#its about bodies and postures and picture details

[michameinmicha]

Thoughts about masculinity

[uzurimisery]

bite the hand that feeds. / naoya zenin / nsfw

Warnings: MDNI, Naoya Zenin is a warning, misogyny, secondary sex discrimination, physical violence, rough sex, degradation, a/b/o, biting, blood, BDSM, dub to noncon, use of slick, forced consumption of bodily fluids, talk of impregnation and baby trapping, lactation kink, sadism and masochism, spanking, threats of domestic violence, objectification, maybe body horror, dear god please practice RACK irl

w.c: 7.5k (shes juicy)

A/N: baby's first omegaverse! my (very) late entry into the wonderful @goxjo's Into the Omegaverse Collab

The rhythmic patter of zori against the courtyard bridge banged in your mind, each strike sharp and precise like a taiko drum��warning of impending doom that faces your lady. Married off into the Zenin clan under a clear blue sky, the breeze ruffling her dangling kanzashi. Everything about her looked perfect today, you had ensured it. Despite being your cousin, there was a world of difference between you as she strode forward, back straight, umbrella held by another attendant. Her every move was slow and steady, pronounced grace and elegance in every movement.

 It was easier to be from a branch family like you were—less pressure, less conformity, at least to a certain degree. While you had been at least allowed to attend jujutsu training until you presented, she had been given the basics of controlling her technique. Never stepping a foot outside of the family compound. 

It felt like the tsubo-niwa felt like it went on forever. The stretch between the bridge’s end and the open shoji doors where the meeting would take place going on like the desert. The air between heavy, hot and humid, weight down the fabric of your kimono.

It was easier being from a branch family. You could bow and prostrate, low and deep as your aunt had whipped into you, the cedar marks still faint against the back of your thighs. The scars almost faded, silvery lines, chain linked together through opposition, personal rebellion where you could. You could then sit, your posture picture perfect, eyes kept low to the ground, breathe calmly, and let the men speak. You could retreat into yourself, the memories of how the sun felt against your bare arms during training, the tan you’d get from the hours of running drills. The peace using your cursed technique brought. 

The peace and solitude of those moments had felt so pure. So freeing. But clan expectations changed everything. If only you had presented as a beta. 

The cicadas buzzed a drone against the conversation. The clan head was appraising your cousin, speaking directly to your uncle. Wanting to know every important detail about her. How consistent her heats were, what her last blood work showed, and how likely was her technique to be passed down over the Zenin family. It had always been like this here, omegas being cattle. Traded, bartered, bred. You’d be luckier than her, likely married to someone of less importance. Your value was lower than hers with a mistake from your youth. Perhaps he’d be kind, come to care for you over time. 

Maybe he’d let you train again, show you favor if you gave him an heir. You had made peace with the fact freedom, true freedom, would never come until you died or the death and destruction of your entire clan. 

Maybe one day everything would go up in flames, and a great fire would roar over the compound, scorching the earth. Erasing the clan from history. Maybe a curse so powerful would come and consume everything in its wake. Maybe you should just run away, flee from Japan altogether. There were sorcerers abroad, maybe you could join their ranks. Be free from how they operate here. Or maybe you would run away and rebuke sorcery.

Clove, rich and warm, scented the air as another man walked into the meeting room. His voice was low, steps heavy. 

Master Zenin introduced him as Naoya. His scent was distinctive, with notes of sandalwood underneath. It was spiced and smelt like comforting winter nights as the snow fell on pine trees. Holidays with your parents when your father was still alive. Both soothing and invigorating. It seemed to draw you in. Never before had a scent captivated you so strongly.

The dread you had felt crossing the bridge grew stronger, the animal instincts inside you screaming at you to run, and to run far. Run before he could catch you. 

Peeking over your lash line, you caught his eyes, dark brown and full of hatred, directed straight at you. Scrutiny crawling over your skin, climbing up through the arms of your kimono and wrapping around your heart, squeezing it tightly. He looked at you as meat, stock to breed. Your eyes quickly returned to staring at the floor.

You had heard tales of him before, of all the Zenins, but experiencing it was a different story.

“Naoya, this is Hiroko Kimura.” Naobito spoke plainly as if your cousin was another thing to buy at the store. As if he was deciding between brands of butter. 

From the corner of your vision, you watched as your cousin prostrated before him, kanzahi jingling as it hit the ground. Her father bows in suit, not nearly as low, saved by being an elder even if he was from a lesser family. Hiroko gave her greetings softly, speaking of how grateful she was to meet him. She was pumping out pheromones as she went, her scent permeating the air. The clash of clove and honey made you feel sick, the smell sticky as it crept around, spread by the breeze. 

He acknowledged her briefly, with no real interest or care as he returned her greeting.“What’s the one behind her.”

You knew he spoke of you sat five feet behind your cousin, now desperately trying to refrain from shrinking into the floods of your blue ougi-patterned kimono. To keep your pheromones from leaking out, to not scent the air with fear. 

“That is my daughter’s handmaiden, my brother’s daughter.” Your uncle introduced you to Naoya, shifting all the attention in the room to you. “She’s to continue her duties until a suitable mate is arranged for her.” 

Naobito hummed as he now turned to look over you. The weight of everyone's gaze was heavy on you. If it had been a different time and place, you had led a different life, perhaps it wouldn't have felt like the end of the world but you knew the attention of the room, of the marriage meeting, being on you was far from good. 

Naoya walked towards you, his presence looming, getting so close you could see his cloth-covered feet nearly touching your knees as you stared down at them. The soft fabric a sharp contrast to the dread pooling in your stomach. Maybe god would be merciful and cause lightning to strike the house, distract everyone, and allow you to escape. But god was not merciful, not kind, nor caring. No one was there to hear your prayers. 

“Smells good,” he crouched before you, cornering you without any way out behind you. He left you with no escape route. “Look at me.” 

His voice dripped with authority, command, and control, your instincts forcing you to comply. Instincts overriding fear, forcing your eyes to meet his own sharp brown eyes. Something in you felt like it was pulling you towards him, screaming at you to go to him. That he was the answer to your problems. That he’d take care of you. 

He looked over you, his gaze filled with an unsettling intensity making you instinctively shrink as he looked for flaws or dents, something that might detract from your value. It was strange. To be appraised not as a person but as an object by him.

The silence stretched on as he did so, no one speaking for the first few minutes. Everyone was waiting to see what he would say — if he would say anything. But as his silent appraisal continued, the conversation returned between the elder alphas in the room as they discussed the latest in sorcery. No one cared that his stare was lecherous, undressing you as you sat there poised and politely. The front of your ankles burned from the strain.

Naoya’s hand went to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands you had to patiently worked into an appropriate style for such an important meeting, before tugging your head to the side with enough force to make you wince. A whine escaped you, feeble, the omega within you desperate to appease him. To desperately try and salvage something to diffuse the undercurrent of rage and entitlement radiating off of him

It was hard to keep your eyes trained on him as he instructed, it felt nearly impossible. The trained reaction of avoiding confrontation, battling with the fear of displeasing him, and looking away only making the situation worse. Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat feeling closer and closer to bursting through your chest as he leaned forward, weight in the balls of his feet, face uncomfortably close to your neck. To your scent glands.

Warm, wet muscle brushed against them, tasting the skin. A soft moan fell from your lips as you could feel every individual taste bud of his tongue as he lapped at your neck. 

Embarrassment, mortification-shame dancing along your spine as the room stilled again. Everyone had heard you but no one chose to comment. It was clear Naoya was staking his claim on you. Why would anyone care what he was doing to an omega, especially one with no status? It was his birthright as an alpha. The spices in his scent made your eyes sting with how close he was now, like little pinpricks on your skin.

Each passing swipe of his tongue swirled in your belly, warm and shimmering. Molten lava began to creep freely through your veins, replacing all the blood as you desperately held on to composure. Your nerve endings all thrummed in time with your heart, sending pulsing jolts of electricity everywhere at once. Your throat scratched, your mouth dry, like all the moisture in your body was moving to gather and pool at your core. 

You had seen alphas doing similar things. Scenting unclaimed omegas, testing just how much they could get away with. It was taboo if you were a normal functioning member of society, but when it came to the great families, it was a free game. Never did you think you would have to endure such treatment in front of your family.

“You taste good omega,” Naoya’s teeth scraped against your skin, teasing at a bite, a gasp leaving you. The sensation was both terrifying and strangely intimate. “Like cherries and cinnamon.” 

He moved your head again, this time forcing eye contact with you. The hand not wrapped in your hair crossed over your features. He started at the top of your head, tracing the perimeter of your hairline with his thumbs, pressing in slightly at your temple before moving on to your eyes, your eyelids fluttering shut as he brushed over them. Then he took to your cheekbones, running his thumb parallel to the curve of them before sliding down to your jaw behind your ear. He followed your jawline all the way to your chin before his thumb brushed your lips, smudging the lipstick that had been put on you to ensure your attire was appropriate for today's meeting. You could feel his eyes never leaving you, dark and filled with desire and dominance.

“Open.”

Your eyes snapped open, meeting his instantly. He tapped against your bottom lip, a command you couldn’t ignore. 

“You’re not very smart, are you?” His tone was sardonic, dripping with condescension. It didn’t matter if you were or weren’t. It only mattered what he thought and that you were an omega. 

“Open.” This time, you knew to part your lips.

Naoya’s thumb traced over the ridges of your teeth, pressing in against your canines hard enough that the sharp edges cut the flesh of his finger. Copper explodes on your tongue, the metallic tang filling your senses. He didn’t stop. Instead, he pressed his thumb flush with your tongue, pressing down to force your jaw open wider. 

Behind him the conversation continued to drone on, a forgone hum overpowered by the visceral reality of Naoya’s touch. He poked and prodded you with near clinical detachment. If he wasn’t leaking pheromones betraying just how excited he was to get his hands out, maybe you could believe it. A dispassionate facade only worked well if the scent of his arousal didn’t mix with the metallic taste in your mouth that left you reeling. 

“Kimura-san she’s your niece right?” Naoya’s voice cut through the dull hum of the background, clear and sharp. 

Your uncle lazily glanced over at the spectacle Nayo had made of you. His eyes were half-lidded and uninterested as you sat as still as possible. Your hair was half taken out of its style, no longer held up by the pins and clips that secured it. Now the only thing keeping the rest in place was Naoya’s grip. The lipstick you had so carefully applied was now smeared, and your kimono pushed down from his lapping at your neck like a wild dog. 

Your uncle didn’t even speak, just gave an affirmative nod before taking a drag from his pipe. The scent of tobacco makes your eyes sting. His nonchalance was chilling. You were only a bargaining piece for him.

“So nothing changes between us if I pick her, right?” 

You saw your cousin's shoulders relax, relief snapping the string of tension in her as she realized she would be free of this duty. No longer forced to marry and mate a man with the reputation of a monster. The chains of fate, instead, were passed to you. The metal pulled taught, the chains left to rust from the blood that you’d spill from your heart as they wrapped tight around it, squeezing.

“That’s correct,” your uncle’s tone was impassive as always. “If you want both, however, we’d need to renegotiate.” 

“I just want the one.”

The lock clicked into place, the chains now permanently attached to you. The view out the open shoji screen was so peaceful as you looked over at it. The sky stretched on, endlessly blue with faint spatterings of clouds. Serene and beautiful. A single sparrow flitted by, streaking across the sky. Its wings spread wide as it glided through the air. The birdsong chirped joyfully. 

