#i am always Sinning

[avoidmint]

The enemy of my enemy is.. probably also my enemy. But we can pretend to be fiends for the time being.

Also known as; Please give us Infinite too I miss him. :<

Bonus doodle because I have always thought Mephiles' darkness puddles looked oh-so ooey-gooey-

I make the Jackal suffer for the intrusive thoughts I have about things I will never have to experience the touch of personally thank goodness.

[widowshill]

— And do you or do you not have difficulty remembering such simple instructions? — Only during thunderstorms, sir.

THE SOUND OF MUSIC (1965) / DARK SHADOWS (1966)

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Happy Pride month everyone B*) Allow me to reveal a little behind the scenes detail behind my Banner and Icon. Love was always winning <3

[undefeatablesin]

⊹ .+ Tag Game Rules: Shuffle your on repeat playlist and post the first 10 tracks, then tag 10 people. ᅠ ⊹ .+

Take Me Back To Eden - Sleep Token

Divine Service - Lies of P OST

Bones - Equinox

Turncoat - Matthew Mayfield

Suffer - Hurts

Magdalene - Akira Yamaoka

Roxanne - Sting

Wing of Hypocrisy - Lies of P OST

Hail the Nightmare - Bloodborne OST

Yawning Grave - Lord Huron

ᅠ ⊹ .+ tagged by: @hymntosappho + @aligom-pink-coffin ✨ Thank you both! I love lil dash games like these omg ᅠ ⊹ .+ tagging: @harena-tigris, @ghostlyanon, @00x7, @bornetoblood, @butchladymaria, @galaxirin, @treeshrine, @karnaca78, @dulaman-na-farraige ᅠ✨

[strangersatellites]

pride, wrath, sloth, gluttony, greed, lust, ao3

Seven Deadly Sins Series (NSFW 18+)

envy (noun) - a feeling of discontented or resentful longing aroused by someone else's possessions, qualities, or luck.

Logically, Steve knows it's not real.

He knows that. 

He knows Eddie loves him and that this is all work.

That doesn't make it any easier to watch supermodels hang all over his boyfriend. See lipstick stains pressed all over his neck, and jeweled hands dragging all over his body.

Eddie’s pretty, lazy smile doesn’t help either. 

Steve’s spent the better part of the morning sitting in a secluded corner of this studio and watching Eddie bark instructions at his manager and his bandmates and even the camera crew.

The video was going to be great, no doubt. The song was already amazing.

But couldn’t this shoot have been a little less…

He doesn’t know.

All he does know is that he would give anything to be in those girls’ place.

It’s not that he wants to be in the video. He doesn’t like that attention.

It’s not even that he wants to stake his claim over his boyfriend.

He just wants people to know. 

That Eddie’s taken. That he’s his.

But he can’t. And he knows that. Knows it’s not smart. That Steve’s got too much riding on his teaching career to be publicly linked to famed sex-symbol musician Eddie Munson.

It doesn’t make him want it any less.

Doesn’t make him not want those vinyl-covered legs around his waist. Ringed fingers tugging at his hair. 

But instead he sits. And he watches.

The ride home that night is tense. Steve feels it. He’s pretty sure their driver feels it if the lowered music and open window are anything to go by. 

No matter how hard he tries to shake it, the jealousy has dug its claws in deep. It's scratching at his chest and making him itch. Making him feel like he’s going to jump out of his skin.

But here Eddie is stretched across the seats and is smoking out the window without a care in the world. 

Cool it Steve. You’re being ridiculous.

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to will the feeling away. But with his eyes closed he sees hands. Lipstick. Smiles that are all teeth.

He throws his head back with a groan as the driver opens the door when they’re home.

Finally.

They’re hardly through the door when Steve’s got his hands on him. 

Got his hands shoved up over his head and his tongue in his mouth.

Eddie gasps against his lips, and there’s a question in the sound to which Steve responds “Mine.”

He feels Eddie’s hands shoving at his chest and he sees his eyebrows scrunch up in concern.

“Steve, what's wrong?” He asks and Steve hates that.

Hates that he’s worried about Steve and all he is is jealous.

He grabs both sides of Eddie’s face and thumbs at a bit of lipstick that’s still smudged against his cheek. Feels that jealousy flare up green and ugly once more.

He shakes his own head and furrows his brows when he whispers a quiet, shy, “Don’t like them touching you like that when I can’t.”

Eddie’s eyes soften and his own hands wrap around Steve’s wrist and he hums.

