly Spherical Head.

But she's like, Made of Gum, so it's less Weird for her to be earless compared to Simon Petrikov who's meant to be a Perfectly Normal Human Man.

(although Prince Gumball somehow does have ears. Even when he IS in his Magic Candy Form)

(Which is like... lowkey Weird. But still, Magic Candy People's physiologically can be whatever)

Meanwhile, ears IS something pretty consistently drawn for human Adventure Time characters. So it is pretty weird Simon doesn't seem to have them. It's probably a matter of, like, Simon being one of the first not-Finn Human characters added to Adventure Time and with the aforementioned matter of most characters not having their ears/lack of ears visible either way they weren't really sure of how Humans should look in the AT style at that point.

Or maybe they wanted to keep it consistent with Ice King's "Loyalty to the King" look and decided that a Magic Evil Crown that makes your ears fall off is a step too far. Or maybe having his ears hidden by his hair is what was originally intended in his design, but was misinterpreted as being straight-up earless so consistently by the shortboarders and animators it eventually just became his canon look.

But I think also... characters having certain non-typical facial features on Adventure Time is generally an indication that they're particularly prominent. So characters who are drawn with noses generally have large noses. The smaller a facial feature is, the more likely it is to get simplified into nothing.

Therefore, looking at it from an in-universe perspective, I think the most logical conclusion is that Simon Petrikov is not straight-up literally earless - he just has weird freakishly-small ears

And the Winter King was so insecure about them he literally enlarged them with magic.

[rebelsofshield]

Some scattered Acolyte theories (spoilers for episode five)

The use of Kylo Ren's motif to accompany Qimir has to be intentional. It's one of the few themes from any of the films to make an appearance in the show so far and pairing it so clearly with Qimir at the episode's close must be doing more than simply recycling a familiar musical cue. From what we've seen, Qimir doesn't seem to have much in common with Kylo/Ben as a character. While Kylo Ren was a villain defined by his conflict and the weight of family legacy, Qimir is a self-declared nobody who comfortably inhabits his Dark Side beliefs.

So what if it's instead a callback to the Knights of Ren as a group? The exact origins of the Knights has yet to be established but we know from Marvel's Star Wars comics that they are an independent group of Dark Siders that have existed for quite sometime, possibly even further back than the events depicted in the Prequel Trilogy. While they would eventually morph into their own organization with separate ideologies and goals than the Sith, the musical callback alongside the visual similarities between Qimir's aesthetic design and Ren and his followers makes me believe that The Acolyte could be showcasing us the creation of the Knights as a purposeful offshoot of the Sith. It would be a fascinating storytelling detail if the Knights of Ren themselves began as an intentional red herring planted by the Sith to prevent discovery by the Jedi. One of the biggest questions hanging over The Acolyte is how exactly the Jedi missed this opportunity to discover the Sith over a hundred years before Palpatine executes their millennia long revenge scheme. While we already know that bureaucracy, ignorance, and fear of political scandal are factors at play here, the creation of the Knights as a scapegoat and smokescreen by the Sith feels like another element that's in play.

Hell, it even makes Ki-Adi Mundi's skepticism of Qui-Gon's claims in The Phantom Menace make more sense. What reason would he have to believe that the attacker Qui-Gon encountered on Tatooine was a Sith when a similar threat a century earlier ended up just being a member of a gang troublesome Dark Side offshoots. A problem, sure, but not the return of the Jedi's dreaded nemesis.

I spent much of the first few episodes of this show convinced that Sol was a fundamentally kindhearted man who was a witness to a terrible mistake the Jedi made on Brendok. Sol's tenderness towards Osha both in the past and present timelines of The Acolyte feels genuine and I'm not inclined to think that he's a devious enough liar to completely fake care and compassion for over a decade. I am, however, coming to wonder if Sol is perhaps hiding much more than we may think and might be one of the guiltiest parties at work here.

Much of this comes down to Qimir's inference that Sol did something to Osha. This feels like a much more pointed and personal accusation than Sol simply being present for the disaster on Brendok. Sol did something to Osha specifically.

It's obvious from how "Destiny" is directed that we are not getting the entirety of the story. Osha's perspective is shown and the events are confusing and chaotic. The Acolyte goes out of its way to make sure we barely see Mae or Mother Aniseya's experiences of that fateful night and I had assumed that we were dealing with a Rashomon set up that would reveal the truth after seeing different vantage points. But now, I'm beginning to doubt that what we even got from Osha is truthful. Even before she blacks out and wakes up aboard the Jedi's ship, there's a lot about what's depicted in "Destiny" that just doesn't make sense. A small fire spreads faster and quicker than it ought too. The witches all appear dead with no visible wounds. Sol's appearance is too sudden. Too much doesn't add up.

Basically, I'm starting to wonder if Sol used the Force to erase or twist certain memories in Osha's mind to cover up the violence on Brendok. Maybe the conflict between the Jedi and Aniseya's coven started out as a peaceful confrontation that escalated into violence through mistake and misunderstanding, but perhaps Sol is so concerned about the truth getting out that he would go as far to alter the mind of a child to keep his secrets. I've always felt that part of Sol's devotion to Osha comes from a sense of shame, but maybe that guilt runs much, much deeper than we think.

The other big leftover mystery from "Destiny" concerns the means and intents behind Osha and Mae's creation. Part of me does still genuinely think that the witches, being a matriarchal single gender culture, birthed both girls as a to ensure that their culture and tradition is passed onto another generation. I don't see Aniseya's ambitions stretching further than her coven on Brendok, particularly in how she views the Force as a Thread that cannot be pulled on without creating consequences. However, while the intentions may be fairly benign, I do not believe that Osha and Mae's creation was a bloodless act. The witches are clearly nervous about the Jedi discovering the true nature of their creation and it seems to stretch beyond their general distrust of the Order. Life doesn't come from nowhere and perhaps costs other lives in the process.

Now, here is where I put on my tinfoil. Like we're entering 2015-2017 Snoke theories territory here. I think Darth Plagueis assisted in the creation of Osha and Mae. One of the few things we know about the canon version of Plagueis is that he was obsessed with finding ways to use the Force to create life. It seems very possible that he might have collaborated with another Force sect for the purposes of experimenting and exploring these possibilities. The witches get the children they want. Plagueis gets knowledge that he deeply desires.

It answers the question of how Qimir knows so much about Mae and Osha in the first place. Sure, Sith are resourceful, but in order to manipulate Mae into becoming his Acolyte he would have to not only know that she existed but also possess extensive knowledge about her past. This feels like information that might come easily to Plagueis's current apprentice. And Sith apprentices sure do love training acolytes to help get their way to the top of the whole Rule of Two situation.

So what does this mean for Osha and Mae's future? There are many different directions to take their story from here and my thoughts about where they are headed as characters ultimately comes down to how definitive of an ending this (and maybe only) season of the Acolyte has. But to me, the groundwork seems laid for a particularly dark ending that sees Osha and Mae trading places. This has already happened in some sense given that Mae went undercover as her twin sister at the end of "Night," but I think The Acolyte is setting up an inversion of Light and Dark between these two.

Given her newfound proximity to Qimir, it feels all too likely that Osha slowly begins to learn the truth about what happened on Brendok and I don't imagine she's going to take it well, especially if my earlier theory about Sol proves correct. Depending on the degree of secrecy and lies, I could see Osha, even momentarily, lashing out violently at Sol upon learning the truth. And maybe she does the one thing Mae never could. Kill a Jedi without a weapon. We end this season of The Acolyte with Osha embracing the Dark and taking her sister's place.

So, where does this leave Mae then? We've also already seen evidence that of the two sisters, Mae is the woman who is most hopeful for a reunion and reconciliation between the two. Hell, she abandons her Dark Side revenge quest almost as soon as she learns that Osha's still alive. Mae may not be without sin, but with each episode I become more and more convinced that she's not a villain. She's a girl who lost everything is eager to cling to even the slightest shred of hope she can. And maybe, come season finale, that hope might be that she can save her sister from the Dark. That would be a hell of a set up for season two. If we get a season two that is. (Please make it so, Leslye.)

[mrsundays]

TADC GANG REDESIGN

I finally finished the redesigns. It took me a long time, but they are done, and that's all that matters. Now I'll proceed to talk about each of them because if I don't, I'll implode.

I approached the designs with the idea of not straying too far from the original designs, although I can't deny that I went a bit overboard with Pomni's design.

AND NO, THEY HAVE NOTHING UNDER THOSE CLOTHES, ZERO, ABSOLUTE VOID, LITERALLY LIKE A BARBIE OR KEN. But who knows, maybe one day I'll wake up feeling crazy, ahem.

POMNI:

She has undergone the most changes compared to her original design, the most noticeable being the hat. The reason is simple; I find it funny that the hat itself is larger than Pomni, making her look even smaller than she already is, which brings me to the other change.

This Pomni is much smaller than the original, reaching only to Ragatha's shoulders compared to the redesign, which barely reaches her waist.

The third change is the suit. The only things I kept were the pattern and colors, along with the bells on her torso. I liked the idea of giving her a design that constantly makes her appear smaller than she is, with only her head and forearms visible. Now she wears a "tunic" that also serves as a small skirt. In addition, her sleeves and pants are now loose, not to mention a more prominent "collar."

Finally, the pupils - one is red, and the other is blue, both accompanied by black. I don't have many reasons for this; I just liked how the black looked in her pupils when I sketched it, so I decided to keep it in the final design.

Now, a few details or ideas I have:

The bells on her suit make little sounds when she moves. They're not very loud, but somewhat annoying.

Pomni remains just as nervous and anxious, but now a bit more aggressive and impulsive. Why? Who knows.

During the first few weeks at the circus, she develops an intense fear of physical contact. Not only because of the strange sensation her own skin gives her but also due to other events that I can't talk about yet.

She's quite elusive, like a cartoon mouse. This is the only reason she can land punches on Jax without him expecting them.

RAGATHA:

SHE'S THE SAME, SHE'S THE SAME—There are only a few changes. To be honest, I really like the original design, and I didn't feel the need to change much. So, I decided to add a few more things because I enjoy adding silly details that end up saturating things, haha.

The most noticeable change is the white apron. Now it has certain seams all around her body, from her arms to her face, including her neck. Lastly, a small bag hangs behind her with all the tools a seamstress needs, out of necessity, like herself.

Other than that, there are no other significant changes to her design.

Now, with the little details/ideas:

Originally, she was slimmer, but after a small adventure in the circus, she discovered that firstly, she had polyester fiber filling, and secondly, if she added a bit more filling to her arms, she gained more strength.

Yes, she has the kitchen knife/machete, not just to scare a certain rabbit but also to cook meals sometimes with Bubble, the meals they eat after their adventures, with all the affection a ragdoll can give.

She once tried, along with Gangle, to make clothes for Zooble. It didn't turn out well...

Currently, she is the second-longest-serving person in the circus, only surpassed by Kinger. That's why Jax sometimes calls her grandma.

GANGLE:

Same as with Ragatha, her red ribbons and mask are intact, with the only additions being the French beret befitting an artist of her caliber and a small cape that covers the top part of her ribbons. I don't have much else to say; I didn't have many issues designing her—it was just something I thought fit perfectly with her personality.

Little Ideas :D :

As the entire fandom agrees, she's an artist and probably watched a lot of anime before ending up in the circus. Yes, she has one of those pillows with a character printed on it in her room.

Every now and then, she draws the circus members, including Jax, and gives them as gifts. Although she has currently put this practice aside due to recent abstractions...

She has been in the circus for less time than Jax, and despite everything that has happened, she has been enjoying her time in the circus more than she expected.

She can take any form with her ribbons as long as they remain connected to her mask.

Pomni asked her to teach her how to draw. The reason wasn't given, but Gangle gladly accepted.

JAX:

The purple rabbit, yes, he was a bit more complicated. Originally, I had the idea of giving him a shirt with a vest—a contrast between formal wear and his asshole attitude. However, I ended up discarding that idea and decided to go for a 60s fashion style.

The beret was something I seriously considered almost at the end of his design, and at least in my opinion, I think it works well with the rest of his clothing. I had to keep the jumpsuit; it was too characteristic, so I had to work around that piece, leading to the integration of the turtleneck sweater.

And finally, I made him furrier, and yes, he has a tail—a fluffy tail that he doesn't let anyone touch.

Now, you know what's coming:

See that pocket on his jumpsuit? It serves as a hammer space, so if he wanted to, he could store something comically huge there.

He's the best at carnival shooting games. No one has managed to beat him even once. The only one who used to give him competition was Kaufmo.

Don't tell anyone, but he has Gangle's drawing saved. He thinks it's a cute detail, but no one can find out, okay?

Before Kinger's wife's abstraction, he used to play chess with him or accompany him on bug-hunting missions, mainly with the goal of finding one to bother Ragatha.

Once, Zooble called him a furry. Jax locked himself in his room for three days because of that comment.

ZOOBLE:

Zooble… was the main reason I took so long with this. I spent days trying to think of any changes, anything—giving them clothes, didn't like the idea; maybe changing their form, nope; a total redesign… no. And so, I was stuck for days until I decided to change absolutely nothing. They're perfect as they are.

But, but, but in the end, I made a few small changes. I decided to play with the idea that Zooble is a toy with removable parts, and none of the parts are from the same toy brand; some aren't even made of the same material, with their right arm being the prime example, a ragdoll arm with filling, something similar to Ragatha.

Also, now they have a built-in voice box in their torso. You just have to pull that light blue thing on their chest, and you'll hear a phrase that varies between "I love you," "You're the best," and "Friends forever."

I won't repeat myself with this, huh:

They were the one who had been in the circus for the shortest time before Pomni's arrival.

The limbs they have now are not the original ones; it took some time for them to find a combination that was comfortable to move with.

They strangle Jax at least twice a week; it has become a habit.

They dislike the lake, mainly because they don't have aquatic parts, making swimming very difficult for them. Plus, they have lost some parts at the bottom of the lake. Caine returned them, but something tells them that the ringmaster gave them duplicates.

KINGER:

He's perfect, simply that. His original design, despite being simple, I think is one of the best in the series. But I had to do something, so I decided to add two very small things.

First, a ring. No need to explain; I think it's quite obvious what it refers to.

And second, a belt to highlight the excellent figure he has, even if that belt isn't his…

Don't bug me, you already know what's coming:

Sometimes, he hums a song when lost in his thoughts, but it seems like some parts of the melody are missing.

He has managed to create a small encyclopedia with data on all the bugs he has captured, even with drawings made by Gangle at Kinger's request.

He knows what you are.

He takes long walks around the lake on his days off, perhaps in an attempt to revive memories of a better time, although he says he does it in search of an aquatic specimen to add to his collection.

Sometimes, Caine challenges him to an arm wrestling competition. Oddly enough, he effortlessly manages to beat the AI.

[nana-kom]

Hello 💕 Finally I’d time to write and post a fic, so I hope you’ll enjoy.

This is a weight gain fic. So if you don’t like don’t read.

Leebit’s Kitchen

It all began the day Minho came across cooking channels on YouTube. Ever since he was a child, he'd loved to cook and make food, whether for his family, his friends or even his classmates as a child. It was a passion that had always animated him, and even as he grew older he kept it alive, always preparing good food for his boyfriend Chan. And one thing was certain: he was gifted at cooking, so he came up with the idea of sharing his recipes on the Internet, first by opening a blog where he wrote out the recipes in full and detailed how to cook each ingredient, then as the months went by and he gained more visibility, people started asking him for videos. At first, Minho had been afraid to show his face on camera, but thanks to his boyfriend's encouragement, he had managed to show his face and even create his own community on his YouTube channel "Leebit's kitchen", and today even manages to earn money from the work he does on the Internet. Minho knew how to explain and you could feel his passion through his videos, and his boyfriend could only be proud of him when he saw the work he had accomplished over the years.

For his part, Chan was a producer working in a small company in Seoul that he had set up with his friends. The couple were doing well and living together was a real pleasure, Chan spending his days at the office and Minho at home preparing his videos and shooting them, and when he came home in the evening Chan was always happy to help his boyfriend, finishing the editing of his videos or even composing background music to animate the video. They had a perfect balance and everything seemed to be going swimmingly. Until Minho came across an intriguing comment. That day, he decided to go and see his boyfriend as usual to ask his advice. So he knocked on his office door, entered and headed for Chan.

"Can I talk to you?" asked Minho.

"Yeah of course, you’re okay ?"

"Well, I've been seeing comments like this for a few days now and I was wondering what to do," he said, pointing to his phone. "In fact, people think that the quantities I make are too small and they'd like me to make recipes for more people or even bigger cakes...I don't really know what to do because I'm afraid that if I make too many tonight it'll be a waste...and I don't really like the idea of throwing away my recipes." Chan then stood up and put his arms around Minho's neck before pulling him closer.