An arrow shot through the sky striking the bird.

───※ ·❆· ※───

The wedding had been a large affair, filled with laughter and celebration, but none you felt privy too. Soft strains of a koto fill the hall. But no one focused on the young omega sitting at the head of the table, kimono splayed out, surrounding you in a vermillion sea. The grandiosity of the fabric and its patterns made you feel ridiculous, like a dress-up doll. Naoya had picked it out. The obi felt too tight against your stomach, digging into your ribs. They had tied it tighter than normal to keep you from eating too much. There was no reason for them to do so, you already felt sick to your stomach. It churned over and over like the waves crashing against the coast, the tide coming in and out. 

Naoya was seated on your right, his legs spread wide, thigh hitting against yours. The warmth of his body seeped through the wall of fabric between the two of you. Even like this, it was like you could feel his skin against yours.

He had kept you close since the ceremony ended, scenting you every few minutes. Possession in his every move. Sometimes a low growl rumbled from his chest, warning anyone who might think to approach you.

He had already placed a few small nips near your scent gland as well, edging you out of when he’d actually claim you. Each bite sent a shiver down your spine, the sensation a mix of pain and pleasure that pooled in your core. Your body reacted to him in a way that had never happened before. 

“Congratulations Naoya.” It was your uncle, bowing deeply to the two of you. Behind him, your mother also bowed. Her shoulders sagged under the weight of unseen burdens. You knew she regretted bringing you back to the family after your father’s death. That she felt she had sealed you to this fate. 

You could see the dark bags under her eyes when she rose. They had been a permanent feature since your father’s passing and you're presenting as an omega, but now they were so much worse. Your neck felt tight, breathing strained, as you looked at her hands and remembered the feeling of them wrapping around your throat. She smelt like baby lotion still.

“Thank you Kimura-san.” You could taste the satisfaction on his tongue. 

“Naturally. I’m sure your union will bring about the finest sorcerers of a generation,” despite the congratulations of his words, your uncle's tone was flat as always. Uninterested and just going through the motions. 

Naoya brushed his fingers over the shell of your ear, down the back of it, pinching the lop between his fingers. “I’m sure we will.”

The two exchanged a few more words before your uncle and mother returned to their table. Her eyes met yours for a few fleeting moments, filled with sorrow and helplessness. As she walked away, her back slumped, as if the weight of her guilt and regret was physically pushing down on her. You watched her go, the distance between you feeling insurmountable as Naoya’s touch lingered on your skin. 

Several rounds of people came around, giving their congratulations until it was time for another course of food. The noise of their chatter and the general crowd sounded so distant like you were hearing it through a glass cupped over your ears. Your own body felt lost to you, afloat and detached. As if you were watching all of this happen from afar, a mere spectator in your own life. The weight of the ceremony pressed down, deep into your bones, making every movement feel laborious. Faces blurred together—smiles, sneers, looks of pity and envy— all merging into an indistinguishable mass.  The red of your kimono grew duller as the minutes passed, a vinaigrette appearing on the edges of your vision as the walls seemed to close in on you. The rich, fatty scent of the meat was overpowering. Overwhelming. 

You felt Naoya speaking against your skin but could barely register it. It was only when his hand touched the back of your neck that everything snapped into focus again. The tensing was involuntary, your body’s memory reacting for you. 

This was the closest to being alone with Naoya you had gotten despite the hall being full. There was no one next to the two of you. No one’s attention on you.

“You’re pretty docile,” Naoya remarks, his voice low. 

You look up at him through your lashes, swallowing hard. Part of you wanted to recoil away from his touch. To untie your obi and run out through the shoji. To break through them and flee.

“I know my place.” you pause, determining if it was worth it to test the waters. “What would you do if I was to act out, Alpha.” 

“Strike you.” He spoke as if it was natural, obvious as if discussing the weather. His hand tightened ever so slightly on the back of your neck, a reminder of his control. There was finality in his words that you had come to know and expect from the Alphas of the great families.

There was nothing more fitting than a disobedient omega beneath him, a deep-seated belief that it was what they deserved. In their world, an alpha’s omega was theirs to treat and punish as they saw fit. The chain of tradition held fast, a rigid framework trapping you. This was your life. There was no escaping it unless you died. Any rebellion, no matter how small, would have consequences.

“Of course, Alpha. You know best.” It sounded like your voice was coming from another person, made soft and pliant. Your pitch raised slightly. All efforts you could make to seem less threatening and more agreeable. Like you were glad to be under his thumb. 

He liked that, a smirk quirking up the side of his mouth. His hand released your neck to trace down your forehead, mockingly soft and gentle. “Well, aren’t you a charmer? If you’re well-behaved, maybe I’ll reward you, Omega, just be the good little bitch you are.” 

“May I be so bold?”  

He raised an eyebrow. “You may.”

“I would ask of you to allow me to continue to practice my curse technique so that I may be of the utmost service to you.” 

The request hung in the air, your heart pounding as you waited for his response. His expression was unreadable. 

“I’ll consider it,” he replied, tone dismissive. 

“Thank you. Alpha,” you dropped low to present before him, back curved, the words bitter on your tongue. “I will follow your guidance happily.”

His smirk widened into a full-blown, maniacal grin. The shine in his eyes reminded you of teasing death. Cold and unwavering, a chill down your spine. A laugh broke out of him, more of a bark if anything. Wicked in every sense.

“Good god,” he patted the top of your head and pulled you up from your position by your chin. “Keep this up and I might let you give me a son.” 

He leaned in to kiss you. His lips were soft against your own. Surprising as you expected them to be rough. It was possessive, a mark of ownership, as the hand on your jaw squeezed down, forcing you to open your mouth. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

Being married to him was one thing, but being marked by him was another. Once the mark was made, it’d take years of rejecting it before it could go away. It made divorce, as shameful as it was, look easy. It wasn’t something that you’d ever be granted; your uncle would kill you before permitting it, but it was in the realm of possibility. With the feast ended and the two of you alone in his wing of the house, the full weight of everything came crashing down on you.

You shifted, an uneasy pit in your stomach, the temperature of the room made you feel clammy, the dark green futon pillowing under your weight, as Naoya sat behind you. One hand was up in your hair, undoing the pins one by one. Each dropped into a bowl on the ground, tiny silver pieces raining down, ringing against the ceramic. It seemed he had a thing for hair, taking the strands and wrapping them around his fingers, giving each a slight tug that you could feel at the base of your skull.

His other hand moved to untie your obi, the relief instant as it dropped away. It felt like you could finally breathe fully again, greedy lungs taking in large gulps of air. Your ribs would likely have some bruising from just how tight they’d done the obi for the wedding. His hands crept up the length of your left arm, pressure applied as if feeling your outline, before sliding his hand under the fold of your kimono and grabbing your breast.

"Just relax," he whispered, his breath hot, fanning over your skin.  His nose brushed your ear as he leaned in closer, lips nearing your neck. You couldn’t help but to tense.

His teeth sank into your scent gland, and the pain that followed was indescribable. Naoya’s canines were large and sharp. You had seen them every time he spoke or smiled. Pearlescent white panes gleamed in the light, but nothing could have prepared you for the sensation of them piercing your skin. It was like a branding iron searing into your skin, burning the flesh and charring your skin. Your limbs turn to stone, trembling uncontrollably as every muscle in your body tensed, released, and tensed again in waves. 

Your skin felt clammy, a cold sweat breaking out across your entire body and your mind struggled to process the sensation. There was slickness pooling between your legs. The mark was spurring on a heat, your body acting in its most primal way. 

“Stop it hurts” You cry out, voice wobbling from the fear and pain, body contorting violently, instinctively, trying to escape from him. 

Naoya smacks your breast with a force that leaves a handprint instantly against your skin. He bites down harder, teeth sinking even deeper in, the wound tearing open even wider as you writhe around. Finally, a white-hot flash of pleasure begins to course through you, biology taking its hold. It goes from nerve-splitting pain to a warm wash of arousal in a second. Blinking feels like minutes. 

He pulled back from your neck, eyes feral, brow furrowed in a savage expression. Blood stains his mouth. It pools around his lips and paints them a brilliant scarlet, before trailing down in a rivulet that snakes past his chin, down his neck, and into the folds of his yukata. 

“Never tell me what to do again. Do you understand?” His voice is a growl, low and menacing, as his grip tightens on your breast, twisting it to emphasize his point. As if the authority in his voice wasn’t enough. 

You whine, unable to bear his disapproval, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Gasping, you nuzzle against his neck. He smells so good. Spice cloves, sandalwood, and cedar on a winter’s night. “I’ll be good.” 

He lowers his head again, lips curled in a cruel grin, fangs bared. His voice drips with a mix of menace and satisfaction as he whispers, “Now, relax.”

This time, you force yourself to comply, doing your best to let your body go limp. It works better than before. Despite the fear you feel towards him, arousal pumps through your veins. A flood of endorphins courses through them, making every touch cause your skin to tingle and send waves of pleasure straight to your core. It makes your head spin and your limbs heavy. Your skin prickles with a heat that feels almost unbearable, making you itch with a desperate need for release.

It's too hard to keep your eyelids open; they are far too heavy, but you don’t trust Naoya enough to close them. What would he do if you closed them? Your blood feels thick like syrup, molasses sluggishly pulsing. A moan escapes your lips, low, breathy, and drawn out, that pitches into a whine as Naoya releases his grip on your neck and licks the wound closed with rough strokes of his tongue. He swirls the tip around each puncture wound, dipping the tip into it before doing so to the next.

“See? If you had just listened, it would have been this good from the start,” he murmurs, his voice a soft, mocking caress. He pinches your nipple sharply. Your head lolls against his chest, too heavy to hold up.

“Oh ho ho,” he laughs, the sound vibrating through your body. “Someone’s going into heat.”

It feels like everything is moving in slow motion as Naoya manhandles you. He tilts your head to the other side. The top half of your kimono is completely off, leaving your skin exposed to the cold, biting air of his room. Sweat beads on every inch of your skin. You struggle to keep your eyes from closing, fighting the overwhelming sensations that flood your body. You feel Naoya’s teeth graze against your other scent gland, the sharp sting of his teeth scraping against the skin but he doesn’t bite down. 

Instead, he laps and laps and laps at your neck, his tongue moving in languid, deliberate strokes as if devouring an ice cream cone on a hot summer day. Whimpers flow out of you like water from a stream, and your pussy flutters around nothing. 

Naoya squeezes you roughly, his hands greedily exploring your body. His touch is rough and demanding, large hands groping at your curves like he’s a man starved for flesh as he fondles your breasts, squeezing your nipples, making them stand erect from the stimulation. He likes you gasps and whines, the fat of your breasts squishing under the expanse of his hands as he toys with them. Likes the heft of them, meaty and heavy, makes him growl low in the back of his throat in approval. He can picture them swelling with milk that would nourish his heir and make them strong. He’d sample the source, suckle straight from your teat, and make sure his heifer was quality.

“My little breeding bitch,” he murmurs, his voice dark. 

Naoya’s hand slips down your front, his fingers finding the slick pool of arousal in your pussy. He pumps a finger in, meeting no resistance, then slides in a second easily, your pussy oh so inviting.

“Fuck, you’re ready for me already.” He chuckles, the wet squelch of your pussy sounding out with each movement of his fingers. “Such a desperate little whore. I bet you can’t wait to feel my knot, hmm? Say it.”