“Yeah, I know you don’t sweetheart,” he purrs, moving his arms up to wrap around Steve’s neck. “Got me all to yourself now though, hm?”

And maybe it's not right the way Eddie enables him. Maybe it's not healthy, maybe it's not good.

But it digs its claws in again and this time has Steve grabbing Eddie around the waist and hoisting him up and over his shoulder before stalking off toward their room.

He huffs a laugh through his nose and digs his fingers into the back of his thigh. “Sure do baby. And I’ve got nothing but time.”

*****

A few minutes later has Eddie naked and writhing against the sheets as Steve torments him.

He’s got a cold cloth to scrub at the marks left on Eddie’s skin followed by Steve’s teeth leaving a mark of his own. 

By the time Eddie’s chest is marred with bruises he’s got his head thrown back in the pillows and his breathing is ragged.

Steve crawls back up his body and captures his lips with his own. It's all force, all teeth, all love. 

He brings a hand up to tilt Eddie’s chin higher and he whines in return. Steve smirks down at him and tilts his head in question.

“Who’s are you, baby?”

Eddie gasps and grabs at Steve’s hips grinding down against his own.

“Yours, Stevie. Fuck, I’m yours baby.”

Steve kisses him once more, all chaste and sweet before he’s back up on his knees.

And if Eddie enables his jealous streak, Steve enables his love of being manhandled.

“Legs up, babe,” he says and Eddie has the nerve to blush.

But then Steve’s got his hands in the creases of his thighs and drags him up and over his own lap and Eddie groans from deep in his chest. 

Steve laughs. “Those pretty girls can’t do all this, huh?”

Eddie rolls his eyes but he’s smiling and he’s so, so pretty like this. Covered in Steve’s bruises and hard against his stomach. Skin soft and marked with ink where he’s stretched out all for Steve to take. 

Steve loses himself a little in the sounds and the feeling of opening him up on his fingers. Always goes a little cross-eyed watching how much Eddie lets himself feel.

But then he sees Eddie slide a hand down his own chest to wrap around his dick and Steve snaps back into reality in an instant. He bats Eddie’s hand out of the way and shushes his affronted scoff.

“Thought you were all mine, sweetheart. That means this is just for me,” he purrs on an upward tug and a deep slide in.

Eddie rolls his eyes but grabs at his shoulders and drags him forward.

“Then fucking come on then, or I’ll find somebody else to fuck me.”

And he knows it's not real.

He knows that.

But it flares up green anyway and he’s got his teeth sunk into Eddie’s neck and his own hips pressing into him. In the back of his mind he can hear the pleased hiss that Eddie doesn’t manage to hold back, but the forefront of his head is louder, saying “Mine, mine, mine.” He thinks maybe his mouth is too.

Once again he loses himself in the feeling. In the tight heat of Eddie’s body and the circle of his arms around his neck. In the words he can feel Eddie whispering in his ear but can’t decipher. In the knowledge that they can look and they can touch but they can’t take from Eddie Munson. Not like Steve can.

He drags himself back down in time with a whine from the back of Eddie’s throat and snakes a hand back to tug him off.

Eddie’s eyes are watery and they sparkle deep and dark when they blink up at him. He tangles his hands in Steve’s hair and he presses his nose up against Steve’s own.

“‘M all yours sweetheart,” He gasps in time with a deep grind of Steve’s hips. “I’m all yours and nobody’s gonna take that away.”

If Steve wasn’t on the cusp of an earth-shattering orgasm he might have something sweet to say. But as it is, he’s still a little wrapped up in the ugly green feeling of jealousy, and it has him tugging Eddie’s hips back sharp and hard with a near-growl of “Nobody gets this but me.”

He thinks Eddie says something back before he’s coming up his own chest but Steve can’t hear it over the rushing white noise of release. 

When his breathing slows back down and his head is no longer spinning with lips and teeth and hands Eddie drags a hand through his hair where he’s laid against his chest.

“Hey baby?” He asks.

Steve hums in response.

“Do you know why our shoot took so long today?”

His brows furrow in confusion and he props his chin up against his hand.

“What do you mean?”

Eddie smiles at him, pretty and lazy, and Steve’s favorite.

“Video shoots usually only take a few hours. We were there all day because I couldn’t get my head on straight. They had to retake that close-up shot nine times because I couldn’t keep my eyes off you.”

And that's just Eddie’s flattery at work. Steve rolls his eyes but he insists.