"I love your cooking and if I have to eat a bit more, that's fine! And I could always bring leftovers for Jisung and Changbin, we'll find solutions! You don't have to worry you know!"

"I know, but...I'm always afraid that people won't be interested in what I do anymore..."

"They love your videos and I love them too, and I'll always be your biggest fan so don't be afraid and if you need help I'll help you!" says Chan, kissing her tenderly on the cheek.

From From that moment, Minho was determined to keep on making recipes, so he started digging into his cookery books and taking notes on how to make enough, how to keep the taste the same and how to find the right balance between the ingredients. After a few weeks, he finally came up with a video of kimbap, mandu and jajangmyeon which he had prepared for at least a dozen people. Seeing the quantity in front of him at the end of the video, he hurriedly put everything away to chill for the evening and cleared his table before moving on to the clean-up. Minho hoped this recipe would please, and he was proud of himself for having succeeded in this first challenge he'd set himself, and he already had ideas for sweet and pastries recipes for the future.

When Chan came home in the evening, he found the table ready, with candles and the light dimmed from a large dish in the middle of the table, so Minho came to his side to help him get his things and brought him to the table.

"What's all this for?" said Chan, looking at the food in front of his eyes.

"I shot a video today, you said you'd help me make sure there was no mess right?"

"I didn't think there would be so much...but yes I'll try, and the candles are for what?"

"I just wanted to create a romantic atmosphere, it's been a long time..."

Chan smiled and Minho kissed him gently before sitting down opposite him and starting to serve him, filling his plate and placing all the side dishes around him. Chan was a pretty athletic guy and had always had a good appetite, so for a first plate, the quantities seemed reasonable, he'd always been pretty muscular since he'd taken up sport and even living with Minho as his personal chef he'd managed to keep the weight off, so there was no reason for that to change was there?

At the end of the fifth plate and Chan was beginning to feel far too full, his belly had never been so swollen and bringing food to his mouth had become difficult, but he didn't want to disappoint Minho as he wanted to encourage him and show him that he could continue to cook like this. After finishing his plate, he put his hand on his belly and started rubbing it gently trying to digest but he saw Minho just as quickly serve him again and he widened his eyes.

"I think I'll stop here for tonight babe..."

"But...there's hardly anything left...look!" he said, showing him the empty plate and the end of it all on his plate.

"Well...all right then..."

Chan grabbed the plate and began to eat, the truth being that Minho's food was really delicious, and despite his full belly his mouth was begging for more. He let out a few discreet burps before starting to eat again. He finally managed to finish his plate, and Minho smiled. For his part, Minho had simply enjoyed the spectacle. Seeing Chan eat plate after plate without being able to refuse him was just perfect. He could see how his belly was swollen under his T-shirt and how even his face looked bloated, and how he couldn’t ignore his little burps to release air in his stomach. Minho smiled and cleared the table, giving Chan time to digest, then led him to the sofa while helping him to walk. When Chan sat down, he could feel how heavy his stomach was and that he'd really overstepped his limits, wondering if he'd even be able to digest for one night as his belly was so swollen. Suddenly, Minho put his hands under his shirt and began to massage him gently. Chan was surprised but realized that the sensation wasn't unpleasant; on the contrary, it seemed to relieve him.

As for Minho, he was finding it harder and harder to hide the way he found it exciting, seeing Chan unable to move just because of his food and his belly getting bigger and softer thanks to him, made him think he'd really made a good decision. Chan continued to let his boyfriend do the work, feeling relieved and finding the situation just as pleasant, after all having a heavy belly and someone at his side to look after him was almost like being in paradise. Then Minho began to kiss him, continuing to caress him, wanting to combine pleasure with all this to thank his boyfriend for being so perfect. Maybe Chan could become the perfect feedee, looking at him Minho could already imagine himself doing this every day, massaging his belly after feeding him all evening and watch him gorge himself. Yes, he could get used to it and even make it a routine.

Over the following weeks, Minho posted his videos and the number of views continued to grow, encouraging him to continue cooking in large quantities. He set up this routine with Chan and for his part he always finished Minho's cooking, whether it was cakes, pastries, dishes, starters or side dishes, Chan never missed a thing and Minho continued to encourage him to eat. He even began to prepare his dishes for him to take to work, always making sure to give him a good breakfast so that he left the apartment with a full stomach. Because of this new way of eating, Chan felt less energetic about going to the gym and decided to put it aside until he regained his energy. He wondered why he felt more tired. Perhaps he hadn't noticed that his belly had started to grow and that even his thighs seemed to rub when he walked, nor had he noticed that Minho had bought him new clothes in a size larger, and that his face and cheeks were becoming softer.

He didn’t notice either that, without noticing he had started to eat more and was taking more and more snacks as the day went on. He wasn’t surprised either to see that now the quantities Minho prepared for him didn't make him as full as before, and that he always had to add a dessert at the end of the meal to feel fully satisfied. But what he did notice was that Minho seemed even more cuddly than before; he liked to take him in his arms before he left for work, when he massaged his belly he was careful not to miss any of Chan's belly rolls, and he now enjoyed pinching his cheeks to show him how cute he was when his cheeks were full. Minho, for his part, could only admire the way Chan fell a little more every day for Minho's dishes and that he had become a real glutton. Because the thing was that Chan was becoming a real glouton: no matter what time or moment he was thinking about what his boyfriend might prepare for him, or how Minho would play with his belly at night. Chan had even decided that from now on there would be days when he would only work at home so he wouldn't have to go out and his boyfriend would pamper him all day.

Days became weeks and weeks became months, and Chan's weight only increased drastically - he found it hard to stand up when he was sitting down, to get out of bed he felt he had to put in more effort, and a strange thing happened - he was no longer able to see his feet because his big belly was blocking his view. His body had changed, and Minho was the first to be able to detail it. Admiring his torso, which now resembled a large chest, his belly, which jingled every time he took the slightest step, his thighs, which rubbed and stuck together every time he put one foot in front of the other, even his buttocks had grown too large for a simple chair and Minho had been forced to buy new ones. Chan's face had changed too, and his double chin had made his old jawline disappear completely, and his former muscular, athletic body now showed an overweight man far too fat for his own clothes and furnitures.

And what surprised Minho was that Chan didn't seem to notice his changes, he didn't notice that he was more tired just because he took a few steps, or that Minho had to prepare meals for twenty people to satisfy his appetite, he may have thought he could turn back the clock at any moment but Minho had become addicted to every one of his bulges. His boyfriend had become the most perfect in his eyes, and for that he could only thank his friend Hyunjin. Let me explain: a few months earlier, during a discussion with his best friend, Minho had hinted that he'd like to introduce Chan to his attraction to feedism, but was a little afraid of his reaction.

"Why don't you feed him more then? You'll see if he likes it or not?" said Hyunjin at the time.

"I don't want him to force himself on me if he finds out..."

"What if...under one of your videos I asked you to make meals for more people...? Then you could cook more and say you don't want to waste food!"

"But what if he refuses?"

"We can at least try!" His best friend had confided in him, which then triggered Chan's new habits.

It was the game-changer between them that brought them to today and Chan's physical transformation. Minho had finally explained his attraction to Chan, who had pretended not to understand what he was talking about, pretending that we was not gaining that much weight and that he loves Minho no matter what. After all, he didn't eat that much? And he could still do sport if he wanted to? Minho didn't respond to this, contenting himself with cuddling him, he loved to feel him against him, to feel his body sink into Chan's curves, to feel the softness of his bulges and to be able to feel every curve of his body against his own. The bigger Chan got, the more they both enjoyed it, one watching his body slowly transform and the other becoming more and more in awe of Chan. He just wanted to take care of him continually and show him how much he loved him.

Like this morning, when the couple had breakfast together and Minho was happy to fill Chan's plate gently. Chan knew he wanted Minho to tease him as usual. Indeed, as the months went by, a new love language had developed between them and Chan still wanted to take advantage of it, after all he wasn't just greedy for food.

"Minho...?" asked Chan.

"Yes? Do you want something, my love?" Minho asked, moving closer.

"The other day, Jisung said I should watch my weight...do you think...I'm a bit chubby?"

"Are you finally going to admit that you’ve become a greedy pig ? Too fat for his own clothes ?" said Minho, grabbing Chan's belly who let out a groan as he finished his mouthful.

"At least it wasn't me who decided to make my boyfriend fatter..." say Chan decided to annoy Minho, or rather tease him.

"You didn't seem to be opposed to it, in fact, I think you take great pleasure in gorging yourself like the little pig you are, don't you?" said Minho, handing Chan another piece of cake, which he began to eat.

"Maybe it's to fulfill my boyfriend's weird fantasies..." Minho then laughed and gently caressed Chan's belly.

"As if I forced you into it...you fell all by yourself..."

"You said it yourself it's because I'm greedy…and maybe you forced me ! after all you know very well that your best friend didn't keep secrets from himself and that the first day I met Hyunjin he told me: 'you're a lot thinner than I thought you'd be...' do you think I didn't know what I was getting myself into?" Minho squinted, knowing full well what Chan was up to after all, he was used to his new attitude and when he liked to be teased by Minho and vice versa. "When we met Hyunjin and his boyfriend I also notice how you were looking at his boyfriend, he was just so fat too, you too obvious babe…"

"Of course that’s because Jeongin is not a bratty feedee like you, who like to tease me too much and talk instead of having food in his mouth ! » he says while placing an other slice of cake in his boyfriend mouth. "And come on piggy, that's why you agreed, isn't it? You wanted to see how much I would help you to get fat, and see how your body would change ? Or are you still pretending to be in denial ?"

"There's nothing wrong with being a little chubby..." said Chan as he shoved a large piece of cake into his mouth waiting for Minho to respond.

« Of course you’re just chubby my love, but is that what you want really to hear? I don't think it is. You just want to hear how fat you've gotten and how fat I’m going to make you, you just want me to touch you to make you aware of how wide your body is, all you want to hear is that you're a good feedee and a greedy pig!"

Chan let out another moan, this time louder, as he finished the slice and pulled Minho on top of him for a kiss. Minho let himself go, smelling the taste of cake on Chan's lips. As for Chan, he finished his mouthful at the same time as he felt Minho's slim body resting on his big belly. He loved seeing the difference between them and hoped Minho would continue to be such a good feeder, because he had no desire to go back to his old diet when his life had just become a perpetual pleasure between food and his lovely relationship. Everything was perfect, and he knew that his relationship and their feeling would continue to grow as much as the kilos he would gain.

[imaginatorcreates]

Commission for Kewkies (@xxxkewkiesxxx)

Kewkies here asked me to write a little scene about her Welcome Home OC, Sabrina Spool, and the neighborhood's famous painter, Wally Darling. There weren't a lot of requirements nor requests for this piece by Kewkies, and the idea and general plot came to me when out and about.

Enjoy this written piece!

Stitch Some Time For Yourself

14 May 2024 — 29 May 2024

Summary: Sabrina, the neighborhood's resident seamstress, suddenly finds herself under a time crunch to make costumes for Sally's upcoming play. How does she deal with the pressure?

Word Count: ~3.1k words

TW: None

Author’s Note: Enjoy! Also on AO3 as a gift.

Sabrina Spool was Home’s resident tailor. Seamstress sounded more elegant to her, but she wasn’t fussy over the details of her job’s name. No, her fussiness instead came over the details of her job. What was it that carpenters said?

Measure twice, cut once.

For Sabrina, not only did she measure twice — sometimes thrice — and cut once, she stretched sheets of fabric between her hands and made calculations in her head. Would this fabric stretch enough to accommodate her customer’s body type, or would she have to allot extra fabric to make up for it? What type of fabric would the customer want; cotton for comfort and breathability, or perhaps silk for the texture and smooth feel?

And don’t get started with her about colors!

While she preferred darker shades herself, she knew that everyone had their favorite colors and patterns to wear. The colors and patterns, when stitched together in just the right size and paired with the right clothes, made the ideal outfit.

Yes, that was what she was fussy over.

Sabrina loved her job, now don’t get her wrong. Nothing can really quite match the exhilaration that she got when someone’s eyes lit up after seeing her work, nor the warmth that filled her body from words of praise once her customer tried on the article of clothing she made for them.

Well, there were quite a few things, she supposed. A good hug or a gift as her payment, for one thing. A large, sweet watermelon or a tart green apple. Her morning ritual with Llyod, as annoying as he was.

And a certain, little puppet of the neighborhood: Wally Darling. He loved apples with just as much — quite possibly more — gusto as she does. His half-lidded eyes and blue, swirled pompadour were part of the charm that drew so many towards him, Sabrina included. From his hands burst painted portraits of still life and of his neighbors that he loved so dearly. And when he pressed those hands against his mouth? A blown kiss with a monotonous “Mwah!”

Oh, even now Sabrina wondered how the two of them managed to get together! It was all so new, like an apple that just ripened to optimal sweetness. If she thought about it too hard, she may accidentally poke herself while sewing.

What have they done already?

They’ve held hands — Wally’s small gasp of “Oh! You’re holding my hand!” made her grin to no end when her mind wandered to it. They’ve certainly spent time together, enough to consider them dates (to her).

But what else can they do?

Knocks on the front door beckoned her out of her thoughts. She turned away from her sewing machine and paused. “Llyod, I swear if you locked yourself out again — !”

“Mailman! Eddie Dear here!”

At the kind southern accent, the vampiric seamstress turned off her sewing machine and hurried to the front door. She turned the doorknob, then opened the door so only a slender crack was visible. Bright sunlight poured through and she squinted outside with a small wince. Beyond flashes of color and small floaters in her vision, she could catch glimpses of the portly mailman waiting for her with bundles of wrapped packages in his arms.

After a few minutes of acclimating herself to the sunlight, she fully opened the door. “‘Ello Eddie,” she greeted him.

“Howdy Miss Spool.”

“Please, call me Sabrina.”

Eddie sputtered. “Sabrina! Apologies Miss Sp– Sabrina.”

Sabrina chuckled and lightly shook her head. All predictable Eddie. “Do you have any mail for me?”

“Ah, well…” Eddie jutted his chin towards the bundles in his arms. “Cloth orders for ya. Howdy was particular ‘bout these gettin’ to ya in one piece.” He shifted the packages and Sabrina took the cue to take them in her arms.

She knew what was inside: lengths of dark cloth, a few dozen sewing needles for her machine and for her hands, and several spools of thread. Still, her eyes widened and she mumbled “Huh” as she took the wrapped packages. They were heavier than she expected.

“Oh, ‘n Sally wanted to give this to ya,” Eddie said as he placed an envelope on top of the packages. “She said it was important, ‘n to read it ‘a-sap’. Whatever that means?”

Sabrina blinked a few times at the envelope, and at Eddie’s words. “I will do that Eddie. Thank you.”

Eddie tipped his hat and took a few steps backwards before he turned on the balls of his feet to head off towards his next delivery.

Sabrina would’ve waved goodbye to him, but her hands were full.

She closed the front door with a bump of her hip and maneuvered back to her room with the caution and grace of a dancer who was paired with someone who never danced before. Her feet knew where to step in her dim house, and she could nudge open doors with ease. But the packages in her arms caused her center of gravity to be located somewhere else, so her elegant movements were hindered. Twice, she dangerously tipped too far and nearly caused any number of packages to slide out of her grip and onto the floor.

In the comfort of her workroom, she ditched her ungraceful packages gently onto the floor and shook out her arms. She shut her door and lowered the lights down, letting the dimness of the room calm her senses once again. She knew that most of the neighborhood preferred a warm sunny day for one reason or another: Frank found sunny days to be optimal for insect observations, while Julie enjoyed making games that made everyone scratch their heads at the rules but at least no furniture would be broken by the end of it.

Sabrina, on the other hand, preferred the night and overcast waking hours. She was aware that this might feed into the fact that she — and Llyod, but this wasn’t about him — were more vampiric than their neighbors, but no one commented much about it nowadays, so she assumed that no one really cared anymore.

She unwrapped her packages and placed the contents where they belonged, taking extra care to not misplace her new batch of needles. She already lost too many to the cracks of her house and carpet. Even when she does her customary sweep of her workroom with a magnet (also from Howdy’s), at least one needle would surprise her when walking barefoot.

Then again, sometimes they would surprise Llyod.

But she couldn’t have any stray needles surprise any of her customers. That would lower her customer service for sure.

Sabrina’s eyes glanced over the letter Sally wrote for her. The playwright’s circular handwriting on the envelope said “To: Sabirella”, and underneath it said “Read ASAP” almost as if Sally didn’t trust Eddie to remember to tell Sabrina to do so.