Your tongue feels too heavy in your mouth, the effort to speak almost insurmountable, speech slurred and your words mumbled. His impatience manifests in a swift, sharp strike to your clit, making you cry out in a mix of pain and anticipation. Through the haze, you manage to speak. 

“I can’t wait to feel your knot,” you manage to gasp out, biting the tip of your tongue in the process. It swells fat. 

It's been so long since you’d had a heat. Suppressants had been shoved onto you after your first one almost nine years ago. You don’t remember this first stage of preheat being so delirious, so inconsistent, so in control and out of it as you lean back against him and let him fondle your breasts.

His fingers feel divine as they pump in and out of you, accompanied by a scissoring motion that sends shivers down your spine. The feeling is almost enough to distract you from the rough way he's pinching and rolling your nipples between his fingers. He pulls at them like he doesn’t care if it hurts, like he wants it to hurt, and it does. 

Your hips buck involuntarily against his hand, your body moving on it as you chase your high. Whimpers fall from your lips, needy desperate cries that only egg on his treatment towards you. He likes you like this, all whiny and under his palm.

With a rough tug, he pushes the rest of your kimono off, leaving you bare and vulnerable against his fully clothed body. His hands are slick with your arousal, glistening fingers curled into you and smearing moisture down his forearm as you shamelessly use his hand for your pleasure. Your knees ache from the position, thighs straining with each thrust of your hips, muscles trembling on the edge of release. It's so close that the edge of your vision goes black as you tilt ever so slightly forward, and then it happens.

Your orgasm rips through you, your whole body locks, walls clenching around his fingers as you come crashing down. A flood of slick spills out, drenching the futon beneath you. The sage green is now a deep forest green, damp and warm to the touch from how much came out of you. It’s hard to breathe, chest heaving as you try to suck in the air. 

"Messy bitch. Look at what you've done," Naoya tsks at you, even as you jerk in his arms you can tell he’s less angry and more amused by it. With a push, he sends you forward, your front pressing into the wet spot, his fingers sliding out of your pussy. "Clean it up," he orders, his voice dripping with command.

It takes a long moment to catch your breath, to remember how to be a person and move, but you grab the edge of your kimono to pat dry the area when Naoya smacks the globe of your ass. 

“Not with that.”

You stare at the spot for a second. If not the kimono there was only one other thing that could be it.  

You begin to kitten lick at your slick. It's egregiously sweet, like a potent concentrate of your scent amplified to an overwhelming degree. The flavor makes your stomach turn, threatening to gag you with its intensity. You’ve no idea how any alpha enjoys the flavor this much. 

Naoya's gaze never strays from you as he begins to undress, his movements lazy and relaxed. He’s enjoying the show, reducing you to this. Rising to his feet, he pads across the room to hang his yukata on a nearby stand. He only breaks eye contact with you for the brief moment it takes to drape his garment properly. Your wedding kimono, three times the price of his own, is lying in a pile near you on the floor.

Even with his back turned, you don't stop licking up the puddle of slick. Your tongue scrapes softly against the futon, gathering the lingering wetness to swallow down with a quiet gag. The only sound in the room is your tongue against the fabric and your soft breathing.

A soft, small smile on his face when he looks at you next. His inner Alpha is pleased you’ve kept at your assigned task without being told to. His cocks hard, uncut and dribbling pre-cum, knot starting to swell at the base, eyes going over the curve of your back, the globes of your ass in the air, and the continuous trail of simmering slick dripping out of your needy hole.

He closed the distance, cock bobbing with each step. Dropping to one knee, one hand comes to rest on the meat of your ass, the other pressing down between your shoulder blades to push your chest further into the futon. The fabric rubs uncomfortably against your hardened nipples. 

For a moment he just sits there, massaging the meat of your ass before his fingers sink in, hard enough to leave bruises in the morning. Then, without warning, he reels back, from the corner of your eye you see his shoulder muscles tense before his arm is launched forward, palm connecting with your ass in a volatile crack that rings out in the room. Pain explodes a hot white.  

“Count them,” he orders with a smile as you begin to cry.

"One," you gasp out, the word a struggle to form.

His palm connects again, the blow landing a little higher on your cheek.

"Two."

The next strike comes before you can fully process the previous, his hand falling in a swift, merciless rhythm.

"Three."

"Four." The word is a sob this time, the pain starting to overwhelm.

The fifth smack seems to sting more than the first three, the imprint of his wedding ring starting to dig in. You can feel the metal biting into your skin, a cool counterpoint to the burning heat.

"F-five."

He stops for a moment to collect slick on his fingers. “Fucking filthy slut. I knew you’d be one.” Naoya smears the slick over the burning heat of your ass, his tone approving despite what he says. 

"Six," you manage, the word a broken gasp.

The next smack seems to shatter the air, his hand coming down with renewed force.

"Seven."

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, vision starting to blur. But you keep counting.

"Eight."

"Nine."

The final blow lands, his palm cracking down.

"Ten."

You collapse forward, your body spent and trembling. The humiliation of being treated like this, reduced to a mere object, burns through you. What makes it worse is how desperately your body craves him, even as your heartbeat hammers in your ass and tears stream down your face, snot bubbling at your nose. The omega in you wants nothing more than to please him, to make him happy. You need to make him happy, so he'll know you, claim you as his own.

Biology was a curse. 

"Do you know what you did wrong?" His voice is low, rough with dominance. Oh, how it hurt to hear him so mad at you. Why was he so mad at you? 

Your mind races, trying to answer the question. "No?"

"You came without permission. Are you going to do that again?" There's a warning in his tone, a promise of punishment if you disobey again.

"No." The word escapes your lips, a whispered promise of submission. You whine for him, lower into yourself, pheromones reeking of just how sorry you are. 

Naoya's hand tightens in your hair, pulling your chest off the futon, forcing your back into an arch. Your muscles tremble with the strain, too exhausted from the heat to sustain such a position for long. A whine builds in your throat, begging him to finally take you, to knot you, breed you.

"Then prove it."

He smacks your ass again, one last time for good measure, before dropping your hair. You catch yourself on your elbows, presenting yourself for him. Naoya's hands grab your hips, one positioning you to align with the head of his cock, the other stroking his length. After he's gotten you through this first wave of heat, he'll have you choke on his cock, make you take it to the back of your throat and swallow, see what he's working with and what he'll have to train, but for now, he'll start with your pussy.

The tip of his cock feels too big against your hole, even after he's fingered you. Tensing comes naturally as it catches on your entrance, anticipation, need, and fear running through you. The flared tip feels like it's going to split you in two as he begins to press into you. He flares out in the middle, his shaft thicker there, making you moan as he begins to bottom out in you. His size is almost overwhelming, the stretch bordering on pain. If you weren’t in a pre-heat it would most definitely be painful. 

He's kind enough to insert himself into you slowly, not wanting to damage your insides and ruin his chances of getting you pregnant. You can feel every inch of him as he slowly rolls his hips for the first time, experimenting with how much he can fit inside you. Moans come like spring rain, a sure thing, as he inserts himself. He pushes into you slowly, relishing in the way you clench and spasm around him. He’s so gentle compared to earlier, it makes your head spin. Your cries echo in the room, music to his ears. Once he's bottomed out, he stills.

A mix of a choked moan and a sob tumbles out of your lips. You can't tell if it hurts or feels so good you've surpassed feeling entirely. Your pussy flutters around him, suctioning him tighter as he pulls out. 

"Fuck, you're tight," Naoya grunts, his hands grabbing your hips for leverage. "Beg for my cum, bitch."

His voice is rough like gravel, little pebbles tumbling down your spine. 

"Please, fill me," you moan, tears spilling from your eyes. "Please, Naoya-sama, cum inside me. Breed me so that I might give you an heir." The words spill out of you, a desperate plea for him to claim you, to make you his. You can't even find it in yourself to beg him anymore, the words just spilling out. It all feels too much, overwhelmingly full, and yet still not enough. Your body screams for release, desperately for his knot, for the satisfaction that only an alpha can give you. 

Naoya slams his hips into you, harder and faster than he has before, his balls slapping against your clit. His pace picks up, your arms giving out as he continues to set a brutal pace, thrusting deep and powerful. Each thrust feels like he's close to hitting against your cervix, but he never does. It feels like your whole body is shaking, like you've been set to vibrate. You don't know when one moan starts and another stops. Vision blurring at the edges, the only thing that matters is the narrow point in the world where your skin meets his. All that exists is the feeling of him inside you, his hand on your hips, the sweat on your skin, the need. 

The way that his thick cock rubs against your walls sends jolts of electricity down your spine. Every time he pulls back, you clench down, trying to keep him in you. He's not even fully seated inside of you and your whole body trembles, his cock filling you up. It’s impossibly full, you feel like you’re going to split apart at the seams as your pussy works to milk him. 

He smacks your ass again, the opposite cheek. "You're mine, remember that. Nothing but my little bitch to breed."

He fucks you harder, lifting one of your hips to angle himself deeper. This allows him to rub directly against your g-spot, electric shocks firing on every nerve in your body. Every time he pulls back, you clench down, trying to keep him in you. He's not even fully seated inside of you and your whole body trembles. The sensation is overwhelming, each motion pushing you further and further into the depths of your heat. 

The room is filled with the sound of wet squelching and flesh meeting flesh, your body now rocking back to meet his every thrust, your breasts jiggling with each thrust. Naoya's thrusts become more frantic, his movements more sporadic. He's close, his knot swelling. The thought of being knotted by him makes you gush, juices flowing over his cock and staining the sheets below. You feel your orgasm building, a tsunami approaching the shoreline. Your entire body is a livewire, humming with tension. 

It's then you notice the mirror that faces you. It's huge, covering half the wall, showing everything. Naoya lifts your chest, then hooks his fingers into the sides of your mouth and pulls them taut. It feels like your lips are going to crack with the strain, stings like sand sanitizer in a paper cut. You let out a low moan, drool dripping down the front of your body and pooling on the mattress beneath you. Your cheeks are flushed, eyes glassy, there’s an unmistakable handprint on your breast from earlier, and if you could see your ass, it’d be the same. There’s a glow to your skin from your heat, makes you shiny and supple. Makes you breedable. 

"You're so much prettier when you smile, omega." His voice is low, rough with arousal.

He lets go of your mouth and just props you up, one hand around your chest to do so. It's you who holds the smile instead, a wild look in your eyes. 

Naoya keeps thrusting, and it's like the world around you fades away as his cock stretches your walls, and the edge of his knot catches on your hole with each deep thrust. It's big. Bigger than the toys you've had, bigger than the ones you've heard of, you don't know if it's going to fit. A flicker of fear passes over you, but it's quickly overwhelmed by desire and discarded. 

His other hand reaches around and rubs your sensitive clit, flicking it back and forth. You're so close to cumming, heartbeat hammering down in your pussy. Each pass of his fingers sends sparks through your system, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. 

"Cum for me, slut. Milk my cock. Scream for your Alpha." His words are a command, a demand for your pleasure.

You cry out, your body giving in to the pleasure, wave after wave of orgasm crashing down on you, your entire body going limp. Naoya pays it no mind, only holds your hips up as you fall limp, using you like a fleshlight. It feels like he's going to break you as he fucks you through your orgasm and finally pushes his knot inside you, your pussy convulsing around it. 

A wickedly delicious kind of pain, the type to leave you breathless. 