“I’m serious, Stevie! You think you can sit in on my shoot with girls climbing all over me looking soooo cool and soooo handsome in your ass jeans and my shirt and I’d be thinking about anything but you? Yeah fucking right, man.”

He feels his cheeks blush pink and he drops a kiss to Eddie’s collarbone.

“I love you,” he whispers.

Eddie’s smile is blinding and his dimple is deep. “I love you back, sweetheart. You’re all that’s ever on my mind.”

[hihopelessromantics]

Fantasy Tails

Messing around with magical biology with some rough sketches and lore :) Tagging some who might be interested :3

@librathefangirl @zorria @7-ratsinatrenchcoat @theprinceofliones @stvrlightthearts

Demon

Another take on the traditional (?) demon tail! The heart on the end protects the demon's retractable, venomous (or just very pointy) barb.

Tails, venomous and nonvenomous, are used for balance, especially while the demon is maneuvering in mid-air. whether they are jumping or flying. flight. They're deceptively strong even though their mechanisms seem delicate and the fluff covering them doesn't appear as tough as the rest of the demon's skin. A younger demon’s tail reaches full size before they reach their adult height. Coloration depends on the demon’s primary colors, including features like hair, eyes, teeth, skin, and tongue.

Tail venom develops during late adolescence- an evolutionary process that serves two purposes. One, that the baby and toddler cannot injure its parents, itself, or its other potential packmates with a potent and uncontrolled poison. Second, that the toxin may adapt to whatever might suit the demon best as it grows. Environmental conditions are thought to play a direct role. High-level demon venom has no ‘antidote’ because it, structurally, is one-of-a-kind; antivenom would require an (albeit slightly) different formula even between identical twins. There are three official categories this venom can fall into: defensive, offensive, and constructive. Some demons will inject their venom into themselves or other demons on a circumstantial basis to help, not harm! A few toxins specifically adapt to treat a temporary condition their demon frequently suffers from- for instance, to treat extreme insomnia or muscle cramps, to dissolve abscesses from the inside, or to reset one of the body’s natural cycles. Level of toxicity can fluctuate throughout the demon’s lifetime.

Goddess

Goddesses’ legs are built for flight - not just for landing - they are very strong! 

Feathers all along the tail can fan out and adjust individually, though, of course, the tail end has the most maneuverability. For potion recipies requiring the physical essence of a goddess feather, it is not usually specified whether it need be a tail or wing feather. Instead, the recipe will reference a specific altitude or bloodline. The wings and tails of goddesses contain special adaptations per their homeland and family line. A feather separated from the body of some goddess species becomes serrated and sharp like a blade, for instance, and these contain a potent defensive energy. Coloration also depends on place of origin and closely resembles that of the wings. 

While aiming for the wings is considered a legitimate battle tactic, aiming for the tail is considered an extreme insult and foul play, a sentiment largely reciprocated and respected by the Demon Clan. 

Fairy

The creatures known as fairies / fae / faerie display immense biological and magical diversity and that's fascinating to work with, so I added them to the list for funsies.

A fairy’s tail begins as a simple prehensile limb and grows into a symbol of the fairy’s power as they mature. In their base form, tails are most often used in dancing and in daily nonverbal communication. Fully awakened fairies’ tails transform in the likeness of their wings, sprouting insect-like appendages which greatly increase the speed and maneuverability of the fairy’s flight. For those of the highest ability, it becomes near-impossible to disorient them or to knock them from the air.

Some examples I thought up!

[roboyomo]

about to go sleepyy but. Insane Kenix Thoughts (Again! An Another Time!) (How Many Fucking Times!— ^_^)

Something about Kenix comforting Sora the day she joined the sins crew while she was full on crying and confused at everything surrounding her. Something about him Resonating with a child's helplessness, offer a warm embrace to hold onto. Did you see your own past self in that girl? The days where you were left all alone in the dark, being able to only weep and wonder why everything around you was like this. Yet you had no one's shoulder to cry onto. You had no one by your side, and now you have decided to be that someone for an another lost kid. Have you seen your own desperation in that child, wanting to help her because deep down you know how scarring this situation is for her? To seek comfort despite the unknown environment, because you wanted someone to let you know it is safe?

Have you wanted to save someone from what you had to endure yourself because you just knew how deeply terrifying it must all be to experience such loneliness at a young age? Have you just wanted to not let someone else go through what you had to? Have you just wanted to show the lost child that compassion that you didn't get yourself when you needed it the most.