Sabrina’s nose wrinkled at the elongated version of her name, but she’s long gotten used to the fallen star’s quirks. “Please, it’s Sabrina,” she murmured to herself as she opened the envelope and read the letter inside. For everything that Sally was, at least she was trying to understand what did and didn’t work when trying to communicate with Sabrina. The star’s bright aura — literally and figuratively — drained Sabrina’s energy quicker than she could drain fruit of its juice.

Dearest Sabirella,

I’m sure that you remember my request for your work last month. I remember it like it was yesterday: I, Sally Starlet, gracing you with my presence to craft costumes for my upcoming petrifying play. I can still see your eyes squinting and widening as I slipped you the list of costumes I required.

Now, I know that I said that I’d give you as much time as possible.

Darling, that’s changed.

I need what you have as best as you can by the end of this week. It’s a shame, but I will settle for simplified designs if that is what will work. Your payment will still be front row seats to the play where I’ll be featuring your costumes.

I’ll be expecting the gothic garbs soon.

Sincerely,

Sally

Sabrina paused. She read the letter again. Once more for good measure.

The letter’s edges started to crumple as the seamstress’s fingers gripped the paper with more force than necessary. “A week?” she whispered. “I thought I had two weeks. You– Sally!”

Almost as if the star herself was here instead of the letter in her place, flourishing her hands and beaming from her rays, the vampire felt her energy drain. Her pep and love towards her work left her and was replaced with only a burning annoyance.

“By the end of this week? And simplified?” she hissed. “When I had plenty of plans to give only the best?” She slammed the letter down onto her work desk, causing the items on top to rattle and move slightly from the force. “Do you know how difficult it is to have to rework this?”

Sabrina huffed and pulled out her sketches. She viciously grabbed a pencil and was ready to violently scribble out the costumes she had yet to start. She could already feel the lead of the pencil tear through the paper, tearing her plans into nothing but black graphite and ripped paper.

She paused.

She breathed in, and out.

She let out a sharp sigh and threw the pencil down onto her table. “Simplified. End of this week.” She snapped her mouth shut and went about her work.

The days ticked down. Sabrina spent them all in her dim workroom with only the rhythmic whirr and hum of her sewing machine filling the silence. Multiple times, she poked herself with the needles, but not once did those pokes lead way to any larger injuries.

Lloyd quickly learned to not walk in without knocking, or to not even bother trying at all. The first time he had tried, Sabrina had abruptly stood up and slammed the door on him. His fingers had gotten caught in between the door and the frame.

In hindsight, she was sorry. She would’ve apologized if she had enough time, but that was what she was low on. She was low on time and patience, and she let everyone who interacted with her know.

She got her work done though. She projected as much mercy as she could towards her work, but even those couldn’t escape her wrath when the stitches couldn’t work just the way she wanted them to, or when the colors were just a little bit off. She probably sounded like a madwoman, yelling at the clothes to just fit together better. Several times, she threw the shabbiest of her works onto the floor and stared at them with a look that could kill.

She got her work done. That was what was important.

She got her work done. It was simplified and not as fancy as she imagined, but she got her work done.

Still, she yearned to add some of the additions that she had imagined. The fluffy flowers and the drapes on the shoulders. The cape and ruffles.

On the night before Sally was supposed to pick up the costumes, Sabrina was certain that she hadn’t left the house in forever. She could hear her sewing machine in her sleep, even though she was certain that she turned it off and unplugged it. She could feel the fabrics underneath her fingers and she could feel every stitch that she was certain was misplaced.

She was proud of her work, but at the same time, she wanted to take them all and rip them apart. Start over again. Do it better. Make what she imagined in her head come to life in front of her.

A knock on her door.

She didn’t have the energy to answer it.

Her door creaked open. “Sabrina,” Lloyd called. “Your aim better be good so you don’t hit your actual guest.”

Sabrina opened her mouth to retort, but words had been failing her lately. Still, a whole different reason as to why she said nothing was revealed to her as the guest turned out to not be Llyod but instead — 

“Hello Sabrina,” a quiet, monotonous voice said. It echoed throughout the vampire’s workroom and cut through the sewing machine’s constant noise.

She looked up from her work, but she didn’t turn around. Oh, just when she was almost done, she was hallucinating.

Quietly, two sets of footsteps entered. Several thumps as multiple objects were placed on a free portion of her work desk, then one set of footsteps left. The one that left was heavier and larger, less graceful.

The one that stayed was smaller and quieter. There was a certain way that this one walked.

Sabrina turned off her sewing machine.

“Hello Sabrina,” Wally said. “I got you some fruit from Howdy’s. Llyod was also there, and he helped me carry the watermelon back.”

Watermelon. The vampire had cut herself off from her favorite fruit halfway through her work last week, before she even got Sally’s letter. Convinced herself that she would get it when she was done, as a treat.

“And I carried the apples.” Sabrina heard Wally shuffle closer to her work desk, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw him poke a finger at one of the green apples. He hummed and added, “I don’t understand why you like green apples. Red ones are better to me. But you like apples, so I think the color doesn’t matter too much.” He turned his head to look at her as he nudged one of the apples closer.

Sabrina took one of the green apples in her hand. It was unblemished and smelled perfectly ripe. Howdy’s bodega only contained things that he deemed were of a certain quality to sell. So obviously this fruit was perfect.

It was even more perfect as she pushed her chair away from her work desk, brought it up to her mouth, and sank her fangs into the fruit. She easily pierced through the skin and flesh of the apple, and the juice was sweet and tart.

She almost forgot that there was a watermelon there as she dove after all the apples gifted to her, drinking all the juice until the fruit was nothing more than dried skin and disgusting flesh. Then Wally nudged the large green and striped fruit towards her and she dove after that as well.

Sabrina was a clean drinker when she fed from fruit. She performed the actions with a lady-like poise and prevented as much juice from spilling as possible.

But after she’s deprived herself of her favorite fruits for a while? Add on top of that how she had been stressed from the moon and back, and she threw her finesse out the window. Juice spilled from her mouth and onto her skirt, but she didn’t pay any attention to it until the watermelon was a water-less-melon.

“Sabrina,” Wally said as Sabrina wiped her mouth. “I haven’t seen you for over a week.” He tilted his head and blinked once. He never really blinked much when around his neighbors, and much less around his close friends. He seldom blinked around Sabrina, as if each blink was a full day away from the vampire.

Sabrina looked away. She could’ve pulled her chair forwards and continue working. But her hands were a bit sticky from apple and watermelon juice, and she would hate to ruin the clothes. So she avoided his gaze and fiddled with her fingers.

“Sabrina,” Wally repeated. “I heard from Sally that her play will be tomorrow instead. I know that you’re making her costumes. Have you been taking breaks?” He leaned against her and breathed out a little “Oh!” when she wrapped an arm around him. He went limp and hummed, content with the touch.

“I have to finish this.” Sabrina’s voice came out softer than she expected, with more force than she expected. Talking had become difficult the closer the deadline was, until she could no longer bear to. “I have to finish this.”

“You look almost done.”

“But — ”

“I think Sally would not mind if you gave her something simple.”

“I would mind.”

Wally hummed. “I think your work always looks nice. Something simple made from your hands is always nice. It also feels nice to wear. I like wearing the cardigan you made for me, and I think it makes me look handsome.”

Sabrina chuckled and softly shook her head. “You’re always handsome, my candy apple.” When he laughed that soft, monotonous laugh that Sabrina loved so dearly, she gently squeezed him and leaned over to give him a small kiss on the cheek.

Wally’s semi-permanent smile widened, causing the edges of his eyes to crinkle. “Oh! You are very sweet Sabrina.” He reached towards her face and brushed a thumb against her cheek, his dark eyes looking deeply into her own. “You’re very, very sweet,” he whispered.

One moment, the two of them were staring into each other’s eyes. The next moment, in Sabrina’s opinion, was very sweet and very soft.

She realized, only then, that she forgot one thing when trying to remember what the two have done already since becoming an official couple. Maybe because it was a bit unorthodox, seeing how it was only brought up once then never again. She had made hints towards it, but he never picked up on them. It was only when she had asked him directly did he realize what she was asking. No wonder he didn’t pick up on it; he thought she was being friendly still, just in a different manner.

So when the two parted, it was soft and sweet. Sabrina lightly pinched his cheeks and cooed about how lovely it was. Wally leaned into the touch and softly shut his eyes.

That was the longest break Sabrina took where she wasn’t sleeping or eating. The two simply lingered in each other’s presence, asking about the day and the week. The dried fruit was discarded and Sabrina’s hands were cleaned of the spilled juice.

Wally stayed for a little longer while she worked. He was hypnotized by the sewing machine and his hands stroked some of the fabric as Sabrina fed it into the machine.

All the fuzz in her mind cleared and her work became less muddled and misshapen. They were already good.

And the next evening, when she sat in the front row to Sally’s gloomy gothic play and watched the actors glide upon the stage with her garbs on display, it didn’t really matter how much the play went sideways.

She was just glad that she could do what she enjoys.

[diamond-vic]

I decided to try to make a keldeo paper phone case graphic on impulse and I succeeded!! For fun here’s how I did it

Materials- A clear phone case, any sort of paper, scissors (preferably smaller ones), sticky notes, glue stick, pencil, some container to hold scraps (optional, but recommended)

I started by simply tracing out the shape of my phone, and cutting it out. I should have taken the case off for this, but I didn’t, so my initial shape was too big to fit on the inside of the case. Nevertheless, it is probably better for this first shape to be too large than too small, as you can trim uniformly along the edges of your shape until you can slip it into the case. Initially, I tried to cut a little window in for the camera and flash, but it was too difficult to do so neatly, so I opted to just cut a notch in for that section.

I then sketched down the design I wanted, trying to keep in mind where I’d put the colors. I used sticky notes of 6 colors (yellow, blue, green, orange, pink and purple), so I wanted to make the design work with these colors and have it be readable. It probably would have been best to do the background first, but I jumped impulsively right into doing keldeo.

For thinner / more translucent sticky notes, I found you could see through them to the pencil sketch fairly easily, so I had to erase as I went. This also, however, made it somewhat easier to trace out the shapes I needed. For several of the shapes, I turned my phone’s flashlight on and used it as a sort of light table so I could trace certain shapes so they could be sure to not overlap existing pieces. I glued using an Elmer’s glue stick

From there, I used a mix of freehand scraps (for example, the water and skyto give it a sort of wavy look), carefully traced shapes (such as the grass around the legs), and relifting previously glued pieces to slide new ones underneath (purple mountains are slid under Keldeo’s blue neck fluff and pink mane) to form the background. It could get super tedious and frustrating, especially when it’s all unplanned. It’s definitely easier to slide pieces under other pieces when they are finely detailed; I could never have cut a purple piece to fit around keldeo’s little pink ponytail without details being lost (believe me, I tried!). I used an old little plastic clay carving tool with a small, pointed but non sharp shovel-shaped edge to gently pry up pieces so I could glue new ones under. You do need to be careful that the pieces you do this with aren’t too much darker than the pieces on top, or else they may be visible in the final, such as the small bit of purple poking under keldeo’s lifted front shoulder. I also needed to glue the edges of pieces down repeatedly when they’d lift up over time. For this, I also used the carving tool, but you could likely use any small slightly sharp object for this, like the end of a toothpick. Simply scoop up a small bit of glue and glide it under the lifted piece before reattaching. Repeat until the madness is over.

Very important warning: be careful of the glue you get on your fingers when doing this!! If you get glue on sketched on pencil and later try to erase it, it can leave a dark smudge, and it can even generally just leave dark smudges when left to dry (you can see some of this on the water). Try to scrape off any excess glue as quickly as possible with a toothpick or other small tool!!

While I’m not sure what good it would do, I did sort of ‘laminate’ this piece before I put it into my phone. I didn’t want to use permanently sealing laminating sheets, as this would both be permanent and likely make the piece too large to fit in the case, so I instead cut up a clear sheet protector you’d use to hold notes in a binder. I placed the piece in the corner and cut the protector down to size, then trimmed until it could fit within the case. I had to cut down one sealing edge, meaning it only holds the piece between two bits of plastic held together with one hinge. However, this did give me some peace of mind knowing I didn’t shove a straight up sheet of paper covered with sticky notes in there

Anyway !! This actually only took two days total, so while meticulous and tedious, it isn’t extremely hard. Especially considering I just sorta jumped right in hoping it’d work out with 0 knowledge if it would!! It’s such a special invigorating feeling to see the final project on your phone and know you have a special little work of art following you around!

nobody can say I’m not keldeo’s #1 fan now

[bhaalsdeepbat]

Hunger

A/N: I wanted to write some scenes about my Durge and their relationship with the companions during certain parts of the game. This is the prologue to that, to set up the way the Urges manifest and what it feels like to deny them. They're still kinda in blank slate mode. I haven't written in a long time, so it was really good to get this out! The title for this is just for the prologue. The work will be differently titled when posted to AO3. Tysm for reading. CW: Gore, Durge Shit Word Count: 1868

The sorcerer’s sleep was dreamless, a peaceful void of nothing cocooning their useless mind as dawn chased away the stars and painted the dark sky with shades of pink. The sun peeked over the horizon, blanketing the sorcerer’s slumbering form in gentle warmth. The first light of day chased the shadows of the night, until they were cornered and consumed. The sun’s rays painted the sorcerer’s vision a familiar, and comforting, shade of red as the brightness became visible through their closed eyes.

The dull ache of their sore, stiff body finally entered the periphery of their budding awareness. A symphony of rolling waves and crackling flames roused them further, until consciousness struck them like a bolt as it dawned on them that they were outside. Not crammed in the pod, tossing themselves against it, again and again and again-

They escaped. 

Their eyes darted open, wide and wild, as they took in the unfamiliar scenery around them. Sunlight left the world over exposed, details washed out where the light shone brightest and obscured completely where the craggy rock along the coast cast black shadows. The scent of sea salt, sulfur, and burning debris filled the air. 

Their stomach churned with a twist of nausea and the threat of bile at the back of their throat. They gagged, choking on the foul mixture of odor and aroma. Their head began to pound, the world too loud, too bright, and too vivid. The sorcerer tried to squint through the throb in their head and the pain of their eyes struggling to adjust to the daylight.

They survived.

They pulled their gaze away from the world and focused down on their hands. They looked over their palms, calloused and rough, then followed the darkly pigmented freckles speckling a trail on the back of their hands and up their exposed arm and shoulder. Their skin, a translucent, lifeless shade of pale blue, flushed red where their veins ran hot beneath it, but nothing appeared to be freshly spilled. 

The sorcerer gripped their left wrist with their right hand and rubbed the pad of the finger along deep bruises peeking out from behind the edge of their leather bracer. Purple bruises and angry looking scratches marred both their wrists, the half-healed state of the old injuries suggesting they were older. Before the Nautiloid. 

Their brows furrowed as they pressed their thumb harder against the mark, the sting of pain adding a bit of delight to the storm of frustration and confusion wracking their wreck of a brain. How did they even end up on the pod? The sorcerer sifted through their well of memory, only to find it was surprisingly shallow. Only a small pool remained, the rest dried up and consumed by the abyss of darkness hanging over them, cloaking their mind, both an ever present threat and comfort.

They remembered the Nautiloid. Adrenaline painted the memories aboard the ship with strokes of excitement and fear. Their brain had been barely capable of stringing together a coherent thought, but they remember the excitement at the carnage, even as they were running for their life. 

They could still feel the heat of Avernus against their skin. They remember the red dragons soaring alongside the crashing ship, their leathery wings beating against the hot air with terrifying majesty, and then wishing they had one of their own when they were knocked from the safety of the ship and sent hurtling towards certain death. Their stomach fluttered with the memory of their body falling freely from the ship, like a snuffed out star. 

They could recall the visceral vision of their own body, disemboweled and on display, twitching violently on an unwashed operating table. Their wrists and ankles ached where they had been bound to the table, their body convulsing against the bonds cutting deeply into their flesh. Their blood dried and flaked where it had built up over the duration of their torment. They could see their stomach gutted like an animal, feel the tug of their intestines being pulled from their split belly, a red thread connecting the sorcerer’s insides to the hands of a faceless woman who loomed over their convulsing form.

‘Poor, stupid thing…’

The woman’s voice cooed, belittling, but with a sweet fondness that had the sorcerer’s skin crawl. Anxiety caught their unsteady inhale in their throat, suffocating them as the blood drained from their face. Sand kicked into little clouds of dust as they sat up with quick, jerky movements, their limbs moving clumsily. They gripped the bottom of their robe with one hand, yanking it up to expose the cleanly healed scars carved into their torso. Calloused fingertips traced the seam where their innards remained safely encased in tender flesh and muscle.