He keeps thrusting, his range limited, his knot locking the two of you together before he finally comes, his breath hitching. Hot ropes of cum paint your insides. It feels like it's too much cum to fit inside you, like it's going to spill out, but his knot keeps it firmly in place. His grip on your hips feels like it's going to break your bones, his nails drawing blood. He grunts for a few minutes, rocking his hips, milking his cock out with your pussy, before finally stopping.

Naoya bends over you and licks the shell of your ear before nibbling it. "You're never going to get away from me. You're mine to use, mine to abuse. You'll never get to leave me." He rocks his hips again, cock twitching inside you. "You won't be alone for long though, pretty girl." 

©️ uzuzrimisery

a massive thank you to my beta readers @craftycheetah @rii-bows @lovelyroseybunny and my friend cas who i dm'd weekly about this fic for over a month insecure about writing omegaverse

[himabyul]

Satan & Violins

I share a lot of similarities with Satan, even when before they canonized something about him; one of them being violinist!Satan😭 In spite of me having a mini identity crisis following the drop of his canon violinist card, i think it makes sense! heres why.

Disclaimer!

1. I have not picked up an instrument in years

2. This is purely bcuz my brain is so busy thinking abt Satan so its kinda rambly. . Pls bare w me T_T

3. THIS IS LONG IM SO SORRY

4. Not too used to tumblr writing just yet sorry if it's messy

(Uploaded on my twitter aswell :D)

The violin and its family, unlike other string instruments (ex. the guitar), doesnt have these little things (that i forgor the name of because im a bad musician) that separates every note. those little separating thingies are the reason why people who dont know shit about playing a key on guitar but memorize musical scales (me) is at least able to strum a simple one octave melody.

Obviously, the two come in with their one difficulty (i prefer the violin myself), but it's a little bit harder to pull that trick with the violin. As you can see, theres not exactly something to tell you where each note begins or where they end. Nothing to determine where is where. You simply have to memorize the placement and the distance between each note. You basically play the violin with Your Gut (1). We'll keep this in mind for now.

Moving on, let's talk about body posture.

Beginner violinist usually directlty face towards the strings when playing, as they aren't used to letting their 'gut' lead the show. However, more experienced players would find no need to do so. A quick glance at Satan's art could tell us he was at least above beginner level to be brave enough to face (us) instead.

When you're not facing your violin, you would usually lean your head towards it, resulting in your ear becoming the closest thing to it- here's a real life example:

Now, if there was anything my teacher warned me before starting violin, is that even without having your ear be the closest thing to it, the strings are already LOUD😭 so its even louder when you alr have ur ear on it. The violin is considered one of the most emotional instruments ever, their lower sound resemble what we use to express sadness in speech. Basically, what I'm trying to say is, you as a player are forced to feel what you're playing. Thus is also why you play the violin with Your Heart (2).

So, how does this tie into Satan? It's no secret that our handsome man is incredibly romantic, and to me if he ever wants to express something to us and making sure the message is clearly received, the equally emotional violin is his best bet! The violin allows Satan to play heartwrenching notes that would quickly be felt by the listener.

Lets get technical.

There's still another side of the violin, as there is another side to Satan. The way you stroke your bow matters, the way you angle it so you'll only hit the notes you want. (thankfully if you mess up, the violin is made to still sound graceful😂). Satan too, is quite the detail oriented person. He is tactical, analytical, observant, a man obsessed with striving to be the perfect one, etc etc. The need of preciseness of the violin is definitely right up his alley. The way you need everything to be correct to be rewarded for a beautiful sound. Idk exactly where I'm going with this but it's basically intelligence meets emotion kinda thing, do you see it too?!?!

In conclusion, the violin is a wonderful instrument that both requires great attention to detail yet is also incredibly emotional and heartfelt, an instrument that requires your gut and heart guide your play without abandoning technique. Satan, the incredibly smart yet fluffy softie, is quite literally made for this and I LOVE HIM for that RAAAAAAHHHH. im normal.

THATS IT RLLY im soooo sorry if it's incredibly messy please have a sugarry picture <3 ily

[roserefrain]

[677 words]

Florian can finally see all the rose garden has to offer.

It was well past patrol time, Florian has no reason to be walking his usual route along the rose garden’s cobblestone paths. Arguably, it’s a waste of time, time that could be better spent training. He walks regardless, in a sort of desperate attempt to clear his head.

He allows all thoughts in his head to fade, replaced by the routine of the twisting path, the sound of his shoes against the stones, the gentle breeze moving the floral scent through the air… His eyes have been trained to notice any slight change in the garden, anything that might cause a disturbance. Everything else can easily turn into nothing more than a background, something to work around, not to observe on its own.

“You never even look at the flowers! What’s that phrase about stopping to smell the roses?”

Florian feels the sigh move through his entire body, his wings drooping down and his posture wilting. He came here to get his mind off of them, and yet he still can’t get their words to go from his mind. They had been so shocked when he said he didn’t find the rose garden particularly beautiful. It wasn’t that he actively didn’t find it beautiful, he just hadn’t put any thought into it one way or the other.

He stops in front of a yellow rose bush. One distraction, one small indulgence, he will allow himself that. Nothing more. Maybe this will get those thoughts fully out of his system.

Florian bends down and reached out one hand, examining the flowers. These are, presumably, Aster’s favorites. At the very least, they wear one in their hair, so it’s unlikely they hate them. Are these flowers… beautiful? What was that even supposed to mean?

It looked nice in Aster’s hair, at the very least. It suited them, something so bright and cheery. The soft texture of the petals only causes more unasked for thoughts to enter his mind. Florian can picture himself adjusting the flower in their hair, making sure it’s perfectly seated just above their ear.

He’s doing a rather poor job of clearing his head. It’s time to leave these roses behind, to continue doing what he came here to do. He doesn’t allow himself a second glance as he continues down the path. In his mind, he’s on patrol, he must be perfectly on time to his post, he must not allow anything to distract him, he must be perfect. Nothing less will be accepted.

But it’s as if a curse has been placed on his mind. He should’ve never allowed himself that moment of indulgence, should’ve known it wouldn’t just stop there. The very world around him is painted in different colors when thoughts of Aster arise. Every stone is one they’ve walked on together, every flower is a secret message that he’s only privy to thanks to them, every sight is judged through a painter’s eyes. What colors would they use, what details would be emphasized, what would be left behind?

It’s torture. He must be going mad. It couldn’t be normal, couldn’t be proper to allow any angel to occupy one’s thoughts so much. Surely, surely once he finishes his patrol, then all will be okay.

Florian makes his way uphill, as he does everyday, until he reaches the cliff. The end of his route. What should be the end of his troubles. He silently hopes to be met with relief, with peace, but instead he is greeted by the sky, stretching endlessly. It’s lit in vibrant hues of pink and orange. The puffy clouds glow as if they’ve been lit on fire as the sun sinks down past the horizon.

He freezes, it feels as if he’s been physically struck, and all he can bring himself to do is to sit on the soft grass, and marvel at it.

It looks just like their hair, doesn’t it?

The word escapes his mouth without making it to his mind first. Florian doesn’t even know what he’s saying it in reference to anymore.

“Beautiful…”

[boundaryfailure]

[the better reality | nms apollo & traveller]

At the center of the galaxy, you are left holding the cinderblock-heavy truth of the world you live in. The enormity of it all sits almost demurely in its place on your exosuit, that little red starseed and its cosmic significance.

Sixteen minutes. Always, sixteen.

Of course, Nada only hushes you when you try to speak about what you’ve seen. They stretch their palm outwards as you rush to inform them, sweeping away your words before they come. They are afraid — you know they’re afraid — to lose their haven to realization. Of course, despite everything, even though they have severed themselves from their people, they are still Korvax: they still fear the Atlas they reject so fiercely. You can’t bring yourself to shatter anxious Nada’s naivety.

You still find it in yourself to feel stung.

Still, though, they can see the anguish in the lines of your posture (Why won’t you listen? Why won’t you hear me? How could you leave me alone with this?), and they have never lost their kindness. Nada’s fingertips light gently on your shoulders, and when they draw you into an embrace, you return it twice as fiercely.

Polo squeezes your hand as you pass them.

“Nada fears, Traveller-Friend. Some things are best left unexplored.”

(TRAVELLER, the Atlas had said — had pleaded.)

You miss Apollo so terribly.

Sometimes you dream of a better reality: one where the world had yawned wide as you came out of the portal, and your friend was there to greet you.

Getting the details right can be tricky. You know what Apollo sounds like, sharp, sometimes guttural, mechanical and harsh at first blush. You know that standing beside them would suffuse you in subtle golden light, that it would play off the starsilk strands and fine leather of your suit. The details get sketchier and ruin the picture if you dwell too much, and so you try not to linger too much on any one point. Broad strokes.

They are bigger than you are, you remember from the tower transmissions; they are built sturdily, like industrial equipment, like a blunt force weapon. They get testy when you poke fun at it — “I don’t make fun of you for being soft, do I?” — and you know that this body is not necessarily theirs by choice. There had been grudges involved, and vengeance quests, and altogether you can understand why they choose to walk as a lone iteration entirely, free of the wistful togetherness of the Space Anomaly’s menagerie. Such tenderness doesn't suit them.

But Apollo could bludgeon you into an entirely new iteration, and Apollo chooses not to. That is how things go, in the reality where you break through to one another. The two of you cut a wonderful contrast walking worlds together. The gear you have chosen means that beside their simplicity, you are all tritium-hydraulic agility and solar-vitrified stealth, and they snipe at you over comms because they are made for steady distance and could never keep up with your gimmicks.

“Somehow Artemis was never half as much trouble as you are,” they tell you, with their strange blend of indifference and annoyance over-top a curious attachment.

“With Artemis, we really would have been unstoppable.” The thought slips out unbidden, and you pick at the enameling adorning your right pauldron as if to distract, or to mollify.

“… Yes,” Apollo says, a reply you don’t expect. Their tone is thoughtful, but not closed off, and you realize you’ve earned the rare right to their emotional input, such as it is. “We would have.”

In this reality, the pressing loneliness of all the world before you abates with your friend at your shoulder. Apollo is not necessarily talkative — in fact, without you there to prompt them, you think they might go days without a single flare of vocal activity — but their heavy tread at your heels and their ruthless haggling at trade stations compress the frightening vastness of it all into something uniquely enticing.

(The weight of the last sixteen minutes rests lighter on your shoulders, knowing that they, too, understand. They take the news of the galaxy’s infinite end steadily, a steel-stubborn levee refusing to succumb to the waves of despair that had submerged you before.)

(“Well, we all have to die sometime,” they had told you, rolling prism-studded shoulders. “And what time will be more interesting than this?”)

(They hear you, they listen, and they are not afraid.)

(In this other reality, they choose to do what no one else does: to accompany you. To understand.)

(And you know fully by now that those other iterations are just as real as you.)

(So just knowing that, you think, alone in your ship with your face to the stars — just knowing soothes the sting.)

Sometimes you dream of a better reality.

In it, all the world lies before you, and Apollo is at your back, and beneath the tint of your helmet, your eyes are wide and wonderstruck.

[raisindave]

[Chapter 6] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

You realize your fists were clenched before your mind even had the chance to become conscious. Waking up from rapping at the thin door only feet away from your head made fear and panic surge through your blood. Someone’s here. Someone’s outside the door. Wake up.  

“Grant,” a familiar feminine tone, it’s Laswell. “Get up, we got something.”

