#full threaded round bar

[oflgtfol]

like it sucks so badly genuinely i think ive only had two upper level astronomy professors who i actually enjoyed because all my other professors both suck at teaching AND are so fucking MEAN i just. i cannot understate how condescending and rude they are. like sir i think if the class average is a fucking TWENTY THREE PERCENT (23%!!!!) then something is WRONG !!! but oh no we just suck ass. i mean the questions were so simple maybe we're just stupid. or if you ask a question clarifying something they'll make fun of you for it and then even continue bringing up your stupid question in later classes to keep adding insult to injury. and then on top of all this the university registrar just hates our asses and refuses to schedule these upper level classes at any other time than at 8 in the fucking morning every single semester every single year. just genuinely sucks the soul out of astronomy for me i cant enjoy it the same way anymore

[elssero]

kiri offering to be the first person to give you head-

e.kirishima

♰ suggestive, not quite smut, pro hero!kiri x pro hero f!reader, slight angst.

you don’t remember exactly how you got into this situation, one minute you were finishing up your friday patrol and the next you were being dragged to a local bar, mina ashido pulling you by the wrist towards the table which sat your group of friends from high school.

you especially don’t remember how you got onto the topic at hand but your embarrassed. so embarrassed even that your sinking impossibly further into the cushioned seat of the round table your gathered around.

the tipsy chatter around the table has suddenly stopped, heads are turned towards you and you feel the multiple pairs of eyes scanning you- judging you.

it’s denki who speaks first, breaking the very awkward silence that makes you just want to run home and forget this ever happened.

“what the fuck do you mean you’ve never gotten head?”

you can’t help the increasing beating of your heart or the way you immediately look down to your lap, absolutely dripping in shame. he continues and god do you wish he hadn’t.

“weren’t you with todoroki for like a year? and he never gave you head? are you serious?”

the humiliation you feel right now is worse than ever before, it’s worse than that one time you showered in the male bathrooms by accident, infact it’s far worse than that. you can’t even bring yourself to lift up your head from its position looking directly down.

“i- i haven’t no-” you cut yourself off before continuing “it was just- it was never something he expressed interest in and neither have any of my hook ups since- it’s not a big deal- really.”

you finally lift your head up when you finish your sentence to find that everyone’s looking at you. each pair of eyes scanning you with what seems to be a look of pity. you need to get out of here.

“that’s so not cool-“ sero starts before he’s interrupted by bakugo “-not cool is an understatement it’s fuckin’ ridiculous- god i knew he was a loser but i didn’t think it was that bad.”

“it’s fine- honest- it never really bothered me” your lying. and everyone knows your lying by the way your voice drops and the way you can’t meet anyone’s eyes, your worried if you do that you’ll melt into a puddle of shame right there and then.

“should fuckin’ bother you- he’s a piece of shit- not giving his girlfriend of over a year some fuckin’ head what a dick.” he’s got you. of course it bothered you that your boyfriend- that woman constantly fawned over hadn’t even as much as tried to make you cum not once your entire relationship. in the beginning you excused it as him being inexperienced, you were his first everything- or at least you thought you were- nothing seems as clear cut as it once did since your break up 4 months ago. it’s not like he’s been your only partner either, you’ve been with people before and after todoroki it’s just- no one seems to actually care about your pleasure.

your sudden break up with todoroki followed swiftly after you’d begun working as pros- it was him who ended it- claiming he could’ve give you the time you deserved due to his entirely full schedule, whether it was patrol, or an interview, or a mission- you were never entirely sure what he was doing but you knew whatever it was, it didn’t involve you. it’s not like you can blame him, you yourself know how hard it is to start off as a pro hero.

ultimately you thank him, despite the fact you think it’s very unlikely that the two of you will ever even be on speaking terms again- at least not for the next couple of years- his sidekick made sure of that when she accidentally made a comment about them being together a mere 2 days after the two of you had broken up.

but still- you thank him, you hadn’t realised how isolated the two of you had became, attempting to salvage the hanging threads of your relationship by spending every minute of your free time together, you feel more relaxed- like you can focus on things you haven’t been able to give the time to in what feels like forever.

one of which being the group your with now, your own friend group from ua- not todorokis who you had been forced to go out with for the past couple of months- not that you didn’t enjoy their company! they just weren’t your friends.

despite the love and care you feel for the people around you- you need a bit of time to breathe following your confession to the group- you think that denkis shout of determination deciding they need to get you some head is the perfect time for you to escape.

“well- have fun with planning? m’ gonna get a drink at the bar- i’ll be right back” your words are slurring slightly, the embarrassment you recently felt only fuelling your current tipsy state.

“i’ll come with you-” it’s cheery, and you can’t help but smile up at the red head when we takes your arm and leads you to the bar, you watch as he takes a set on one of the bar stools- waiting to be served by the bartender as he beckons you to sit with him.

there’s a moment of silence between you, not completely uncomfortable- you can tell he has something to say but you wait for him to be ready to say it. in the meantime you observe him, he seems a little nervous but you can’t quite figure out why-

“m’ sorry i didn’t say anything back there- i was just- shocked” he’s not looking at you as he says it, it’s clear he feels bad.

“kiri please-” you giggle and you watch as he seems to smile slightly at the sound. “i said it wasn’t a big deal and i meant it!” you look up and and smile before you continue “and its definitely not that shocking either im sure there’s alot of people my age who have never- y’know…”

he catches your eyes now- he’s looking at you with an expression you can’t quite read- “but it is shocking.” he takes a deep breath in before continuing- “it’s absolutely crazy to me than he had you in front of him that whole time never once-” another deep breath- you swear you see him shudder a little before he continues “…tasted you.”

what?

what the fuck???

your eyes are blown wide as you stare at him- that same unreadable expression on his face as he looks into your eyes- he doesn’t dare look away- not now. his eyes are lidded, probably due to his alcohol intake and you sigh slightly when you realise that’s why he’s being like this. he doesn’t really mean what he’s saying and you feel a twinge of guilt at the fact it made your insides feel all warm.

it’s almost as though he can read your mind- sensing your self-dejecting thoughts he decides to continue- although quieter now, he leans in close to you and your breath catches in your throat- “i can’t believe he had the chance to have you and didn’t take it-” he’s moving closer as he speaks- your still frozen in place- “because- i’d do anything for it.”

you stop breathing- “you- you don’t mean that kiri it’s fine you don’t have to try and make me feel better-” you rush it out, your whole body feels hot. he’d do anything for it? you want to believe him- you really do. but you can’t, no one’s ever thought about you like that- your sure he’s just trying to cheer you up.

“don’t do that” his tone is harsh now, eyes still unwavering from yours as he stares you down, you see the look now, before unreadable now you can tell- it’s lust. he’s not in his right mind you think- he’s drunk- even if only having a singular drink so far, not even nearly enough to cloud his judgement to this extent but it’s the easiest excuse you can find right now for his behaviour.

“i’m not saying this to make you feel better- i mean it. every word.” he moves his hand to touch the soft skin of your exposed thigh and you feel your body betray you as your thighs immediately squeeze together in an attempt to feel something- anything.

his words are too much you decide- too overwhelming- rushing a feeling through you that you’ve never quite felt before- you want it. you really want it.

your both broken out of your trance when the bartender hand him over your drinks- ones you weren’t even aware that kiri had ordered as he takes them both in his hands-

“cmon, im sure our friends are waiting on us” he stands up with a smile- urging you to follow him as he turns around and leads you back to the table your long forgetten friends sit.

you don’t follow him- you can’t- your overcome by an emotion you can’t quite recognise as you stand up from your seat at the bar and make a direct run for the exit- putting on your jacket with a hurry as you push open the door with a force that could’ve taken it off the wall. you don’t look back- not for a second.

maybe part 2 incoming idk i’m trying to decide which root to take this :3 lmk!

♰ part 2

[squigglewigglewoo]

whatchu think about dazai n chuuya smut when they're drunk? thanks hehe <33

(✧) warnings: lowercase writing, sexual content, pet names (belladonna/'donna, darling, doll, babydoll, good girl) drinking, drunk sex, rough sex, degradation, praise, teasing, dacryphilia, overstimulation, orgasm control, oral (m receiving), hints of oral (fem receiving) at the end, throat fucking, hints of multiple rounds in chuuyas part, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, belly budge, gagging, biting, hickeys, bruises, afab reader. MDNI, 18+ NSFW bellow the cut!

(✦) summary: sometimes they get a little too drunk and they just cant hold them back from such a pretty thing like you. 859 words~

(✧) a/n: this is self indument lmao, wrote dazais part during my maths class. might write jealousy smut after this

(✦) pairing: chuuya x fem bodied!reader, dazai x fem bodied!reader (separately)

(✧) listening to~ Kiwi by Harry Styles

chuuya was practically on you the second he pulled you out of the bar, peppering kisses along your neck and up to your lips as he locked the car door, shoving you down into the back seat of his experience car, the windows tint combined with the nights dim lighting making it near impossible to see into the car. you could taste the wine on his lips, the man's drunken, dazed murmurs lost on your drunken, needy thoughts. "damnit.. need you s'much, doll" his words are muffled against your neck as his hands moved to unbutton your pants and tug them down your thighs, your underwear coming with. he chuckles as he watches you squirm as the cold air hits your exposed cunt, and one of his gloved hands grab onto your hip in a near bruising grasp, his other hand undoing his belt, letting it fall to the cars flooring with a thump, his pants and boxers slid down his thighs. his hands grab at your thighs, throwing your legs over his shoulders as he bullies his cock into your tight pussy. "shit, darlin', your practically sucking me in.. god I need you... you gonna be a good girl? gonna let me fuck you dumb?" his words are slurred and muffled against your neck as he bites down suddenly, your breath hitching as he sucks hickeys onto the exposed skin of your neck, pushing your shirt collar down to leave even more marks. your pressed up against the window as he fucks you, his cock bruising your cervix and your body getting shoved further against car door. his hand slides up you shirt, over your belly, pressing down on the bulge that disappears and appears everytime he thrusts into you, groaning as he feels you squeeze around him tighter. "gonna cum, yea? well, hold it. be a good girl and don't cum till I tell you so." god, he's so mean, you can't help but whines and claw at his back, grabbing the fabric of his dress shirt and vest between your fingers. he only continues to press on the bulge, near entranced as he watched him slide in and out of you, slick squelching sounds filling the car, the pressure he puts on your tummy only making the knot in your stomach coil tighter, tears welling in your eyes as you claw and beg for him to let you cum, that you need to cum. he only growls and thrusts into you quicker, and you have no choice but to come undone on his cock, painting his pants and the leather seats below you in your arousal. he cums soon after, fucking your overstimulated, abused cunt, and you swear you've never felt so full, the way his cum feels in you makes you almost drunk off of the feeling alone, though it might be the wine in your system. "you think you could go another round, babydoll?"

you don't know how you ended up in this situation, dazai inviting you over under the guise of wanting to hand out after work, only to find yourself on the floor of his apartment, mouth stuffed full of his cock as your eyes water and your nails dig into his clothed thighs. "fuck.. yes, just like tha.. that.." his bandaged hand threads into your hair, shoving you further down onto his cock, making you gag as the tip bruises the back of your throat, and he groans as your throat constricts around him. he holds you there, thrusting his hips up as he fucks your throat, head thrown back in pure ecstacy. "god, 'donna, you'd put a call girl to shame with the way you choke on my cock.. you look so pretty like this, like a damn slut with the way your swallowing me so eagerly.." dazai isn't drunk, no where near it, only slightly tipsy. but you, you are, and it's rather easy to convince you into things while your minds fuzzed over with alcohol, your limbs tingly and thoughts unclear. his hand suddenly shoves your head all the way down, and he cums down your throat, leaving you have no choice to swallow the salty, thick ropes that paint your tongue and throat white. his hand moves from the back of your head to your chin, and he pulls you off his dick, your mouth separating from his tip with a wet 'pop!' his thumbs wipes the mixture of his cum and your spit off your bottom lip, and he kisses you, tasting himself on your tongue. your mascara is smudged, a messy cloud of black around your eyes from your tears, and he only smudges it more when his thumb swiped under you eye. "you're so pretty when you cry..." he flips you into your back, earning a high pitched gasp from you, shimmying your pants off and nipping at your inner thighs, holding eye contact with you as he licks a fat stripe over your clothed cunt, bitting softly at your clit through your underwear, a smirk on his lips and a glimmer of something in his eyes. "why don't I return the favor, yeah?"

masterlist!

dividers by @/cafekitsune

[muldermuse]

Happy Valentine's (Gator Tillman X F!Reader)

Glenda plans a Valentine's evening for her and Gator. He has other plans.

Warnings: this is written from Glenda's POV at first so is more angsty than usual. as aforementioned, reader and gator are t e r r i b l e people. infidelity as always. i used the upsetting gift narrative from love actually (im so sorry). nsfw!!! mdni!!! no explicit smut written but heavily suggested at. unhappy ending- sorry my loves.

this is the song from the end 🫶

as always, part of the two sinners world ❤️

The table had been ready since 2pm, and finishing touches had been added all day but the table just began to look more cluttered with pink. Glenda had added homemade cupcakes and macaroons as well as a variety of photos of her and Gator. The usually drab and beige-colored dining room had been transformed into something from an awful teenage rom-com. Pink heart balloons floated up to the ceiling with hundreds of rose petals covering the stained wooden floor. Roy had gone out of town so Glenda had taken the full day to make the ranch a romantic paradise to celebrate the 14th February. This was the couple’s third Valentine’s Day and Glenda was sure that Gator was going to propose tonight, well, Roy had hinted as much. 

Glenda had dressed herself in her white newest cardigan with a muted pink dress underneath. She wore the perfume that Gator seemed to acknowledge more and spent more time than usual pushing her blonde hair from her face. She’d bought Gator a new wallet, his name precisely sewn in by luxurious thread and a bottle of his favourite whiskey with a crystal tumbler with his name engraved. Gator had no idea about the gifts but Glenda had a rough idea of what Gator had bought her. To Glenda, Gator was great at many things but discretion was not one of them. Maybe Gator wanted Glenda to know? She couldn’t look inside, it wouldn’t be very Christian of her but she could at least admire the bag. It was a boutique just outside of town, they sold bespoke jewellery as well as some lingerie but Glenda and her girlfriends always averted their eyes at that. Since seeing the bag, Glenda had spent nearly every day looking in the store, trying to figure out what her complex boyfriend might have got her. Maybe a necklace? Maybe some undergarments? Maybe her engagement ring had been in this very store?

She couldn’t wait for him to get home.

Glenda had no idea that you’d been texting Gator all day and he was planning on spending the full night with you.

***

The helium from the balloons seeped out without Glenda noticing. The non alcoholic sparkling wine, which was chilled, was now lukewarm. The Etta James record had stopped spinning, she’d restarted it after it played out every time but for the last two hours, she just listened to noise of the cattle outside. Gator’s phone was going straight to answer phone, he’d text her a few hours ago that he would be home soon. It was now just after 9. He finished work at 5. Where was he?

The sky above was black and looked starless. 

There was nothing shining down on her tonight. 

Every light outside was the brightest she’d ever seen. Did Gator’s patrol car have bright lights? How had she never noticed this? She’d called reception at the station and Amy had the same tone of voice as she usually did when Glenda routinely made this call.

“Has he not come home again?”

“I swear Glenda, he left right on time- no reports of any collisions so it should’ve been a smooth run”

“You need to have a chat with him Glenda, this isn’t fair- talk to his daddy. He’ll beat it outta him”

Glenda wasn’t sure if she had suspicions about Gator or not. She honestly wouldn’t allow herself to even consider it, he would never do anything. What would he even be doing? He could’ve been at the bar with an old school buddy or maybe he’s back at the shooting range. His job was so stressful, he needed chance to unwind and how could she deprive him of that?