[seductive-suffering]

I made it.

One more breath I took.

One more day my heart did its job.

Just steadily, helplessly beating.

I’m moving in slow motion.

I’m pushing myself.

Growing older.

Getting wiser.

Getting more and more alone.

Missing you a little more everyday.

You can’t help me now,

Fuck no one can.

[sunbunnyyy]

i know i just got here, but seeing all of the laughably bad takes from both sides of the spectrum is convincing me that no, i don’t actually need to be on social media again.

[terminaxshowtime]

not enough people talk about the kabbalah symbolism in p5 I think. yes there's barely any but im a project moon fan and overanalyzing how every path in mementos is a qlippoth (with One Exception) drives me insane.

more p5r spoilers stuff and rambles in tags

[luvbug724]

do you think kevin/jean/renee could ever be something....... not in canon but you know. in our hearts

DO I EVER. anon are you in my brain. i had this thought like three hours ago. anyway YES absolutely especially if we take them slightly out of canon and to the left. jean has two hands.

i think the most plausible way it would happen is if jean stayed at psu which would expedite his reconciling-with-kevin timeline. instead of after the finals as per EC it would be like. a month in bc they literally cannot avoid each other the flip side of this is that he would probably be less adjusted than he would be with the trojans bc the foxes will always have riko & the ravens hanging over their heads.

i also think renee and jean would be together officially at this point like i don't think it would take jeanee very long after jean starts at psu at all. in my heart they start a relationship after jean goes to usc anyway bc i can't part with them but you know. That pesky little thing (the EC whom i love dearly) exists to tell me they do not. cue: a very confusing conversation with renee bc i don't think jean can keep a secret from her after she was his only outlet for all those months they were texting wherein he is like "renee i think i am in love with kevin" and renee is like " i know :) are you going to do anything about it?" and poor jean is like "What. Am i what. You??? What ???? KEVIN!!! as in DAY!!"

now if we're talking like Full all everyone everything poly.......... i don't know i really don't. i just genuinely can't think of a single time renee and kevin talk to base my opinion around. but i think both of them would love jean enough to just let him do whatever :) this is my boyfriend jean and this is jean's boyfriend kevin :) sometimes kevin and jean start acting insane bc the nest is hanging over them & renee is like Wow. Does anyone want pancakes and maybe to go to church?they all share a giant bed bc jean and kevin are huge but renee and kevin sleep on opposite sides & sometimes one of them needs to sleep on their own so. renee and kevin sharing a bed no jean! let's think about this for a second too now. maybe they fall in love with each other bc of jean i think that's cute. this too is yuri

[revasserium]

狐と蛍の物語 (the story of the fox and the firefly)

harrison; 4,064 words; fluff and angst a/n: for @violettduchess and @aquagirl1978's summer days, sultry nights event -- prompt "fireflies" (obviously); i'm also gonna say this counts for my 31 days of au prompt -- reincarnation!au; inspired by hotarubi no mori e and catheryn m valente's deathless and honestly, i'm so proud and happy with this one that i'd encourage you to read it even if you have no idea of the fandom/character. u__u i would love, love, love to know what you guys think!

once upon a time, a long, long time ago, there lived a girl who only danced to the firefly’s light and a fox who could tell nothing but lies.

01.

for as long as you can remember, there’s always been the wood. and it has always been behind your house, it’s leaves and branches foreboding in the winter wind, and somehow less so in the simmer of mid-summer afternoons, when the sunlight dappled light across the soft, forest floor. it isn’t a very large wood, but it’s a wood nevertheless, and deserves all the respect and fear afforded to bigger woods in faraway places. woods that warn of teeth and terrors, woods that hide both dreams and monsters.

you’d been wandering the wood from when you were a little girl, and to you, there’s not a single rock you don’t know, a single tree you haven’t tried to climb. and the forest knows you, as forests do the people who frequent them, and it welcomes you with open arms, it cradles you to its chest, whispers stories into your ears, carves itself open to show you it’s secrets —

“you’re late.”

you crinkle your nose at the familiar voice, letting out a huffing breath as you drop your picnic basket in the middle of the small, sun-lit clearing, taking your time with laying out the checked picnic blanket and two cups and saucers for tea, and finally, pulling out a tray of confections, covered by a thin, linen baking towel.

“no, i’m not! you just want me to think i am so i’ll give you more than half of the sweets.”

a boy settles over the picnic blanket, cocking his head at you before you narrow your eyes.