For the sterile conditions of an abandoned bunker, it becomes somehow eerier and more unsettling when nobody else is awake. Like the concept of space and time doesn’t exist, where you and Laswell are the only two echoing footsteps on the planet. In the palm of your sweaty hand, you held the CIA booklet you wrote your notes in earlier, dogeared, but the same. 

“That convoy we’re tracking started transmitting a signal. We need to know if there’s anything we can use.” Laswell spoke, pushing the office door open with her forearm, meeting Graves already seated inside. “They’re using some sort of private network to break up their cellular transmissions, but we have a few tricks of our own.”

“The MAC address says that we can be almost certain that this device was in the same location as the stolen weapons, and their zig-zagging movements tell us that they’ve got something to hide.” Graves said, catching your reflection in the thin, wiry glasses on the tip of his nose.

You smooth your hair back, taking in the surroundings. Two laptops and a tablet were connected with heavy wires on the same industrial metal table you spent the previous day at. For all you know, it’s technically the same day.

Graves shifts the laptop to you, a blank text document inviting you to sit and do your fucking job like what he chewed you out for yesterday. In an act of defiance, veiled by due diligence, you decline, sliding crisp white paper across the metal surface.

“I prefer to write it down. More control,” you spoke, not meeting his gaze.

Laswell hummed in approval behind you, detecting movement; you turned to see her wheeling a bulletin board from the corner, flipping it over to reveal the plain green canvas of a chalkboard. She craned her neck to unclasp a small box built into its side, pulling out pale chalk and neatly placing it on the shelf lining the chalkboard. Meanwhile, Graves pulled up live audio on the laptop from a feed pulsating lines of waveform visualization. Static, thumps, and clicks came from the wiry headphones as you habitually slid them over your ears. 

Steady static and the occasional lurch of feedback crept from the headphones. Seconds turned into minutes as you sat, quite literally on the edge of your seat. Expecting something, anything, eventually. The absence of stimulation makes your fingers restless, as excess energy translates into your knee bouncing. Only the unpredictable click of interference in the background alerted you that you weren’t just listening to an empty transmission. 

A calm Russian conversation suddenly interrupted the silence, commanding your body to shift into a more attentive position. The change in your posture must have alerted the others as the sound of rustling fabric shifted behind you. You could practically feel the heat from their bodies as they loomed over you like the angel and devil on your shoulders. 

Conversation between three men, two Russian, one speaking Cantonese, your fingers whirling the pen to transcribe the information. Confusion and fatigue swept over you as your eyes caught up with the sentences you frantically cited. Their pointless dialogue was about the first Russian guy’s daughter’s birthday.

Minutes passed as the second Russian voice spoke to the Cantonese speaker, patiently and calmly describing in picture-perfect detail the best way to prepare canned Pilaf so it stayed crisp and fragrant. The best rice to use is Rapan, but Osman will also be sufficient. If you can get your hands on some almonds for garnish, it adds a pleasant crunch to the meal. The Cantonese speaker responded in fractured Russian about whether peanuts could be a good substitute. 

This couldn’t be the right transmission. 

Pushing the headphone pad off one of your ears, you turned in your chair to meet the furrowed eyebrows of Laswell and Graves, who had clearly come to the same conclusion. Graves turned curtly, huffing an exhale as he paced away, leaving Laswell holding a stern, void stare into nothingness. Graves’ pacing brought him back around, snatching up the white paper containing your transcriptions, once again urgently flickering his pale eyes over the paper. 

“Do you recognize the voices?” Laswell finally interrupted after what seemed like an eternity while the Russians in your headphone pads discussed the perks of cast-iron cookware.

“Negative,” you breathed, exhaustion catching up with you. 

“Is there any indication that there’s a relation?”

“Negative,” you said, watching stubborn frustration wash over Laswell’s face.

Heavy sleepiness smoothed over your nerves, and unused energy and alertness crept out of you. At this point, Graves was already down the hall, still pacing, but now at a distance. 

“I’ll sit and listen, but I’ll call you in if I get something.” Your voice cut into the room, eliciting Laswell’s gaze to finally rise from the void to meet yours. 

It took Laswell time to respond, as if she was running the situation through thousands of simulations in her mind. Conversation within the headphone pad on your ear continued about the benefits of ginger tea before bed. Instead, Laswell turned on her ankles to swing a chair up beside your position at the table, pulling up one of the laptops to begin typing. Laswell’s rhythmic tapping and steady dialogue about bedtime practices whispered to your conscience how warm and cozy your cot must be right now. 

Heavy eyelids obscured your view of the screen. Why is it now that now your body blesses you with the ability to sleep instead of all those sleepless nights thus far? Your workout this morning, or maybe more like yesterday, aches in your bones, becoming acutely aware of every form of stimuli except the one in front of you. Graves enters the room and talks to Laswell as you dedicate your full attention to the broadcast. Begging for anything more useful than cooking advice. 

Unexpectantly, your conscience hooks on the specific phrasing of something said in passing. A single out-of-place sentence that made your shoulders stiffen. The second Russian’s voice shifted away from his casual tone as if reading something. Clicking back a few seconds, you reviewed the sentence in its entirety. There was an intro and closing ‘dear [...]” and “sincerely, [...]”, a queue that made you kick your chair forward to lock into a more attentive position. Laswell’s rhythmic tapping halted. 

‘You’re not going to believe this,’ you transcribed the voices within your headphones, translating the gravelly Russian voice into legible English, ‘the Dumplings are out of the oven, and we’ll be-’ Static interrupted the dialogue, giving you a moment’s grace to catch up with transcription ‘-roads have been smooth. Thank you for your understanding.'

Your breath quickened. Pen scrawling over the paper in steady, controlled motions, contrasted by your wild expression that must have caught Laswell's attention.

“What’cha got.” Laswell scooched her chair in closer, the distant pacing down the hall halting, then picking up pace in your direction. 

Relief and tension danced in your mind, along with a whirlwind of emotions and a sudden awareness of the tightness of your shirt’s collar. Underlining points in jutting pen strokes, you give yourself a moment's pause to gather yourself before explaining your sudden intrigue. Two sets of expectant eyes met yours, pleading. 

“I think I’ve got something, but it’s hard to tell for sure.” You croaked, Laswell attentively jotting down notes on the chalkboard. 

“What, what - what is it,” Graves spoke urgently, impatience radiating from his posture.

“When you’re transmitting sensitive information, you’ll use padding at both the beginning and end of short messages to protect them from crypto-analytical attacks by the enemy.” You spoke, making useless hand motions to emphasize your points, “It essentially works to signify that the important part of the message is between an opening and closing phraseology signifier.” Reciting the textbook definition effortlessly due to hours of relentless study. 

“How can you tell if it’s padding phraseology or civilian conversation?” Laswell asserted, crossing her arms over her tidy blue button-up.

“That’s the thing, you kind of just have to have an ear for it,” your eyes unwavering from the fluctuating soundwaves on the screen, “it’s something that might not entirely make sense within the context of the conversation.”

“What does this mean?” Laswell taps her fingernail on the paper where you underlined, making the metal table rattle. “Could ‘dumplings’ be some sort of co-”

Just then, you clasp your palms over the headphones in an attempt to isolate the sounds coming from the laptop. Apparent urgency in your tone sucked the voices from Laswell’s throat, and silence fell like a heavy blanket. Your dry eyes followed the motion of the soundwaves on the screen, capturing your rapt attention. 

‘I hope all is well. This tool we’ve got will do wonders to help you clear out those pests in our backyard. The red and blue fuckers that keep tossing stuff over the fence. Speaking of which, there’s some hot weather coming tomorrow. Keep an eye on the road conditions.’ A generous pause, with a hint of feedback, followed, ‘... we have the tools . Let’s see if we can bring them home in time for the road trip. Take care now.’

A third Russian voice interjected, static at first, followed by ‘and that the Uniforms are ready… two thirty-five, expect us. Best wishes. ’ The transcription cuts with a click. 

Recognition triggered in your brain, as you identified the familiar voice of Smokey , the chainsmoking trucker from yesterday, speaking with an unknown additional party. His tone was different, more serious and stern. Running your fingers through your scalp, you leaned back in your chair, neurons firing on all cylinders to make sense of the dialogue. A scrawling circle around the name Smokey caught the attention of the shadows behind you, sending them to exchange a flurry of urgent conversation and scrawling on the chalkboard. 

Uniforms? I thought he exclusively transported logs, and why so early? Tools… Tools… The Russian word for tools could be multipurpose. It could mean hammers, lawnmowers, cutlery or… weapons. Ominously nondescript but just vivid enough to trigger alarm bells.

Your scrambling hands copied your thoughts onto the paper, another frantic circle capturing the importance of the use of the Russian word tool . A glance at the digital clock said that it was 01:38, leaving just under an hour for whatever was about to happen. Snapping out of your pensive trance, Laswell and Graves were exchanging words behind you. Cold sweat pooled in your palms, wiping them on the thighs of your cargo pants, dry eyes whirling across your paper. Suddenly, said scrawlings were swiped off the table by Graves’ hand, dragging your attention to focus on the conversation in front of them. 

“-I need a percentage, Grant, how sure are you that this is what you say it is?” Graves held your paper to your nose, “This sentence padding, this tool , are these our guys?” 

“Ninety-five percent,” your voice squeaked, folding damp palms over each other. “But we don’t know where, or even a direction, I-”

“We have coordinates for a potential meetup spot we gathered from… an informant,” Graves interjected. The verbiage of ‘informant ’ made your skin crawl, and Laswell’s posture infinitesimally shifted.

“But I’d need to listen again. I need to check fo-” Graves interrupted your speech.

“No time. We have to hightail it out there,” Graves shifted, now clearly speaking to Laswell rather than you, ending his sentence with a curt nod. 

She nodded in response, clicking her pen off and on repeatedly. The energy in the room shifted from an eager and attentive tone to tense and grave. 

“Wake the boys,” Laswell spoke, uncrossing her arms. “Kitted up and moving in fifteen.” 

With that, Graves was out the door, breaking into a hurried jog as soon as he entered the hallway. Laswell scooped the laptop into her arms; frantic, hurried movements with practiced accuracy enraptured your attention. The distant commotion of pounding on doors, paired with Laswell’s urgent movements to unplug and package cables overstimulated your senses. 

“You’re coming too.” Her voice cut through the daze, your eyes snapping to meet hers

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Master List

[wheretheresaway-theresawilliam]

Chapter 28: The Truth Unmasked

Word Count: 1220

TWs: Murder mentions, allusions to a panic attack, mentions of strained parent-child relationships

⛤⛤⛤

The third night, he went straight for Prize Corner. He utilised his daytime downtime by spending hours at the local library, reading multiple books on paranormal activity and even using their computers. So, Freddy’s was haunted.

“The victims are the animatronics,” he stated when the Marionette came out of its box to greet him.

“Well done, Michael. So, last night wasn’t a dream, was it?”

He shook his head. “But… how? Why?”

“How do you think?” Its posture became rigid and disgusted.

“Because they died on Freddy’s property??”

“... In a sense, yes.”

“Why won’t you just tell me? You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

“I told you, Michael. It’s me. I know your face, but… I can’t remember my name. The others can’t remember themselves, either, but I know something they don’t. I know.”

“Know…?” Michael suddenly got excited, “You know who killed you?”

“Try not to sound so ecstatic. It was a man. He drove a purple car.”

He felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. “A purple car?”