***

Gator came round to you as soon as he finished work, you heard the tyres squeal as he braked with force from the speed of his patrol car racing down your suburban street. You’d been teasing him all day, sending lingerie pics from as early as 10 this morning.

[sent at 10:32] You: ok, so i think my boobs look amazing in this

[sent at 10:32] You: image attached

[sent at 10:33] You: but my ass looks unreal in this- right???

[sent at 10:33] You: image attached

[recieved at 10:35] Gator🐍💩: got a lonnnnnng fuckin day ahead- don’t do this

[sent at 11:04] You: ur my valentine right???? i bought this just for u :(

[sent at 11:05] You: image attached

[recieved at 11:56] Gator🐍💩: make sure the doors unlocked at 5. cya then. b good.

He tried to hide the smirk from his face as he text Glenda he’d be home late.

You’d chosen your new lingerie set for him, it was baby pink and had dark hearts sewn in. Your hair was half up half down and slightly curled with a pink bow firmly secured with pins. You looked amazing, you had to admit that it was some of your best work. You’d poured a big glass of whiskey for Gator and left it on the cabinet next to your bedroom door. He’d love that little touch.

The pink tapered candles fluttered and the miscellaneous sexy playlist hummed through the speakers. As soon as you heard Gator slam your front door, you’d arched your back so the first thing he saw when he entered would be your ‘please fuck me’ eyes and the second would be your ass positioned high in the air. You smirked in anticipation.

“Fuckin’ hell baby- tha’s a sight for sore eyes” Gator swallowed half the whiskey in one gulp. He hissed as the liquid slid down his parched throat.

“You like your present?” remaining in your arched position, you shook your ass at him and smiled hearing him groan in response

He slammed the glass down; now empty after one final sip. He sneered at you as his eyes followed yours, he loved you like this, so pretty and complaint. He gripped your hair in his fist and pulled you up to his face; you could smell the heat of the whiskey on his tongue. 

“Y’wanna know what I want for my present baby?” his grip tightened in your perfectly pruned hair, and your eyes rounded in response, prompting an answer.

“I want you to be a good girl f’me, all night long” his other hand clasped around your chin, tilting your lips up to his. The caliber of kiss was synonymous with Gator: it was rough, passionate, and filled with a desperate desire for control. His tongue slid against yours and you could now taste the spice of the whiskey on his tongue, along with the artificial taste of whatever disgusting vape he’d been sucking all day. Spit trailed between your lips as you pulled away.

“M’gonna be good, Sir- all night, I promise” 

He mumbled a final "good girl" against your lips, kissed you quick, and pushed you back against your cream coloured linen. His ravenous eyes never left yours as he pulled his belt out of its loops, “s’gonna be a long night for you, baby”

***

You must have dozed off on his chest, you awoke to the feeling of his heart pumping and the sound of him taking a drag on some god awful vape. God, he irritated you so much. Your throat felt sore, presumably a mix of Gator’s strong hand wrapped around it and how much of the evening you’d spent crying out his name in pleasure. He smelt of sex- the whole room did. The bedsheets long forgotten as they kept getting in the way of the two of you trying to fuck each other as hard as you could. The playlist had moved onto something more romantic and you were too exhausted to feel uncomfortable. It was Norah Jones- Come away with me.

‘While I’m safe there in your arms’

Gator was too content to leave, he was vaping to try to stop himself from falling asleep in the cozy comfort of your room. He’d cum across your face and your tits, he could feel it drying against his side as you fell into a brief sleep. He knew you were awake now, your breathing had become slightly more laboured. Gator knew you were building up the courage to ask him to leave. You never liked it when it got like this. It was so easy when he was fucking you, when he had your ponytail wrapped around his hand and was using it as leverage to fuck you with everything he had- that was what you enjoyed the most. But, this is what he enjoyed the most.

He had to tell you about what he’d bought you.

‘So all I ask is for you’

The bag alone was beautiful, it was from the boutique outside of town. You’d never even considered going inside, it always looked too expensive and you didn’t like to be surrounded by pretty, delicate things. 

Too scared of them shattering.

Too scared of breaking something beyond repair.

‘To come away with me in the night’

It was a necklace. And god, it was gorgeous. It was a simple silver pendant with small diamonds embedded and the heart in the middle was solid silver. Even in the dim light of your bedroom; its beauty radiated. You’d had gifts from guys before but nothing ever, ever like this. You swallowed the lump in your throat. This wasn’t right.

Fuck, this was a mistake.

Gator’s voice broke the crippling silence.

“As soon as I saw it, it reminded me of you” he placed a soft kiss against your temple “s’beautiful like you”. His voice was gentle and tender. 

It was too much.

You had to shatter it.

‘Come away with me’

“Give this to Glenda- I, uh, I don’t want it” you felt too vulnerable; you couldn’t look at him. “M’not your girlfriend Gator, give it to her”.

You placed the necklace in the palm of his hand with care, already feeling immense guilt and regret but you couldn’t go back. 

Gator got dressed whilst you sat in your en-suite bathroom, pretending not to care about him. You did, of course. You cared too much. After Gator drove away, you re-entered the bedroom, the music had stopped and the candles had burned out into unlit nubs. You didn’t bother to remake your bed, you just crawled into the warm spot Gator had left and tried not to lament.

***

Glenda loved the necklace that much that the thoughts of the abandoned Valentine’s Day dinner dissipated from her mind. Gator was the kind man she always knew he was and this beautiful gift had confirmed it. 

Gator climbed into bed and immediately turned away from Glenda. He couldn’t look at her. The necklace wasn’t for her. 

She was wearing your necklace.

You should have been wearing his heart.

[enha-cafe]

incubus txt x reader!! Any thoughts??

a/n ayo i am like a resident monster fucker (even though i've like never written anu which how???) so lets get started please keep in mind this isn't a very well-developed thought

yeonjun

he's the incubus you jokingly summoned one night while tipsy. you were scrolling through twitter trying to find some meaning when suddenly someone's "how to summon an incubus" thread pops up and you think what's the worst this could possibly do? actually summon an incubus, that's the worst it could do. now here you are with your ass up as some demon is fucking into you. drool is rolling down your chin and you can't believe this is real. he's not going to let you cum until you promise to make a pact with him. there's no way he's willing to give you up.

soobin

no wonder why this man is an incubus, he's absolutely insatiable. he's was just some guy that you were flirting with because making him flustered was just too fun. never would you think that shy guy in the bar was going to be a literal sex demon. going round after round filling you with his cum. only making you hornier with each thrust. neither of you ever fully satisfied. his hands, his cock, and his tail playing with every part of you. you can get used to this.

beomgyu

for a minute you truly thought you were living in some horror movie. seeing a shadow in the corner of your room. how glad you were when you realized it was a lust-filled fantasy that come to life. an incubus going round after round with you. having you scream out in pleasure as he pumps you full of cum. dragging his fingers along you spine marking you as his newly claimed property.

taehyun

your sweet boyfriend was always so touchy and teased you every chance he would get. you never realized the teasing was to fuel his hunger. the night he finally got you that sweet boyfriend you once had was long gone. seeing a monster take him over as he pounds into you. his tail waving in the hair with delight. telling you how cute you are to corrupt as he ruins you for any mortal.

kai

the incubus who comes to you once a month and you always just think he's some wet dream. always coming at the late hours of the night when you're too tired to fall asleep. playing with your pussy and having you cumming on his tongue. using his tail to prep your tight hole for him. cumming around his cock until you're fucked dumb. he always sends you back to sleep with a kiss on the forehead counting down the days until he sees you again.

tag list: @sunoouz @hoonslutt @moonlighthoon @rikismiel

[nanamis-bigtie]

Round 5: The Drink Is on Me

about, rules & navigation | previous round | in some of the routes reader consumes alcohol

The dates are now all proceeding in a promising direction. How the gentlemen will handle the trial of time though? Will they be able to hold your interest with the same intensity towards the end of the dates?

Remember you vote for a character you don't want to advance further! The character with the biggest number of votes will be eliminated.

Higuruma Hiromi

The party headed under the deck earlier than you expected. Insisting on dressing elegantly shattered Hiromi under the merciless sun; even after he took the light jacket off, he kept sweating profusely and you worried he might get a heat stroke.

"I'm sorry, I'm not really fond of summer weather," he said when you proposed moving to a (hopefully colder) different spot, but his voice was full of relief rather than genuine apology.

"Don't sweat it, I could use some shade too."

There's still time for enjoying the sea and the sun, after all, and you would rather savor the strength for the island exploration. Besides, you can't really complain: the under-deck space is even more comfortable and has an exceptionally intimate atmosphere. The lights and music are toned down, everything is soaked in the blue of the sea behind the colossal glass—and most importantly, except for the person behind the bar you're all alone.

Hiromi orders you light cocktails and you choose yourselves a cozy sofa right by the glazed part (according to him, closer to the island you will be passing by a reef—a sight you don't want to miss). You're finally sitting close, your knees almost touching and your shoulders bumping against each other whenever one of you tries to take a turn or lean towards the table. It's a rather tight space but comfortably tight, in a way that melts the remaining, tense ice.

"Do you take all your dates for cruises or is it just a coincidence?" You don't want to poke at a fresh wound, but the topic presses itself into the conversation. And you would rather have it behind it now, when the mood can be easily salvaged.

"Yes and no," he shrugs but keeps that friendly smile, gentle but pushing the corners of his lips enough to reveal his dimples. "The previous one was first and a coincidence. But this I had planned from the very beginning."

"I fell into a trap?" You remember the placement of the ticket on that photo. You suspected it was bait—but a whole meticulous strategy? You wouldn't peg him as someone who puts this kind of logic into dating.

He slightly narrows eyes, giving his smile a sly touch, as he leans against the back of the sofa, one arm casually thrown over it, "Yes and no, again. I wouldn't call it a trap. I would hate to do something illegal, it's against my profession's ethics. And I don't like to trap my dates."

You take a sip of your drink, tossing a few strategies of your own in your mind. A slight buzz of alcohol in your blood lifts your spirit and you can't pretend that the atmosphere hasn't added its dime to certain ideas perking their heads.

"So, what do you like to do with your dates?"

There's a longer break on his side as Hiromi swirls the remains of his mimosa, clearly weighing his words, "This... depends wholly on the character of the date. I'm open minded and I like to try at everything from the buffet before I settle on a certain dish. But if I were to choose here between trapping and being trapped, I would go with the latter."

Nanami Kento

Holding your breath, you untuck the offered bundle. It's a little shell, one of many you saw around, both on the beach and stalls with souvenirs—but its color is unique. It's probably painted over or otherwise embellished but you have to give it to the anonymous artist (who also threaded it with a thin leather thong): they knew how to keep the appropriate balance between their vision and the natural look.

"I found it on a local market the other day." The way Kento glances at you is somewhat shy. Head slightly lowered, he observes you over his glasses, his eyes big, almost doe. "The color reminded me of you. But please, don't feel inclined to accept it."

You decide to keep the bribe. He helps you to tie the bracelet around your wrist—but more than on the new accessory you're focused on his moves. His hands are big, warm and very gentle. He clearly pays attention to not touching you more than necessary but also doesn't shy away when you're catching an additional contact on purpose. It pushes your thoughts into an interesting direction. Would he be as gentle and overly respectful if you agreed for being touched in a less innocent place? How would he act if you initiated something bolder? How would this pleasant and soothing touch against your shoulders, middle, hips?

You're looking for a thread of communication in his eyes when his fingers brush your wrist for the last time—but he averts them and leans back to his side of the table, to the comfortable and appropriate distance.

So, it's still too early for him.

At least the mood doesn't have time to falter; soon your drinks arrive, and they swallow all of the attention. Sweet and decadent, served in hollowed-out pineapples, they please the eye and the camera. You take photos almost at the same time and the thread of communication returns with a shared smile. From word to word, you end up in his gallery, filled to the brim with food and drink pics.

"Is that your friend?" You point at the first person you spot in the roll: a wide-smiling man, posing with the biggest loaf of bread you've ever seen. "The one from the bakery?"

Maybe it's alcohol, maybe it's a perfect choice of topic, but it's like a breaking dam with the way Kento's tongue untangles. Right now, in the bar, under the slowly fading light of the sunset, you learn more about him than through all the hours you spent on texting. You learn about his previous disappointing job. About said friend dragging him out of his lonely life (lonely part not said outright but it's not hard to read between the words). About the first proper vacation he's had since highschool and how badly he refused to go just to love every single moment of his first proper leisure time now.

"Am I your first too?" Having the comment about Tinder at the back of your head, is not hard to draw this conclusion.

"No." Kento's answer is as concrete as always, no shade of embarrassment or hesitation hidden behind the words. "But first in a very long time. I haven't had any dates or casual sexual contact since college."

Ryomen Sukuna

He stayed true to his words however the promised entertainment had less to do with the exhibition and more with his...overwhelming presence.

And it's not because Sukuna is a bad guide. Quite contrary: he must have prepared himself for this with the amount of detailed information he bandies around as he walks you through the gallery. Yet again he leaves you with an impression of a very well-educated person, in addition used to working with speech. If your assumption is wrong and he simply is natural: you can only envy such talent.

No, he's excellent in his role. He's just too distracting.

He keeps close, right on the edge of being a little inappropriate for this stage of a date and your "situationship" and being in public. But he doesn't cross it, just teases and tests your reactions. It's leaning close and over to speak closer to your ear, voice lowered down with courtesy, it's touch brushing against your shoulders, middle, the small of your back, it's the soft vibration behind his words that resonates with the right strings of your body. You wouldn't categorize it as straight up sexual flirting—but he's definitely building a steady ground for it, to strike as soon as you open yourself to it.

You would love to, if only out of curiosity, how far he can go in an art gallery of all places. But it's just more fun to be the prey who requires a meticulous hunt. It might be a weird strategy after the shameless exchange in the chat and very bold pictures you shared but you're both so into it. It would be such a pity to lose all of this thrill for the sake of any easy and fast route.

Sukuna greatly appreciates your attempt to pass as hard to get, seemingly not paying attention to your weak knees and silent gasps you let out when he finds—and remembers—a good spot to touch. He tightens the screws slowly but with precision, bringing you up right to the boiling point but not letting you burst. He's tending to you as if he was a chocolatier tending to his signature exquisite dessert. One that he plans to devour in private.

By the time you're finished with the exhibition and heading for lunch you're not sure if you're hungry for food or something...different.

Following his recommendation, you settle on simple and classic pasta and wine. Light and tasty—perfect to sate the needs for now but leave enough space for another meal later. He doesn't say it outright but it's clear he's predicting the day together will last longer than a meeting for art and lunch.

"Will I finally learn the secret?" You muse over your glass. The wine is not enough to mess your thoughts, but it does loosen your tongue after the teasing tortures you went through.

"The secret?" Sukuna leans against the back of his chair, content with the meal and your presence. He eyes you with a curiosity of a predator assessing if the prey is worth the attack. "There's plenty and a few darker ones. I don't mind sharing, I'll allow one question for now, though."

You meant his profession but now your attention takes a sharp turn. You ask for a darker one.

"Whether it counts as dark depends on your approach to BDSM—" The corners of his lips budge but he doesn't smile openly. "—but I used to be in the community. As a dominant."

Kusakabe Atsuya

Somehow, you end up at his place.

The desserts were exquisite, and the ice cream parlor was an endearing place to be, but it got significantly colder once the storm passed and goosebumps spilled all over Atsuya's arms, indicating he desperately needed a change of fresh and dry clothes. He kept wiggling out of your suggestions and insisted to withstand everything till the end of date, but you set up your mind. You didn't want to get him sick (and possibly ruin the rest of your plans for him).

After a chain of backs and forths, he sheepishly invited you over and led you to his car. 

He lives nearby, in the area blending between the suburbs of the town and the countryside, in a big, older house with a huge garden. You're looking around curiously; the place is tidy but undeniably inhabited with the natural disarray breaking here and there, toys thrown all over the corridor and the living room where you're eventually seated, and family photos on the walls and almost every flat surface of the furniture.