“well? isn’t that true?”

“ahh… i wonder if it is…” he says, but you can hear the grin in his voice, even through the material of his fox-faced mask, which, after a few more seconds of posturing, he pushes up onto his forehead. he shakes out his milk-tea hair and slates you a poison-ivy grin. you know that grin like you know the woods— and you know the woods like you know the backs of your own hands. better, even, you think sometimes.

because for as long as there’s been the woods, and as long as you have wandered it’s depths, the boy with the fox-faced mask has always been there.

“there were fresh strawberries at farmer’s market today,” you say, setting up the tea service as you nudge the opened picnic basket towards the boy with a foot. he peers in with wide, curious eyes before letting out a soft noise of contentment as he reaches in to pull out a slice of freshly baked strawberry cream cake.

“your grandmama makes the best pastries in the world,” he says, and there’s such sincerity in his voice that for a moment, you almost believe him.

but you nod and take the compliment in stride, “she sure does!”

he digs in with gusto even when you tut that the tea hasn’t steeped properly, but you laugh as he smears a large dollop of whipped cream across his cheeks. you point it out to him with a dainty finger, and as always, you fight the urge to reach over and wipe it off for him. instead, you hold yourself still and sigh as he finally gets to it, smudging a bit into his hair in the process.

“clumsy fox,” you giggle, pressing a hand up to your lips.

“picky girl,” he snipes back, but there’s that full, sated grin on his own lips as he leans back, his elbows propped up on the soft grasses of the clearing.

after a moment of pleasant silence during which the leaves sang on their trees and the grasses swayed beneath the breeze, the boy turns towards you.

“so. no dancing today?”

you turn your head towards him before casting your eyes up towards the still bright blue sky.

“you know it’s not time yet.”

the boy heaves a melodramatic sigh, sound much bigger and larger than his 14-year old body should be able to hold.

“ah… right, right — because you can —”

“— only dance by the fireflies’ light — yep!”

the boy regards you with an imperious sort of look before breaking into a fit of bright, open laughter.

“you’re the strangest girl i’ve ever met!”

“just you saying that tells me it’s not true,” you stick out your tongue at him, even as heat washes up into your cheeks.

the boy shrugs, lying back down on the picnic basket, “i don’t always have to lie, y’know.”

and it’s your turn to regard him with the imperious look, and, a the cock of a singular eyebrow, his lips tug into a lopsided grin. his eyes flash, the color of budding spring.

“liar,” you say, but you’re smiling too as you lie back down to watch the clouds pass.

he makes no sound to correct you.

02.

once, you’d asked him what his name is and he simply shook his head and said —

“call me whatever you’d like.”

“but i want to call you by your name.”

“what’s in a name anyway?”

“uhm… nothing’s in it but…” you’d frowned then, your eight year old mind spinning to try and catch up with this strange, strange question and this strange, strange boy.

“see? so why should it matter what my name is? just… call me whatever!”

but you’d only frowned hard enough for him to roll his eyes.

“fine then — uhm — what’s the name of the current prince?”

you’d blinked, “harry.”

“then call me that.”

“but is that your name?”

“well, now it is.”

you hadn’t been convinced but you liked it better than not calling him anything at all.

“harry, then,” you’d said, smiling. and the boy — harry — had smiled too, slipping his fox-faced mask back in place as he led you further into the forest.

03.

“y’know…” harry says, his voice light as the sun dips beneath the horizon line, leaving behind a blaze of reds and pinks. you turn your head, eyes catching on the shape of him, inked out against the dying light.

“you’re the only person i’ve ever met who’s wanted to be cursed.”

you take a long breath and turn your eyes back up to the bleeding sky.

“well. you’re cursed, and you seem just fine to me,” you try to keep your voice strong, resolute and steady. grandmama had always said that if you keep your voice strong, people are more willing to believe your words. you wonder if that’s why harry’s voice is always soft, always lilting, his words slippery as moss-covered stone.

“yeah, but you can’t even touch me,” he says, and for once, his voice is harsh, his words sharp and hard as broken glass.