“Yes. Quite the detail, don’t you think? But death… it does things to your memory. I can’t picture his face. The rest of them only have memories of a yellow rabbit, who spoiled them with gifts. Next thing they knew, they had new bodies, and an infinite amount of time to do whatever they wanted… so long as they stayed here.”

“I didn’t want it to be true…” Michael whispered, pulling his knees up to his chest as he sat on the prize counter. The Marionette tilted its head.

“Didn’t want what to be true, Michael?”

“You… don’t remember the rabbit?”

Seconds passed between Michael’s question and the Marionette’s answer. “I don’t think so.”

Michael buried his head between his knees, shaking. “Fuck. I… how do I…?”

“You’re upset.”

Michael said nothing, lost in his head. It was him. It was him. It was his own father. The Marionette moved to sit beside him and began to hum a soft melody. It diverted his focus, bringing him back into the present. And then he began to apologize incessantly, unable to say anything more.

“Michael. Michael.”

“What???”

“When did you start using an American accent?”

He couldn’t help but laugh in shock. “It’s… a long story, kid.”

He didn’t go straight home at 6:00am, but instead went to sit in the parking lot of Circus Baby’s. He had to talk to Elizabeth. There was no possible guarantee she’d come with her father to work that afternoon, but it wasn’t like he could just show up at William’s house and expect him to be civil about it. Even with the fury, sadness, and fear coursing through his veins, he found himself drifting off. He dreamt of Evan, and all the others he had bullied. The pleasure he had derived from hurting them. But oh, the guilt that glutted itself on his pain ever since the accident. He tried to be numb about it as a teenager, but it burned him alive, now. He was startled awake by a knock on his window. He rolled it down. A familiar face was staring back at him.

“Everything alright, son?”

“Do I know you, sir…?”

The man laughed. “Wow, I’m surprised you remember me at all, Mr. Afton. Harvey Pierce, I tried to talk to you about your brother’s accident all those years ago, but your father wouldn’t have it. You’ve really grown into that face of yours, haven’t you?”

“Oh… oh shit, yeah, I do remember. I mean, that night is kind of hard to forget…” Michael cleared his throat. “But, er, yeah. I’m fine. Just dozed off, I guess.”

“I seem to recall you having an accent…?”

“And I seem to recall that I used to be an asshole, but you don’t hear me bringing it up.”

Pierce frowned. “Right. Sorry, can’t turn off the nose for questions, even if I’m off-duty. Close to retirement, actually.”

“Good for you. Hey, do you know when this place opens?”

“It opened an hour ago. I only pulled up because somebody called about a man sleeping in his car, I thought you might’ve been homeless. You aren’t, are you?”

“No, sir, I’ve got my own apartment and everything. Thanks to Henry, mostly… I was in his will, and since… well, I got most of it, to say the least.”

“God rest their souls,” Pierce placed a hand on his heart. “Isn’t your father well-off?? Why didn’t he--”

“First of all, none of your business, Mr. Pierce, second of all, that bridge has been down since I turned eighteen, so I suggest you lay off it.”

“There’s that accent… sorry, seems I struck a nerve.”

“You did. Anything else I can help you with, officer?”

“No need for such formalities…”

“Wait, wait, wait, didn’t you just say you were off-duty? How’d you know somebody called about ‘a man sleeping in his car?’”

“Well, I was planning on clocking out after I checked the call out. Simple as that.”

Michael shook his head. “Why don’t you get out of here before I report you to your boss for being a nuisance?”

“Good thinking. Take care, Michael.”

“I won’t.” He rolled his eyes as Pierce went back to his car, then checked his appearance in the rearview mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, held up by heavy purple bags. Horrible, horrible shift. Fuck you, William. He brushed some lint and what-have-you off of his slightly dishevelled clothes and got out of his car, entering the circus-tent-shaped building. Despite the facility’s name, the restaurant portion was the lesser of its draws. For having only opened an hour ago, the place was already beginning to crawl with children and their guardians. An employee approached him as he stood there, temporarily disarmed by seeing everything for the first time.

“Welcome to Circus Baby’s Pizza World, sir! What Big Top Fun™️ can we serve up for you today?” She beamed in that way only others in her position could understand. Michael glanced at her nametag.

“Ah, well, thanks for the warm welcome, Frances. Truth be told, I’ve never been here before. I was just wondering if your boss brought his daughter with him today, I’m a family friend and I wanted to surprise her with a visit.” He was sure to calm down and put his American accent back on as to not attract suspicion.

“Elizabeth Afton?”

“That’s the girl.”

“I’m sure you’ll find her in Circus Baby’s Circus Ring Room! Your name, sir? Just in case Mr. Afton asks about you.”

“Mike.”

“Fantastic, let me just stamp your hand so other employees know you didn’t just sneak past the front desk,” Frances retrieved an ink pad and a stamper depicting Circus Baby’s face. “Any particular colour you’d prefer, Mr. Mike?”

“Red, if you’ve got it.”

“Sure thing!” She swapped the ink pad for one with red ink and stamped Michael’s hand. “Have a Clown-tastic day!”

“Thanks.” He lowered his voice, “I know how rough it must be to work in a place like this, so have a drink on me when you get off your shift. I’d say you’ve earned it.”

Frances nodded with an appreciative expression and handed him a map. With that, Michael set off into the labyrinthian facility, so much bigger than Freddy’s in every sense.

[maneaterwithtail]

Concept of the 3 forms of Koku in one place

A fiery one-eyed serpent coils about idealized Texan landscape or setting. Its head foreground (so beneath) his two human forms in the center. The mouth is open, positioned as if emitting or swallowing them.

The humans face to the viewer, one a young man with a Pac-Man shaped lantern shield on one arm with a gada in the other wearing armor reminiscent of Japanese lacquer, or urushi. The other an old man with a scarred eye with iridescent replacement stone/monocle with a metal bladed umbrella

This may be further framed or set as if appearing in Old Man Koku's mirror

Detailed here

Koku – elder form

Outline of the character

Name Koku

**Gender **Male

Age 65 years of age

Physical Appearance 4’5”, 150lbs (shape), Japanese, His skin warm weathered, but refreshed with honey skin tone. His full head of hair is restored and its bright vibrant white, he has a visibly scarred and special right eye.

Scene

Pose This is more about attitude, he keeps his legs wide and knees slightly angled out but really has a casual and pleased posture

Facial Expression Impish and piercing as if analyzing or inspired Veiny or creased bare neck

Background (If needed.) ****May use his Mirror as background or framing of the illustration

Facial Features

Eye colorWhile he may wear wide sunglasses in public he does not need to wear them for this picture. Have them be present. His lost right eye may be replaced by an iridescent opal or similarly colored an expressive brown-rimmed iridescent coke lens monocle (like Bubbles’s from the Trailer Park Boys, or a Magikoopa’s eyeglasses but radiant/colorful) with no hook or chain but holds were last hand places it. The lids or lens can flex squeeze and keep features of the eye and surrounding parts like an expressive mask or Duckman’s glasses or spider-man's eyes. The left eye is a normal dark brown

Hairstyle and colorBright vibrant white color Aside from being full now his head of hair is the same as always but he may tie it to be ‘fashionable’ or go for a “daddy style” that appeals to ladies

Facial HairBushy thick eyebrows, mustache that is longer than similarly shaped and colored beard. Snowy white color

Shape of the face.Creased brow with head shaped like a turnip.

Clothing and style (KEEP IT SIMPLE)

BaseKoku dresses in short sleeved loud button up shirts. He now keeps them open to display his smooth, jacked, virile body. His bottoms are darker than his tops. He wears them tight at the thews and glutes, but can be wide at the ends. They may go past his knees but end above his ankles. He’s got it and he flaunts it. some. His footwear may be simple sandals or fuller shoes if he’s in a colder or wet environment. May or may not wear a knit beanie/winter hat with a crest on its upturned brim (Hawaiian lounger or slacker?)

Overall color scheme Simple colorful top, darker plain bottom, honey alluring muscularly creased skin His shirt is open and shows hint of his sexy body in contrast with apparent age but must focus to get it.

Accessories and JewelrySunglasses, Broforce Iron Eagle Tattoo or accessory where fit, Hat (refer to the sunglasses link), Sandals

WeaponsIt is grey/white/silver and black colored metal umbrella with a rose sphere with a kanji in it. Search for Brolliequinox an umbrella on the webpage linked (may ignore all else)

Physical Appearance4’5”, 150lbs, Japanese, His skin warm weathered, but refreshed with honey skin tone. His full head of hair is restored and its bright vibrant white, visibly scarred and special right eye.

Background and personality

Fanfiction version of a character from Flame of Recca Copied from fan wikia Kokū (虚空) is one of the creators of *madōgu, and a Hokage Flame Master and leader of the Flame Dragons before Ōka. He and his rival Kaima competed to create madōgu, but he is forced to kill his rival once the latter succumbed into further madness.* Personality He is often portrayed as perverted but also very wise. As one of the creators of the madōgu, Kokū is knowledgeable about the many different types of powers each madōgu possess including ones that his rival Kaima created such as the Tendō Jigoku. He appears to possess great insight as he realized that Kurei was far stronger than Recca and opted to train him on how to properly utilize each of the flame dragons' powers. Abilities Kokū demonstrates his power. Among all the flame dragons, Kokū is the only one that is capable of manifesting his human form outside of Recca's body. the most unique. Kokū's power takes the form of a giant, concentrated laser beam. He has a mirror that allows a person to enter their mindscape. As one of the original creators of madōgu, Kokū knows a great deal about each madōgu's strengths and weaknesses. Trivia His physical appearance as well as characteristics resemble that of Master Roshi from the Dragon Ball series.

Personality TraitsImpish, inventive, bemused and filled with deep conviction about power, research and its use

Background HistoryFounder of the Hokage ninja and developer of the Madogu, rescued from full dispersal as ancestral spirit by Jumper. He researches his craft and enjoys a ...pleasurable retirement

Loved onesHokage, Renge, Jumper, cohort, his apprentices

OccupationRetired vagabond, in his words, but more craftsman foremost

Interests and HobbiesWomen, food, puzzles, collecting, and sight-seeing

Koku – younger form

Outline of the character

NameKoku

GenderMale

Age20

Physical AppearanceHe is 5' and 165lbs. His body is dense roaring bronze, robust, and made of solid carved muscle. He is a Japanese young adult with bronze tone skin with only veins and muscles, no wrinkles or spots. He’s slicked back pointed hair and thick eyebrows and a strong jaw but with an oddly boyish face. Fireplug build and shape.

Scene

PoseFlexing for the audience with a gada in one hand, other arm in Pac-man shaped Lantern-shield. He is bare-chested but for corded necklace, his mouth open.

Facial Expression Mouth open in a howl or hoot of power. Seems remarkably boyish while brutal

Background (If needed.)If in planned picture in on the plains of Heavenly Texas with his fire dragon self coiled about the scene with its mouth over to right side resting almost at foot of his younger and older self .

Facial Features

Eye colorSame as older

Hairstyle and colorBristles that seem to spike from his head at an angle. They have yellow-red tips that seem to darken to untreated black as gets to head.

**Facial HairCheeks are bare. He has dark, thick, angled-pointed **eyebrows

Shape of the face.Rounded block but with strong chin and plump nose **1****, **2

Clothing and style (KEEP IT SIMPLE)

BaseBare head, neck, chest, and shoulders. Only armored skirt and boots The armor looks like red-orange, gold, or black urushi-e. Plates of perfectly smooth finished japanese earthenware/pottery. Overall color scheme and how it contrasts the background (if present.)