"I know what it looks like." Atsuya sighs once he spots you staring straight at the composition over the fireplace. All photos displayed there are of a woman and a child, in a hard to assess age somewhere at the early stage of elementary school. "That's my sister. And my nephew."

Indeed, when you take a closer look, you can spot a strong family resemblance between her and your date. If Atsuya was a woman and smiled as much as she does in every single picture taken, they could convincingly pass as twins. Some of the resemblance passed on the little boy too as he took lots after his mother.

You can't help but wonder how many times Atsuya must have been taken as his father. The divorced dad energy and desperation to not look like one finally finds their explanation.

Atsuya serves you coffee from the machine and cookies, then excuses himself to get changed. You use your extra alone time to run an investigation over the place, nothing too nosy, just a quick scan at things offered on display to any visitor. Some of your pressing questions find their answers—and a few new ones appear, especially in regard to cups and medals in a display cabinet and photos of him with various kids in uniforms you can't pinpoint to any particular sport but associate with Japanese martial arts.

"Ah, those?" You ask him as soon as he's back and he leans over your shoulder to see better what you're pointing at. "I'm a kendo instructor. And those are the fledglings I gathered over the years."

He smiles fondly at the picture you paid special attention to: him posing with a cheerful teenage girl with characteristic, blue-dyed hair.

"You're such a family man without even having one." You tease, curious about his reaction.

"Yeah, tell me about it." He grumbles, running fingers through the hair at the back of his head. "I keep picking up kids but with my luck in dating I don't think I'll ever see one that's truly mine."

"Hey, it can't be that bad, right?"

He gives you a look that's somewhere between tired, embarrassed and 'is it really a topic for a Tinder date?', "Let's say I haven't had a partner for a while now. But I'm not running rusty."

Choso

With adrenaline and excitement running through your veins after the concert you easily overpower poor shy Choso. He seems to be thankful you took the initiative; he's focused on listening, nodding and answering sporadic questions as his body and speech gradually relaxes. His confidence from the scene doesn't return though. He doesn't act like a spooked doe after a while but the submissive and introverted vibe to him doesn't ease even after he's refreshed himself and reapplied the makeup. He clearly is one of those artists who put a strict distinction between the scene and normal life. Even if keeping the scene persona would be beneficial for him.

Choso doesn't make a big mystery out of the fact he's not the most popular guy around. He's aware of his shyness and rather busy life, even admits his profile was made by one of his brothers. He wouldn't find courage on his own—and wouldn't even know what to put in it to make himself presentable.

"I don't know how to talk to others," he says more quietly than usual, his words slurred by the mouth of the bottle he keeps close to his lips. "I either make an idiot out of myself or I scare them off."

Yet, he maintains conversation with you. The shared enthusiasm about the concert is a huge help but he also perks his ears up when you show interest in his family. Your head spins a little when he starts throwing names and photos (he has more of them than money in his wallet), but he doesn't falter when given the initiative and manages to keep your interest. It's endearing how he cares about his big family and how protective he is of them, especially of the youngest of the gang, the one dreaming of college and involuntary (and unknowingly) making Choso work his heart and soul out to earn money for it. There's no doubt he would give away everything to make their lives better. Truly the role model for the oldest son of the family...

"What about you, though?" You nudge once he finally leaves you some space to speak.

He takes a longer break to think over his words, staring into the distance with a look painfully in between longing and emptiness, "They keep telling me this too, you know? Especially Kechizu and Yuji. That I should stop babying them and think about my own life instead."

There's another episode of silence but before you take the reins back, he decides on another addition, "Maybe I scare others off because I am too overprotective of people I care about. It's just a guess, I have never gone any further than the beginning of attachment. Once it starts, they disappear."

You don't know what to say. You would pull him into a comforting hug if not for the concern and respect for his reserved nature. You have no idea how he would react to a spontaneous cut of the distance—and the last thing you want now is to make him feel worse.

"You haven't dated anyone before?" You risk instead.

"I haven't even met anyone from Tinder face to face." He admits and smiles at you. "You're the first. Thank you for this opportunity."

Geto Suguru

How is this man a self-defense instructor instead of a voice actor or a preacher—you have no idea. Unless his trick to break his opponents is talking to them softly before he proceeds slamming them on the ground, that you could believe without hesitation. Suguru's voice is made of wind chimes, rustle of old paper and humming of calm waves. He speaks and you're entranced, thirsty for more even before he finishes a sentence. No wonder you let him take over the conversation. You wouldn't even mind, if he didn't take breaks for your turns.

When you eventually point out the contrast between his profession and presence, he laughs (oh, what a beautiful laughter he has...), "I haven't said that I've never worked in a different field. I do gigs rather than staying at one place. Currently it's only self-defense but I did audio dramas, radio, acting, fitness, bondage classes—"

You almost choke on your coffee, "Pardon?"

His smile now reminds you of the face of a curious cat. Maybe it's only your imagination but you could swear his pupils have dilated a little as he leans forwards, cutting the distance between the two of you—for only a few inches but enough to have you squirming in your seat, "I had my little step into kink. Not as a work, with the little exception of those classes, but it used to be a significant part of my life at that time."

You can't say you're surprised, given the effortlessly dominant aura he's had to him all this time, but you're still a little disconcerted. You haven't expected such a confession during a casual date with a goal of assessing each other before the matters take a more direct route. And in such a calm cafe on top of that! Your intuition has convinced you there's going to be at least one more date, in a more... intimate place.

But maybe you're overthinking. Maybe he mentioned bondage and kink without any particular horny intentions for now. Maybe it's just his voice that made it sound so...sultry.

"You got quite shy." Suguru tilts head to the side, his gaze piercing you inside out. "You've been braver online. Am I making you uncomfortable?"

You shake your head over your salad. No, you're not uncomfortable. Nor shy, "Is it bothering you?"

"Not at all. It has a certain charm to it." His smile sends shivers down your spine and has your hand trembling together with the fork you're holding. "I like shy people. Or when they are acting shy. Breaking those confident into shyness is such a fun thing to do, too."

Something tells you he's done it many times before. Hell, you're sure you've just become a subject of a play of this kind, whether you like it or not.

"You said... That it used to be a significant part of your life." Despite everything you decide to follow this direction. "You lost interest?"

"Not... quite." For the first time his domination falters—but he's quick and smooth to cover it. "I had a break in dating in general due to...certain life circumstances. But now, once I'm back, I'm not opposed to returning to my favorite roots."

[misscammiedawn]

50 Days of HypnoKink - Day 49: Hypno in Media

My heavens... we made it to the finish line. Tomorrow is the final day.

I wanted to save an obvious one for the end because I do so enjoy MC in fiction so very much. So much, in fact, that I made a Twitter thread with 110 recommendations and never even came close to emptying my resources.

I know so many of these scenes, both that Twitter thread and this page are skimming the surface.

I'll be using some of those recommendations here but let's divide by category:

Film

So let's get the obvious out of the way. You have

Trance

A Danny Boyle thriller with a terrible plot and Rosario Dawson as a hypnotherapist trying to get hidden information from James McAvoy's mind. Silly movie but one that doesn't get brought up a lot. Dawson learned hypnosis to get into the role.

Candyman

Horror movie in which the director literally hypnotized the actress so any time she was being stalked by the titular killer she looked completely entranced. Link above is an interview discussing this.

Hypnotic

HORRIBLE movie on Netflix but Sleepyhead and I have hosted a number of watch parties and let me tell you, this is the PERFECT movie to watch with a bunch of rowdy hypnokinksters. The therapist is unethical to a laughable degree and his office looks like it's inside of the Death Star. He's a living breathing red flag. The movie does have a really hot freeze scene, a good ragdoll and the dollification sequence. It's just enjoyable because it's terrible. Check CWs first though, this movie has a bunch of things that can make it an uncomfortable viewing experience.

The Great Hypnotist

This is a Not For Daja movie. A Chinese movie that doesn't get brought up a lot. Like Trance above it is a thriller with some twists and turns that I don't really want to spoil.

Stir of Echoes

A visualization of a dissociation induction designed to make a person view events on a screen so they are separate from the memory. It's a remarkably well done scene.

Now You See Me 1/2

The hypnosis in these movies is STUPID and I love it. The first movie has a punchline that every time Mark Rufallo's character makes a frustrated comment people who Woody Harrelson has hypnotized will start acting as if they're in an orchestra. Second movie has a twin Woody Harrelson as an evil hypnotist and he uses a pizza box as an evil induction. It's amazing.

Sherlock Holmes Woman in Green

This induction is one of the coolest I've seen in a film and I try my hardest to channel the energy of this when I am doing a relaxation focused scene.

TV

Charlies Angels

This is bar none my favorite hypnosis scene in any fiction. The typewriter induction is amazing, the hypnotist has such a smooth voice, the entranced gazes are lovely. It's just perfect. Heck, the link above is "hypnosis scenes" from the episode and is 26 minutes long. From a single episode of television.

Doctor Who

Sarah Jane gets hypnotized so often that I could make a list purely from her.

Legion

I just wanna link this one as it's one of those scenes that works so much better without context and the aesthetics are incredible. Plus who doesn't like Aubrey Plaza?

Quick Bonus Animation Round

Carmen Sandiego (Neflix) has a ton of mind control including the bad end to the interactive movie.

Totally Spies is a meme for a reason

And this one is a reason many of us are here <3

Comics

DC vs Vampires

I think the page speaks for itself. "Hypnosis isn't lying, Diana. It's speaking to your vulnerability."

Korra

This sequence of Asami, brainwashed to hate the avatar, being deprogrammed is so good that someone on AO3 did an incredible fan-fiction which may well be one of my favorite hypnokink stories of all time.

Super Mario Comic

I bring this one up as it was one of my earliest moments of "...oh... this is kind of making me feel some kind of way."

Video Games

A note that a full directory of video games featuring Mind Control can be found at mindcontrol.fun the MC Games Wiki, run by @soveryverytired

Nyx Gaming (Featured game: Enthralled)

Nyx do incredible games which are designed to hypnotize the viewer and their consent practices are wonderful. They recently teamed up with Secret Subject to release a vampire enthrallment game and let me tell you, there is not a single word in that synopsis that doesn't make me happy.

Mind Melting Massaging Machine

The best tool for VR hypnosis. Upload custom files and program spirals, subliminals and chose between static spiral or headtracking. I have had so much fun with this over the years. There's a desktop version too but VR is optimal for this experience.

Spiral Clicker

It's such a simple concept. Click on the character and watch their will go away. Spiral Clicker is backed with a fun little universe, fun characters both original and community sourced, amazing art and a clever little gameplay loop that is quite addictive. Careful, the game features a constant spiral, you may find yourself falling in to trance. Don't worry. The game will wake you up. You can even ask the game to include suggestions for you :)

The sequel is being worked upon now and I cannot wait <3

Music Videos

Anna Soares - Hypnodoll (NSFW)

Straight up just a song and music video about hypnokink. If you click anything in this thread, click this one.

Little Big - Hypnodancer:

Silly antics but a fun music video.

Pharrell Williams - Hypnotize U

It's just Pharrell hanging out in a mansion with his hypnotized harem.

Grimes - We Appreciate Power

It's dronekink baby.

Andamiro - Hypnotize

Maid hypnotizes their employer.

I could do so many more in all areas. But the point is, media is hypnohorny. I never went over advertisements (UK ones especially), books, musicals (Phantom and Next To Normal for instance), anime (Sailor Moon) or manga.

But I write about a bunch more in my Twitter thread.

---

Day 48: Stealth Inductions

FULL SCHEDULE MASTER POST

FINAL Day 50: Presentation

[sheliesshattered]

Sylki fic: When She Sings She Sings Come Home

Loki/Sylvie, 3200 words. Post s02e06 fix-it, angst with a happy ending. Also available on AO3 under the same title and username.

--

When She Sings She Sings Come Home

Sylvie wakes with Loki’s voice in her ears.

It’s been months since she last saw him, striding out to the Loom to save the timelines. Winter has come and gone, here in this little corner of a branch that she’s made her home. Every day that’s passed, she’s half expected to turn around and see him standing there, like that night he appeared in the parking lot next to her truck. But for months, there’s been nothing but the absence of him, growing larger and more crystalline every day.

She wakes with his voice in her ears, singing that ridiculous song from the train on Lamentis.

To Sylvie, everybody! he’d said, grinning at her, not drunk only too full. She would give anything to see him smile like that again. She would give anything to see him again.

And it isn’t that she hasn’t looked. Of course she had. She’d barely gotten through a single shift at McDonald’s after leaving Mobius standing outside his variant’s house before she’d used He Who Remain’s TemPad to try to find Loki.

He wasn’t dead. She knows he isn’t dead. But he also isn’t anywhere. There are an infinite number of branches now, layers of reality twisting around each other into something larger, a shape she can almost see, almost recognize. But Loki isn’t on any of them. No matter where she searches, he remains just outside her grasp.

Sylvie goes to work, she drives her truck home, she listens to music at the record store, she checks in on Mobius, she tries to sleep. But everywhere is marked by Loki’s absence, and every moment is overlaid with the sound of him singing.

She can’t find Loki, but that song is a thread she can pull at. Where did he learn it? The words were almost Asgardian, but not quite. Something similar, a branch of the original. A variant. Because of course it was.

It’s not until she thinks to quietly spy on the New Asgard settlement in Norway, forty years on from her quiet life in Oklahoma, that she hears the language again. Norwegian.

Remember this place, she hears Odin say, in a memory that is not hers, rippling through the interwoven timelines because it is what she needs in this moment. Home.

She turns her back on New Asgard, on the man who is almost but not quite her brother, on the Valkyrie who will come to lead their people like the hero out of a saga that Sylvie had once wished she could become. She turns her back, and walks into this strange, beautiful land. Norway. One tiny place on one tiny planet in one insignificant branch of the ever-growing tree of time, where the syllables are shaped into words that resonate with Loki’s voice from so long ago.

Sylvie wanders into pubs, into taverns, into bars, into concerts. She hums the few notes that never leave her head, and hopes to find someone who knows the song.

Until, miraculously, one day, she does.

“It’s an old drinking song,” the bearded man at the bar tells her, gesturing with his beer. “It’s about taking the long way home, but knowing you’ll get there in the end.”

“Can you teach it to me?” Sylvie asks, unblinking, gaze trained on the stranger’s face.

“For that, I will need a lot more beer.”

So she buys him beers. She coaxes the song out of him. She buys rounds for the whole bar, until they are all singing it. They teach her the words in Norwegian, teach her to shape the vowels as carefully as any incantation, and then teach her the meaning behind the words.

In storm-black mountains, I wander alone

Over the glacier I make my way

In the apple garden stands the maiden fair

and sings, “When will you come home?”

“You, I think,” her drunk bearded acquaintance says to her, “you are the maiden fair.”

“And what if I am?” Sylvie asks, raising her chin, still dead-sober despite the bourbon clutched in her hand.

“Then you must sing for him to come home!”

“From an apple orchard, if you can manage it,” leers his friend next to him.

“Will it work?” she hears herself say.

“Of course it will work! Music is magic. Galdr, they used to call it, in the old religion. The power of your voice to shape reality.” The man is drunk, but his words tug at something in Sylvie’s memory, long buried. “Sing, and he will come home.”

“As simple as that?”

The bearded man laughs uproariously. “When has love ever been simple?” he demands jovially. “When has magic ever been easy? But that does not mean it is not worth trying. There is beauty in the trying. There is love in the longing.” He’s slurring his words, barely managing to stay atop his barstool.

But he’s not wrong.

I know what kind of god I need to be, Loki had said, tears shining in his eyes. For you. For all of us.

But Sylvie is a god, too, she reminds herself, as she tosses back her bourbon and turns her back on the little Norwegian town, with the northern lights rippling over head. She’s not the goddess of chaos anymore, and she hasn’t felt mischievous since she was a child.