They spent a long, silent moment, just touching the scars, unsure all of them were even from their torment on that bloodied operating table, until their breath steadied. The panic built in their chest finally dispersed, leaving them empty and tired. The sorcerer dropped their hands to their lap. ‘I survived,’ they repeated to themself, a mantra of comfort as their brow furrowed and their hands balled into tight fists. The tips of their nails bit sharply into their palms, the sting of pain a reminder that this wasn’t a dream. 

Their lips pressed together into a tight, firm line as they turned their gaze back to the wreckage around them. Their eyes were adjusting to the and the world suddenly appeared so dim. They’re surrounded by water. The ocean, rolling and endless, stretched boundlessly, racing the sky before converging against the horizon. In the opposite direction, the sandy shoreline curved beyond the wreckage of silver metal and pink viscous matter scattered among the beach and cliffside crags. Bodies sprawled in lifeless heaps littered the pathway from the beach to the crags like breadcrumbs, leading beyond the wreckage, and presumably, to civilization. 

Another throb in the sorcerer’s head accompanied a flash of memory. A woman trapped a pod, her body twisting with pain, bones snapping and flesh ripping where her flesh suit quickly became too small for the Mindflayer emerging from her carcass like a cocoon. The exact fate waiting for them if they kept wallowing in the sand like a wretched little worm.

With a deep breath, the sorcerer pushed themself up onto uneasy feet. Their legs wavered beneath their weight, their weakness throbbing mercilessly through the muscle. They stumble away from the beach, following the path to where a corpse cut across the walkway. The sorcerer paused over the body. A whisper of a thought tickled their ear. An inkling of an urge and a gentle encouragement as they stood over the perfectly placed toy just waiting to be poked, prodded, and played with. Their blood began to run hot in their veins.

The glow in their mismatched irises dimmed and an ache of dark yearning stirred in the recesses of their mangled head, awaking to the same bright, new world the sorcerer did.  

They managed to crouch down with some grace, forked tail whipping dangerously behind them. They were hesitant at first, but the moment their palm pressed against the corpse’s belly, the sorcerer’s darker appetite stirred with pleasurable little pulses. Each pulse of heat emanating from their core was accompanied by flashes of a thousand different dead, all felled at their savage hand. A smile tugged at the corner of their lips, ecstasy twisting their round features with delight. 

The joints in the sorcerer’s fingers began to pop and elongate. The ends of their fingers began to blend together, a blue to black ombre where their calloused fingertips turned to hard, sharp talons. Their claws easily pierced the layers of fabric and flesh protecting the corpse’s innards, sending more pleasurable tingles to their very core. With a hungry lick of their lips, the sorcerer wiggled their fingers with a rabid appreciation for the way their claws easily pierced the carrion, the decaying flesh tugging and pulling like fabric with each twitch of their talons. The putrid scent of decay perfumed the air as the desire to poke, prod, and play festered in the back of their mind.

They aren’t sure how much time passed before a soft groan drifted across the silence, pulling their thoughts away from the bliss of playing with the corpse beneath them and toward the bountiful harvest waiting to be plucked. They dragged their hungry gaze along the length of the sandy shores to the Half-Elf lay unconscious. The sorcerer was anything but graceful when they scrambled across the sand on their hands and knees, clawing their way towards the slumbering woman before they could even think. 

Shadowheart’s chest rose and fell with the steady beat of slumber, her expression softened in her unconscious state. The sorcerer’s hands shook - and they weren’t sure if it was from fear or excitement - as their gaze devoured the sight of the helpless creature sleeping in the dirt. The blood whispers became a murmur, then a howl, stirring excitedly with a loud fervor when the sorcerer realized the cleric was unharmed.

Perfectly unharmed and deliciously vulnerable.

They wanted to reach out, but the threat of control slipping from their weakened grasp froze them in place. Shadowheart was the perfect morsel, placed among the wreckage to be devoured before the sorcerer devoured the rest. The call for death became a murmur, then crescendoed with a cacophony of screams for blood and death, demanding them to conquer, to devour. The volume hurt, swallowing up their thoughts until the desire for death became their own. 

The sorcerer’s clawed hands twitched with excitement, sharpened talons scraping against sand and rock. Pleasure and heat washed over them in waves as they indulged the thoughts of temptation. The thought of wrapping their fingers around this creature’s little neck and squeezing until the cleric’s radiance was snuffed from this dull world danced at the back of their mind, threatening to consume them if they didn’t get themself together.

“Wretched thing,” they growled to themself, voice raspy. The sorcerer shoved themself up onto their feet and cradled their hands against their chest, recoiling from the tainted thoughts. Repulsion burned in their veins as they took a few steps back, threatening to burn out their resolve to spare the cleric. Their stomach churned with the threat of retching until whatever goodness lingered in them had been expelled.

Their claws began to shrink back to fingernails as the sorcerer lifted the back of one hand to their mouth. They swallowed hard, biting back bloodlust and bile, then took a firm step over Shadowheart’s body. Their entire body shook, sharp teeth gnashing rabidly, the struggle to maintain control reverberating through every cell in their body.

“I’m sorry.” Their voice was barely a whisper, the apology spilling clumsily, the words foreign on their tongue. Without sparing the cleric a second glance, the sorcerer trudged forward, putting distance between them and temptation. As they followed the rocky beachline toward the wreckage among the crags, the scream for death in their veins hushed to a cold whisper, easier to ignore, but a constant reminder of the rot threatening to eat them from the inside out.

[secretkeeper13]

Christmas, Interrupted

It’s been ages since I’ve posted anything— return to the office and real life this past year has been an adjustment, to say the least. But somehow, I managed to write this silly, smutty fic for the Harry/Ginny Discord Incognito Elf fic exchange for the lovely, kind @sweeethinny. A true Christmas miracle!

First part below, full fic on Ao3.

23 December, 1998

The thrum of anticipation radiated throughout platform nine and three quarters, the voices of anxious parents and excited children echoing off the domed ceiling and the brick walls adorned with boughs of holly.

“There it is!” a child shouted, running down the platform. Harry’s heart quickened as the scarlet engine of the Hogwarts express became visible, thick steam billowing out of the stack and into the chilly air. Next to him, Ron rocked up onto his toes, trying to make out the blurry faces through the windows.

“They’ll probably be the last off the train,” Ron said, with a tone of fond exasperation, raising his voice over the hiss of the brakes. “You know Hermione, she’ll think it’s her responsibility as Head Girl to make sure every bloody first year is off the train and accounted for before she’ll leave.”

“Don’t think she’s wrong there, mate,” replied Harry wryly, though he understood Ron’s eagerness far too well.

He hadn’t seen Ginny in nearly two months, since a painfully short reunion in Hogsmeade at the end of October. Of course, he’d gone much longer without seeing Ginny in the past, but he quickly realized that it was much harder (literally and figuratively) to endure their separation now that they were properly together.

At the Burrow during the summer, though they had to be discreet, it was easy enough for Harry to slip down to Ginny’s room under the cloak once everyone else had gone to bed and be back in his bed before anyone woke. And so, Harry had become accustomed to engaging in certain activities on a fairly regular basis. But after just two months of shagging the girl of his dreams, Ginny returned to Hogwarts, and they were forced off being together, cold turkey.

Time apart had made them rather desperate, and with far more attention than either had ever paid to their Hogwarts timetables, Harry and Ginny had carefully planned the Christmas holiday to ensure they would be able to spend as much time alone as possible together. It was not an easy feat, considering that Ginny’s presence was expected at the Burrow, and Harry would rather face a bevy of Death Eaters than ask Mrs. Weasley if Ginny could spend the night alone with him at Grimmauld Place while she was still a Hogwarts student. And so, through the exchange of many letters, they’d planned and prepared, making a foolproof schedule for the Christmas holidays with diligence and attention to detail that even Hermione would be proud of, Harry thought, suppressing a snort of laughter.

As the air around them grew thicker with steam and louder from the sounds of happy reunions, Harry scanned the cars, looking for Ginny.

Ron spotted her first, his height working to his advantage on the crowded platform. “Ginny,” he called, with a wave.

Harry’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of Ginny, running towards him, her long red hair flowing behind her, eyes blazing. She threw her arms around him, and he pulled her tightly to him. Time stopped, as it always did when they kissed— Harry lost himself in the feel of her fingers in his hair, her small body pressed against him, her familiar scent, like flowers and flying and home—

“Oi,” Ron called, causing them to pull apart. “Nice to see you too,” he said sarcastically to Ginny.

She rolled her eyes and stepped away from Harry to give her brother a hug. “Hermione should be out in a moment, she was just making sure that everyone was off the train,” she said. “And nice to see you, idiot.”

Ron grinned down at her. “Knew you missed me.”

“Not as much as Hermione did,” she replied, nudging Ron towards the farthest car, where Hermione was stepping out onto the platform.

Ron ran to Hermione with a whoop, and when he reached her, he hugged her around the waist. Harry looked away as the two began snogging in earnest.

“Bloody hypocrite,” Ginny grumbled.

Harry embraced her again and walked her a few steps backwards towards the brick wall, the platform growing emptier by the moment. He leaned down and kissed her, his lips parting, relishing her quiet gasp as he pressed her towards the wall, the feel of her breasts pressed against his chest making him desperate for them to be alone.

“Let’s skip dinner at the Burrow and just go to yours,” Ginny murmured as Harry pulled back, his trousers already starting to feel tight.

He raised his brow, trying to ignore his body, which was fervently in agreement with hers. “That’ll go over well, considering Charlie’s just got in and your whole family is waiting to see you,” said Harry, the sarcasm apparent in his tone. He stroked down her cheek gently, tilting her chin up to look at him. “Besides, we’ve got a plan, remember?”

Ginny sighed, dropping her chin slightly to place a quick kiss on his fingers. “Right, stick to the plan, I suppose.”

“Stick to the plan,” Harry echoed, trying to ignore the electricity coursing through his body from the barest brush of her lips upon his fingers.

“Someone should record that for posterity,” Hermione interrupted, her smile broad and cheeks very flushed.

“What plan?” asked Ron, who approached behind her, pulling Hermione’s and Ginny’s trunks.

Harry laughed as Hermione pulled him into a hug, purposefully ignoring Ron’s remark.

Only Ginny knew of their well-crafted plan for the first night of the holidays: dinner at the Burrow, then after, he’d bring her to Grimmauld Place, ostensibly to ‘show her the renovations,’ but in reality, to have their own private reunion before she returned to the Burrow for bed.

“Harry and I’ve got to go to the Burrow for dinner, remember,” Ginny said smoothly.

“Right, Charlie can’t wait to see you. Better have your broomstick ready, he said wants to put the Quidditch captain through her paces.” Ron grinned, setting the trunk next to Ginny.

Ginny snorted. “I’ll fly circles around him, there’s no way he’s in shape.”

“We’ve got to go to my parents, Ron, they’re expecting us for dinner, remember?”

“Course I remember,” Ron said, hitching up Hermione’s trunk as they reached the apparition point before placing a shrinking charm on it. “Harry, don’t wait up for me at Grimmauld, I won’t be back until late.”

“We’ll see you at Christmas,” Hermione said, and she and Ron disapparated.

“Come on, we’d better get to the Burrow.” Harry turned towards Ginny, resisting the strong urge to sod it all and just go back to Grimmauld Place.

“Do we have to?” Ginny trailed her hand down Harry’s arm, her fingers swirling over his bicep, causing a swooping sensation low in his stomach. “We could pop over to yours for a minute and no one would be the wiser.” Her eyes gleamed as they met his.

Body still tingling from her touch, Harry swallowed, fighting back the temptation to take her home with him immediately.

“We can’t, your whole family is waiting for us for dinner. And they all know what time the Hogwarts Express gets in, it’d be obvious.” Harry sighed. “But we’ll leave as soon as dinner’s over.”

“Good. Because I can’t wait to see the renovations,” Ginny replied, with a knowing grin.

“We’ll definitely start the tour in the bedroom.” Harry tried to keep his face deadpan, but Ginny’s laughter was infectious.

Continue reading on Ao3

[rachthepoet]

Cherry Analysis 🍒

Chérry, the catalyst. Harry's prettiest baby she is, but concurrently catalytic — for the backing voice peppers the track like the low-hanging fruit of a cherry tree, and the harvested details amp the appetite to indulge in the Fine Line album. And, we've only hit the surface of this piece's mastery, too often overlooked due to its divisive ending, which is tragic. The song's title not only builds on the artist's evergrowing fruit charcuterie but is ridiculously close to the French translation for my dearest and/or my baby, ma Chérie — connecting the plea we hear him beg perpetually.

Harry's prettiest baby. A painting of vulnerability, humanity, and storytelling. It's that tapestry of memories — though messy and imperfect from certain corners of the exhibit hall — that one can't stop themselves from luxuriating in. Even as it causes nothing but agony to experience devastating heartbreak all over again. It's a heart song, the type of song that people feel in their hearts before even making it to the end. The pain of still being in love with someone who's already moved on, and stuck watching them be their best with another. Masking the pain in feeble attempts, but unraveling as it comes out in bursts unwarned.

Here's a deep dive into Harry Styles' Cherry, from a poet. And one of my favorites to praise. Below Sunflower, though. Of course.🍒

Rhymes, Patsy Cline, & Word to the Wise

Oh boy, you get to have fun with the poet today! Because first things first, let's talk rhyme schemes — such an essential pillar in the structure of this piece, that far too many don't appreciate. Or, maybe they just don't see it like the poets do — but, that's why I'll explain it all, detail by little detail. Further down, in the ever-notable LYRIC PULL APART section, there's some color coding going on. I personally have always found it easier to understand and identify rhymes visually — and making it clear and visible to you is so important. It seems like something relatively simple to an untrained eye, but, you see, that's the catch in it all — it's a way of speaking without directly speaking, as in the piece he tries to suppress feelings while pain, jealousy, and heartbreak bubble under the surface.

Note that the chorus' rhyme scheme remains consistent, like a control group, an anchor to keep him stable on the ground. This coincides with the language in the chorus being straightforward, while the verses can be less cohesive, allowing room for the writer to play around in his storytelling. This is where the consuming emotions are bubbling under his surface, which mirrors how, as the verses move along, the rhyme scheme gets weaker (more conversational, more casual, more messy) in contrast. Naturally, as we hit each part of the song, I'll give you greater detail, but I wanted to offer some summarization to warm you up to the idea. Yeah?

For a long while, Cherry has had this association in my mind with Patsy Cline's She's Got You. Cline's song is about a woman yearning and mourning over a lost love by looking back through old photographs and possessions that remind her of what's been lost. The drastically too short piece is a lament about how someone else has the love she lost or the love she let go, and all that remains are these small things and small memories. I believe Harry's piece — especially amplified in the chorus — holds a similar sentiment and story. However, Cherry seems adamant about focusing on just one little thing that meant so much to him — the nickname: dearest, baby, chérie. He selfishly wants to keep this exclusive to himself all while watching the other give their love to someone else. He doesn't want to lose it like he lost them. Both of these pieces are framed and executed eloquently, and I adore them both, so maybe it's only natural for me to draw a connecting line — but I wanted to mention it anyhow.

And, lastly, a word to the wise. I know this piece to be one of Harry's that gets caught in discourse routinely, whether there's those name-dropping or others' encroaching nature with theorizations. Here's a gentle reminder that we will not engage in that nature here. Given, that the principle I'm about to discuss applies to every song I analyze from Harry's collection and beyond, but, for some reason, it felt extra fitting to say it here especially.

A fundamental rule of songs and their accompanying analyses is that songs are practically never about anyone other than the songwriter and/or the speaker. Sure, other people might be included as a vehicle to conceptualize feelings, ideas, or experiences to add more detail — but it's never solely about the other. Think about it this way — when one's watching musical theater, a character onstage will be singing about a character offstage, but the audience's focus is on the character onstage amid their monologue. Even though the character is singing about someone else, the subject is not in view, so your focus shouldn't be on the other.

Once one comes to this realization, seeing this song without a clouded lens, the experience becomes much more nuanced. Bringing it back in, the big picture of Cherry is an internal struggle — and the storyline just supports the big picture, all the little details that inject life into it. Little supportive pillows uplift the core idea. It's not about the ex-lover in question, and not about the action, but, rather, it's about the writer's reaction! Get it? Good! :)

Lyric Pull Apart

[INTRO] Coucou

A hello to the listeners — looking into the translation, multiple possibilities come up, but given the context, I'm sticking to the intention of a greeting. Coucou leans more toward an informal greeting, between those familiar, which helps solidify an existing relationship between our speaker and the haunting voice present behind him. This voice is intrusive, following him throughout, as he's using the song as a processing stage. Attempting to push down and drown his feelings about the situation. This conclusion can also be discovered in how Cherry has a conflicting feel to its instrumentals — happy and sad together, at once. Could even go forth and say "balancing on a fine line", eh? Representative of the conflict present in the speaker himself, but gosh, I'm just getting too ahead of myself now. Gotta leave you something to discover, don't I?