Accessories and JewelryBead ear piercings,

Thong necklace,

Hokage symbol or Broforce Eagle as accessory or bodyart that is not on his head

WeaponsA Dark color and rose Gada in one hand with a Pac-Man shear lantern-shield/vambrace redesigned for his combat style(Remove the extending points out the glove or shield. And the part of the shield towards the shoulder more cut in like open circular shears to catch or cut weapons) on opposite arm

Physical AppearanceHe is 5' and 165lbs. His body is dense roaring bronze, robust, and made of solid carved muscle. He is Japanese with bronze tone skin with only veins and muscles, no wrinkles of spots. He’s slicked back pointed hair and thick eyebrows and a strong jaw but has an oddly boyish face. Fireplug build and shape.

Background and personality

This is the part that is less likely the artist will read, because even with these restrictions, this is still an awful lot of information that will take more than one day for any artist to digest. We’re not dumb, it’s just that we have to actually do the words-to-images reasoning. Feel a bit freer here, since all the essential information should be already written.

Koku Fire-Dragon forum

Outline of the character

Name Koku

Gender

Age???.

Physical AppearanceDragon form is still one-eyed. His sclera like the iron core of a sun with contrast color for pupils so on. Show his his body shifting in solidity and hue the farther from the “core” until clear his serpentine form wreathed in clear and white tinged blaze.

Scene

PoseCoils about setting head foreground (so beneath) his two human forms mouth open a bit to them as if emitting or to swallow them

Facial ExpressionThis one on the dragon

Background (If needed.)Is the background

Facial Features

Eye colorDragon form is still one-eyed sclera like the iron core of a sun with contrasting color for pupils so on

Hairstyle and colorSolar blazing style with similar colors for tresses or hair wish depict on dragon body

Facial HairN/A

Shape of the face.Strawberry shaped head

Clothing and style (KEEP IT SIMPLE)

BaseOverall color scheme Red-orange with white-blue to clear periphery and black core.

Accessories and Jewelryn/a

WeaponsN/A

Physical AppearanceShow his his body shifting in solidity and hue the farther from the “core” until clear his serpentine form wreathed in clear and white tinged blaze.

Bad diagram example

[annawayne]

Hey Anna! For the Aruani writers game ask~

2, 4, 7, 11, 13, 14

Hi Moon, thank you so much for asking! :3

2. Share your favorite part of your first ever fic

Oh, my first ever fic is Bury me in the shadows in spring, and actually in a few weeks it's going to be my anniversary as I started writing this fic (and AruAni fics in general!).

SO, my fav part from BMSS... oh, I guess, it's the scene from chapter 2:

The blond gulps and rests his eyes on hers for a few more heartbeats, and then stands up. He looks at the name one more time - “ Gymnopédies”. Hmm, another French composer. She definitely has some preferences, huh? Carefully, he puts the record on the player, and suddenly, everything changes.  Silver rainy drops seem to be the bravest thing in the world, as they keep falling, falling, falling down from the sky - like the monotonous, infinite heartbeat of clouds. The rain continues to pour at a steady pace, and the timid piano sounds flow into the watery symphony outside the window, making ripples with its gentle, sensual tune. His breath, his heartbeat, his heat, his blood - everything dive into sleep. There’s no past, there’s no future, there’s even no present, and the sense of time has erased the same second the needle hit the record. There’s only now , only this exact instant that he wants to embroider over his body with the tight stitches of his memory - maybe, “forever” is the word that was created not for people, but for the moments like that.  The man makes a tentative exhale and slowly tiptoes with his eyes to look at the woman. He finds her eyes already on him, but when their gazes meet - she doesn’t avert it. Instead, the blonde gives him the small curve of the smile, and he can swear - he sees feeble sparkles in her eyes. But what surprises him more - he returns the gesture.  “Can I draw you?”  The simple question. The simple words. The simple request. And yet, it hits him like the infernal waterfall in a foreign language he doesn’t even surely exist in this world.  Did he hear her right? Or is this his twisted imagination one more time? Is he dreaming? Is he drunk again?  The woman doesn’t break her glance, but he sees how her fingers tightly squeeze the fabric of the sofa she might rip it, and her finger starts again to imitate the rhythm of the raindrop with her nervous tapping.  Her body doesn’t hide the tension she keeps in herself, like the strained, violin string.  However, without an answer from his end, the blonde repeats.  “Can I draw you?” The melody has changed already, and it’s as mesmerizing as the first one, but the man can’t really care more about it when before him - he sees her.  Her, the blond straight bob haircut.   Her, the short and yet gracious posture.  Her, the determining gaze of the greyish blue eyes.  Her, the cozy pastel-colored robe.  Her.  Her.  Her. 

4. Fanfic authors can be harsh on themselves, especially with older work, share three things you like about your first fic

Oh, well, as I mentioned, my first fic is BMSS... and that's hard, but anyway!

I think, I really appreciate my approach with different languages and creating the vibe of the epoch here. I do some researches, dive into details to create the whole picture not only of 1920's but also of Eastern Europe after WW1.

7. What was the inspiration behind your shortest fic?

My shortest fic is Golden Hour of Our Forever, and I really hope it's not too much narcissist because the inspiration was my own artwork :D

I drew it, knowing the whole behind the scene story, but when I finished it, I felt the urge to write it down anyway.

11. What annoys you the most about your own writing habits?

I guess, what really irritates me is that I don't write really good outlines. I do it - but in perspective, I think I need to learn how to do it more properly.

13. Do you use symbolism when writing fics? Tell us about it!

A LOT. I guess, far too much... FAR TOO MUCH. Well, two of the most frequently used - it's nature and colors. I usually left the description of the environment, not only because I want to show more of the surroundings, but also create a particular mood that would challenge the events/feelings or, on the contrary, support them.

Colors, too, pay attention to the color I use, and it would open another layer of what I want to tell with the scene or the detail :D

14. Tell us about a detail you wrote that nobody has commented on yet.

Hm-hm-hm.... I guess, it's a motif from chapter 2 of MYLYSW, when the continuous Annie's "she didn't understand, but..." transformed through the years. How it was at first "she didn't understand, so she obeyed", then - "she didn't understand, but she didn't say anything either" -> "she didn't understand, but she listened" -> "she didn't understand, but she took a step forward" -> "she didn't understand, but she hoped".

[void-ink-studios]

Day 3: Marrow

[Transcript:]

Sent from: PhiniganBeginagain@newmail.com on December 15th, 2007

Received by: DamianTheOmen@newmail.com

Subject: NEW CASE

Dames, we got a new case.  The cops want our help, finally.  I know you’re frustrated with them for taking so long, but at least we can look into it now.  Don’t let Maddie read this one, it’s gruesome.  Something about it feels familiar though, like I read it somewhere before.

Anyway, read it when you can, and get back to me ASAP.

Attachment: MindyReidReport.pdf

Case No: 050782

Date: December 13th, 2007

Reporting Officer: Officer Jerome Parker

Incident:

Dead body discovered off the sidewalk on East Ivy Street.  Body was identified as Mindy Reid.  Potentially rabid animal to blame.

Detail of Event:

On December 13th, at 0500 hours, I was dispatched to 275 East Ivy Street in response to a 911 call.  Upon arrival, I was directed by the caller to the bushes, to which I discovered the deceased body of who was later identified as Mindy Reid.  Ms. Reid was remarked as a local grocery store clerk, who worked at Harbor Corner Groceries.  Body was mauled, similarly to an animal attack.  Chest was open and ribs were cracked open.  Body was missing part of its right arm.  The caller reported to see some kind of animal to be chewing on the bones when they made the discovery.

Description of animal: Human-like proportions, animal-like in posture, mouth described as “overstuffed with teeth”.

Action Taken:

Ambulance and forensic team were called.  Street was closed off for investigation.  Pictures of the scene and forensic samples taken.  Body was removed from the scene to be examined by the coroner.

[Prompt List]

[Previous] - Day 2: Epidemic

[Next] - Day 4: Fledgling

[bleep-bloop-boo]

#flowchart?!#i wants to see!! okie so like this is really rushed and messy lol and its just a few examples and not as detailed as my mind flowchart is, esp cuz my mind flowchart really changes with many diff options for how the convo can go (i have plans for the most common ones and ive memorized answers about me at this point) and this doesn't really describe what body language you should be searching for and exactly how to position your body so it's comfortable for them but its a brief explanation of what goes through my head so- honestly, all you need to remember is that people like talking about themselves and showing off pictures or experiences. you just need to prompt them and share a LITTLE BIT (not too much or else ur dominating the convo and weird) about urself so they feel comfortable opening up to you And people also want to feel wanted so for future steps of friendship (steps 1.5 and 2.5) you can brighten your face and posture when you see them in the hallway, wave 'hi' or mouth it or sometimes just smiling is enough. (step 1.5 cuz step 2 is meeting up outside of required places like school) lmro my handwriting and spelling is wilddd oh and the pictures blurry- :sob: (good luck deciphering this!)

Real talk why does social interaction feel like you’re trying to get a good grade in being a person

[ronaldanthony4]

I’ve always had a passion for digital art, but there's something special about my latest creation. This time, I focused on my original characters, Liliana and her close friend, Penny. Liliana has always been the sweetheart of Arlon, a character who, along with Liliana, embodies my vision of ideal romantic love. Their story has evolved in my mind for years, and finally bringing them to life through digital art has been a truly rewarding experience.

Creating this artwork was a journey in itself, filled with inspiration, hard work, and a bit of personal reflection. The inspiration for this piece came from an artwork that has always fascinated me: "Love’s Messengers" by Édouard Bisson. The elegance, the softness, and the timeless beauty of Bisson’s work captivated me and guided my hand as I brought Liliana and Penny to life on my digital canvas. I hope to capture just a fraction of that magic in my creation.

In my artwork, both Liliana and Penny are draped in large, plain clothes that wrap gracefully around their bodies. Liliana, always the picture of purity and grace, wears white. Her long, flowing hair is adorned with delicate white flowers that mirror the simplicity and beauty of her attire. Beside her, Penny contrasts with a pink cloth that wraps around her figure. Penny's hair, in a chestnut colour, is decorated with pink roses, adding a touch of vibrant colour to her appearance.

The setting for this scene is a lush, verdant garden, teeming with life and colour. This garden is not just a backdrop but a character in itself, representing the beauty and vibrancy of nature that surrounds and enhances the figures of Liliana and Penny. The garden is filled with a variety of flowers, their petals open wide to the sunlight, and the air is thick with the scent of blooming flora. The trees stand tall and proud, their leaves rustling gently in the breeze, adding a sense of movement and life to the scene.

Creating this piece was a meticulous process. I started by sketching out the basic forms of Liliana and Penny, ensuring that their poses mirrored the elegance and grace that I admired in Bisson’s original work. Liliana stands with a gentle smile, her hand delicately resting on her hip, her posture exuding a serene confidence. Penny, slightly behind her, reaches up, her hand seemingly grasping the edge of an unseen veil, her eyes looking up with an expression of wonder and joy.

Once I was satisfied with the initial sketches, I moved on to the details. The folds of the cloth, the texture of their hair, the subtle differences in the shades of pink and white – each element required careful consideration and attention. I wanted to capture the lightness and fluidity of the cloth, the way it wraps around their bodies and moves with them. I spent hours perfecting the flow of Liliana’s white dress, ensuring that it looked both natural and elegant. Penny’s pink dress posed a different challenge, with its brighter colour requiring a careful balance to maintain harmony with the rest of the scene.