But the goddess of galdr, yes, that perhaps is something she could be.

She returns to her little Oklahoma town, cloud cover obliterating the stars, and drives her truck to the record store. There’s only one song she wants to hear, only one voice to sing it, but music has been her comfort since she came to this place, and she cannot simply become the goddess of music-turned-into-magic because she wishes it to be so. Music has been her shield, her cocoon, her comfort these long lonely months. Now she must learn to form it into other shapes, into weapons and tools. Into a lighthouse, shining out into the vast dark of the multiverse.

She taught herself enchantment, while running for her life from one apocalypse to the next. She can teach herself galdr in this quiet little record shop in this quiet little town.

Sylvie slides the headphones into place, and lets the music move through her.

Oh, sweet nothin'

She ain't got nothin' at all

Oh, sweet nothin'

She ain't got nothin' at all

But what if she had something? What if she had the one person who would make all of this worth it?

I know what kind of god I need to be, she tells herself. For you, Loki.

She murmurs the words along with the music, infusing them with intent, with magic.

And for one fraction of an instant, she can see him.

He’s alone, on the throne he never wanted, surrounded by the threads of the multiverse, pulsing green as they grow and twist. There is nothing, nothing else, only Loki alone in that vast emptiness, in that expanse of everything that ever was or ever could be.

His eyes are dull, unfocused, far away. And then— a flicker of recognition, a spark of life—

Sylvie loses the connection.

She’s alone on the sofa in the back of the record shop, with Lou Reed singing in her ears.

He ain’t got nothing at all

She drives home. She tries to sleep. She keeps hearing Loki’s voice, keeps seeing him alone in that emptiness. She murmurs into the darkness— not quite a song, not quite a spell—

But trees dance and waterfalls stop

When she sings, she sings “come home”

There is a shape to the enormity of what Loki has done. There is an order to the way the branches of the multiverse wrap around each other. It is just outside her grasp, but Sylvie feels that if she could just see the shape of it, she might understand.

She might be able to reach him.

In storm-black mountains, I wander alone she whispers to the emptiness of her tiny apartment, in this tiny town, in this little branch of a timeline, one miniscule part of a greater whole, and falls asleep dreaming of trees dancing, of waterfalls stopping, of Loki taking her outside the flow of time to tell her that there was no other way to keep her safe.

Sylvie wakes with her own voice in her ears.

The song is coursing through her, jeg saler min ganger, and she can feel the magic at her fingertips, on the tip of her tongue, pushing at the insides of her ribs, swelling her lungs and begging to be released.

I know what kind of god I need to be.

She gets into her truck and drives. North and east, away from everything she knows, vaguely towards those northern lights dancing over the fjords, too far away to reach on roads such as these.

But once upon a time, when she was very young, there was another road. A rainbow road, the Bifrost, that could take her anywhere just like magic.

Every bit of magic she has now she has taught herself. And this, too, this song swelling in her chest, is magic of her own making.

There is beauty in the trying. There is love in the longing.

She drives past fields of wheat and fields of corn, through days and nights, with the glare of the sun or the pattering of the rain against the windshield. Sylvie drives and drives and drives, and keeps the song tucked away inside her, growing in fury like a hurricane in a bottle, like the storm that had raged outside the night they met.

She drives until the scent of apples wafts through the open windows of the truck, and then she pulls over, knowing this was her destination all along.

Iðunn, a childhood memory whispers, too long ago now to have any meaning at all. The apples of eternity.

Home she thinks, and then hears, from a memory not her own:

Asgard’s not a place, it’s a people.

This could be Asgard. Asgard is where our people stand.

Her brother’s voice. The voice of the man who had once raised her as his daughter. The family she lost and can never regain, no matter what shape the multiverse twists itself into. Words reaching across time, across branching timelines, to reach her here and now, because it is what she needs to hear.

Sylvie climbs out of her truck and walks into the apple orchard and doesn’t look back.

She walks until she can no longer see the road from between the trunks and branches. She walks until there is nothing but the smell of apples, the soil under foot, and the sky over head. She walks until the song finally bursts out of her, all of her desperation and loneliness flooding out of her lungs to shake the very air around her, in the shape of words that are his but also hers, now.

But trees dance and waterfalls stop

When she sings, she sings “come home”

In storm-black mountains, I wander alone

Over the glacier I make my way

In the apple garden stands the maiden fair

and sings, “When will you come home?”

But trees dance and waterfalls stop

When she sings, she sings “come home”

When she sings, she sings “come home”

When she sings, she sings “come home”

When she sings, she sings “come home!”

And then he is there, standing beside her in the sunshine and the scent of the apple orchard. Loki glances around at the trees dancing in the wind, his eyes bright, before his gaze snaps to hers.

“You’re here,” Sylvie croaks, her voice burned through with the force of the magic that poured out of her, the magic that’s brought Loki to her.

“No, not really,” he says, his eyes never still as they trace over her face. “I’m still there too. I’m sort of everywhere, really. It’s hard to explain.”

“Help me to understand,” she says before the words even have the chance to fade away. “You said you knew what kind of god you needed to be. You saved us, you saved everything, and then you disappeared. Make me understand.”

“I can’t, Sylvie,” Loki says gently, and there is a sorrow in his eyes deeper than oceans, more boundless than the vastness of space. “It’s been centuries for me. Lifetimes. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Enchant me, he had begged her once, standing in the McDonald’s parking lot in his ridiculous TVA uniform. You can see what I saw.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she tells him, raising her hands slowly towards his face, green magic flickering between her fingers. “Just let me see what you saw.”

“Sylvie,” he starts, and there are tears in his eyes again, like there were in that last moment before he turned his back on her to destroy the Loom.

“We’re the same, remember?” she says, and if her voice cracks it is only because of the abuse it’s suffered, only because of the magic that poured out through her vocal chords to shape reality to her desires. “You shouldn’t have to bear this burden alone, Loki,” she tells him, with as much tenderness as she can force into her ruined voice. “Let me understand.”

“It was the only way,” he says, as if in warning, but Sylvie cups his face in her hands before the tears can fall from his eyes.

Centuries. Lifetimes. The same day, over and over again. Reality unspooling, starting with Victor Timely and ending with her, again and again. Their fight in the Citadel at the end of time, relived hundreds of times, always with the same ending. Always the death of He Who Remains, and the unraveling of everything, failure after failure after failure.

And yet in all of them, she does not kiss him. And he cannot bring himself to kill her. Until only one choice remains.

I know what kind of god I need to be. For you.

Sylvie watches in Loki’s memory as the temporal radiation burns away his TVA uniform, as his magic replaces it with something older, something primal, something true. She watches as he grasps the decaying branches of the multiverse and breathes life into them, wills them to live, to be whole and part of a whole.

She watches as the branches twist around each other, each variation of the timeline finding support in its neighbors, building into something greater than the sum of every moment of every timeline that has ever existed.

She sees the shape of what Loki has done, the enormous, infinite tree dancing in the nothingness outside of time. Yggdrasil, the worldstree, green and glowing, alive and growing, all because Loki willed it so. To restore freewill and safeguard it forever. For all of us.

His hands cover hers and Loki gently pries her fingers away from his face. “Enough, Sylvie. Enough. I know what I’ve done.”

There are tears on her face, the apple-scented wind plucking at the wetness as she stands there, staring at Loki. Even without the enchantment, she can see him sitting on his throne, alone but for the infinite tree he tends.

“It was the only way?” she asks in the ruins of her voice. It is only when he folds his hands around hers that she realizes she is shaking, trembling like a leaf in the wind. Not like dancing. Like shattering, collapsing in on herself with the weight of what he’s done.

“No,” Loki admits. “There was one other way. I could have left He Who Remains in charge. I could have let the TVA go back to pruning the timelines. But I would have had to kill you. I would have had to kill you with my own hands, and watch as you died, and then betray everything you ever believed in. I lived every variation of every action I could possibly change, but not that one. Not that.”

“You don’t even know me,” Sylvie blurts out before the words have fully formed in her mind. All of this, to save her? She cannot, she cannot—

Loki’s expressive face twists, stung by her words, hurt in this moment even beyond the deep sorrow that he wears like a cloak. “Of course I know you,” he says, wounded, his gaze searching her face. “Like I’ve never known anyone. Sylvie, I lov—”

She surges up onto her toes and kisses him, there among the apple trees. She kisses him for what he’s done, for what he refused to do. She kisses him for the loneliness they have both known far too much of, she kisses him for coming when she sang for him to come home. She kisses him because there is nothing else she can do, because there was never any other way for her, either.

And Loki kisses her in return, with a desperation borne of years, centuries, lifetimes of facing this alone. He kisses her in the apple garden, as the trees dance and the waterfalls stand still. He is there, kissing her, but also somewhere else, far away and outside time, tending to the tree that he gave his life to save.

“I can’t stay,” he says when they finally part, pressing his forehead to hers, his hands cupping her jaw in an echo of how she had enchanted him moments before. “I want to stay, more than anything, Sylvie, but I can’t, I can’t.”

“I know,” she assures him, even as she clutches at his robes for fear he will disappear at any moment. “I know you can’t stay here with me,” she says, then takes a deep breath to steady her ragged voice, her thundering heart. “But you don’t have to be alone.”

Loki pulls away abruptly, only far enough to see her face, confusion pinching his features.

“We’re gods, you said,” Sylvie explains, tripping over her words, her voice trembling with the weight of what she has already done, the weight of what she plans to do. “We have a responsibility. That’s what you told me, in that ridiculous room full of pie. We can’t just give everyone freewill and then walk away.” She offers him a small smile, the best she can summon at the current moment. “You have to sustain Yggdrasil. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

“I did this for you,” he says, holding on to her as desperately as she is clutching at him. “So you could have a life. That’s what you said you wanted, to live.”

“It’s freewill, Loki,” she says, shaking her head. “You can’t just give it to everyone and then be surprised when I use it to choose to be with you. I know what kind of god I need to be. You taught me that. I won’t let you bear this burden alone. That’s the kind of god I choose to be.”

“I can’t let you sacrifice yourself for me—”

“The only sacrifice would be giving you up.”

He gazes at her for a long moment, his uncertainty slowly transforming, then sings softly, “I stormsvarte fjell, jeg vandrer alene,” and this time Sylvie understands the words. “Over isbreen tar jeg meg frem. I eplehagen står møyen den vene, og synger: ‘når kommer du hjem?’”

The apple orchard dissolves around them, replaced by the rippling greens and blues and purples of Yggdrasil, shimmering in the darkness outside of time.

“Home,” Sylvie says, and kisses him again.

[allisluv]

COMING CLEAN

Chapter Five — the list

pairing: finnick odair x fem!oc

content warnings: president snow is a warning in himself, tooth rotting fluff mostly, flirty comments, traumas, implied sex work, dissociation and i think that’s it <3

word count: 3.1k

previous part — next part

Dahlia had never managed to escape what had happened during the 67th Hunger Games for very long. Everywhere she turned, there were reminders. A cold snap in the weather. Sickles in district nine. She grew to associate the colour red with violence and blonde thirteen-year-olds with Alara. Carbon copies of the young girl she was meant to protect. Carbon copies of the young girl she couldn't save.

Even in her sleep, she could not separate herself from the horrors in the arena. Her dreams were plagued with disturbing memories. Beckett's lifeless body lying limply in her arms. The way the colour drained from Mallory's face as Dahlia slit her throat. The light leaving Xavier's eyes. How Apollo had used Eleanora's body to light a fire in the mountains. Alara crying out for her mother.

Dahlia woke with a start, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. Tears gathered on her waterline and she blinked them away quickly. Beads of sweat trickled down the back of her neck and into her damp pyjama shirt.

Finnick was snoring quietly, his chest rising and falling in steady motions. He must have been a deep sleeper to keep dozing through her tossing and turning. The alarm clock on his locker flashed with a hologram of the time.

It had only just gone 10am which gave her plenty of time to relax before tonight's gala.

She pulled back the duvet covers and quietly crept her way towards her suitcase. It was still open from last night, so she didn't have to worry about the zipping noise waking him up. She pulled a yarn of wool and two knitting needles from her suitcase before tip-toeing her way onto the balcony.

It wasn't anything special: two white plastic chairs and a matching round table. There was a row of potted plants through the bars and a view of the bustling Capitol streets. Not all that different from her own hotel room.

She settled in the shade of the balcony and got to work almost straight away. She was three-quarters of the way through knitting a black sweater for her sister; Ivy had outgrown at least half of her wardrobe in the last month alone.

Having something to do took her mind off the particularly harrowing flashbacks from last night.

Beneath her, cars honked their horns at other drivers on the road and she could faintly hear a conversation from the penthouse suite above her. It was rare to have a peaceful morning in the Capitol and it certainly made her trip that much easier.

Finnick stumbled onto the balcony about an hour later. He squinted in the morning sunlight and wiped the traces of sleep from his eyes. "Morning," he sat opposite her and set two full mugs of coffee on the table. "Have you been up for long?"

Dahlia was too absorbed in her knitting to offer anything more than a shrug. Her eyes were trained on the stitches as she threaded the needles through the wool. Eventually, her fingers stilled and she discarded her completed knitting to one side. She peered into the cup he had nudged in her direction and was surprised to see that he had committed her coffee order to memory.

"Thank you," she cupped her hands around the mug, craving the warmth. Finnick shot her a soft smile and sipped his iced coffee. Dahlia tentatively lifted the mug to her lips and gulped it down, the liquid scalding her throat. "Did I wake you up? Sometimes I forgot how loud the knitting needles can be."

Finnick let out a breezy laugh and shook his head. "I'd probably sleep through an earthquake so you haven't got anything to worry about," he ran his hands through his strands of bronze hair and attempted to untangle the knots with his fingers.

"How long have you got until your first appointment this morning?" he asked gently, taking care to keep the question as casual as he could. He didn't want to make a big deal out of it. "Have you got enough time for me to show off my magnificent breakfast skills? I can assure you that it'll be worth it," he grinned, cockiness seeping from every word.

Dahlia bit back a smile and ducked her head until she had regained her composure. "That depends on whether or not pancakes are on the agenda," she quipped, her head tilted at an angle. "I have very high standards, you know," she teased with raised brows.

Finnick ran his tongue over his teeth and jumped to his feet, digging his hands into the deep pockets of his pyjama pants. "Oh, I'm sure you do honey." He yanked open the balcony door and the curtains fluttered in the wind.

She gathered her patchwork into her arms and slipped into their hotel room, sliding across the wooden floorboards in her white socks. She placed the almost-finished sweater vest on her bedside locker and dug the knitting needles into the ball of wool for safekeeping.

Finnick was scouring through a cupboard for a frying pan as she made her way towards the kitchenette and opened the fridge.

She sifted through packets of waffles and bottles of pink lemonade in search of the butter, which was the only thing she couldn't pinpoint a location on.

Letting out a small noise of triumph, she pushed herself onto her tippy-toes and pulled the butter from its hiding space. To his credit, Finnick had pulled the rest of the ingredients out of the cupboards while she was preoccupied.

She used her hip to push him aside and he laughed, folding his arms across his chest like a child that had been kicked out of the kitchen while the adults were talking.

"I thought I was meant to be making you breakfast," he protested, a slight whine in his voice as he leaned against the oven.

A smart remark died on her tongue when someone knocked on the door. She fired a tea towel at his chest and he caught it without even blinking. "If you give me food poisoning, I'll kill you," she warned.

Dahlia stepped away from the oven to see who was hammering their fists against the door at this time in the morning. Her gaze softened when she saw a young Avox on the other side of the door. The boy held an envelope in his hands and he couldn't be any older than twelve.

"Hi there," she sunk to her knees and clasped her hands together in her lap. Dahlia didnt like towering over him - it may come off as intimidating and she didnt want him to be frightened of her. "Is this for me?" she whispered, pointing at the letter clutched in his fist. He nodded nervously and placed it into her outstretched palm. "Thank you." He picked up his feet and scurried off down the hallway.