[CHORUS] Don't you call him baby We're not talking lately Don't call him what you used to call me

As mentioned prior, the color indicates a rhyme scheme, and the chorus rhyme scheme will remain consistent. A control group, an anchor to keep him stable on the ground. But, now let's grant a deeper perspective into that. The repetition of the chorus, of this controlled rhyme scheme, is a way of the speaker trying to pull himself back from his own disaster. Trying to calm himself and keep a hold of his emotions as they bubble — the constant battle of these emotions to push to the frontlines is executed in the verses, and their differing rhyme schemes.

[VERSE 1] I, I confess I can tell that you are at your best I'm selfish so I'm hating it I noticed that There's a piece of you in how I dress Take it as a compliment

The first half of the verse holds strong to its rhyme structure, as listeners witness a moment more petty than pathetic through words. Sure, the speaker's not happy, far from it, but refuses to admit (directly) that he's missing them. The rhyme structure in the first half is stronger & more routine in comparison to the second half, resembling the speaker holding himself together more. Best and Confess (green) share the "es" sound, the main rhyme, with Tell That and Selfish (purple) sharing an "el" sound, the supporting rhyme. The purple emphasizes the green!

I, I confess / I can tell that you are at your best: The realization that someone you cared about so deeply is now at their best with someone who isn't you. A confession to oneself about the realization, and letting it hit right in the heart and the pit of the stomach. This line really hurts to me. Lyrically, a relatively simple line. But meaning? Surpasses. And this supports my notion that Cherry is focused on an internal battle rather than the person he's referencing.

I'm selfish so I'm hating it: This admittance is another piece in speaking to one's own internal structure and echoes 2017's Woman where he also admitted his jealous tendencies, and being selfish in said jealousy. Once more, we as listeners have found ourselves as spectators to the speaker's internal battle about the hurt he's experiencing time and time again.

The second half of the verse is when some unraveling occurs, coinciding with the admission of how much of an impact the other has had on him. The existing rhyme scheme continues with the "es" sound (green), with Noticed and Dress, creating a flow from one feeling to the next. Then, there's a playing rhyme that starts at the end of the second line, emphasizing the "et" sound in It and Compliment (blue) — but, the rhyme is interrupted subtly by the n. This mimics the speaker's feelings as both he and the rhyme begin to crack. In addition, the secondary rhyme (purple) is lost, creating a weaker structure than previously.

I noticed that / There's a piece of you in how I dress: There's an eloquence to this line, and I often struggle to put into words just how deep my admiration goes for it — guess I'll start with how I love when scenes are painted with lyrics. Like, you can picture so much within one singular line. Whether an accessory or piece of clothing they left at his house. Whether it's watching one's style soon melt into one's significant other's. Whether — delving into the more abstract — getting dressed in his normal routine and there are still pieces of them in every step. And, to take it further in the symbolic and abstract direction, one can even spark up a debate on how the way one dresses connects to identity — therefore, he's speaking of how there are still pieces of them left in himself.

Take it as a compliment: Naturally, this is a complimenting line to the lyric that precedes it. Take it as a compliment that I'm thinking of you still, which comes off sweet with a lingering tingle of that pettiness rooted in pain. Which — naturally, I'm going to keep reminding — coincides with the rhyme structure, with Compliment being the one to alter the rhyme (blue) [subtly]. And, with that being the case, the "I'm so happy you're so happy" façade is slipping down to reveal the truth as the internal struggle peaks to the exterior.

[CHORUS] Don't you call him baby We're not talking lately Don't call him what you used to call me

A return to the chorus, the control rhyme scheme, the centering point. An anchor. With the first iteration of the chorus, I focused on the rhyme scheme, so in this second iteration, let's dive into the words said themselves.

Don't you call him baby: Lovers call each other baby. The realization hits now, how the other person is out and happy with someone else. The realization hits now, how deeply he doesn't want to share this one thing he can still grasp onto from what they had before. It's a moment of selfishness, childishness, and a moment of not wanting to share what meant the most to him. The intimacy. And, in addition, as mentioned previously, the French word for dearest and/or baby is chérie, which is artistically simplified into what we know as Cherry.

We're not talking lately: An admission to himself, within his internal struggle. A realization they haven't been connecting as they had once before, and they're both at fault for that. However, in the tone, it feels like the speaker is placing the blame on himself a little more, as I have interpreted it. In whatever way one hears it, the mentality of blame shifts as the listener travels deeper into the album, to To Be So Lonely, but that's just a little teaser there.

Don't call him what you used to call me: A lyric connected to the first line, emphasizing a plea, asking them not to bestow upon their new love the terms of endearment that were once reserved for him. And, there's a constant circle back to this, which indicates a central motif. And, further revealing — pulling back the façade — the speaker's difficulty in accepting his ex-lover finding comfort in someone else's arms. 

[VERSE 2] I, I just miss I just miss your accent and your friends Did you know I still talk to them?

The second verse's shift is a dramatic one. Something in the air feels different after the second iteration of the chorus has rounded. There's no more beating around the bush, or hiding behind a fake happiness for this person who's moved on — things are now being laid out on the table. And, there's almost a little petulance to it that's very complementary to the song, with a taunting sound to it.

I, I just miss / I just miss your accent and your friends: Now he admits to missing them, and admits that there's something to miss in his life now that they've parted ways. But, it's always in the details, you know? The things you'll hold onto. Your accent. Friends they bonded with together, or your friends to which they introduced him. There are assumptions of carrying out the rhyme scheme that preceded it, with the "es" sound (green). In the first verse, we had Confessed, Best, Noticed, and Dress. Now, in the second verse, the expectation is for Miss and Friends to follow suit. However, that's not the case — the rhyme has drifted away from the "es" sound. Miss is overpowered by the vowel change, and Friends is interrupted by nd. Once more, we're met with rhyme structures falling apart subtly, which only supports the big picture of the song, as the speaker crumbles and loses his poker face.

Did you know I still talk to them?: I love how I've always heard this line, like a child taunting. Almost a bit like... hmm, how can I describe it? Like, you can't take them away from me. Like you took everything else. It's just another added aspect to what he's going through, the feelings experienced, and the overarching internal struggle present. Rather than continue to hold it all in, he wrote a song about it. A beautiful one, at that.

[BRIDGE] Does he take you walkin' round his parents' gallery?

Oh, this bridge. How I adore it.

In the bridge, stylistically, the taunting note is held tightly, but there's a return to the rhyme scheme of the chorus. The controlled structure, the anchoring point to bring the speaker back from an emotional overwhelm (as categorized by the rhyme scheme crumbling in the verses). On a surface level, the lyric seems so simplistic, and will frankly remain so if one refuses to look into the details. I believe it carries a lot of weight, especially within the context of Cherry's storytelling. Even though the line is directed at someone outside the speaker — and one can just picture it said in a heckling whine — it's more telling of that internal struggle over anything. That big picture of Cherry to keep returning to.

Throughout Cherry, as listeners and spectators, we are experiencing and investing in the emotions the speaker must work through in the song's duration (and continued throughout the album, naturally). He's not only admitting to that post-breakup stage that everybody goes through but pretends that they don't — the bitterness that lingers like a cherry that's turned — but he really wrote a whole fucking song about it. He's sinking into the turmoil of this, into the pettiness, admitting that he is not free from this overwhelming bitterness and envy of an ex-lover who could be happy without you. And, something that rings true in the FINE LINE album as a whole, it's a song where we witness the (coping) method of capturing such an unpleasant feeling and transforming it into something lovely through the love language of music. For himself more than anybody else.

[CHORUS] Don't you call him baby We're not talking lately Don't call him what you used to call me Don't you call him baby (Coucou) We're not talking lately Don't call him what you used to call me (Coucou)

Here we find ourselves again, back to the stabilizing rhyme scheme of the chorus. With the bridge returning to this standard of rhyme, it flows beautifully in the ear, but there's a symbolic/metaphoric factor in play. He's not trying to hide it anymore, he's allowing himself to embrace his bitterness, his green face of envy at seeing someone he cared deeply about move on with their life without him in it. And, in companionship with the bridge, the direct address to his lover's new partner is poignant and continues the pattern of the chorus' language being more straightforward.

[OUTRO] "Coucou! Tu dors? Oh, j'suis désolée… Bah non… Non, c'est pas important… Ouais, on a été à la plage, et maintenant on— Parfait! Allez!"

Okay, here we go. The ever-controversial voice note. If you aren't going to indulge in this section of Cherry's analysis with an open mind and heart — no clouded lenses — you can feel free to skip over, but I really invite you, genuinely, to remain and hear me out. Personally, I like it, love it even, and don't understand the relentless arguing that seems to fester from it. It's most important to bring in the context for full appreciation. And, to me, we discover that in the screams preceding the addition.

The final choruses are interspersed with this voice, her voice, alongside his screams. Pay attention to the screams, and each one is a reaction to the sound of her voice, always in this intrusive manner. This inclusion of the voice from the very beginning of the song and throughout serves as a subtle foreshadowing of where we stand now, the voice note. But, I digress — this series of screams, and the final, most agonizing scream is in response to silence. This lover he's been hung up on, the one he's agonizing over for moving on without him, is gone from him. And that idea hurts more than all else. Through the pettiness and anger we witness, there's also an underlying sadness, and it pushes to the foreground in those screams.

Then, in comes the voice note, echoing, very neutral, can be from any day — it's the final memory he's holding onto. All he has left, even the music — representative of his Hail Mary coping attempt — fades. He can't bring himself to get rid of it, so much so that he decides that a song composed from this inner turmoil couldn't be complete without it included. My interpretation? It's like not wanting to delete/remove the few reminders you have left of a person, even if they bring you pain to see them. In that final scream — that scream to the void of silence where there used to be something — he scrambles for a single memory, to let himself wallow rather than be stagnant in silence he never heard so quiet before. But, his wallowing is now compromised with catharsis. And, in all this, that is the beauty of Cherry. Harry's prettiest baby.

Thank you for reading, you’re absolutely incredible! If there are any songs you’d like me to make an analysis of, please send your request to my inbox! along with any questions or insights you might have yourself!

[miyakuli]

Jusant

Climb every mountain

Acrophobics beware, our ascent begins. Armed simply with a rope and three pitons, our character, accompanied by a small water creature, sets off to climb a giant, mysterious tower, where the remains of the past are still visible. But once on its roof, is the view up there up to par?

❤ More than just a climbing game, Jusant is clearly a game of contemplation, as the panoramas are always magnificent and I've often stopped just to enjoy the view.

The tower is made up of different biomes, each with its own unique and varied atmosphere. The ruins you find are full of details of life in the past, so it's easy to imagine what this ancient civilisation was like. It's often tempting to explore the surroundings further, even if it means deviating a little from the original path. ❤ Although this Human city is now abandoned, the tower is nonetheless teeming with life, with its distinctive flora and fauna.

I really appreciated their diversity, but also the harmonious way in which they fit into the universe; insects in the form of moving stones can be good grips but will tire under the weight of the character, certain plants can be made to bud but will wither very quickly under the burning rays of the sun, life becomes less and less habitable as you climb because of the lack of water and the violent winds etc… This aspect of the universe makes it very immersive and easy to grasp. ❤ The climbing mechanism is very easy to pick up and intuitive (at least on the controller). Some might criticize the lack of challenge, given that you can't die (the game is meant to be relaxing, after all), but I found that the stamina bar was enough to add a bit of management and reflection to the whole thing. What's more, while the game is very linear, I found that it allowed each player a fair amount of freedom to create their own route. You can go on a breakneck run and climb a passage in one go, or you can play it safe and place pitons from time to time. This can lead to quite different parties from that point of view. The gameplay could be perceived as repetitive, but as the landscapes evolve, you'll also have to adapt to each new environment. As a result, the paths become a little more complex as you go along, without feeling redundant. The game also offers good replayability if you intend to find all the hidden corners and collectibles.

+/- The music is very beautiful and there are some very soothing sound design moments…but I found that there were a lot of rather empty passages where only the sound of the wind could be heard. Given the amount of life abounding on this large rock, I was expecting more sound ambiance. Only the seashells, the game's collectible elements, really transported me in this respect. +/- This is clearly going to be the most subjective point of all but, in my opinion, the universe is too cryptic, or rather, it has too many details that don't quite fit together. Let me explain. Throughout the journey, you can come across messages left by the former inhabitants, allowing the player to learn more about how they lived in this tower, their occupations and the beliefs they held. On the other hand, we also have engravings and technologies that are activated by our little pet creature (just like our tattoos) but at no point are these elements mentioned in the found texts, and they hardly seem to correspond to the same era. As a result, I'm left with a very strange mix of lore and I'm struggling to fully immerse myself in it, not because I don't understand how it works, but rather because I can't conceive of these two elements going together. And the ending didn't help either, becoming very mystical compared to the more down-to-earth side of the ancient writings. In short, a strange mix that left me dubious.

✖ My journey up the mountain was exacerbated several times by numerous glitches: the camera suddenly became uncontrollable, the character found himself levitating above the stairs, and my rope became entangled far too often with elements of the scenery…. enough to easily break the serenity that the game aims to offer. ✖ The tutorial is rather intrusive, with the explanatory text recurring too frequently as if to give us clues as to how to proceed. While this was a way of making the game accessible to a wider audience, it breaks the immersion and doesn't allow the player to simply observe and reflect. ✖ While I was quite taken with the visual spectacle, I didn't feel much during the whole trip. First of all, I think that's down to the main character, who I found…flat? We don't know who they are, what their objectives are, and their expressions are very neutral, so it's hard to know how they feel about events. Their friendship with the little water creature is cute, but there's no more connection between them in the game than little optional interactions. And as for the finale, it's déjà-vu for me, I was once again left unmoved.

Jusant is a catchy game in both senses of the word. The climbing gameplay is enjoyable and the world, while perhaps too obscure, is rich and intriguing overall. Despite the altitude, however, it didn't transcend me, because for me it lacks emotional intensity, and beauty alone isn't enough to reach the summit.

➡ My Steam page

[toonqueen]

Day 3: Mysterious Duck

Lolol This is a scene from a not yet done fic with Gladstone vs my Nega Gladstone. At this point they had already met earlier in the story soooo. It is what it is. If only I could finish the story lawdddd. I did flesh it out more for this prompt so I did do more writing on it so maybe the whole story will be done SOMEDAY. This one hasn’t been betaed. When I asked to get off of work earlier some days in November for a 'writing thing' instead I'm scheduled 7 days in a row. DELIGHTFUL.

-------------

“The horse was spooked by something in the barn this morning. I was going to have Gus go check it out when he gets back from town. There's probably a raccoon rummaging around in there again,” Grandma Duck explained to Gladstone as they sat on the farmhouse porch. 

“I can go check it for you!” Gladstone offered rather abruptly.

Elvira raised an eyebrow, slightly suspicious of her usually anti-work grandson. “You don’t need to," she said, "you’ve done enough work today. I’m just glad that you’re taking away some of the items from the garage. I hope you get some use out of them." Smiling, Grandma Duck added, “I’ve enjoyed you coming to visit more often.”

“It’s no problem at all!" Gladstone exclaimed, laughing a bit too nervously. He stood up from the bench, placing his glass of freshly squeezed lemonade on the small table. “Since I’m here, I’ll take a look around the barn for you, too. You can stay here. It’s fine!”

Before Elvira could say anything else, Gladstone was gone, running to the barn. He paused when he got to the side of the door.

He hadn’t quite told his grandma the full story regarding certain events in his last adventure with Magica. While he had mentioned a parallel universe where everyone was different, he left out a few details.

The most crucial being how one of the portals to this "opposite world" was beneath the old barn. 

Magica had successfully cast a spell that closed up all the "Negaverse" portals in the tri-city area.

However, Gladstone had a lingering feeling that his alternate self might muster enough luck to open one back up. He hoped his luck was superior, and all he would find was a raccoon.

Gladstone peeked through the open barn door like a cop on a TV show. He wasn’t used to trying to hide. Even as a kid playing hide and seek, he didn’t even have to find a good hiding spot to avoid being caught. His luck did all the work. But his Negaverse counterpart's own luck would probably negate that somewhat.

If his doppelganger was even here at all. 

Gladstone heard the rattle of old metal milk cans shifting slightly. The sound reverberated as if one can had been knocked against another. They hadn’t been used in decades and several sat untouched in the corner.

Untouched until now. 

It was just as he feared. What was standing by the metal cans wasn't a raccoon, but Gladstone’s Negaverse twin: Grimstone Gander.

However, Gladstone could tell Grimstone wasn't entirely there, not in a natural way. He was translucent like a classic ghost. Gladstone could see right through him, the milk cans visible behind the spectral figure.