“that’s okay though — once i get my own curse, i’ll be able to touch you, right?”

harry fights back the urge to turn, to take you by the shoulders and shake you till you push him away. he wants to scream, to howl at the moon like the mother wolves and the hungry cubs that live in the heart of the wood. he wants to run through the woods, crash into things, climb up the trees and shake off all their branching leaves.

but he can’t, and so he doesn’t.

instead, he turns to look at you and look at you and look at you.

he wonders if it’s a strange thing, to like looking at someone so much, to find something new about a face every single time it’s looked upon — the wisps of hair fallen loose to frame your face from the velvet ribbons holding it back, the curve of your button nose, the dip of your cupid’s bow. he wonders if this is a normal thing, the thick weight of it in this chest, the truth of his curse sitting heavy on his tongue.

“yeah… probably,” he says — and the lie is smooth as milk, sweet as just-spun sugar.

“good. then we won’t have long to wait, hm?”

04.

there’s a story, so you’ve been told, of a fox that lives in the woods — and the fox can tell nothing but lies, lest the truth cut open it’s throat. and when it bleeds, because even monsters bleed (oh especially monsters), it will bleed in blue and silver, which everyone knows is the color of magic.

“but why would telling the truth kill it?” you’d asked, your eyes wide and round as the full-bellied moon.

your grandmama had sighed, rocking you in her lap as the forest outside shivers and shakes with the steps and breaths of creatures unseen.

“that’s what curses do, my sweetest… they’re unfair things, they are. and they don’t like to make a lot of sense.”

and that had been that. she’d moved onto a nicer story, a sweeter story, a story that was not so much truth and mostly lies — because the truth, as your grandmama had said, is sharp and unfair and makes so very little sense.

lies are much, much the better for the makings of stories.

05.

he has never complimented you on your dancing, not even once — not in all the years you’ve been dancing for him, by the light of a million and one fireflies.

you’d been eight when you made the promise, it’s been ten years since then.

and at eighteen, you wonder how many more years it’ll be before the moon or the forest or whatever it is that chooses people to curse will take pity on you.

it’s just after sunset, and you’d just finished your customary sunday afternoon picnic. harry is sprawled out on the picnic blanket, his fox-faced mask lying in the soft, long grasses, an arm thrown over his eyes. you wonder if he’s asleep, though you don’t think you’ve ever seen him fall asleep, not in all the time you’ve known him.

“music, please…” you announce to the clearing, and after a long pause, as if the forest itself is coming to life, the wind picks up — the leaves rustle on their branches, the birds sweep up into a twitter wingbeats and song, the grasses around the clearing hish and hush the thrumming baseline to a music that only you and harry and the forest can hear.

slowly, harry pushes himself up, making a show of rubbing his eyes, and in the darkness you can only see the shape of him.

you don’t see the prickle of tears at the edge of his eyes as he wipes them away.

instead, you close your own eyes and wait.

and wait.

and then — at the first flicker of a firefly’s light, you lift your hands and start to dance.

06.

once, you’d asked him how he’d gotten cursed in the first place.

“it’s a long story,” he’d said.

“i’ve got a long time,” you countered.

he’d crinkled his nose, pursing his lips as the pair of you hopped over a narrow stream, him watching as you teetered on the edge of the water.

“hm… well, if you do something a ton of times in the wood… the wood decides that that’s all your good for, and it becomes your curse!”

you’d blinked up at him from over your shoulder, a soft smear of mud on your cheeks.

“oh… it’s that easy?”

“easy?”

“i mean, to get a curse.”

he’d narrowed his eyes, “why would you want a curse?”

you’d straightened up, pressing your palms down your rather sullied dress.

“because — you said that i can’t touch you cause i’m human, right?”

“uh-huh…” harry had nodded, uncertain of where your child-logic had taken you.

“but other cursed things can touch you, right? like the wolves and the shadows and the queen of ravens.”

harry bit his lips. but you seemed to have taken his silence for consent and happily skipped off further into the forest. he’d never corrected you even as he heaved another world-weary sigh and followed after you. because technically, you hadn’t been totally wrong.

and his curse was only that he couldn’t correct you.