Dahlia hauled herself to her feet and closed the door, wandering back into the kitchen with the letter in her hand. Finnick cracked an egg against the side of a mixing bowl as she sat on the countertop next to him.

Dahlia's eyes briefly scanned the neat handwriting on the front of the envelope and she let a laugh slip past her lips. She ripped it open and read through the letter as Finnick flipped the pancakes in the air.

Dear Dahlia,

Why the fuck didn't you tell me you were going out with Finnick O'Dair? I want to know every little detail. Since when? What's he like? Is he really as handsome as everyone says? Does he treat you like you hung the moon and stars? He better. You deserve someone who treats you like there's nowhere else they'd rather be than with you, Lia. I can't wait till you get home, so please write me back as soon as you get this

Did you know otters sleep holding hands so that they don't drift away from each other? I bet you didn't know that, did you? Tell Finnick. Tell him. I bet he won't know that either! And tell him that there are six thousand different types of coral. I think he'll like that one because of his district.

I wish you were here. I miss you terribly. River won't let me feed Thumper ice cream and he's really not a good cook. I think I might die of starvation by the time you get home. Also, Wyatt is sad again and I don't know how to cheer him up. River is trying his best but he keeps giving out and shouting at him for not moving from the couch. I'm trying to look after him because I might not know how to make him feel better, but at least I don't scream at him.

You're the only one who knows how to make him do things. He doesn't eat a lot, even when I add smiley faces to his food, which usually works for me. Anyway, please tell me how you do it and maybe it'll work.

I hope you are doing okay. Tell Finnick that I said hello. Everything is okay so please try not to worry. Thumper is alive and thriving. You were right, he does like lettuce. Anyway, write back and let me know how you're getting on.

Lots of love,

Juniper xx

"Pancakes are ready," Finnick announced, transferring them onto linen napkins marked with the Capitol's seal. He grabbed the sugar and lemon from the cupboard above his head and joined Dahlia at the kitchen table.

She wasted no time in rolling up the pancake and ripping into it with her teeth. "June wants me to tell you that there's six thousand different types of sea coral," she covered her mouth with her hand as she spoke. An amused smile played on his lips. "She wants me to find out if you knew that or not."

Finnicks warm laughter filled the room and it made her heart buzz with that pleasant feeling again. "I didn't know that," he admitted, sprinkling sugar over his pancakes. "Is she a fan of the water then?"

"Ironically, she's petrified of the water. I've tried to teach her to swim but she wasn't having a bar of it. No, she just likes memorizing facts and then repeating them in her head," Dahlia explained.

He was about to answer when someone rapidly knocked their knuckles against the door. His spine straightened out and he struggled to his feet, but she was closer and beat him to it. A glance at the clock told her that it had just gone noon which meant that it was probably one of their prep teams ready to poke and prod them into perfection.

She unbolted the door, expecting to see Bloom or Caspian standing on the other side, but was met with an unpleasant surprise. Dahlia's blood ran cold.

President Snow's right-hand man, Everett Montgomery, was on their doorstep. Two armed peacekeepers accompanied him.

"Miss Holloway. Is Mr O'Dair around?" Everett grunted. Finnick ran to the door at the sound of his name and Dahlia absentmindedly put herself between him and Everett. "I'm to escort you both to President Snow's mansion. He would like a word."

Dahlia stood her ground and dug her heels into the floorboards as Everett tried to push his way into their hotel room. "I'm afraid you will have to wait ten minutes while we get ready." Everett opened his mouth to protest but she was quick to cut him off. "I wasn't asking for permission."

By the look on Everett's face, it was evident that he had never been told no before. She left no room for arguing and with his mouth hanging open in shock, Dahlia slammed the door in his face and locked it for good measure.

"You have five minutes, Miss Holloway!"

The room was swaying as Dahlia stepped away from the door. She moved over to the sofa and pulled herself together. "Do you mind if I use the bathroom to get changed? I won't be long," she sat on the sofa and pulled her case apart in her haste to find a change of clothes.

"Yeah, go ahead," Finnick yanked a few items of his own from the chest of drawers. "There's no rush. Everett can't exactly leave without us, anyway."

Dahlia disappeared into the bathroom and winced when she saw her reflection staring back at her in the mirror. The lace of her pyjama shirt was barely concealing the hickeys along her collarbones. Her hair was disastrous and she had a feeling it would take a while to untangle all of the knots. She hadn't done a good job of cleaning off her makeup last night; she could still see streaks of foundation along her face.

She stepped out of her pyjamas and discarded them on the bathroom floor. Slipping a black shirt over her head and pulling a pair of ripped jeans over her wide hips, she ran her brush through her long locks of caramel hair. She never bothered with makeup -- she had enough of that during galas -- and once the traces of last night's mess were gone, she pulled on a pair of shoes and peeked her head out of the door, eyes firmly squeezed shut. "Are you decent?"

"Don't act as if you wouldn't love to see me without my clothes on, honey."

"Finnick!"

"Calm down, I'm only pulling your leg, of course, I'm decent," he laughed and laced up his trainers. He turned to her as she bundled her pyjamas into her suitcase. "You ready honey?"

She glared at him but there was no heat behind the look. Maybe the nickname was starting to grow on her more than she cared to admit.

Everett hammered his fists against the door until they answered. He marched them into the elevator and the peacekeepers were practically walking on the back of their heels. If she had to guess, they were under strict instructions to make sure neither of them made a run for it.

The armed peacekeepers cleared a path through the mass of reporters gathered outside the hotel entrance. Everett ushered them into the back of a limousine with tinted windows and jumped into the passenger seat. The driver stepped on the gas pedal, weaving in and out of the crowds as photographers continued trying to snap a shot of them.

The pancakes had turned sour in Dahlia's stomach and she was praying they wouldn't make a reappearance. She smoothed her hands along the material of her trousers, fingers gliding over her kneecaps. It was soothing and she managed to keep her breakfast down the entire car ride.

Everett led them into President Snow's mansion and guided them down secret hallways that were guarded by armed peacekeepers in crisp white uniforms.

While Dahlia had been in the President's mansion for many a gala, she had only been invited into his private quarters twice before; the first when she was propositioned on being sold to rich Capitol men and women and the second after her parents were murdered and she had exchanged her bodily autonomy for her sibling's freedom.

Everett slowed to a stop in one of the corridors and gestured to two plush velvet armchairs and an array of magazines. "Wait here. I'll call you when the President is ready," he opened the heavy double doors to Snow's study and let it slam closed while they took their seats.

Adrenaline shot through Dahlia's body like a drug. Not knowing why they had been called in for a meeting was killing her. She was too busy wrecking her brain for what they could have possibly done wrong to notice that her cuticles were starting to bleed.

Finnick's leg was bouncing up and down as he reached across and gently took her hand in his own. "Stop that," he rubbed the pad of his thumb over her knuckles, trying to provide a slither of comfort in the darkly lit hallway. She couldn't get the words to leave her mouth so she squeezed his hand to convey her thanks.

Time seemed to move in slow motion as they sat in the corridor. It felt like waiting on death row because whatever Snow wanted, it couldn't be good.

After what felt like a lifetime, Everett beckoned them inside.

Finnick gave her hand a reassuring squeeze as he led the way into the study. President Snow sat behind an oak desk, fussing over a white rose in his lapel. He didn't look up until the two of them were settled in the chairs opposite him. "I've always favoured the white roses. They bring out my eyes, don't you think?"

Dahlia had a habit of laughing at inconvenient times and she bit down on her tongue to stop that from happening. It was probably a rhetorical question, anyway. "You wanted to see us, President Snow?"

"Yes, Miss Holloway, I did," Snow left the rose alone and clasped his hands in front of him. "I want to commend you both on your acting, for starters."

"Who said we were acting?" she countered.

He shot her a tight-lipped smile. "Let's cut to the chase, my dear. I'm sure you're aware that there's been an increase in demand for your services. I wanted to personally make sure you both understand that our agreement has not changed. Here is a list of clients that you need to see before you are free to go home."

He slid two pieces of paper across the table. Finnick couldn't help but notice that Dahlia's list was significantly longer than his.

Dahlia wondered how mad the president would be if she ripped up his goddamn list. "There are at least forty names here."

"Seventy-five. There's more names on the back," Snow corrected matter-of-factly. "I must remind you that your clients are to be treated with the utmost respect. That goes for you as well, Finnick. We wouldn't want a tragic accident to occur, now would we?"

Dahlia dug her nails into the palms of her hand until blood dripped down her wrists. Her jaw clenched and she refused to break eye contact with him.

Fire burned through her veins, setting her nerve-endings alight and it was at that moment that she knew Snow was going to regret ever laying eyes on her.

She was going to burn the Capitol down from the inside out.

[h-ironos]

♯ ┆ starter  for  …  𝕵𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄  𝐙𝐇𝐔𝐈𝐘𝐔𝐍  :  𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄,  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃  𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑

a  thread  featuring   ›  jesse  zhuiyun  &&  zane  keres.  (  @d3spite  ) location  ›  a  random  bar  in  myrithen,  late  in  the  evening. possible  tw  ›   alcohol  consumption  ??

myrithen,  as  far  as  zane's  standards  go,  has  been  incredibly  weird  and  full  of  surprises.  there  has  yet  to  be  a  shortage  of  interesting  faces  no  matter  where  he  goes,  which  he  assumes  to  be  a  good  thing.  even  if  there  was  a  few  …  challenges  along  the  way,  zane  was  someone  who  was  good  at  adapting.  he  was  excellent  at  it,  actually.  and  that  is  what  originally  led  him  to  the  bar  —  his  adaptability;  a  chance  to  adapt  to  the  chillier  weather  of  myrithen.  after  all,  alcohol  always  warmed  him  up.  and  just  like  all  the  other  times  he  had  frequented  this  bar,  he  wasn't  alone.  colourful  personalities  filled  the  tavern,  all  catching  his  watchful  eyes,  ears  picking  up  on  every  little  conversation. 

sniff  …  sniffle  …  was  someone  crying?

zane's  attention  quickly  turned  towards  the  sound,  surprised  at  just  how  close  the  crying  sounded  to  him.  it  wasn't  hard  to  find  the  culprit;  an  elf  —  maybe?  was  that  what  they  called  the  pointy-eared  population  of  myrithen?  he  was  still  getting  used  to  the  terminology.  but  whatever  he  was,  he  was  crying  rather  quietly,  nursing  whatever  drink  he  had  in  front  of  him,  his  face  full  of  sadness  …  almost  like  a  sad  puppy.  and  naturally  —  being  the  caring  person  that  he  was,  zane  sighed;  his  own  face  forming  into  a  frown,  somehow  being  affected  by  the  stranger's  emotions,  patting  his  shoulder  in  reassurance. 

“  hey,  stranger!  what  is  the  matter  with  you?  why  are  you  crying  and  looking  as  if  someone  just  stole  all  your  hopes  and  dreams?  ”  he  asked,  a  little  chuckle  following  his  words,  though  it  didn't  seem  to  make  the  stranger  laugh.  hmm  …  he  could  try  another  move.  but  ..  why  was  he  also  feeling  so  sad  at  the  moment??  he  didn't  remember  ever  being  this  empathetic.  “  you  okay?  did  you  just  get  broken  up  with,  or  something?  sir  —  a  round  over  here  for  us,  please!  ”

[vanathema]

With the steam release of Dwarf Fortress coming, I’ve made a round-up of threads and stories over the years.

In general, most images are broken because some of these are ten, almost fifteen years old. Also worth noting that forum posters tend to refer to all dwarves as male, regardless of gender. This often extends to adventurer mode (even though one can adventure as nearly anything). This gets confusing at times.

———

stories

The Most Interesting Dwarf in the World http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=34933.0 https://www.dwarffortresswiki.org/index.php/Morul Morul Cattenmat, renaissance dorf

The Elf King of Dwarves http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=39897.0 https://www.dwarffortresswiki.org/index.php/Cacame_Awemedinade how DOES an elf get elected king of dwarves, anyway

Cog the Blind Drunk http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=172504.0 the adventure of a drunken bar brawler. also there's mangoes

The Life and Death of Tholtig Cryptbrain http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=42702.0 via legends mode, memorializing the last dwarven queen

The Ballad of Almef Abliemtha http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=162870.0 an adventurer mode newbie stumbles into endgame. "I still don't know what candy is. I've been using goose leather."

Âsax http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=52295.0 “That bird was a saint, embodying two of the many great aspects of dwarven civilization: war and crazy names for garbage items.”

Glitchy body-surfing in adventurer mode http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=75246.0 "...discovered that Elephants can't open doors. All my plans for becoming the first great Elephant general ruined."

"You have found..." http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=80043.0 gently bullying a new player

One Dwarf Against The World http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=15572.0 solo-running a fortress, or, the origin of all dorfs being called Urist

Beware the giant sponge http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=101243.0 sometimes the most fearsome enemies are right on your doorstep, callously murdering your fishers by making them startle and trip into the river to drown, like utter morons

———

fortresses

Archcrystal http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=156319.0 the almost (at time of writing) 500-year old generational fortress (considering encroaching FPS death kills more fortresses than tantrum spirals or invasions, this is as much a technical victory as anything)

Bronzemurder http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=54969.0 the illustrated saga

(note: the Something Awful threads are indicative of edgy internet humour circa 2005-2010, which is to say, a wee bit dated. proceed accordingly.)

SA: Boatmurdered https://lparchive.org/Dwarf-Fortress-Boatmurdered/ the prototypical succession game, from an ancient version of the game that had no z-layers (i.e. it was a 2-dimensional map) now immortalized in the soundtrack as "Koganusân"

SA: Headshoots https://lparchive.org/Dwarf-Fortress-Headshoots/ another succession game whether intentional or a bug, combat skill levels were uncapped for at least two dwarves, which might have been a mistake

SA: Syrupleaf https://lparchive.org/Dwarf-Fortress-Syrupleaf/ the sequel to headshoots set in a world plagued by frost giants and the undead Spawn of Holistic (which is to say, a modded enemy based on one of the fallen heroes of Headshoots)

———

glitches (mostly fixed)

Danger Rooms http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=92907.0 a popular if controversial exploit (now fixed) where the optimal way to train your militia was throwing them in a room full of wooden spear traps hooked up to repeaters, to be stabbed ad infinitum

It was the best embark, it was the worst embark... http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=61507.0 worldgen hiccup causes an impossible adamantine spire

Here lies Wagon: may he rest in peace http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=128593.0 the original image is broken, so to explain: a scuttled wagon may end up being listed as a deceased entity. deceased beings can be memorialized on gravestones, and so...

The Shaft of Enlightenment http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=134512.0 a particularly lucky goblin inspires the blueprints for a new super-soldier training zone

Planepacked: The Fractal Statue http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=28232.0 https://dwarffortresswiki.org/index.php/Planepacked a dwarf in a strange mood amasses far more materials than usual to build an artifact, and produces a statue carved with the history of the world

"Cat cancels Store Item in Stockpile: Too injured" http://dwarffortresswiki.org/index.php/40d:Cat_cancels_Store_Item_in_Stockpile:_Too_injured local cat forgets it doesn't have hands

Parents carrying babies have their movement directed by said children https://www.bay12games.com/dwarves/mantisbt/view.php?id=11231 "Babies simply don't have any idea where they want to steer their mothers. I imagine it probably looks similar to Disney's Ratatouille movie."

———

!!science!!

Chasing the Elusive Mermaid http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=25967.0 infamously caused Toady to immediately nerf the value of bones from sapient creatures, for some reason

On the Farming of Sea Serpents http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=75780.0 the slightly less alarming but no less ambitious sequel to mermaid farming

Dwarven "Child Care" http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=91093.0 http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=140588.0 "It's like regular childcare, except with more dogs, and less care." i don't think anyone actually got this to work, despite generations of inhumane experiments, which is the dorf fort community in a nutshell

The Fountain of Eternal Life http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=101251.0 how to vampirize a fortress (the answer is: ew)

Building a !!Well!! http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=93780.0 "I'm still looking for a way to make a self-cleaning well. This was not the way to do it."