Gladstone deduced his doppelganger was possibly using magic to project himself through the portal. Maybe attempting to open it from the other side.

There was an out of place line of shadow coming from the floorboards below, reaching Grimstone’s ankle. When Grimstone tried to go move away from the shadowy tendril, it pulled taut like a rope. It seemed whatever projection the Negaverser was using couldn’t go any further than a certain radius from the portal under the barn. 

Gladstone was instantly relieved. The tension and worry left his body. He remembered the last fight the two had gotten into. Gladstone had won in the end. His luck--for the most part--had been superior.

For the most part. 

The overconfident half-goose didn’t feel the need to hide anymore. Instead he leaned against the barn doorway smugly, quickly drawing attention to himself with a chuckle. “Long time no see," he jeered, "looks like you're not having any luck breaking in.” 

The transparent projection of Grimstone stood upright at Gladstone’s words. The Negaverser’s whole "body" turned to face his counterpart. He shot Gladstone a glower that could kill.

“Now that you’re here, maybe my luck will change,” Grimstone replied, keeping his eyes locked with Gladstone's. “How about I borrow some from you.”

“Ha, not going to happen. You’re not really really here. You’re still locked out!” Gladstone taunted, certain he was correct in his assumptions. He didn't think it was physically possible for Grimstone to glare at him any harder than he was, and yet he did.

“Luckily for you, I suppose, that your Magica could cast such a powerful blocking spell. Curious that she knew how to do that completely out of the blue. It’s like she had that one already practiced and prepared." Grimstone cocked a feathery brow. "Very curious, hm? My Magica was honest with me, explaining why she could not undo it. At least I can rely on my Magica to tell me everything.”

“My Magica tells me everything!” Gladstone argued defensively.

Grimstone smirked, seeing that got a rise out of his counterpart.

Gladstone remained leaning in the doorway, casually defiant as ever.

In a split second, Grimstone had moved from across the barn, now standing face to face with Gladstone. So quick, so fluid, like a shadow; their beaks were nearly touching. He gripped and dug his fingers into the wooden barn door. While he was a magical projection of sorts, he was still capable with some limited physical interaction with the world around him.

Grimstone wasn’t here but Gladstone could still feel his breath on his face. His entire demeanor and body oozed intimidation and dominance.

However, Gladstone was unfazed and stayed where he was.

Grimstone ignored the lack of response and spoke in a gravelly whisper. “Are you willing to bet on that?" he offered. "If you're right, I won't bother a single soul in your universe ever again, but if I'm right... you have to open the portal for me." He glanced down at the floor, at the portal beneath their feet. "The way your Magica’s spell works requires you having to invite us into your realm; we cannot enter on our own volition. I understand wanting to keep this one closed. However, there is one in St. Canard that would be nice to have reopened.” 

“Agreed,” Gladstone replied, still smug. He had correctly deduced that Grimstone's form was only a projection. Gladstone was confident he was now two for two in this deal his counterpart wanted to make. "I’ll take you up on that bet.” 

Grimstone pulled his face back slowly and flashed a sharp grin.

“But you'll need proof to back your claims up. I'm not just going to believe anything you say,” added Gladstone.

“Oh, trust me; I have proof. And you will know I speak the truth once I tell you."

Grimstone then delightfully shared the most hurtful secret he knew.

@cataradical here and heehehe i did beta it :3c

[asachuu]

I feel like every time I think I’ve gone too far in an artwork, I proceed to overstep ten times further in the very next one, but…that’s more than alright with me. The more things to stare at, the better…at least in my eyes.

As for some side information, I generally used to draw in a fairly small format for reasons of easier posting to another site and the amount of layers it allowed me to have, although I think I’ve given that up the second I finished this one, just considering it was a lot easier to draw certain things with more space for them. I’ll have to figure out the layer issue if it arises at some point, but so far, there were many more pros than cons to not using almost microscopic canvas sizes in comparison to the actual amount of details I want to put in and have be visible.

Regardless, if there’s anyone wondering how despite this character being my own and me probably being the one person who should have an actual understanding of his design, I still somehow manage to give him a slightly different hairstyle every single time, I honestly don’t even know. I sit there trying to fix it with a reference of a half-doodled artwork which ended up being the first and only time I ever drew it correctly, yet it still takes ages to do and I’m quite sure I always give up on half of it anyway. You could say my understanding of it is…internal, not external.

(+ here’s this mess of a playlist I have for him I slightly changed since last time, even though the amount of context I have provided is…still nonexistent)

[snow-system-wol]

It's been about a week since everyone returned from Ultima Thule.

It'll take... time for things to be more like they used to.

(heavy whump, h/c. No detailed S'ria trauma refs.)

Ao3

Things don't make sense as they happen to you. But they don't have to, not in Ultima Thule, not where your own panic can warp reality.

You can not say where you were a moment ago, only that it is different now. Your next step doesn't land on cracked dead earth, like you expect, but on carpeting. A draft chills you to the bone and you look up in complete confusion – the abyss behind you still exists, but in front of you are fractured floorboards leading into a familiar hall.

You don't want to keep walking, but you are… looking for someone, are you not? Yes, you desperately need to find them.

Each step back into that place is dreadful and searching seems to avail you naught – every door you try may as well be set dressing, just part of the wall. The temperature continues to drop, now as cold as it was during that one time that the ceruleum heating failed for bells on end during a long storm.

By now, you've been walking for long enough, along twists and turns, that you know for absolute certain that the space no longer reflects truthful memories. It could hardly have been this large and complex of a building, even if it may have felt as such when you were small.

You also do not feel…alone in here, and your footsteps grow hasty. There is something malevolent in this space, and if Meteion is to be believed, you may have created it yourself.

You are growing tired of walking, trying so hard to break into a jog and yet never moving faster, when the hall suddenly ends with a single door in front of it. You recognize it immediately. You will not enter, no, not willingly.

But a presence lingers directly behind you, closer and closer, and you still feel that panic that you need to find someone, so you open the bedroom door and slip inside.

There is nothing. Quite literally – just a darkness that stretches in all directions. You slam the door shut against whatever has been stalking you and step deeper into this space.

Only a few steps in, you see him – G'raha. He watches you, unmoving, the barely visible shape of a dark bird perched on his shoulder. Not a single sound leaves your mouth as you try to scream for him to come back to you. The corruption engulfs him before you can get any closer.

Unlike the others, he does not simply vanish and grant a glimmer of hope. Something must have been done wrong this time, because the darkness dissipates and reveals a battered and broken body instead of empty space and a tangible spread of magic. There is no crystal this time, only blood.

Your knees give out, even as you try to stagger towards him. Menphina can – you can't feel her right now, but she'll wake up and she can fix him – you just need to get to his side –

A hand closes on the back of your jacket collar and yanks hard enough to sprawl you out on your back, head smacking into the not-ground of this space. Once your vision clears, you look up and your stomach lurches to recognize the face.

He's dead, nothing in this place is real, you know that. You fairly redecorated His bedroom walls with arterial spray, you remember it too clearly now to doubt. He is absolutely dead. Not real. You know not whether you spoke or simply broadcasted your thoughts, but a lilting reply echoes around you. 

“But G'raha, he was real, wasn't he? By your side this whole time until you lost him.”

That…that sounds right, G'raha had come to Ultima Thule with you, that was no trick – which meant –

You try to sit up, to see if that body is still there, to drag yourself to him. Instead, you find yourself struggling against the weight of a boot on your chest. Please, you just need to see G'raha –

Your eyes focus on the ends of long blonde hair, not there a moment prior. Your master hadn't…had hair like that. The pressure on your ribs increases, bones creaking, and even as you refuse to look up to confirm, the following spill of words does it for you. Zenos has ever had a recognizable voice.

You don't know whether Zenos is haunting you as a hopeless memory, or actually has come to Ultima Thule in search of you, but you don't want to know what happens next, you don't want to know what happens next –

 

Your throat is raw, cutting off your screaming into a coughing fit as you bolt upright. You immediately regret it so badly as you hunch over yourself in agony. It hurts, but past the pitiful sounds you are making, you can hear G'raha's voice – and the sheer relief of that is overwhelming.

The sudden glow washing over the room is bright enough that you clench your eyes shut against it. It is only the radiating warmth in your chest that makes you realize what he is doing. The pain starts to fade from something that steals your breath away to simply a steady ache. He gently urges you to stop trying to fold yourself in half and lie back down. It helps a lot, with it so much easier to draw breath.

“Wha–.” Your voice comes out as a dull croak. “Oh godsdammit, not again.”

“You are safe, I promise – untense and allow me to finish healing.”

You're awake enough now to know that you are safe without being told. Now it is more so the guilt that plagues you.

After the first few nights of waking up absolutely everyone in the building and G'raha rushing to your side, he had simply begun sleeping in your room and casting silencing wards. While that is better, you are still waking him up.

(And making him do difficult magic immediately, no less.)

The glow dies down and you finally crack your eyes open to focus on G'raha in the dark.

“How is the pain?”

You take a slow breath, not able to fully fill your lungs. “It's bearable now, thank you.”

He looks at you, horribly worried, and you so badly wish you could sleep through the night without sabotaging your recovery. You keep curling up tightly or moving too fast in your panic, and then G'raha gently tries to heal new microfractures in weakly repaired bone – it's been like this all week.

You had listened to the important bits, when you were conscious enough for them to explain the extent of your lingering injuries. Your ribs fared none too well and would need time to finish the job that magic had begun – time that only increases whenever your night terrors make you forget yourself. You were already warned that they may pain you for months or years after healing, so ideally it would be best to at least actually let them heal in the first place instead of doing things that hurt them.

And the shortness of breath – in the gift that truly kept on giving, evidently the damage Zenos had done when stabbing you over a year ago in Rhalgr's Reach means that you are stuck at higher risk of that lung failing again in response to future injuries. Of course, the blunt force damage you'd taken during this last fight was more than enough to cause a repeat incident.

(They'd also said that your right leg may… not ever quite be the same again, but you are content to ignore that piece of information for the time being and focus on being able to breathe. You can still walk on it, after all, even if not too far without help.)

You let out a slow shuddering breath. “Fuck. I'm sorry. You should rest.”

“You need not apologize for this – it is not your fault. I wish you were not suffering, but I shall stay by your side as long as you'll have me. Would it be incorrect of me to say that I…cherish these moments when we are both awake afterwards, in an odd way? We are both alive.”

You nodded. “I understand. I don't want to…ask too much, but waking up to see you safe and here is a relief. Especially…especially w-when…”. You stifle the hitch in your breath and try to push the images out of your head.

His eyes softened. “Do you wish to talk about it?”

You fix your eyes on the ceiling. Garlemald – G'raha's corpse – Master – Zenos – the cracking of bones. “No, I can't, I can't – not right now.”

“‘Tis alright, shh, you do not have to.” He reaches up to card his hand through your hair, so slowly that you could've stopped him any time. You lean into his hand instead.

You soften your voice, trying to recapture some of your lost sleepiness. “Stay up here.”

His hand pauses in your hair. “Are you certain? You know my sleeping accommodations are perfectly comfortable.”

“Surely not as good for your back as a mattress, though?” You reach to find his free hand and twine your fingers together. “If you're comfortable with it, I'm saying it's okay.”

With his hand in yours, it is easier to drift back towards sleep – a familiar scent and warm body that is reassuringly alive.

Yes, you are safe in this time, He and Zenos have both died under Fray's watchful gaze, and G'raha breathes steadily by your side.

[fariesoiree]

you walk around like you own shit, always snapping back at innocent people and of course, you just had to cross a line with hobie.

caution! mdni 8.3k wrdz, runway model!hobie au, hobie has freeform locs, rich spoiled brat!reader, black fem!reader, you do nawt get along, semi-public sex, hate sex, fingering reader receiving, pussy slapping, orgasm denial, oral reading receiving, ass eating if you squint (not really), unprotected sex, p in v sex, choking, hair pulling spanking, finger sucking, drooling, cum eating, pet names, blushing describe but isn’t visible

miffy’s note! deleted it to repost! it’s finally completeddd and hopefully okay?? i picked it up so many times idk if the tone is the same. i think this is my new fav, though. to date, this is one of the nastiest smuts i’ve written and posted but i still consider it pretty tame :D if you like this, i’d recommend strawberry meringue! pls do not spam like my blog if you enjoyed it, feel free to tell me in the reblogs

you are so utterly annoying. the way you sit at hair and makeup with a pout etched on your face and protesting at everything everyone around you does.

it is only six thirty in the morning and you’re so loud and annoying. hobie’s head is pounding, throbbing with the aftereffects of spending his night at the pub with his friends. all he wants to be in the comfort of his bed, lights off and air conditioning blasting.

instead, he is forced to sit in your presence and listen to your complaints over such minor details he truly could not give a flying fuck about.

“that shade of blue is not light enough. it’s not going to match and it’ll look unflattering!” you swerve your head away the fluffy eyeshadow brush, dusted with a blue powder.

you’ve been doing this all morning, between taking swigs of your iced coffee from the reusable mug you’ve brought from home. your coffin, french topped acrylics click against the stainless steel beneath the sound of your constant complaining.

and of course, because your daddy bought his precious babygirl a spot in this show for a small cost of several thousands of dollars, every wish and whim you demand is fulfilled.

the makeup artist sighs for the umptenth time. if hobie is tired, imagine how tired he is. having to nearly redesign the entire look to satisfy your needs. marco has to take a patient, restrained breath.

he sets the brush down and pops open the palette to display the limited choices of colors. he feels insulted, knowing exactly what should go where, what shade is perfect for what but instead, he is forced to prioritize your requests all because you paid your way in. god, he hates nepotism babies. “well, these are the options. as you can see, that one is too dark and because of your rich skin tone, the other one will not show up as pigmented at this one. if i use a light hand and diffuse the color, you might end up liking it. can i try that?”

hobie tuts, watching the interaction at his paralleled chair. he’s finished with hair and makeup a while before you. truthfully, no one would be here nearly this early if they weren’t working with you. it’s not an industry secret that you’re difficult, solely depending on your father to garner influence.

don’t get him wrong, hobie thinks you’re beautiful. you have a chance at being a successful runway model simply off your looks alone but your attitude tanks all opportunity before you even get the chance.

“jesus, man. why are you askin’ her? just do it and if she doesn’t like it, too fuckin’ bad.” he seethes, a little less than quietly. his nails are devoid of his signature black color and well manicured. they’re glossy because of the clear top coat and mindlessly flipping through a magazine.

it’s as if everyone anticipates your meltdown with a silent breath. it’s almost certain that you’ve never heard no a day in your life. it carries on even now, everyone dancing around your words and boundaries. no one here has ever told you no, either. they have no plans to, seeing how you slowly turn your head towards hobie.

your hair, a mix of kankelon and your own, swings back and forth in the thick masses of bubble braids. the fluttering of your long wispy eyelashes would have been alluring if it weren’t for the warble that started in your throat. “you don’t know what you’re talking about. some people enjoy constructive criticism instead of taking everything at face value!”

you slam your mug down against the smooth black surface of the vanity, causing a few brushes to roll and clatter to the floor. you barely pay them any attention when marco bends to scoop them up and whisks them away to be sanitized, partially to avoid being roped into the conversation.

“this show is going to be amazing and i am going to be the best part of it because i actually have great opinions. what do you even do here? what’s your job? to make everyone else look better?” you cross your legs and cock your head to the side, glowering at him.

hobie guesses you mean to be intimidating but he takes your tantrum as childish. he isn’t interested in the back and forth, sighing and leaning back in his chair. his long, statuesque figure takes up more space than needs be, elbows dangling haphazardly over the sides as he folds his arms over the armrests. “yeah, okay. sure.”

he offers slow blinks and no further comment until you’re huffing and turning back around to fuss over the next item. the sound of your voice still vibrates and bounces off the inside of his head, soliciting a deep groan and a rub on his temple.

he supposes asking you to shut the hell up is out of the question, lest he want to be subjected to more insults and glares. hobie swears this is his last show, his last time being booked for a gig to entertain the upper class. sure, he’s encountered all kinds of spoiled brats who have people bending at their will but you, by far, are the most spoiled and bratty of them all.

“see. i told you, that just looks stupid!” your high pitched shriek breaks what little resolve he has left in him, twisting his already worked nerves into a tight ball and setting them on fire.