07.

your mind wanders as you begin to dance, and these days, it’s been doing a lot of that — wandering. so your grandmama says that it’s a part of growing up — learning when to let your mind wander and when to reign it back in, hold it on a tighter leash and tell it to wander no more. it’s a blessing to be able to let your mind wander, and so you do.

it’s just that these days, you can’t help but notice that it’s less of wandering and more of… well, a straight-shot descent to a well-known destination. and you know from a whole childhood of actual wandering that if you know the way and you know what you’ll find at the end, then it’s not wandering at all.

it’s just going.

but still, you let your mind go where it wants, and lately, it’s been going and going and going... to harry.

harry and his soul-soft laughter, harry and his knife-edge smiles, harry and his loose, lethargic movements, unhurried and always so certain. back when you were both still children, he’d led you through the forest with nothing but his voice, spouting out random facts that were much too outlandish to be true, and later, when you were both a bit older (and you’d long since memorized every bit of forest there was to memorize), he’d walk alongside you in companionable silence.

you knew his favorite trees, his favorite flowers, his favorite birds and colors, his favorite season, his favorite sweet, his favorite fruit and so many others.

and still, it feels as if you don’t know him at all, even though you’re certain he knows everything there is to know about you.

except…

you spin out on the long grasses, the light of a million and one fireflies dancing across your skin, dancing with you, singing with you as the forest does. and above you, a crescent moon cuts a sinister smile into a lonely, starless night.

years later, you’d wonder if the night had known — if the wood had known (of course, of course it had known, because there are no secrets the woods do not know, no secrets the waning moon doesn’t keep from the sleeping earth), if the entire world had conspired against you and for you that night.

when you finish dancing and the last of the fireflies flicker down to rest on the long, soft grasses, you’re breathless with exertion, luminous with exaltation and drunk on the song of the forest and a million and one lightless stars.

in the middle of the clearing, harry is smiling, you can see it even from here, and for the first time since you’d danced for him the very first time, he brings his hands together and claps.

“that was… beautiful,” he says, and his voice is deeper now, supple and sweet with the night air.

“th-thanks! phew — i really think that might do it,” you say, plopping down on the picnic blanket next to him, spreading wide your arms and staring up at the velveteen sky above you.

08.

once, you’d been told another story, though you don’t quite recall who you’d heard it from. maybe your grandmama, and maybe the old man who sits in the village square after all the longest days of the year, smoking his pipe and telling his stories.

“do you know why the cursed forest creatures can’t touch humans?”

“why?” a village boy had asked before you had the chance to.

“because… if a cursed creature touches human flesh, the cursed creature will die.”

“oh…” you said, clutching your hands to your chest, and you’d never really thought about dying. because really, what ten year old in their right mind would? but you knew of the concept from when grandmama talked about grandpapa — how he was there one day and then the next day he just… wasn’t.

“he died in his sleep,” she’d said, a tone of sadness in her voice that you’d never heard there before and wished you’d never have to hear again, “it was the best way to go.”

you’d wondered then if there’s really such thing as a “best” way to go. wouldn't the “best” thing to be not going at all?

“then… do the cursed creatures get to live forever?” you asked, before the village boy could cut in.

the old man took a long sip from his pipe and blew out a few concentric rings of smokes before coughing and waving it all away.

“no… you see, if the cursed creatures get to pass on their curses, they’d get to be reincarnated into being a human once more.”

09.

“do you… really want to be cursed?” harry asks as the pair of you share in the silence after your dance.

you suck in a long breath before pushing yourself up to sit in front of him, careful to keep your knees from bumping his.

“of course i do! it’s… it’s what i’ve been trying to do since i was like — eight!”

“but… why?” and harry’s voice is small, smaller than you’ve ever heard it, even though now, his eighteen year old body should carry a much heavier, harder sound.

“because,” you say, resolute as you’d always been, “once i’m cursed, i’ll be able to touch you.”

“and why… is that so important to you?”

harry casts his eyes towards you; you catch his gaze with yours, holding it steady. and in that moment, you mind lets go of the story that the old man told you. because it was a long time ago, and the story was so, so far away. and sometimes, the mind chooses which truths it wants to listen to, which truths it wants to believe in.

sometimes, it chooses truths that don’t look like truths from the outside in, but from the inside out — they’re the truest things to ever be true.

like this one —

“because i want to touch you. because… it’s what i’ve wanted since i was a little girl. because… sometimes, i think i want to do more than touch you — sometimes —” your voice catches on a hitched breath, lost somewhere in your chest, somewhere between your heart and your throat.

but then, darkness descends over your vision and it takes you a long moment to realize that you’re staring at the inside of a mask, thin but solid — the fox-faced mask that harry always wears.

and then pressure, and warmth, right where the fox’s dagger-carved grin usually is, so close to your own lips you can feel the heat.

it holds for a long, long moment, and then it’s gone.

the light returns as harry tugs the mask from you, grinning that teasing, lopsided grin of his, though there’s something about it tonight that makes your heart seize.