Quantum Stockpiles https://www.dwarffortresswiki.org/index.php/DF2014:Quantum_stockpile technically an exploit, too useful to fix

Dwarven Atom Smasher https://www.dwarffortresswiki.org/index.php/DF2014:Dwarven_atom_smasher also an exploit left unfixed. dorfs invented an atom smasher to use as garbage disposal

Necrobacon http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=113638.0 wherein dead animals raised by necromancy have increased muscle mass, and therefore bigger yields from butchery

the first fully programmable dwarven computer http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=49641.0 https://dwarffortresswiki.org/index.php/User:Jong/Dwarven_Computer turing-complete, apparently

Dwarven Game of Life http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=69307.0 "For the last few months, I've been building a megaproject which is an implementation of Conway's Game of Life in a dwarf fortress mechanical computer."

Dwarven Checkers http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=94140.0 the hit new boardgame

Dwarven Relativity http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=86248.0 a thread roundup of dwarven science, including several threads I haven’t seen before

Dwarven Language Codified http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=173289.0 this isn't shenanigans like the other !!science!! threads, just a fascinating read

———

dorf culture

Stupid dwarf trick https://www.dwarffortresswiki.org/index.php/DF2014:Stupid_dwarf_trick the real spirit of dorf fort

Goblin Christmas http://dwarffortresswiki.org/index.php/Goblin_christmas non-denominational

Unfortunate Accident http://dwarffortresswiki.org/index.php/DF2014:Unfortunate_accident weird how these things happen

Catsplosions http://dwarffortresswiki.org/index.php/DF2014:Catsplosion spay and neuter your pets

[2demondogs]

Get These Damn Angels Drunk | Dutch/Carmichael

Tags: young VanDerMatthews, seduction but no smut, Dutch has a plan, canon-typical violence, smoking, power dynamics Word Count: 4.2k A/N: The fleeting idea of why Sheriff Carmichael might have been too embarrassed to comment on their escape from Kettering came to my mind. I realize I spell it both Carmichael and Carmicheal. This is because I don't care about him. I am sorry. (Not enough to fix it lel)

The only thing Dutch despises more than being confined is being well-behaved.

In the past, before Hosea's terrible voice of reason came to him, he would have been running his mouth where his feet could no longer run. Good behavior is a concept so foreign that, after a few whisper-arguments across the cell hall with Hosea in their first week locked up in Kettering, Dutch was forced to ask what exactly behaving behind bars... meant.

It didn't mean full honesty, no; to quell Hosea's nerves after a particularly heated discussion with one of their buyers, they'd agreed on a story to tell the police which made their scheme appear far more juvenile. Dutch could pass for twenty on a good day, Hosea for twenty-six or -seven — they have played to their youth before to slink off unscathed. Dutch still upholds that they jinxed themselves, that instead of discussing the thought whatsoever they should have turned on their heels and skittered off with the three-hundred bucks.

His own greed was part of the reason they continued, but his hindsight remains twenty-twenty.

Even if he cannot call the sheriff a lucky invert for locking up two handsome fellers as themselves — a choice slur for mutton-shunters, which he favored in his youth and finds ironically hilarious now — Dutch has used the time Hosea's been in fitful slumbers to think.

His personal wants are taken into account, because otherwise he has nowhere to stem an escape from. That old story about Benjamin Franklin asking a rival to lend him a book; small favors, big turnarounds.

First, a cigar. His fingers itched for one the whole first week, so badly that they began to twitch, too. Dutch finds himself pressing his fingers to his lips in that familiar grip-pattern now and then, holding his breath as if he's got a something to puff on while he stares out the barred window into the alleyway between the sheriff's office and a general store. (Sometimes a feller takes a piss near the boxes stacked in the back, but not much beyond the light changes out there.)

Second, to be with Hosea. It might have been easier, to be apart, if they were not able to see and speak to each other across the two sets of bars that separate them.

As it is, they talk all day and stare all night; Dutch feels the terrible limbo of their separation eating at his dignity each hour. Some days, he yearns to ask Hosea to speak filth to him so he might imagine they are holding one another like animals do — another day goes by, another inch of what recognized softness exists between them turns carnal, it seems.

It was fresh morning outside when he murmured this plan to Hosea. They've become used to the lawmen feeding their horses around nine or ten, heading to the general store to restock each other's smokes and drinks; they treat it like a damned university, really, and that only pisses Dutch off more.

If they want to be beacons of purity, why not act like ridding the world of Sin is their job? He feels like a child put into detention for throwing rocks at another.

Not that he would know from experience with the latter just how redundant every piece of it feels.

Hosea seems amused, but willing. Dutch had not thought of any jealousy or anger he might react with, not until Hosea's brows drew together at the end of his spun-thread and he feared he would be upset — it wasn't until that moment he realized, should Hosea have offered to be the sacrifical succubus, he'd've turned green — but the blond simply asked: "Everyone 'round here knows our looks, and we only got changes on the horses. How do we get out of the building?"

The solution to that is rather simple, they decide.

"Sheriff?"

A sigh, heavy and rough with smoke. The smell of burning tobacco drifting down the hall from the front desk makes his question sound more genuine.

"C'mere," Dutch calls. His rings clink against the cell bars as he wraps his hands around them. "Will ya?"

A Lord is muttered. "The Hell's it now, Landers?"

Dutch sees Hosea's mouth curl into a grin at the pseudonym, has to bite his cheek and clear his throat to stave off a smirk of his own. The blond curls into his bed as Carmichael's bootfalls near them, standing a respectable distance from Dutch's door.

He thinks I'll swing at him. Smart man.

"I asked you somethin' boy," the man says. His eyes are narrow and green, hooded by tired old lids. He must be a few years older than Hosea from how he carries himself, but his face is more unlined than Dutch's own.

Ancient princess of shit.

"I smelled your cigarette," Dutch starts, softening his voice as if he were pleading. "Y'see, I smoke cigars everyday myself. At least, 'fore I wound up here. So, now," — holding out his hand, tensing the muscles in his wrist to make his fingers twitch — "I got the shakes from quittin' 'em, like that." Carmichael nods, as if considering before Dutch even gets to the point: "What I'd like is to roll a cigar. Get this misery outta myself. I had a rolling case in my satchel."

His lips remain pursed beneath the undergrown mustache on his lip, smoke falling out of Carmichael's notrils as he takes the filter between his thumb and forefinger to point his middle finger towards him. "Nice sob story," he says. "What can you do for me, son?"

This wasn't expected.

The two outlaws believed they were on good enough behavior — if a little quiet, when the sheriff was around — to at least earn a smoke.

Inwardly, he berates himself for not considering that regardless of their behavior, they did scam enough money out of this man's town to get themselves a hundred barrels of flour.

Outwardly, Dutch wheels his plan forward and drags his eyes down Carmichael's body. He isn't an ugly man: he might be a princess degrading the title of lawman to businessman, but he clearly grew up working harder than this. A farmer's son, he would guess, or a farmhand in his last years of youth.

Some money or a good harvest came his way, and out of the sun he went. Yet he still worked, still kept himself built right. His shirt fits snugly over his arms and chest, hidden by the vest buttoned firmly down his torso; the trousers at his hips—

The man clears his throat before Dutch's eyes can laser through how the pant legs crease around his knees.

"What can you do for me?" Carmichael repeats, each word its own sentence.

Dutch looks towards his eyes, tries to find something to arouse genuine want along those smooth cheekbones.

"I'on know," he says, quirks the corner of his mouth up. "What'd'ya like from me, hoss?"

Panic flicks through Carmichael's eyes. It's nearly audible how the man reads deeper into things Dutch has said or done over the course of his hold here — things that had no such meanings, yet now sound suspiciously fond of the man in charge, suspiciously compliant. Hosea shifts in the cell across from his, and he hopes the mirth in his eyes reads suitably to the man between them.

Panic bleeds into something affirmative, yet unreadable to Dutch. The rosiness he can see along the sheriff's cheeks fills in the blanks.

"I'll get you your cigar," Carmichael says finally. As he's stalking towards the lockers, he hears him murmur: "Invert." He's tasting the word, not spitting it out, and Dutch will insist he was able to read his sexuality off his face if Hosea ever asks how he thought this plan would work.

He doesn't seem to be asking much from his cell. Hosea stands, comes to the bars to laugh silently, and scurries back to his cot as the sheriff walks towards them again. Again, Dutch feels immature — this prison thing is just one big child's game.

"I cannot give you your lighter," Carmichael says, as if reading a script off the back of his lids every time he blinks. He must give other prisoners their smokes more often; Dutch realizes these men must really dislike the two of them, neither having been offered a smoke break since the night they were thrown to rot. "I also cannot give you your razor blade. What's that for, anyways?"

"In the tin?"

"Aye."

Dutch raises his brows, genuine surprise. "Not a cigar smoker, are you? Don't roll your own smokes at all?"

"I ain't one for, ah," — Carmichael glancing around, tapping his fingers against the tin in his hands — "Working on pleasure. Always bought cigarettes. Pre-made."

Dutch must swallow the delight at it. Oh, he's bit the bait. "I find the work the most pleasurable part," he says, holding his hand out for the tin as if the words spoken are totally innocuous.

Carmichael flinches — flinches, by God, Dutch can hardly contain himself — before handing the tin through the slats. It is a few items lighter, and he sees the light of the noon glint off his lighter in the palm of Carmichael's hand.

"I gotta stand here," he says, once Dutch turns to sit on his cot and sort through the supplies in his tin.

Dutch is hardly paying him mind with the immediate promise of nicotine at his lap. No whiskey to moisten the tobacco with, he must have removed that, too. Deputy probably drank it, he thinks sourly.

"I gotta light it for you, since you ain't allowed to have this." He lifts his head, nods with a small smile.

"I understand. Can't give maniacs matches, can we?"

"You're far from a maniac," Carmichael says. "Bit too smart to be crazy, y'all are. That's why you're dangerous."

"You're complimentin' some criminals, sheriff?" Dutch asks.

"Naw." He can hear the shit-eating grin in his voice, doesn't need to look up from pinching the tobacco into its wrapper. "Much less impressive to have arrested some lucky assholes."

He huffs a laugh.

If only he believed that, he thinks, he might have saved himself from his fate. As it stands, Dutch finishes rolling his cigar and stands, stretches his legs out one after another 'til the stiff knees crack. He can feel eyes on him as he watches the toes of his boots shift.

They hadn't given them the county stripes — honestly, Dutch was beginning to think the men up front forgot the men were even holed up in here. His clothes are soaked with dirt and sweat, though, which is a divine enough punishment for imitating men of luxury; he'll be glad when the strench of tobacco covers this reek back up.

"Care to trim it?" Dutch asks, holding the butt firmly between his fingers, the tip of the cigar through the bars. "That's what the razor is for."

He fights the urge to speak a sarcastic good boy when Carmichael follows his instructions.

The lighter flicks open and on, the sheriff steps closer; Dutch presses his nose uncomfortably between the cool steel bars to let the end light from between his lips. Slowly, he raises his hand to touch Carmichael's knuckles, dancing over his fingers as he gently pushes and pulls his hand back and forth. The back of his hand is hairy, thinly so; dark brown sunfreckles and a few small age spots spatter it and up onto his arm.

"Let me," — the cigar perched between his teeth makes it come across less sultry than intended — "Guide ya hand, sir."

Touching him becomes self-explanatory when the end lights more evenly after the change in tactic — Dutch will be damned if his first smoke in weeks is ruined by an unruly burn. The man still flushes, again, must feel hot as an ember.

He knows, because he's met his eyes again, feigning timidity at the proximity.

Dutch's gaze lingers as he withdraws, hollows his cheeks more than he needs to — although the cigar is a little too tight, his hands having fallen out of practice without the constant stream of leaves between them — and tongues the smoke around in his mouth. The rush is immediate and almost dizzying. He keeps the butt close to his face, draws it along his stubble as he does when he smokes deep in thought.

It helps to taste it, some; it also helps to spread that rouge down Carmichael's neck. He moves his jaw, shows the nicotine-stained teeth that line it as he sneers.

"I oughtta tack sodomy above your head, fool," Carmichael spits, then.

Dutch must not feign surprise for the second time. "Why?" He draws, sacrifices a short hit to exhale it quickly. "I ain't fucked no men yet."

Yet.

The sheriff looks like he would very much enjoy replying to that. And although the cigar could burn something, could catch his clothes on fire if he really wanted to try; although he, an inmate, has now provided the sheriff with a threat of sorts — Carmichael wordlessly motions for the rolling tin back and pivots to look at Hosea's hat-concealed face before returning to the front.

He tips his hat up once he's gone, and sees the humor on his face. "Wrapped around your finger," he mouths.

"Just like you," Dutch replies silently. The older man scoffs.

Night has fallen before Sheriff Carmichael makes his first supposed-to-be routine round of the next evening. Dutch was able to sleep a good few hours away while Hosea traced random bricks in the walls or woodgrains on the floor planks. Neither has had adequate, regular rest since those doors closed.

He and Hosea have been playing games they've forced up from their childhood memories to pass the time: the game of this hour is guess what number he's thinking of. Hosea keeps thinking of the number thirteen because they are so terribly unlucky, and Dutch keeps winning. Each time he does, Hosea stretches his curled back out and lets his boot soles press against the bars in a full-body stretch, spreading his legs nicely, before proclaiming: "Again."

If not for the boots that stepped between them, they'd have changed gears to guess what word he's thinking of.

Sat in front of their bars, Hosea cross-legged and Dutch with his haunches splayed beneath him, they must look like bored animals. Dutch has a feeling that this angle makes Carmichael nervous — he turns his head minimally, lets his eyes turn up instead.

The man sets his jaw. Before he can speak, he is slipped from the cavernous, almost disassociated mindset that had been guessing thirteen and back into that of the predator.

"You a righteous man, sheriff?" He asks, voice quiet. He focuses on his eyes; he has decided Carmichael's eyes are rather alright, a light green and very expressive.

In them, he sees the repression that's been radiating off the man since yesterday's morningtime.

His face flickers. "Why, son?"

He bites his cheek to stave off a grin, ends up looking more coyly amused than anything. "Ain't no righteous man ever looked at me like that."

Carmichael is still — he might harkon to call it hesitating — before slowly lowering onto a knee. "And what is like that?" He asks, tone low, eyes squinting as if to size Dutch up one last time.

He leans forward, swallows the joy of the man's fingers twitching where they rest of his bent knee, tips brushing against the folds of his khakis. "I'd say it's hungry," Dutch says. "Would I be right, sir?"

"I ain't no sodomite," Carmichael says, sticks a finger through the bars and into Dutch's forehead. His voice sounds as unconvinced as he looks of his own words. "I ain't."

"Eyes don't lie." Dutch smooths over his shirt, shifts where he sits on the hard floor as it begins to make his tailbone yell. He'll be glad when this game can be over and won; he's never had a man dare to put his damned, rotten finger between his eyes like it was a gun, like he ought to be scared of it.

Pathetic. Self-important. He will like to have been, in any capacity, the unsightly taker of this man's homosexual virginity, just as well as he will like to be on his horse and out of Kettering.

"'Mon," he goades, as the sheriff looms before him, fighting with himself in the quiet. "I ain't known you to back out of a," — licking his lips, feeling almost like a prostitute for how hard he has began trying to seduce him — "Tight spot."

Self-important, Carmichael is. He mutters insult after insult; Hosea must be an invert, too, I won't bother takin' you down the block 'cuz he pro'ly likes to watch. He lets them tumble out as if speaking them louder than the jingle of his keychain will change that those keys are unlocking the cell door, or that his words are constructed sloppily in the way that a man who is really self-depreciating insults another.