The flowers in their hair were another important detail. Liliana’s white flowers needed to look delicate and pure, each petal meticulously crafted to reflect the simplicity and beauty of nature. Penny’s pink roses, on the other hand, needed to stand out without overpowering the rest of the scene. I played with different shades of pink, adding depth and texture to each rose until they looked as if you could reach out and touch them. The result was stunning, the perfect balance of elegance and vibrancy.

The garden, too, required its share of attention. I wanted it to be a place of beauty and serenity, a fitting backdrop for Liliana and Penny. I added layers of foliage, flowers, and trees, each element carefully placed to create a sense of depth and richness. The colours had to be vibrant yet harmonious, each shade blending seamlessly with the next to create a scene that felt alive and full of life. The result was a breath-taking masterpiece that captured the true beauty of nature.

As I worked on the piece, I found myself reflecting on the characters of Liliana and Penny, and what they represent. Liliana, with her white dress and flowers, embodies purity, grace, and the ideal of romantic love. She is the muse, the inspiration for Arlon, and by extension, for myself. Penny, with her pink dress and roses, represents joy, vibrancy, and the beauty of friendship. Together, they create a balance, a harmony that is reflected in their poses, their expressions, and the overall composition of the piece.

Completing this artwork was a rewarding experience. It allowed me to explore my creativity, to push the boundaries of my skills, and to create something that I am truly proud of. It’s more than just a piece of art; it’s a reflection of my ideals, my inspirations, and my passion for creating beauty. Through this artwork, I was able to convey the essence of friendship and joy that Penny and Liliana embody. The process of bringing these characters to life on canvas was a fulfilling journey that has left a lasting impact on me as an artist.

In the end, as I stepped back to look at the finished piece, I felt a deep sense of satisfaction. The hard work, the attention to detail, and the inspiration drawn from Bisson’s "Love’s Messengers" all came together to create a piece that felt both timeless and personal. Liliana and Penny, standing together in that lush garden, are more than just characters on a canvas; they are a part of me, a part of my artistic journey, and a testament to the power of creativity and inspiration.

Creating this artwork has been a journey of discovery and expression. It’s a journey that has allowed me to explore my artistic abilities, delve into the characters of Liliana and Penny, and create a piece that is both beautiful and meaningful. It’s a journey that has reinforced my love for digital art and my passion for creating something that can touch the hearts and minds of those who see it. I hope that my art can continue to inspire and resonate with others.

As I share this piece with others, I hope that it brings as much joy and inspiration to them as it has to me. I hope that they can see the beauty in the simplicity of Liliana’s white dress, the joy in Penny’s pink roses, and the serenity of the lush garden that surrounds them. I hope that they can feel the love and passion that went into creating this artwork and that it inspires them to find beauty and inspiration in their own lives. And remember that art has the power to evoke emotions and connect us all on a deeper level.

In conclusion, this artwork is more than just a digital creation; it is a reflection of my artistic journey, my inspirations, and my love for creating beauty. It is a piece that brings together the timeless elegance of Bisson’s "Love’s Messengers" with the personal touch of my characters, Liliana and Penny. It is a testament to the power of creativity, inspiration, and the joy of bringing characters and scenes to life on a digital canvas. The painting captures the essence of love, friendship, and beauty in a way that words alone cannot convey.

As I continue my journey as an artist, I look forward to creating more pieces that capture the beauty and complexity of the world around us, and to sharing that beauty with others. Whether it’s through the characters of Liliana and Penny, or through new creations yet to come, I am excited to explore the endless possibilities of digital art and to continue creating pieces that inspire, captivate, and bring joy to those who see them. I am excited to explore the endless possibilities of digital art and to continue creating pieces that inspire, captivate, and bring joy to those who see them.

[cobragardens]

I LOVE the way the concept of snake and the concept of tree are indistinguishable from each other here. This painting does absolutely amazing things by making lots of its elements two different things at the same time..

Crowley's garment matches her surroundings and arises from them, and there's no hard division between the garment and the forest floor/background, nor between Crowley's body and the garment at the wrist; but Crowley's skin and her golden shawl are in contrast to the background/garment colors. The curls of her hair echo the arcs of snake/root/branches and the red as well, but Crowley's hair isn't quite the same red as the snake belly/tree branch; it's more orange. So Crowley is part of her surroundings--even created by her surroundings--but distinct from them at the same time.

I can't help but see this piece as existing in the context of John Collier's Lilith, and I think that only strengthens her.'s messages.

The coloring and composition of both pieces are markedly similar and especially given that Lilith is such a famous piece, I feel like that similarity is purposeful allusion and invites comparison between the two.

Lilith stands in the foreground, nude, her posture open and turned toward the viewer, smiling down at her companion the snake, who is wound around and draped over her like a wrap. Her body is displayed for the viewer, and the pose is one of eroticism and sensuality; the expression on her face is happiness and affection. The piece's sinister notes (the snake, the carnivorous flowers at Lilith's feet, the Monstera deliciosa behind her) are just as beautiful and detailed as Lilith herself.

Crowley is facing the opposite direction of Lilith, away from the viewer; where Lilith's posture is open, Crowley's is closed and self-protective. Her facial expression is one of sadness or pain, and she is alone and without her consort (in contrast to both Lilith and to the customary depiction of Crowley).

Instead of in the foreground, Crowley stands in the midground of their picture, surrounded on all sides, even above, by vegetation. The vegetation is mostly indistinct, unlike the delicate detail applied to Crowley herself.

Her wrap is the golden shawl. Because of the dress that is dress and skin and ground all at once, we can read the shawl as both fabric and as a Heaven-tinted skin that Crowley has shed but not discarded. The rolled neckline and sleeve of the dress can likewise be read as both fabric and as a currently shedding skin: Crowley emerges (both in the chrysalid sense and in the rising-upwards-from-Hell sense) from the skins/fabrics as someone not Heavenly gold, evil's black, Earth's green, or the snake's/tree's red, but entirely her own colors, a distinct individual.

By referencing a painting about eroticism and sensual allure, @the-maw-consumes emphasizes how much her. is not about those things. It draws our attention to how Crowley's position, posture, and expression differ from those of Lilith and what they says about what's being shown. To me, her. is a piece of art about self-creation--about becoming a her, singular, formerly having been an it or a they*. It's a statement about how the self both is and isn't part of the circumstances that make it, and about how someone who self-creates both wears and emerges from those circumstances.

I love how this piece is so crowded and teeming and fecund and yet gives such a striking impression of isolation . A beautiful new creature is emerging from the situation that has given rise to who and what she is now, and as the singularity of the title, the golden skin/shawl, and Crowley's facial expression suggest, that emergence is lonely and comes with loss.

*plural

her.

[dahliadoesart]

Day 1 of Looking at Art for An Hour a Day

Today I looked at The Peacock Skirt by Aubrey Beardsley. Below is a very rough collection of notes/my thoughts-I may organize it into a better post eventually. I think this work is super duper cool, and would love to talk to anyone who has opinions!

The Peacock Skirt, Aubrey Beardsley

Work is all about the interplay between the two figures. Focal point is right between them, one on the left is curling around, looking down in controlling way. Has strands curling around the entire image, giving a sense of control and power. Interestingly, really only the skirt and the face of this figure are pictured, the skirt isn’t even particularly realistic. The actual body consists of essentially just two lines, very little detail. Beardsley does a really great job of conveying what is important, and letting the rest go, with the lack of detail in some areas just serving to heighten your attention on the important parts, not to distract you. Relatively blank torso is made up for in some sense by the peacock on the figures shoulder. Peacock has large skirt disguising the small size of the actual bird itself. I believe the bird is meant to be a representation of the figure on which it is perched. Twisting form of the bird mirrors that of the figure, with the feathers serving to hide the small form of the actual bird itself in the same way the skirt hides the figure. Peacock also has fan made primarily of dots-this is interesting as almost the entire rest of the image is done in either lines or large blocks of black and white. I believe this gives it a sort of surreal quality, removing it from the main focus on the two characters and letting us see it as more secondary. The actual head of the figure is essentially just emerging from the blob, with a looking down gaze. While the heads of the two figures are just about level, the one on the left is still looking down, heightening the sense of control. The blank eyes, the odd posture, the gaze not into the eyes of the other, and the plant like, dramatic hair of the figure on the left all give it a supernatural feeling. Whatever it is does not appear fully human, and is somehow messing with the figure on the right. I think that while the figure on the right is less detailed, its still super interesting. If you look at just the top half it looks…defiant? Like it knows it should be scared of the other thing and is trying its best not too. However, I think the bottom is really fascinating in contrast to this. The figures left arm bends inwards at a dramatic, unrealistic angle, allowing their hand to be in their dress. I believe this lets the shoulder be posed in the defiant way Beardsley wants, while still keeping the figure from interacting with the leftmost figure, and portraying a sense of smallness. Additionally, the knees of this figure are a sharp contrast to the rest of her, extremely detailed, knobby, and just generally in a rough shape. This, combined with the odd angle of the arm, and the tears in the bottom of the skirt all give a sense of weakness or defeat. The figure on the right is clearly not in a good state. Finally, I find the figure on the right’s right hand to be interesting. The pose is delicate, her fingers softly curled. This seems to not reflect the fear and unease of the situation. However, something is directly above it, maybe fire? It seems as if whatever this is is emanating from her hand, potentially conveying that the figure on the left is not the only supernatural one. This lends to the dramatic contrast between the top and bottom of the figure on the right, with the mix of confidence and shakeness potentially showing the uncertainty of how this situation will end up.

In general, I think the way Beardsley uses color is absolutely brilliant–different parts of this work have dots, white, or black as the primary focus, and we move between these areas effortlessly (ie the hair of the figure on the left vs the dress of the figure on the right). The lack of care for the specific details of human form, combined with this inconsistent aesthetic, and general sense of unease in the scene itself creates a really incredible way of conveying the wrongness of the situation, without any explicit story itself. Just looking at it, the work feels like a reflection of manipulation and abuse of power, and is able to communicate the terror associated with those situations, with only one scene, which is very cool.

[w523352394]

Practice 1: Assignment 2

Concept Art - Human and "Inhuman".

For this theme, I decided to start by thinking about what kind of elements would give a non-human feeling, and what role the human form and material would play in it.

To make changes to the structure of the human being, lengthening or shortening each section of the structure, or deleting or adding tissues to the body.

Maintaining the basic structure of the human being, but replacing, parasitising, or covering the components of the body.

The human structure is abandoned and human organs and features are added to other substances or organisms.

On my way to search for information, I found some tendencies

In the mind horror type of game, the monster maintains its human form [pre-birth posture], and prefers to use tiny details to bring up places that are not human, such as the back of the hand instead of the palm when the ghost claps its hand, the eyes are all black, and the veins on the body are more obvious than those of ordinary people, and so on.

Personally, I think mind-horror, Japanese-style horror would cause more discomfort in my psyche, but I'm also thinking about whether that sense of dread is brought on by the inhuman element or because of the grotesque expressions.

Sorry it's too scary for me to save a picture, please just look at the link

The portrayal of non-humans in this piece of the gore horror game will incorporate more obvious features such as mixing with animals, destroying human organs, blending and adding and subtracting.

I have also made some designs for the ideas analysed so far

Elongation and distortion of the body

Destruction of the human structure

Combination of matter and human form

[looye29]

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