“tell me, one more time…” he says, and his voice is jagged with something that sounds painful and true and so, so terrible.

“i — i want the curse…” you say, before you really realize what you’re saying, and it takes you a moment to realize that this too, is the truth.

“okay then… it’s yours.”

and he leans in to press his lips to yours.

the truth, harry realizes, is always bitter, and harsh, and much too sharp. when he pulls back, he presses his palms to yours and lets the moon wash the clearing in blue and silver. you gasp as you feel the magic creeping into your bones, tugging you under, dragging you through the cracks in the world even as harry is tugged away from you back to the world of the living.

“w-was this all a lie?” you ask, because inside you, your heart is fighting for it’s last few beats.

“no,” harry says, his voice is pained, and his expression even more so, because every truth he tells cuts him a little deeper, and he feels his throat constrict over the words, “your dance really was beautiful… and…”

he swallows hard, feeling the knife-edge of this one final truth slicing through him, sharp as moonlight, sweet as the lightless stars.

“i love you. please… don’t forget me.”

and already, you can feel the truth starting to hurt, starting to constrict inside you like a curse. but still, you force it from you as harry flickers and fades along with the light of a million and one firefly lights.

“i — i won’t.”

10.

“but how exactly do you transfer a curse?” the village boy asked, his voice loud and jarring.

the old man takes another long sip of his pipe, puffs out a few more smoke rings.

“through a kiss,” he said.

you blinked. a kiss?

“ew!” the village boy recoiled then, shrinking back from the thought of kissing — because that’s what children are taught to do at such grown-up concepts as kissing.

you, on the other hand, you stayed right where you are, but a frown has creased your tiny, child-like brow.

“and the trick,” the old man continues, his smile going wide and a little lascivious, “is getting someone who will take their curse willingly… to accept the kiss.”

01.

for as long as harry can remember, there has always been the wood. and in the wood, there’s always been a girl with a fox-painted mask who danced to the light of the fireflies.

once, when he’d gone exploring (even though his grandpapa had warned him time and time again about going into the wood by himself), he’d nearly run into her and she’d cocked her head when he’d fallen face-first near the bank of a tiny stream, smearing mud across his cheeks.

“you’re strange little boy,” the girl said — and she could be no more than his age, harry thinks.

“and you’re a weird little girl,” he counters, his eyes catching on the bright red of the fox’s painted mouth.

there is magic at work here, harry knows, though he doesn’t know what kind, and all he really wants is to explore the woods behind his house, to know all there is to know of the world, and perhaps — he thinks as you turn and make your way deeper into the forest — to one day hold the hand of the girl with the fox-faced mask.

but that’s a wish for another day, he decides as he follows after you, jogging to catch up and ask for your name.

“ah… what’s in name,” you say, you voice light and languid, even as he frowns, “you can call me whatever you like.”

02.

once, harry had asked his grandpapa what the truest feeling in the whole wide world is.

and his grandpapa had answered —

“that, harry, would be falling in love…”

“falling in love?”

“yes, my dear boy — and the thing about love is that it’s like a curse… but it’s also like a blessing.”

“but… how can a thing be a curse and a blessing?”

then, his grandpapa had smiled, a smile that is starlight and wolfsong and all the secrets the forest ever has to tell.

“because we are doomed to always, always fall in love, my boy — and it will always, always be like handing someone and knife and asking them to cut open your throat.”

[undefeatablesin]

Watch out ya'll, Sin's sketching Bloodborne comics again! 💀

[hollowsart]

-cracks knuckles-

I don't have twitter and I've never drawn a Miku before in my life, but I adore that trend happening rn and wanna drop down my two cents, so let's go with the research to make a Hatsune Miku: but she is from my family (hard to explain, but it's absolutely Texan)

[cadaverre]

HELLO MOOTS!! its still me!!! its juno!!! just with a new and improved url!!!! (tagging people below the cut <33)

@svnflowermoon @zzzzzzzzzee @qwerty-keysmash @bookscorpion73 @a-beautiful-fool @insectsinthestars @recklessandyoung @trying-to-be-cool-abt-it uhh and anyone else concerned <333

[pampel-mousse]

if i think too hard about the fact that snow and white are the only wizards that look like children and that oz and figaro are the only wizards that look like old men, i'll start crying.

oz and fi were able to age well into their 40s because snow and white were looking after them. They were protecting them. They watched their disciples age and grow up in ways that was simply not possible for snow and white themselves, who were left all alone.