“ ‘m going out for a break,” hobie mumbles beneath the stylists and makeup artists trying to work you down from another blow up. they don’t notice how he stands and slips away from the crowd, still decked out in designer.

his shoes, a bit too flat and shapeless for his liking, do nothing to aid in a smooth passage to the back exit. he can feel each step he takes, even the lace pants that bunch and gather under him. the length of his attire is impractical but the rich will pay for anything.

he’s only greeted with peace of mind when he pushes the door open and takes a step out into the fresh early morning. the sun is is beginning to rise and coax the sky into a mix of romantic colors and the air is cold and crisp, providing his lungs with sharp relaxation.

new york is still busy at this time, still full of hustle and bustle that thankfully drowns you out. it does nothing to quell his headache but he decides that if he has to experience a hangover, he’d rather hand his misfortune over to the city.

his vacation is short lived, however, because he feels a small finger jabbing his rib cage with an impatient pattern.

hobie’s acknowledgment is slow. he takes his time to rip himself away from the outside world, turning his body to face the perpetrator, who just happens to be you. “what?” it’s curt and short, lacing his usual warmth and welcome.

“we’re starting our pre-show run. they want you there.” your hands, covered in silk gloves, are crossed over your chest. you somehow manage to look down on him, despite hobie being taller. the flounce of each white layer on your dress swishes along your thighs when you pivot and stalk away without a reply.

hobie doesn’t miss the same pale blue eyeshadow over your eye, locked under a layer of glitter and gloss. someone must have talked you into it. this all could have been avoided if you just agreed from the beginning.

“fuck me,” he mumbles, hands going to clasp and rest on the top of his head.

the door behind him swings shut and hobie is trapped again, with you and your whining, making the day difficult for everyone else. he shuffles forward, face pulled into a tense frown. he takes his spot in the jumbled crowd of models, all waiting to take their turn.

he blends in with the crowd just fine, silently slipping in between two warm bodies, just as unhappy to be here this early in the morning at he is. all courtesy of you.

you, who stands in front because you demanded to be the opening of the show and got your way when your daddy threw in a couple more thousands. you are almost cheery, bouncing on your toes to the upbeat music sounding out the speakers around the room. you’re the only one enjoying yourself at the cost of everyone’s expense.

someone needs to take you down a notch. that’s what hobie thinks and what he continues to think when you disappear in front of of the curtain. hobie’s eyes drift to the tv, reflecting your slinky walk down the runway.

you’re not all that bad. a little stiff in some places and a little too loose in others. hobie thinks you could easily benefit from some tips and a few days work. he doesn’t think you’ll take it, knowing you’re too headstrong to believe you’re anything less than perfect. you’re definitely not good enough to be opening the show. that’s neither here nor there and he doesn’t care enough about your success to comment on it.

instead, he keeps his thoughts to himself and powers through, taking his own powerful and evenly distributed steps down the sleek platform.

the rest of the morning goes like this, taking turns during the choreographed walk and being whisked away to try on the next thing. it’s well into the day when the sun has risen and the birds are active that everyone is allotted a break, free to grab lunch and return home for the evening.

hobie makes his way towards the door, his bag swung over his shoulder. he doesn’t announce his leave the way he sees others around him do. he doesn’t care to, doesn’t consider himself cool with anyone. he just comes, does his job, and goes home. he’s fairly surprised, although not pleasantly, to see you waiting at the door as well, sporting a pink tracksuit and slip on uggs.

against every sensible bone in his body, hobie finds himself stopping beside you. his expression is already full of regret before he can speak.

you cast a sideways glance at him, both curious and judgmental before punching in more texts on your phone, demanding that your driver arrives faster so you don’t have to stand out in the street. not that you’ve even left the building. the idea of comparing to the normal class in any way disgusts you.

“you did good, today.” hobie says through a strained breath, staring out the glass panelling of the door. why did he stop? he doesn’t know. maybe to confirm that you truly are one of the worst people he’s ever met.

“i know.”

hobie waits. he gives you a second to build on that and maybe, just maybe, display an ounce of politeness but nothing comes. he can’t help but laugh at his hopefulness, shaking his head to erase any possibility that you might be a good person.

“what’s funny about that?” you immediately jump to the offense, turning your body until you’re facing him. you got your mouth all screwed up into a scowl.

the image you give him only makes hobie’s chuckles increase until he’s smiling at how stupid this whole thing is. “you are so rude, you know that? a selfish little thing, you are.”

you don’t take well to being called selfish or rude. as far as you know, you’re the only one carrying their weight around here. “did i offend you in some way? is this because you realized you have to try harder around me?”

“did it ever occur to you that the reason we’re here so early in the morning is because you tack on another two hours with your complainin’?” hobie tightens his grip on the shoulder strap of his bag. he has to remind himself to keep his voice tame, not wanting to be caught in a scandal framed as a giant man yelling at the sweetest girl. he’s sure you’d activate some victimizing tears and land him farther in trouble with the public.

“well, that’s because i’m – ”

“you’re the only one with good opinions. whatever, i don’t care. i think i speak for everyone when i say this, though. learn to shut the fuck up and let everyone do their jobs the way they’re supposed to be done.”

you both stand and stare at each other silence. you because it’s unbelievable that he’d have the gall to come up to you and say that. him because he really needs to cement just how suffocating you are when you speak.

“excuse me?” is what you settle on with a challenging glare in your eye, taking a step towards him and your head tilted to the side.

hobie brushes you off, though. he’s said what he’s needed to say and doesn’t see the point in entertaining this any longer. “have a good one.” he walks right past you and out the door, satisfied with himself for being the one to tell you about yourself.

the following day is much better, oddly enough. hobie expected you to lash back at him after your conversation. it’s shocking when you’re pliant and receptive to everyone, smiling when you’re addressed.

you even go as far to smile at him. you greeted him when he walked in, leading hobie into a false sense of security. he’s so comfortable with your good behavior, he almost is able to forgive and forget your attitude.

almost.

“hobie?”

he’s surprised to get a call from his manager, bringing the cool tempered glass up to his ear. the silver backing of his phone is caseless and reflects the bright white lights hanging from the ceiling. hobie blends into the background, wearing his off duty outfit, sporting a black top he cropped himself with a pair of kitchen scissors and some black sweatpants. he offsets the cold city morning with a thick puffer jacket and fingerless gloves. his feet hidden behind equally thick socks and stocky black boots. “yeah, wass’up?”

his accent leaks in every word, following the sense of dread that something has gone wrong. his radar goes haywire when you suddenly appear near by, idling with the smuggest smile he’d seen all week.

what did you do?

“you pissed her off, man. clean off. you’re not going to like this.”

“just spit it out, peter.” hobie finds himself having to round the corner to stand behind a pillar, his hand coming down to drag across his face. he doesn’t have to ask who the she is because it’s so obvious. only you would be so evil to do something so bad, his manager would have to call him.

“you know how the brand was so excited to work with you because you fit their style really well?”

“yes,” hobie draws it out real slow. his heart is already racing in anticipation. he hated these things as much as the next punk guy but they made him so much money, and hobie wasn’t doing too great financially right now. all his stealing and evading “justice” was starting to creep up on him and the last thing he wanted was to end up in the slammer.

sure he’s all rough and tough on paper but he knows he wouldn’t last a second behind bars.

“well now . . ., someone has offered them a large sum of money to lower your appearances to one so not only do you now walk once but you’re getting paid significantly less.”

if hobie was in a cartoon, he’d have steam pouring out his ears. his stomach twists itself into sour knots, tighter and tighter he feels like he’s going to be sick. peter is saying something, words fading into the background of hobie’s thoughts, all screaming into the void about how inconsiderate you are. how careless, how selfish, how bratty.

“pete, i have to go.” his thumb smashes against the big red button on the keypad. everything in his body is blaring with the red alert of his ending patience. he’s been lenient, he thinks. only speaking to you when you’ve really done it for him. otherwise, he’s left you alone. sure, he told marco to stop letting you dog him and told you off for your behavior but none of that justifies something as cruel as this.

“what’s wrong? get some bad news?” you grin when hobie comes stalking up to you. something like a delightful chill runs down your back when you see just how unnerved he is. you’ve never gotten anyone to glare at you as hard as hobie is doing.

“we need to have a talk,” hobie says with his hand circling around your wrist, smoothed and evenly tanned from expensive skincare treatments and luxurious vacations out the country. he is prepared to ignore your whines about how he’s dragging you across the room but to his surprise, there is none.

other than the sounds of quiet huffs of annoyance, you’re compliant enough to follow him. your feet drag, moonboots scraping against the concrete flooring. the sound just irritates hobie more.

he pulls you behind the partitioned dressing stall, yanking the white linen closed across the metal curtain rod. the small space is a tight fit, boxy and barely enough room to fit two people. fortunately, hobie is lanky enough to squeeze anywhere, unaffected with the way you puff your chest to seem more intimidating than you are.

his arms are crossed ever so tightly over his chest and yours are planted over your hips. neither of you say a word to the other, staring each other down in a silent battle of dominance.

“did you get me cut down from the show?” hobie finally spits out. his blood is boiling and he doesn’t have the time to play this game with you.

“and if i did?” you snap back with a provoking swivel of your head. you jut your chin out, eyes examining him up and down. you’re wordlessly declaring how unserious you take him and his temper. “are you going to yell at me some more because that would be a huge mistake. you don’t even know how badly i could ruin your career.”

his hand slots over his face, the web between his thumb and pointer finger rubs against the bridge of his nose. each word that rolls out your mouth has his brain rattling. none of those are anything near remorse and he’s sick of you getting away with whatever you want. “are things not goin’ well for you at home? what is this about, hm? is this all to get attention or what?”

“excuse me?” you’re miffed, eyes nearly bulging out of your head.

“that’s how it goes with you lot, ‘innit? do somethin’ crazy for attention cause you’re not gettin’ it at home.” he looks down at you, not physically but emotionally, mentally. he pities you and your need to be the center of attention. that’s what this is, isn’t it? you must live a lonely lifestyle.

you take a step towards him. in the small box you’re confined, it’s more of a half step. your finger jabs against his chest, venom dripping into each word. “you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. don’t make assumptions and mind your own fucking business.”

if hobie was angry before, he’s fuming now. this is ridiculous. to be going back and forth with a little girl that doesn’t know how to mind her tongue and is telling him to stay out of her life. “oh, that’s real rich comin’ from you. like you didn’t go and meddle with how much i’m going to get paid for this.” he swats at your hand with enough force to have put pushed away from his chest and back to your side.

“oh, whatever. i’m not going to stand here and keep talking about this.” you roll your eyes, turning away to leave hobie standing here alone. you’re only able to reach for the heavy curtain, fingertips just ghosting the fabric before you feel hands at your waist, pulling you in until your back is pressed against the cold mirror. it rattles against the impact, wobbling and clanking in the metal that holds it together.

you find hobie merely inches away from your face. he invades all of your senses at once, breath smelling of spearmint and calloused hands fisting the loose sweater you sport. it’s buttery soft and worth every pretty penny.

you’re so pretentious.

“you don’t get to walk away from me. you wanted to run your mouth. keep runnin’ it.” hobie is close enough to smell the strawberry pound cake perfume on your clothes. the glitter of your cherry flavored lipgloss reflects in the light, pink and silver. he’s unhappy with the way you sneer at him.

“then we’re going to sit here in silence because i don’t want to talk to you about this, or anything, ever.” you turn your cheek to him and close your eyes to solidify your point.

hobie hooks his fingers under your chin and forced your attention, jerking your head back with enough shock to have your eyes popping open. a whine, mixed with an almost animalistic arousal and surprise slips through your closed lips, to your dismay. you did not mean to do that.

“what was that?” he asks, hand still pushing your lips together until your lips are pursed and pouty.

you wiggle in his hold, only inching farther up against the mirror until you’re standing on your toes in dire search of space. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

playing dumb is your only solace when he’s staring at you like this, scrutinizing your every move. his tongue swipes across his bottom lip, slow and heavy, as his thoughts race together. they all come to the same conclusion, a screeching halt at one verdict.

“needy thing, you are. should have known you’d want me to do somethin’ like this. gettin’ me all mad so i can push you against the wall like this.” he adjusts his grip. instead of holding you against the glass, he holds you in place, planted firmly in your spot.

you don’t notice the way your legs slide themselves apart but hobie does and he’s quick to take advantage of it. his hand darts down under the hem of the thick striped sweater, meeting the tight spandex of your safety shorts underneath.

there’s a moment of stillness where he gives you a moment to stop him, searching your eyes for any sign of reluctance or a squeak of displeasure but none comes. you simply watch him your chocolate colored eyes, darting between his attention and his lips, messily lined with a black liner.

“hm,” he scoffs with a handful of your shorts and tugs them down with a snap of his wrist. hobie is met with resistance from the friction of your thin, nearly sheer, black tights. “put up a fight for what?” his hand digs behind the waistband of your tights and panties to bury between your hot and sticky folds. he finds your clit, growing puffy from need and pinches it between his fingers.

the back of your hand comes pressed against your lips to swallow your whimper come the sound of shoes pattering across the dark gray flooring just outside the curtain. you’re reminded in that short span of a few seconds that you’re not the only ones in the establishment.

you only end up pressing both hands against your lips when he rolls the hardening bud between his thumb and pointer finger. it has your hips bucking in a fight to satiate your growing need for more.

“fuck you being so quiet for? where that mouth, hm? nothin’ to say now that i’m playin’ with your pussy like this?” hobie tilts his head, fingers continuing to toy with you until you’re soppy enough to have the pads on the tips of his digits pruning.

hobie swears he can hear the squelching when his fingers dip towards your entrance and smear more of your arousal on your already dripping cunt. each swipe of his fingers against your nerves draws another mewl out your body, almost against your will.

“s – shut up!” you slam your fist against his chest. your body reacts before your brain does, rolling your hips into his hand in an attempt to entice it to the more needier parts.

it works, but not in the way you’d think. hobie’s eye twitches, just barely. he pulls your shorts down to your ankles when another swift tug and digs his nails into the polyester fabric of your tights. it tears apart with a few pops. he yanks the seat of your thong to the side, securing it in place on the round globe that is one of your buttcheeks. “who are you talkin’ to?”

three melodies slaps to your cunt rings through the air in a continuous stream. they’re harsh and wet and leave you withering, standing up by the grace of your willpower. your legs shake with each impact, accompanied with a shriek and your hand flies to the wall to steady you.

“just won’t learn to shut your mouth, will you?” hobie grunts under the voices questioning that unusual sound, unbeknownst to them was coming from you.

you both listen to the “what was that” and the “i don’t know”, you with the roundest doe eyes hobie’s ever seen. you’re nervous, whirring the idea of getting caught around your head. it makes your heart pound but your skin flushes with a newfound warmth.

“i’m sorry,” you say in a hushed whisper. you’re hesitant, not too pleased to be admitting defeat but you have no other choice. not when hobie is experimentally one long finger past your folds.

it’s slender and deep, reaching crevices you didn’t know was possible. never have you never able to do it yourself, nor has any of your previous casual experiences. it has your head reeling back against the mirror. the part down the center your scalp leaves you rightfully balanced.

hobie finds that you suck him right in. you’re so annoying like that, catching an attitude when he doesn’t touch the places you like, only to be reduced to apologies and sweet whispers. “yeah, i’m sure you are.” he says with his finger pumping at an agonizingly slow pace. his goal is not to make you feel good, but to make room enough for another.

it’s enough to have to you mewling. your hips roll forward and your clit bumps against the rough callouses that is hobie’s palm. your hand lifts and falls on his shoulder. you wring his shirt in between your fingers under the fabric is strained in his grip.

he makes you feel small, the way hobie eyes bore into you. he swallows each and every sound you make with his loud presence, fogging your thoughts with the smell of his cologne. it irks you, how he’s knocked you off a few pegs until you’re below him.

“i hate you,” you seethe through gritted teeth. “i hate you so much. you’re just a lowlife.” you’re grappling for power, even though you’re quite literally under him. hobie’s taken up so much of your space that you have to tilt your head up to him. he’s so close you can see the freckles dotted over his cheeks.

his lips curl in on themselves. his expression squints and squeezes until it’s full of scorn. “keep fuckin’ talkin’,” he shoves another finger next to the other, dripping in the sheen of your arousal. he snaps his wrists in an aggressive up and down manner, ripping a gasp out of you.

you’re getting loud with the stimulation of his fingers inside you. your body swivels in an infinite loop of needing more of him but being unable to take it. you’re grateful when hobie cradles your head into your chest to mute your moans.

his large hand engulfs the back of your head. despite his words, this hold and gentle and safe. there’s a very thin line hobie teeters between, acting as a decent human being and being so extremely pissed off with you. messing with his pay like this.