Dutch has risen to his knees, then pushed himself up to standing — only to be backed into a corner the moment the door clinks shut, key still in the lock. His head is pushed where the corner of the bars meets solid brick wall, hair and skin scraping the rough texture as his ears and shoulders are pinned uncomfortably, one clipped by grit and one chilled by metal spindles.

Carmichael is mad, and he thinks he's stronger.

Stronger than Dutch; stronger than his desires.

If only he knew how weak finally giving in can make a man of brawn. Dutch had discovered it when he laid with Hosea those months ago; his knees gave out on him as if he were the eldest there, his heart wanted to burst out of his chest and it made him dizzy, so dizzy — he fell into Hosea and thought no more about whether it was immoral for a sinner like himself to commit yet another crime.

Their mouths meeting is less of a kiss and more of a brawl, Carmichael already slipping through the cracks of decency. Dutch has fondled his way across his shoulders — broad, pleasantly, they must take the same shirt size — and into his hair, tipping his hat off his head to tumble down their side.

Fingers press hard into his throat, his clavicle. The button at his collar pops, tugging chest hair with it, before he realizes Carmichael is undressing him, not strangling him; the bloodrush of not knowing is intoxicating.

It may be business, but there's pleasure in doing such a menial task with the right man, as fleeting as it may be.

And it is pleasant, for a moment.

Carmichael allows Dutch to taste his teeth as long as groans fall out of his open mouth, a real ego-glutton; the man's stubble is prickly and if he squeezes his eyes shut and holds his breath to escape the scent of cologne and leather, he can almost pretend he's kissing Hosea. His darling smells more like horses and earth and metal.

It is irking him how he bites so callously at his jaw, and then his neck; Dutch winces as he sucks hard and fast at his jugular, worse than a damned vampire. It stings, and although the sharp pain down his chest lights him up—

The sheriff's hands are ripping at his belt — expensive leather, expensive buckle, the godforsaken rat — and he has suddenly had his fill of playing cooperative. Dutch grabs at his shoulders, his shirt; he grabs softly at first, then hard enough to bruise.

Carmichael does not notice nor care, not until he is twisted violently into the bars, and Dutch clings onto his biceps to throw the stunned man into the brick wall as hard as he can. The shout is cut off quickly. His nerves are strung tight and his muscles are weaker for it, but the pig is unconscious and bleeding from a long scrape on his sunburnt forehead when Dutch kneels beside his body to double-check.

Hosea's high whistle makes him near jump from his skin. He looks up and meets his eyes as he feels for a pulse on Carmichael's neck; there is one, and it's racing.

"My, Big Cat, you've still got it." He's grinning, broad as spread hands, hazel eyes sparkling as if he were one of them caught in all the action.

Dutch huffs a laugh as he drops the wrist and stands up. It's hoarse.

"Get ready to strip 'im before he comes to," he says, messes with the cluster of keys to open his cell. "I'll find somethin' to tie him up with."

He thumbs through them to find Hosea's — if mine's A3, he must be B3 — feels himself go near-crosseyed with the excitement of freedom, and humiliating the passed-out dope in his old room.

Hosea grazes a hand along his open collar when the bars are slung aside, but passes quickly by. There's no time to waste here; the deputy could pop in at any moment, maybe even a townsperson who'd witnessed another, devilish pair like Dutch and Hosea passing on through. While it is enticing to think of, the risk far outweighs the reward, now.

A hammer is striking in his chest, strikes against a fist there as he trots to the front of the police station. He rummages blindly through the desk and then passes into the deputy's office. From what Dutch had seen, he did seem like the outdoorsy type — just as well, he finds a lasso hanging by the door from a thin wooden peg.

Spare? Favorite? It will fit fine around Carmicharl's wrists and ankles either way, although he cannot think of which origin would add more flavor.

The humor gets to him, then, and when he comes down the corridor to see Hosea smacking a half-conscious sheriff's head back into peaceful emptiness by way of the hardwood, he barks a laugh.

His partner looks up at him, pale blond eyelashes catching the light of the moon. It draws deep shadows over his eyes and mouth, makes him look wild.

"What's so damn funny?" Hosea asks. He laughs, too.

Grins don't leave them, not even as they toss Carmichael every way to Sunday robbing him of his clothes. He is limp as a cadaver. Their mouths only waver having to look at his nudity in any exact detail; suddenly, Dutch is no longer able to convince himself of his physical alrightness, is more interested in worming his way into the pack of smokes that fell from his trousers and lighting two cigarettes for themselves.

"I don't reckon you'll need his underthings, will you?" Hosea asks. Dutch uses his turned, questioning face as an opportunity to stick a lit smoke between his lips.

He scoffs, brings his own to his mouth as he discards the matches on the ground. "Take 'em off anyways."

That— that is boisterously funny. Dutch doesn't believe he's ever heard Hosea giggle before, not even once in their years running together. The cigarette drops from his lips and burns into Carmichael's back, and Hosea plucks it up easily to take a drag.

He aches to kiss him. His throat hurts for his lips, their tender affection over his hate-bruised skin. Ever the gentleman, Hosea does brush a kiss along his cheek as he helps Dutch button the last of the stolen shirt's front — but not more, yet. He complains that kneeling on this tough ground makes his hips ache, and Dutch strokes his hair once, twice. It is wiry with dirt and sweat.

Carmichael's skin is warm enough beneath his palms that Dutch doesn't care to check his pulse again. He holds the arms and legs of the man steady, Hosea securing them together in a mean hogtie.

His prick should smart a storm when he's awoken, if the muscles twitching in his ass and thighs as they drag him towards the center of the wooden floor say anything.

Overkill? Certainly.

Delightful? Monstrously.

"All he's missin' is an apple in his mouth," Hosea says dryly, blows out a cloud.

Dutch almost hollers.

No one suspected anything of Sheriff Carmichael's shadow escorting a lone criminal out of town. Hosea kept his head down, hat pulled firmly over his brow; Dutch gripped his forearm, though no handcuffs bound his wrists behind him. The man carried Dutch's hat in his fists to hide their freeness.

How suspiciously obedient. What training does Carmichael put on his prisoners? Dutch thinks, bites back a fresh fit of laughter that would break their already imperfect, night-covered illusion.

He can hardly contain himself.

Their horses were kept in the sheriff's stables this whole time. At least the animals feed them, they agree, glancing over the other, tempting opportunities to snatch a pack-mule from the unfamiliar horses stalled up.

Hosea's Penny was the happiest of the two to see her man, jaw hanging loose as if to smile when her big brown eyes settled on Hosea's softened ones.

Dutch's horse was a fresh reign — he hadn't even named him before they were took up, and the animal started seeing the broad-brimmed police hat on his head.

That makes him angry. He wishes he'd put his cigarette out on Carmichael's shriveled up balls instead of his front-desk nameplate

[starstruckunknown-princess]

Tulip - Thor x Reader

Tulip (Tulipa) - Meaning: I declare my love for you

Summary: At King Val's birthday party, Thor is a few drinks in and makes a surprise declaration.

Pairing: Thor x F!Reader

Word Count: 714

Warnings: Drinking, slight intoxication, a bit of insecurity on the reader's part, Thor makes a bit of a scene, making out at the end

Here's a little shorty for Day 6!

In Bloom Masterlist

Likes, Comments, Reblogs are ALWAYS appreciated! <3

The party was in full swing by the time you arrived. You were late because you had to close up that night, having pulled the short straw. No one wanted to be late to the King’s birthday party. 

First order of business was to get yourself a drink, but a pair of thick arms wrapping around you stopped you halfway to the bar. You smiled and reached back, threading your fingers into thick blonde hair as your boyfriend planted one, two, three kisses on your cheek in quick succession like he’d already had a few. 

“Hello, handsome,” you said.

“Hello,” Thor slurred slightly, nuzzling into your neck. “What took you so long?” 

You turned in his arms and looked up at him with a fake-annoyed expression. “I had to close the shop, remember?” He hummed something that sounded like ‘oh right’ and you continued, “Anyway, I’m here now. What do you say to me getting a drink and you getting some water, huh?”

Thor reluctantly loosened his grip and you grabbed his hand, leading him the rest of the way to the bar. You poured yourself a glass of wine and gave Thor a glass of water, which he downed quickly before pouring himself another Asgardian mead. 

“No, Thor! You’re already slurring your words, you need more water-” you said, trying to snatch the mead out of his hand but he held it up above his head, well out of your reach. You jumped slightly against him and felt his free arm snake around your hips while he watched you with a dopey-eyed expression. 

Giving up, you huffed and pouted your lower lip. Thor pecked the tip of your nose and smiled at you. 

“I love you,” he muttered and you gasped. The two of you had only been officially dating for a few months and, while you’d felt it, you hadn’t said it yet. The words had come bubbling up your throat more than a few times but you’d managed to push them back down because of your insecurity — it was too soon and he would think you’re an insane fangirl or something!

“You’re drunk,” you insisted. 

“‘M not that drunk,” he argued, his eyes appraising you. 

You patted his chest, “Let’s go drop off the King’s present then get you more water.” 

Avoidance would have to be your answer for now. There’s no way he meant it, not like this. Even if he meant it, you didn’t think he would say it like this, so you were more than willing to pretend it never happened. The entire town was here, and you didn’t want to ruin the King’s birthday party by having your drunken god-boyfriend start a scene. 

Halfway across the hall, Thor pulled you to a stop. 

“Wait, hold on a second,” he said. Before you could open your mouth he had summoned Stormbreaker and was pounding the handle against the floor for everyone’s attention. “Excuse me, everyone! First of all, a round of applause for our illustrious King of New Asgard on her birthday!” 

Everyone clapped politely, and Val raised her glass in thanks. 

“And second, I’d like to announce that I am in love with this woman right here,” he said, louder than necessary and pointing right at you. Not used to being the center of attention, you blushed like mad and hid your smile behind your hands. “I know it hasn’t been long, but I am indeed crazy in love with you and I’m not just saying it because I’m drunk. You are incredible, and smart, and funny, and amazing-” 

“Okay, thanks for coming everyone! Happy birthday to me, Skol!” Val shouted, raising her stein before theatrically downing the contents. Everyone cheered and drank, but your eyes were fixed on Thor, just as his were fixed on you. 

He closed the slight distance between you. “Does that settle your fears?” 

You answered him with a kiss. As you broke apart, he swooped you up in a fireman’s carry and took long strides out the door. He didn’t put you down until you two got home. 

While you made out on the couch, you skimmed your fingers under his shirt and something you’d forgotten occurred to you. 

“By the way,” you said against his lips, “I love you too.” 

[conretewings]

Better Left Said (Vander x OC) NSF/W

-Oh hi yes *nervous laugh* Enjoy this random and utterly self-indulgent idea. Featuring younger (early twenties) versions of Vander, Silco and Benzo in the days of building The Lanes as well as Rosemary, who works at both her family's repair business and as a singer at bars and clubs. Lots of banter and spicy flirting. EDIT: Header image by the wonderful @thefutonhermit

-Vander x OC. Alcohol and smoking. Very suggestive content. 18+ only please

"What?" asked Silco, leaning closer to Vander, "I don't remember anything about chips."

Vander pinched his brow and sighed, "No, I said 'shipments'-maybe this wasn't the best place to meet up today..."

Friday nights were always crowded and noisy at Iron Bear, one of the group's favorite taverns. The owners knew them and knew their...illicit business, but didn't care so long as they brought in more coin than trouble. Vander, Silco and Benzo had their usual corner booth, paperwork spread on the table and discreetly arranged so no prying eyes could see the contents. Trying to build a black market empire was a complicated and dangerous affair, but they knew if successful it would be a boon to the Undercity's people...and a critical step toward their ultimate goal.

Benzo cleared his throat, reached forward and ran his finger over a list of figures on one of the pages, "Everythin' looks ta be in order. Those crates of gunpowder and-"

A loud whooping and whistling interrupted him as the three young men quickly hid their papers a little more, then looked up to see the object of the hullabaloo; a woman picked through the crowd, dark chocolate curls bouncing-along with other assets-her denim jacket doing little to cover her low-cut silken green dress that caught the light and cast an almost ethereal halo around her.

Vander found himself staring, an increasingly all-too-familiar warmth blooming in his chest and time seemed to slow as he watched her, all radiant smiles and quick, graceful movements, her curves flawlessly framed by her dress. They'd been friends for a few years now, but more and more he'd been finding himself looking at her through a different lens, one that made his heartbeat kick up a notch or sometimes embarrassingly, other parts very excited.

He gaped stupidly, mouth hung slightly open and Benzo smugly grinned at his friend, who composed himself upon noticing with a growled 'shut it'.

The woman rolled her eyes playfully or laughed with various patrons as she weaved her way to their table and plopped herself next to Benzo with a dramatic exhale, threading her arms through one of his.

"Wooo! I made it!" she beamed at them, hazel eyes bright and full of mischief as she smoothly purred in a well practiced, upper-class lilt, "Hello gentlemen. What must a lady do to get a drink around here?"

"Go order one." replied Silco with a smirk, taking a swig of his own ale.

"Hey Rosemary!" Vander and Benzo greeted in unison, grinning as she stood and rounded the table to lean over and hug Silco around his shoulders from behind.

"Oh, don't be like that Silcy I've missed you lads!" she pouted with mock hurt, snorting as he twisted to glower at her and push her off.

"I told you not to call me that!" he hissed, and this time she raised her hands, "Sorry, sorry. Well now we're even for that comment a moment ago eh?"

Silco shot her a sour look but quickly smiled again and gave an affirming tip of the head. Vander waved a hand to one of the staff, who nodded and went to grab another round, then turned to her as she sat back down, working to ignore the ample bit of visible cleavage, "Haven't seen ya in what? Almost a week? What you been up to Rosie?"

"Rumor has it you been gettin' pretty popular topside." added Benzo.

Rosemary ran a hand through her hair, the bubbly energy starting to fade along with the more 'upper crust' accent she'd been using, "Really now? Well, we got two trucks 'n several smaller projects at the shop ta finish, I've got two-wait...no, bloody hell three gigs comin' up. Tellin' ya the coin is fantastic but they run me ragged sometimes."

"Speaking of, I assume you came straight here from a performance? I couldn't help but notice the dress. Very stylish." Silco cut in.

"Thank ya! Aye, this lil' jazz club along the docks," Rosemary nodded, then bit her lip, "It ain't too much is it?"

"No." all three quickly replied, Vander's face flushed red as his eyes darted away awkwardly and she couldn't hold her brief, coy grin; so she wasn't imagining things. Not being blind nor stupid, she'd been noticing more lately how his gaze would linger on her when he thought she wasn't paying attention, or how he'd react to things she said, those silver-blue eyes holding hints of things that made her core burn and coil in delicious torment. She'd be lying if she denied the thought of being with him-in one form or another-hadn't crossed her daydreams more than once. Maybe tonight she'd work up the courage to say something.

Her gaze flicked to the papers in front of them and lowered her voice, "But enough 'bout me. How's things 'ere?"

There was a pause and muttered thanks as the waiter dropped off their drinks, then Silco leaned in, a cue for them all to follow suit and cracked a wicked smile, bottle-green eyes sharp as the knife he kept on his hip, "Plans have been going splendidly. I feel it's finally safe to say we're making headway..."

-"Come ooooon boys one more round!" cried Rosemary joyfully, her face flushed and beer tankard almost sloshing onto the table as she raised it too fast.

"Oi watch it don't be wastin'-hic-good ale!" Vander huffed with a laugh and a hiccup while Silco rolled his eyes and took a more measured sip of his whiskey as the pair continued to banter.

It was a couple hours-and drinks-later and the group had hashed out a plan for the next few weeks, Rosemary volunteering as always to glean what information she could regarding the movement of goods in and out of Piltover from her more loose-lipped audience members. Business being wrapped up as much as possible for the moment, the group concluded since it was the weekend, a bit of inebriation, chatter and comradery were in order.