“mmmf . . .,” you hum against his toned chest. your mouth falls open with puffs of breath. you whine and whimper into him. you fall still at the impact of his fingers, jerking so quickly in you the mirror rattles in its clips. “oh my gosh. please, fuck –!”

your orgasm comes as a surprise to no one. you’d be blind to not anticipate it by to the way you mewl and moan at his attention. it builds up and up and up and —

hobie rips his hand away. he ruthlessly deprives you of the ultimate sense of pleasure. his pride swells when you are turned into nothing but a bundle of whines of displeasure and drool.

his lips curl into something of a sadistic grin, gleaming white incisors poking through the corners. he’s even more smug when you tilt your little head at him, eyes full of pitiful tears just threatening to spill over your eyelashes.

“hobie, please?” it’s unbelievable that you’re pleading with him, hands sliding down until they grasp the waistband of his sweats. “not being nice.” your lip trembles, the two-toned browned skin comes to tuck beneath your teeth.

“don’t deserve it,” hobie clutches your chin in between his fingers, thumb on one side, pointer on the other. “beggin’ me like this after givin’ me so much attitude.”

you look so dollike and sweet like this. finally, finally, docile and bending to his will. it didn’t take him long at all, just needed to give you some attention to calm you down.

he almost feels bad for you.

it’s not enough to stop him from dropping to his knees and lifting a soft, glowing thigh over his shoulder. he massages the skin with the pads of his fingers, kissing the inner of your leg while taking in the scent of your sex, tangy like a pineapple on a summer day. 

“forgot to take these offa’ you.” his lips ghost over the material of your underwear. hobie leaves it secured where it is as he continues his trek and ignores the pants of anticipation when he eventually reaches your puffy bundle of nerves. “just hold em’ if they slip, yeah?”

you hum in hushed agreement. your hands move on their own, entangling in the coils of his coarse locs. they dig in his scalp and pull at his hair. in response, hobie is tugged closer until his tongue is slotted against your leaking cunt.

he obliges without complaint, slurping at your juices with steadying your hip and the other keeping your leg hooked on his shoulder. it’s sloppy, the mix of saliva and arousal dribbling down his chin and leaving your inner thighs glistening.

your attempt to maintain your discreetness is weak. there’s always a squeak, squeal, or hum leaving your lips when hobie’s tongue digs deep in your crevices and rolls your hips against his lips.

he, for one, doesn’t care who just so happens to walk by at the wrong time or is careless enough to pull the stiff curtain back. he does know that you care, though, and is leaving it up to you. you want to remain “respectable” and “perfect”. that is your responsibility.

with each voice that draws nearer, you try to quell your noises, swallowing each sob that accompanies each shake or twitch of your body. your almost restrained like this, having to choke back a moan.

hobie is all too good at this, lapping at your cream like a starved man offered from the cornucopia of heaven. twice now, has his long tongue slipped past your folds and flattened over the puckered rim of your ass.

his lips wrap and suckle around your clit, leaving just enough space for the pad of his thumb to circle around to your entrance. it dips inside and pulls away with enough frequency to force a reaction, a confined gasp and whimper.

“hobie! fuck you’re so –” you yank his hair in all different directions, brain foggy and unable to truly comprehend anything. you’re just over the cusp of overwhelmed, jerking against him and unsure if you want more or are ready to tap out.

he only chuckles beneath you, pulling away from your nub with a pop. his fingers become buried in you again without warning. it happens with ease until they’re knuckle deep, despite your wordless protests when you’re unintentionally attempting to escape. “swear you make it so difficult, dolly. how hard is it to take it? hm?”

it’s not really a punishment, considering how much you like it. love it, even. enjoying it so deeply you’re sure your walls will mold into his shape. your chest rises and falls, representing the waves of pleasure crashing against your body. the tightening ball in your tummy returns, wrapping itself tighter and tighter. there’s a moment you fear you’ll be denied again when your body begins to physically curl in to itself, falling silent with an open mouth.

hobie only coaxes you by returning to being gentle kisses to your skin, breathing in your natural scent with the subtle hint of the strawberry scented perfume. it’s a shame you’re not as sweet as your smell, or even the sounds you make.

even now, when you’re shaking and drunk of pleasure, this is possibly the sweetest you’ve ever been. fucked out from his fingers alone and eyes rolling back, already. your little cunt squeezes out every drop of cum it possibly can, leaving your legs shaking and pushing his hand away from your sensitive parts. 

your voice is all breathy when you speak. “holy shit,” you finally find your strength to stand, licking your dry lips to dampen them. you turn your attention down to hobie, arrogantly smiling at you as he just shy of shoves your leg off his shoulder.

“don’t look at me like that.” you twist your expression until you’re scowling, puffing your cheeks.

hobie can’t take you seriously. even after he’s pulled your panties to the side, got you to shut up, and fingered you to oblivion, you’re still so very stubborn. “if you stopped talkin’ so much, so many more people would like you,” he runs his fingers his fingers up and down your legs.

“how about you shut the fuck up?”

“i’ll do you one better.”

it’s too bad you don’t notice the widespread sadistic grin across his face. hobie jostles you around by your hips until your turned and facing the mirror. your boobs feel the cold and exposing air when he pulls your sweater and bra up.

your eyes are wide as hobie maneuvers you like a doll, guiding parts of your body into certain positions. “what are you doing?” you ask him when he pushes down on your back until it’s arched. your legs are spread apart and your brown erect nipples are being rolled between his fingers. 

“what are you doing?” you say again, body squirming against both the mirror and hobie’s crotch. your cheek is forced against it because you’re too busy holding yourself up using the wooden bench attached to it. 

you receive no response except for the sound of fabric shuffling about. your limited vision gives view of hobie dropping his sweats and briefs far enough to get his dick out. your mouth automatically waters at the sight, thick and veiny. it’s almost angry, glistening with hobie’s arousal from just touching you. it’s fully erect and firm when it slaps against your pussy.

“you ask too many questions,” he says, just barely dipping his swollen tip past your folds. hobie gets a taste of your body this way. the warmth of your walls paired with the sopping wetness of your arousal. even down to the way you immediately react, he soaks it up.

he still finds you to be a bit mouthy. it’s almost as if you’re unaware your cheek in pressed against the mirror and your tits are dangling into the palm of his hand. the other one, free of your body, runs along your smooth skin.

you can feel the tips of his fingers ghost over you. from your position, there’s not much of a view, especially with the way you’re pressed and craned into this compact space. despite your agitation and resistance, you comply when he guides your body into the arch. the curve of your spine dips, causing the globe of your ass to lift and be pressed right against his lap

you huff in anticipation when you feel the tip of hobie’s dick press against your entrance.  you’re not going to lie to yourself and say that the stretch from just a few inches causes you to tense. it’s been a minute since the last time you were fucked to the fault of your relentless attitude, something you refuse to let go of.

you squeeze your face, contorting to display your displeasure. for a split second, you consider the idea that it won’t fit. you reach back for his stomach to push him off you, convinced you’re unable to make this happen. “mm-mm,” a hum leaves your lips, pressed tightly together. your eyes flutter close, wispy and dollike lashes brushing against your cheek.

“y’gotta relax, mama. you’re gonna be fine.” hobie clasps your hand in his, rather than allowing you to escape him. don’t get him wrong, he resents you but he isn’t an asshole. he doesn’t force his way in you, not completely anyway. hobie waits just until you’re soft enough to be molded like clay. only then does he thrusts his hips forward just enough to get you over the edge.

you shriek for a second and unintentionally dig your nails into hobie’s hand. you leave indents in your wake, balling your fist and turning your head into your elbow in an attempt to muffle yourself. it’s unexpected but the pain very quickly burns itself into pleasure.

you feel so full like this. you like to think you’d be perfectly content if hobie opted to not move and instead hold you like this but it’s not something you’d tell him.

“there you go.” you hear hobie say. he sounds conceited about it too, getting off on the image you give him. gasping and twitching and all he did was stick it in. “good fuckin’ girl.”

a mewl builds up in your throat but you swallow it. it’s worse enough he’s had to coach you to take him. you can’t already let him hear you like he’s bitching you. “. . . shut up.” it takes you a moment to work the words out, lids still closed and fist still clenched.

hobie scoffs. he rolls his own eyes. he doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand you. seven inches deep and you’re still giving him orders. like the near humiliation wasn’t enough to knock you down a few notches. shut up this and shut up that. is that all you can say?

“y’know, i’d be so much nicer if you didn’t act so terribly for no reason. what did i do to deserve this, hm?” his fingers dig into your skin, grasping and rubbing along whatever he can reach. your hips, your spine, the tops of your thighs.

your lack of response is taken as a sign of complacency. you didn’t know what to say because he’s right. hobie did nothing to deserve this but treat you like a normal human being.

heaven forbid.

he snaps his hips forward, eyes boring into the back of your head. hobie own face screws up in a display of pleasure. it’s nothing compared to the near scream that falls from your lips from his sudden action.

it’s unexpected. just as unexpected as his hands wrapping around your body, one stationed securely at your hip and the other sliding up your chest and gripping your throat. it’s firm, fingers swallowing the column with just enough force to maintain your position.

“look. look in the mirror and watch how i fuck you.” hobie cocks his head, thumb brushing across your jawline. the skin is soft and no doubt also attributed to your lifestyle. “i know you want it, cunt flutterin’ on me.”

the stubborn part of you can’t resist shaking your head in denial, despite the new gush of slick coating your thighs.

“no?” his tongue catches the fat of his lip and tucks it under his teeth. he supposes it’s fine, your instance of denying everything he says. he’s tired of talking, anyway. instead, he anchors you flush against him and draws his hips back. 

the relief is only temporary because hobie slams forward just as quickly as before. each thrust sounds off with a reverberating slap of skin. you barely hear it, too busy swallowing what moans build in your throat.

you’re forced to watch, tits jiggling in the mirror. you have no range to squirm. instead, your toes curl inside your shoes. your arms shake to hold yourself up, despite not needing to. hobie had you right where he wanted with no room to escape.

your head drops forward. your insides are on fire, filled to the brim with dick. it’s repetitive and knocks the wind out of your lungs with each stroke.

“please,” you sob, eyes filling with salty tears. they spill over your waterline and plop onto the bench in inaudible plinks! 

your pleas falls on deaf ears. instead, hobie lands two smacks on your ass. it heats under his touch and jiggles on impact. at first, the smacks serve as a warning but he can’t help but indulge for just a moment. the skin tints with an undertone of red with the more merciless spanks on your cheeks.

“please what?” hobie’s hand leaves the base of your throat and entangled in the length of your hair. he wraps it around his hand, only to tug it back until your head is lifted and he gets a clear view of your pretty brown eyes glossed over and blown out. “thought you didn’t want this. want me to stop?”

your mouth gapes open only to close without a word. you’re hesitant to respond, having no intention of asking him to pull out. you merely whine in desperation and wiggle your hips.

your reward for your decision is him sinking his cock into your tight pussy. it’s almost as if hobie didn’t pause to begin with. instead, his pace is vigorous. it’s constant pressure, merciless and bouncing you around from sheer force.

your hand flies to wall, almost banging against it in an effort to find purchase somewhere. anywhere you could possibly release the growing tension all over your body, particularly your core. “oh my gosh! oh my days!”

hobie yanks your head back even farther, nearly resting against his shoulder. again, does his fingers wrap around the base of your throat and steady you there. he’s lucky enough to catch your eyes roll back. in tandem, it’s difficult to miss the clench of your walls around him. 

“well shit, baby,” hobie says. his breath fans over your check. the smell of your pussy still lingers on his breath. it sends a small wave of embarrassment crashing over you but only for a minute. it’s drowned out by red hot lust burning your insides.

“you like that shit, don’t you?” it’s a warm whisper in your ear surrounded by grunts and wet kisses against your shoulder. “so fuckin’ wet. bet you can feel me nice and deep. tell me you like it, dolly. i want to hear you say it.”

his fingers brush against your clit and elicits a gasp. by now your legs shake, ready to collapse under your weight. “i – it’s so good. it’s so good, ‘obie. i like it so much. please! wanna cum.”

“too loud,” hobie mumbles, tongue dragging across the crevices off your collar. he resolves the issue by squeezing your cheeks together until they are forced in a pucker. he pushes his fingers past your lips and flatten against your tongue.

you let out a surprised choke, saliva pooling in your mouth. you’re unable to voice anything other than haggard breaths and hummed moans. you enclose your hand around his wrist. the other rests on his bare hip. not once do you resist or push him away. you solely dig your nails into his skin, chest heaving with each draw of breath.

“gonna cum, hm? gettin’ so tight, lovely. can feel that shit, like you’re gonna snap me in half.” hobie slide his fingers farther down the slope of your tongue until you’re nearly gagging.

you manage to hum a “mm-hm”, drool gurgling and spilling down your chin. you can imagine the image you’re giving, filthy and desperate, but it’s the least of your concerns with each thrust and caress of your clit.

he doesn’t have to give you permission, doesn’t have to tell you when you can. hobie doesn’t want to. he’d much rather push you to the edge, rubbing your clit in quick circles. they compliment the jerk of his dick against that spot that has you spurting your watery cum. had his fingers not been down your throat, there’s no doubt the air would be thick with soundy whimpers.

behind you, hobie does the unexpected. he’s quick to push you forward, pulling out with a quiver. he whines, whines when shooting thick ropes of cum over your asscheeks. you get a faint glimpse of him pumping out every drop with a tight hand wrapped around the shaft.

it’s mesmerizing, the scrunched up face he makes when he cums. it’s been you who’s had the lower hand and been watched with curious eyes. for a brief moment, it’s your turn.

your turn to watch hobie stare at the mess he’s made over your skin. you think he’s going to leave you at that but instead he lowers himself down and eagerly laps it up.

your eyes widen at the sight. he could have figured out any other way clean you up and chose the most explicit, massaging your hips with each drag.

“hobie . . .” you’re at a loss for words, torn between telling him it’s unnecessary and too amazed to stop him.

“are you going to say your sorry?” he’s kneeling now, turning you around until you’re facing him. hobie looks up at you, almost innocent-like. had he not been making his way to suckle at your cunt, maybe he would have been.

you lurch away, far too sensitive to handle another round, right now.

“relax, mama. jus’ tryna clean you up. promise.” he presses a relaxing kiss against your inner thigh until you’re soft in his hands again. “are you sorry or what?”

you consider the position you find yourself in now and in the previous minutes. your cheeks flush when the weight of your actions come crashing down and your hands, resting on his shoulders, are reluctantly drawing back. “are you going to use this against me?” a chill runs down your spine when his tongue smooths over your folds.

hobie’s eyebrows knit together. he’s perplexed you’d think that of him. “oh, absolutely not. i’m not you. jus’ got tired of it. so are you sorry or not?”

you’re prepared to answer, mouth gaping open before you’re interrupted by a knock on the other side of the curtain, probably on what little solid surface there is.

“if you guys are done uh, fighting, everyone else is ready to go.”

hobie is far more composed about this than he is. “ ‘kay,” he says, eyes never leaving yours. his question, unanswered, still lingers. the only thing that’s changed is that he’s now standing and putting his clothes back on, waiting for your response. “i’m willing to put this all behind us if you just apologize. you have no idea what you’ve just done and i can’t expect you to understand and doubt that you’ll fix what you’ve done, but can you at least say you’re sorry?”

your shift your weight, gathering the different articles of your clothing and pulling them on your body. it’s difficult in this small space with him but you manage. “i dunno. you were kinda mean so —“

“ ☆ , i’m serious.” he catches you with a heavy gaze. for once, there’s no hint of anger. he’s being sincere with his hurt and you can’t deny the guilt you’re filled with. “you messed everything up so bad. you’re strong, you’re powerful, you can do what you want, whatever. i don’t care. i just need you to understand that i deserve an apology.”

you adjust the sweater on your body to avoid the tension in the air. there’s truly no way out of this. just you two in this room, him expecting an apology after bending and breaking your body. “i’m . . . sorry. you’re right, i guess. i’ll figure out how to undo it.” your voice only gets quieter and quieter with each word, putting your feet back into your boots.

it’s embarrassing and odd, apologizing. you can’t think of the last time you’ve done so and honestly don’t believe you would have if he hadn’t taken such methods to get it out of you.

oddly enough, it’s silent. you’re too cagey to meet hobie’s eyes and even while fully dressed, you’re stalling leaving the space.

it takes him a moment to speak as well, sighing to release what emotions he still carries about the situation. “thank you. if you fix it, i’ll stay out of your life. we’ll finish our job and never see each other again. i won’t talk about what happened to anyone and i’m sure you can manage to keep whatever you want between whoever is here. deal?”

your stomach twists into knots and fills with distaste. for what? you don’t know. you can’t put your finger on it but you find yourself nodding anyway.

what else can do you? disagree and risk the industry finding out what risky behavior you participated in? risk blemishing your reputation and have the public label you a whore?

“okay. deal.”

your response is satisfying enough for hobie to leave after patting your shoulder. presumably, that’ll be the last time you interact so personally but that’s not an assumption you think you like.