"Good ale?! If I wanted that I'd 'a gone somewheres else than this leaky bucket! Only reason I come 'ere is for you lot!" she snickered.

"It's not bad!" Benzo knocked back some more then licked his lips thoughtfully with a shrug, "Ah've had worse."

"Oh I see how it is!" Vander huffed, crossing his thick arms dramatically, "She's gettin' too good for us!"

"Oh Van!" she reached across Benzo and patted his shoulder, giving him a wink and a very good show of that cleavage, "You'll always be perfect for me!"

Vander paused, mouth half open with the smart rebuttal he'd had catching in his throat; something deeply sincere in her green-flecked eyes and gentle smile shot right through to his heart. There it was again, that sweetly torturous heat rising to his chest and spreading outward, and he fumbled for a response until he gave up and simply gave a short bark of a laugh and eyeroll, "Yeah yeah..."

An employee, apparently having overheard Rosemary's outburst and all too happy to oblige, appeared with four more mugs, three of the four being snatched up almost as soon as they were set down. A few moments later a man approached and Benzo did a double-take.

"Rocky! What can I do ya for mate?" he asked cheerfully.

"'Ey Benzo! Wanted to thank you for helpin' me get ahold of the thing I needed. You uh, got any more deals?"

"I might, I might. Why don't we step out for a sec? Hard to hear in here," Benzo stood, Rosemary having to scoot out to let him by, and pointed sternly at his drink as he turned to go, "This better be full when I get back!"

Vander flipped him off with a sarcastic smile and Rosemary gasped in mock disbelief, Silco raising an eyebrow and smirking before going back to the paper in front of him. Rosemary then gulped a bit of her ale, head already swimming pleasantly and body fuzzy-when she realized abruptly there was now nothing between her and Vander but air. She glanced sideways at him, he and Silco studying a couple of the pages and mumbling inaudibly between each other.

She watched him slyly, admiring his handsome face, the scruff growing into a short beard, how his eyebrows would knit together adorably whenever he was concentrating, those gorgeous steel-blue eyes she could lost in, his thick brown hair that just begged for her fingers to run through it, those lips that looked so soft and kissable, how those large hands could hold her so snugly and-shit. She felt the heat rise up her neck to her face; she really was in it.

Vander must have sensed her eyes on him, as he glanced in her direction briefly, doing a brief double-take, brow wrinkled lightly in curiosity.

Then he smiled softly, that goddamn, devilishly charming smile, and any semblance or thread of control or doubt holding her back crumbled.

"Can I help ya?" he pondered, sliding himself closer to her.

"Hmmm..." she mirrored him, moving nearer, "I can think of a few things."

"You gonna tell me 'bout them?" he teased, taking a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it and blowing a wisp skyward before turning to face her more.

Rosemary's heart skipped; that half-lidded, inviting smile gave her both pause and courage. Alright then, she mused after only a moment's hesitancy, if he wants to play this game we'll play.

Resting her chin on her fingers and head tilted upward slightly, she gracefully crossed one leg over the other so her foot was against his leg, "Oh Van...I can see right through you. You're all cool 'n suave when ya wannna be but right now you're runnin' quite hot..."

He froze for a second, not only for how her foot was gingerly rubbing against his calf, this simple contact causing more internal havoc than it had any right to, but also from the warmth and-dare he think-desire pooled in her beautiful eyes. They'd coyly 'flirted' many a time before, making a game of tossing sly double entendres and comments to each other, and he had to admit there were times, especially lately, he wouldn't have minded it going further, but abruptly faced with what he realized was her taking that leap caught him off guard.

"A-ah," Vander stammered, the alcohol coursing through his veins doing him no favors, "Am I n-now? Dunno about that. In fact seems you're the one makin' bedroom eyes at me."

She scooted herself to press right up to him now, laying a hand across his wrist and stroking a line up the stiffened muscle of his arm. It was at this moment he realized other things beginning to stiffen and he swore silently.

Finishing the brief, hushed discussion he'd been having with one of his contacts, Silco turned back around-and wrinkled his nose upon realizing they were shamelessly flirting. He grimaced briefly before going back to the paperwork he'd still been studying and resolving to ignore them. If they wanted to flirt and act like horny teens that was their business. He only prayed not to overhear anything too personal.

Forcing down her trembles, buzzed and high off the adrenaline Rosemary tilted her head , "Know what I think? I think deep down, you'd like it to be more 'n just my eyes. I think, you'd like...all of me in the bedroom..." she licked her thumb suggestively and to his continued stunned surprise, wiped a stray smudge of mud off his cheek, "Dirty man..."

His hand was clenched tightly on the table, heart pounding and he definitely had a raging boner now. He swallowed thickly, scrambling for a response that wasn't an incoherent ramble or direct confirmation of her...irritatingly spot-on comments. Another thought creeped into his lust and beer addled mind; was this just the ale talking? Part of the game? Or did she genuinely want him how, as she deduced, he secretly longed for her?

"So ya th-think ya know what's goin' on in my head eh?" he managed, hoping he didn't sound too worked up and smushing out his cigarette with shaking hands.

She winked, "You're not hidin' it too well love. At this point it's a matter of knowin'. Like how I know you're enjoyin' this. Or how you're definitely picturing what I look like under this dress..." she leaned in to purr in his ear, "And I know it'll be my name on your lips when you're strokin' yourself later-"

At this Vander suddenly stood, so fast and forcibly he bumped the table hard enough to wobble it, their drinks nearly spilling. Before anyone could ask he sputtered out, "Gotta piss sorry-" and stalked away, dodging other people and accidentally bumping some in his haste, including Benzo who tried and failed to ask what the rush was.

Benzo returned to the table and sat heavily, jerking his thumb behind him, "Anyone know what that big lug's issue is?"

Threading his fingers together, Silco cocked an eyebrow and hummed, "Perhaps Rosemary would care to give some insight..."

She, in turn, had slid down somewhat in her seat, as if she could hide from the embarrassment and her scarlet face; oh dear. Perhaps that had been too much.

"Fuck." she mumbled.

-It was a few days later, and murky greenish neon light from outside seeped through the thin curtains of Vander's room, casting a perpetual, dim glow. The numerous noises of the city drowned out the low groaning pants of it's namesake occupant, one hand thrown over his eyes as the other pumped his cock. Of all the sinful thoughts swirling in his mind, one kept snapping back into clearer focus; one particular woman straddling him, rocking her hips in rhythm with his as his hands clutched her ass, her chest, wherever he could reach. He bit his lip hard, imagining her flushed cheeks and mouth half-open as she blissfully rode his dick, moaning his name as she reached climax at the same time he did-

"R-Rosemary! Rosie...oh-!" he stuttered out, gripping the sheet and back arching as he came. He lay there, drifting down like a leaf on a gentle breeze, breath ragged but calming, absorbed in the high before he remembered what she'd said.

"...Fuck..." he grumbled.

@vander-affectionate @barbersjoy @immortalbumblebee @catgoblinchelly

@archerofthemists @prwincessqwin-blog @band--psycho

[enfyswanders]

Manchester, Part 1: July 1-4, 2024

I love Manchester for its stunning architecture and its prominent queer and alternative scene. The town seems to have a good sense of humor, and there's some fantastic shopping available, including a whole multistory shopping center of queer, artsy, and alternative shops. I was pleased to see a lot of folks wandering around wearing office attire while sporting brightly-colored hair, tattoos, and piercings.

But the architecture. It's so pretty!

When I got off the train at Piccadilly Station, there was a big sign saying, "Welcome to Manchester: Home of the Bee Network!" and lots and lots of other signs for the Bee Network. None of them said what the Bee Network was, though. I had to Google it. (Tl;dr: it's their revitalized public transit system.)

I stayed at a Motel One, which is a newish German budget hotel chain, and dang was it swanky. Entering a Motel One is like walking into a chill lounge. There's a bar, lots of comfortable space to sit, chill music playing, and disco balls hanging from the ceiling. My room was well-appointed and felt like something I'd have at a much more expensive hotel.

My one big complaint about Motel One, and why I ultimately changed my reservation for Glasgow from a Motel One to a Premier Inn, is that their beds are awfully firm, which my curvy hips really don't like. I woke up in pain most of the nights I stayed at one.

At this point of the trip I was pretty firmly into a routine: Rest the first day I arrive at a new place and buy a few groceries for breakfasts, then find every bookstore and queer shop in walking distance, then look for any tourist sites or shopping that interest me generally.

So, my first full day in Manchester, I sought out the Gay Village (noted on Google Maps as such). It was pretty easy to spot.

And they even have an Alan Turing Memorial:

A short walk from the Gayborhood, there's a giant coffee shop/queer bookshop that I was super pleased carried a copy of my book. (I signed it discreetly. I usually ask a shop's proprietor if they mind if I sign it, but they were all busy.)

I also bought some new threads, thanks to the recommendation from my friend Molly to check out Lucy & Yak, which was extremely my shit in terms of style and comfort:

My final evening in Manchester, I took in a fantastic local production of The Importance of Being Earnest at the Royal Exchange Theatre, which is one of the coolest theatres I've been in. The building is this giant Art Deco-ish affair, but built in the middle of this huge domed atrium there's this industrial cylinder made of yellow pipes, and that is where the actual stage and seats are located.

It's theatre-in-the-round style, and the set was gorgeous:

I was really impressed with the acting as well. It was such a fun experience, and cemented my belief that I need to make more time and space for live theatre back home, in my day-to-day life. It really feeds my soul.

Giggles from this part of the trip:

[dragimalsdaydreams]

[image ID: 2 images of the same front-view, full-body screenshot of Sucrose from the game Genshin Impact.

the image first is an unedited screenshot of how Sucrose appears in-game. she's pale-skinned with amber-gold eyes framed by big, round, wood-framed glasses. her minty-teal hair is fluffy and short-cropped, with a long rat tail extending her hair from the back (not visible from this front view). two long, pointed, fox-like ears extend from the sides of her head, matching the color of her hair, and pulled down in a bashful position. Sucrose is wearing a very short black + navy blue skirt/romper with long white sleeves, navy ribbons/frills, and gold filigree accents. she's also wearing a matching hat, gloves, and boots, sheer black stockings, and a short white cape (not very visible from the front).

the second image is a heavily edited version of the first. Sucrose now has a minty-teal, fox-like tail to match her ears. a little doodle to the side shows the rat tail being cut off with an emphatic, "NO!!" she's now wearing a brown vest and brown jodhpur pants with mint/gold accents, while the colors of the gloves and boots have been shifted to match. her cape has been extended into a much longer design, shaped after insect wings with a mint-teal gradient, dark teal "veins", and gold accents. a white/teal lily is pinned just under her hat, with two of the stamens extending out much taller than natural, to give the impression of "insect antennae".

end ID]

WHEW this one was unexpected! I've always thought Sucrose was cute, but I honestly didn't think about her all that much. but the recent Windblume gave me a greater appreciation for her character... as well as a newfound irritation for her outfit, lmao. the more I like a character, the more I end up scrutinizing their outfit, sigh...

anyways, design notes and more in-depth image desc under the cut!

barring Tighnari (he's a special case...), I usually start a redesign with shape design in mind rather than color design, as it comes more naturally to me. but Sucrose flipped the script-- I hate how the navy clashes with the mint more than anything else.

[image ID: the two versions, cropped to the torso area.

the original design features a skin-tight, black romper, with a short, navy blue "skirt" wrapped over the top, but split down the middle. the bottom edge of the skirt has thick, navy blue frills. long white sleeves with wide, flared cuffs sit on the shoulders, detached from the romper, leaving a gap of bare skin above the bust. an Anemo vision and black/white bow pins the sleeves up at the base of the throat, sitting just under a fluffy black collar. two leather straps are pinned to the sides of the skirt, one side holding bubbling alchemy tubes. gold filigree accents are scattered about, notably large designs on the shoulders, over the sleeves.

the edited design has changed the romper/skirt into a brown vest that flares into a similar "skirt" shape at the hips. the edges are trimmed in gold, the frills at the bottom edge are mint, and the center is buttoned up with shiny, round mint buttons. the sleeves now attach to the main vest, but are a darker brown that fades even darker towards the white/gold cuff. the leather straps now sit above pockets which are sewed in with thick mint thread. the top of the cape now wraps over the top of the shoulders, and is pinned at the base of the throat by the Anemo vision and a mint bow. this part of the cape is white with the same fluffy black collar, and the large, gold filigree designs on the shoulders.

end ID]

I figure that leaning into the mint with a "minty mocha" palette works better, though I may be biased because it's one of my favorite palettes for mint colors, haha.

all this is to say... I really didn't have any ideas for shapes at first (no, I didn't even have the insect theme in mind yet!). I knew I wanted to give her more interesting pants, at least, but nothing felt "right", or it felt overdone (like the poofy-bottom pants I love so much). I think I only landed on jodhpur pants because I was trying to reverse my own "bottom-heavy" tendencies, haha

[image ID: the edited image, cropped to the pants. these pants flare out wide with extra, poofy fabric at the outside of the hips, then turn sharply back in towards the knees, tapering down into the skin-tight lower legs. they're the same dark brown as the sleeves, and fade to darker brown towards the ends of the pants. the fly is lined with gold, and buttoned with a couple round, teal buttons. the outer sides of the lower legs are lined with a star-tipped gold line, and buttoned with a few teal buttons. end ID]

yes, I know jodhpurs are riding pants, and I... honestly don't even know if Sucrose rides horses in the first place. I usually try to match the practicality of clothing to a character, but I love the shape so much, I just went on ahead with it. maybe she got inspired by Sumeru rider fashion? (and maybe I'll do an alt outfit for Kaeya with jodhpurs? hmm..)

the insect inspiration hit me when I was brainstorming her cape and realized it could reference crystalfly wings!

[image ID: small sketches of the inside and outside of the cape. the cape is shaped vaguely like insect wings, folded back and connected along the seam between each wing. the inner corner of each wing has a long, thin "tail" that flares out into a crescent-like tip. both sides have the gradient of dark-to-light teal, but the outside is notably darker. dark teal "veins" flare across both sides, including the "tails". the main veins have a swirl shape in the center, much like an Anemo crystalfly. both sides are edged in gold trim, but the outside has white section over shoulder area. end ID]

very fitting, since she uses crystalfly constructs in her attacks (though the tails admittedly evoke more "butterfly" than anything)

the cecilia is supposed to add to this "insect" silhouette, evoking "antennae"

[image ID: a white lily, with the typical 6 large, pointed petals, prominent long pistil, and 6 long, thin stamens. the center is teal fading out to white towards the tips of the petals. the pistil is teal, and the stamens are gold with teal tips. two of the stamens are far longer than normal, curving far above the top edge of the flower. end ID]

I figure this is one of Sucrose' alchemy-mutated specimens, to explain the color and two longer stamens, haha

also, fun fact: I always thought cecilias looked like lilies, so I figured it was just another name for lilies I'd never heard of (or otherwise a similar-looking species). so I google cecilias, and what do I find?? it's not a name for any real-life flower-- Genshin cecilias are just misnamed lilies. bizarre Genshin naming conventions strike again (don't look at the animal or ingredient archive too hard if ur a biologist, u might go insane...)

as for the tail, well. can you blame me?

[image ID: a small doodle of the fox tail, hanging comfortably limp. much like the ears, the base color is a light mint, which fades to darker teal at the tip. end ID]

it makes no sense to me that Sucrose and Yae Miko are the only animal-people in the game that don't have tails to match their ears. throw us furries a goddamn bone for once!!

(the cynical part of me thinks it's because fluffy fox tails block the ass too much from the back, unlike thin cat tails, but I can only speculate...)

anyways, since we don't know Sucrose's species, I just went with a fox-like tail, since her ear shape matches Yae's